Page 7 of Wait for Him

He's so much bigger than I realized when we were sitting down. The moment he returned with my card and the room key and I stood beside him, he became a fucking Goliath. Broad shoulders, easily over six feet, the kind of frame that takes up space without him having to try. I'm pretty damn short, so most men clear me by several inches. I'm used to that. What I'm not used to is a man his size fidgeting like he's the one in physical danger.

It's comical, really.

It's also deeply endearing, and I am going to enjoy every second of breaking him open.

The elevator doors slide apart, and our room is the first on the right. He follows me inside without saying a word, waiting while I set my work bag on the floor and step out of my heels. The loss of three inches makes the difference between us even more ridiculous, but when I turn around, he's still watching me like I'm the most dangerous thing in the room.

“How long have you been on RAG?”

“Um.” He shifts his weight, then seems to catch himself doing it. “I just got my vetting approved today.”

“Along with a few other apps, I'd guess. Cast a wide net, increase your chances.”

I take one slow step toward him and watch his expression shift.

“Remember what I said about lying, Jack.”

“Yeah.” Something moves across his face — surprise, maybe, that I read him that cleanly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don't be. We're here now, and you can leave any time you choose. No explanation required.”

“That won't be happening.”

He says it with more certainty than anything else he's said since we left the bar, enough that I study him for a moment before asking the question that's suddenly bothering me.

“Do you know what RAG actually is? What it's designed for?”

He hesitates.

Fuck.

“It's like Tinder. Grindr. Any other hookup app.”

“Not exactly.” I fold my arms and hold his gaze. “RAG. Red, Amber, Green. It's a platform for Dominants and submissives. Switches. The traffic-light system is built around boundaries, consent, and comfort levels.” His face is giving me absolutely nothing now, which somehow tells me everything. “Does any of that ring a bell?”

Aaannnd…silence.

“Fuck.” I push a hand through my hair and turn away from him because I was really fucking looking forward to tonight. “You should go.”

“I'll learn.”

I look back at him.

The words came quickly, almost like he'd been holding them in.

“I'll learn,” he repeats. “I'll be whatever you need me to be. You called me a good boy downstairs, and I really fucking liked it.” He holds my gaze, and for the first time since we walked into this room, the nervousness isn't controlling him. “If you need my consent, you have it. All of it. I just want you.”

“No.”

His brow furrows.

“You don't give someone all of it. Especially when you don't even know what you're agreeing to.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” I soften my voice because he's trying, and I don't want him to mistake correction for punishment. “But wanting me isn't the same thing as consenting to everything I might want to do with you. Those are two very different things.”

He absorbs that without arguing, which earns him considerably more credit than he realizes.