Page 31 of Carrick
“Then let’s negotiate,” he said.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
What followed was precise. Unhurried. Clinical, almost—except for the way it made my heart pound. We talked about limits. Safe words. Expectations. I told him everything, because I had to. Because honesty in this mattered more than it ever had anywhere else.
I told him I needed restraint. Pain. Control wrapped in intention. I told him how long it had been, how wrong my skin felt, how much I craved the silence that only came after the cacophony of a scene.
I told him I wanted to be undone.
And he listened.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t smirk, or raise an eyebrow, or judge. He just listened, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burning with something I couldn’t name.
When I finished, he stepped forward.
“I don’t scene light,” he said. “I don’t do half-measures. I’m not going to ask you five times if you’re okay mid-scene. I’llwatchyou. I’llknow. But I won’t treat you like you’re breakable unless you ask me to.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
He took another step. Close enough now that I could feel the heat of him.
“I’ll give you what you need. But only if you give me your full consent. For me. For how I work. I won’t hold back if you ask me not to.”
My voice went thin. “I trust you.”
His eyes darkened, the storm breaking open in them. “Then I’ll take care of you. My way.”
The air shifted again, thick with something heavier than desire. I stepped into the space between us, heart in my throat. “I want your belt,” I whispered. “I want marks.”
His breath hitched. Just once. A flash of surprise—then it was gone.
“You’ll get them.”
And there it was. The shift. The subtle, devastating handover of control. He saw it in the tilt of my chin, the tremble in my fingers. I’d given in. Silently. Entirely.
He stepped into command like it was instinct.
“Follow me to my room,” he said. “There’s something we must do before we begin.”
I didn’t question him.
My legs moved before thought caught up. The stairs blurred at the edges as I descended, breath shallow, fingers already at the hem of my hoodie. Shaking—but steady.
I’d asked for this. Chosen it. And for the first time in days, the noise in my head softened.
Not gone. But quiet enough to let me breathe.
8
Carrick
She followed me without question.
There was no hesitation in her attitude, no performance—just that calm, sharp certainty that made my blood stir like she already belonged here, in this moment, in my space.
I opened the door to my bedroom and stepped aside to let her in.
The lighting was low. Intentionally so. The bed was stripped to dark sheets, the play kit already set out—neatly arranged on the long bench at the foot of my bed. Leather. Rope. Wood. Metal. Each item was carefully selected. Clean. Ready. Call me crazy, but I had been pretty sure that she was going to take me up on my offer, and so I had gotten things ready.
