He stepped close, his fingers brushing down my arms, slow, reverent. "Take off the jacket."
I did. He circled behind me again, and this time, he touched. His palms settled at my shoulders, sliding down the length of my back. A kiss pressed just below my ear made my skin hum. His voice was a breath, fragile and certain all at once: "I want to see you. All of you. But only if you want it."
"I do," I whispered. He guided me toward the mirror, deliberate, steady. One palm at the small of my back, the other wrapped around my hip like he was grounding himself in me. The lights dimmed, like the room knew this moment was sacred. We stopped in front of the full-length glass. He stood behind me. Our reflections, side by side. My chest rising too fast. His eyes locked on mine, not my body, mine.
"Look," he murmured. "Not at me. At you. I want you to see what I see."
I stared at my reflection. Powerful. Undone. Radiant. Still wrapped in his suit, jacket gone, buttons half-undone. Skin flushed, eyes bright with something raw. His hand lifted, slid under the edge of the wig. Strand by strand, he undid the illusion until the chestnut fall came free and dropped to the floor. My curls tumbled loose. Messy. Real. Me.
"There you are," he whispered. His hand slid into my hair, wrapped around it. Not to hurt, not to claim, but to anchor. He tugged gently. My breath caught, eyes fluttering closed before I forced them open again.
"That's better," he said. "I want to see you. Not the version of me you wore. Not the seductress. Not the shrine. Not the weapon. Just you."
I held his gaze in the mirror. Every tremble in my shoulders, every crack in my lip betrayed just how deep his words cut. He was patient. Deliberate. His fingers unfastened my buttons, one by one, each touch reverent. Every pause a question. Every answer, green.
"You don't have to be anything tonight," he whispered against my bare shoulder. "Not a survivor. Not a seductress. Not a goddamn symbol. You only have to feel."
I nodded. To him. To myself. To the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
"Good," he breathed, and his fist tightened in my curls, just enough to make me still, my lungs stuttering. I met his eyes. Wide. Trusting. Ready.
"Now listen closely, my love," he said, voice rough silk. "Tonight, I control everything. Where you look. What you say. When you come."
Heat flooded my face. My lips parted. "Do you understand?" I nodded.
"Words."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"…Yes, Sir."
Something in me cracked open. His chaos stilled, refined into something sharp and holy, and I let it pierce me. He moved me backward, no words, just his hand in my hair and the other firm at my waist, guiding me to the bed like I was already his. Because tonight, I was.
"On the bed," he said. "Knees. Hands behind your back."
I obeyed. No hesitation. He moved slowly, savoring, letting anticipation crawl across my skin until I thought I'd break. The silk ties slid like a whisper across my shoulders before he gathered my wrists.
"You can pull away at any time," he murmured as he bound me. "But you won't. Because you want this."
I exhaled, trembling, as he cinched the knot and pressed a kiss into the bend of my arm. "Because I know how to give it to you."
He circled me like fire tasting its favorite wood, each step wrapping tighter around me than the silk. "Eyes down unless I tell you. You don't speak unless I ask. And when I touch you-" his finger lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him, "you don't dare hold back."
My breath shivered. "Color?"
"Green," I whispered.
His smile was sin. "Good."
I knelt. Straight spine, hands bound, hair falling in soft waves tangled with silk, his silk. "You look divine like this," he murmured, circling. "Tamed chaos. Waiting."
My chest rose too fast.
"You want me to touch you."
"Yes," I almost said. But I remembered. I swallowed.
"No, Sir."
His eyes burned. "Good girl."
The words hit me like lightning, striking some place in me that had never stopped hoping. "I'm going to kiss you," he said. "But not yet."
My lips parted anyway. Waiting. Needing. He denied me. His breath brushed mine, and when I leaned instinctively, desperate, he pulled back. "Not yet."
A sound escaped me. A soft, humiliating whimper. He smiled. His hands ghosted down my arms, ribs, thighs. "Spread."
I obeyed. "Wider."
I flushed, opened another inch. "Perfect."
Every kiss down my neck, my spine, was possession without chains. Each brush of his hand was a reminder, whose I was tonight. His fingers teased between my thighs, feather-light. I gasped. "Already wet," he murmured. "You really do love being told what to do, don't you?"
"Y-yes," I breathed.
"Words."
"Yes, Sir."
"Such a good girl." Gods help me, my whole body sang for more.
The oil was warm when it touched my skin. Almost too warm. But then his hands followed, smoothing it across my shoulders, down my back, pressing into muscle and bone like he could coax the weight out of me. Like surrender wasn't something I had to give. It was something he could draw out with patience. "You give so much of yourself," he whispered, low, reverent. His hands dug deeper, mapping me. Claiming me. "But this? This is mine. Right now, all of you is mine."
