New here? You’ll want Chapters 1–7 first. Find them here. 🖤

He didn’t remember leaving his seat.

One minute he was sitting across from Kathryn Sinclair, heart pounding like it hadn’t since Kandahar. The next, his headphones were on the table and every cell in his body was vibrating.

Now he stood off to the side of the studio, hands on his hips, watching her team swarm her like she was a prizefighter after a knockout. Applause. Praise. Backslaps and squeals. Mistress Sinclair already trending.

She’d played it perfectly. Composed. Controlled. Lethal in heels and red lipstick. And he’d played right into it—the overcompensating grunt.

He exhaled through his nose. God, he hated this part—the moment after the mission, when the adrenaline ebbed and the reckoning started.

Kathryn wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t entirely right, either.

Because what she didn’t understand—what none of them did—was that some men didn’t get to be soft. They didn’t get to kneel, or cry on kitchen floors and call it growth. Some men held the line because if they didn’t, someone else bled.

He scrubbed a hand down his face.

He hadn’t meant to go after her work. He’d read the book—twice. And yeah, it was fantasy. But it was honest. It made a promise.

One he didn’t know how to believe in.

But worse—one he wanted to believe in.

What did that make him?

Laughter rang out from across the studio. Kathryn, tilting her head at her assistant like she hadn’t just gutted him on air. Like none of it had touched her.

Jackson and Trev wandered over, still riding the high. One had a vape. The other had a meme on his phone.

“Bro,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “She slaughtered you. Like, respectfully—but damn. I haven’t seen someone get dommed like that since prom.”

Trev snorted. “No lie, though. That whole act? The ‘mistress’ thing? Kinda hot.”

Marcus said nothing.

Jackson elbowed him. “Come on, man. You gotta admit—she’s a ten. Even if she did gut you on air.”

“She didn’t gut me,” Marcus said flatly.

Trev raised a brow. “Sure, but if she offered to—like, in a sexy way—would you let her?” He grinned. “Bet she keeps a leash in her purse.”

Jackson leaned in. “Low-key, I’d let her ruin my credit score.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Marcus didn’t raise his voice, but the room went still anyway.

Jackson blinked. “Dude. Chill. It’s a compliment.”

“No, it’s not.” Marcus set down his coffee. “It’s lazy. And it’s disrespectful. She’s not yours to fantasize about.”

Trev let out a low whistle. “You got a little crush, bro?”

Marcus gave him a look that could peel paint.

Jackson held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Didn’t know you were that deep in the Obedience arc.”

Marcus didn’t answer. Just grabbed his bag and turned for the door.

The hosts exchanged a look.

Trev murmured, “He’s so into her.”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. And he doesn’t even know it yet.”

The hotel room was too quiet. Marcus had taken a cold shower after the recording.

It didn’t help.

Neither did the gym. Or the bourbon. His hands curled into fists at the memory of Kathryn Sinclair in that blood-red lipstick. The way she hadn’t flinched when he came for her. The way her voice dropped when she called him out. He closed his eyes.

Let himself imagine it. Her voice, lower now. Her breath on his neck. The click of her heels as she crossed the room toward him. That look—God, that look—like she could see through every layer of armor and liked what she found underneath.

“On your knees,” she might say. And he would drop because he wanted to.

His hand hovered at his waistband, breath shallow.

She was already in him—under his skin. Every word from that podcast played on a loop in his head. Every challenge, every correction, every slow, razor-sharp dismantling of his defenses.

His fingers dipped beneath the elastic of his gray sweats. No rush. This wasn’t about release. This was about her.

How she’d do it.

She wouldn’t stroke him soft or sweet. No—she’d make it hurt. She’d strip him with her voice alone, drag his shame into the light, and own it.

She’d press him to his knees with a hand at the back of his neck and a single, whispered command.

“Look at me.”

And he would. By then, his cock would be dripping and he’d be shaking from the strain of holding back.

His hand closed around his shaft, and he gasped at how sensitive he already was.

She’d smile at that.

He stroked once. Then again, slower.

Every inch of him felt hers. Every pulse a countdown.

“You’ll wait,” she’d say, and his hips would jerk. “You don’t come until I say.”

His muscles locked tight. His teeth grit. He kept going. Obeying an order he hadn’t even truly heard—because her voice was only real in his head.

His thumb swirled over the head and his whole body flinched. He was so close.

“Not yet,” she’d whisper. “Don’t you dare.”

And he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Because nothing—nothing—mattered more than hearing what would come when he obeyed:

“Good boy.”

