Page 63 of Deliah
He leaned against the counter now, mug in hand, all that dark calm wrapped around him like a second skin. “It looks like honesty. You’d tell me when you feel off. You’d ask for what you need. I’d learn your body like it’s mine. You’d have a safe word—and if you used it, everything stops. No questions. No guilt. Just respect.”
I sat down in the chair across from him. Mind spinning. Something deep inside me cracking wide open.
“Jay…” I whispered, not even meaning to say his name. “He made it feel like rough was the only time I felt anything. Like pain was just… part of it. No safety. No softness after— well, barely.”
Damion didn’t speak right away. Then: “That’s not dominance, Deliah. That’s abuse.”
I looked at him. Really looked. Then I stared down at my hands. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all that.”
He set his mug down gently and crouched in front of me so we were eye to eye.
“When you’re ready,” he said softly, “I’ll be here. You don’t have to earn it. You just have to trust it.”
And that? That was the hottest, most terrifying thing anyone had ever said to me.
We sat in silence for a while after that conversation. Not an awkward silence. Just… full. Like everything that needed to be said had already been placed on the table between us, and neither of us dared to touch it yet.
Eventually, Damion stood. “I’ve got work to do,” he said, voice soft again now. “I’ll be back later.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and watched him disappear down the hallway.
The moment I heard the front door click shut, I bolted upstairs like an absolute lunatic. Phone in hand. Brain spinning. I launched myself onto the bed and did what any emotionally overwhelmed, possibly aroused, definitely unqualified woman would do in my situation: I Googled.
“Dom and sub relationships.”
“What does a submissive do?”
“Is it normal to want to be owned in bed?”
“Why is dominance sexy?”
“Signs you might be a submissive (even if you’re a nightmare in real life).”
The results were a mixed bag. Articles, forums, TikToks, Reddit threads from people in polycules who journaled about collar etiquette. I scrolled like I was hunting for answers in themargins of the internet. But nothing gave me exactly what I was looking for. Still, the more I read, the more the pieces started to click. This wasn’t about being weak. It wasn’t about losing control. It was about choosing where to give it. And to whom. It made a kind of wild, thrilling sense.
I considered texting Cherry. Or even Aneeka. Just to say, “Hey, quick question—how do you feel about emotional surrender and consensual power exchange?”
But I couldn’t do it. Not yet. I didn’t want them to think I was weird. Even though deep down, I knew this wasn’t weird. Not for me. It didn’t feel wrong. It felt like something I’d been unconsciously moving towards for years. I’d always loved rough sex—being thrown around, choked, pinned down. But what Damion had described… this was different. This was getting that without being left empty after. Without the comedown. The confusion. The ache that had nothing to do with my body. This was being cared for—then ruined. And finally understood. Suddenly, I realised how much I wanted that. No… needed it. But could I really give up control? Could I trust someone with all the parts of me I usually tried to hide behind my mouth and my attitude and my bad decisions? I didn’t have the answer. So I shut my laptop, flopped back against the pillows, and let the ceiling judge me while my thoughts spun in every direction.
Eventually, I checked the time and realised I needed to start getting ready. Me, Cherry, and the rest of the infamous Boiler Boy clan were off out tonight. And while I had no idea what the hell I was doing with Damion, I did know one thing for sure: I was going to look hot. I was going to walk into that club like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—even if I was still figuring it out. Because if I couldn’t get answers tonight… I’d at least get attention. Time to get dressed. Time to cause trouble.
I got ready slowly—on purpose. The kind of everything-rinse that felt like shedding skin. A new identity, scrubbed and ready. When I stepped out, steam curling around me like I was emerging from the gates of hell reborn, I moisturised every inch of my skin until I gleamed. Took my time with my hair. My makeup. My attitude. The dress I chose was white. Soft, draped off my shoulders, cinched at the waist, with a ruffled skirt that barely covered my ass. Innocent in theory—until you saw the back. Paired it with strappy nude heels that made my legs look like they deserved their own postcode. A slick of gloss, a spritz of perfume, and just enough attitude in my eyes to keep things interesting.
I could hear Damion downstairs. He’d been back for a while now—quiet footsteps, the occasional sound of ice clinking into a glass. But I hadn’t left my room yet. Because honestly? I was nervous. Which annoyed the hell out of me. I stared at my reflection.
“You’ve got this,” I whispered to myself. Then I squared my shoulders, flipped my hair, and made my way downstairs.
He looked up the second I hit the bottom step. His gaze dragged over me—slow, deliberate, full of heat. “You’re trouble,” he murmured, voice low.
I smirked. “Wearing white. Practising for when we get married.”
He actually laughed—head back, real, loud. It sent a ridiculous jolt of pride straight to my chest.
“You, Deliah, are something else.”
I sauntered towards him, hips swaying, unbothered. “You love it.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said it all.
