All Chapters of The Price of Vulnerability : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

“I will definitely have to bring extra panties to work every day. Just the thought of Wells is going to mess with my head. I pray to the angels I can keep it together and focus on my clients.”Wells was oblivious to Naomi’s thoughts. He had no idea that this timid woman, who almost forgot her name, was thinking about swallowing his dick and being punished.Wells clenched his jaws tightly, making him seem like an ice sculpture. His eyes were piercing, but somehow Naomi didn’t fear him. Her body was drawn to him, and her soul was being fed by his mere presence. Her desire to be led by him was so strong. She should have kept walking when she had the chance; she didn’t think he would stop her from bailing on the interview.Naomi was no joke when it came to business; she was a force. However, at home, she was a completely different person. She was a femme, a submissive. Now all she needed was her dom, and today she would seek no more. The universe answered her pleas—he was right there. Iro

Wells was not an ordinary man. He had long blond hair that he kept in a bun atop his head, a face of a god, a smile that could make a glacier melt, and a devilishly sexy body.With these qualities, it was no surprise that women flocked to him. Wells himself had an appetite for the pleasures of the skin. As one could guess, this was an uphill battle for Naomi. The man had an entire feast at his disposal every day. Why would she be the one he chose to give his all to?Unlike most businessmen who had no time for entertainment, Wells made it a priority. He often chose to put himself out there. He never settled down and most often found the smallest reason to run from any real commitment. The excuse: he’d been burnt from a past relationship, and from this, he’d never fully recovered. He made a promise to never fully give himself to another woman.There’s a term: “hurt people, hurt people.” This man seemed to be on a warpath of romantic self-sabotage. His actions didn’t seem to match his wo

Wells found himself watching her. Not in the obvious, predatory way men did when they wanted something—but in quiet observation, studying every movement, every flicker of expression. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Her dress was elegant but simple, her makeup subtle. She wasn’t here to be noticed, which only made her more noticeable. He leaned against the bar, pretending to be occupied with his drink while stealing glances in her direction. When she finished her wine, she didn’t rush to refill it, didn’t scan the room for company—she just stood there, unbothered by the social dance happening around her. It was almost… intimidating. Wells wasn’t used to feeling out of place. But something about her presence, her unshakable calm, made him feel like he was the one trying to measure up. That wouldn’t do. He pushed off the bar, stepping closer, his usual smirk in place. “If you don’t like the art, why are you here?” She turned, meeting his gaze with the same cool indifference.

For the first time in years, Wells felt restless. Naomi had done something to him—something subtle, something he couldn’t shake. She hadn’t fallen into his usual rhythm, hadn’t fed his ego with coy smiles or empty flirtation. Instead, she had left him standing there, a half-formed smirk on his lips and the taste of unfinished business in his mouth. It irritated him. And intrigued him. He debated letting it go. There were always other women, always easier options. But the problem with Wells was that he never liked things to be easy. So he found her again—not through chance, but through effort. A mutual acquaintance mentioned a lounge she frequented, a dimly lit spot known for its craft cocktails and old jazz records. That’s how he ended up here, nursing a whiskey at the bar while his eyes traced the room for a familiar silhouette. And then—there she was. Alone this time, sitting at the far end of the bar, her fingers lazily trailing the rim of her glass. She looked lost

Friday arrived slower than Wells would have liked. He had expected Naomi to suggest a place for dinner, but when he reached out, she simply told him, “Surprise me.” So he did. He chose Luciano’s, an intimate, upscale Italian restaurant known for its candlelit ambiance and impeccable wine selection. It was a place designed to disarm, to create an atmosphere where walls—emotional and otherwise—tended to come down. When Naomi arrived, Wells had to remind himself to remain composed. She was stunning, of course, but it wasn’t just the way she looked. It was the way she carried herself—completely at ease, unaffected by the weight of his attention. The host led her to the table where Wells was waiting, and as she sat down, she met his gaze with a slight smirk. “You clean up well,” she remarked. Wells chuckled. “I was about to say the same about you.” Naomi picked up the menu, glancing over it casually. “So, tell me, Mr. Wells—do you always take women to places like this, or am I jus