Page 97 of The Dark Before Light

Gripping the counter, I stare into the reflection of my wide eyes. “Remember who you are. You’ve been called Mistress, Goddess, Master, and Queen. You are a Domme. He’s given consent. He trusts you to care for him. He’s yours to tease and command. Yours to use. Yours to please.”

Natural Dominant or not, Kieran wants me to take control. He made it abundantly clear this morning and again this evening, and there’s an inescapable logic to it I can’t ignore. Finally and fully cognizant of the mental load he’s been carrying for years, he craves freedom from that crushing pressure. And while as a doctor I’m aware this isn’t a lasting solution for him, as a Dominant I know I can give him temporary relief.

“You will give him what he needs,” I finish in a whisper.

Slowly, the panicked beat of my heart calms. My breaths grow fuller, my shoulders straighter. Then I think about our conversation an hour ago and my pulse ramps up again. Not with anxiety, though. With excitement. Anticipation.

This time, when I draw the mantel of the Professor fully over my shoulders and let it sink into my psyche, I do it without hesitation. There will be no consequences, no dissonance. This isn’t a sacrifice but a homecoming. After nearly two decades of waiting, I am exactly myself with exactly the right man.

With a final, deep breath, I leave the guest room. Except for the measured click from my heels, the house is quiet as I walk down the airy hallway toward the distant end. Time is fluid, stretching and constricting. I’m walking forever; I’m turning the doorknob and opening the door to his bedroom.

A small sigh escapes me as I take in the spacious, tranquil sanctum where Kieran rests his head at night. Thick, dark curtains are drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. Candles flicker on surfaces throughout: a table before a cozy seating area, nightstands, a floating shelf over a dark fireplace. The dancing lights play across wood floors and creamy area rugs, across pale gray walls interspersed with framed artwork and a massive bed stripped of everything but the fitted sheet.

Across him.

He’s exactly where I told him to be, sitting on his heels on the floor at the foot of the bed. Freshly showered. Naked. His head bowed, eyes closed.

A king on his knees.

For me.

“Beautiful, Kieran. Thank you.”

I watch as he processes my arrival, my voice. His chest begins to rise and fall at a faster pace. A tremble moves through his frame. As I walk toward him, my gaze roams his shoulders, his arms, the hands that hang loosely at his sides. I’m looking for signs of tension, but there are none. He’s relaxed everywhere except one place—his cock is hard against his thigh, flushed with blood. Pre-cum glistens on the tip and on his skin where it dripped.

Elation soars in my veins.

“Have you touched yourself?”

“No, Talia.”

Dear God, his voice. Smooth whiskey. Lilting, soft music. Reverent. Almost euphoric. I’ve heard the tone before, many times, but it’s never affected me this way. Because it’s him.

“Do you remember the rules?”

He nods.

I move even closer, the tips of my stilettos a few inches from his knees. “Repeat them.”

His throat moves in a heavy swallow. “You give, I receive. I’m not to speak unless spoken to. No touching you unless invited. No coming without permission. If you ask me for my color, Green is continue, Yellow is slow down. Red is my safe word and means stop.”

“Very good,” I purr.

He shudders, a noisy breath escaping his mouth. I reach forward, stroking a hand over his soft, damp hair, fingering the strands and tugging them lightly. He grunts, his hips shifting forward, his cock twitching.

My other hand joins the first. I grab fistfuls of his hair and jerk his head up. His eyelashes flutter, staying closed with effort.

“You have permission to open your eyes.”

He blinks, blue eyes focusing, features sharpening as he takes me in. His mouth opens, then closes, his lips thinning as he struggles against the impulse to speak. Dilated pupils tell me the challenge of obedience is only heightening his arousal. The pulse in his throat is a living creature seeking escape.

“Are you pleased?” I ask, scraping my fingernails over his scalp.

“Yes,” he whispers hoarsely.

I’m wearing the exact outfit that elicited such a strong reaction from him weeks ago: black pencil skirt, white blouse buttoned to my neck, my tallest heels. My lips are red as blood.

“Before you left my office that day, I put you in your place. It aroused you, didn’t it?”

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