She manages to move only one finger - but she tells herself to be proud of herself! She's just stopped Daniel Oates - the Daniel Oates who kisses so well that one can forget their National Insurance number, accidentally agree to organise the recycling rota in her block's WhatsApp group, misplace their trolley in Tesco twice, and say 'you too' when the waiter tells them to enjoy their meal.

One finger.

Just the tip. And yes, she's aware of how cheap this joke was.

It's bewildering, really. One would think that this is when any character in her book would surrender and 'melt against the steel of his chest; his arms a cage, one she doesn't want to escape.' After all, he would 'hold her like she is something precious - and entirely his; his strength surrounding her, possessive and unyielding; no doubt in it, only heat and command.'

And yet.

Her index finger is gently pressed across his lips.

Emilia is glowingly pleased with herself. Triumphant. Deliciously self-satisfied. Low-key victorious. Her editor would remind her to scale it down on adverbs, if she could hear Emilia's thoughts.

"Not so fast," she says, even though some major parts of her body are shrieking for the opposite.

His eyes widen. She must've nailed the domme voice, because his chest rises with that sharp exhale she's come to know as proof that he's properly turned on. Last time he let out that breath, he muttered, 'If I let go any more, I might break you,' which is a line she was sure belonged only in the sort of bodice-rippers she cranks out like factory fodder.

"Either we're done playing, and then you're free to kiss me," she says, then amends, "with my consent, obviously."

She curls her finger a tad and lightly teases his bottom lip with her short nail. It's full and so damn tempting that she's nearly ready to forget all the rules, protocols, and scenarios, and to snog him senseless.

"But I don't think we're done," she adds, shifting her attention to his upper lip, half-hidden beneath wiry dark whiskers. This time, it's her thumb; and he slightly parts his lips. "I don't recall hearing the safe words, Daniel. If we're going back to playing, then I have some plans." She doesn't - but she's sure that he's inspiring enough for something to quickly develop. "But if we're still taking it slow, I would still like to continue our conversation."

"I'm ready to continue our conversation, Em," he says, dropping his head. "If that's your wish."

Ah, the 'head lowering.' Also known as a 'deferential head tilt.' The ultimate gesture of surrender. A none-verbal 'I'm all yours, mistress.'

"Or we can finish the play altogether," he adds.

That's a 'lead tug' again, she realises. He's testing the waters; but since Emilia isn't quite sure what it is that she wants, she decides to stick with so-called 'guiding pressure.' Jerking the lead sends mixed signals; a steady pressure is calm and readable, especially in heel work or training the dog loose-leash walking. It says 'Stay here, with me' - and it's perfect for them right now.

And of course, she's aware that it's not a Dulux pup in front of her; but what's the point in fixing what's ticking along fine? No need to reinvent the wheel.

"I've just agreed to have you and only you, Daniel. And instead of gratitude and respectful acknowledgement, I get this cocky attitude."

Speaking of.

She can feel exactly how much he appreciates her closeness. His 'appreciation' is burning her thigh through four layers of fabric separating their bodies. Sadly - only figuratively speaking, that is; since she's anything but sad! - it isn't yet time for anything more... hands-on.

"My apologies, Em," he offers, voice low and dutiful.

And yet, she's just not buying it.

Another pedagogical tool pops into her memory - this one is suspiciously reminiscent of those applied by Sandra from HR at Emilia's last proper job. Reflective questioning, Sandra called it. She was a big fan of the technique; big on feelings altogether; especially big on asking, 'And what exactly are you apologising for?' with a smile that suggested biscuits might follow if you got it right.

"I will accept an apology if it looks like there is some effort put into it, babes," she says and taps the bullet that she's still clutching in her hand, to his other knee.

He lifts his face, holds about three seconds of eye contact - and then snorts.

"Plumbing spanner."

Oh bollocks.

She's naffed it up, hasn't she?

Emilia Arundel is absolutely pants at this domme thing, isn't she?

The only thing she's topping is toast.

She couldn't domme her way out of a paper bag.

All whinges and self-pity instead of whips and punishment.

He'll be calling taksies-backsies on the whole exclusive sub deal in T-minus three seconds.

Woah... That was way too self-deprecating, fast, and harsh even for her. Hello, downward spiral, my old friend.

