FIVE

SAMANTHA

After dropping Macey, I locked the door behind her and leaned against it for a second. The silence wrapped around me like an old friend. Or maybe a shadow. I wasn’t sure there was a difference anymore.

I peeled off the dress, careful not to wrinkle it. It still smelled faintly like the perfume I wore this morning. Sweet. Soft. Pretending to be innocent.

I hung it up with care, smoothing the fabric with my hand before slipping into my silk robe. Pale rose gold. Barely there. It slid over my skin like water.

I sat on the edge of my bed, one leg tucked beneath the other. The city outside was humming quietly, but my apartment was still. The kind of still that made everything feel louder. My thoughts. My memories.

Then my phone buzzed.

Just once.

A new message.

Unknown Number.

But I knew who it was.

That dress you wore today. Dangerous.

Meet me at the regular place. My driver is outside your apartment.

No emoji. No extra words. Just cold, clear demand.

My fingers tightened around the phone. My thumb hovered for a second… then tapped off the screen.

I stood slowly.

Of course, he didn’t sign his name. He never needed to.

I crossed the room to my closet, opened the sliding doors, and reached for the black dress tucked away in the back. I hadn’t worn it in months, but it still fit like sin. High neckline. Open back. Hugs in all the places that matter.

I picked black underwear too—a matching set, cotton, barely there. He hated cotton. Said it looked like “nonsense.” He always preferred plain lace, something sexy and pretty.

But tonight… I didn’t want to be obedient. That was why I wore black and not red.

I wanted him to look at me and get angry. Wanted his jaw to clench. His hands to twitch. Maybe I wanted him to lose control a little.

I brushed out my curls again, letting them fall loose around my shoulders. I skipped the lip gloss. He liked gloss. Too much. So I left it off.

When I stepped outside, the black car was already there.

The driver didn’t say anything. He just nodded once and opened the back door.

Same driver. Same car. Same cold quiet.

I slid into the back seat and pulled my coat tighter around myself, though it wasn’t the cold I was guarding against.

The car moved smoothly through the streets, weaving through traffic like it already knew the path. I didn’t ask where we were going. I already knew.

The regular place.

That’s what he called it. Like it wasn’t a five-star hotel with tinted windows and rooms you had to whisper about.

The last time I was there, he had pressed me against the wall before I could even take off my heels.

I pressed my knees together.

What we had—whatever it was—wasn’t sweet or soft or safe.

But it made me feel something.

Something that made the world around me quiet. Something that shut everything else out. The expectations. The pretending. The endless ache of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

With him, it was never about being good.

It was about being his.

The hotel room had a manly smell.

Cool, clean air mixed with leather and something expensive I couldn’t name. I stepped inside slowly, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The lights were low. Only the skyline glowed through the tall windows—like the city was watching us.

He stood near the window, hands in his pockets, back straight, body tight with silence.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But I knew that stillness. Knew the way his shoulders locked when he was trying to control it. When he was angry.

And tonight, he was furious.

His voice finally came, deep and sharp like a blade. “Black?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stood there in the doorway, my black dress hugging every inch of me, my cotton bra peeking from the neckline. I tilted my chin slightly.

“Yes.”

He turned.

His eyes landed on me, sweeping over my dress like it offended him.

“You wore black?”

“I wanted to,” I said, soft but steady.

His jaw flexed. He stepped forward, slow but sure, stopping a breath away from me. His presence was overwhelming, pulling the air out of my lungs.

“I told you red, always.”

“I didn’t feel like red.”

His brow lifted, just barely. But his eyes—his eyes turned darker than the room.

“You wore black,” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Knowing exactly what it meant.”

“I wore it because I could,” I said. “Because I wanted to.”

His hand moved so fast I didn’t see it coming. Not a slap. Just a firm grip on my jaw, tilting my face to his.

“You’re begging to be taught a lesson.”

My stomach flipped.

“Maybe,” I whispered.

That was all it took.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the bed—his touch rough, not cruel, but enough to remind me how easy it was for him to take what he wanted. What already belonged to him?

When we reached the bed, he spun me around.

“Hands,” he snapped.

I obeyed, placing them flat on the bed. My breathing was shallow. My heart slammed against my chest, but I didn't feel fear. I felt anticipation.