Two words, and he’d unravel.

But not yet. Not without permission.

He edged himself harder now, trembling with the effort, sweating from restraint. Because this wasn’t about pleasure. This was about belonging to her. And he did. Even now—alone, aching, undone—he was already hers.

He dragged his hand up his hard cock again, slower this time. Fighting release. Fighting himself. Fighting the part of him that didn’t want this to be fantasy.

But she was everywhere.

In the press of his palm.

In the fullness of his balls.

In the voice that lived in his head now, commanding and merciless.

“Now.”

He didn’t just imagine it—he felt it. Like breath against his ear. That single imagined word broke him.

His back arched, thighs shaking, cock pulsing hot and heavy in his hand. He came with a guttural groan, hips stuttering, pleasure crashing over him.

The orgasm tore through him, savage and slow, every spasm a whispered confession: I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.

When it was done, he whispered into the dark, “thank you, Mistress.”

This is the seventh chapter of my very first romance novel. New chapters every Thursday. (Or Wednesday night if I get impatient.) The rest of the chapters are waiting for you right here.

You get to be the first to discover it, Smuts. And I’m glad you’re my firsts. 🖤

New here? You’ll want Chapters 1–6 first. Find them here. 🖤

In her dream, the hotel gym lights were turned low and mirrors covered every single wall like silent, hungry voyeurs. There was nowhere to hide. Every filthy angle would be reflected back at her.

Like the fact that Kathryn was strapped to a weight bench—wrists cuffed …

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New here? You’ll want Chapters 1–5 first. Find them here. 🖤

Kathryn paced in her hotel suite. Her laptop was open to a tab she couldn’t bring herself to read—Red Flag Radio: Tomorrow’s Guests Announced.

The knock at her door made her jump.

“Go away,” she called.

“It’s Jonah,” came the muffled reply. “I brought tacos . . . ”

She o…

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New here? You’ll want Chapters 1–4 first. Find them here. 🖤

Kathryn’s assistant, Sarah was pacing by the time she reached the elevators.

“I cannot believe he said that,” she muttered, jabbing the button harder than necessary. “I mean, I can believe it, obviously, because he did, but—God, Derrick, that was a disaster.”

Behind he…

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New here? You’ll want Chapters 1–3 first. Find them here. 🖤

Kathryn Sinclair was halfway through the whiskey when the event publicist with panicked eyes found her.

“There you are!” the woman gasped. “We’re about to start.”

“Start what?”

“The press event,” she said brightly, like this was obvious. “With Marcus. It’s going to be g…

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New here? You’ll want Chapters 1 & 2 first. Find them here. 🖤

Marcus hadn’t meant to finish Kathryn’s book. But somewhere between the airport and the hotel, curiosity got the better of him—and now Obedience sat on the table in his green room like a taunt.

Kathryn Sinclair wasn’t what he expected. He’d walked into that reading …

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New here? You’ll want Chapter 1 first. Find it here. 🖤

Laughter echoed behind her, but Kathryn’s smile was running on fumes and she was two seconds from committing actual violence.

Kathryn kept her pace steady, chin high, smile faint but polished.

“Miss Sinclair?” A girl in her twenties popped up beside her, clutching a copy of Obedience that was so battered it looked like it had been read through bathtime and breakup nights. “Will you—would you mind signing this?”

“Of course.” She took the pen the girl offered and scrawled her name across the title page, then added, Being owned starts with owning yourself. A favorite line. A quiet reminder for herself.

Another fan stepped in. “Kathryn! Will you sign my collar?”

The woman was grinning, holding out a soft strip of black leather with a silver O-ring and a silver sharpie. Kathryn reached over and etched out xx -Kathryn before Sarah swooped in.

“Sorry, but we’ve got to keep moving, folks! Thank you for being here!”

The crowd groaned. Someone whispered, icon, just loud enough for Kathryn to hear. As soon as the green room door shut behind her, she exhaled so hard it felt like her spine gave out. Then she exploded.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Kathryn spun back to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it again for emphasis, nearly toppling a stack of books. Sarah flinched and clutched the event clipboard like it could shield her from the storm.

“I am going to—dismember him, burn the pieces, and use the ashes to make a diamond I can wear around my neck.”

“Do you want tea?” Sarah offered.

“Do I want tea?!” Kathryn repeated, spinning on her heels. “What I want is to understand how a man who once said ‘romance novels are just porn for bored housewives’ ended up co-headlining my press tour.”

Sarah blinked. “So . . . that’s a no on the tea?”

