His Darker Hunger (Doc’s POV)

It started years ago. Before Andrea. Before Anthony. Before I ever admitted to myself that I needed more than love—I needed control.

It wasn’t about power over someone.

It was about responsibility.

Accountability.

Safety.

In my line of work—hours in the OR, lives in my hands—structure is everything. You make a single misstep, someone dies. So you learn to crave clarity. You learn to command, because second-guessing is a luxury you can’t afford.

And somewhere along the way, that control started bleeding into other parts of me.

Intimacy became a space I didn’t just want to lead in—I needed to. I needed the rituals, the reverence, the unspoken yes when a woman sank to her knees and looked up at me like I was the only one who could give her exactly what she needed.

And now? With Andrea? It was different.

Because I loved her.

Which made this terrifying.

Because love made me cautious. Gentle. Maybe even a little tame. I didn’t want to scare her. Especially not after what she’d survived. She deserved softness. Safety.

But then she asked for more.

She asked to know me—all of me.

So I showed her.

We were in the loft that night, the fire low and the whole world asleep except us. She was curled up on the rug in front of me, watching me like I held secrets behind my eyes. And I did.

“I need to tell you something,” I said.

She tilted her head. “More?”

I nodded. “More than the collar. More than just calling me Sir. This part—it’s darker. It’s not just play for me. It’s identity.”

She didn’t flinch. Just waited.

“There’s a version of myself I’ve only let out a few times. Someone who needs complete surrender. Not just physically—but emotionally. I need to break you open—lovingly, patiently—and rebuild you with praise and touch and trust. I want to give you everything. But to do that, I need everything back. Your silence. Your whimpers. Your obedience. I want you weeping from release, trembling from being seen so fully you can’t hide from it anymore.”

Andrea blinked; lips slightly parted. Her breath shallow.

“You want to own me?” she asked softly.

“I want to earn that right. Every day. Every scene. Every time I look into your eyes and see that you’re giving yourself over because you choose me—not because I demand it.”

She swallowed. “And if I say yes?”

“I’ll push you gently. I’ll test your limits. I’ll ruin you with care.” I smiled faintly. “And I’ll never forget that your ‘yes’ is a gift I have to keep earning.”

She crawled into my lap, straddling me, fingers trailing through my hair.

“Then show me,” she whispered. “Show me the man you’ve been afraid to be.”

I kissed her slowly, deep, claiming.

And that night, I did.

I bound her wrists and made her beg—not because she had to, but because she wanted to feel how deeply I could take her. I spoke filth and love into her ear in equal measure. I kept her right on the edge until she sobbed from the sheer need of it.

When I finally let her fall apart, it wasn’t about the orgasm—it was about trust.

And afterward, I held her.

Cleaned her up.

Wrapped her in a blanket and whispered thank you against her temple.

Because she didn’t just give me her body.

She gave me the truth of who she was.

And I gave her mine.