The mattress shifted, and I rolled over with a groan. My mouth was dry, and my head pounded.

“Morning, sunshine.” Scott sounded far too amused.

“Shhh,” I urged. “You’re so loud.” I covered my closed eyes with my arm. “And it’s so bright.”

He chuckled. “Here. Drink some water. Then, you can go back to sleep.”

I opened my bleary eyes and swallowed against my sandpaper tongue. “Are you leaving?”

“I’m going to the shop to get some food. I’m making you breakfast. Apparently, you only stock your fridge with olives, cheese, and cured meats.”

“Who doesn’t love a charcuterie?” I mumbled in weak defense of my unhealthy diet.

“I’m sure it pairs well with all that prosecco,” he jibed.

My stomach soured. “Please don’t mention prosecco right now.”

“All right,” he agreed easily. “Now, drink.”

He held out a glass of water, and his free arm slid behind my shoulders, propping me up so I could swallow without spilling all over myself. Despite my wicked hangover, contentment settled over me. No one had taken care of me like this… ever. I considered myself responsible for the damage I caused my own body, so I never asked for or expected assistance. Not even when I felt like I was dying.

That might have been an exaggeration. But I did feel like shit. I was fairly certain I looked like shit, too.

I buried my face in my hands when he pulled the glass from my lips.

“Headache?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled into my palms, not mentioning that I was hiding from him. I didn’t want him to see me like this.

“I’ll buy some ibuprofen, too,” he offered. “You can take it when you get some food in your system.”

“I don’t think I can eat.”

“Finish that glass of water and get some more sleep. I’ll wake you up when breakfast is ready. You’ll feel better once you’re hydrated and rested.”

I chanced a glance up at him. “Why are you taking care of me? I wasn’t acting my best last night. I understand if you just want to leave.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!”

I groaned when my sharp exclamation reverberated through my head. “I just feel guilty for how I behaved. I was being inappropriate. You said no, and I didn’t listen.”

“You didn’t,” he agreed. “Are you upset with me for how I handled that?”

“No,” I said shyly, my cheeks heating. “I liked how you handled it. I needed that. Thank you.”

He cocked his head at me. “You really are thanking me for spanking you.”

I’d said the same thing last night, but it seemed he didn’t quite believe me.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s helpful for me. I like structure. I can be reckless sometimes.”

“After finding you walking home alone last night, I can believe that.”

I dropped my eyes. “Thanks for being there. I’m glad you came back to see me. And not just because you saved me from that creep.”

“I’m glad I came back, too.”

I peered up at him. “Are you? I was a mess last night.”

I’m not your fantasy woman. Surely, I’d finally shattered the illusion.

“You were drunk, but you weren’t a mess. You just needed someone to take care of you. It’s not safe for you to wander around by yourself in darkened alleys at night.” His lips twitched. “Excuse me, I meant snickleways.”

“I’m such an asshole,” I lamented. “I was so rude to you, and you were just trying to help me.”

“You’re not an asshole,” he said firmly. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You were a little sassy, but you weren’t acting like yourself.”

“You don’t know that,” I said quietly. “You don’t know what I’m really like.”

I’m a mess. I’m broken and useless.

“I know you’re sweet and trusting. I know you can be a little reckless, and now I know you can get sassy when you’ve been drinking. You’re a strong woman, but it’s okay to want to lean on someone else sometimes.”

I shifted deeper into the covers, wanting to hide from his incisive blue stare. “How do you know I want that? I’m fine on my own. I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” he challenged calmly.

That got my hackles up. We were skirting dangerously close to the fact that I could barely function on a daily basis. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m starting to understand you a little better. You want someone to take some of that burden off you. You want someone who will look after your wellbeing, especially when you willfully neglect it.”

“I guess you do know me, after all,” I said glumly. The illusion was finally shattered; I wasn’t his fantasy woman anymore. I’d obliterated her with my drunken behavior and my emotional breakdown in front of my house.

“You don’t have to stay for breakfast,” I murmured. “I understand if you want to go. I’m sorry I’ve been so needy.”

He sat on the bed beside me, and I smothered a wince when the mattress dipped.

“Look at me.” He issued a low command. My eyes snapped to his. His pale stare pierced my soul. “It feels good to be needed. I like taking care of you. Even if that means using methods I don’t fully understand.”

“Like spanking me, you mean,” I concluded miserably. “I’m sorry you had to do that. I know you didn’t want to.”

His features drew tight. “I liked it,” he admitted. “I liked when you called me sir. I shouldn’t have enjoyed it, but I did.”

“It’s okay that you enjoyed it.” I reached for him, drawn to erase the tension from his jaw. “You didn’t hurt me.”