I trembled. Not from fear. From recognition. "And I will worship what's mine."
He rolled me onto my back, gentle, steady. Untied one wrist, then the other. Kissed each one like it was holy. Like my hands mattered more than stars or kingdoms or chaos itself. But I didn't move. Didn't reach for him. Didn't beg. I waited. "Eyes on me."
I obeyed. He kissed down my stomach, lower. His breath rough against my skin as he murmured: "Now, Asha… I'm going to ruin you. Slowly. Carefully. Thoroughly."
Gods, he did. He hovered over me, weight enough to hold me in place without pinning. His breath was steady, grounding, and his eyes, his eyes, told me the truth I never wanted to believe: You don't have to do anything. You just have to be.
His fingers traced down my sternum, spread across my heart. "Still racing," he murmured. I nodded, unable to form words. "You feel out of control?" Another nod.
"Good." He kissed my ribs. One by one. Like I was a cathedral and he was consecrating the foundation. "That's what I'm here for."
When his hands lifted and spread my thighs, I gasped. But I didn't resist. Couldn't. Didn't want to. "You hold yourself so tight, Asha." His voice was a prayer, a vow. "You carry too much. You move like you'll shatter if you stop. So don't stop for them." His thumb brushed my cheek, pulling my gaze back to him. His golden eyes pierced straight through me. "Stop for me."
The sob broke loose before I could stop it. Choked and raw. His hand moved lower. No games. No torment. Just pressure. Rhythm. Intent. I arched into him, trembling.
"Stay still," he commanded, and I tried. Gods, I tried. He kissed me then, deep, reverent, anchoring. "You don't have to give me anything," he whispered into my mouth. "You've already given everything. Now take."
The sound that broke from me was mine. Untrained. Unforced. Just me. Wanting. Needing. "That's it," he breathed. "That sound? That's you. That's not your training. That's not your past. That's not what they made you. That's you."
I shattered with my orgasm. Not in violence. Not in silence. In fullness. My body arched into his, hands fisting the sheets, breath catching as I finally, finally, let go. He was there. Catching me. Kissing me. Whispering into my hair, "That's my girl. So good. I've got you."
Tears stung my lashes. Not from pain. From the ache of being seen. "I didn't know," I whispered.
He kissed my forehead. "Didn't know what, my love?"
"That I could want like this. That I could need this."
"Now you do," he said softly. And then he smiled. "Happy birthday to me."
I stayed right there. Against him. On him. His arms wrapped around me like armor, his hand stroking the back of my thigh where I'd trembled hardest. My cheek pressed to his chest, my breath uneven, my body still quaking in the quiet aftermath.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm not cold."
"I know."
Still, he pulled the blanket over me, cradled me tighter until I melted with a sound I didn't mean to make. He smiled against my hair. "That sound… you have no idea what it does to me."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to. He could feel it in me, in the way I clung without clinging, in the way I breathed him in like I was memorizing him from the inside out. I kissed his throat, soft. Barely a touch. "You okay?" he asked, tipping my face up, thumb brushing beneath my eye.
I nodded. "You're safe," he said.
The words cracked something in me. "I know," I whispered. And then, softer: "I didn't know I needed this. Not like that. Not… not from someone who actually cared."
He cupped my cheek, anchored me with his gaze. "You didn't just give me your body tonight. You gave me your trust. The part of you you usually hide behind sarcasm and steel." He kissed me slow. Deep. Possessive. "You can fall apart with me," he said. "I'll hold you together." I believed him.
He rolled us onto our sides, spooning me to his chest, tracing slow circles across my stomach until my trembling eased. "That was…" My voice was thick, frayed. "More than I thought it would be."
"It was never about sex," he murmured.
"It was everything but sex."
"Exactly."
He tucked his face into the crook of my neck, voice low, reverent. "You were magnificent. You are mine. I don't just want your body, I want every version of you. Every past. Every wound. Every breath." Tears slid warm down my cheek, but this time, they healed as they fell. "The real fantasy isn't the control," he added. "It's you. Wanting me back."
I smiled. Sleepy. Content. Loved. "I do."
He kissed my shoulder, slow and sure, breathing me in like I was something he'd fought for and finally won. We lay there in silence, breathing the same air, tangled together in warmth and something unspoken.
"You did ruin me a little, you know," I whispered, half-dreaming already.
"Good," he murmured against my hair. "Then we're even." A pause. Then his smirk curved against my skin. "Next year, I want cake… and you crying my name."