Page 23 of Daddy's Naughty Dog Trainer

Sean pauses, considering this. "I suppose we've been focused on specific contexts."

"Contexts where you're in charge," I point out.

"Am I not in charge here?" There's a glint in his eye that makes my stomach flip.

"It's your house," I concede. "But this feels more... equal."

"Interesting." He steps closer, backing me gently against the counter. "And does that bother you? The perceived equality?"

I swallow, suddenly very aware of his proximity. "Should it?"

"You tell me." His voice drops lower. "You're the one who responds so beautifully to my authority."

Heat rushes to my face. We haven't explicitly discussed the power dynamic that's developed between us. I know he’s a dominant and I defer to him, and love the way he naturally takes control. It's been organic, evolving through actions rather than words.

"I like when you take charge," I admit quietly. "But that doesn't mean I want to be a doormat."

"I would never want that," he says seriously. "A doormat is boring. I much prefer a partner with spirit. With opinions. With the confidence to challenge me when it matters."

"And get punished when it doesn't?" I can't resist asking.

His lips quirk. "Only if that's what you want."

"And if it is?"

Sean studies me for a long moment. "Then we should talk about that explicitly. Establish parameters."

Of course. Sean Ferguson wouldn't approach anything, not even this, especially this, without structure and rules. But instead of finding it frustrating, I feel a wave of gratitude. He's taking this seriously. Taking me seriously.

"After dinner?" I suggest.

He nods, pressing a brief kiss to my forehead before stepping back. "After dinner."

The meal is delicious. He’s surprised me with how great the rich, hearty lasagna is accompanied by a crisp salad and crusty garlic bread. We talk easily over dinner, about Lucky's progress, about my other clients, about a movie we both want to see. It's comfortable, this space between us, growing more so with each encounter.

Lucky lies contentedly at Sean's feet, occasionally looking up hopefully when he thinks we might drop something edible.

"No begging," Sean says firmly when Lucky rests his chin on his knee. "You know the rules."

Lucky sighs dramatically but returns to his spot on the floor.

I laugh. "He's got you wrapped around his paw."

"He absolutely does not," Sean protests, but there's no heat in it.

"Please. I see the way you sneak him treats when you think I'm not looking."

"That's strategic positive reinforcement," Sean insists, but a smile tugs at his lips.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Ferguson."

After dinner, I help clear the table and load the dishwasher, careful to follow Sean's precise arrangement of plates and utensils. He notices my attention to his system and rewards me with an approving nod that shouldn't make me as happy as it does.

Once the kitchen is spotless again, Sean leads me to the living room, where Lucky promptly curls up on his designated bed in the corner. Sean sits on the sofa and pats the space beside him, an invitation I gladly accept.

"So," he says, his tone shifting to something more serious, "parameters."

I tuck my feet beneath me, turning to face him. "Right. Parameters. Is that another word for rules?" I’ve read a lot of BDSM romance novels. I’ve dabbled in the lifestyle from timeto time. Some light bondage and role play. I know I can’t be in a Master slave dynamic. I’d never give up that much control to someone. A good Daddy Dom who spoils me rotten? With some mild structure? I can do that. What kind of rules would Sean have?

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