Chapter 7: Dylan Is In Control

I stayed there on my knees, pulse pounding in my ears, eyes locked on Dylan’s. His grip on my hair was firm, commanding, but not painful—more like a leash he knew I wasn’t going to try breaking. His stare bore into me, daring me, testing me.

“Look at you,” he said softly, almost amused. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

I could feel my face flush, but I didn’t back down. “You act like I didn’t make you beg last night,” I said, my voice rough with pride—and something hungrier underneath.

Dylan gave a low laugh, then finally released my hair, fingers trailing through it before he sat back again. “Fair,” he muttered. “But I’m still the one in control now.”

His legs remained spread, casual, confident, like he was daring me to make another move.

I stayed still, heart thundering in my chest, staring up at him from the floor. Dylan hadn’t moved—his legs still spread, eyes burning into me with a heat that stripped me bare.

He leaned forward just slightly, one elbow on his knee, his fingers slowly brushing over his own thigh like he was in no rush. Like he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Say it,” he said, voice low, smooth like velvet with something dangerous underneath. “Say I’m in control.”

My breath caught, throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t asking for a joke, or a tease. This was a moment—the moment—and I could feel the weight of it settling over both of us.

“I...” I started, but the words tangled.

He tilted his head. “Come on, spaghetti noodle. You wanted to play? Let’s play for real. Say it.”

His voice wrapped around me, and I felt something crack open in my chest. My pride, my resistance—it all flickered under that stare, under his voice. And it felt good. Too good.

“You’re in control, Dylan” I whispered, the words slipping out shakier than I meant.

Dylan’s eyes lit up with a slow, pleased smile, like he’d just claimed something important. “Louder, Boy!”

My throat tightened. I looked up at him, every nerve in my body on fire, and I said it again, this time stronger, firmer—because I meant it. “You’re in control, sir”

He let out a low hum of approval and leaned back, arms draped lazily across the top of the couch like a king surveying his throne.

“Good boy,” he said, and I swear my entire body reacted to the praise like it was wired into me.

My knees pressed into the carpet, tension humming through me. His control wasn’t physical—it didn’t have to be. It was how he looked at me, how he talked to me. Like he could see every inch of my need, every stubborn little part I’d tried to hold back—and loved making it unravel.

He reached down, hand curling under my chin, tilting my face up toward him. His thumb traced my bottom lip, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing it.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then back up to mine, holding me there like a command already spoken.

“Lick it,” Dylan said, his voice low and rough with authority. “There’s your prize.”

My breath hitched, body tightening at the sound of his voice—so sure, so calm, like he owned the moment and knew it.