Obedience - Chapter 8

She Writes About Male Submission. He Hates It. A Spicy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance from Sloane Black 🖤

Image generated by Sloane 🖤

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. 🖤