A PRIVATE OBSESSION

Two weeks of doing what a stranger wanted, inside the terms I had signed. The money was so incredible my pride had gone silent long enough for my hand to move across every page.

I needed the money.

That was the truth, and somehow the most humiliating. Savannah Ashcroft was a name with wealth. I was born into a dynasty with old court presence. I had trusts attached somewhere in the distance, that usually were spoken about by men at tables I was invited to sit near but never control.

Wealth belonged to my name.

Access belonged to my father.

Those were different things.

The deal had been simple. At night, I came to the suite. I wore the eye mask. I followed his instructions. When he dismissed me, I returned to the adjoining room. Once the door closed behind me, I could remove the blindfold, and returned to being a dynasty princess. 

I was employed as an escort. 

I knelt in the middle of the suite and tried to breathe as if this were another arrangement with clean paper and expensive signatures. 

At twenty-one, I had sat through enough dynasty meetings to understand anything could be made respectable if the paper was thick enough.

The door opened.

My lungs seized before I could steady them.

The sound was quiet. A soft release of the latch, then a controlled swing inward. No rush. The kind of entrance made by a man certain the room would wait for him.

The door closed again.

I lowered my head further as footsteps crossed the suite. Slow. Expensive shoes on expensive carpet. A pause near the far side of the room. Fabric shifted. Something touched glass with a faint sound. A jacket, maybe. A phone. Cufflinks. I hated that my mind tried to build him from sound.

I had agreed to never see him. I had never agreed to stop wondering.

“Savannah.” 

His voice entered the room like a hand at my throat. Deeply calm and educated. Older than me. Controlled in a way that made me aware of every uncontrolled thing inside myself.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes, what?”

Heat climbed my neck. The contract had mentioned formal address. Reading it on paper had felt different from saying it on my knees.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

The single word should have done nothing to me, but my fingers pressed harder into my thighs.

He came closer. I felt the movement before I heard it clearly, the subtle shift in scent, and then he stopped in front of me.

I kept my head lowered.

“You will remain in this suite until I am finished with you,” he said. “When I dismiss you, you will return to the adjoining room. Once you are inside and the door is closed, you may remove the blindfold.”

My mouth had gone dry. “Yes, sir.”

“You will never remove it in this room. You will never attempt to see me. You will never follow me if I move away from you. If you lose orientation, you stop and ask.”

“I understand.”

He lowered himself in front of me, and I felt the change in him at once, the way his presence shifted closer, level with mine. My skin tightened. I imagined a man crouched before me in a suit too expensive, watching a blindfolded woman kneel at his feet while he explained the rules of her own body back to her.

“I am going to be clear with you before I touch you,” he said. “Red ends the scene completely. No punishment. No loss of payment. I paid to fuck you, Savannah, but that does not take your consent.”

The bluntness made my pulse kick. My face burned, yet the words settled something inside me that had been shaking since I signed the contract.

His thumb touched my bottom lip.

I inhaled sharply.

He traced the shape of my lower lip slowly as if he had every right to learn me by touch and every intention of taking his time.

“Say it back to me.”

“If I say red, everything ends,” I whispered. “No punishment. No loss of payment.”

“And yellow?”

“A pause. Slower. Or I need to speak.”

“Good girl.”

The praise moved through me too quickly. I hated that he would have seen the reaction, my shoulders lowering by a fraction before I caught myself. The smallest surrender, humiliating because it had come without permission.

His thumb stilled, then moved once more, slowly.

“You react well to praise.”

“I’m nervous.”

“That was a confession, not a denial.” His thumb left my mouth. “We will go through your boundaries now.”

“I filled out the forms.”

“I read them.” 

His voice held no impatience. Great. He had read every humiliating permission I had given because the money had made courage out of desperation.

“You marked no breath restriction,” he said. “No blood. No permanent marks. No filming. No sharing. No third parties. No intoxication.”

“Yes.”

“You marked restraint as acceptable.”

“Yes.”

“Pain with negotiation.”

My fingers curled. “Yes.”

“Clamps.”

My stomach tightened. “Yes.”

“Plugs.”

“Yes.”

“Anal.”

I forced myself to breathe. “Yes.”

He said nothing for a moment, and the silence was worse than the list. In that silence, every box I had marked returned to me. 

The glow of my phone screen. The forms Amara had sent, while telling me I could decline anything, that money did not make my yes less real. I had sat on the edge of my bed in the Ashcroft house, circling permissions I had no experience with because two weeks could buy distance from a man my father planned to place in my life for six months.

