Page 107 of Filthy Dirty Dom

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"What?" Leslie whispered, confusion etching lines on her face. Her gaze bounced between Alex’s eyes and the streak of blood staining his neck. The metallic scent hung in the air between them, a vivid reminder of what he’d asked her to do: cut him. And the motivation behind it. This wasn’t about teaching her to protect herself against a knife. At least, that’s not all this was about. This was about Alex thinking he needed to be punished.

Is that why he liked pain mixed with sex? Because the pain was less of a contrast to his pleasure, but more a punishment for his perceived sins? It was a leap in logic, an attempt to understand the mind of a man who was, at times, a stranger to her.

"I’m fucked up," he said, confirming her fears.

She grabbed the wrist of the hand holding hers and using a move he taught her, she managed to loosen his grip on her at the same time she dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor between them, the harsh sound echoing around the room.

“Alex, no. I’m not going to hurt you!”

"I deserve it, the things I’ve done...”

Her heart twisted painfully at his admission. The self-loathing was clear in his voice, in his eyes, in his haunted expression.

"You could never deserve that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t care what you’ve done, what you think. You’re a product of your past, shaped by circumstances beyond your control, yet you still have the capacity for ample kindness, for tenderness, for love.”

Once again, her thought strayed to Alex’s confession about liking to be whipped in the past until he bled. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the question she was about to ask.

"Have you ever done bloodletting with anyone?" she asked.

She held her breath, anticipating his reaction.

The darkness in his eyes deepened, a chilling coldness replacing the earlier warmth. His jaw clenched, the muscles working under the stubble-covered skin. "Yes," he said, his voice grating like stone against stone. “Not to anyone else, but to me.”

It was another glimpse into the complex tapestry of his past. Another dark thread woven into his life, his history. Another secret he carried. By exposing more of himself, it was as if he was trying to strip away layers of his identity, to prove to her, to prove to himself, that he wasn't worth her time, her care, her affection.

"Were you trying to push me away just now?" she asked.

"No. I wanted you to be able to protect yourself. And I guess it got mixed up in my head. With all I’ve done. How maybe, sometime in my past, you would have needed to protect yourself from me.”

His confession, even given the context, was shocking. It pulled and twisted her heart in ways she never thought possible. But she wouldn't let him push her away. She wouldn't allow him to drown in his self-imposed solitude.

"You’re wrong," she said, holding his gaze. She moved closer, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. Her fingertips traced the hardened muscle, a silent assurance that she was there for him. "You would never be my enemy, Alex. You’re everything that’s good in this world, and that’s why I'm here with you. If you’d let me, I’d stay by your side forever."

His eyes flickered, and she saw the silent plea in his gaze, a silent admission of his need for her.

"I'll give you what you need," she told him, her voice steady despite the raging emotions inside her. She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "But not your blood. Not real pain because you think you're not worthy."

His expression suddenly shuttered. The impenetrable wall he'd built around himself seemed to loom even larger, a barricade that stood between them. His hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles white, his gaze once again hard and distant.

"You don't know the real me," he said, his voice barely more than a rasp. It sounded less like a statement and more like a warning, as though he was cautioning her to tread carefully around him.

Leslie felt a swell of frustration rise within her but also hope. His cycling emotions, giving her his vulnerability only to close himself off again, indicated he was close to breaking down, to letting her in. She just had to push him. Make him understand she wanted all of him, his light, his dark, his strengths and his scars.

"Then you have to share the real you," she said, her voice firm, her gaze locked onto his. The challenge in her tone was unmistakable. She was asking him to bare himself to her, to let her in, to trust her with his hidden depths, his ghosts, his fears.

For a moment, Alex said nothing. His eyes searched hers, as if trying to decipher her intentions, to gauge the extent of her resolve. But she held his gaze steadily, unflinchingly, showing him that she was not afraid, that she was ready to meet him in his darkness and help him find the way back to the light.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she saw his hardened exterior crack. His posture softened slightly, his clenched fists relaxing. It wasn't a complete surrender, but it was a start, a small step towards getting him to tear down the wall he'd painstakingly built around himself.

Then you have to share the real you.

Leslie’s words echoed in Alex’s head, and for once, they sounded reasonable. Welcome.

Moving stiffly, he sat on his bed.

Why not? he thought.

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