Chapter 67
Aiden
The week that followed was a strange kind of blur–structured and
intense, yet intimate in a way I hadn’t expected.
Noah had returned to training with fresh discipline, sharper focus,
and an awareness of his body that wasn’t there before. He anticipated
my instructions, adjusted his posture without reminders, and carried
himself like he was starting to believe he had something to prove–to
himself, more than anyone else. Watching that transformation was…
exhilarating.
But it wasn’t just about obedience anymore. We didn’t just train. We
talked. A lot…. About everything–from the books he hated in high
school to the one time he tried to bake a cake with his sister and
nearly blew up the microwave. His stories were often chaotic,
sometimes surprisingly touching, and always full of energy.
He also surprised me with the things he noticed. My meticulous
cooking habits didn’t earn the mockery I anticipated. Instead, he
asked questions. Wanted to learn.
He asked about jazz often, and I watched as he began recognizing
pieces by ear.
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“That one’s Coltrane, right, Sir?” he said one morning, towel around
his neck, hair still damp from the shower.
I arched a brow, mildly impressed. “Very good. Blue Train.”
He grinned like he’d scored a goal. “It just sounds like him. All deep
and moody.”
I tried not to laugh.
Sometimes he asked about my past. He had so many damn questions,
bless his heart. If I ever let him run wild, he could moonlight as a
reporter–or a caffeinated chatterbox. Unfortunately for him, I often
didn’t. But that didn’t stop the flood of curiosity whenever I loosened
the leash.
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“Haven’t got one.”
“Why jazz?”
“Why not.”
“Is that… a nipple clamp?”
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“Yes,”
“What was your first Dom like?”
That one I ignored.
“Why did you become a Dom?”
“Because I never wanted to be powerless again.”
The deeper questions always came in between the random ones. He’d
throw out five in a row like shotgun fire and pretend the heavy one
didn’t hit the hardest, and when he did throw those curveballs, it was
usually under the guise of something else.
“Did you always live alone?”
“No.”
“With family or… roommates?”
I knew what he meant. I offered what I could. “There was someone.
For a while.”
“Micah?”
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The name always came out like a challenge. Sharp. Bracing.
“Yes,” I said. And when I didn’t elaborate, Noah changed the subject,
but the mood lingered. Always did.
Still, I noticed it. The way he started sitting closer during meals. The
way he began folding the blanket on the couch before leaving. The
way he always said thank you, even if I hadn’t done anything but
hand him a glass of water.
There was trust forming between us. A fragile, warm thing I didn’t
want to name.
It was midweek when I finally decided to show him more of the
dungeon. Not the punishment bench. Not the basics he’d seen during
that difficult night. The rest of it.
I watched his face as I opened the second locked door. His eyes
widened, mouth parted slightly as he took in the space–the polished
floors, the hanging chains, the variety of furniture and devices I had
curated over years.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
“Language,” I reminded him, stepping in behind him.
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“Right, sorry, Sir. I meant… holy refined craftsmanship.”
1
I bit back a smirk. “This room is not just for punishment. It’s for
exploration. Control. Freedom.”
He turned slowly. “So, like a very expensive adult playground?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
He walked cautiously to a piece near the corner. The swing. “Is that
what I think it is?”
“It depends on what you think it is.”
He turned to me with mock innocence. “A sex swing? For aerial
acrobatics and stress relief?”