Sir’s voice broke through the memory.

“Have you had a man’s mouth on you?”

My whole body went hot.

“What?”

“Have you been licked out, Savannah?”

My lips parted. No one had ever asked me that so calmly, and made it sound both clinical and filthy at once.

“No,” I said.

“Never?”

“No, sir.”

His thumb returned to my lip. “Did no one offer?”

My face burned worse. “No.”

“Did you want them to?”

I thought of the men I had kissed at dynasty parties. Who believed female pleasure arrived through proximity to their family seal.

“Yes,” I whispered.

His thumb pressed lightly at the centre of my mouth. “Would you mind if I did? If I spread your legs over my shoulders and licked your pussy for the first time?”

The question threaded through my nerves. I had no reason to trust him beyond the contract. Yet the way he asked made the choice feel real.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” His hand left my face. “What is off limits tonight?”

“Nothing.”

I answered too quickly, and the silence changed. Every part of me went still.

“That was the wrong answer.”

My stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologise. Think.”

“I did.”

“No,” he said. “You gave the answer you thought would make you worth the money.”

The words struck too close, and I lowered my head. The worst thing about truth was how humiliating it sounded when spoken by someone else.

“I know what I signed,” I said.

“I am not asking what you signed. I am asking what is off limits tonight.”

I drew a careful breath. He waited, and it unnerved me too. Men in my world did not wait unless waiting served them. His silence made room for honesty, and I had no idea what to do with that.

“No anal tonight,” I said finally.

“Good.”

Relief moved through me so quickly my throat tightened. My breathing steadied by inches.

He touched my chin again, lifting my face toward him.

“You can still say red if you agreed to something five minutes before. You can still change your mind after you thought you wanted something. Do you understand, Savannah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect to do everything you agreed to over the two weeks,” he said. “Clamps. Plugs. Anal. Every box you marked. But I will not force your body to catch up with your signature in one night.”

The way he said signature made me feel seen in a place I had tried to keep hidden. He knew, somehow, that my signature had been braver than I was.

“I understand.”

“What do I expect over two weeks?”

My mouth felt dry. “Everything I agreed to.”

“And what do you keep?”

“My consent.”

“Good girl.”

He stood. I heard him move away, then a glass touched something hard. Liquid poured. The sound made me flinch, though I had no reason for it.

“Water,” he said. His steps returned, and the rim of a glass touched my lower lip. “Drink.”

I parted my mouth and let him tip it carefully. Cold water slid over my tongue. I swallowed, then took another mouthful when he allowed it.

“Again.”

I drank. Only when he withdrew the glass did I realise how thirsty I had been.

“You will tell me if you need water,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now we discuss the living arrangements.”

I forced myself to refocus.

“Your room is connected to mine by the adjoining door,” he said. “It has a separate bathroom, wardrobe, and entry point. Meals will be delivered there. Staff know you as a private guest. They do not know our arrangement.”

I nodded.

“You may leave your room at any time. Wing security may offer transport. They will not stop you. They will inform me after you leave, not before.”

“Am I locked in?”

“No.” His answer came too fast for doubt to settle. “You are never locked in by me. The adjoining door can open from your side. I have access from mine, but I will not enter your room.”

My head lifted a fraction. “Ever?”

“Unless you invite me in, ask me to, or there is a genuine emergency.”

“And if I’m asleep?”

“I do not enter.”

The answer was simple. I believed it, which was dangerous.

“You will kneel unless I instruct otherwise. You will be here at nine or eleven on the nights I summon you. I will tell you the time by message. Do you work during the day?”

“Yes.” The lie came easily.

“What kind of work?”

“Retail.” 

Another lie. A smaller one, somehow worse because it was so ordinary.

“Morning shifts?”

“No.”

“Are you needed first thing in the morning?”

“No. My shifts are late afternoon.”

The lie felt ugly in my mouth, but the truth was impossible. My days belonged to court placement, family expectations, official appearances, and the careful performance of Savannah Ashcroft. None of that could enter this room.

“Good,” he said. “Course, I don’t expect to return you to your room until the late hours of the morning.”

My pulse jumped. Late hours. Plural. I could handle little sleep for a while. I had handled worse for less money.

“That’s fine.”

“No,” he said. “That is a claim. We will see whether it is true.”

