Page 8 of Beg Me
My heart hammers against my ribs. "And you think you're worthy?"
"I know I am." No arrogance, just certainty. "The question is whether you think so."
"I'm not sure yet," I admit, my voice barely audible over the ambient music. "I don't know how this works."
Colt leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. The space between us shrinks without him moving any closer.
"It works however we decide it works. That's the first thing you need to understand."
I take a sip of water from the glass the server had silently delivered. "So there's no... rulebook?"
Something flickers across his face. Amusement, maybe.
"There are principles. Safety. Consent. Aftercare." He watches my face carefully. "But what happens between those boundaries is ours to create."
"What are your principles?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with that unnerving focus, like he's reading something written on my skin.
"I believe control is a responsibility, not a right," he finally says. "I believe pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin. And I believe that true surrender is the most intimate gift one person can give another."
My mouth goes dry. "And what would you do? If we... took the next step?"
His eyes darken, and when he speaks, his voice drops to a register that vibrates through me.
"First, I'd learn your body. Every inch. What makes you flinch, what makes you melt." He doesn't move, but I feel the weight of his words like a physical touch. "I'd find the places between pleasure and pain where you live most honestly."
Heat blooms low in my belly. I shift slightly on the couch.
"I'd teach you to beg," he continues, his voice quieter now, meant only for me. "Not just with words, but with your body. I'd make you earn every touch, every bit of praise."
I swallow hard. "And the other things? The things I wrote about?"
Colt leans in closer, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I'd call you exactly what you are—my pretty toy. Something I own, something I use." His eyes never leave mine. "I'd tell you how desperate you look, begging for things that would make other women slap my face. How filthy you are for wanting my hand around your throat while I tell you what a needy little slut you've been."
My breath catches. No one has ever spoken to me like this—not even in bed, much less in public. The words should offend me. Instead, they slip under my skin like a drug.
"I'd make you admit it," he continues, relentless. "Make you say the words out loud—that you want to be degraded, used, owned. That you crave being called names that would make you cry in any other context."
I press my thighs together, suddenly aware of how wet I am. My face burns.
"And after?" I ask, my voice a trembling whisper. "When it's over?"
Something softens in his expression, though the intensity remains.
"Then I'd hold you. Tell you how perfect you were. How beautiful your surrender is." His voice gentles. "I'd make sure you know that nothing we did changed how I see you—except to make me see you more clearly."
I exhale shakily. "That's... a lot."
"It is," he agrees. "Too much?"
I should say yes. I should thank him for his time and walk out that door and delete the app and pretend I wanted none of this.
Instead, I meet his gaze and whisper, "No, it's perfect."
FOUR
