After our encounter at the grocery store, the first time I slipped on that black jockstrap before heading to the gym, I lied to myself about why.
Maybe he’d be there. Maybe he’d meant what he said. Maybe “next time...black” wasn’t just hot air whispered against my neck while I leaned against the cold metal of the stall, my shorts still around my ankles, wondering if what happened in that grocery store bathroom was even real.
The second time felt like passing some invisible test I’d set for myself.
By the tenth, I stopped the mental gymnastics. This was submission, plain and simple.
Rules are funny that way—when you choose them, they transform into something else. Into secrets. Into evidence that you exist in someone’s mind, even when that someone has vanished for weeks.
Every Monday morning, same ritual in my bathroom mirror. The elastic bites into my hips, a constant reminder that I’m not just at the gym for fitness. I’m there to be observed. Or ignored. Or both simultaneously. The not-knowing feels deliberate.
My reflection stares back—toned, brown skin, smooth chest, the kind of physique that signals availability in the right context. I turn away before I start searching my own eyes for validation.
Yet I wear it religiously.
Monday: scanning reflections between sets on the bench. No Carter. I pretend I wasn’t expecting him anyway. I tell myself many things I don’t believe.
Wednesday: four glances toward the entrance during my first fifteen minutes. Nothing. The gym buzzes with activity—grunts and clanging metal and the scent of effort— but the one presence I’m seeking never arrives. I leave feeling like I’ve somehow failed, though I couldn’t tell you what the test was.
The following Monday, I put it on again. By week three, I’ve stopped checking the mirrors—not because he’s ever shown up, but because it feels pointless. The ritual has ossified into routine. Black jockstrap on Mondays and Wednesdays, just like my pre-workout, my gym bag, and the shame I carry in my chest like a second heartbeat. I hate myself a little for it. I hate myself more for not stopping.
There’s a special humiliation in obeying an absent man. It’s worse than being watched, because it means I’m doing it for me. I’m wearing it for me. I’m keeping this secret for me—and only I’m fooled. Except I’m not fooling myself. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m staying marked.
Week four, I’m in the locker room pulling the band up like gearing for battle. An older guy next to me—his membership older than his body—glances over and smirks. I don’t know if he understands the signal or cares. My face burns: I look away and keep it on. Obedience becomes routine.
By week five, I hardly think about it. The black band is just part of dressing. Monday morning: shower, pull it on, quick mirror check—not for approval, just proof that I exist—then drive to the gym like it’s a job I might have lost. The gym itself is unchanged, the faces mostly the same. Jimmy isn’t there yet. He’s the new regular with easy confidence and flirtatious energy. He’ll get there soon. He always does. He makes friends simply by being there, unburdened by secrets. I’m not like that.
I scan the mirrors anyway—muscle memory, habit, the ghost of hope. Carter never appears. And I keep wearing it.
Week six, I’m on the cable machine when I catch my reflection: the black band peeking at my waist where my shorts sit low. For a moment, I see myself as he might: marked, waiting, obedient. My stomach twists with shame mixed with something darker—something that feels like power, even though I’m the one following orders.
I finish my set and tell myself I’m done. No more signaling someone who doesn’t show. But Monday returns, and I haul the band up anyway. Because admitting that a month of silence might mean he moved on, forgot, that our grocery-store moment was nothing more than that—that would mean I’m alone, wearing a secret only I know, obedient to someone who no longer notices. I can’t admit that. So, I keep wearing it. Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Six weeks of black jockstraps, empty mirrors, and the creeping certainty that I’m either the most patient man in Charlotte or the most pathetic. Probably both.
Obedience, I’m learning, isn’t about the one giving the orders. It’s about the one following them. It’s what happens to your body when you choose to stay marked, especially when no one’s looking. It’s how you start to believe you belong to him, even if he’s forgotten you exist.
Then Jimmy starts showing up regularly. By then he’s not a stranger but a face I’ve already caught in the mirrors. The guy who asked me for a spot once and joked about my “resting murder face” when I didn’t smile fast enough. The guy who keeps ending up near me on Mondays and Wednesdays, convinced fate put us here.
Our first real conversation was almost accidental. He was struggling on the incline press, face red and jaw clenched. Without thinking I stepped in. “Need a hand?” I asked.
He racked the bar and sat up, breathing hard, relief clear in his eyes. “Yeah, man. Thanks—lifesaver.”
“No problem,” I replied.
“I’m Jimmy,” he said, extending his hand like we were at a networking event. Warm and enthusiastic, as if he genuinely wanted to know me.
