Chapter One – The Boy Next Door
Claire wasn’t wearing a bra the first time Daniel Reed walked into her store—and the bastard knew it.
It was early summer, too hot to care. Her tank top clung to her skin, and her nipples were hard from the cheap A/C unit humming against the far wall. She was bent over a box of vintage lingerie, sorting tangled lace and satin thongs her mother had apparently decided were “collectible.”
That’s when the bell rang.
She looked up—and found him standing in the doorway like a sex dream she didn’t order.
Tall. Lean. Hair a little messy, but not in the TikTok way—more like he’d run a hand through it after pulling a shirt off. Tight black tee. Grey joggers slung just low enough to tempt disaster. Big hands. Bigger eyes.
And he was looking directly at her chest.
“Wrong door?” she asked, voice cool. Dry.
“Nope,” he said, gaze still stuck on her like gum on pavement. “I’m exactly where I meant to be.”
Claire stood up slowly.
“You here for a corset, sweetheart?”
“No,” he said. “But now I’m thinking I should be.”
His voice wasn’t high and eager like a frat boy’s. It was low, deliberate, dipped in the kind of confidence you couldn’t fake—especially not at his age.
“How old are you?” she asked bluntly.
“Nineteen,” he said. “Why, is that your cutoff?”
Her mouth twitched before she could stop it. “My cutoff for what?”
“Whatever you want it to be.”
She stared at him.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.
She should’ve told him to leave.
Instead, she said, “What’s your name?”
“Daniel.”
“Claire.”
“I know.”
Of course he did. Small town. Local gossip. The new woman in her forties who moved in after the divorce to clean out her dead mother’s antique lingerie shop.
She was the walking embodiment of midlife cliché.
And apparently, his type.
He showed up again the next day.
Same shirt. Different color. This time he brought a bag of doughnuts and leaned against the counter like he lived there.
“I figured you hadn’t eaten yet,” he said. “And I figured you wouldn’t want me to assume you’d say yes if I asked to see you again.”
Claire narrowed her eyes.
“So you just show up with fried sugar and bedroom eyes like that’s a normal thing?”
“Depends,” he said. “Is it working?”
She hated how easily she smiled.
She hated more that she took a doughnut.
By the end of the week, he’d stopped pretending.
“Do you always wear shirts that tight?” he asked one afternoon, eyes dragging over her hips as she bent to pick up a crate of silk slips.
“Do you always stare like that?”
“Yes,” he said. “When it’s worth staring at.”
“Jesus,” she muttered, walking away.
But her cheeks were pink, and he saw it.
That night, she closed the shop late.
She locked the door, flipped the sign, turned the lights off.
And when she stepped into the back room, she found him already there.
Sitting on the couch.
Waiting.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t pretend to be mad.
She just stared.
“Door was unlocked,” he said. “I knocked. No one answered. So…”
He stood.
Walked toward her.
No smile now.
Just heat.
“You want me to go?” he asked.
“I should.”
“But you won’t.”
She didn’t answer.
He stopped right in front of her.
Not touching.
But close enough that her nipples brushed his chest when she breathed.
“I think about you when I jerk off,” he said, voice low, steady. “I picture your mouth when I come. And I think you know that.”
Her knees almost buckled.
He leaned in, mouth near her ear.
“Do you ever think about me?”
Her hands clenched at her sides.
He didn’t kiss her.
He didn’t need to.
He just whispered: “I want to be your mistake.”
Then he walked out the back door.
Left her there.
Wet.
Shaking.
Breathing like she’d just been fucked.
Chapter Two — First Touch, Last Line
She told herself she wouldn’t unlock the back door for him again.
She did anyway.
He didn’t knock this time. He came in like he belonged there, hands in his pockets, mouth set in that same infuriating not-smile that made her want to slap him or drop to her knees—she hadn’t decided which.
He was wearing grey sweats again. No shame. No underwear. She could tell.
Claire kept her eyes on the ledger in front of her.
“You’re early,” she said.
“You left the door open,” he replied, walking past the counter, past the dressing rooms, into the back without waiting to be told he could.
That was the thing about Daniel—he didn’t ask anymore.
He just showed up.
And she kept letting him.
He dropped a paper bag on the back table.
“Thai,” he said. “Spicy. Thought you might be hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“You will be.”
Claire turned to him.
“Do you make a habit of feeding women who won’t fuck you?”
Daniel stepped close.
His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t flinch. Just got quieter.
“I make a habit of wearing them down.”
Her thighs clenched.
He could see it.
He fucking knew.
They ate in silence. Two forks scraping out of shared containers. No music. Just breathing. Just the heat rising in the space between them.
When she reached for her water, his hand brushed hers.
Just a touch.
But it lingered.
She didn’t pull away.
He stared at her lips while she drank.
Then, softly: “Can I kiss you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because once you do, I’ll let you do more.”
His voice was barely audible. “That’s kind of the point.”
Claire pushed her chair back. Stood. Paced toward the bookshelf. Anywhere that wasn’t so close to his heat, his eyes, his goddamn mouth.
“You don’t get it,” she said. “I’m not your fantasy.”
“I don’t want a fantasy,” he said. “I want the woman who stares at me when she thinks I’m not looking. Who bites her lip when I stand too close. Who’s wet under that skirt right now and hates that I know it.”
She turned fast. “You don’t talk to me like that.”
“You don’t stop me.”
And that’s when he moved.
Crossed the space between them in three slow, brutal steps and cupped her jaw with one hand—rough, confident.
She should’ve slapped him.
She leaned into it instead.
“You’re dangerous,” she whispered.
He leaned down.
“Then stop letting me in.”
And then he kissed her.
Hard.
Hot.
Like he already owned her mouth and just wanted to remind her of it.
Her back hit the shelf. His tongue slid deep. His hand slid down, firm on her hip, pressing her against the wood, letting her feel the outline of his cock thick and hard against her thigh through those goddamn sweatpants.
She moaned into his mouth.
Just once.
And that sound?
It shattered everything.
He pulled back.
Just enough to whisper against her lips: “I knew you’d taste like control.”
Claire’s hands gripped his shirt. She wasn’t pushing him away.
“I should tell you to stop,” she breathed.
“Then do it.”
But she didn’t.
She let him kiss her again.
Slower this time. Tongue rolling over hers. Fingers slipping beneath the hem of her skirt, dragging up the inside of her thigh without shame.