The zipper came down in one hard pull.

He peeled the dress off my back like he was angry at it, like it had touched me in ways he didn’t approve of. It slid to the floor, puddling at my feet.

His voice was close to my ear now. “Black underwear, too.”

I smiled faintly. “I thought you’d notice.”

His hand came down hard on my backside.

I gasped, more from the shock than pain.

“Count,” he said.

I didn’t argue.

“One,” I said quietly.

Another strike. Firmer.

“Two.”

Again.

“Three.”

He didn’t rush. Each time his hand connected with my skin, it stung. But it also burned in a way I craved. A dark thrill curled in my stomach. I pressed my lips together to keep from moaning.

By the sixth, my knees trembled.

“Still want to wear black for me?” he asked, voice rough and low.

“Yes,” I breathed.

He struck harder.

“Seven.”

“You like disobeying me?”

“Sometimes.”

Another slap. He leaned in, his mouth grazing my shoulder.

“You’re mine for now. Don’t forget that.”

“I haven’t.”

His hand slid under the band of my panties and tugged them down, slow and commanding. Then he pushed me forward, bent at the waist, both hands on the mattress now.

“You asked for this,” he growled behind me. “You needed this.”

And I did.

Because the world outside was all pretending. Smiling. Playing nice. But here—here, I could unravel. I could be bare and brutal and wanted.

He pushed into me hard. No warning.

I cried out.

Not from pain.

From being split open and filled at the same time—mind, body, and everything in between.

He gripped my hips, pulling me back against him with every thrust.

“You wear black again,” he grunted, “and I’ll leave marks.”

“Do it,” I gasped.

The rhythm was unforgiving. Fast. Deep. He was punishing me, claiming me, breaking me open piece by piece.

And I let him.

Because this was how we worked.

Darkness craving darkness.

Pain meeting pleasure.

His hand snaked around to my throat, not tight, just enough to make me still.

“You like making me this angry?” he whispered against my skin.

“I like when you lose control, and I know you love it.”

He groaned deep in his chest and moved faster.

I was close.

Too close.

And he knew it.

He dragged it out, holding me there on the edge, like he wanted me to suffer for what I did. For wearing black. For defying him.

But finally—he let go.

And so did I.

The high hit hard. A blinding release. My legs shook. My vision blurred. I collapsed forward onto the bed, breathing hard.

He followed me down, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His chest rose and fell fast against my back. For a moment, we just breathed.

The room felt quieter after.

Not peaceful. Just quiet.

The kind of silence that settles when the storm has passed but left things scattered.

I didn’t move right away. My body was heavy, boneless, sunk into the bed like I was part of it.

He stood before I did.

Always did.

Cool, composed, like he didn’t just wreck me.

He didn’t say much as he adjusted his cuffs and reached for his jacket. A man like him was never fully undressed. Even naked, he still wore power like a second skin.

He checked his watch. “Get dressed.”

There it was.

I sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from my chest. My body ached in all the right places. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, stood, and reached for my dress.

I didn’t bother looking at him when I slid it back on.

We didn’t do softness after.

No cuddling.

He crossed the room to the small table near the window. When I turned, the envelope was already there.

The usual.

My throat tightened, but I forced my fingers to stay steady as I walked over and picked it up. I didn’t count it. Never did. I knew it would be exact—he was always exact.

I slipped it into my purse.

“You don’t have to do the envelope every time,” I said quietly, keeping my back to him.

“Yes,” he replied, voice firm. “I do.”

His eyes moved over me once more—slow, possessive, like he was imprinting this moment. Then he walked past me, toward the door.

“Wear red next time,” he said, hand on the knob, waiting for me to leave. “No more games.”

I bent to pick up my purse from the chair, the strap cool against my fingers. My legs ached, my thighs still trembling from what he’d done, from how hard he’d taken me—like he needed to remind me who I belonged to.

“Okay.” I said quietly.

I didn’t meet his eyes.

I didn’t need to.

My voice was steady enough to please him.

He opened the door, just a little, enough for me to slip out without brushing against him. I walked past him, head high, perfume clinging to my skin like memory. The hallway light was dim, but I knew the way.

Behind me, the door closed with a soft click.

And in my hand, the envelope he left on the dresser. Same as always.