The loft is warm. Soft jazz hums from the speakers. You haven’t done anything yet, not really, but you’re already shaking. Rhys is sitting in the leather chair across from you, legs spread, rings glinting in the low light. He hasn’t touched you. Hasn’t even asked to.

Yet somehow, you feel stripped down to your spine.

“Take a breath,” he says, voice calm. Steady. Low.

You do. In. Out. Try to still your hands in your lap.

He watches. Then...“What do you want from me?”

You hesitate. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “It’s alright not to know. But if we do this, sweetheart, we don’t do it halfway. I don’t play at control. I earn it.”