My face heated again. He was very precise with words. He moved away, and I heard the soft creak of leather as he sat. A couch, probably. A device unlocked with a faint chime.

“I work in this suite at night,” he said.

I remembered the NDA then. The pages and pages of it. Confidentiality clauses. Private penalties. Legal phrasing sharp enough to cut. Anything I heard, inferred, suspected, or recognised belonged inside the silence I had signed.

“I understand.”

“If business is serious, I will return you to your room or use earplugs.”

My stomach tightened, because the dark was already a lot. Silence inside the dark felt worse.

“I would prefer audio.”

“What kind?”

“I have some on my phone,” I said. “Music. White noise. Sleep tracks. Things that make me calm.”

“That is acceptable.”

Relief slipped through me before I could stop it.

“You may choose the audio before I begin a call,” he said. “If the business goes too long, I will retire you for the night.”

“Retire me?”

“Send you to bed, pet.”

"Oh," I bit the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from blushing. Well. I tried. And I failed. 

“You have a question.” He said too calmly. It was really concerning how he knew that. 

“And um if you send me back because of business? Does that affect payment?”

The room went quiet. Like, painfully quiet. Shame arrived immediately, hot and awful. I would have done anything to avoid it. Instead. I had to kneel and feel every moment of it.

Of course it was about payment. That was why I was here. We kept dressing it up in boundaries when the ugly heart of it sat clear between us.

“No,” he said. “You are paid for availability. Not endurance.”

“Okay.” My throat tightened.

“You sound embarrassed.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Because I was kneeling blindfolded in a stranger’s suite asking whether being sent away early would cost me money.

“I don’t know.”

“That is a lie.”

I swallowed, but he let it pass. The mercy made my eyes sting.

“For two weeks, you will be expected to take care of your body well enough to make clear decisions in this room.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means you eat. You sleep when you can. You drink water. If you are ill, you tell me. If you are in pain, you tell me. If your monthly cycle begins, you tell me. If you become too tired to judge what you want, I end the night.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

The question was too calm to insult me, and somehow that insulted me more.

“Yes.”

“Then we will have no issue.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, and he heard something in the silence.

“Savannah.”

“Yes?”

“I do not enjoy dragging truth out of women. It bores me.” He said it so bluntly that a laugh surprised me. “Was that amusement?”

“No.”

“Second attempt.”

“Yes.”

“Better.”

The smile disappeared from my mouth because it felt too intimate, and intimacy did not belong here. He rose again. I heard him approach before his fingers touched my hair, gathering it gently over one shoulder. My spine went rigid.

“Easy.”

“I am.”

“You are sitting straight enough to impress a finishing-school instructor.” His hand slid to the back of my neck, thumb resting lightly at my pulse. “Tell me what you are afraid of.”

My mouth opened. I took a moment, and he let me have it.

“I’m afraid I won’t know how to do this,” I admitted.

“That is manageable.”

“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

His thumb paused. “That is less manageable.”

“I just mean—”

“I understand what you mean.” His hand moved from my neck to my cheek. “You think performance will protect you.”

I had no idea how he kept touching truths he had no right to know. “I think being good at something helps.”

“It can,” he said. “It can also make you lie about what hurts.”

His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth again.

“You are here to please me. You are also here to tell me the truth while doing it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” His thumb pressed lightly at my lower lip. “Open.”

I parted my lips.

He did not enter my mouth. He only looked. At least I thought he did. I could feel his attention there, as if sight belonged to him even while it had been taken from me.

“You have a beautiful mouth.”

I drew a sharp inhale. “Thank you.”

“So polite.”

I flushed.

His thumb left my lip. “You may stand.”

His hand came under my elbow, helping me rise from my knees. My legs felt unsteady, partly from kneeling, mostly from nerves. He kept hold of me until I found balance.

“Do you need anything before we begin?”

The question struck me as strange. “What?”

“Water. Bathroom. Clarification. A moment.”

I had expected commands, with his needs laid out like terms in a document. I had not expected a man to ask if I needed a moment. Two weeks of this suite. Then I would return to my life with enough cash to buy time, and time was the closest thing to freedom I had ever held. His hand moved away, and I nearly reached for it before stopping myself.

“You reacted,” he said.

“To what?”

“To me letting go.”

My cheeks heated. “No, I didn’t.”

“Savannah.”

I closed my mouth.

He stepped closer again, and the warmth of him surrounded me.

