The contract is… extensive, to say the least. I’ve been sitting at my desk staring at it for the past few hours instead of working on the short story I need to have ready by next week. Lacey is laying on her bed in a towel, playing on her phone.

I have to indicate that I’m on birth control, which I have been since I first hit puberty because my doctor said it could help with the cramps. There’s a section in the contract where I’m supposed to indicate my hard and soft limits. I spent close to thirty minutes just googling what half of the interests are. Apparently, if I agree to this, a hard limit is something I know for sure I’m not interested in. A soft limit is something I might be interested in trying, but I would be able to place strict limitations. Reading through the list has me frowning and biting my nails by the time I’m done. I’m simultaneously turned on and terrified to think of it.

Not for the first time, I wonder how how crazy this all is. I went from being the virgin college student who can’t make it through a fictional sex scene to Brianne Hartley, the girl who is considering signing a BDSM contract with the city’s most eligible billionaire. It’s something so crazy I almost wish I could just tell someone other than Lacey, but no one would believe me, and even if they did, they’d probably think I was no better than a prostitute, even if I did tell him to keep his money.

The contract also says it’s not really a legally binding document. It’s only for the comfort of the signers and is to keep the relationship and all activities safe, sane, and consensual. In a way, that makes me feel better. I’m not signing my rights away for a month. I’m just going through a formality I need to get in the door with him. If all this ends up giving me the creeps or not being fun, I can just walk away. That simple.

Except somehow I imagine this is going to be anything but simple.

“You still deliberating over that thing?” asks Lacey. “Hell, give it to me and I’ll sign it. Cameron has barely touched me since baseball season started.”

“Isn’t his baseball season basically year-round?” I ask.

“My point exactly,” sighs Lacey. “So it’s not easy for me to watch you waffle around while that fine piece of man meat is waiting to hear from you.”

“Man meat?” I ask. “That’s disgusting.”

Lacey scoffs. “That’s your problem right there, Bri. You aren’t able to look past all the romance and the fluff. You think every guy has to be some Prince Charming or something. Sometimes it’s okay to just have a good, dirty hookup. And God never put a more perfect man for a hookup on this earth than Jackson Pierce. Trust me on that one.”

“I never said I wasn’t going to sign it,” I say irritably. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t jumping into this thing too quickly. Until I really sat down and read this thing, I didn’t even know what I was agreeing to.”

“All you needed to know is that it involved his hands on your body. Bow chicka bow wow,” says Lacey, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

“Do you even know what BDSM is?” I ask.

She laughs. “I’m sure I know more about it than you do.”

I cross my arms. “Really? Because I read all about it online. This isn’t just casual sex he’s wanting me to agree to. It’s a different kind of relationship.”

“Okay, so he ties you up and slaps your ass every once in awhile. I don’t really see how that’s different.”

“That’s not what it’s about,” I say. I clear my throat, realizing I’m arguing passionately about this after having only briefly skimmed some wikipedia articles. Still, Lacey is the only person I can really talk to about this, and I’m still trying to figure out where I stand on it. “The contract already had Jackson’s part filled out and--”

Before I can finish, Lacey is out of the bed and leaning over my shoulder. “Where?”

“I doubt he wants you to--”

She snatches the contract and flips through the pages until she finds the page with his interests listed. She purses her lips. “So he is a dominant. He requires that the play extends beyond the bedroom? He doesn’t require recipro… what does that mean?”

“Reciprocation in that context means he doesn’t need me to return the, uh, sexual favors. I guess he would get off just from seeing me enjoy myself.” I recall our time in the hospital room when his voice was my only companion as my fingers worked between my legs furiously, bringing me to the first climax I ever had in front of anyone.

“That’s a jackpot, Bri. Most guys are the complete opposite. You give them a blowjob and do everything they possibly want, and as soon as they cum they fall asleep and forget you exist.”

“This sounds like an interesting conversation,” says Mia, who pushes her way into our dorm room. “I”m sure none of this sexual activity will be taking place in the dorms, correct?”

“Mia,” says Lacey. “I don’t care if you’re the RA. It’s eleven P.M. Can you please kindly see your way the hell out of our room? Thanks.”

Mia purses her lips. “It’s actually irrelevant whether you care or not, Lacey. Seeing as it’s an hour past curfew, I’m perfectly within my rights to ask two residents of this dorm to keep their voices down so everyone else can sleep.”

“We were talking quietly,” I say.

“That’s why I could hear you from the hallway, right?” asks Mia.

“Okay,” says Lacey. “Message heard loud and clear. We’ll keep it down. Why don’t you go ahead and see yourself out. And don’t worry, I’ll say all the nice things I have to say about you so quietly you won’t hear them.”

Mia flashes a perfectly fake smile. “That’s all I ask. Have a good night girls.” She has the nerve to flick the light off on her way out.

Lacey stomps toward the light switch, kicks something, and trips, knocking over an end table and a lamp on her way down. “I think I’m just going to go ahead and sleep right here,” says Lacey breathlessly, nose pressed into the floor.

