I twist my curl whenever Patrick's commands fill our shared apartment, denying how much his stern control steadies the chaos inside me. The thin walls make every moment feel exposed, like my yielding is one breath away from being seen by the wrong eyes.
His belt changes the rules between us. In the heat of our argument, the folded leather presses to my hip as instruction, and I feel the scar on his palm at the base of my spine, anchoring me in place as desire and fear tangle tighter with every passing second.
If this private discipline is discovered, or if Patrick sees the full extent of my need for his lessons, I risk losing everything I have left, including the man whose structure I can't admit I require.