“Micah,” I answered.
“Micah,” he repeated, as if memorizing it. “Cool name. You always come in this early?”
“Mondays and Wednesdays,” I said.
“Same!” he exclaimed as if I’d told him my birthday. “We should work out together sometime. If you want. No pressure.”
From then on, he set out to be my friend—not in some calculated way, but like a golden retriever deciding you’re the best person it’s ever met and proving it every day.
We kept crossing paths in that quiet way our schedules overlapped. A nod by the water fountain. A “you done with those cables?” in passing. But Jimmy made it feel different. He’ d wave when he spotted me, grin like my presence was the best thing that happened all day.
His flirting began like a safe joke—one you could laugh off if it flopped—but he never seemed to need an escape hatch. One afternoon, while I was stretching, he leaned in close enough that I could sense his clean, unscented deodorant.
“You always this intense?” he asked.
Before I could think, I replied, “Only when I’m trying to impress you.”
His face lit up, eyes bright. “Well, consider me impressed.”
After that, he talked to me as though we were already a pair—not possessively, but with the genuine warmth of someone who found me fascinating and wanted more of my company.
“Micah,” he’d call out, like saying my name made him happy. “Leg day today, or are you pretending quads don’t exist?”
I’d protest that I’d done legs last week, and he’d grin,
“Last week doesn’t count. Come on—spot me.”
Around him, the gym’s mirrors and silent rivalries melted away, replaced by easy camaraderie and laughter.
I liked him. That was the problem. Because beneath my shorts, the black jockstrap felt like a secret I couldn’t stop thinking about. It didn’t matter that Jimmy was right there, making mornings brighter—my body was still holding its breath for Carter, the man who hadn’t looked my way in over a month but somehow still claimed every inch under my clothes. Jimmy didn’t know any of that. He only knew I showed up, and once he’d learned my routine, he worked his around mine like it was the most natural thing in the world, in the most enthusiastic way.
“You coming Monday?” he asked one Wednesday, wiping down a bench, hope shining in his eyes.
I said yes, and he actually pumped a fist.
“Sweet. Chest day?”
“Sure,” I answered, and even I smiled at my own eagerness.
Monday morning, he was there at the entrance, waving like I’d been gone for years. Wednesday the same. If I was running late, he’d send a quick text—You dead? Did legs finally take you out?
I told myself it was harmless, just gym-buddy banter. But the touches started: a hand on my shoulder lingering too long, his fingers brushing my forearm as he adjusted my grip, a playful hip bump in an aisle wide enough to pass without contact. Each brush was small; each felt like a question. And I secretly loved it—enjoyed being wanted without decoding hidden meanings. Yet every time his skin brushed mine, my chest clenched, because my body was already trained to wait for someone else.
One afternoon at the cable station, he stepped in behind me to correct my posture.
“Relax your shoulders,” he murmured, hands light on my arms. My skin jumped. He paused, concern softening his smile.
“You good? You seem… somewhere else.”
I lied, “Just tired.”
He gave me that patient look, then brightened and shifted gears.
“My roommate’s having people over Friday—music, drinks, nothing wild. You should come. I’d love to have you there.”
His invitation almost made me say yes. Jimmy was real, present, offering something ordinary and welcome, no secrets needed. But the tight black band reminded me of the promise I’d already made under my shorts.
“Maybe,” I managed.
His face dipped for a heartbeat before he masked it with that hopeful grin.
“That’s what you always say,” he teased, leaning in just enough to test my boundary. “Then you disappear—not from the gym, but from the possibility of me.”
He was right. I did vanish. And hating myself, I realized how I’d treated his kindness like an obstacle, as if his warmth distracted me from the one I was waiting for. Jimmy wasn’t the problem—he was sweetness and light—but he had become the reason Carter’s return would feel like a collision instead of a reunion. Jimmy’s hope forced me to face the choice I’d been avoiding.
And that black jockstrap under my shorts won’t let me forget I’ve already made a choice—whether I meant to or not.
I don’t have an answer that won’t sound cruel.
So, I do what I always do: half-smile, shrug, and promise what I can’t deliver.
“I’ll try,” I say.
Jimmy brightens instantly. “That’s all I’ m asking.” He pats my shoulder like we’ re partners in crime and bounces back to the cable station, humming as if life were uncomplicated.
I tell him I need a quick pit stop in the locker room. He waves without looking up from his phone. “Go on. I’ll save the cables.”
