No More Games
1010 Words
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Cassie’s POV
I don’t wait for nightfall.
My hands are steady as I slide my phone into my back pocket, the hallway echoing behind me as I move with purpose—no hesitation, no second-guessing. I’m done pretending. Done playing both sides like I don’t already know where I belong.
It’s him. It’s always been him.
Jessie’s house is quiet when I let myself in. I’d asked for a key last week, half-joking. He'd slid one across the table without a word. I hadn’t realized until now how significant that moment was. He’d known. Maybe before I did.
I take the stairs slowly, each step heavy with intent. There’s a heat in my chest, not nervousness—something sharper. Hunger.
I find him in his room. He’s shirtless again—always f*****g shirtless—and leaning over a textbook, his brows furrowed like he’s actually trying to study. His head lifts as I step inside, his eyes narrowing like a predator catching movement in his territory.
“Cassie.” His voice is cool, unreadable, but his eyes... they spark like flint.
I close the door behind me, click the lock.
“You said I had until tonight to decide.” I step toward him slowly, confidently, my chin tilted high. “Well… I’ve decided.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. I can feel the tension like static in the air, coiling, waiting.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” I go on, stopping just a few feet from him. “I don’t want to run from this, or hide behind attitude, or flirt like it doesn’t mean something.”
A slow breath leaves him, and I watch his jaw clench. Still silent. Still watching.
“I want to be yours. Really yours.”
That’s when he moves.
It’s not fast, not rushed. He stands with the kind of deliberate calm that’s more dangerous than fury. The kind that says he’s in control—and that I’ve just stepped into something I can’t take back.
“Say it again.” His voice is low, strained.
I swallow hard but don’t look away. “I want to be yours.”
He steps into my space, his hand lifting to trail fingers down my jaw—light, reverent, claiming.
“And you know what that means?” he asks. “What you’re asking for?”
“Yes.”
“Submission.” His hand wraps around the back of my neck, firm but not unkind. “Obedience. Discipline. Trust.”
My lips part on a shaky breath, but I nod.
“I’ll still be your brat,” I whisper.
He smiles. Dangerous. Loving. Wicked.
“You’ll be my brat,” he murmurs, pulling me flush against him, his mouth brushing mine with possessive intent. “Mine to tame. Mine to break. Mine to put back together.”
And I melt.
Not because I’m weak. But because I’ve never felt so strong. So alive. So owned.
“Then prove it,” he says softly. “Tonight. No safe words. No doubts.”
I meet his eyes, and this time, I don’t hesitate.
“Yes, Sir.”
His eyes flash the moment the words leave my mouth—Yes, Sir—like I’ve lit a fuse he’s been waiting to ignite.
Without a word, Jessie turns and stalks toward his closet. I stay rooted in place, my breath shallow, pulse pounding like I’ve stepped into the deep end of something thrilling and terrifying all at once.
He returns with something folded over his arm. When I realize it’s the black silk robe—the one he made me wear the first time I stayed here—I feel my throat go dry.
“Strip,” he commands quietly, no room for questions.
My fingers tremble as I lift the hem of my shirt, not from fear but from the sheer weight of his gaze. There’s a heat behind it that could burn me alive if I let it—and I do. I want to.
When I’m bare before him, he steps closer, lifting the robe and draping it over my shoulders like a ceremony. Like a claiming.
“On your knees.”
I sink.
The carpet is soft beneath me, but it might as well be stone. Everything else vanishes—his room, the clock ticking behind us, the slight rustle of wind through the open window. All I can feel is the weight of his presence towering over me, his scent, his breath ghosting against the top of my head as he speaks.
“No safe words,” he repeats, kneeling to be level with me. “You give everything tonight. Or you walk away now.”
“I’m not walking away,” I whisper.
His hand grips my jaw, tilts my face toward his. “Then you’re mine. No hiding. No pulling back.”
My lips part, and for the first time, I feel the shift. Not from bratty defiance, but the deep, consuming surrender I’ve been running from.
“I’m yours.”
What follows is a blur of controlled chaos—his hands on my body, commanding me with calm authority, using my name like a weapon. He lays me bare emotionally and physically, stripping me down until I’m raw and open, pliable in his grip but never less than powerful.
He doesn’t just take—he teaches.
That submission doesn’t mean weakness. That giving myself over to someone can feel like reclaiming control in the most twisted, perfect way.
By the time he finally moves inside me, I’m wrecked—blissed out, overwhelmed, marked in ways that have nothing to do with the bites blooming across my skin.
When I come apart, it’s not just pleasure—it’s catharsis. A floodgate bursting open, dragging all my resistance and pride with it.
And when he holds me after—his body wrapped around mine, his lips pressed against my temple—I realize something even scarier than surrender.
I don’t want to fight anymore.
I want to stay.
- Writer
