Chapter Seventeen
The second I cross Gale’s threshold and slide off my ballerina flats, a flutter starts deep in my stomach. The quiet of his
house presses in around us, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows. I can feel him behind me, not touching,
but close enough that each breath feels like it might tip us over some invisible edge we’ve been balancing on. My heart hammers
against my ribs—all those late-night fantasies about taking control, about making him beg, and now here we are. What if I
got it wrong? What if I’d misread those little signals, the way he yielded when I kissed him, how his breath hitched when
I gave orders?
“Hold up,” he says, flicking on the foyer light—his large wooden chandelier hangs above us, its oak arms extending outward
to hold several glass-shaded lights, casting a warm glow throughout the entryway. I don’t miss the fact that his ears are
red or that he is looking in every direction except my gaze. God, the way he’s avoiding eye contact makes my mouth go dry,
makes me want to grab his chin and force him to look at me.
“Who do you think you are talking to?” I make a face. “I’m not the Clean Police, whatever you got going on around here is
fine—it’s your home.”
“The thing is . . .” He takes off his ball cap and runs a hand over his head, mussing up his thick waves before resetting it in place and adjusting the brim back so I can see his eyes. “I care. I just want it to be nice, okay?”
For you . . .
Those are the unspoken words.
This is different. He isn’t trying to dazzle me with a spotless kitchen or a facade of perfection. Instead, he is inviting
me into his real life, dirty dishes and all, while still wanting to make an effort. It is a small thing, really, but it speaks
volumes.
“Okay,” I respond. “I’ll explore your den. I haven’t really hung out here before.”
“I’ll be five minutes max.” And he is gone.
Even in his absence there’s a charge, like nature’s holding its breath in anticipation. It’s that moment before a storm when
the trees seem to lean in over a lake. The water’s surface? Smooth as silk, not a ripple in sight, not even a dragonfly skimming
the surface. And yet my senses are on high alert waiting for that first drop to hit.
I am living some version of a Robert Frost poem—my road splits here. One path goes to the same old story. Work, work, and
more work, punctuated by dates or situationship guys who will either bore me to tears, or eventually want my ambition to take
a back seat to theirs. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt and the SWOT analysis.
But that other path? This route turns into a darker part of the woods, beckoning me toward something I can’t quite name. All
I know is that the way forward won’t be clear. There will be danger, thorns, maybe even hungry quicksand straight out of an
eighties movie.
But for once in my overanalyzed life, I don’t have a pro/con list or a plan. I just have this moment, this choice, and the growing realization that maybe, just maybe, it is time to color outside the lines and see how it adjusts the image of who I am and what I need to be happy.
Deke and Biscuit mew from their box, a cozy tangle of orange fur. Deeper in the house come the sounds of a running tap and
the clink and rattle of pots being thrown on the sink. He whistles a few bars. I recognize Tom Petty before he breaks off
and it returns to quiet.
I take a deep breath and walk inside his den. It is nothing like my condo in here, with my pale pink walls, unlit soy candles,
and Wayfair furniture. I keep my home as simple and uncluttered as possible as I don’t ever have time to clean up or be domestic.
It is cute but always feels a little like a hotel. Gale’s place feels lived-in, warm, comfy, a little messy. Kind of like
the guy himself.
My eyes dart around, taking in the leather throw pillows, the pinball machine, the half-finished Gatorade on a random side
table.
I have built my life brick by careful brick, each achievement a step toward . . . what, exactly? Standing here, on the precipice
of something new, I’m not quite sure anymore.
“All done.” His deep voice floats from the kitchen, snapping me out of my reverie. “You want some tea?”
I feel a surge of . . . something. Confidence? Recklessness? Curiosity? I might be just another messy human like Pandora,
but what if I pretend to be a goddess? “No,” I call back. “No tea. Come here.”
There is a pause, a moment of surprised silence. Then I hear his footsteps, see him appear in the doorway. His eyebrows are
raised, a question in his eyes.
I meet it head-on, feeling more like myself than I ever have except when I’ve been in the middle of my job. “I’m not visiting for the tea,” I say, taking a step toward him. “We both know that.”
“Okay.” He crosses and uncrosses his arms. “What are you here for?”
I allow the silence to linger a beat too long.
“You.”
The way he jolts tells me he feels it, the rug pulling out from under him. My heart races at his reaction. Five years of holding
back dissolving in this moment. I want to see where this leads. I need to see. It’s now. Or never.