“You may lie to the world if that keeps you alive,” he said quietly. “In this room, lie less.”

My throat tightened around something dangerously close to emotion.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

He turned me gently, guiding me by the shoulders. Then he placed my hands at my sides again, positioning me. 

“Any questions?” His hand settled at my waist.

I had hundreds.

What was your name? How old were you? Why this arrangement? Why the blindfold? Would you be kind tomorrow if you were kind tonight? Would I recognise myself at the end of two weeks? Would the money make this easier, or would it ruin every touch when I remembered?

None of those questions belonged in the room. So I chose the only one that sounded practical enough to survive.

“What do I call you if I need you and you’re across the room?”

“Sir will do.” His thumb moved over my waist.”practice saying it.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Again.” His hand tightened by the smallest degree.

“Yes, sir.”

The air changed around us enough that my body knew the negotiation had ended and the first night had truly begun. He guided me back down to my knees. This time, I obeyed faster. His hand rested on the crown of my head.

“Now we can begin.”

The words made my stomach tighten.

I stayed on my knees in the centre of his suite, blindfolded, hands resting on my thighs, my body trying to look calmer than it felt. I heard him move around me, the low shift of fabric, the faint tap of glass against glass, and then his footsteps returned.

“Before I touch you properly,” he said, “I want you to learn the room.”

I lifted my head a fraction. “The room?”

“Your path.”

My fingers pressed against my thighs. Of all the things I had been nervous about, walking had become one of the worst. I had spent my whole life being watched. Trained to cross ballrooms without glancing down, to make movement look effortless. This was different. I was blindfolded. 

The suite could have been full of sharp corners, and things designed by very expensive men who never imagined a half-dressed woman trying to cross a room without sight.

“I don’t want to walk into anything,” I admitted.

His silence changed in a way I had begun to recognise even on the first night.

Attention.

“You are worried about furniture.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we remove the problem.”

He walked away. Something heavy shifted. Then something else. A low table, maybe. A chair. The suite rearranged itself around my fear, and for some reason that made my throat tighten more than if he had simply told me to stop worrying.

When he returned, his hand touched the top of my head.

“The room will be arranged the same way each night before you enter. From your adjoining door, you will close it behind you. You will take four steps forward. Four. I will have the centre cleared. You will kneel there and wait.”

“Four steps?”

“Yes.”

“That seems close to the door.”

“It is close enough that you will keep orientation. Far enough that you are in my room.”

My face warmed. In my room. Those words repeated twice. 

His fingers slid beneath my chin and tilted my face up. “We will practice.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Gently, he helped me back to my feet. Keeping his hand at my elbow until my legs steadied, then guided me back toward the adjoining door. I counted under my breath without meaning to.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“Stop counting the old path,” he said. 

My lips parted. “I wasn’t.”

“Savannah.”

I shut my mouth.

He positioned me facing the door. “Touch the handle.”

I reached forward carefully and found cool metal beneath my fingers.

“Good. That is your starting point. Door closed. Hand off the handle. Four steps. Then kneel.”

He moved away from me, and the loss of his hand made the dark stretch wider.

“Begin.”

I breathed in, released the handle, and took the first step. The carpet was soft beneath my bare feet. On the second, my hands hovered slightly from my sides before I forced them down. By the third, the air felt empty. Safe, maybe, though I did not trust it yet. At four, his voice came.

“Kneel.”

I lowered myself.

No furniture. No hands reaching out to stop me. Only the carpet, soft beneath my knees.

“Again.”

He made me practice it five times. Door. Four steps. Kneel. Door. Four steps. Kneel. By the third repetition, my breathing settled. By the fourth, I hated that it settled because his little system worked. By the fifth, my body had begun to learn the path.

When he told me to remain kneeling, I did.

“You will find what I want you to wear on your bed each night,” he said. “If I want nothing, there will be nothing. If I want silk, lace, stockings, heels, restraints, or jewellery, it will be laid out.”

My cheeks heated. “Yes, sir.”

“You will arrive showered.”

The practical turn made embarrassment flare hotter than the sexual things had.

“I would have done that.”

“I assume so. I am telling you because I prefer clarity to assumption.” He circled me slowly. I followed him by sound, though I kept my head facing forward. “You will brush your hair. If I want it styled, I will tell you. If I want it tied, I will leave what you need. Nails clean. Skin moisturised. No strong perfume unless I provide it.”