The locker room’s its usual muffled chaos—showers spraying, lockers banging, voices echoing off tile. I dodge towels and bodies through the steam and reach my locker. I spin the combo and open the door.
And then I notice it, a matte-black magnet clinging to the edge—a plain little disk, silver-dollar size, the kind you’d slap on a fridge. I blink, waiting for my brain to catch up. It’s not mine. I didn’t put it there yesterday.
I tap it with a fingertip—cold, solid, impossible. I yank my hand back and glance around, half-expecting someone to be watching. Nobody is. Guys are changing, talking, oblivious.
No note, no writing, no symbol—just that magnet. I close the locker slowly, afraid it’ll vanish if I move too fast, as if I’m imagining it. I have no clue what’s happening.
I head back to the floor. Jimmy looks up, grinning like I never left.
“All good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Cool—let’s finish strong.”
He adjusts the pin, checks the handle, shoots me a triumphant nod. “Two sets of flies, then triceps, then abs—if you don’t bail on me.”
“Yeah,” I say, but my body isn’t listening.
As he warms up, he talks—one of the things I like about him is that he fills silence.
“So, my roommate texted me, ‘If you bring gym guy on Friday, I’m making him play beer pong.’ Excuse me, sir—I invite people, I don’t ‘bring’ them.”
I laugh where I’m supposed to. “Beer pong’s a threat.”
“Right? What if you’ve got a rep to uphold?”
I nod, but my eyes drift to the mirrors—behind treadmills, near free weights, over the stretching area—shards of the gym scattered like a broken kaleidoscope. I’m looking for something: a black T-shirt, a blond head, a posture that sticks out.
I tell myself I’m just distracted. But every time I catch my reflection—my waistline framed by that black elastic—my stomach clenches like muscle memory my brain is trying to forget.
Jimmy finishes and hands me the handles. “Your turn—no cheating, I can tell.”
“You can’t tell anything,” I snap, sharper than I mean.
He blinks, then laughs. “Okay, coach—sorry.”
Guilt hits. “Sorry. I’m just—tired.”
“Nah, you’re good. We’ll grab a smoothie after—that’ll sort you out.”
I nod and begin my set. The burn is familiar; the gym feels familiar. And yet I can’t focus.
My thoughts keep snapping back to that magnet. It wasn’t there yesterday—was it? Or did someone slip it on while I was working out?
I glance at the mirrors again. Jimmy’s scrolling, smiling at his phone. He notices my gaze. “What—looking for someone?”
“No,” I blurt.
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, just checking.”
We move to triceps. He replays plans for Friday—guest list, playlist drama, his heroic rescue—but my attention drifts. Every few seconds my eyes flick to the entrance, then to the mirrors, then to the free weights, then back to him. Half-here, half-searching for a ghost.
“Micah,” Jimmy says softly. “You sure you’re good?”
I force a smile. “Yeah. Just in my head.”
He nods, eyes kind. “I’m here, though.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
We wrap up and he starts yammering about abs as if nothing else matters. I follow him toward the mats—and then the air shifts. Not a sound or a smell, but a prickle down my spine, like something cold brushing my neck. A warning.
My breath catches. My eyes flick to the mirrors again. For a moment, nothing’s changed—just the same gym I’ve walked into twice a week for months.
Then I see him. Not face-to-face, but in a reflection: blond hair, black T-shirt, a stance that pulls every eye.
Carter.
My heart stutters. Jimmy’s still jabbering beside me, clueless. “—and if we do planks, I’m not timing you because last time you made it weirdly competitive—”
I don’t answer. My body knows he’s here before my mind can process. Carter strides across the floor like he owns the place. I can feel him—weight on my neck—though he hasn’t even glanced my way yet.
Carter doesn’t stride in or make an entrance—he simply occupies the room, and it feels smaller, as if he’ s already claimed more of it than he should. He lifts a dumbbell, tests its weight, sets it down, moves to another pair—methodical, like he’s taking inventory. His gaze sweeps the gym without resting…until it does, in the mirror, on me.
The contact lasts a heartbeat—long enough for my breath to hitch, too brief for anyone else to notice. Jimmy beside me keeps talking. “So, we’ll plank, then Russian twists, then we’re done. You good with that?”
“Yeah,” I reply, my voice distant. Carter is still in the mirror.
We roll out mats. Jimmy planks like he owns the routine. I lie down beside him, hand drifting to my empty pockets.
“Thirty seconds,” Jimmy says. “Rest, then again.”