I laugh, tiptoeing through our messy room to help her up and flick on the light.

I get into Jackson’s car the following night after class. He looks stunning, as usual. He’s wearing a navy sportcoat with a crisp white button-down beneath and his hair is pushed away from his tanned face.

“You look fantastic,” he says.

I’m wearing a mid-thigh skirt and a top I borrowed from Lacey that shows more cleavage than I normally would. She bullied me into wearing it, and the way Jackson’s eyes are drinking me in suddenly makes me glad she did.

“I signed it,” I say, handing him the contract.

The excitement in his eyes makes me laugh a little. “Did you really think I’d be able to say no to you?”

He shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb, smirking. “You sure as hell did a good job convincing me you might.”

“So what now?” I ask.

“I tell you the safe word. This word means game over, no matter where we are, no matter how far it has gone, no matter how much you think I might not want to stop. If you’re uncomfortable or scared, you say it. End of story. I’ll never be upset with you for using it. Do you understand me?”

I nod.

“Say it,” he says.

“I understand.”

“Sir,” he prompts.

I swallow, already feeling like I’m in over my head. “I understand… Sir.”

“Good. The safe word is red if you want to stop. And if you think you’re getting close to your limit and are getting uncomfortable, but don’t want to stop yet, you say yellow. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, sir,” I add quickly. “Just like traffic lights. Easy to remember. I like that.” I wince a split second later, wishing I knew how to stop talking sometimes.

He smirks. “Good. You’re learning fast, Princess. You’ll address me as sir in private. In public, you can still call me Jackson. It’s also important that you understand what this is. I’m not interested in humiliation or degradation. We’re building a special kind of relationship. The foundation is trust.

“The more you trust me, the further I can take your pleasure. You will submit to me completely and fully in the end. It will be difficult at first, but that’s part of the experience.”

I nod, trying to slow my breathing. I feel like I just jumped out of an airplane and I’m in a freefall. Listening to him talk about what kind of relationship we’ll have is both thrilling and terrifying. It only takes looking at him to know every woman alive would kill to be in my shoes right now. He’s sex personified. My body has no doubts about this, unlike my brain. I can already feel myself growing warm and wet just thinking about the kind of things he might do to me.

The part I’m still struggling with is in my head. To finally sign the papers, I had to convince myself this wasn’t about my book I’ll still write it, but I realized I wouldn’t ever take something this far just for the sake of my writing. As much as I care about my dreams of becoming an author, I know that I signed the papers because I’ve felt something with Jackson no other guy has ever made me feel. He accepts me. No, it’s more than that. He desires me. He craves me. He needs me.

When he opened up about his past I felt my heart breaking for him. I can sense how lost he feels. I don’t know if he’d ever admit it, but Jackson is a man still searching for answers. He carries so much guilt with him and blames himself for all the terrible things that have happened to the people he cares about. I’m not sure how, but I want to help him forgive himself.

Jackson pulls into a gated driveway surrounded by tall hedges. The gate opens automatically as he pulls up the driveway. We follow a soft curve through the hedges until his mansion comes into view. I’ve never been one to lust after wealth, but I can’t help being blown away by the scale of his home. What appears to be the main building almost looks like a modern castle. It’s at least three stories with several circular rooms that rise above the rest of the already huge house. The main building alone looks as large as most hotels, but there’s also a snaking driveway that winds between several separate, smaller buildings that are all huge in their own right. There’s a basketball court, a tennis court, and from what I can see as we drive up, a pool surrounded by rocks and artificial waterfalls.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“It’s excessive. You don’t have to be afraid to speak your mind around me, Princess. I bought this when I was younger. When I thought I needed to prove how wealthy I was. If it wouldn’t be such a colossal waste, I’d sell it and move into something more modest. Then again, I’d miss my playroom if I moved.”

Playroom. I came across the term when I was researching BDSM. I doubt most people have the means to have an entire room devoted to their sex life, but I have no doubt whatever Jackson has inside his mansion is excessive, to say the least.

We park beneath the house in a large garage filled with expensive cars that catch and reflect every last bit of light. I’m more interested in Jackson’s body language as he leads me into the main entrance of his house than I am in all the wealth on display. He doesn’t seem proud of it or boastful. He seems disinterested, if anything, but I guess living like this for years would desensitize anyone to a certain point.

Everything in the home is beyond gorgeous. The floors are pure white and the rooms are spacious and filled with natural light. The decor is tasteful, clean, and modern.

“Are we going to, um, right now?” I ask, as he strips off his coat and lays it on the marble countertops in the kitchen.

“Relax, Princess,” he says, grinning. “I’m just taking off my jacket to make you dinner. You are hungry, right?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to cook?”

He grins. “Sort of. I’m a terrible cook, but I had a friend send something over even I can’t mess up. It’s from my favorite restaurant. You’ll love it. Unless I fuck it up, that is.”

I smile. “Sounds perfect.”

He goes into what I think is a pantry until the door opens and I see it’s full of wine bottles. He runs his finger along the bottles for a moment before deciding on one. He hefts it, inspects the label, and purses his lips. “This should do.”