My face felt as if it were on fire.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

His steps paused behind me. “Shaving?”

I swallowed. “I wax.”

Oh god. I wished the carpet would open beneath me.

“That is your preference?”

“Yes.”

“Everywhere?”

My throat tightened. “Mostly.”

“Do you need appointments?”

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. I have someone.”

“You have preferences.” His fingers brushed the loose fall of my hair over my shoulder, exposing the side of my neck. The way he said it made it sound less like vanity and more like information.

“Yes.” I said. 

“Tell me.”

I wanted to say it did not matter. That he could leave whatever soap or lotion he wanted and I would use it because he had paid, and I had signed, and this was already humiliating enough without discussing body wash like a spoiled girl. But my skin was sensitive. I had spent years learning what worked. Veil noticed everything. My mother noticed more. And if I was going to be touched for two weeks, I wanted to smell like myself.

“I use my own shower cream,” I said quietly. “And body oil. A certain lotion. I don’t wear heavy perfume. I prefer softer scents. White flowers, almond, honey. I have a scalp oil I use if my hair gets dry. And I don’t use hotel body wash.”

I braced for amusement.

It did not come.

His fingers moved along my neck, then down the top of my shoulder.

“You have beautiful skin.”

The compliment hit differently after I had listed every expensive little way I maintained it.

“Thank you.”

“And you smell beautiful.”

I lowered my face, embarrassed by how much my body liked hearing it.

“I can provide money for all of that,” he said. “Anything you need replaced while you are here.”

“No. I have it handled.”

“You do not need to pay for upkeep that benefits me.”

“It benefits me.”

“It benefits both of us.”

“I said I have it handled.”

The silence sharpened. I realised then that I had argued with him on the first night, kneeling in his suite, over body lotion.

My face burned. “Sorry.”

“What did I say about apologies?”

I pressed my lips together.

“Adjust.”

“Yes.” He moved in front of me again. “I will not force money into your hand for creams, Savannah.”

The phrase made my chest tighten because money was the whole reason I was there.

“But I will make sure the suite has what your body needs. If you dislike a product, you tell me. If anything irritates your skin, you tell me. If a wax appointment conflicts with my schedule, you tell me before you skip it and come to me uncomfortable.”

“You have very detailed opinions,” I said, blinking behind the blindfold.

“About a body I intend to use for two weeks?” His thumb brushed my jaw. “Yes.”

Heat pooled low in my stomach. His voice remained calm, which made the possession in the words worse.

“I have massages booked for you on the mornings after heavier nights,” he continued.

My head lifted. “Massages?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need massages.”

“You will.”

“I don’t—”

“I plan to fuck you a lot,” he said, voice very blunt. “I plan to put you in positions you are unused to holding. I plan to have you on your knees, your back, your stomach, my lap, my desk, and anywhere else I decide I want you. Your hips will ache. Your thighs will ache. Your jaw will ache. Your neck may ache if you tense the way you do now.”

My breathing went shallow.

His thumb moved down the side of my throat.

“So you will have recovery worked into the arrangement. Massage. Warm baths. Food. Hydration. Stretching if needed. Balm for your jaw. Heat packs. If I leave marks within agreed limits, you will have cream for them. If you cry, you will have water after. If I keep you late, you will sleep after. If your body says no before your mouth does, I will listen to the body and make you angry by stopping.”

My throat tightened around something shamefully soft.

“You planned all that?”

“I plan what is mine to handle.”

Mine.

The word moved through me too fast.

“I’m not yours.”

“No,” he said, and his thumb brushed over my pulse. “You are contracted to me. Temporarily. But while you are in my care, I will be thorough.”

I had no answer for that.

“I have commitments during the day,” I reminded him.

“I remember.”

“I can’t always have massages.”

“You will be given times. You may decline, and reschedule. You may not pretend you are fine if you are not.”

I felt his eyes on me.

“You are tired.”

“No.”

“Savannah.”

“I’m fine.”

His hand stayed at my jaw. He didn’t press on why. That was the arrangement. My life outside this room belonged to me, even if most of it did not feel like mine at all.

He exhaled once.

“You are tired,” he repeated. “You do not have to explain why. But, you do have to stop lying about the fact of it.”

My eyes stung behind the mask. I hated that. I had not expected care to feel this close to humiliation.

“I am a little tired,” I admitted.

His hand moved to the back of my head.

“Come.”

