Chapter 27
ASHER
Ihave a problem.
I'm addicted to this girl.
I've always liked being in control. It's been like this since I was a kid.
My first girlfriend hated it. We were high schoolers at an elite prep school and bonded over our rich asshole parents.
I would tell her what to do and she'd freak out, shouting in my face about how she could take care of herself.
She couldn't. She was starving herself, or worse, binge eating and then throwing up in the bathroom.
She thought I didn't notice, but I did. I notice everything.
And when I would try to fix her problems, she'd lash out.
Eventually, she broke up with me, and I wasn't even upset about it.
And then there was a second girlfriend, Abigail.
She loved letting me take the lead, and she looked up at me with big doe eyes that made me feel worshiped and in control.
That was the first time I realized what got me off.
What I craved in the bedroom. But we were dumb kids who didn't know any better, and when she asked me to spank her, I used my belt and broke the skin on her ass, making her bleed.
She stopped returning my texts and calls.
To this day, every time I see her mother, she gives me a look like I'm the devil.
I became more restrained after that, only sleeping with women who expressed that they wanted explicitly. And I kept my control to closed-door activities. If I avoided having a relationship with any of them, then I didn't have the desire to exercise my control in any other area of their life.
And then Wren met Nolan and opened Haven.
At first, I went just to see what he was doing.
My parents were fuming, ranting about how he was embarrassing the family.
They lectured Gabe, Dove, and me daily. And there was a race to see who could get him to stop, earning our parents’ love for the moment.
Except, I never tried to convince him to stop.
I'm not sure Gabe did either, not that we ever talk about Wren's club.
For a long time, Dove worked at it, cutting away at him with biting remarks.
But unlike the rest of us, Wren isn't itching for our parents’ approval.
Wren is the money behind Haven; he provides his trust fund and relationships needed to build an elite kink club.
But it's Nolan who has the passion for and understanding of kink.
He's the one who taught me how being a Dominant actually works.
The exchange of trust required. How to properly care for the other person in the scene.
Finally, something I could sink my control-hungry teeth into.
My partners at Haven were always organized through the club.
Matching me with girls who wanted to be dominated and were happy to avoid having a deeper relationship.
Part of my insane membership fee is a private room that I can use whenever and however I want.
A perfect setting to bring women to and avoid ever having them in my home.
And then Grace came along.
Blurring all the boundaries.
I watch as the little caramel-haired siren cuts her chicken, each deliberate slice revealing the hunger she'd ignored.
When I found her in her room, her fingers were still cramped around her pen, eyes bloodshot from staring at her laptop screen.
The pages scattered around her desk, the empty coffee cup grown cold.
All evidence of hours lost to whatever story had consumed her.
I've never been close to a creative person before, never witnessed this strange ritual where inspiration demands everything else be sacrificed at its altar.
Something primal shifted in my chest upon realizing that I'm the source of her inspiration. Her words, her focus, her sudden burst of creativity were all because of what we'd done. Because of me.
I wanted to bend her over and fuck her thoroughly as a reward for being so goddamn perfect. But she barely ate all day and spent far too many hours hunched over her laptop. I need to take care of her before I use her again.
She'd given everything to those pages today. I needed to give something back before I took again.
"Tell me about your writing."
Grace blushes when I bring up her book again. I love the color on her. I love knowing she's such a sexual being but is somehow shy about it.
It makes me want to push her further. I want to enhance her pleasure, take her to heights she's never been. I wonder if she'll enjoy writing about them for me? I want to reward her for writing about them.
"It's early stages," she says between bites, her eyes avoiding mine.
"I haven't written anything in a while, so I'm just really happy I was able to write so much today.
" Grace's words tumble out in that breathless way she gets when she's nervous.
"Like, I know it's probably not good yet, but just getting words on the page feels—"
"Why haven't you written in a while?" I interrupt her rambling, curious as to what's been keeping her from writing.
Her hand freezes halfway to her mouth. The flush that was coloring her cheeks drains away.
"It's... uhm… There was this thing that happened." She sets her fork down too, napkin twisting between her fingers. "So I haven't written in seven months."
Seven months. I've heard of writer's block, but I didn't think it was something that lasted so long.
"What thing?" I question. What stopped her enthusiasm for something she clearly loves so much?
"It's really not—"
Her voice wavers, napkin shredding between her fingers. She's anxious and uncomfortable. If I push now, she'll retreat further. I see it in the way her shoulders curl inward, a barrier snapping up. No. Not tonight.
"I have an idea."
She exhales, sharp and relieved, but her eyes flicker with interest. Lifting my wineglass, swirl the deep red. Her inspiration today? That's the thread to pull.
Before Nolan started the club with Wren, he was a professor of psychology.
Specifically, he studied BDSM and the way it impacted your brain.
One of the stories he told me was about a couple that used their power exchange dynamic to help the sub complete tasks she normally had a hard time doing.
While she couldn't do it for herself, she was happy to do them in order to make her Dominant happy.
"I want to help you keep this momentum," I tell her, setting down my glass.
She chews slowly, swallows. "How?"
"I want you to set a daily writing goal for yourself."
I watch her process, the way her lips part, hazel eyes narrowing in thought. She wipes her mouth with the napkin, composing herself.
"A goal like... a word count?"
"Sure." I nod once. "What feels right?"
She taps her fingers on the tablecloth, gaze drifting to the city lights beyond the window. Seconds tick. Finally, she meets my eyes again.
"Two thousand. That's solid. Achievable, but it pushes me."
Two thousand. I commit it to memory as a slow smile curve my lips. She notices and straightens a fraction.
"Good. You need to write two thousand words by the time I walk through that door each evening." I gesture toward the penthouse entry, voice dropping an octave. "If you succeed, I'll reward you. Fail, and I'll punish you."
Her breath hitches. Color floods her cheeks again, deeper this time. Not with embarrassment, but with heat. She shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together under the table.
"Punishment…" She tests the word, voice husky. "Like what?"
I lean forward, elbows on the table, closing the space. "We can start simple. Spanking, for one. Bare skin, with my hand or whatever implement fits the mood."
Eyes darkening, she bites her lower lip. Her fingers trace the stem of her water glass, circling the condensation.
"Does it... hurt? I mean, really hurt?"
"Yes." I don't soften it. "But within limits. We build to what you can take. Or other options. I can make you write an apology by hand, lines on paper while I watch. Or orgasm denial. Edge you close, then stop."
Her chest rises faster, a small sound escaping, half gasp, half moan. She crosses her legs tighter. "That sounds... intense."
"It is." I reach across, capture her hand, thumb brushing her knuckles. "But it will give you structure. A goal to meet every day and some motivation to reach it."
She holds my stare, pulse visible at her throat. Seconds pass. Then she nods once.
"Okay, let's do it."
"Well then, Sugar, I believe you've earned your first reward."