You told him to kneel.
And he did.
Now he's sitting tall, back straight, shoulders rolling with tension as he holds the position—his body sculpted, glowing in the soft light.Your good, perfect Dom… on his knees.
For you.
You circle behind him slowly.Bare feet padding across the floor.Toy abandoned. Power shifted.
You don't touch him right away.Just breathe. Close enough for him to feel you but not enough to ease the ache.
"You said I'd have to make you beg,"you whisper, voice thick and low. "How close are you, Sir?"
He doesn't speak.His hands are curled into fists on his thighs.His breath is shallow.His cock—still hard, flushed, twitching with every second you delay.
You lower behind him, knees on either side of his hips.Your lips meet the base of his neck—soft.
A kiss.Then a bite.
His jaw tenses.
You trail your mouth down his spine. Slow. Lingering.Teeth grazing.Tongue soothing.
You mark him the way he's marked you—like poetry in reverse.
He shudders.
"Say it,"you whisper against his skin. "You've had your fun breaking me. Now I want to hear it from you."
You kiss his shoulder blade. Sink your teeth in again.
"Beg."
A beat.
Then—
"Please."His voice is wrecked. Barely above a whisper."BabyGirl… please let me come. Please touch me. I need you. I need you.""You win."
You smile.
You reach forward, arms wrapping around his chest, palms flattening against his stomach.
Then you climb into his lap.Legs straddling his hips.Your forehead resting against his.Your silk-bound wrists now sliding upover his shoulders like prayer.
"Then take me," you whisper."Right here. While you're still on your knees for me."
His hands find your thighs instantly—gripping, grounding.
But he doesn't lift you.He waits.
"Please,"he whispers again, voice shaking."Climb on, BabyGirl. Let me feel you. Let me be yours."
You guide him in.Slow. Deep.He groans, head falling back. His fingers dig into your skin.
You ride him gently, bodies locked together, breath syncing.He holds your waist. You cradle his jaw.
And for the first time—
You both break at once.Together.On your knees.Wrapped in everything you've taught each other to be.
The sun is soft through the curtains.And for once, you're not waking in his arms.You're waking to the sound of water.
Running. Steady.The bathroom door is cracked. Steam slips into the room like an invitation.
You stretch, muscles deliciously sore.Inside and out.Your body still carries the echoes of last night—The way he begged.The way you took control.The way you both shattered together.
You slide out of bed and step into the bathroom barefoot.
He's under the spray, back turned to you.
His hands are pressed to the wall, head bowed beneath the stream.Water rolling down his skin.Strong shoulders marked with your kisses, your teeth.His silence isn't distant. It's centered.
He hears you before you speak.
"Come in," he says, voice low and quiet.
You do.
The water is hot. The air thick. The tile cold beneath your feet.But the moment you step behind him and press your palms to his back?
You're home again.
He lets out a breath you didn't realize he was holding.
"You were perfect last night,"he says, head still bowed. "I wanted to say it before anything else."
You slide your arms around his waist from behind. Press your cheek to his spine.
"You made me come undone.""And I've never needed that more."
You hold him tighter.
"You trusted me,"you whisper. "You let me lead."
He turns slowly.
His eyes are soft.Wet from more than just the water.He cups your face gently, forehead resting against yours.
"I always trust you, BabyGirl.""Even when I'm on my knees.""Especially then."
He kisses you.Not rushed. Not possessive.Just real.
Then he lifts the bottle of shampoo. Tilts it slightly.
"Let me take care of you now,"he murmurs.
You nod, stepping under the spray.
He washes your hair like it's a ritual.His hands move slow, fingers massaging your scalp, lips pressing kisses to your shoulders as he works.
You rinse. Turn. Face him.
"My turn," you whisper.
You lather the soap into your hands. Trail it down his chest. Over his abs. Around the cuts of his hips.You clean him like you're memorizing the night off his skin.Like you're honoring the man who let you own him… and then took you back with reverence.
You don't have sex.Not this time.
You just hold each other beneath the stream.Letting the steam wrap around your bodies like silk.
You step out first.He dries you off. Slowly. Carefully.And when he finally pulls you into bed again?
You're not submissive.You're not dominant.You're just his.
And he's yours.