“Come over here.”
“Really?” he questions, uncertainty coloring his voice.
“I’m done waiting.”
His throat works. “What . . . what do you want?”
I step closer, drawn by the scent of his cologne, like a cedar forest. His breath catches as I close the distance between
us.
“Is it real this time?” he whispers. “Because I’ve wanted you for so long.”
“Do you know what I want?”
“Tell me . . .” His voice trails off, vulnerable.
I reach out slowly, placing my hand over his thundering heart. “No more pretending.”
“I’m good with that.” His eyes never leave mine. “You can do whatever you want with me.”
My lips part. “Are you sure?” It’s like I just got hit with three shots of tequila. Does he mean this? Really?
“One thousand percent,” he rasps. “You can’t break me.”
“Careful what you wish for.” I allow a small smile. “Just follow my lead.”
He nods, wonder written across his features. “Go for it.”
I feel transformed, bold in a way I’ve never been before.
“Like what you see?” he asks, a hint of his usual confidence returning.
I raise an eyebrow. “Did I say you could speak?”
His mouth snaps shut, but I can see the fire in his eyes. He looks desperate. I feel the same but . . . I can’t show it.
The next words. I’ve never said them to anyone before. I have thought them a hundred times at home in my bed with my wand . . .
but to say them now in real life and to Gale Knight. This feels like magic.
“Get on your knees,” I command, adjusting my glasses.
Without hesitation, Gale sinks before me. The sight of him looking up at me from his wood floor, waiting for my next order,
sends a thrill between my legs. I am already so wet that the silk from my panties sticks to my sensitive skin.
“I—”
I press a finger to his lips, tracing his perfect mouth, a mouth I have so many plans for.
“Do you have permission to talk yet?”
He shakes his head.
I shove the tip of my finger into his mouth. “Have you ever dreamed about worshipping me?”
He nods, not daring to speak without permission.
“Well,” I purr, “remember, you don’t get to touch until I say so. Your pleasure comes second to mine.”
The look of pure desire on Gale’s face nearly takes my breath away. But I hold on to my composure. Tonight, I am the hunting
goddess, and he is my willing prey.
“Get up now,” I say. “Show me your bedroom.”
Years of denying myself, of seeing Gale as off-limits, has led to this moment. Sure, a part of me is still whispering doubts, but I shove them aside. I am tired—tired of the longing, tired of the what-ifs. Tonight, I’m taking what I want—what I need—and will deal with the consequences later.
I step into Gale’s bedroom and the scent hits me first—sun-warmed wood and worn leather, with an undercurrent of something
distinctly Gale that makes my breasts feel fuller, heavier.
A California king commands the space. Across from the bed hangs a TV that could double as a home theater screen. My gaze roams,
taking mental snapshots of every detail. What strikes me the most isn’t what I see, but what I don’t. No soft touches, no
decorative flourishes. This is pure, unfiltered Gale. I am getting a glimpse of the man himself, stripped of his public persona
and professional image. Raw and real.
I turn to face him, where he stands watching me with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. Good. I want him off-balance.
His broad shoulders nearly fill the doorway; he’s over a foot taller than me. But there is a vulnerability in his eyes that
catches me off guard. This is the real Gale, stripped of his public armor, just for me.
I can see the questions dancing behind his hooded eyes. What am I thinking? Am I impressed? Overwhelmed? Ready to bolt? His
hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should.
The power dynamic between us has shifted, and we both know I hold all the cards. My next reaction will make or break whatever
is building between us.
So I let the silence stretch, enjoying the way it makes him fidget. I like this version of Gale—a little unsure, waiting on
me.
“So,” I finally say, my voice steady despite the butterflies in my stomach. “This is where the magic happens?”
I watch a myriad of emotions flicker across his face—relief, amusement, and a flash of heat. “It could be magical, yeah.”
It’s the heat that steals my breath. His eyes darken, stormy blue giving way to something deeper, more primal. It hits me like a physical force; my pulse spikes, blood rushing in my ears.
His fingers flex at his sides, the movement drawing my eye. I imagine those hands on my skin and suppress a shiver.
Soon.
The room suddenly feels too small, the space between us both vast and nonexistent.
I lift my chin, meeting his intensity head-on. The challenge is issued and accepted in the space of a heartbeat. Whatever