His brows drew together. “You can’t tell me it didn’t hurt. I saw my handprint on your ass.”

“And how did you feel about that?” I pressed.

“I liked that, too,” he rasped.

“So do I. I like the idea of you marking me.”

“Fuck,” he bit out, but he tenderly brushed my hair back from my forehead.

“You were right,” I said. “I do want someone to help take care of me. That’s what I’ve always wanted. It might not be realistic—maybe it’s only possible in my books—but I can’t help wanting it.”

I’d always been the emotional caretaker for everyone around me. My deepest desire was to have someone strong enough to earn my trust, so I could let go. For once, I wanted to be selfish. I wanted someone to take care of me.

Scott would never be that person. Even if he had started to discover a more domineering side of himself, I’d been right in saying that he’d always leave.

I want to come back for you, he’d said.

But wanting that wasn’t enough. Wanting something didn’t equal a promise to make it so.

“How long can you stay?” I asked quietly.

“A few hours. I want to be with you, while I can.”

“I want that, too,” I admitted, ignoring the knife slicing through my chest. I was only causing myself pain by indulging in spending more time with him. I was becoming dangerously attached, and he would disappear again soon.

He caressed my cheek. “Go back to sleep,” he urged. “I’m going to get groceries. I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.”

I closed my eyes obediently, but the ache in my heart tormented me as keenly as the pounding in my head.

Time passed, and I drifted in and out of fitful sleep. I was dimly aware of the sounds of Scott’s return, and after a while, tempting scents wafted into the bedroom from the direction of the kitchen.

I dragged my dead ass out of bed and went to the bathroom to take care of my morning routine. When I was finished, I slipped on a silky black robe, which I kept handy so the neighbors wouldn’t see me walking around naked through the window.

The scent of bacon was enough to draw me out of the relatively dim hallway and into the sunlit kitchen.

“Is that American bacon?” I asked, hopeful.

Scott turned to me, and his wide grin took my breath away. I still wasn’t accustomed to how stunning he was when he smiled.

“She’s alive,” he joked, chuckling. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want bacon,” I responded, gesturing toward the frying pan. “Is that streaky bacon?”

“Of course. There’s nothing like crispy American bacon.”

“It is one of the things I miss when I’m over in England,” I admitted. “Their bacon is good, but it’s not the same.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He winked at me.

“You’re in an awfully good mood this morning,” I remarked.

“And you’re just a ray of sunshine, yourself,” he teased.

“I guess I deserve that,” I conceded. “I think food will help. I’m ready to eat now.” I no longer felt unbearably nauseous. “Thanks for cooking me breakfast.”

“It’s the most important meal of the day.”

“I usually skip it.”

“That’s not healthy. Good thing I’m here to feed you.”

I didn’t say that I skipped breakfast because I usually woke up just in time for lunch. Scott probably woke up at the crack of dawn and ran five miles or some other form of outrageous exercise. He didn’t need to know just how unhealthy I truly was. The extra pounds around my hips should have been some indication of my sedentary lifestyle and carefree approach to calories. At least Scott seemed to appreciate those curves.

“Good thing,” I agreed, inhaling the rich scents of a cooked breakfast. “Did you make sausage, too?”

“Yep. And eggs. I hope you like a protein-heavy meal.”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed fervently. “I love meat. I’m a total carnivore.”

He shot me a wry smile. “Savage. I like it.”

“Is it ready?” My stomach rumbled.

He laughed. “Impatient, too. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

I blushed. “I’m just hungry all of a sudden. I didn’t mean to be impatient.”

“Let’s get some food in you, then. You’ll feel much better after.”

He fixed me a plate of bacon, eggs, and sausage, finishing it off with a typical serving of English baked beans.

I eyed the plethora dubiously. “That’s a lot of food.”

“And you’ll eat every bite. You need it. Then, you can take your ibuprofen.”

I huffed out an indignant breath. “You’re being a little high-handed, don’t you think?”

A single blond brow rose. “Somehow, I don’t think you really mind. Do you?”

Despite my headache, my body still reacted to his domineering, self-assured attitude. My clit pulsed, and my nipples hardened so they peaked against the silky fabric of my robe.

His gaze fell to my chest, and his lips tilted in a satisfied smirk.

“I guess that’s my answer, then.”

I tried to compose myself, tossing my hair over my shoulder in a show of nonchalance. “I guess so,” I allowed, keeping my voice flippant rather than husky with desire.

He handed the plate to me and prepared one for himself before following me into the open-plan living room, which had a small dining table tucked into the corner. As soon as I sat down, I took my first bite of bacon. The salty flavor exploded across my tongue.

I let out a low, satisfied moan and licked at the lingering juice on my fingers.