My arms shake—not from effort, but from sensing Carter’s presence, a radar in my skin.
Jimmy groans through the countdown. I’m not counting seconds; I’m counting the weight of Carter’s attention, the certainty that magnet came from him. We finish, collapse.
“Nice work,” Jimmy cheers.
I nod, absent.
He checks his phone—probably his roommate again.
“One more set and—”
Then a voice: “Evan.”
Low, smooth, slicing through the noise. My body goes rigid. Carter just said my fake name in front of everyone. I can’t turn immediately.
Jimmy frowns, “Your name’s Evan?”
My throat dries.
Carter stands a few feet away, towel in hand, eyes looking past me. He just pulled that fake name from our secret. It was supposed to be safe.
I force myself to swivel. Carter watches, patient, as if he planned this reveal for weeks. It’s a test, a leash, a declaration.
I clear my throat. “No,” I say, voice steady, “it’s Micah.” I say it looking right into Carter’s eyes.
The word drops between us like a stone.
Carter’s face stays unreadable, but his stance shifts—the slightest lean, eyes almost meeting mine.
Silence stretches.
Then he nods once. “Micah,” he murmurs, tasting the name. He’s claimed it.
Jimmy blinks, not really sure what’s going on.
Carter nods to Jimmy with polite detachment. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”
A lie delivered as truth. His eyes return to me, close enough I feel their heat.
“Quick word, Micah…” he says to me. Not a question.
Jimmy starts to speak; Carter waves him off.
“We’ll be a minute.”
I stand and follow Carter away from the mats, toward the quieter stretching area.
He stops near the wall, not touching me, but his presence presses. I look down at my empty pocket. “The magnet,” I say. “On the outside of the locker?”
He nods. “We will talk about that later. I’m here to make sure that you remember.”
I swallow. “Remember what?”
He leans in, voice low. “That you belong to me—not as Evan, but as Micah, the real you, standing here in front of your gym buddy without hiding.”
My breath catches. “You were testing me?”
“I was,” he agrees. “And you passed.”
He steps closer; I feel his heat. Then his tone hardens. “But we need to talk about Jimmy.”
I try to protest. He interrupts. “I’ve been watching you for six weeks. Every Monday, Wednesday—you wear that black jockstrap with your black compression shirt, shorts, socks.”
His recital of my routine sounds like devotion.
“That’s obedience. A reminder you belong.”
“Jimmy’s just—”
“He doesn’t get to flirt, to hold your attention, to make you laugh.” His calm is merciless. “You’re mine.”
His possessiveness should suffocate me, but I feel claimed. “I’m not asking you to stop being friends,” he adds. “Just honor the hierarchy.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. You showed up hoping someone noticed. You belonged to me before you ever knew my name.”
My chest tightens. “So, what now?”
“You come when I’m here. You wear what I tell you. You focus on your workout—and on me. Be polite to Jimmy, but don’t encourage him. Don’t make him think he has a chance.”
I nod, voice caught. “Okay.”
“If you don’t take this seriously—if I see you giving him more—you’re done. I walk away; you never see me again.”
Finality freezes me. “I understand.”
He fixes me with a sharp glance. “Say it.”
“I’m yours. I’ll wear what you tell me. I’ll focus on you. I won’t encourage Jimmy. If I slip up, you’re done.”
He exhales, satisfied. “Exactly.”
He steps back, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “Now go finish your workout. Be friendly, act normal, but remember who you belong to.”
I look at him. “What about you?”
He lifts his towel. “I’m finishing my set, then I’m gone. Think about this on your way home. Shower, get ready, be at that hotel room at ten.”
“How do I—?”
“You have my number,” he says. “On the back of the magnet.”
I never noticed a back. He nudges my wrist. “Go. Before Jimmy comes looking.”
I turn, but he calls, “Micah.” When I look back, his expression softens. “You did good today. I’m proud of you.”
His praise lands like a physical thing. Then he dissolves into the gym crowd—racking plates, wiping benches, checking his phone—another controlled presence among many. He glances at the exit and leaves without looking back. He doesn’t need to. He knows I’m watching, trying to remember how to breathe in the life I had ten minutes ago.
I roll out my mat, move back to Jimmy and the familiar clang of weights. But I’m changed—acutely aware of every reflection, every name, and the man who owns them both.
Jimmy sits on the edge of the gym mat, phone in one hand, water bottle in the other. He glances up as I approach.
“Hey,” he greets casually. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Sorry, that took longer than I expected.”