“Is it like, some aged wine from the fifteen hundreds that only ten people have ever tasted?” I ask. I’m trying to get myself to be less stiff and let a little humor out, even if I have to force it a little. “A family recipe that has been lost so this is the only bottle left in the world?”

“Actually, I think I got this one at the supermarket,” he says, uncorking the bottle and grabbing two glasses for us. “Sometimes I’m worse than a little kid. I have to eat all this fancy food and drink fancy wine at business meetings. Half the time I’d rather just have a burger and some fries. Maybe a soda to wash it down.”

I laugh. “Seriously? I thought guys who looked like you only ate… I don’t know, lettuce and protein shakes?”

“Well, I do have an entire refrigerator just for lettuce, but I hate protein shakes.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I actually can’t tell if you’re being serious.”

Jackson cracks a smile and I shake my head, not believing I almost fell for that.

“Seriously though, I hate lettuce. I pretty much survive on pasta, bread, and pretzels.”

“Well, it’s working for you,” I say, unable to stop from guiltily checking out the way his dress shirt hugs his powerful chest and shoulders.

He says nothing, but I see a spark in his eyes that tells me I may have just started a train of thought that could get me into a lot of trouble. He pulls an aluminum foil pan from the fridge and briefly glances at a sheet of paper on top of it before shoving it in the oven and setting the temperature.

“Should you set a timer?” I ask when I see he’s about to leave it.

“Nah, he just said around thirty minutes. We’ll remember.”

“Okay,” I say, trusting he knows what he’s talking about.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing two wine glasses and leading me out to the back patio.

The sun has almost fully set when we step outside. The sky is stained a dark purple above the treetops and hills behind his house. We’re only a couple minutes outside downtown, and I’m amazed by how much open space there is around his property.

“Wow,” I say, taking in the view. “I thought you’d need to drive hours to find this much space inside the city.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a nature preserve so the city couldn’t touch it. One of the perks that came with putting a house here.”

I sip the wine as I sit down in one of the patio chairs. I’ve never been a wine drinker, but it has a sweet, fruity taste that I can’t complain about. He sits beside me, sighing as he sinks into the chair.

“You know,” he says, eyes focused on the hills behind the house. “I've come to a lot of realizations right here in this chair. You spend so much time struggling and fighting to reach the top, and then once you've made it you wonder if it was all worth it in the end. You find yourself asking if it's everything you thought it would be. Were you chasing it because you had your eye on the prize or was it just because you liked the chase?"

“Which one was it?” I ask.

“I don’t know that it was either for me.. I think I was using the work and the money to distract myself. Every time I stopped too long to catch my breath, I’d feel like I wasn’t making use of the life Sarah sacrificed for me. I had it wrong for a long time though. I thought I needed success to make her sacrifice worth it. As if every dollar was a weight on the scale, and if I just put enough money on my end I could finally balance it out. I thought when that happened, the guilt might go away.”

He scoffs and sips his wine. “It was never the money. I realized that in this exact chair a few months ago.”

“What about happiness?” I suggest. “I mean, people always think money will make them happy. But I don’t really think they have as much to do with one another as people think. Sure, if you have no money it’s pretty hard to be happy, but...”

He turns to look at me, smiling slightly. “What do you think I need to be happy, then?”

“Love,” I say, without thinking. Once I realize the implication of what I just said, it takes all my willpower not to bury my face in my hands in embarrassment.

The smile on his face widens. “Hmm. So you think love is the key to my happiness. What is yours, then?”

“Well--um, I mean, I…” The moment hangs between us. If I say what I’m really feeling, I feel like I’ll be taking a step over a precipice I can’t undo. I’ll be launching myself forward in this thing between us so quickly it will be hard to stop. “I just want to graduate college,” I say finally.

“Right,” he says, leaning back in his chair and sipping his wine.

We sit a long time talking about nothing and everything in between. I focus less on what he says and more on how he looks when he says it, marveling at the perfection in the way his lips form the words or the power in everything from his eyes to his hands. He puts me at ease like no man ever has, and after a short while, I feel like I could tell him anything.

“You know,” I say, still grinning from the story he just told. “This is the dumbest thing,” I say, shaking my head at my lap and grinning. “But the only reason I let my friend talk me into this--”

“Oh, shit,” he says, hopping up and running in toward the kitchen.

I watch him get up and jog to the kitchen. I smell it a split second later. Something is burning. And just like that, my resolve to tell him the truth about why I really agreed to meet him at the restaurant goes up in smoke, too.

He’s already opening the oven and batting away the billowing smoke with a towel when I get inside. He pulls the charred remnants of whatever his friend prepared for us from the oven. “You like your food Cajun style?” he asks, coughing.

I laugh. “We weren’t out there that long. How did it get so burnt?”

“Well, his instructions said three hundred degrees, but I figured what’s the point of a fancy oven that can get really hot if I don’t use it. So I put it to six hundred and was just going to pull the food out in half the time.”

I grin. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Yeah. Apparently not. You like pizza?” he asks.