Chapter 8 #2
I try again. "Look, I didn't want to bid on the auction. I haven't been with a virgin since I was a virgin. I'm not exactly what you need." I pause, struggling to find the right words to construct a clean exit. "I don't know how to be gentle. I have more... particular tastes."
The explanation sounds clumsy to my own ears, nothing like the precise, articulate way I normally express myself. The confused, slightly offended look on her face confirms I'm not handling this well. The precision I bring to every other aspect of my life has abandoned me entirely.
"And what exactly do you think I need?" she asks, her voice quiet but with an undercurrent of steel I hadn't expected. The challenge in her question reveals another layer to her—something resilient, something that refuses to be dismissed so easily.
I pull in a measured breath, trying to steady myself. "You need—someone who can be patient, gentle. And I can't be those things." The words feel inadequate, stripped of precision, nothing like the meticulous explanations I deliver to clients daily.
She tilts her head slightly, her hazel eyes narrowing as she studies me. Not intimidated, not backing down. Something flashes across her features—curiosity, perhaps, or determination. "Why? How do you like it?" The question lands between us with unexpected weight, direct and unfiltered.
Fuck me. How do I like it? Her words knock all sense right out of me because I fucking tell her everything. No measured response, no calculated exit strategy. Just raw, unfiltered truth pouring out.
"I like control. I want a sub. I want to punish you hard and fuck you even harder.
And you're too damn young for me, too inexperienced.
I will break you in half." The words pour out like concrete, building something I can't take back, a structure I hadn't intended to create.
"I don't want tender. I want surrender. I want someone on their knees who understands what that means. "
I'm being harsh, deliberately constructing barriers between us, but I can't stop. Something about her innocence combined with that defiant glint in her eye makes me want to tear down every wall between us. The contradiction twists inside me, unsettling my foundation.
"I want to bend you until you nearly break, then catch you before you fall.
I want to push your limits until you're begging me to stop, then begging me not to.
I want to mark that perfect skin so you feel me for days after.
I want to own every sound, every breath, every fucking whimper.
" Each admission feels like exposing load-bearing beams, revealing structural elements I typically keep hidden.
She sits there, eyes wide, listening. Her expression transforms through multiple emotions—hurt, arousal, anger—all colliding at once. Her chest rises and falls with quickened breaths, that perfect lower lip caught between her teeth again. The gesture pulls at something primal within me.
"You have no idea what you're getting into.
This isn't some romance novel fantasy where the dominant man treats you like precious glass.
Real dominance isn't gentle. Real submission isn't easy.
It's raw and messy and sometimes it hurts.
And I'm not going to pretend I'm something I'm not just because you've decided to auction off your virginity to the highest bidder.
" The last part comes out harsher than intended, a deliberate stress fracture.
When I finish, we sit in silence for a full minute, electricity crackling between us across the polished table. The air feels too thick to breathe, charged with potential energy seeking release.
The waiter interrupts, bringing my drink. "Are you guys ready to order?" he asks while we continue to stare at each other, locked in silent combat.
"Give us another minute," I say, my eyes never leaving hers. I barely register his presence, my entire focus consumed by the woman across from me.
When he leaves, the spell breaks. Her face hardens, hurt transforming to anger, the metamorphosis fascinating to witness.
"I don't know why you even wasted my time." Her voice trembles slightly, the first hint of structural weakness in her otherwise perfect composure.
I start to respond, but she cuts me off.
"Save it," she says, voice low and tight. "And fuck you."
She scoots out of the booth, and before I can think, I grab her wrist as she tries to walk past me. The contact sends a jolt through my system, her skin soft but her pulse racing beneath my fingers—a living blueprint of her emotional state.
"Sit down," I say, voice dropping to that dangerous register that usually gets immediate compliance. The tone that commands boardrooms and construction sites.
She looks down at me with fire in her eyes. "Kiss my ass," she says, yanking her arm free. The sudden absence of her warmth against my palm leaves an unsettling emptiness, like discovering a flaw in otherwise perfect plans.
She walks away, head high, that perfect ass swaying slightly with each determined step. The restaurant seems to fade around her retreating figure, peripheral details blurring as my focus narrows to her disappearing form. I'm left sitting there, wanting nothing more than to make her submit to me.
To break that fire just enough to forge something stronger.
To own that defiance and turn it into surrender.
I've never wanted anything more in my life.