When he touched her—bare, wet, already throbbing—he groaned.
“You’re soaked.”
She gasped.
“Daniel—”
“You want to come on my fingers?” he whispered. “Or do you want to pretend you don’t need it?”
She was panting.
Her head tilted back.
Her body was already answering.
He slid one finger in—slow, deep.
She bucked against him, hating herself, loving every second.
“I shouldn’t—fuck—I shouldn’t—”
“You’re going to,” he said. “You want to. You want to come on me, then tell me it was a mistake.”
Two fingers now.
Curling.
Pressing.
Fucking her slow and hard while she clung to him and moaned into his shoulder.
“I’m not going to stop,” he said. “Not unless you tell me to.”
She didn’t.
She just grabbed the back of his neck and bit down hard on his collarbone.
When she came, it was with a shudder so deep her legs gave out. He caught her, held her upright with one hand buried between her thighs, the other wrapped tight around her waist.
She shook in his arms.
Sweating. Wet. Ruined.
And when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her.
No smugness.
Just that same unbearable heat.
“I want more,” he said.
She swallowed hard.
“I know.”
Chapter Three — She Says No. Her Body Doesn’t.
Claire didn’t answer his texts the next day.
Not the simple “you okay?”
Not the follow-up “want to pretend last night didn’t happen?”
Not the last one that just said:
Daniel: You didn’t tell me to stop.
Because that was the worst part.
She hadn’t.
She’d let him finger her in the back of her shop like some reckless twenty-two-year-old and hadn’t even had the dignity to make him leave after. She let him clean her up with trembling fingers and kiss the inside of her thigh like it meant something.
Worse?
She came so hard she nearly cried.
She didn’t sleep that night.
She stared at the ceiling and told herself she needed to stop it before it got worse. Before he got cocky. Before he made her weak.
But the image of his eyes on her—the way he stared at her like she was worth memorizing—wouldn’t leave her head.
The next morning, he was already sitting on the front steps of the shop when she arrived. Hoodie. Jeans. Coffee cup in one hand. Book in the other.
Like he belonged there.
Like he knew.
Claire didn’t say anything.
Just walked past him.
Unlocked the door.
Left it open.
He followed.
Of course he did.
Inside, she dropped her bag, turned, and met him head-on.
“You’re getting bold,” she said.
“I’m getting honest,” he replied.
“You’re not scared of me?”
“No,” he said. “You’re scared of you.”
Claire stepped closer.
“No,” she said. “I’m scared of liking this.”
“Too late.”
He smiled, slow and quiet, like a man watching a fuse burn.
“You want to punish me for being right?” he asked. “Tie me to a chair? Make me sit while you touch yourself in front of me?”
Her breath hitched.
He saw it.
“So that’s a yes,” he whispered.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
He stepped close.
“Try me.”
She dragged him by the front of his hoodie into the back of the shop and slammed the door shut.
“You want to play?” she asked.
He nodded once.
Her voice dropped.
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
Old velvet armchair. Legs spread. Cock already hard, tenting his jeans. She could see it. So could he. He didn’t hide it.
“Hands behind the chair,” she said.
He did it. Without a word.
Claire stepped between his knees.
Undid the button on her jeans.
Slid them down slow.
No panties.
He exhaled.
“Fuck,” he said.
She climbed onto him—knees on either side of his thighs, not touching his cock, not yet.
She looked down at him.
“You want to watch?”
He nodded.
“You want to see me fall apart?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t move.”
She slipped her fingers between her thighs and started slow—two fingers dragging across her clit, already slick, already swollen. His breath hitched.
“Eyes up here,” she said, grabbing his jaw.
Daniel looked at her like he was starving.
And she fed him.
She fucked herself on his lap, moaning softly, head tipped back, hips grinding.
He twitched beneath her.
His hands stayed where she put them.
He didn’t beg.
He just watched.
When she came, it was messy. Loud. Her thighs shook. Her body trembled. Her orgasm ripped through her like lightning, and his name broke from her lips without warning.
He caught it.
Held it.
Loved it.
When she came down, she collapsed against him, gasping.
Daniel’s mouth brushed her ear.
“You taste like you’re mine,” he whispered.
She shivered.
Hard.
Pulled back.
Looked down at him—his face flushed, jaw tight, cock straining behind denim.
She reached for his zipper.
He stopped her.
“I don’t need it yet,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“I want you to want me first. All the way.”
She stared at him, still panting.
Still full of him.
“Goddamn you,” she whispered.
He smiled.
“You already do.”
Chapter Four – Kneel for Me, Claire
Daniel didn’t show up for three days.
No texts.
No smug morning coffee.
No “accidental” drop-ins or double entendres delivered with a slow half-smile and a cocky shrug.
Claire told herself she was relieved.
That it was good—healthy, even—that the space between them had reappeared.
She got more done without him. The shelves were organized. The window displays were updated. She didn’t come to work wet.
But on the third morning, she found herself pausing with the door unlocked, half-hoping he was just on the other side, waiting to slide in behind her like a secret she didn’t want to keep anymore.
He wasn’t.
And that night, she touched herself again—alone, quietly, in the dark—and came too fast. Unsatisfied.
It wasn’t enough anymore.
Because she didn’t want her own fingers.
She wanted his permission.
On the fourth day, his voice returned like a hook to the spine.
“Miss me?”
Claire froze.
He was behind her again. In the back of the shop. Where he shouldn’t be.
He leaned against the doorframe like he’d never left. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, the curve of a smirk just barely threatening to break his composure.
“You didn’t text,” she said.
“You didn’t ask me to.”
Her stomach tightened.
He pushed off the frame, walked closer. He stopped a foot away—like always.
“I figured you needed time.”
“I didn’t,” she said.
“You’re lying.”
“I didn’t say it was time away from you I needed.”
That earned her a flash of teeth.
“Did you think about me?”
She didn’t answer.
He didn’t press.
Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped package. Set it on the counter in front of her.
She frowned. “What’s that?”
“Open it.”
She did.
Inside: a single black satin ribbon. Soft. Wide. Heavy in her hands.
Claire stared at it.
Daniel watched her.
“I want to earn the right to tie your wrists with that,” he said.
Her knees nearly buckled.
“You think you have to earn it?”
“I want you to want it. Not just need it.”
