Chrissii1799
He always waited for the signal.
A small thing—barely more than a nod—but loaded with meaning. We’d never talked about what it meant out loud; we didn’t need to. It was trust in its rawest form, and it electrified me.
Tonight, I gave it to him.
The wine glass had just touched my lips when our eyes met across the room, and I let the smallest breath escape me as I held his gaze. Then—barely perceptible—I dipped my chin. Just once.
His expression didn’t change.
But something shifted.
I could feel it as a heat rising up my neck, the kind of heat that came not just from arousal, but from anticipation, from the intoxicating knowledge that I’d given up control. That something was coming—and I wouldn’t know when, or how. Only that it would.
We were already home when he made his move.
The moment was mundane on the surface. I was brushing my teeth, the cotton tank I wore clinging slightly to my skin, bare feet cool against the tiles. He stepped into the doorway behind me, silent as always, but I felt the shift in the air like a coming storm. My body reacted before my mind did—heart beating faster, a slow ache blooming low and deep.
He didn’t say a word.
A hand curled around the back of my neck, firm, claiming. My breath hitched. His mouth brushed my ear, and I could feel the warmth of his words, even though he didn’t speak them aloud: mine.
That was the thrill of it. Of CNC. The danger that wasn’t danger. The surrender that was chosen. The script we wrote in glances, in breath, in the press of his hand and the arch of my back.
He turned me toward the bedroom without ever giving a command.
I followed.
The rest blurred—by design. He took everything from me: the control, the pace, the power. But never my safety. Never my consent. Every movement, every grip, every whispered “don’t fight me” danced on the line between fear and desire—and because I trusted him, it wasn’t fear at all. It was fire.
And I burned for him.
Later, when it was over and he pulled me against his chest, breath hot on my skin, he asked, voice low and certain:
“Too much?”
I shook my head, curling into him, still shaking in that sweet, shattered way. “Never.”
Because I was his.
And he knew how to take me apart.
Exactly the way I needed.