Page 72 of King of Praise
What if he thinks this is silly? What if he doesn’t want this kind of submission from me?
I push the doubts aside and focus on my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman staring back at me looks both familiar and strange. My usual features are transformed by careful application of makeup. Just enough mascara to make my green eyes pop, a touch of blush warming my winter-pale cheeks, clear gloss highlighting my naturally full lips.
My red curls fall in soft waves around my shoulders, still damp from the shower. The color looks vibrant against the pale, blush-pink lace of the new lingerie. The delicate fabric emphasizes my curves while maintaining an air of innocence that feels right for what I’m planning.
Olivia’s words from earlier echo in my mind.When you have a man like that, you can’t help but support him and be there when he needs you most.
After everything Micah has done for me, I want to offer something in return. Not out of obligation, but genuine desire to ease whatever burdens he carries.
The lingerie means more than simple seduction. It’s a declaration of intent. My choice to fully embrace the submissive role that has emerged naturally between us.
My fingers trace the delicate lace edges as I consider how different it feels with Micah. His dominance creates space for me to express desires long suppressed. His control paradoxically frees rather than constrains. When he praises me, tells me I’m a good girl, something deep inside unfurls with joy.
On my phone are several missed texts from Olivia asking how the evening’s preparations are going. I smile, grateful for her earlier support and advice.
Just be yourself,she told me.That’s what he wants—you, offering your submission freely, not some perfect fantasy.
The words help calm my nerves about tonight. I’m not trying to be something I’m not. I genuinely want to please him, to create a moment of peace in his chaotic world.
Moving from the bathroom, I survey the main cabin space with a critical eye. Everything is perfect—candles waiting to be lit, bed freshly made with crisp sheets, the air fragrant with freshly baked bread. Yet anxiety still lingers beneath my breastbone.
What if I’m wrong about what he needs? What if this makes him uncomfortable?
The sound of tires crunching on gravel sends a jolt through my system. He’s back. Panic threatens to derail my carefully planned scenario—my hair isn’t quite set, the candles remain unlit, I haven’t changed the music.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on what matters. The details are less important than the intent behind them. With swift movements, I discard my robe then light thecandles. The warm glow immediately transforms the cabin’s atmosphere.
My hands tremble as I take my position beside the bed, kneeling on the soft pillow I placed there earlier. I arrange myself carefully—back straight but not rigid, hands resting on my thighs palms up, head bowed.
My heart pounds as I hear his key in the lock. This is it. No turning back now.
Please let him understand what I’m offering.
Cold air rushesin as the cabin door opens. It carries the crisp scent of winter and something distinctly masculine—whiskey, expensive cologne, pure Micah.
His sharp inhale tells me he registers the scene I’ve created. The candles casting intimate shadows. The bed turned down invitingly. And me, kneeling in submission, wearing the blush-pink lingerie set I chose with such care.
He crosses the wooden floor with measured steps that make my pulse quicken. The sound stops directly in front of me. From my position, I can only see his legs, clad in what appears to be formal dress pants rather than his usual jeans. The fabric pulls taut across his thighs as he shifts his weight, and I fight the urge to look up without permission.
Cool, calloused fingers brush my chin, applying gentle pressure that guides my face upward. My breath catches as I take in his appearance.
He’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit that makes him look more commanding than usual. The blood-red silk tie draws attention to the breadth of his chest. His dark hair andbeard, threaded liberally with gray, complete the picture of sophisticated danger.
But it’s his eyes that capture me—dark with desire yet somehow soft around the edges as they roam over my kneeling form. The intensity of his gaze makes me feel simultaneously exposed and sheltered, vulnerable and protected.
Various emotions play across his face—surprise, appreciation, concern, and something deeper that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip in a gesture that feels more intimate than any kiss. I lean into his caress, maintaining eye contact with quiet confidence. This is my choice. My power. My gift freely given.
“Welcome home, sir,” I say, barely above a whisper.
His answering groan is all the affirmation I need.
His expression shifts—a subtle softening that suggests understanding of my gesture.
“You look beautiful.” His deep voice is pitched low with emotion, the words washing over me like warm honey. His thumb continues its gentle exploration of my lips. “So perfect. So lovely, kneeling here for me. Such a good girl.”
The praise settles over me like a warm blanket.
