Page 118 of Westin

He nods once. “I’m not always kind in-scene. I need to know you feel safe.”

I give him my best pleading, bedroom eyes, the big, round ones that usually break him down. His face stays hard like stone.

“Finish the contract,” he says.

My pussy tingles, but I manage to pull my attention back down. I think I like when he’s stern—it’s distractingly sexy. The contract goes on and on, alluding to every possible scenario. He’s thorough, and it does make me feel safe. I don’t have to guess what he wants or if I’m going to get what I need.

At the very end is an amendment.

The submissive will take birth control of her choosing. The Dominant may not finish on or inside the submissive’s vagina until she is sufficiently protected against pregnancy.

That’s the last thing, right above my signature. I know he added that for me. He’s outspoken about how he feels about having children with me, but I’m not ready. I stare down at it, and everything feels so final.

How did we get here?

Was this where he’d planned on bringing us all along?

I don’t have to ask that aloud. I already know his answer. I close the papers and hold them out. He sets them aside and shifts, spreading his legs.

“Get on your knees,” he says, his tone smooth, devoid of emotion.

My body tingles as my toes curl. I do as he asks.

“Good girl.”

My mind goes completely quiet. His praise falls into me like a drop in a pool, spreading warm ripples through my veins.

“Put your hands on your knees, palms up.”

I obey, laying my upturned hands on my thighs. They’re pale in the firelight. He takes something from his pocket wrapped in a handkerchief.

“Eyes on me,” he says.

I force my gaze up. He’s half shadowed by the fire and cut like stone, from the V of his lower abdominals all the way to his heavy nose and lowered brows.

“What did you do?” he asks.

My dry mouth parts. I lick my lips.

“I lied,” I whisper.

My nipples poke through my slip. Tonight, I’m acutely aware of my body and how different it is from his. He’s hard and big and takes up space. I fit perfectly between his thighs, and that makes me feel so small.

It’s all part of his design. I see that now.

“Give me your hair band,” he orders.

I obey. Carefully, he smooths my hair into a high ponytail. Then, he uses it to tilt my chin up.

“You’re not going to use your teeth. Just hold this on your tongue.”

He reaches into his lap, and I wait for the hiss of his zipper. Instead, he takes something from the handkerchief.

“Open, darling.”

My head empty, I open. Something cool and…oh God, it’s soap. He’s using soap in my mouth because I lied to him. I might burn up into dust from the shame. It barely fits between my lips and lays on my tongue. He adjusts my jaw so my saliva won’t drip down my throat and tucks a flyaway curl behind my ear.

“You weren’t good,” he says gently. “Were you?”

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