Chapter 242

Micah

Oh. Hi.

Welcome everyone, to what I am choosing to call my first official date with Lexie Hart.

Sure—she didn’t call it that. And yes, she very clearly mentioned there would be “a talk.”

But listen. A man can hope.

Also, I showed up on time, showered, wearing clean, glitter-free clothes that did not smell like incense or any of my many dessert-scented colognes—well, maybe a light touch of coconut—and that effort alone deserved some praise.

Her house was… well. Intimidating as always. Quiet. Way too elegant for someone like me, who still occasionally lost socks inside his own apartment.

“Hey,” she said when she opened the door, smiling like she was nervous but pretending she wasn’t. “Come in, I was in the middle of cooking—”

I stepped inside and immediately noticed something important.

“Okay,” I said, glancing around. “Where’s the army of staff? Did you fire the cook?”

She snorted. “My mom went out to dinner with Margaret and gave our cook the night off.”

Oh.

“So,” I said slowly, “you’re telling me this is just you and me?”

“Yes.”

“And no professional food wizard?”

“No.”

I stared at her for a beat. “Wow. You’re really committing to this trauma-bonding thing, huh.”

She laughed. “There will be trauma most likely… I’m warning you. You’re going to have to suffer my cooking.”

“I’m brave,” I announced. “I survived a brain bleed. I can survive pasta.”

She led me into the kitchen, where something was already simmering on the stove. It smelled good. Suspiciously good.

“Okay,” I said. “What do you need help with?”

“The sauce,” she replied. “And maybe… garlic bread?”

I gasped. “Oh. We’re doing extras.”

She smiled. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

We moved around each other in the kitchen in that awkward-not-awkward way, bumping shoulders, stealing tastes from the spoon, arguing about how much garlic was too much garlic.

(There is no such thing, for the record.)

At some point, I realized something mildly terrifying.

This was… nice.

Not hot. Not charged. Just really, really nice.

Somehow, I had only been domestic before with my masters, but not with a date. And never with a girl.

And somehow, that scared me more than being tied up in front of a room full of strangers ever had.

We ate at the table, knees brushing occasionally, talking about dumb things. Movies. Music. The fact that she hated olives. The fact that I loved them and was personally offended by her stance.

When we finished and moved to the couch, I stretched dramatically and clapped my hands once.

“Okay,” I said. “Talk time?”

She inhaled. Exhaled.

“I wanted to be honest with you,” she said softly. “Because I don’t want to pretend things aren’t… shifting.”

I nodded, suddenly very aware of how close she was.

“I know we started as friends,” she continued. “And I’m not trying to rush anything. But I was wondering… if you’ve ever thought about us being something more.”

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then I laughed—not because it was funny, but because if I didn’t, my brain might short-circuit.

“Okay,” I said carefully. “I need you to know something about me.”

She tilted her head. “I’m listening.”

“Despite what I look like,” I went on, gesturing vaguely to myself, “I don’t actually kiss people I don’t want more with.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“And,” I added, “I don’t kiss girls at all unless I’m serious. Which, historically, has been… never.”

The room felt quieter after that.

I leaned back, rubbing my hands together. “So if you’re asking whether I’ve thought about it—yeah. I have.”

I met her eyes, honest and unguarded. “And if you’re asking whether I’m interested… well. I wouldn’t be sitting here pretending not to freak out if I wasn’t.”

I paused.

“Your turn.”

She took a breath, then laughed softly, rubbing her palms against her jeans.

“Well,” she said, “despite what I look like… I don’t kiss people I’m not interested in either.”

I smiled. “Good policy.”

“I mean—I did, once upon a time,” she added quickly. “But not anymore. I think I outgrew that phase.” She winced. “God, I sound ancient.”

“An ancient, super hot cheerleader,” I said.

She met my eyes again, more serious now. “What I’m trying to say is… I like you, Micah.”

My chest did this stupid, hopeful thing.

“You do? Oh, my God—” I said quietly.

She held up a finger. “But—”

I exhaled, slumping back against the couch. “Ah. There it is.”

She frowned. “There’s what?”

“The whole tragic thing where you remind me you’re a princess and I’m a pauper and we can never be.”

She laughed. “Okay, first of all—that ship sailed when we shared jello at your hospital bed… Second, I don’t give a shit about that.”

“Fair enough…” I admitted. “What’s the “but” about then?”

She hesitated, then said the thing I knew was coming.

“I’m scared of where Master Hale fits into this.”

I nodded immediately. No defensiveness. No jokes.

“Ask me anything,” I said. “I mean it.”

She swallowed. “Are you in love with him?”

“No,” I answered without hesitation. “Not like that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then… how do you love him?”

I leaned back, thinking. “That’s the hard part to explain.”

She waited.

“A Dominant–submissive relationship doesn’t require romantic love,” I said slowly. “What it needs is trust. Safety. Respect. Communication. Care. Devotion.” I shrugged. “Sometimes love exists alongside it. Sometimes it grows later. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“And with Hale?” she asked gently.

“I love him the way a sub loves his master,” I said. “With loyalty. With devotion. With a kind of faith.”

She tilted her head. “Like… religion?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Kind of. Except he’s not God. And he doesn’t want to be.”

That seemed to help.

She nodded slowly. “I think… I understand that.”

Then she took a breath and asked the real question.

“Are you having sex with him?”

I didn’t flinch. “We were. Before the accident.”

Her shoulders tensed, just slightly.

“But we haven’t since,” I continued. “We cuddle. Sometimes we sleep in the same bed. There’s intimacy—but not sex.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because he wanted to give me time to heal in every way, and because I needed to understand what I was feeling,” I said honestly. “About you. About myself. About where this was going.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“I need to be clear,” I added. “The club, being a sub—that’s part of who I am. I don’t want to lose that. And I hope it won’t come between us.”

She was quiet for a moment, then she hesitated. “Aiden mentioned the Dominion this Saturday.”

I blinked. “He did?”

“Him and Noah,” she said. “They thought maybe… we could all go. Watch. Take it slow.”

I smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know. Hale mentioned it too. He was hoping you’d come, and I was working my way to asking you.”

“I’m kinda scared. And you?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Believe it or not… I’m scared too.”

She laughed softly. “Of what?”

“Of feeling the wrong thing,” I admitted. “Of seeing you with someone else and realizing I don’t like that at all.” I met her eyes. “But if we do this together—with honesty and boundaries—it could work.”

Her hand slid into mine.

“I think I really wanna try the… submissive thing. But I don’t wanna lose you,” she said quietly.

“Neither do I,” I replied.

We sat there for a moment, just looking at each other. “Lexie, I don’t wanna lose what this is…”

“Then you won’t.” She leaned in.

I met her halfway with a kiss—gentle at first. Not rushed. But as I felt her so close, so warm, her sweet scent of jasmine wrapping around me, her soft, beautiful lips pressing harder against mine, it took almost a miracle not to do all the wrong things at once.

So I pulled back before I could get myself slapped. “I wanna do this with you. I want you to be a part of everything that’s me…”

She took a second, then smiled. “So… we try?”

I grinned. “We try.”

And that, my friends, was the beginning of our great adventure.