He guided me across the room. I moved carefully, but his hand stayed with me, and the path was clear. A couch waited somewhere ahead. He sat first, then drew me between his legs.

“Kneel.”

I did.

This time, the position was different. Closer. My knees between his feet, my hands hovering, unsure.

He took my wrists and placed my palms on his thighs. Fine fabric beneath my hands. God he was toned. I could feel the muscles under my hands. 

My mouth went dry.

“You will keep your hands here unless I move them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have work to do tonight. While I work, you will learn how I like your mouth.”

My pulse climbed. He touched my lower lip again, slower this time. 

“Have you sucked a cock before?”

There had been men, yes. Who enjoyed being served and never wondered whether the service cost effort.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good?”

I swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m good.”

That much was true. His thumb stroked along my mouth.

“You will be.”

The certainty made me dizzy.

“I need to work,” he said. “You will listen to me, and you will obey my hand. If your jaw hurts, you tell me. If you need to breathe, you tap my thigh twice. To pause, yellow. If you want to end the scene, red.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open.”

I parted my lips.

His thumb slipped into my mouth first. Deep enough to remind me of the rules from earlier.

“Close.”

I obeyed.

“Gentle. You are not trying to prove anything.”

That was impossible, but I nodded anyway.

He shifted, and I heard the faint sound of his belt. The buckle. The button. The zipper lowering with obscene quiet. My palms tightened on his thighs.

“Relax your hands.”

I loosened my fingers.

“Good. You can be nervous. You cannot claw holes in my trousers because of it.”

A laugh startled out of me.

His thumb left my mouth.

“Better.”

“What?”

“You sounded human.”

My face heated. “I usually sound human.”

“You sound very trained.”

The words sank straight through me. I lowered my head, though I could not hide from him with satin over my eyes and my mouth inches from his lap. He guided my face forward with a hand in my hair. Warm fingers at my scalp, his palm settling at the back of my head.

“Open.”

I did.

He did not push in at once. The head of his cock touched my lower lip, warm and heavy. I went still.

“Breathe through your nose.”

I tried.

“Again.”

I breathed.

“Good.”

Then he let me take him, barely. Just enough for my mouth to understand the size of him and for my nerves to flare. He withdrew before panic got too much.

“Again.”

I followed the guidance of his hand, slower this time. My tongue touched him first because that seemed safer than taking more, and his breath changed above me.

“That,” he said quietly. “That what I like.”

I paused, memorising the sound, and he noticed.

“You heard that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You learn quickly.”

Praise. Again.

It warmed me until my shoulders lowered, and his hand stroked through my hair as if rewarding that. 

“Do it again.”

I did. Tongue first, then lips closing around him, not too tight or too eager. He let me work through the first few seconds with his hand steady in my hair, but when I tried to take him deeper, he stopped me with a gentle hold.

“No rushing.”

“I thought—”

“You thought taking more would make you better.”

My face burned. “Yes.”

“It makes you careless. I do not want careless.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you listening.”

I swallowed around the sudden ache in my throat that had nothing to do with him. He guided me again. This time, I listened. His breathing, fingers, and the small tension in his thigh beneath my palm when I moved correctly. The slight tightening in his hand when I did too much. The quiet approval when I slowed.

“Good girl.”

The words slipped over me, and I melted around him before I realised. He made a rough sound.

“Very good.”

My stomach fluttered. I wanted more of that sound. More proof that I could do this, that I could be worth the money.

He seemed to sense the thought.

His hand tightened softly in my hair. “Do not turn praise into pressure.”

I froze, and he drew me off him.

“How did you—”

“Your whole body changed.” He stroked my cheek with his thumb. “I will praise you when you please me. That does not mean you chase it until you hurt yourself.”

My eyes stung. “Yes, sir.”

“Jaw?”

“Fine.”

“Number.”

“One.”

“Good. Back to me.”

I returned to him. This time, he let me take more. He guided when to close my lips, breathe, and when to stop trying so hard.

At some point, the embarrassment softened into a strange quiet.

His hand moved through my hair while his other hand reached for work. Paper shifted on the table beside him. A phone chimed, then a pen moved over a page. Above me, he became two men at once: the controlled one with contracts in front of him, and the darkly gentle one teaching my mouth how to please him.

The split calmed me. 

There was no guessing, no performance beyond what he asked.

“Softer with your mouth.”

The correction came calm and immediate. My face burned, but I adjusted.

“Good. Do not panic. Corrections are how you learn.”

