Beneath the Surface Andrea’s POV

 There was a stillness in the air, the kind that hums with anticipation. The kind that makes your skin ache before you're even touched.

Doc stood at the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, eyes dark—not with anger, but with hunger. Purpose. A quiet storm brewing behind his calm exterior.

This wasn’t the soft man who held Anthony at night or brewed chamomile tea for my aching throat. This was the man who knew how to command, how to consume without apology. And I wanted him. All of him.

He didn’t speak at first—just motioned for me to kneel.

My heart skittered, my breath caught, but I obeyed. Not from fear—but from trust.

“Tonight,” he murmured, circling me like a predator, “I need the part of you that’s tired of being in control. The part that wants to be undone.”

His voice—low and deliberate—settled deep inside me. It wasn’t just arousal. It was a shift. A surrender.

He tied my wrists behind my back with soft rope, then blindfolded me. Not rushed. Not careless. But reverent, like I was something sacred. Something breakable—but only if he allowed it.

“Color?” he whispered, brushing my cheek.

“Green,” I breathed, already shaking.

What followed was a blur of dominance and discipline—his hand gripping my throat, his teeth at my collarbone, the sharp sting of a slap on my thigh that made me cry out, not in pain, but release.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, as he bent me over the edge of the bed. “And I won’t stop until you remember who you belong to.”

He didn’t stop. Not for a long time. Every moment was measured and intentional. He knew exactly when to push, when to praise, when to let me fall apart and when to pull me back together.

And when I was raw and trembling in his arms, he kissed me. Sweet. Slow.

“I’ve never gone that far,” he admitted. “Not with anyone I loved.”

I touched his face. “You didn’t go too far, Doc. You brought me closer.”

That’s when I said it.

“There’s something I’ve never told anyone,” I whispered.

His brows furrowed. “Talk to me, Andrea.”

I took a breath. “I have a praise kink. Not just the casual compliments. I mean—real, unfiltered worship. I crave being told I’m good, that I belong to someone. I want to be someone’s favorite obsession, their weakness. I need to be seen, not just desired. Needed.”

Something changed in his expression—something softer, deeper.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “You should’ve told me that sooner, darling.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve already been worshipping you. Every time I touch you. Every time I call you ‘mine.’ You’re not just my obsession, Andrea. You’re my religion.”

I felt that.

All the way to my soul.

The rest of the night blurred between whispered praise and filthy declarations. He made me beg—but only after telling me how beautiful I looked when I unraveled for him. How much he loved making me fall apart.

And when I came, I did it with his name in my mouth, and tears in my eyes—not from pain, but from being loved so completely that it left no room for doubt.

Not anymore.