She swallowed hard. “And how do you plan on doing that?”
“I’ll wait.”
That shouldn’t have been as erotic as it was.
“I’ll help you close tonight,” he added, “and then I’ll go. No touching. No begging. Not even a kiss.”
She looked at him.
“I’ll want it more,” she said.
“I know.”
He turned, walking into the front of the shop like he hadn’t just handed her the most dangerous object she’d ever held.
That night, he wiped down the glass.
He restacked the books.
He watched her without looking.
Claire felt his presence behind her constantly—his heat, his hunger, his restraint. It clung to her body like static.
She didn’t touch him.
He didn’t ask.
And when the shop was closed, and the lights were dimmed, and they stood by the door, she looked up at him and said:
“You’re not going to touch me?”
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
She stepped closer.
“You’re not going to pin me down and tell me I taste like heat and fuck me until I forget what I’m supposed to be afraid of?”
He exhaled. “I will. When you ask me to.”
Claire stared at him.
Then reached into her pocket.
And handed him the ribbon.
His hand closed around it. Slow. Intentional.
“I want you to make me beg for it,” she whispered.
His eyes burned.
“You already are.”
She didn’t sleep that night.
Not out of guilt.
Not out of fear.
But because she could still feel the weight of the ribbon between her hands, and the pulse between her legs when he said, “Not yet.”
It wasn’t rejection.
It was power.
And she’d just given it to him.
Willingly.
Chapter Five – Beg Without Words
He didn’t make her wait this time.
When Claire stepped into the back room after locking the door, Daniel was already there. Same hoodie. Same calm. The same impossible patience wrapped in a body that was way too fucking young to move the way he moved—slow, quiet, like he’d been born to stalk women who knew better.
He didn’t say a word.
He just reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out the ribbon.
Claire’s breath caught.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I want it anyway.”
Daniel stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“Tell me what you want.”
She swallowed. “Tie me up.”
“Where?”
“Here. Hands behind my back.”
He raised a brow. “Why?”
Claire met his eyes. “Because I won’t stop myself unless you make me.”
Daniel smiled.
“Good girl.”
He tied her wrists slowly, deliberately, tugging the satin into a firm knot that didn’t hurt—but didn’t forgive, either. Her arms folded behind her, chest out, breath tight.
He circled her like prey.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“You still want this?”
She nodded.
He stepped close again, pressing his body to hers, his mouth grazing her ear.
“Then say it.”
“Please,” she whispered.
Daniel grabbed her chin. Not rough. But firm enough that she gasped.
“Louder.”
Her face flushed. She tried to twist away.
He didn’t let her.
“Claire. Look at me.”
She did.
“Say. Please.”
Her mouth opened.
And she said it.
“Please. Daniel. I want it.”
His mouth crashed into hers.
Finally.
The kiss was hard and filthy. No buildup, no pretending it was something sweet. His tongue forced hers down, his hand wrapped in her hair, dragging her head back until she whimpered into his mouth.
“You don’t get to play soft now,” he said. “You begged. I’m giving you what you asked for.”
He walked her backward until she hit the table.
Then bent her over it.
She gasped at the press of cold wood against her breasts, her tied hands awkward behind her, body arched, mouth open.
Daniel dragged her jeans down roughly. No teasing this time.
“No panties?” he said.
“I didn’t want you to have to wait.”
He groaned.
“Fuck, Claire.”
His fingers spread her open.
Wet. Soaked. Ready.
“You’re dripping,” he said, voice low. “Already.”
“Yes,” she gasped.
“Beg again.”
“I need you.”
“Not enough.”
“Please. Please, Daniel—”
She yelped as his fingers slid inside her—two, fast, knuckles deep.
Her hips jerked against the table.
He fucked her with his hand—rough, controlled, hitting that spot over and over until she was gasping, body trembling, thighs slick with arousal.
Then he pulled away.
She cried out at the loss.
He flipped her over onto her back—arms still bound behind her—and crawled on top of her, settling between her thighs.
His cock was hard beneath his jeans, pressing against her slick, aching entrance. He rubbed against her, not entering, just teasing.
“Please,” she whimpered.
He kissed her again, biting her lower lip.
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t stop looking at me.”
She didn’t.
Even when he pulled her legs up onto his shoulders.
Even when he undid his jeans with one hand and slid inside her in one long, brutal thrust.
She didn’t look away.
She couldn’t.
Daniel’s cock filled her completely—thick, hard, stretching her open in a way no man ever had before. Not even when she was twenty. Not even when she thought she knew what being full felt like.
She sobbed.
But not from pain.
From the relief of it.
“You take me so well,” he groaned, thrusting slow and deep. “Your pussy’s starving.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Say it.”
“Don’t stop,” she cried. “Don’t ever fucking stop.”
He pounded into her harder, the table creaking beneath them, her bound wrists helpless behind her, thighs shaking. She came once—screaming. Then again—moaning his name like a prayer.
Then again, with his hand on her throat, gently—not choking, just holding her still while he watched her unravel completely.
When he came, it was with a growl against her ear and his teeth sinking into her shoulder—deep enough to leave a bruise.
Good.
She wanted to wear it.
After, he untied her wrists.
Kissed each one.
Ran his fingers gently down her sides.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Claire nodded, glassy-eyed.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
He smirked.
“I’m already there.”
They lay tangled on the table for a long time.
Sweaty. Sticky. Breathing like they’d run a marathon.
She stared at the ceiling.
Then at him.
“I’ve never begged for anything,” she whispered.
Daniel smiled, slow and wicked.
“Then I’m honored to be your first.”
Chapter Six – Not a Boy Anymore
The next morning, Claire wore a bra.
A full-coverage one.
Beige. Boring.
A deliberate signal to herself: this is not a repeat of last night.
No games. No soaked thighs. No surrender.
And when the front door chimed and she heard his boots hit the floor?
She told herself not to turn around.
But she did.
And there he was.
Daniel.
No hoodie.
Just a black T-shirt that clung to his arms like paint and grey jeans that fit too well.
His hair was messy—like he’d tugged on it once before walking in—and his eyes were already locked on her like she’d said his name aloud.
“Locked?” he asked.
Claire blinked. “What?”
“The door. Did you lock it behind me?”
Her pulse stuttered.
“No.”
“Should I?”
She didn’t answer.
He stepped forward—slow, confident, nothing uncertain left in his body. Not a boy. Not today.
