Chapter 31: The Controlling Type – Part VIII

Adrienne

“Get dressed." My tone is calm and sharp as I keep my eyes on the sink. "And get off my bed.”

A pause follows behind me, then I hear the soft sound of sheets shifting. I continue brushing my teeth.

“There’s a couch if you still want to rest, or the guest room if you prefer a door you can close.”

I hear him inhale as if he wants to argue or ask why.

He doesn’t. Smart boy.

I rinse, spit, and set the toothbrush down quietly. When I finally glance at him in the mirror, he’s still sitting at the edge of my bed, naked, elbows on his knees as if he’s trying to make sense of himself.

Good luck with that.

Last night, I didn't provide him with much comfort or connection. I pushed him to his limits, leaving him in a state of longing and ache, then quietly stepped away, almost as if he was just a chair I no longer needed. Sometimes, it’s about understanding what’s needed and what’s not.

Now it’s morning, and I’m all set for the day. My hair's neatly tied up, the blazer is zipped up, and my phone is already charging by the kitchen window, ready for me to start our day.

Luke is still quite exposed. He is still trying to determine if that was sex or punishment.

“Is this how you treat everyone?” he asks finally, low and rough.

“No,” I say, slipping my earrings in. “Only the ones who need it.”

He gently rises to his feet, not out of defiance, but because his body still feels tender from holding back.

“You didn’t even—” he stops, mouth closing like he knows better.

I turn, arching a brow with curiosity. “Didn’t even what?” I ask softly, trying to understand. He doesn’t answer, leaving me wondering what’s on his mind.

That’s wise.

I pick up my mug from the counter and walk past him without stopping. His clothes are folded neatly on the armchair. I didn’t do it out of kindness; I did it because I prefer order. Even when I’m messing up someone’s life, I keep it from touching me.

“I have meetings all morning,” I add casually, stepping into the living room. “You can let yourself out whenever you’re able to walk straight again.”

He doesn’t follow me right away.

And that’s fine.

Because the next time he does, he’ll come back willingly.

Luke

I’ve been ready to leave for twenty minutes.

Dressed. Clean. Fully fucking presentable.

I find myself nervously perched on the edge of her well-worn couch, its fabric slightly frayed from years of use. My eyes are fixed intently on the apartment door, every sound amplified in the quiet of the room. I hold my breath, hoping desperately that it might swing open any moment, bringing with it the warmth of her presence. I can almost see her stepping back inside, laughter trailing behind her, ready to pick up where we left off. The air feels heavy with unspoken words and unfinished moments as I replay our last conversation, longing for her to return and complete the connection that still hangs in the balance. She won’t.

She told me that already—calm as ever. There’s a couch if you still need rest, as if I were a guest who overstayed. Not the man who was inside her hours ago. Not the one she used until she came and then left, aching and half-broken in her bed.

My phone rests face-down on the coffee table, untouched. I could send her a quick message—ask when she’d like to get together again—pretending it’s no big deal. But I don’t want to seem desperate, even though I feel it deep down. The tension lingers—under my skin, in my chest. I shift a little in my jeans, feeling that familiar friction. I’m still half-hard and annoyed about it. No one’s ever done this to me—no one’s ever left me feeling so vulnerable. I unzip just to catch my breath.

My hand slips under the waistband. Just the weight of my palm is enough to make me pulse—fuck. It’s stupid how badly I want to come. How badly I still want her.

I start to stroke—one slow pull.

And then I hear her voice.

You don’t get to come until I say.

I freeze.

My jaw locks. My stomach flips. The arousal doesn’t disappear—it flares. But I can’t move. I can’t finish. My hand stays there, useless.

I really dislike this moment.

I'm overwhelmed with feelings towards her.

I struggle with my strong desire to listen.

I quickly zip up, feeling tense and unfulfilled, my fists clenched at my knees.

I pause for ten more minutes.

Then I get up.

I don’t say goodbye or leave a note. I just walk out firmly, feeling exhausted yet hoping she might reach out.

Adrienne

I slowly sip my espresso, gently tapping the side of the mug with one finger as the feed refreshes.

There he is.

Camera 3: Living room. Still seated and fully dressed now, his hands rest tensely in his lap. His thighs are spread wide, as if he's forgotten how to sit without trying to take up too much space.

He shifts.

His hand moves to his waistband.

I pause the video.

Then scroll back ten seconds and watch it again.

He unzips. Slips his hand inside. Just once. Just long enough to try.

I fast forward.

He stops.

Zips up. Stays hard. Doesn’t finish.

Good boy.

I lean back in my chair, steam curling past my lips as the screen flickers to Camera 4—front door. He opens it. Steps through. Doesn’t look back.

No note. No message. Not even a text.

But he’s still mine.

I set the mug down gently and pull up his profile in the system. No need to tag the footage, just seeing it is enough. He’s learning, slowly but surely. He’ll slip again. They all do. But not just yet.

I close the window with a quiet sigh.

Next file.