Kathryn threw her hands up. “You told me he was just here. You didn’t tell me he was everywhere for the next three weeks!”

“I didn’t know! His assistant RSVP’d but never mentioned anything about a joint tour.”

Kathryn groaned. The waistband of her pencil skirt suddenly felt like a vise. She kicked off her heels with enough force that one of them bounced off the wall. Her toes flexed against the carpet like they were finally allowed to breathe.

“How long do I have to completely fall apart before I have to go smile and sign shit again?”

Sarah checked her watch. “Seven minutes. But I can stall.”

“I love you.”

Kathryn pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Behind her eyelids Marcus Kane, arms crossed in judgment, stared back. She yanked her phone from her bag and jabbed her agent’s number while Sarah wisely disappeared down the hall.

The line picked up on the second ring. “Kathryn,” said Jonah, all smooth PR calm and Manhattan wine bar energy. “How’s the launch? You trending yet?”

“You sold me out.”

“I take it you met Marcus.”

“Oh, I met Marcus. I met Marcus Kane and his jaw and his judgment and his dog-eared copy of my book!”

“He dog-eared it?”

“Don’t try to distract me! That’s not the point!”

She stood again, pacing now. “Why didn’t you tell me I’d be forced to share mic space with a man who once said ‘if your boyfriend reads romance novels he’s closeted’?”

Jonah sighed. “Because I knew you’d say no. And this is a yes moment, Kathryn. The book is blowing up, the buzz is wild, and Marcus Kane brings a different kind of heat. Opposites attract, enemies to lovers—don’t tell me you can’t sell that.”

“I’m not selling me, Jonah. I’m selling a book. A book about safety and power and consent. I am not going to play Domme Barbie while some toxic ex-commando calls me a fantasy to his bros with podcast mics.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m reacting appropriately. You made a deal without telling me.”

“I made a business decision,” he said smoothly. “Kathryn, sex sells. Controversy sells. You sell. This is what happens when something works. People want more. They want tension. They want drama. They want a former special forces hard-ass with emotional repression issues sitting across from the woman who writes about spanking men and calling them ‘good boy.’”

“Oh my God.”

“And maybe, just maybe,” he added, “this could be good. An olive branch. A cultural detente. People are tired of the gender war. They want to believe in some kind of truce. You and Marcus Kane? That’s a truce they can jerk off to.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? How long have you worked on that speech?” she snapped.

“Since I found out about the tour,” Jonah said, calm as ever. “Now lean in. You’re Kathryn Sinclair. You know how to play a scene. Think of it like this—you get to peg the patriarchy. Repeatedly.”

She hung up before she threw the phone across the room.

Sarah reappeared in the doorway holding two cups. “I bought you 15 minutes. Here’s some tea. And whiskey.”

“The tea smells like chamomile.”

“It is.”

“I hate chamomile.”

“I know,” Sarah said, handing over the whiskey. “That’s why I brought backup.”

This is the second chapter of my very first romance novel. New chapters every Thursday. (Or Wednesday night if I get impatient.) The rest of the chapters are waiting for you right here.

You get to be the first to discover it, Smuts. And I’m glad you’re my firsts. 🖤

The first time Kathryn Sinclair saw him, he was ruining her book event. Standing there in the back of the conference room, arms folded across a broad chest like he was sizing up a suspect in an interrogation instead of a romance author on her big night.

“Who let in the sex police?” she muttered under her breath, flipping a page in her annotated reading copy.

Her assistant, Sarah, winced. “That’s Marcus Kane,” she whispered. “From Rogue Ethics.”

Rogue. Ethics. The name clicked like a warning shot.

Shit.

Of course she’d heard of him. He was the other darling of their shared publisher. A former special forces guy turned bestseller machine. His morally gray thrillers romanticized violence and warned men against the dangers of softening. His fanbase was a legion—loud, loyal, and mostly male.

And yet, he was holding a copy of Obedience. Her debut that BookTok had dubbed The Book Boyfriend’s Guide to BDSM. The one with a chapter that starts with pegging and ends with “Good boy.”

Her gaze flicked over him again. He didn’t belong here in her safe space of female readers. But there he stood looking like a cliche action hero.

He wore black jeans, combat boots, and a dark gray t-shirt stretched across shoulders that did not belong in polite society. A tattoo peeked out from under his right sleeve—some sort of jagged wing or blade. His hair was dark brown and neatly cut, his jaw shadowed by a day of deliberate stubble. Hazel eyes tracking her every move. And was that disdain etched into his face or was she imagining it?

