Page 62 of Deliah
I blinked. “What gave it away? The robe or the unhinged energy?”
His lips twitched, the hint of a smirk curling. “Neither. It’s the way you walked in here like you were about to start a fight—or beg.”
I scoffed. “Oh, great. You’re going to psychoanalyse me again, aren’t you?”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the armrests, hands clasped. His voice dropped—low, even, and surgical. “Only if you want the truth.”
I folded my arms, bracing. “Go on then. Enlighten me.”
He sat forward, eyes steady. Voice low. “You think you want to fuck me because it gives you control. Because sex has always been your power play—your way to flip the script before it flips you. You like it rough because it lets you feel something on your terms. And then, when it’s over, you can pull away before it gets too real.”
His words hit hard. Too hard.
“Wow,” I said, tone brittle. “Do you invoice by the hour or just charge in trauma?”
He almost smiled. “You asked.”
“And you think you’d be different?”
“I know I would be.”
“Confident, aren’t we?”
“No,” he said. “Certain.”
I stepped back slightly. My pulse was spiking. “So what would be so different about fucking you?”
He stood, moved around the desk, and stopped in front of me. Close. Too close.
“I’d break your body,” he said quietly, “without breaking your mind. I’d give you everything you crave—pain, control, intensity—but without stripping parts of you away. I’d leave you whole, Deliah. Not hollow.”
I blinked. That… was not what I expected. “And how do you know I even want that?”
He didn’t flinch. “Because you’re here. In a robe. In my office. And you’re still testing me.”
“Testing you?”
“You want to know if I’ll fuck you just because you ask,” he said. “But that’s not what you really want.”
I crossed my arms, deflecting. “Maybe I just wanted a morning shag.”
He smiled softly. “You want to be owned. Not used.”
The silence was thick. My chest rose and fell as something inside me, a truth I hadn’t admitted to anyone, maybe not even myself, started to stir.
“I don’t even know what the fuck that means,” I whispered.
He stepped even closer, lowering his voice. “It means you trust me enough to let go. It means I lead, you follow. Not because you’re weak but because you choose to hand me the reins. Safely. Consensually. Completely.”
My breath caught. “Explain it to me,” I said, quieter now. “What you mean—the whole thing.”
His eyes searched mine. Then he nodded. “A dominant/submissive relationship,” he began, “it isn’t about who’s stronger. It’s about who trusts whom to lead. It’s structure. Agreement. Boundaries. It’s asking—what do you want, whatdo you not want, and what happens when things go too far. Safe words. Aftercare. Communication.” He paused. “It’s about control. Yes. But more than that—it’s about safety. Freedom in surrender. You get to stop carrying everything. And I hold it all for you.”
I swallowed. “So it’s not just… pain and calling you Daddy?”
He huffed a small laugh. “That’s part of it. But that’s just the kink. This is a dynamic. A partnership. I don’t dominate for fun. I do it because I know how to care for someone in ways they can’t always care for themselves.”
My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. “And what would that look like… for us?”