“I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he said. “About how wet you were. How tight.”
“Don’t—”
“About how you looked when I tied your wrists,” he continued, ignoring her. “The way your body begged louder than your mouth.”
Claire’s knees weakened.
He saw it.
He wanted it.
“I was going to behave today,” he murmured, stopping in front of her. “But then I remembered how you sounded when you came. And now I don’t feel polite.”
“Daniel—”
He grabbed her by the hips and slammed her back into the wall, one hand sliding up to cover her mouth before she could finish the protest. Her gasp hit his palm, muffled and hot.
“You want quiet?” he growled. “You better stay quiet then.”
Her eyes widened.
But her legs parted.
He pressed his thigh between hers, letting her grind on it, letting her feel how fast he was hard. His other hand slipped up her shirt, found the edge of the bra she’d deliberately worn.
“Ugly thing,” he said, tugging the cup down. “Trying to hide from me?”
He bent and sucked one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it hard enough to make her yelp.
“Shhh,” he warned. “People walk by this window.”
She whimpered behind his hand.
He lifted her leg up around his waist and dragged her skirt higher.
No panties.
She hadn’t meant to wear none. It had just… happened.
“Still my good girl,” he whispered.
Then he pressed two fingers into her, fast.
She cried out against his palm, body jolting, already slick, already soaking his hand.
“I knew you’d be wet,” he said. “You’re always wet for me.”
He pumped his fingers hard, curling them just right, just enough to make her body quake. Her mouth opened wider under his hand, and her eyes rolled back for a second.
“You want to come?” he whispered.
She nodded.
He pulled his fingers out.
She made a sound like a sob.
“No,” he said, voice firm. “Not until you beg. Out loud.”
He removed his hand from her mouth.
Claire gasped.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, Daniel.”
He stepped back.
Unzipped his jeans.
Freed his cock—hard, flushed, thick.
“You’re gonna take this,” he said, “and you’re not gonna touch me with your hands. I’ll use yours when I want them.”
She nodded.
He lifted her. Just like that. Pressed her back against the wall, used his grip on her ass to line her up, and thrust in—deep.
She screamed.
“Shhh,” he hissed. “Take it.”
He filled her completely.
No prep.
No warning.
Just Daniel, inside her, pushing her open, stretching her in a way that didn’t feel gentle—but felt perfect.
He fucked her hard against the wall. Her arms flailed, trying to grab onto him, but he slapped her hands down and pinned them by her sides.
“You wanted this,” he said. “You begged. Remember?”
“I remember,” she gasped.
“Then come.”
He angled just right.
One thrust. Two.
Her body shattered.
She came violently, head thrown back, body convulsing around him. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking her through it—kept using her, pounding into her with force and fury until he groaned and buried himself deep, emptying inside her with a long, shaking exhale.
They slid down the wall together, tangled, soaked, wrecked.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Then Daniel kissed her neck. Once.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered.
Claire didn’t argue.
Because she was.
Later, when he cleaned her up and helped her stand, she leaned against him and whispered, “You’re not a boy anymore.”
He smirked. “Took you long enough.”
Chapter Seven – Bound, Gagged, Worshipped
She found the ribbon on the counter when she opened the shop the next morning.
No note. No text.
Just that smooth, soft satin—neatly folded, perfectly placed.
A promise.
A command.
Claire stared at it for a full minute before picking it up, her pulse climbing as the fabric slid over her fingers. She was still holding it when the bell above the door chimed.
He didn’t say anything.
Just stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and locked it.
She didn’t look up.
“You left this,” she said quietly, still running the ribbon between her fingers.
Daniel crossed the room without speaking.
When he was behind her, his hands came around her waist.
“Put it on,” he whispered against her neck.
Claire turned slowly.
“You want to tie me again?”
“No,” he said. “You’re going to tie yourself.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
He pulled a chair into the center of the room.
“Sit.”
She obeyed.
Daniel handed her the ribbon.
“Put your hands behind the chair back. Bind your wrists.”
Her breathing got shallow. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
Claire stared at him. “Why?”
“Because I want to watch you offer yourself,” he said. “No struggling. No games. Just your mouth, exactly where I want it.”
She sat still.
Shaking.
And then, slowly, deliberately, she reached behind the chair and began to wrap the ribbon around her wrists.
Once.
Twice.
Tied.
Tight.
Daniel watched her the whole time.
When she was done, she looked up at him.
And saw that familiar, dangerous smile.
“Good girl.”
He didn’t touch her right away.
He undid his belt slowly, like he wanted her to hear the soft hiss of leather sliding free.
Then he dropped his jeans.
His cock was already hard.
Thick.
Veined.
Waiting.
“You wanted this,” he said, stepping in close.
Claire nodded.
He gripped the sides of the chair, one hand on each side of her head.
“Open.”
She parted her lips.
He slid the head of his cock over her tongue.
Slow.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
“Hold your eyes on mine.”
She did.
He thrust deeper.
Her lips stretched.
She moaned around him.
Saliva already gathering at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. She couldn’t hold him all the way yet. He didn’t care.
“Gag on it,” he whispered. “Let me hear it.”
She did.
Her throat tightened. She gagged. Choked. He moaned above her, hips jerking.
“Fuck, Claire,” he growled. “Look at you. On your knees. Bound. Mouth full of cock.”
He pulled back, let her breathe for a second, then pushed back in.
Deeper.
Harder.
She was drooling now, her cheeks flushed, spit glistening on her chest.
Daniel ran a hand through her hair, gripped tight, held her still while he fucked her face—slow and deep, but relentless.
“You begged for this,” he said. “Remember that.”
She moaned again, this time around the full weight of him in her mouth.
He pulled out before he came.
Stroked himself once, twice.
Then smeared his release across her chest—warm, hot, filthy.
She gasped, tied and trembling, her skin streaked with it.
He leaned down.
Untied her slowly.
Then kissed her mouth—full, deep, tasting himself on her tongue.
“You’re mine,” he said.
“Say it.”
Claire looked up at him through wet lashes.
“I’m yours.”
Later, he cleaned her again. Gently. Hands soft.
She sat on the floor, her head in his lap, while he stroked her hair.
No words.
Just that hum in her chest.
The one that meant she was owned, and she liked it.
Chapter Eight – Punishment You’ll Crave Again
Claire was late on purpose.
