Chapter 29
His domain.
Holy shit, being a football star paid more than I thought.
He punched in a code and the gate opened smoothly. We rolled up the drive, past trimmed hedges and a small fountain, to the front of
the house.
“Every weekend,” he said quietly. “From Friday evening until Monday morning, this is where we’ll head to. No distractions. No one
watching. Just you, me, and the work we have ahead.”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”
Inside was somehow even more intense.
There was no clutter, no mess. Everything was clean, elegant, intentional. A huge fireplace flanked by leather chairs. Trophies and certificates lined one wall–proof of everything he’d built. Another wall was covered in books, floor to ceiling. And on a side table, nestled
like something precious, sat a worn football–signed, scuffed, clearly important.
He lived here.
He thrived here.
And now… I was here too.
He set down his keys, turned to face me. “I’m going to shower. While I’m gone, I want you to wait for me.”
I blinked, “Wait?”
He stepped closer. “The way I taught you. Kneeling. Good posture. Ready to serve. I want to walk out and find you exactly as you should
be,”
That word again–should. It lit something in my chest.
“Yes, Sir.”
He didn’t smile, but his hand brushed my jaw, just once, before he walked away.
I stood there for a second too long, my whole body vibrating. Then I moved to the spot just in front of the fireplace, dropped to my knees,
and folded my hands behind my back.
Knees shoulder–width apart. Back straight. Head slightly bowed.
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Chapter 29
I waited.
And I knew–this was just the beginning.
:
The wait stretched long enough for my muscles to start aching. But I didn’t move.
I didn’t want to.
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I wanted to be exactly where he left me. I wanted to prove I could obey, that I could give him this. Even if my knees throbbed and my
back stiffened, the anticipation was worth every second.
And when he returned, it was all I could do not to gasp.
He was a vision–showered, clean–shaven, polished in a way that made him look like something pulled from a noir film and dropped into real life. His silk bathrobe hung open at the front, revealing his sculpted chest, the soft trail of dark hair that led down from his sternum, the defined ridges of his abs. His skin looked warm and smooth, the water still clinging to his collarbone like dew. His hair was swept
back, still damp, glistening.
And his scent…
It hit me the moment he stepped closer–something subtle, clean, masculine. Like cedarwood and smoke. I had no idea what it was, only
that I wanted to drown in it.
He moved like the air around him bent to make way. Each step quiet, confident. His eyes caught mine–and I nearly forgot how to breathe.
God.
I might not have called myself gay, but this? This wasn’t about labels. This was about beauty. Power. Perfection.
He was built like a god and carried himself like one too, and I… I was nothing but a mortal on my knees.
He didn’t speak at first. Just moved to the shelf near the fireplace and selected a vinyl with practiced ease. I watched as he slipped it from its sleeve, set it on the record player, and lowered the needle.
Smooth jazz crackled softly to life, the kind that made your skin tingle–slow, rich, full of promise. Something like Miles Davis or Chet Baker, though I wasn’t sure. All I knew was the sound melted into my bones.
He came toward me then, eyes heavy with something that made my breath catch.
He touched my cheek–just a graze of his fingertips, like a whisper. Then, with fluid grace, he sank into the recliner and crossed one leg
over the other.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