He shrugs it off, but his eyes linger on me. “You know him, though?”
“I don’t,” I say.
Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “He called you Evan.”
“I know,” I respond, keeping my tone light. “Maybe he mistook me for someone else or overheard something. I’m not sure.”
Jimmy studies me for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay. But you said your name was Micah pretty quick.”
I swallow hard. “Because it is.”
He laughs softly, trying to keep the mood light. “Fair enough. That was intense, though. Dude’s intense.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice softer than intended.
Jimmy tilts his head. “He your trainer or something?”
“No,” I reply quickly.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Then I shrug, acting nonchalant. “Maybe he thought I was someone he knows from here. It was weird.”
Jimmy watches me again before deciding to drop it. He glances toward the front windows. “Dude left already. Didn’t even finish his set.”
“Yeah,” I say, feigning indifference. “Maybe he was in a rush.”
Jimmy nods. “Anyway, you want to hit the last set, or are you done?”
I look at the mat, then at the mirror, then at my hands. My body feels drawn elsewhere—to a hotel room, and the man waiting inside.
“I’m going to call it,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m kind of cooked.”
Jimmy frowns slightly. “You sure? We barely did anything.”
“I know,” I admit. “Just not feeling it today.”
He doesn’t argue. “Alright. Text me when you get home. Make sure you’re good.”
“Yeah, I will,” I reply.
I stand up, walk to my locker and grab my bag, and walk out normally, maintaining a steady pace and expression. The cold air hits me as I step into the parking lot. I get in my car and sit for a moment, holding the steering wheel. Then I pull out the magnet I had taken from the front of my locker, feeling its weight and significance.
What could this mean?
I get home and stand in the shower for twenty minutes, the hot water making me aware of every nerve ending, every part of me alive and waiting. I replay the events at the gym—Carter saying my name, Jimmy’s look, the magnet on my locker.
I get out and stand in front of the mirror, dripping. My body looks the same, but it feels different. I dry off slowly, then pull out the black jockstrap. This time, it’s not hope or a prayer; it’s instruction, obedience, a yes to something I don’t fully understand but desperately want.
I pull on black compression shorts, a black shirt, and black socks—the uniform. I barely recognize myself in the mirror. There’s anger in my chest, hot and sharp, but underneath it is relief. Someone saw me and decided I was worth claiming.
I sit on the edge of my bed, hands in my head. What am I doing? I’m choosing to put on black and drive to a hotel to meet a man I barely know, who has been watching me for six weeks, setting up signals, and promising to disappear if I disappoint him.
I’m choosing to obey, to want it.
I stand up, grab my keys, and spend the twenty-minute drive checking the time, my palms sweating on the steering wheel. I rehearse what to say, but there’s nothing to say. I’ll know if I did it right.
The hotel is familiar, the same room as before. The lobby is quiet, no one paying attention to me. I take the elevator to the second floor, my heart pounding. The hallway is too quiet, the air-conditioned stillness making every door look the same.
Room 214. I knock, and the door opens almost immediately. Carter fills the doorway, dressed in a dark t-shirt and sweats, barefoot, a towel over his shoulder. His eyes sweep over me, then lift to my face.
“Come in,” he says.
I cross the threshold, the room hitting me with familiar quiet. The lamp on the nightstand throws a warm circle of light across the bed. Two bottles of water sit beside it, one opened and one untouched. The curtains are drawn. The air smells clean, expensive, and faintly like soap.
Carter walks across the room and stands near the window with his back half-turned, not pacing, not restless, just still. Like he’s holding himself in place.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands braced on the mattress, trying to look calm when my whole body feels like it’s humming.
Carter turns and holds out his hand.
“Give it to me,” he says.
I pull the magnet from my pocket and place it in his palm.
His fingers close around it like he’s checking the weight, the texture, the fact of it.
Then he opens his hand again and shows it to me.
“It’s just a signal,” Carter says. “A language. So, I don’t have to say things out loud in the gym.”
“Okay,” I manage.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat off him, but he doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t need to.
“You want structure,” he says. “You want to know what you’re doing right. What you’re doing wrong. This is how you’ll know.”
My throat tightens.
“And you,” I say before I can stop myself, “you want to know I’m listening.”
Carter’s mouth twitches like he’s almost smiling.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”
He holds the magnet up between us.
“Center of your locker,” he says. “Right in the middle. That means: I was here. You’re mine.”
He watches my reaction like he’s taking inventory.
“Top-right corner,” Carter continues. “That means: eyes up. Behave.”