Ten minutes past the time she told him to meet her.
Fifteen past the time he’d agreed to open the back door for her.
She wasn’t testing him out of spite.
She just… wanted to know.
What he’d do if she disobeyed.
What it would feel like to give him a reason.
When she finally walked in, the lights were already low.
Daniel sat on the couch in the back room, legs spread, arms resting over the cushions like a man who owned the place. He didn’t look at her right away. Just sipped from a glass of water and let the silence work harder than words.
Claire dropped her keys on the counter.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
She stepped into the room.
Ten full seconds passed.
Then:
“You’re late.”
“I know.”
He turned his head slowly.
“You did it on purpose.”
“I wanted to see if you’d care.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Take off your clothes.”
She did.
No bra today.
No panties either.
She stood there, bare in front of him, already wet, already buzzing beneath her skin.
He stood.
“You don’t get to make rules,” he said. “You follow them. Or I break you slowly.”
Claire’s breath hitched.
Daniel walked behind her.
“Hands on the table.”
She obeyed.
“Wider.”
She spread her legs.
He stepped closer. Didn’t touch her.
Just let the weight of his silence crush her in place.
“You want to know what punishment feels like?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ll count.”
She didn’t ask what.
She didn’t need to.
She heard the belt slide free from his jeans, slow and deliberate.
The first strike landed across her ass—sharp, stinging, hot.
She gasped.
“Count.”
“…One.”
Another.
“Two.”
Harder now.
By the fifth, her voice shook.
By the eighth, her thighs were slick and trembling.
By ten, she was crying—but not from pain.
From relief.
From how fucking right it felt.
Daniel stepped in behind her, slid his fingers between her legs.
“Soaked,” he said. “You’re a mess. All from a little leather.”
She moaned.
“You think you deserve to come now?”
“No,” she gasped.
He spanked her once more—bare hand this time, low, right across her pussy.
She yelped.
“Why not?”
“Because I broke a rule.”
He pulled her up against his chest, hand still between her thighs, teasing her clit slowly.
“And what do good girls do?”
“They obey.”
He kissed the side of her neck.
“Then you won’t come until I say. And you’re not allowed to beg.”
She whimpered.
“Not even once,” he warned. “If you do—nothing.”
Claire nodded, shaking.
He slid inside her from behind—slow, deep, punishing.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
His hand stayed tight on her hip. His rhythm was cruel—just enough friction to keep her there, desperate, but never enough to let her tip over.
She clenched around him. Moaned.
He pulled out.
“Nope,” he said. “Not yet.”
She whined.
“Are you going to beg?”
“No.”
“Good girl.”
He brought her to the edge four times.
Fingers. Cock. Mouth.
Never letting her fall.
Never letting her have it.
And each time, she nodded through it. Accepted it.
Owned it.
Because the punishment wasn’t just denial—it was him knowing exactly how far to take her. And exactly how much she loved it.
When he finally let her come—straddling his lap, his hands gripping her hips, her wrists bound in the ribbon again—she screamed so loud she worried someone would knock on the door.
Daniel held her while she shook.
While she sobbed.
While her body went limp in his arms.
“You broke a rule,” he whispered, stroking her hair.
“I know,” she whispered.
“Are you going to do it again?”
“Maybe.”
He smirked.
“Then next time, I won’t be so gentle.”
Chapter Nine – Say My Name While You Shake
Claire had never been fucked like this before.
Not the mechanics—the rhythm, the hands, the angles. She’d had rough. She’d had soft. She’d even had a few nights she didn’t tell anyone about.
But this?
This was different.
This was personal.
Because now, when Daniel kissed her, he said her name.
And when she moaned, he made her say his.
Over and over again.
It started in the dressing room.
She’d been adjusting a mannequin—lace bustier, tight pencil skirt—and he’d come in without knocking. The bell didn’t even chime. He was just there, behind her, eyes heavy, hoodie sleeves shoved up, chest rising a little too fast.
“You wore red today,” he said.
Claire turned.
“So?”
“So it’s my favorite.”
His eyes dropped to the bustier.
“Put it on.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
She narrowed her eyes, but something in her stomach fluttered.
“Daniel—”
“Take off your top,” he said, stepping closer. “Now.”
She should’ve said no.
Instead, she pulled the tank off over her head, standing in nothing but her jeans and a black bra, which he slid down with one tug.
His mouth found her nipple immediately.
He didn’t wait. Didn’t ask.
Just bit.
She gasped.
Then he unzipped her jeans, shoved them down, and sat her back against the dressing bench, her thighs spread wide.
“Red,” he whispered again, brushing his fingers between her legs.
“You’re already soaked.”
Her breath hitched.
He looked up at her.
“Say my name.”
She didn’t.
So he slapped her clit—once, just enough to sting.
She cried out.
“Say it.”
“Daniel.”
He pressed a finger inside her, slow, deep.
“Again.”
“Daniel…”
He smiled.
“There you go.”
By the time he’d replaced his fingers with his mouth, she was already halfway gone.
Her back arched.
Her hands clawed at the wall.
She moaned. She writhed. She came once—but he didn’t stop.
He held her hips down and kept sucking, kept tonguing her until she begged him to slow down.
And then he gave her what he’d been holding back.
He pulled her upright, spun her around, bent her over the bench.
Pulled his cock free.
And slid in slow.
She sobbed.
Not from pain.
From how good it was.
From how much it meant that he was still holding her name in his mouth.
He leaned over her, buried deep, and whispered it again.
“Claire.”
Soft.
Reverent.
She turned her face against the wall and whispered, “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
“I need you.”
“You already have me.”
He came inside her that time.
She let him.
No condom. No barrier. Just skin to skin.
Just his breath in her ear, his name on her tongue, and the sick, terrifying feeling that it wasn’t just about sex anymore.
After, she sat on the bench, legs still shaking.
Daniel knelt in front of her, cleaned her with a warm towel, then pressed his mouth to the inside of her knee.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
“Say what?”
“My name.”
She looked at him—really looked at him—and realized what he was asking.
Not a sound.
Not a moan.
Not a groan mid-thrust.
He wanted her to say it and mean it.
So she did.
“Daniel.”
He smiled.
But didn’t speak.
Just rested his head in her lap, his arms wrapped around her hips.
And stayed.
Chapter Ten – Yours, In Her Bed
Claire wasn’t drunk.
