The Edge of Us: Doc’s POV

There was something about the way she looked at me now. Not just with desire—but with surrender. It was in the way her fingers brushed mine at dinner, the way her voice dropped when she said “I trust you.” That kind of trust was holy.

And I didn’t take it lightly.

She wanted more. Needed it. And so did I.

After Anthony was fast asleep, I led her downstairs—past the kitchen, past the study, to the room I’d never shown her. My private room. The one behind a locked door. The one that held the other side of me. The one I thought I’d never open again.

I unlocked it without a word. She followed.

Inside, it wasn’t a dungeon. No chains or cages. But it was dark—rich woods, leather accents, shelves lined with implements I knew how to use with precision and care. There was a padded bench, cuffs, silk rope, floggers arranged neatly. A low hum of music played—bass-heavy and sensual.

Andrea’s breath hitched, but she didn’t hesitate. Her fingers tightened around mine.

“You brought me here because you think I’m ready,” she said, her voice a mix of nerves and anticipation.

“You are,” I said, cupping her jaw. “But only if you want it.”

“I want to go to the edge,” she whispered. “With you.”

That’s all I needed.

I undressed her slowly—my hands mapping every inch of her changing body. Her belly just beginning to swell. My child growing inside her. I kissed it, worshipped it, then kissed up her spine as I cuffed her to the St. Andrew’s cross.

She looked like art.

And I made sure she felt like it, too.

I started soft—teasing her with feathers and leather, building her anticipation until she trembled. Then I introduced the flogger, light and rhythmic, letting it paint pleasure across her skin. She gasped, moaned, arched. I pushed her boundaries, not for shock, but for release. To free the part of her still holding tension, still unsure if she could truly let go.

“You’re mine, Andrea,” I murmured between each strike, kissing the welts. “You’re safe. Loved. Owned.”

Her eyes were glassy with trust and lust. She nodded, breathless. “Yes, Doc. I’m yours.”

I bent her over the bench, whispered filthy things against her neck, and took her from behind—slow at first, then rougher, deeper, until she screamed my name like it was salvation.

When she was shaking, soaked, and hoarse from begging, I untied her and held her in my lap. She curled into me, her body marked by our night—faint bruises on her thighs, a fading red line on her back, the trace of my palm on her ass.

“I’ve never… felt anything like that,” she whispered. “Like you peeled me open. And I liked it.”

“I loved it,” I said. “Every second. You’re so goddamn beautiful when you let go.”

She looked up at me then, naked and glowing, and reached between us.

“I want to do something for you,” she said. “Let me take control next time. I want to see what you look like when you come undone.”

And damn, the idea of it nearly wrecked me.

Because for all my control, she was the one who truly had power. She always had.