I almost didn't knock.
I stood outside Jesse's door for five minutes—heart racing, palms sweaty, hard already from nothing but anticipation.
But I knocked.
Once.
The door opened.
No greeting.
Just him.
Jesse Locke, barefoot in low-slung sweats and a black shirt, his expression unreadable. Calm, composed, and far too controlled for what he had planned.
He stepped aside.
I walked in.
The door shut behind me with a click that sounded like a lock.
Maybe metaphorical.
Maybe not.
---
His house smelled like cedar and something darker. A bottle of whiskey sat untouched on the counter. The lights were dim, the air quiet.
And him?
He was silent.
Until he spoke.
"Kneel."
That one word.
I dropped without hesitation.
The rug beneath my knees was rough, biting slightly into my skin.
But I welcomed it.
He circled me slowly, eyes dragging over my shoulders, my neck, my mouth. I could feel the heat of his stare settle at my spine like a brand.
"I want your consent," Jesse said, voice smooth but cold. "No guessing. No pretending."
I swallowed. "You have it."
"For what I want," he continued, stepping behind me, "there are rules."
My breath hitched as I felt his hand graze the back of my neck, slow and firm.
"You speak only when told to," he said. "You stay where I put you. If I touch you, you thank me."
His fingers dragged down my throat lightly, almost reverently.
"I don't ask twice."
I nodded.
"Words, Kade."
"Yes, Sir."
Silence.
Then, he moved in front of me again.
"Safeword is silver. You say it, everything stops."
"Yes, Sir."
He reached down, fingers curling under my chin, tilting my face up.
"You want to be used?" he asked.
"I want to be yours," I whispered.
His eyes flickered. That broke him—just a little.
He leaned in, brushing his lips over my ear.
"Then tonight," he growled, "you'll be nothing but what I make you."
---
He guided me to the bedroom—one hand on the back of my neck, the other at my lower back.
Clothes came off slowly. Mine first. His second.
Not rushed. Not careless.
Measured. Controlled.
Intentional.
When I was naked, he left me standing there—exposed. Quiet.
Then he stepped away and brought out a black box.
Inside: rope. Leather cuffs. A thin collar.
"Choose," Jesse said.
I blinked. "Sir?"
He looked at me, stern. "This is the only choice you'll get tonight. Pick one."
I reached for the collar.
He took it from my hand.
And buckled it around my neck with steady fingers.
It wasn't tight.
But it felt like everything.
---
What followed wasn't sex.
It was ritual.
It was restraint.
It was trust folded into pain, and pain braided into permission.
He made me lie still.
He tied my wrists to the headboard.
He kissed every inch of the bruise on my throat like it belonged to him.
Then he whispered:
"You're mine tonight."
And when he finally slid into me, slow and deep and devastating—
I realized he wasn't trying to fuck me.
He was trying to claim me from the inside out.
And God help me.
I let him.