Page 68 of The Anchor Holds

“It’s your choice.” His expression was a little more grave, serious. “For us to move forward here, you need to understand that I like taking control of you. Not because I want to take away your rights. I love that you’re a strong woman everywhere else and that I’m the only one who has the privilege of giving you orders. The privilege of you trusting that I’m never gonna take advantage of it.” His voice was soft, caring as he laid out the arrangement I’d somehow stumbled into.

Who would’ve thought that by walking onto that dock to collect a debt, I’d acquire one good deed—helping to save a little girl’s life—and also somehow unearthing the Dom side of the outwardly easygoing, handsome fisherman.

Who would’ve thought that every cell in my body would be screaming to obey him.

“You can end this whenever you like,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck.

He looked down for a split second, as if searching for the right words, as if he sensed that I was skittish. In fact, there was a small voice inside of me screaming to run for the sake of self-preservation. As if that voice knew I was standing at some kind of pivotal crossroads. My logical brain—which I’d previously thought was all of my brain—did not believe in the universe, law of attraction or any of that spiritual bullshit that had been stolen from ancient cultures, repackaged then turned into a commodity. You can have the life you dream if you buy this crystal, read my book, spend thousands of dollars on machines or supplements or whatever the fuck.

I’d always believed that I was the only one who had the power to give me the life I wanted. Men, especially, had the power to ruin it. If you gave it to them.

And though my current life might’ve been in tatters—which wasn’t as a result of Jasper, as nice as it would be to blame it on him. No, I was solely responsible for the choices that led me here.

Therefore, the concept of letting go sounded like such a lovely fucking respite, to completely give away my decisions to Elliot.

“I’ll keep you safe, Calliope.” He looked up at me, trapping me in an expression that took my breath away. Along with the words that seemed to etch into my skin.

A man. Promising to keep me safe. It should’ve riled me. I was smart enough to know such promises from men were bullshit.

And I knew for a fact that I’d never been further from safe than I was right then, in the fisherman’s cozy cabin, inches away from giving him everything.

He didn’t seem uneasy or self-conscious that he’d done a lot of talking, had put himself out there sexually, while I’d been standing there mute, just staring at him. That same easy confidence that he seemed to have been born with was painting his entire body. But there was something authoritative threaded into it, into his voice, his posture, his very essence. That authoritative presence was not something he wore on the boat, in the bar nor at the table with my family.

This was something that only existed behind closed doors, with consenting women. And yes, I let myself have a handful of seconds to wonder how many women came before me. He had too much self-assurance for him to be doing this for the first time. And he was in his late thirties. It was laughable to think he was some kind of dominant monk.

Though there likely were women who walked the earth knowing this side of Elliot, there were many who didn’t. And I was greedy for that. To collect parts of him that were rare. Iwas a collector. Of things that cost obscene amounts of money—they were mounted on my walls, in my closet like totems. Things that didn’t bring me any joy beyond knowing there was a finite amount of them in the world. Nothing brought me more joy than having somehow earned—or cheated?—my way into possessing this side of Elliot. For a night.

“You going to be my good girl?” he asked again, having watched me intently throughout my lengthy silence, as if he could read every thought on my face.

No.

That’s what I was going to say.

No.

I’ll eat when and where I want, and if you want to screw me, you’ll honor my agency, my wishes, fuck you very much. You’ve read too many kinky books, thinking that this is what I want.

And part of me knew that Elliot, as a respectful and good man, would honor my request. He’d probably still fuck me, because this thing between us was utterly electric, and even without any kink, it felt life-changing.

“Yes,” I breathed out the single word.

Elliot didn’t smile wickedly as he had earlier. His face turned into a somber, dark and hungry mask that sent warmth flooding to my core.

His shadow.

I’d discovered sunny Elliot Shaw’s shadow. And I was aching for it to swallow me whole.

“Sit.” He pointed to the chair.

My body hesitated for just a second.

“Now.” The single word was low and deep, hurtling through the air with brutality, promising punishment that I was already intrigued and turned-on by.

But I obeyed, the chair plush and comfortable, smelling like old leather and Elliot.

I reached for the dog-eared book on the side table, lying beside a coaster and a lamp, telling me that Elliot sat there, looking out at the woods, sitting by the fire, reading.

I was immensely desperate to sink into his life. In the fantasy I belonged; I wasn’t just a visitor, there to sate his desires.

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