20. Ryan #2
I want to walk into his space, tell him what I want, take exactly that, and leave.
No ambiguity. No hidden motive. No Camille quietly steering the interaction while performing patience.
My rules and my terms. If he says no, it stops.
If he says yes, then for once we both know exactly what this is and neither of us is pretending otherwise.
The idea settles under my skin like a second heartbeat.
I stare at the ceiling and admit, “This is probably a terrible idea.”
Camille is in the library. I find him on the couch, a book open across his lap.
I stop in the doorway, and he looks up. Camille snaps the book shut, then sits very still, waiting, as I walk towards him. I halt a few feet from him, folding my arms across my chest.
“Fuck me,” I demand.
His body remains motionless, but his eyes heat before there’s a flicker of caution. That caution almost makes me rethink. It means he understands the stakes, how tangled we still are.
Camille slides the book onto the low table beside him, straightening his back. “Alright.”
I shake my head. “No—not alright yet.” Understanding dawns in the lines around his eyes. I inhale slowly. “If we do this, it does not mean I forgive you.”
“I understand.”
“It doesn’t mean we’re back together or anything like that.”
“I understand.”
“It doesn’t give you proof that everything’s fine.”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t get to decide what happens.”
He meets my gaze without flinching. “Okay.”
“I do, and if you don’t like that, say no now.”
He’s silent for a few tense moments, and I fight the urge to smile at his seriousness. Finally, he says, “I am comfortable with you deciding what happens, provided I can tell you if I need something to stop.”
Relief loosens the tight knot in my chest. “Obviously. There will be rules, too.” He leans forward a fraction, concentration sharpening his face.
“No kissing, no pet names, actually—no talking unless it’s to say you need to stop or something, and no touching yourself or me without my permission.
” I swallow. “If you don’t want this, say so. ”
“I want it.” His answer is instantaneous, and firm enough to send heat spiraling through me.
“Sex.”
“Yes.”
“Not some self-punishment bullshit where you let me do anything because you think you deserve it.”
His eyes narrow. “That is not why I’m agreeing.”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t. But I can tell you that I want you, and I am willing to let you control this because I should have done it from the start. Both are true.”
My throat tightens. I hate when he cuts through my anger like that. “Stand up.”
He stands, tall in one fluid motion. Normally I’d lean into his height; today it reminds me how easily he could overpower me. The thought makes me shiver with something dark and delicious.
“Bedroom,” I command.
His eyes flick toward the door. “Mine?”
I nod. “Yes.”
I lead the way. He follows three steps behind, careful not to close the distance. By the time we reach his room, every step has pounded my heart against my ribs.
The door opens onto familiarity—the low bed with rumpled sheets, the dresser catching a last sliver of sunlight, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Memories knot together painfully in my chest—every time I’ve been here, I’ve surrendered.
Now I intend to take control.
“Take off the sweater.”
He lifts his arms, the dark knit falling away in a smooth arc. I watch the muscle along his spine ripple.
“And the shirt,” I add softly.
He peels that off too, revealing the plane of his chest. His movements remain reluctant, giving me too much time to second-guess. I do not.
“And your pants. I want you naked.”
He grunts, and I watch as he unbuttons himself and steps out of his pants, his cock already hard and standing.
“Now stay there,” I instruct.
He stands still, vulnerability exposed.
I circle him, gauging the tension in his shoulders, the rise and fall of his breath. He’s used to studying me; now I get to observe him. Every inch I advance, his stance tightens. Finally, I stop behind him.
“What would you use if you wanted to tie someone’s wrists without hurting them?”
He freezes, then tilts his head. “Is that what you want?”
I inhale, the air warm on my skin. “Yes.”
He moves to the wardrobe, lifts the door, and retrieves a long, soft robe sash—cream-colored silk with just enough give. He hands it to me. Our fingers brush for a heartbeat, and I yank my hand back.
“Turn around.”
He does, facing away. I look at the sash in my hands. My pulse roars. This is real. This is me taking control; he’s agreed to surrender.
“Hands behind you.”
His wrists come together at the small of his back. I wrap the sash around them, knotting it with a firm tug that leaves no slack. He tests the restraint gently.
“Comfortable?” I ask quietly. I don’t want it to actually hurt him.
“Yes.”