He cups her face with both hands - broad, warm, her favourite hands in the world. There is a small frown, and his mouth quirks uneasily.

"Sorry I stopped," he mutters. "You threw me off. You did nothing wrong, just... 'babes,' yeah?"

Oh sod and bother. Bugger, bugger, BUGGER! She's cocked up a scene with one word! It must be some sort of a record!

She's frozen; and he leans and presses his forehead to hers. He doesn't rush, but neither is he letting her retreat. His strokes - thumbs across her cheekbones; and then slowly, steadily, down the sides of her neck; then over her shoulders; then back again - in a hypnotising rhythm, calm her down; and she finally releases a shaky exhale.

And then he kisses her.

It's not a spicy kiss. It's the sort of kiss that should be accompanied by a brass band and gentle rain.

Slow.

Certain.

Romantic.

No one has ever kissed her romantically.

When he pulls back, she's not quite fully operational yet - and now she's also flustered and trembling and giddy like one of her featherbrained protagonists. At least it's easier to breathe. He lifts her left hand - limp as a flannel - places it gently against his chest, right over his heartbeat, and covers it with his own.

"'Babes' was nice. And you were so good. So hot," he adds and rubs the tip of his nose against the helix of her ear. "So hot, Em. But I... like you. Not instead, you know, but besides the kink. I wanted more all of a sudden. Does that make sense?"

He tucks her under his chin, one hand drawing slow tender circles on her shoulder blades.

"You shouldn't apologise for stopping a scene," she starts with difficulty. All her wobbles aside, that is important - and needs to be reaffirmed with every opportunity, for his sake and hers. "It has to be consensual, and it's about taking care of both of us. And you aren't breaking any rules. If... If you weren't feeling aligned anymore, it's my fault."

'Aligned' is a term that Mistress Eva uses a lot. Up until now, Emilia has had trouble quite placing it; but it makes sense now.

"It's not." He's clearly affected, he's almost interrupting. "I trust you, so I stopped us. You were so... cute." He kisses her again, this time just a quick peck on the lips - not that it makes it less detrimental to her mental abilities. "And I was all loved-up. Needed to stop, and— Kink is easy, you know. There's a script, and I'm not the one responsible for it. But it's a role. All I do is follow it. I get to focus on how it feels. Going with it, ups and downs. And you do all the graft. The dommes. It's emotional work. That's why I said sorry. In case you're still raring."

He gives her a quick evaluating glance over, and she shakes her head. She's past raring; as she already knows, this jittery state she's in - teeth almost chattering, hands trembling - is called 'the dom drop.'

He's not wrong, by the way. It's hard labour. And she's only dipped a toe in; but she can already tell. Not that it's not worth it, of course; it absolutely is.

He shifts slightly; and with one hand resting on her lower back, right above the waist of her trousers, he starts tracing a slow pattern on her skin with his fingertip - small, looping shapes, over and over. Like he's drawing something only he can see. Like feathering icing.

At first, she thinks that it's absent-minded. But then she notices the rhythm, the focus. It's not for her, as lovely as it feels. He's grounding himself, as if the movement is helping him to line up the words in his head before he lets them out.

"I'm not saying we stop," he says. "I still want the kink. All of it. With you. Only with you."

Another delicate, purposeful net of his caresses fans on her back. The touch is soft, precise. It almost tickles.

"But I want the other stuff too." He swallows, his extraordinary eyelashes fluttering. A rush of piercing tenderness makes her curl her fingers into fists - keeping them away from his face, his thick beard, the neck, and everything else in between. She owes him this space: to work things out inside and to have room to verbalise them.

"I liked the dinner," he adds. "And the lunch too. But especially, the time at your place. Watching you eat. The pudding. That was... good."

She's fairly certain he's not talking about the Korean cakes. But he's not flirting either - no raised eyebrow, no cheeky side glance. He's simply and quietly acknowledging that he enjoyed the shag. She'd say calling it 'good' is selling it way short; but it isn't the time to argue over semantics.

"I want more of that. Not instead of. Just alongside. When we aren't playing." His voice drops slightly. "I don't know what's typical. But I fancied it. And sleeping with you!" he exclaims as if he's just remembered the best part. "I get it now, why others care for it. And I'd like more. Is that what you meant when you said you didn't separate these things, like kink, shag, and all the rest?"