That would’ve been easier.
It wasn’t late either—just after nine. The shop was closed. The lights were off. She was home. Alone. For now.
The house was quiet in that echoing way it always was. Hardwood floors. Soft lighting. Her mother’s old lamp in the corner and her divorce papers filed away in a drawer she no longer opened.
She sat on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a robe and a nervous heartbeat. Her phone was in her hand.
One text sent.
No reply yet.
Just three little words.
Come over. Please.
Daniel didn’t knock.
Didn’t ask.
Just opened the door like he had every right to walk through it.
He stood in the entryway—hoodie unzipped, T-shirt clinging to his chest, hair wind-blown from the night.
He looked at her.
Not her face.
Not her tits.
Not her thighs, bare beneath the robe.
Her eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you would,” she said softly.
“I would’ve broken the door down if you hadn’t unlocked it.”
He took off his shoes.
Set them aside.
Walked into her bedroom without asking where it was.
He didn’t push her down.
Didn’t pull her robe open.
Didn’t bend her over the dresser like she’d imagined all afternoon.
He sat beside her.
And kissed her shoulder.
One, soft, aching kiss.
She turned to face him.
“Don’t be gentle,” she whispered.
He met her gaze. “Why not?”
“Because it scares me.”
Daniel smiled faintly.
“Then I will be.”
He took his time.
Undressed her like it was something he’d waited months to do. Not like he’d already seen her naked. Not like he’d already been inside her.
Like it mattered now.
Her robe slid from her shoulders.
She lay back on the bed.
And when he undressed himself—slow, steady, no rush—she watched like it was the first time.
Because it felt like the first time.
Not a scene.
Not a punishment.
Not a power game.
Just him.
And her.
He climbed over her, kissed her mouth. Her neck. Her collarbone.
She opened for him like a page long overdue.
His hand slid between her legs.
She gasped.
“So wet,” he murmured. “Is it for me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“It’s for you,” she whispered. “All of it.”
He groaned against her throat.
Then he lined up. No teasing.
Just one slow push inside.
Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open.
And the stretch—God, the stretch—was like being filled with truth.
Not filth.
Not just need.
Meaning.
They moved slowly.
No commands.
No begging.
No rules.
His cock slid deep, unhurried. Each thrust built on the last, hips rocking, lips brushing. Her hands ran over his back, nails leaving trails, but not clawing.
She stared at his face while he fucked her.
He kept his eyes open the whole time.
He moaned her name when she clenched.
She moaned his when he kissed her jaw.
It wasn’t about finishing.
It was about being inside each other.
Being with each other.
By the time they came, it wasn’t a scream.
It was a quiet, ragged, shared breath—his forehead pressed to hers, their bodies trembling, the connection too big for words.
After, they didn’t speak for a long time.
He held her.
Arms tight.
No leaving. No turning away.
And Claire—who hadn’t shared a bed with a man since her divorce—didn’t try to move.
Didn’t try to explain.
She just curled into him.
Let him wrap around her.
Let him stay.
She whispered it an hour later, when the lights were off and her back was to his chest.
“Yours.”
Not a question.
Not a tease.
Just truth.
Daniel kissed her shoulder again.
And whispered:
“Always.”
Chapter Eleven – Blindfolded. Tied. Trusted.
Claire woke to the weight of him already watching her.
Sunlight spilled through the slats of her bedroom blinds in pale stripes across the sheets, across her collarbone, across the swell of her breasts as she turned her head.
He lay beside her, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly on her hip. Not holding. Not gripping.
Just… placed.
Like he needed the contact.
Like he wasn’t sure she was real.
“You slept,” he said softly.
Claire blinked once. “You didn’t?”
“Didn’t want to miss it.”
She smiled, slow and sore and quiet.
“My snoring?”
“No.” His thumb brushed her waist. “You, soft.”
“I’m always soft.”
“No,” Daniel said. “You’re sharp. Even when you’re wet. Even when you beg. Even when you cry in my hands.”
She rolled onto her side to face him. “And now?”
“Now you look like you trust me.”
“I do.”
The words left her too fast. Too easy.
His gaze changed.
Darkened.
Not with hunger.
With meaning.
“Then prove it.”
She brought him the ribbon and a blindfold from the drawer.
Not because he asked.
Because she wanted him to take.
To do what she didn’t have the strength to ask for out loud.
She laid them on the sheets.
He looked down at them, then back up at her.
“I want you to tie me,” she said.
He nodded.
“Blindfold too?”
“Yes.”
Daniel exhaled.
“Then lie down. Hands above your head.”
She obeyed.
Let him bind her wrists to the headboard with slow precision. Two knots. Not tight. Just enough.
Then the blindfold came down.
Her vision vanished.
And the rest of her ignited.
He didn’t touch her at first.
She could hear him—moving, breathing, undressing slowly across the room—but the absence of his hands made her tremble harder than the presence ever did.
When his fingertips finally brushed her thigh, she gasped.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No safeword tonight?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
His mouth landed on her hip like a prayer.
“I won’t break that,” he said. “But I’m not going to be soft.”
“Good.”
What followed wasn’t rough.
Not really.
It was measured.
Intentional.
Every inch of her body was explored—his fingers grazing up her ribs, over her breasts, down her sides. He dragged a strand of her hair over her stomach just to watch her twitch.
Then he dragged his tongue lower.
Between her legs.
Deep.
Unapologetic.
Claire moaned so loudly he had to press his palm over her mouth to muffle it.
“I said no one gets to hear this but me,” he whispered.
She nodded beneath his hand, blindfold wet with sweat.
He edged her three times.
Tongue. Fingers. The head of his cock, teasing her slit, not pushing in.
She begged. Softly. Wordlessly.
He didn’t stop until her whole body was shaking.
Then—and only then—did he fuck her.
Hard.
Deep.
Slow.
Her wrists pulled against the ribbon. Her voice broke against the pillow. Her mind shattered with every thrust.
But her heart?
Her heart stayed open.
And that was the part that scared her the most.
When she came, it was silent.
Not because he told her to stay quiet.
Because it stole her sound.
The kind of orgasm that doesn’t scream—it stuns.
And when she collapsed beneath him, wrists limp, legs wide, chest heaving—
He took off the blindfold.
Untied her.
And held her.
“I want to mark you,” he whispered.
She didn’t flinch.