Scott cleared his throat. The sound caught my attention, and I looked up just in time to see him adjusting his cock. He wore jeans, but the ridge of his growing erection was clear against the thick material.

“Eat,” he prompted me. “But try not to enjoy yourself so much.”

My lips curved up in a sly smile. “But I do love meat.”

His jaw ticked, but his eyes sparked with hunger. “Just eat your breakfast, Addison.”

“Yes, Sir,” I purred before taking a huge bite of my sausage.

He drew in a shuddering breath, and the bulge against his jeans grew more pronounced.

“Don’t tease me,” he reprimanded.

“What are you going to do about it?” I challenged, feeling saucy. I remembered the sting of his hand against my ass. I craved more.

“Right now? Nothing. After you finish eating and take some meds? We’ll see.”

“Fine,” I grumbled with an exaggerated pout. “I’ll eat.” My headache still lingered, so it really was the best choice.

“Good girl.”

Suddenly, he captured my full attention. The rumbling words of praise acted like a trigger, and lust instantly lit up my system. My breath caught in my throat, and I stared at him.

Now, he was the one smirking. “It’s not nice being teased, is it?”

“I guess not,” I said, contrite. “Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Just stop licking your fingers like that.”

I nodded my agreement and used my fork and knife instead. Scott had fully taken control, and a pleasurable shiver raced through my body as I relaxed. His control felt nice. Comforting. He wasn’t manipulating me or ordering me around for his own satisfaction. He was taking charge and seeing to my needs, shutting down my sass in the process.

It only made me that much more enamored with him. I tried not to stare at him as I obediently ate the delicious food he’d prepared for me.

“So, tell me more about how you got into BDSM,” he said, a hint of an order in the casual request. “When did you decide you wanted to be submissive?”

“I didn’t decide,” I clarified. “I just am. I’ve always been this way. I’m a people pleaser. I like making people happy and seeing to their needs.”

“But you said you want someone to take care of you.”

“It’s reciprocal. Symbiotic. At least, it is in an ideal relationship.”

“Okay, so you like making people happy, but you also like being taken care of. How does that lead to kinky sex? Can’t you be that way without whips and chains?”

I rolled my eyes at his description of kink. “It’s not all whips and chains. I mean, those are nice, but it’s about the power exchange. At least, the facets of BDSM I’m drawn to are about that. You can be a submissive but not a masochist, or you can be a masochist but not identify as a submissive. Same goes for Dominants and sadists. They’re not necessarily interchangeable.”

He frowned slightly. “Explain that more, please.”

“Well, not to launch into a lecture, but BDSM had a threefold meaning: Bondage and Discipline, Domination and Submission, Sadism and Masochism. You can identify with any or all of the above and be part of the community. There’s no one true way to practice BDSM, and anyone who tells you otherwise is an asshat.”

He chuckled. “An asshat?”

“Yes.” I nodded decisively. “For instance, I identify as submissive, and I enjoy the bondage and discipline aspects. I also like a little pain, but I wouldn’t consider myself a masochist. It’s more about the power exchange for me and less about how much pain I can take. I mean, the endorphin rush from a good hard flogging session is amazing, don’t get me wrong.”

He cocked his head at me, curious. “Why do you like it so much?”

“Well…” I shifted, uncertain how much I was comfortable divulging. I decided I owed him the truth. “I’m not saying everyone in the lifestyle has damage or struggles with their mental health, but I’m Bipolar. And I have pretty severe social anxiety. It’s not a great combination.”

“You’re Bipolar?”

“Yeah. Not a lot of people really know what that means, and people who are diagnosed experience it differently. For me, it means months-long depressive periods followed by a couple of manic weeks. I get a lot of writing done during my manic phases, but I struggle during depressive phases. My meds help keep me regulated and functional. They help me be myself: the person I can be when I’m not hampered by a chemical imbalance.

“At least, they get me as close as possible. I still feel the swings and pulls. BDSM helps with that. It’s a release and a relief from my busy brain. I can find peace and calm in a power exchange. I don’t have to worry, because my partner is in control. Does that make sense?” I asked, hopeful and a touch apprehensive. I’d just unloaded a lot.

I released the breath I didn’t realize I was holding when he finally nodded. “It does. It helps me understand better. I don’t like the idea of hurting you.”

“It’s not hurting me. It’s helping me, even if I do experience a little pain.”

I set down my fork, my plate clean. I popped the ibuprofen in my mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of water.

When I’d drained my glass, he was still watching me intently.

“I’d like to help you,” he said quietly.

My heart leapt into my throat. “You mean… What do you mean?”

He stood and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

I grasped his long fingers without hesitation, placing my trust and my hope in him.