“Can you get out?”
“If I needed to.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Not without effort.”
“Okay. Good.”
I step around to face him. He looks contained—no longer free to touch me, unless I allow it. My chest loosens. Yesterday, every brush of his hand felt loaded with doubt. Now there is nothing he can do without my say-so.
I take another step closer, close enough to see the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. I press one finger to the center of his chest.
I trace that finger downward, watching his muscles tremble under my control. His breath comes deeper.
I stop at his belt line and whisper, “This is not forgiveness.”
“I know.”
“Don’t say that.”
He’s quiet; his lips press into a firm line. My lips twitch with something like triumph, but then I remember why we’re here. Triumph feels hollow.
“Kneel.”
He hesitates for just a breath—longer than any hesitation before—but then he lowers himself to his knees. The carpet fibers catch at his skin, and he tilts his chin slightly upward, eyes locking on mine. My heart thunders.
I reach down and thread my fingers through his hair, pulling gently so it’s neither soft nor cruel, just firm. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, then reopen.
“Look at me,” I order. He obeys, unwavering. I tighten my grip marginally, drawing his gaze to mine. “You don’t touch me. You don’t take control. You do exactly what I tell you, and if I say stop, you stop.”
He inhales, steady and deep, the heat of him burning in his eyes. “Yes.”
“And if you need me to stop?”
“I tell you.”
I stand above him, this complex, infuriating man kneeling willingly at my feet. I feel no forgiveness yet, no absolution—just a profound sense of ownership. My choice, my terms, exactly what I need tonight.
I step back just enough to put space between our bodies, strip my shirt off, toss it aside, then slide my hands down my hips and wriggle out of the sweats. The cotton clings to my thighs with static, then puddles around my ankles.
I kick them away and stand there, bare and flushed from equal parts anger and need, letting him look. His gaze is a slow burn up my legs.
Camille’s face doesn’t change, but his breath does, a visible hitch that makes my own skin tighten. He is still kneeling, arms bound behind him, utterly at my mercy.
I step in close, so close his exhale warms the top of my thigh.
My hand goes to the nape of his neck, tightening, and this time I yank his head back just hard enough to see where his hands strain slightly against the silk.
He bares his throat to me without resistance, the power dynamic so stark it almost makes me dizzy.
“Suck me,” I say.
His eyes flick up, meeting mine, and the look there is as close to worship as I will ever let myself receive.
He leans forward, mouth open, and I guide his face to where I want him.
The first brush of his lips is both familiar and entirely new, the lack of his hands making everything more intense—he can’t balance himself or pull me closer, just kneel and take what I give him.
His mouth is hot and soft, and I let out a gasp, not caring that it sounds desperate.
“Fuck, yes. More. Harder,” I order, and he does, hollowing his cheeks and sucking.
I fist both hands in his hair, holding him exactly where I want, and rock my hips against his face until I feel the scrape of his jaw, the slight grind of bone and stubble as he presses harder into me.
The control is total and absolute, and for the first time since yesterday, I can breathe.
I keep him there until my legs start to shake, then wrench his head back. He lets me, mouth flushed and wet, chest rising in bursts like he just ran a sprint. I fight the urge to kiss him, and instead stare down at his face, memorizing the way he looks.
I back up, and he straightens as best he can, shoulders rolling to shift the strain in his arms. I watch his chest move, the long curve of his neck, the way his mouth stays slightly open, lips already bruised from how hard I pressed him.
I grab his jaw, thumb tugging his bottom lip down. “Again,” I order, “but this time—” My voice breaks, but I force it out. “This time, use your tongue on—on all of me…” The last three words come out almost foreign to my own mouth, like I’m daring myself to see how much I can stand.
His eyes go impossibly dark. He knows what I’m asking, and for one fleeting second I expect the slightest hesitation, some fraction of self-preservation or pride, but instead, he leans forward, tilts his head, and drags his tongue over me, slow and greedy.
I suck in a breath so hard my head spins.
When he does it again, slower, wetter, I cannot stop the noise that escapes me.
“Ahh, yes, oh f-fuck.”
I brace myself, my thighs shaking slightly, and let him work me over. There is something unhinged about how quickly the shame and pleasure combine; my whole body feels wired for explosion, like there’s a fuse burning directly from my stomach to my skull.