Chapter Three #2
"All right. What about the things you are interested in?"
That's worse.
"I don't know. Whatever you'd normally recommend?"
His gaze stays on mine. "I'm not asking what I normally recommend."
I press my lips together.
"What caught your attention when you read through the site?" he asks. "It doesn't have to be something you're certain you want to try. Just something you kept thinking about afterward."
There were several things I kept thinking about afterward, none of which I particularly want to discuss while those gold eyes are fixed on me.
"I genuinely don't know what I want." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I force myself not to soften them. "That's part of why I'm here. I've never really had the time to figure it out."
Soren doesn't look surprised. "Then you don't need to know yet, okay? We can figure it out as we go."
The simple way he says it takes some of the pressure out of my chest.
He gives me a moment before continuing. "Then let me ask you something easier. You had plenty of doms to choose from. Why did you pick me?"
I look down at my hands. Somehow, that doesn't feel easier.
"Your profile talked about giving instructions," I say. "About taking decisions off someone else's plate for a while."
"That was what caught your attention?"
There are easier answers I could give him. Something about his experience, or the reviews, or even the fact that he seemed less intimidating than some of the others despite being an actual fucking dragon.
Instead, I tell him the truth.
"Yes, I liked the part where somebody else decides."
When I look up, his attention hasn't moved from me.
"Not everything," I add quickly. "I don't mean I want no say in what happens.
I mean…" I stop, annoyed that I can organize Richard's entire life across two time zones but apparently can't explain one thing I want without losing the ability to form sentences.
"For two hours, I don't want to be the person who has to know what happens next.
I make decisions all day. Work, my mother, my sister.
There's always something somebody needs me to handle. "
I rub my thumb over the side of my palm, then make myself finish.
"I read the part about following instructions and wanted it enough that it embarrassed me."
Soren is quiet for a moment, but there's nothing uncomfortable about it. He doesn't rush to tell me I shouldn't be embarrassed or try to make the admission smaller than it felt.
"All right," he says. "I can give you that."
Five words, and something in me loosens.
He shifts forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
"Your safeword is red. I know Gael already explained how the contract works, so I'm not going to make you listen to the whole speech again.
What I need you to remember is that if you say red, I will stop.
Immediately. You never need to justify using it, and you never need to worry about how I'll feel about it. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Say the word for me."
"Red."
"Good girl."
The praise catches me somewhere low in my stomach.
Oh.
I keep my face as neutral as possible, although something in the slight narrowing of his eyes tells me I may not have succeeded.
"There'll be rules while you're with me," he says. "Nothing complicated. If I ask you a question, you answer honestly. If you need something or something doesn't feel right, you tell me. I'll be clear about what I expect from you, so you never have to guess."
That sounds suspiciously simple.
"I can do that."
"We'll see."
There's no challenge in it, but my spine straightens anyway.
Soren notices.
"When I ask you a question, I want an answer out loud. No nodding or shaking your head and expecting me to interpret it. I want to hear you, and when you answer me, you'll end it with sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Understand?"
I nod automatically.
His eyebrows lift.
Right. "Yes, sir."
The corner of his mouth moves. "Better."
“One more thing. Your intake said the Daddy side of this appealed to you, but there’s no expectation that you call me that. Some clients use Daddy, others prefer sir. You can start with sir and decide what feels right.”
My face goes warm, because he read that part too. But there's no teasing in how he says it. He's just… putting it out there.
"Okay," I manage. Then, "Yes, sir."
He stands, and I'm reminded all over again just how large he is. "Come here."
I follow him through a door at the side of the room and into a bathroom dominated by a deep stone tub. It's already half full, steam curling off the surface, and for a second I just stare at it.
He ran me a bath.
Before I got here.
I don't know why that gets to me as much as it does. It's only hot water, but the fact that he planned for it—that he expected me and had something waiting when I arrived—lands harder.
Soren turns the water back on and tests the temperature with his hand before adjusting the tap. As the tub fills, the room takes on a soft herbal scent, something close to lavender without being overly sweet.
"Get undressed and get in."
