Page 36 of Dark Angel

She’s silent for a heartbeat, contemplating. "And what about you? Do you find pleasure in such extremes?" The question is tentative, probing the shadows I've fought to keep hidden.

"It's not about my preferences right now." My question lingers like smoke, a reminder of the murky depths I'm wary of revealing. "Tonight, we focus on the role of a submissive. That's your lesson."

Rayne's gaze flickers, the wheels of her mind turning. The weight of guiding her is both a privilege and a shackle, the intensity of my protective instincts warring with the raw need she ignites within me.

"I'm ready," she declares, her resolve clear in the set of her jaw. "Let's do this.”

I nod, the facade of calm control firmly in place. "Finish up, then we'll proceed." The words are even, but beneath the surface, the turmoil rages—a tempest of doubt, desire, and the dawning realization that the line between teaching and yearning is blurring dangerously.

The flicker of uncertainty in Rayne’s eyes doesn't escape me; it’s a silent call for understanding. “What about edge play gets to you?” she asks, and I find myself in unfamiliar territory, uncharted waters where sharing personal inclinations isn't just clinical—it's personal.

“For me, it’s the cerebral challenge.” The truth spills out more freely than expected. “It’s the dance of wits, the brinkmanship between power and yielding.” My admission is a half-truth; the full spectrum of my desires, especially those concerning her, remain caged.

Rayne digests this, then probes deeper, "So, it's a mental thing over the physical for you?" I nod, acknowledging her quick grasp of the dynamics at play.

"It's about trust," I elaborate, "the kind that's strong enough to endure the fire of our connection." I don’t mention the rest, the unspoken yearning to traverse those realms with her.

Her cheeks bloom with a flush, but there’s a spark of understanding in her gaze. She fumbles over her next words, voicing a concern that’s been lurking in the shadows. "Is that why we haven't gone further? Is it a sort of . . . restraint?"

"Rayne," I hesitate, my explanation teetering on the edge of full disclosure. "It's not punishment. It's about building something that can withstand the storm of what we might become." I stand abruptly, tossing my napkin aside, a signal to move on.

As we settle into the viewing room, my guiding hand rests on Rayne's thigh, a silent testament to the charged air between us. Her reaction is instantaneous—a shiver that speaks volumes. Every fiber of me yearns to unravel her, to explore the depths of her soul just as she unwittingly delves into mine.

The warmth of Rayne's skin seeps through the thin fabric of her dress, her body subtly yielding to my touch. As my hand ventures beneath the hem, grazing the edge of her G-string, there's a collective tightening of breath and body—an unspoken dance of desire and restraint.

There's a raw need pulsing within me, a hunger that craves not just the carnal pleasure but the profound connection that's been weaving silently between us. Yet, I resist, my grip on control fraying but not yet broken.

"Do you enjoy the scene?" My voice is a low rumble against the charged silence.

Her response is a whisper, a confession of intrigue and understanding amidst the intensity of the act we've witnessed. The conclusion of the scene leaves a void, an empty stage where the echoes of our inner turmoil reverberate.

Our ritual continues, the one where I play with her clit until my balls are about to rupture. It’s a familiar dance of desire that edges us both to the brink of something undefined. Tonight, though, there's a shift—a challenge in Rayne's eyes that's new, unyielding. Her frustration mirrors my own inner conflict.

"Bedtime." I signal our usual endgame, but tonight defiance replaces the compliance I expect. Her glare pierces through me, a silent accusation of the unfulfilled promises hanging in the air.

"Rayne." I keep a firm edge to my voice that's usually enough to steer us back to safe waters, "I'm serious about boundaries when it comes to intimacy."

Her glare doesn't waver, and she storms off, leaving a turbulent wake of anger and confusion. My power reacts, a visceral sensation acknowledging the inevitable crossroads we're approaching.

With a heavy sigh, I acknowledge the impasse. The smoldering embers of Rayne's yearning for me are now a bonfire, and I’m standing too close, feeling the heat lick at my resolve. It's a pivotal moment, one that demands a decision. Do I succumb to the desire that's been building within me, to embrace the risk of complete surrender? Or do I retreat, preserving the safety of solitude but forsaking the electric connection that's come to life between us?

The question hangs in the air, a specter of choices yet to be made. As I stand alone, the silent echoes of what could be are both a torment and a temptation. But one thing is for certain: the status quo can no longer hold. The next step is mine to take, and it's a leap that could either meld us together or rend us apart. For now, the night ends with a question, but the dawn will bring an answer—one way or another.

22

RAYNE

Late next morning. The nerve of him, standing there in my room like the king of the damn castle, poking me like I'm some snooze button on his personal alarm clock. I blink at the fuzzy outline of his figure, not bothering to reach for my glasses. He doesn't deserve my clear-eyed attention, not after leaving me strung up in knots of frustration the night before.

I sit bolt upright, yanking the blanket around me like armor, my hands flying out almost of their own accord. Fingers fumbling, I grab the sash of his robe and start knotting. Something completely juvenile but I’m in a hormonal freefall. He's pushed me to the brink, again and again, leaving me teetering on a precipice of desire without ever granting me the fall. What am I to him? A plaything? A tease? My mind shies away from the answers, anger bubbling up like a geyser.

With each twist of the fabric, I punctuate my rage and frustration with a word. “I. Hate. You.” Each word is a knot, a binding of my fury. And what does he do? He grins. That rare and infuriatingly cocky grin that makes me want to wipe it off his face with the back of my hand.

But I don't. Because despite the volcanic rage within me, there's something else too—a twisted sort of pleasure in seeing that smirk, knowing I put it there, even if it's for all the wrong reasons. It's a dangerous game, this dance of anger and attraction, and he's playing his part with infuriating perfection.

Then, what's his next move? This infuriating man begins to untangle each knot, painfully slow, all the while fixing me with this steady gaze. Doesn’t utter a single word. Just looks, his eyes doing all the talking. It's like he's trying to unravel more than just the knots on his robe, like he's peeling back layers, trying to get under my skin. Like I poked the bear one too many times and this time, I’m going to get what I asked for. Every slow, deliberate motion of his hands feels like a challenge, a silent dare that stops my breath.

I glare at him, the memory of last night replaying like a broken record. Close, he was so damn close to letting go, to admitting that he wanted me. I could feel it, almost taste the victory, the moment when he'd finally break.

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