The weight of it felt crushing. It had taken her so long to come to terms with her kink, years of work in therapy to see it as a potential joy rather than a crippling liability. Rape fantasies weren’t rare, but they were often misunderstood, even in BDSM circles, and worrying that wanting those kinds of scenes would make her an outcast in the only community in which she’d felt she belonged had kept her silent and yearning for too long.

Even after she’d found a way to accept those needs, it had taken her a while to find the courage to share them with play partners. She’d forced herself to be honest about it, because if she couldn’t articulate her needs, she could hardly expect anyone to meet them. Being a Dom doesn’t make someone a mind reader, and healthy relationships—especially BDSM relationships, no matter how temporary or transitory—required good communication.

She hadn’t done CNC play with any of her casual partners. At least, not explicitly. There were always elements—being held down, saying ‘no’ or ‘stop’ over and over again. Plenty of Doms were comfortable with that level of CNC—safewords were used for a reason, after all—but for the heavier stuff, the role-playing that she craved, she’d wanted a deeper connection.

So she’d sought out a relationship with a Dom who could give her what she wanted, and tried to build the kind of trust that would be necessary to do it safely.

And he’d manipulated her into dumping him.

The surge of anger made her grit her teeth, and when Cade walked through the back door, she was entertaining a small fantasy where she took all of Kyle’s vintage records—including the rare pressings that he kept sealed—and set them on fire, using that damn contract as kindling.

Cade looked down at her, one eyebrow raised in question as he shut the door at his back. “That’s a scary smile. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” she said, and blinked back to reality. “Just a harmless little fantasy. Where have you been?”

He held up a canvas shopping bag. “Butcher.”

She stayed in her chair, the cat purring like a motorboat in her lap, watching as he began unloading packages wrapped in white paper. “I see steaks, and ribs, but what’s that?”

“This?” He lifted the lumpy package. “Pig’s feet, for my mom.”

“Um. Why does your mom need pig’s feet?”

“Because they’re a key ingredient in her black bean soup, and if I buy them for her, she’ll be much more likely to make it for Sunday dinner.”

“You’re bribing your mom with pig’s feet?”

He tucked the packages into the fridge, then turned with a grin. “Works better than flowers.”

“Someday I have to meet your mother,” she decided.