"I can run my own bath." The words are out before I can stop them. "I'm perfectly capable of—"
"Margot."
I close my mouth.
He doesn't say anything else.
I undress with my back mostly to him, which feels ridiculous considering why I'm here, but Soren doesn't comment on it. He turns his attention to the taps instead, giving me enough privacy to climb into the tub without feeling watched.
The water is hot enough that my first instinct is to get straight back out, but after a few seconds my body starts to adjust. I sink deeper, letting the heat work into muscles I hadn't realized were tight.
Then Soren's hands settle on my shoulders, and I revise my understanding of hot.
His palms are warmer than the water. He works slowly over my shoulders, down my arms and across my back, easing out tension I've carried for so long I barely notice it anymore.
He doesn't rush or fill the quiet with conversation.
When he runs a soapy cloth over my skin, every movement is careful and thorough, and my brain immediately starts looking for ways to make the whole thing easier to deal with.
This is what I paid for. He does this for clients all the time. I'm an appointment on his calendar, and taking care of me for two hours is literally his job.
That works until he pours warm water through my hair.
One hand supports the back of my head while the other works shampoo through it, his fingers moving slowly over my scalp, and something inside me gives way.
I start to cry.
Quietly, because even now I can't fall apart without trying to be considerate about it. I keep my face turned away and hope the water hides enough of it that I can pull myself together before he notices.
But even if he does notice, his hands don't stop.
He doesn't ask what's wrong or make me explain myself. He doesn't go still and wait for me to get it under control. He just keeps washing my hair, as calm as he was before, while I sit there crying over something I couldn't explain even if he asked.
"There's no rush," he says quietly.
I stop trying to make myself stop. I sit there while he rinses the shampoo from my hair and works conditioner through the ends, and eventually the tightness in my chest eases enough that I can breathe without fighting it.
By the time the water starts to cool, I'm exhausted.
Soren helps me stand and has a thick towel around me almost immediately, wrapping it securely before I've finished pushing wet hair out of my face. Then he slides one arm behind my back and the other beneath my knees.
"I can walk," I tell him, because there are some instincts even a minor emotional breakdown can't kill.
"Shhh, Margot."
He picks me up. It's only a few steps into the other room, but I don't fight him. He carries me to the bed and lowers me onto it carefully, leaving me wrapped in the towel as I sink back against the covers.
I should feel exposed. I'm naked under this towel, my eyes are probably swollen, and I just cried in front of a man I met less than an hour ago. Instead, with Soren standing beside the bed and the warmth of his hands still lingering on my skin, I feel strangely, impossibly peaceful.
I'm too wrung out to argue with it.
"Margot." Soren's thumb traces the edge of the towel without moving it. "I can tuck you in and sit with you until you're ready to go home. Or I can take care of the rest of you. Either answer is a good one."
"The second one," I whisper. "Please, sir."
"Good girl."
He opens the towel slow, and I brace, my whole body tensing for the inevitable flinch when he sees the soft roll of my stomach, the stretch marks painting my hips. It doesn't come, because he doesn't give me a reason to feel embarrassed.
His mouth brushes the curve of my hip, and a low growl rumbles against my skin, the vibration running through me.
Then he moves slowly up my side and over the swell of my belly—the part I fucking hate.
Instead of avoiding it, he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below my navel and lets his hand settle over my stomach, warm enough that my muscles jump beneath his palm.
"You keep bracing," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "Stop deciding what parts of you I want to worship."
Heat rushes through me, and for once, I don't have a response ready.
He takes his time, his mouth moving slowly over my stomach and up my side while his hands follow the curve of my body. There's nothing hurried about the way he touches me, and somehow that makes every pass of his hands feel more deliberate.
When his mouth closes around my nipple, a sound slips out of me before I can stop it.
His tongue moves over the sensitive peak before he sucks harder, and my back arches beneath him.
A low, satisfied rumble vibrates against my skin, sending another rush of heat straight through me.
I'm already wet and aching, and he's barely started.
"There," he praises, his voice thick. "That's it. Good girl."
Good girl.