Kathryn narrowed her gaze. This man read her book? She didn’t buy it. Marcus Kane was the antithesis of the men in her novel. He was also the only person in the crowd who hadn’t laughed at the joke she made about blindfolds.

“Did you seriously invite him?” she whispered to Sarah as she stepped off the tiny stage after her reading. The crowd was lining up for photos, but he just stood there watching.

Sarah shrugged. “I didn’t invite him. He showed up on his own. Said he was researching something.”

“Oh, I bet he is,” she muttered, walking straight up to him. She smirked. This should be fun.

“Kathryn Sinclair,” he said, offering a hand. “Didn’t expect you to read the pegging scene.”

She ignored his outstretched hand and crossed her arms. “Offended, or just confused about what women want?”

He pulled his hand back, unfazed. “Let’s just say I prefer my male characters to be real men.”

Ah. There it was. The dismissive snarl beneath the calm. The same tone men like him used on panels when they called romance a guilty pleasure.

“You came all this way just to insult me?” she asked sweetly.

“I came because people keep quoting you,” he said. “Figured I should read the source material before they hand you a Pulitzer for writing about ropes and orgasms.”

She took a deliberate step closer. Close enough for the warmth of her body to reach his. God, he smelled good. Her pulse kicked, traitorous.

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

This man was the antithesis of everything she believed in, and she was not going to get flustered because he happened to smell fucking amazing. Goddamn it.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You think dominance is about control.”

His silence was all the answer she needed. She reached out, took her book from his hand, and flipped it open—only to pause when she realized a page was dog-eared in chapter six. That was unexpected. She smiled slowly as she realized it was the praise kink scene.

She looked up at him, one brow raised. “I love this part,” she said. “It’s the moment he learns obedience isn’t about being less of a man. It’s about being more of himself.”

Marcus’s throat moved as he swallowed, but his face stayed still.

Bullseye, she thought.

“As a woman, what exactly qualifies you to write about dominance?”

She leaned in, “I don’t write from theory, Mr. Kane. I write from experience.”

She saw the shift in his jaw and reluctantly noted that it made her pulse spark.

“Interesting,” he said slowly, tapping the spine. “Because it reads like fantasy.”

“So do your books,” she said. “Only in yours, the safe word is always more violence.”

He looked her over slowly, like a man assessing the angles of a room before breaching it. “So you’ve read my books?” he smirked and she internally kicked herself.

“I like to stay on top of what the incels are reading.” She knew it was a great line, but she had given him a win with her disclosure and they both knew it. She turned to another dog-eared page and lifted it to his face. “I don’t dog-ear the pages of yours though.”

His mouth pulled into something close to a grimace as she started to read aloud, “There’s no shame here. You’re not weak for needing this. You’re strong for staying present in it.” She looked up. “That line bother you?”

He shrugged. “It’s not the line. It’s the lie.”

She handed the book back. “Ah. You’re one of those.”

He raised a brow.

“Men who think submission makes a man weak. Let me guess,” she said. “You’re doing the podcast bros circuit next week? Red Flag Radio? The one with the guy who thinks high body counts for women are a national crisis while men get off scott free?”

“I’ve been on once or twice,” he said.

“Great,” she said, stepping past him with a smile. “Tell them I said hi.”

“You can tell them yourself,” he said.

“Never,” she shot back.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Oh, so you don’t know.” He started to nod slowly.

“Know what?” her stomach sank.

“Our publisher loves the idea of us promoting our books together. We start the circuit of . . . what did you call them . . . Podcast Bros?. . . together next week.”

She was furious. She took a deep breath and hoped the anger didn’t show all over her face. She wanted answers, but she needed to keep her composure until she could be alone to call Jonah and rip him a new asshole.

“It’s why I’ve been reading this crap,” he said, grabbing the book back from her. “I figured if I’m going to be asked about this book on air, I should know what I’m up against.”

“Up against?” she repeated. “That’s cute. What is this, a war?”

“Feels like it.”

“Only if you’re losing.”

That earned her the faintest flicker of victory—somewhere between a grin and a growl. She took a step back, smoothing her skirt and reclaiming her composure.

“Well,” she said lightly, “as delightful as this is, I apparently have a podcast circuit to prepare for.”

She turned to walk away, then glanced back over her shoulder with a satisfied smile.

“I look forward to your submission, Mr. Kane.”

This is the first chapter of my very first romance novel. New chapters every Thursday. (Or Wednesday night if I get impatient.) The rest of the chapters are waiting for you right here.

You get to be the first to discover it, Smuts. And I’m glad you’re my firsts. 🖤