Page 7 of Beg Me
"Tess. I'm... meeting someone."
"First time?" she asks.
I nod, feeling like I have "FRAUD" stamped across my forehead in bold letters.
"ID, please. And there's a waiver." She slides a tablet toward me. "Basic rules: no phones, no pictures, consent is everything, respect the safe words."
I sign where indicated, hyperaware of my trembling hand. Pink hair hands me a small black wristband and points toward a second door. "Enjoy."
The primary space is nothing like I imagined. No dungeons or chains hanging from the ceiling—just a large, dimly lit lounge with comfortable seating arrangements, a bar along one wall, and soft music playing. People mill about in everything from jeans to elaborate leather outfits.
I freeze just inside the doorway, clutching my purse like a shield. Everyone looks like they belong here. Everyone except me.
"You came."
The voice behind me is low, steady. I turn to find Colt standing there, and the air leaves my lungs. His profile picture didn't do him justice. He's taller than I expected, his presence filling the space between us without crowding it. He wears dark jeans and a simple black button-down, sleeves rolled to expose muscular forearms. Nothing flashy or costume-like. Just confidence wrapped in casual clothes.
"I did," I manage, my voice smaller than I intended.
His eyes—gray, I realize now—study my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. I don't.
"You're nervous," he says, a statement not a question.
"I'm not?—"
"Don't." His voice drops lower. "Don't lie to me, Tess. Not about the small things, and especially not about the big ones."
Heat floods my face. The way he demands my honesty is terrifying. And he can see through my facade, even through messaging he could read me, but now standing in front of him I feel completely naked. "Fine. Yes, I'm nervous. I feel like everyone here can tell I don't belong."
A slight curve touches his lips, not quite a smile, but something close and it sends a spark of warmth through me.
"Follow me."
He leads me to a quiet corner with a small couch and chair. He takes the chair, leaving me the couch—giving me space, I realize. A small kindness I hadn't expected.
"Why are you nervous?" he asks once we're settled.
"Because I've never done this before. Any of this."
"That's not why."
I blink at him. "Excuse me?"
"You're not nervous because you're new. You're nervous because you're finally doing something you've wanted for a long time." His gaze doesn't waver. "You're nervous because this is something you've only imagined in the secrecy of your own mind, and now it's real."
The accuracy of his assessment leaves me speechless. I look down at my hands twisting in my lap.
"Look at me, Tess."
I do, drawn by the quiet command in his voice.
"Everyone here started somewhere. The difference is whether you're honest about what you want or if you hide behind what you think you should want."
"And what do I want?" I challenge, echoing our text conversation.
His eyes darken. "To surrender. But only to someone worthy of that gift."
Gift.He's calling my dark and twisted fantasy a gift. It makes it feel like something precious, special. Worthy of being wrapped up in foiled paper with a big bow. Not something to be hidden in the closet, trapped under the weight of so much shame.
