The words hit like a blindside I hadn’t braced for–I want you, Aiden.
Aiden.
Noah couldn’t see me, but I was staring at him like he’d just pulled
the pin on a grenade and handed it to me with a smile.
I wasn’t Aiden here.
Here, I was Mr. A. Sir. Master. The one in control, the one who knew
exactly where the lines were and kept them like gospel.
There was a lot Mr. A could offer him: discipline, safety, pleasure,
peace… hell, even pure joy. But maybe what Noah really needed
wasn’t one of them. And the part that terrified me was the voice of
Aiden deep down, the one I’d buried under rules and structure,
whispering that he wanted to be wanted. Needed. Just as much as Mr.
A was. That he wanted to take Noah in his arms and give him all of it
-not a side, not a role, not the man he could be in the dark–but all
of himself.
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Dangerous thought.
I locked it down.
My thumb drifted over his skin–just once, just enough to drive him
crazy–and left. I let the light flogger trail down his inner thighs
again, savoring the tension in his muscles. Then finally, a pass so
light over the base of his cock that it was more promise than contact.
Every inch of him strained to follow, but I made the air between us
the thing he couldn’t have.
“You want so much, Noah… that you make me want. Just enjoy what I
give you,” I murmured. “And don’t you dare come.”
He tried. I could tell in the way his breath caught and his body fought
between holding and falling. One stroke, then I backed off. Drifted to
his thighs. Came back with the heavier tails over his chest, so the
clamps jumped and his brain shorted. Then left him alone with the
noise in his own head. Every second had been a choice–hold or break.
Want had burned clean. Fear had found nowhere to land.
I stepped back, letting the flogger fall silent against my thigh as 1
crossed to the small table at the edge of the room. The faint clink of glass and the soft scrape of a lighter were all the warning he got.
The first drip of hot oil landed on the top of his foot–wet, heavy,
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hotter than I knew he’d expect. He jerked forward in the cuffs.
“Easy, boy,” I said, steadying my voice. “It can’t harm you. Soy
massage candle. White sage.”
I let the heat move slowly down his ankle, curling around the bone
before trailing up his shin. He gritted his teeth, caught between
resisting and leaning into it. Right before it reached the one place I
knew he wasn’t ready for, I switched to the other foot. His exhale was
shaky, like he’d just survived something.
Every time the warmth threatened to tip into too much, I stopped and
rubbed it in with long, sure strokes, letting the sting melt into something softer. “Low melt point,” I told him. “Won’t burn you. Won’t mark you.” My voice stayed calm–soothing, but deliberate.
When I finally let the stream fall over his cock, his whole body jolted.
The blindfold kept me from seeing his eyes, but the way his breath shattered told me everything. I poured over his balls next, and he broke–noise, breath, the raw edge of need spilling out. I covered his mouth before the sound carried, my fingers working the oil into him
until the burn dulled into something almost gentle,
“That’s it,” I whispered, stroking until he hardened again. “Breathe.
Feel me.”
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“Yes, Sir,” he muttered, his voice unsteady.
I’d watched him fight for this chance at football. Watched him push
to be the quarterback he swore he could be, burying the ghosts his father left in him. He’d promised himself nothing, and no one would derail that. And yet here he was, cuffed and blindfolded, letting me
pull him apart piece by piece. Risking all.
I couldn’t help wondering if he even realized how far he was letting himself go.
Slowly, I eased the clamps one at a time, knowing the blood rush
would make him hiss and arch. Before he could speak, I replaced the
ache with my mouth–hot, deliberate–an apology in the form of heat.
The sound he made was new. I released the other, working my thumb
slowly until the sting blurred into something tender.
“Sir,” he said, unsure what to do with all of it. “Please.”
“No release today.” I kept my voice gentle, because this was the kind
of denial that cut deeper. “You’ll hold for me.”
He nodded, then made it words. “Yes, Sir. I’ll hold for you.”
I kissed him again–longer, deeper, a hungry kiss–until his legs shook and his stomach softened. I let him forget for a moment that
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he was tied down. The instant he tried to chase more, I ended it.
I loosened the leather at his wrists and ankles–just enough to ease
the bite, not enough to free him. My hand cupped his cheek, thumb
brushing the blindfold as if I could see his eyes beneath it.
“You did well,” I told him.
“That’s it?” His frustration slipped before he caught it.
“Trust isn’t proved when you get what you want. It’s proved when you
don’t,” I said.
He swallowed it down–lesson and pride–both burning in the same
place. I helped him sit and pressed a cool glass into his hand, keeping
mine over his until the shake settled. He drank like it were mercy.
I didn’t release him from the atmosphere we’d built; I let it follow us
upstairs. The rest of the evening unfolded in our usual rhythm, but
the air between us was different–thicker, heavier. I assisted him in
the shower, washing him slowly, the heat and steam loosening his
muscles under my hands. I towel–dried him, fed him by hand at the
table, and tended to every small need. He was beautiful in that trust,
in that need.
Once the blindfold was gone, I let him curl against me on the couch.
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My fingers threaded through his hair, slow and deliberate, like I could
anchor him there without words.
“Sir?” His voice was quiet enough to almost disappear.
“Yes.”
His head tilted just enough to meet my eyes. “What if… I wouldn’t
mind so much if people knew?”
The words were soft, nearly swallowed by the low hum of the music, but my pulse jumped as if he’d shouted them.
“What do you mean?” My tone stayed even, but every instinct I had
was already screaming.
Noah’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. He
looked down, hesitant. “I mean… maybe here, with you… maybe this
is where I really want to be.”
Every red light in my head flared at once.
I turned his face toward me, careful but firm. “That is foolish talk.
What we have here has nothing to do with your career. You didn’t
make it this far for me. You made it for yourself, for your future–and
you owe it to yourself and to me to become everything you can be. Is
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that clear?”
His throat bobbed. “Yes, Sir.” The disappointment in his voice was a
quiet thing, but it cut deeper than I wanted to admit.
I let my hand fall, then pulled him into my chest anyway, holding him
closer than my rules said I should.
“And Noah,” I added, my voice low against his ear, “while you’re
here… never call me Aiden again.”
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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.