I breathed through my nose.

He worked for a while, one hand in my hair, the other turning pages. He never forgot me. Even when his attention shifted to the documents, his fingers kept moving softly over my scalp. Every few minutes, he drew me back.

“Break.” 

I rested my cheek on his thigh, breathing carefully.

“Jaw?”

“Two.”

“Water?”

“No, sir.”

“Liar.”

He lifted the glass to my mouth anyway, and I drank because he was right.

“Better.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The second time he guided me back, I understood more. He preferred when I began with my tongue and softened him into my mouth rather than trying to take him quickly. He liked suction, but only after warmth. He liked my hand at his base if he placed it there. My lips soft. My breathing steady.

“You are listening beautifully,” he said after one break.

I laid my cheek on his thigh, eyes closing behind the mask. “Thank you, sir.”

His hand stroked my hair.

The slow pass of his fingers made words feel far away. My body had relaxed in a way I had not expected. Used, yes. Embarrassed, yes. But oddly calmer too.

It made no sense that kneeling between a stranger’s legs could settle me. 

His phone vibrated.

I tensed.

“Audio?” he asked. “You do not need to hear this.” His hand paused. Then he reached for something, and a moment later one earbud was placed gently in my palm.

“Your choice.”

I put it in. He read the track title before selecting it for me, and soft sound filled one side of my head. Not enough to block him completely. His business voice blurred when he answered the call.

I kept my cheek on his thigh, and his fingers stayed in my hair throughout the call. His hand remained with me, even while his voice changed into something colder for whoever had earned it.

When the call ended, he removed the earbud himself and set it aside.

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“Jaw?”

“Two.”

“Mind?”

I hesitated, because the truthful answer sounded too intimate.

“Quiet.”

His hand stilled, then resumed its slow movement through my hair.

“Good.”

He kept me there a while longer. Sometimes he let me take him into my mouth. Mostly, he had me rest with my cheek against his thigh while he worked. His fingers found my scalp and rubbed small circles there until I relaxed so much I nearly slid into sleep.

The final time he drew me off him, I was heavy-eyed behind the mask. I rested against his thigh and tried to keep my posture, but it failed. My cheek sank lower, my shoulders drooped, and my hands loosened on his trousers until his hand moved to the back of my neck.

“Savannah.”

“Yes, sir.”

The words were drowsy.

He laughed quietly. “You are falling asleep on my thigh.”

“No, sir.”

“You absolutely are.”

I forced my head up. A second later, it lowered again. His thumb stroked behind my ear.

“Enough for tonight.”

Panic sparked through the exhaustion.

“I can keep going.”

“I did not ask if you could.”

“I want to.”

“That is sweet. It is still enough.”

“I didn’t finish you.”

“Tonight was a lesson, not a test.”

I felt the tears before I could stop them, the sting of exhaustion and relief pressing behind the blindfold.

He noticed.

“Baby.” His hand slid under my chin and lifted my face. “You pleased me.”

My lips parted. “I did?”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“No. You learned quickly. You listened. You told me when you were tired. Eventually.” His thumb brushed my lower lip. “You did very well for your first night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He stood and helped me to my feet. My knees ached from the carpet, and he noticed the moment I shifted.

“Knees?”

“Fine.”

“Number.”

“Two.”

“I will have a cushion tomorrow.”

My face warmed. “That isn’t necessary.”

“It is decided.”

I opened my mouth to argue and his thumb gently went under my chin closing my mouth. He gently kissed the corner of my mouth, then his hand went around my waist. 

He guided me back toward the adjoining door, one hand at my waist. The room felt clearer now. Less enormous. I could feel the path under my feet because he had given it structure.

Before the door, he paused.

“Tell me the rule.”

“I remove the blindfold only once I am in my room and the door is closed.”

“Good.” His fingers touched my hair once, a gentle stroke that felt too much like affection for a first night. “You will drink water, the sleep. If your jaw aches tomorrow, you message.”

“Yes, sir.”

He opened the door, and the air from my suite reached me, cooler against my skin.

“Goodnight, baby.”

The word followed me through the doorway, dangerous as a hand left on my heart.

I closed the door behind me.

Only then did I remove the blindfold.

The room appeared too bright. On the bedside table, a bottle of water waited beside a small folded card I had not noticed before.

Sleep.

Bossy even in ink. 

I should have laughed. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed, and realized the first night had not frightened me nearly as much as I had expected.