Page 34 of Deviant Obsession

"I feel taken care of," I finally murmur, meeting his glacial eyes.

Something passes across that unreadable face—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. He reaches for me again, fingers ghosting over the scarlet patterns on my thighs. "Good," he says. "That's exactly what you deserve. And what about the scene?" Dean's voice remains calm, patient even, but there's an undercurrent of tension I don’t know the reason for.

My cheeks flush hot as I consider the sharp sting of each strike, the way my body responded, how completely I lost myself in the sensations. "I..." The words tangle on my tongue. "I loved it. The pain, I mean. More than I expected to. It was kind of…cathartic, I guess."

His eyelids drop a little at my admission, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he schools his expression. "It’s meant to be, in a way. Don’t be surprised if you feel pretty emotional for a while, it’ll pass… You took it beautifully," he praises me, fingers still trailing absently over my thigh. "The way you welcomed those last three strikes for me...fuck."

"I didn't think I'd want it so much," I confess timidly. "The pain, the submission, and...um… all of it."

Dean's hand stills against my skin. "And the rest?" There's something careful in his tone now, apprehensive.

My heart leaps into my throat as I think about how it ended—his hands gripping my hips, the stretch of him filling me, my desperate cries echoing off the walls. "The sex was…unexpected," I manage, watching him closely. "Since, you know… we didn't... last time."

His expression shifts completely like someone just flicked a switch, guilt pinching his features as he leans back slightly. "Fuck, you're right. We didn't..." He runs a hand through his hair, agitation evident in the hurried gesture. "We should havediscussed that first. I got carried away with how into it you were, but that's no excuse."

"No, it's okay," I rush to reassure him. "I wanted it. I gave you the green light." The words tumble out, trying to erase that troubled look from his face.

"Still," he insists, "I pride myself on better control than that. Better communication." His jaw works as he struggles with obvious disappointment. "You deserve more consideration."

"Dean..." I reach for him without thinking, my hand landing on his wrist. His pulse thunders under my palm. "I don't regret it."

His larger hand covers mine, squeezing in a silent apology. "You sure?" The question seems to carry weight beyond just this moment.

"I’m sure," I answer, though my mind screams at me to be more cautious. This is dangerous territory. This kind of openness, and this intimacy could lead todeeperfeelings. It wasn't supposed to be part of the arrangement. “You can go back to being your usual asshole self now, don’t worry about me.”

He huffs a quiet chuckle at my sad attempt at a joke, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. We sit frozen like that for several heartbeats, the silence growing a little uncomfortable between us. Finally, Dean stands, clearing his throat. "You should get dressed."

I chew on my lip as he retrieves my clothes from the floor, trying to ignore how his eyes seem immediately drawn to the anxious habit when he turns back around. My hands shake slightly as I pull on my underwear, my mind racing with everything that's shifted between us in the past hour.

"Here." He hands me my bra, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that once again feels far too deliberate.

"Thanks," I murmur, focusing intently on the clasps rather than his proximity or the way he's still watching me with thatguarded expression. I dress in loaded silence, the rustle of fabric somehow deafening in the quiet room.

All the while, I can’t shake the feeling that he can’t wait for me to leave. It guts me just as deeply as the first time we snapped out of a scene and back into uncomfortable reality.

This is exactly what I didn't want—this complexity, these dangerous undercurrents. It was supposed to be simple. Clinical, almost. Just exploration and release. Instead, I'm standing here feeling stripped bare in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. It’s all I can do to tell myself it’s just the aftermath of the scene thrumming in my veins.

He did say I’d be feeling extra emotional for a while.

"Well…I should go." I grab my bag, needing to escape before I do something stupid like ask him what this means or, worse, tell him how much I'm starting to crave these gentler moments between us. He doesn't try to stop me as I move toward the door, but I can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing against my back as I reach for the handle.

The welts across my thighs throb gently beneath my pantyhose as I hurry down the corridor, a constant reminder of how completely I submitted to him. I completely caved to his control, his demands, and then his unexpected softness. I can only pray the evidence isn’t visible through the sheer fabric for all the world to see.

This wasn't part of the plan. None of it was. The scene itself—heavens, the scene—exceeded every fantasy I didn’t even know I was harboring. But it's the quiet moments after it that have me truly shaken. The way he soothed my wrists when he untied me. How his voice softened when he praised my responses. The flash of vulnerability in his eyes when he thought he'd overstepped.

I pause at the end of the hallway, pressing my forehead against the cool wall. My reflection in a nearby mirror catches my eye. I swallow hard as I take in my flushed cheeks, chewed-up and swollen lips, and that unmistakable post-sex glow. I barely recognize myself.

"Don’t get used to it, Rhea," I whisper to my reflection. "This won’t last. It’s just a game to him. And toyou.Nothing more."

But even as I form the words, I know I'm lying to myself. The way my heart races when he looks at me has less and less to do with physical attraction—or even the irritation that once burned there. I have to stop myself from falling into dangerous territory, and letting myself feel things I swore I wouldn't.

My hand drifts to my neck, finding the spot where his lips branded me days ago. The slight ache grounds me, reminds me why I need to keep my emotions in check. Guys like Dean don't do feelings. They don't offer anything beyond these stolen moments in dark rooms.

Don’t you dare start pining like the virgin he accused you of being.

He wasn’t my first, and he won’t be my last. The fact that he’s made my body feel things I never dreamed of is only proof that I’ve held myself back all these years from truly experiencing anything. There’s a whole world of sensations out there open to me now. Because I let myself take that leap. BecauseIgavemyselfpermission.

Now all I have to do is convince my brain that Dean isn’t some rare angel I’ll never find again.

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