“Where?”
“Somewhere you see every morning.”
She turned her head. “Like a collar?”
“Like a promise.”
She nodded.
He kissed her neck.
And bit. Gently.
She moaned.
Then smiled.
And whispered:
“Still yours.”
Chapter Twelve – Let Them See Us
Claire hadn’t meant to touch him in public.
She told herself it was instinct—just her hand brushing his back as he passed her a drink at the café counter. But Daniel had caught it. The pause. The fingertips lingering on cotton just a little too long.
She’d looked up and saw it in his eyes.
He wanted her to keep going.
He wanted more.
So when he leaned over to say something about the book she was reading, and she laughed, and he stayed just close enough to smell her neck—
The whole room noticed.
Especially the woman by the window with the tight bun and the sharper mouth.
Danielle Harrow.
Mid-forties.
Church regular.
Neighborhood gossip hub.
Claire saw the twitch in her expression like a switchblade flicked open.
Then the whisper to the woman beside her.
Then the glances.
And Claire felt it.
The shift.
She pulled back from Daniel like he’d burned her.
He didn’t react.
Didn’t speak.
Just sipped his coffee.
And smiled.
Outside, she tried to outrun it.
Walked faster. Hands clenched. Breath shallow.
He followed her. Of course he did.
When she turned the corner toward the alley behind the shop, he was already there.
“Claire.”
“Don’t.”
“You touched me.”
“You let me.”
He stepped closer.
“No,” he said. “I wanted them to see.”
She stared.
“You want to be reckless now?”
“I want to be real.”
“We are real.”
“Then why are you still hiding me?”
Claire looked away. “Because I’m older.”
He stepped in.
“Because I fuck you better than anyone ever has?”
“Because they’re going to talk.”
“They already are.”
Daniel grabbed her chin.
Firm.
Not rough.
Not soft.
Just intentional.
“Say it,” he said.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want them to know I make you come so hard you cry into my mouth.”
She gasped.
“I—”
“That you don’t want them picturing you on your knees with your wrists tied in ribbon, moaning my name like it’s a prayer you don’t believe in anymore.”
“Stop—”
“Tell me to stop hiding if you’re so ashamed.”
Claire swallowed.
“I’m not ashamed,” she whispered.
“Then say it.”
She looked at him.
Right there in the alley.
And said it:
“You’re mine.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Then he grabbed her waist.
Pressed her against the brick wall.
Kissed her hard.
Filthy.
Public.
Obvious.
They didn’t fuck in the alley.
But they wanted to.
When he finally let her go, her lipstick was smeared, her hair ruined, her throat pink from where he’d sucked.
And the woman with the bun?
Yeah, she saw.
Let her.
That night, Claire didn’t undress for him.
Daniel walked in through the back entrance. Didn’t ask.
She was standing behind the counter in jeans and nothing else.
No bra.
Just her.
Bare.
Waiting.
He shut the door behind him.
No words.
Just hands.
They didn’t talk.
Didn’t tease.
He picked her up, carried her to the couch, and fucked her slow and silent, face to face, no games.
After, she held his hand while he cleaned them both.
And whispered:
“Let them talk.”
Daniel smiled.
“They will.”
Chapter Thirteen – Mine, Even If You Run
Claire’s sister showed up unannounced.
Hair curled.
Smile tight.
Nails immaculate.
“Just passing through,” she said, sliding past Claire into the shop without so much as a greeting. “Figured I’d check in. You know. See how things are holding up.”
Claire stiffened.
Everything about June was sharp and clean and surgically polite. She didn’t say what she meant. She cut with implication.
Claire braced herself.
“You look tired,” June said. “Overworked?”
“Something like that.”
June’s eyes scanned the shop like she was inspecting a wound.
“And the boy?”
Claire froze. “What boy?”
“You know which one. The one I saw with you. Holding your coffee. Standing too close. Looking at you like he’d already been inside you.”
Claire swallowed. “He’s a friend.”
June’s laugh was cold. “Claire. He’s a child.”
“He’s nineteen.”
“He looks like he still asks permission to stay out past ten.”
Claire turned away. “You don’t get to comment on my life.”
“I’m your sister.”
“You’re a tourist.”
June stepped closer.
“This town is small,” she whispered. “People talk. You’re too old to be fucking the help.”
Claire’s jaw clenched.
She didn’t reply.
Didn’t defend him.
Didn’t defend herself.
She just waited for June to leave.
And when she did, Claire locked the door behind her.
And cried.
She didn’t answer Daniel’s text that night.
Didn’t open the door when he knocked.
Didn’t respond when he called her name.
She sat on the floor of her bedroom, back against the dresser, fists clenched.
He was just a boy.
She was too old.
This was supposed to be sex. Power. Release.
Not… this.
Not real.
He let her have one night.
Then he used his key.
“Claire,” his voice echoed into the dark. “Don’t make me come find you.”
She stepped out of the shadows, arms crossed.
“I don’t think we should do this anymore.”
Daniel stared at her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
That threw her off.
“That’s it?”
“No,” he said. “That’s just the part you expected.”
He stepped closer.
“Now here’s the part you need.”
He grabbed her chin. Tilted her face to his.
“You don’t get to pretend you didn’t give yourself to me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You begged.”
She flinched.
“You called me yours,” he said. “You let me inside you without a word of hesitation. You fell asleep in my arms. Don’t insult either of us by pretending it meant nothing.”
She blinked hard.
He softened, just a little.
“Do you want me to stop touching you?”
Claire shook her head.
“Do you want me to stop looking at you like you’re everything I’ve ever fucking wanted?”
“No.”
“Then stop running.”
He kissed her.
Once.
Slow.
She broke.
She shoved him back against the wall, undid his jeans with shaking hands, and dropped to her knees.
No permission.
No direction.
Just need.
Her mouth found him fast, deep, desperate.
Daniel moaned, hands in her hair, his whole body twitching under the force of it.
She sucked him like it was punishment.
Like she could make up for what she’d done by choking on him until her throat burned.
When he came, she swallowed every drop.
Then stood.
Wiped her mouth.
And whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Daniel pulled her in.
Held her to his chest.
And said:
“Mine. Even if you run.”
Chapter Fourteen – Say You Love Me, Claire
He didn’t ask her to say it while she was coming.
Not this time.
Not when she was on her knees.
Not with her mouth full of him.
