Page 70 of Rescuing Sophia

Because if I can’t, everything we’ve built together is a lie. That’s a possibility I’m not ready to face. Not yet.

I’m wound as tight as a spring when I make it home that evening. Sophia immediately picks up on my mood, her brow furrowing with concern as I shrug off my jacket.

“Tough day?” Her voice is soft and cautious.

Words stick in my throat, and I nod.

Sophia approaches slowly like she’s dealing with a wild animal, her movements careful and measured. When her hands come to rest on my chest, the warmth of her touch seeps through my shirt, grounding me.

Calming the storm inside me.

I need to talk to her. I need to clear this gnawing doubt eating at me.

But I’m not ready. Not yet.

“What do you need?” Her eyes search mine, filled with concern and something more profound—trust, maybe.

Love, even.

The question lingers between us, heavy with unspoken fears. I take a deep breath, feeling some of my tension drain away under her steady gaze.

“You,” I say simply, the word barely a whisper. “Just you.”

I’ll wait until morning. There’s no rush. I need time. One more night before everything changes.

There’s no going back once I ask the questions burning in my mind. So tonight, I’ll hold her close, savor the feeling of her warmth, and enjoy her presence beside me.

Something shifts in Sophia’s expression, a mixture of understanding and anticipation. She takes a step back, her posture changing subtly.

“Then take what you need.” Her voice drops to a husky whisper. “I’m yours, Sir.”

The honorific sends a jolt through me, igniting something primal and possessive. My fingers thread into her hair, pulling her close. The heat between us sparks to life.

“Say it again.” My voice is low, a demand wrapped in dark desire.

“I’m yours, Sir,” Sophia repeats, her breath hitching. “Always.”

What follows is a dance of dominance and submission, a give-and-take that we’ve been perfecting over the weeks. I guide Sophia to the bedroom, my commands soft but firm. She follows willingly, and her trust in me is absolute.

We don’t need elaborate scenes or equipment. It’s all about the energy between us, the power exchange that happens with a look, a touch, a whispered word. I push Sophia, watching in awe as she surrenders control, finding freedom in her submission.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, the sweat cooling on our skin as the remnants of our passion linger in the air. Sophia’s head rests on my chest, her fingers drawing lazy, soothing patterns on my stomach.

The quiet is heavy, filled with our breaths gradually slowing down, echoing our satiated hunger. Beneath that, the weight of my suspicions presses down, making the silence unbearable.

TWENTY-THREE

Sophia

Finally,the morning I’ve been dreading arrives.

I wake earlier than usual, my heart heavy with what I have to do. For a long moment, I sit on the edge of the bed, watching Blake sleep. In the soft, gray morning light filtering through the rain-streaked window, he looks younger, unburdened by the weight of his responsibilities. I want nothing more than to curl up beside him and pretend that this life we’ve built is real, that I’m not about to shatter it all.

But I can’t. I have my orders.

I go through my morning routine mechanically, my mind elsewhere. When Blake stirs, I’m already dressed, perched on the edge of the bed with a forced smile.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” I lean down to kiss him, trying to memorize the feeling of his lips against mine. “I’ve got to open the shop early this morning.”

---