Santa, Sir

Jingle Bells

Talking with Jess has always helped bring me clarity. She has a way of putting me at ease while dishing out the cold, hard truth. Our friendship has always been this way. It is as if we are sisters who were separated at birth.

"He said Chad's control was insidious. That was explicit. He said Chad broke me down, but he wants to help me rebuild. He used the word 'empowerment' through submission." I massaged my temples. "It sounds completely insane, doesn't it?"

"It sounds… like a lot." Jess was processing, I knew. Her mind was a steel trap when it came to analyzing problematic men. "So, he thinks you have a 'secret desire' for control to be taken from you, because you're efficient and defy superficial rules?"

"Exactly! How did he even know all that? He was like a mind-reader. He saw past all my sarcastic retorts and my weary elf facade. He saw… something." I paused, remembering the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to strip away my defenses. "He said he knows my core. My yearning for clarity of command."

"Katie, listen to yourself." Jess's tone was gentle now, laced with concern. "This is a man who exudes dominance. He has an aura. And you're coming off a devastating, abusive relationship where you were controlled, just not consensually. Are you sure you're not just susceptible right now? Craving any kind of structure, even a potentially dangerous one?"

"That's what I asked myself," I admitted, my voice dropping. "But… it felt different. With Chad, it was constant guessing, fear, and manipulation. Every rule was unwritten, designed to keep me off-balance. Ronan was talking about explicit boundaries, mutual satisfaction, and care. He said it was about trust. Consent. He said I'd always have a safeword."

"A safeword," Jess repeated, a flicker of something new in her tone. "That's… important. That changes things from Chad's brand of hell."

"Right? He actually used Chad's name. Said he understood what Chad did to me. He framed it as abuse, not submission. And then he offered… the opposite. A way to heal, almost. To confront it on my own terms."

"So, what are you feeling, really, under all the brain-scrambling terminology?" Jess asked.

Talking with Jess brings me clarity. I closed my eyes, picturing Ronan's face, his powerful frame. The quiet authority that hummed beneath his skin. The dream, warm and consuming. "Terrified," I whispered. "And… completely, utterly intrigued. Like a part of me has been waiting for this. For someone to see it. To acknowledge it. To take it."

"Take it responsibly, I hope," Jess said, her voice dry. "Look, Katie. I'm not going to tell you what to do. But you've been through hell. If this man genuinely offers a safe space, a truly consensual dynamic, and you feel that pull… then maybe it's worth exploring. But for god's sake, read that contract with a fine-tooth comb. And make sure your safeword is something truly ridiculous, so you'll never forget it."

"Like 'jingle bells'?"

Jess laughed, a genuine, relieved sound. "Perfect. Look, if you decide to go through with it, keep me on speed dial. And make sure he doesn't try to make you wear that elf outfit during your… sessions."

"I'll try my best," I promised, a small smile finally touching my lips. "Thanks, Jess. You're the best."

"Just be careful, Katie-bug. Your heart's been through enough."

After I hung up, the silence in my apartment felt different. Less heavy, more… pregnant with possibility. Jess's words hadn't dismissed my feelings; they had validated them, permitting me to explore the dangerous pull.

I stared at Ronan's number again. No pressure. No obligation. This is your choice, Katie. Always.

The phrase resonated. Chad had stolen my choices. Ronan was offering them back, even if one of them was the choice to surrender.

My fingers hovered over the phone, then descended, punching in the digits. It rang once, twice.

"Rourke," his voice, low and resonant, answered. No 'hello,' just his name, a statement of ownership even over the phone.

"It's Katie," I said, my voice steady. "Katie O'Connell."

A beat of silence. I imagined him, wherever he was, pausing, processing. "Katie. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon."

"I've made a decision," I told him, surprised by the firmness in my own voice. "I want to talk more about your proposal. The contract."

"Good." The single word was a deep hum, resonating through the phone line, through my bones. "When are you free?"

"Now," I said, the word coming out before I could second-guess it. "Are you free now?"

"Always for you, Katie." A ripple of something – anticipation? — in his tone. "My place. You know where Rourke Customs is?"

I knew. His garage, his domain. A place that felt both more intimate and more intimidating than a bustling cafe. "I do."

"I'll send you the address just in case. Come alone." The line clicked dead.