He shifts the magnet in his hand, indicating the placement like it’s a diagram.
“It means I’m watching. It means you’re getting sloppy. It means I want you to remember yourself.”
I nod, breathing shallow.
“Bottom-left, he says. “That means: after. Not here.”
He pauses.
“It means I want you, but not in the gym. It means you finish your workout; you leave like normal, and you come to me after.”
I nod to confirm my understanding.
“Outside edge,” Carter says, and his voice drops a fraction. That’s the one you saw today.”
I nod again.
“Outside edge means: you workout alone,” he says. “No friends. No gym buddy. No distractions.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Just you.”
My mouth goes dry.
“And if it’s missing?” I ask.
Carter goes still.
“If it’s missing,” he says quietly, “that means you disappointed me. That means I was here, and I didn’t like what I saw,” he continues. “That means you need to fix it. Fast.”
I swallow hard.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Carter studies me for a beat.
“Say it back,” he says.
“Center,” I start, “I was here. You’re mine.”
Carter nods once.
“Top-right,” I continue, “eyes up. Behave.”
“Bottom-left,” Carter prompts.
“After. Not here,” I say.
“Outside edge,” he says.
“Workout alone,” I answer.
“Missing?”
“You disappointed me.”
Carter’s gaze stays on mine, and something in it softens, just a fraction.
“Good,” he says. “You learn fast.”
He steps closer and finally touches me, just a light press of his fingers at my jaw.
Carter closes the distance with the same calm control. I sit on the edge of the bed, and Carter stands in front of me, present but not looming.
He’s quiet for a long moment, then says, “The month. It wasn’t absence; it was restraint. I wanted to come find you, to text you, to make sure you remembered me. But I needed to know if you’d remember on your own.”
“I did,” I say quietly.
“I know. You wore that black jockstrap every time.”
He sits down beside me. “I’m not good at feeling, Micah. I’m not good at the words, the vulnerability. So, I use rules, structure, control. Because when I control things, I know what’s happening. I know where you are. I know you’re not going to leave.”
His jaw tightens. “Someone did. Someone I trusted. And they left anyway.”
I listen, not interrupting.
“So now I do this. I set rules, boundaries. I make sure the person I’m with understands that they belong to me, and I belong to them. But you’re not them. You’re you. And I need you to know that.”
I feel my breath catch. “I do.”
“I know. But I need to set something up. For both of us. Your real name, Micah. That’s your stop. That’s your absolute. You say it, and I stop. No questions. No punishment. Just stop. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it back.”
“If I say Micah, you stop. No matter what.”
“That’s right. And I’m going to check in. I’m going to ask you if you’re good. And you’re going to tell me the truth. Not what you think I want to hear. The truth.”
I nod.
“There’s something else. After, I don’t do the staying. I don’t do the pretending that this is more than what it is. But with you, I want to. I want you to stay. I want to hold you. I want to not have to pretend that this is just sex. I want it to be... more.”
My stomach flips.
“So, you get to stay. After. We don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to sneak out. You don’t have to act like this doesn’t matter.”
I’m shaking, not from fear, but from the fact that he’s offering me something instead of commanding it.
“That’s a privilege. That’s me trusting you with something I don’t usually give. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Good.” He leans in and kisses me, soft and deep, sealing a promise. When he pulls back, he says, “Thank you. Not for the obedience. For the choice. For the honesty. For staying.”
The air is thick with anticipation. Carter’s gaze is intense, his eyes dark and commanding. He moves closer, his voice low and authoritative.
“Look at me, Micah.”
I comply, my eyes locking onto his. In that moment, the world outside fades away.
Carter reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, a gentle touch that belies the power in his grip.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against my lips. “Tell me you want this, Micah. Tell me you want me to take control.”
“I want this, sir,” I whisper, my voice steady. “I want you to take control.”
A slow smile spreads across Carter’s face. “Good boy,” he says, his voice a low growl. He steps back, his eyes never leaving mine as he begins to undress, his movements deliberate and slow.
I watch, my breath coming in short gasps, my body responding to Carter’s touch and the promise in his words. When Carter is finally naked, he steps forward, his hand wrapping around my throat, not tight enough to restrict but firm enough to assert his dominance.
“On your knees,” Carter commands. I comply, sinking to my knees, my eyes never leaving his. Carter’s cock is hard and proud, a promise of pleasure and pain. He steps closer, his hand fisting in my hair, tilting my head back so that I’m forced to look up at him.
“Suck it,” Carter orders.