Not with her wrists tied or her thighs shaking or her moans caught in his palm.
He asked her when they were lying in bed. Naked, yes. Tired, yes. But still.
Still.
His fingers traced her shoulder slowly, absentmindedly, like he couldn’t stop touching her even when there was nothing left to take.
Claire stared at the ceiling.
Neither of them had spoken for ten minutes. Not about anything that mattered.
Then he said it.
“Do you love me?”
No command.
No tease.
Just a question.
Claire didn’t breathe.
Didn’t move.
Then: “Why are you asking?”
Daniel shifted, propped himself up on one elbow, eyes on her like always.
“Because I already do,” he said. “And I’m not going to lie about it.”
Her heart slammed once, hard, against her ribs.
She wanted to look away.
She didn’t.
Instead, she turned to face him and whispered:
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
Her throat closed.
He reached out, brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he said. “But if you feel it, I want you to stop hiding it.”
“I don’t know how.”
He smiled softly.
“I’ll teach you.”
The next morning, Claire waited until he was in the shower.
Then she got out of bed, pulled on a T-shirt, and went into the kitchen.
The sun was just starting to come through the windows. Everything smelled like him. The coffee he made. The cologne he wore. The sweat he left between her thighs.
She didn’t cry.
She just… sat down.
And wrote it.
On paper.
She folded the note.
Tucked it into his hoodie pocket.
And left the door unlocked.
When he came out and found the house empty, he didn’t panic.
He reached for his hoodie.
Found the note.
Unfolded it.
It wasn’t long.
Just three words.
Four, if you counted the signature.
“I love you. —Claire”
She was waiting for him at the shop when he arrived.
Hair still messy.
No makeup.
Her face bare in every way.
He stepped through the door.
Locked it behind him.
Didn’t speak.
Just walked toward her, grabbed her face, and kissed her like it meant everything it did.
She moaned into his mouth.
Held him.
Then whispered:
“I don’t need to say it during sex. I need to say it when I can’t hide behind it.”
Daniel kissed her again.
And said:
“That’s how I know it’s real.”
Chapter Fifteen – Always, Always, Always
They didn’t talk about what it meant.
Not right away.
After Claire said it—on paper, with no theatrics—and after Daniel kissed her like she’d given him more than her body, they didn’t fill the air with empty words.
They just kept moving.
Through the day.
Through each other.
Through the quiet ache of knowing they’d crossed a line they could never uncross—and neither of them wanted to.
That night, he came to her house.
No plans.
No rope.
No toys.
No ribbon.
He knocked once, then opened the door and stepped in like he lived there. He did, in some way. There were pieces of him scattered everywhere now—his hoodie draped over the back of a chair, his scent on the sheets, his bite marks fading across her skin like bruised memories.
Claire was waiting in bed.
Not in lingerie.
Not in silk.
Just a threadbare T-shirt and nothing underneath.
She looked at him like she’d already undressed him in her mind.
He looked at her like he’d never get used to the way she looked when she wasn’t guarded.
“Come here,” she said softly.
Daniel obeyed without a word.
He stripped down slowly, not for effect, not for dominance, just so she could watch. So she could see all of him—lean, toned, scarred from years of too many sports and too much testosterone. He wasn’t a boy. Not to her. Not anymore.
He climbed into bed beside her.
And kissed her.
Once.
Long.
Then whispered:
“One more time.”
She shook her head.
“Not one more. Always.”
He moved over her like a tide—slow, rolling, warm.
His hands ran down her sides.
Her fingers tangled in his hair.
They kissed again. And again. Until kissing wasn’t enough.
She spread her legs beneath him without asking.
And when he slid inside, there was no gasp.
No scream.
Just a shared breath.
And the sense that something had finally, truly, settled.
They didn’t rush.
Didn’t fight the rhythm.
He thrust slow. Deep. Deliberate.
Like he wanted her to feel every inch.
Like he wanted her to remember it tomorrow.
He held her face in his hands the whole time.
Watched her come apart like he’d done it a thousand times—but it still mattered.
Still meant something.
She whispered his name against his jaw.
He whispered “mine” against her mouth.
When she came, it wasn’t a shattering.
It was a melting.
Warm.
Endless.
Like sinking into something too deep to measure.
After, he didn’t pull out right away.
He just stayed inside her.
Breathing.
Holding.
His thumb traced her cheek.
“You still scared?” he asked.
Claire nodded.
“Yeah.”
Daniel kissed her temple.
“Me too.”
They lay like that until the sun rose.
No more games.
No more hiding.
Just always.
Epilogue – Still Hers
The town didn’t forget.
They just got used to it.
The glances became nods.
The whispers faded into shrugs.
And Daniel never once looked down when someone raised a brow. He looked back—steady, calm, owning it. Owning her.
But he never answered their questions.
Because it wasn’t anyone’s business what she said to him at night.
What she let him do.
What she asked for now without shame.
Claire still opened the shop every morning.
He still came by every afternoon.
Sometimes to help.
Sometimes just to look at her and remind her she wasn’t untouchable.
She’d gotten used to the way he touched her back casually now—like they were allowed to be soft in public. How his hand found her waist without asking. How hers found his when they crossed the street.
He lived with her now.
No announcement.
No boxes.
Just presence.
He brought his camera, a single suitcase, and three favorite books. She gave him closet space and silence.
It worked.
Some nights, he still tied her.
Not often.
Not like before.
Now, when he did, it wasn’t to control her.
It was to remind her.
Of who she was with him.
And who she didn’t have to be anymore.
She said “I love you” now.
Often.
Sometimes quietly.
Sometimes while coming.
Sometimes while doing dishes, handing him a towel, glancing at him with that little smile he swore he lived for.
And every time she said it, he answered the same way.
“Still?”
“Always.”
They never married.
Never made it official.
But he bought her a ring anyway.
Not for her finger.
She wore it on a chain around her neck.
Under her clothes.
Tucked just between her breasts.
And the only time she ever took it off was the night she let him wear it.
Hooked through the loop of his jeans while she rode him, slow and deep, hands on his chest, her body whispering:
“Mine.”
And his body answering back:
“Yes.”
Sometimes, when she caught him watching her while she moved around the shop, she’d stop in front of him, tilt her head, and ask,
“What?”
And he’d say,
“Still everything.”
And she’d kiss him like he’d never need to say it again.