Checklist J, K, L

After less than four hours of sleep, and enough cups of coffee to make himself feel vaguely ill, Grif’s decision-making capabilities were low enough that something he objectively knew was a terrible idea now sounded reasonable.

He was going to text Davina.

They’d exchanged numbers eighteen months ago, just after he and Davina had made their relationship official in the eyes of Las Palmas. They hadn’t planned on exchanging numbers—a phone number was a very personal and easy to investigate piece of information, but then he’d been late to a planned weekend with her.

He’d already been running late, having been stuck in a prep meeting for what had ended up being a successful investor pitch. The meeting had run long, then he hit traffic on PCH, so he’d called the club and asked that they let Davina know he was twenty minutes out.

Five minutes after that, he’d been rear ended by a British tourist who’d been trying to do the scenic drive along the coast. In the crash his cell phone had slid under the passenger seat and he hadn’t been able to find it. By the time he finished exchanging information with the guy who hit him, talking to the CHP, and checked that his car was drivable if rather sad looking, he’d been almost two hours late to meet Davina.

When he hadn’t arrived after the stated twenty minutes, she’d panicked, thinking he’d been in an accident—which he had. Given that he hadn’t called the club, she assumed it was a serious accident, and had been calling hospitals, and demanding the club pull strings with the CHP for information.

When he’d walked in, she’d reamed him up one side and down the other for several hours, and then they’d switched up the scene so he could sheepishly accept a flogging as an apology gesture for worrying her.

At the end of the weekend, she’d tucked a small piece of folded paper into an interior pocket of the gym bag he always carried.

“For emergencies only. It’s my cell phone number,” she’d said.

He’d quickly written out his own and given it to her, and then watched her tuck it away.

In all that time since then, all the nights he’d wanted to call her just to hear her voice, or use her cell phone number to search online and learn more about her, he’d resisted. That number was for emergencies, and neither his curiosity nor falling in love with her were emergencies.

But yesterday…yesterday had been an emergency.

If the sick feeling in his stomach was any indication, their relationship was still in a state of emergency, and he wasn’t going to wait until next weekend to talk to her about it.

The urge to take care of her, to make sure she was safe and happy, was overpowering. That was a huge part of what being a top was about—caring for the submissive partner.

And she was his. His submissive. His Davina.

Cursing, he leaned forward, elbows on the kitchen counter in his loft, phone in one hand, that little piece of paper in the other.

He typed in the number and composed a text message.

Davina, I need to know you’re okay. - Grif

Was that too formal? Should he put in an emoji? No, that would be stupid. There were a thousand other things he wanted to say. He started typing.

Let me take care of you. That’s my favorite part—the aftercare, when you’re soft and limp in my arms. I hate how much I loved yesterday, since clearly it hurt you. We’ll never play like that again, just remember you’re still mine. Always mine.

Grif started frantically deleting everything he’d just typed, going back to the original Davina, I need to know you’re okay. - Grif

his throat, he hit

done it. He’d

into the sink and instead put the kettle on for tea. While it was boiling, he

have to turn around and wash it was one of them. The fact that most of his warehouse loft was taken up with two long rows

was Saturday afternoon, and he hadn’t planned to be home. He was supposed to be at Las Palmas with Davina, which meant for once he didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Normally his days were carefully organized into blocks of time, designed to maximize his productivity,

the refrigerator. Maybe he should clean it out. Did he have to unplug it to do that? Maybe best to leave that to

corner. No, working out was thinking time. He needed a distraction. He was trying not to pick up his phone, which lay on

and grabbed the large tablets he’d left there, propped up on a cardboard box of parts. He started tapping the screen.

His phone beeped.

spilled tea onto a half-assembled motherboard in his rush to get back to the kitchen and his

a spam message or his mother, he was going to throw the phone against

is an

He set his tea down, and hunched over his phone. He knew exactly

I didn’t get to

brief pause,

Get to?

on the counter, elbows braced on his thighs as he cradled the phone. He had no idea what the tone of her words was, and because he

Happy?

figure out how to reply, his phone pinged

I’m fine.

technically answered his

Fuck this conversation.

of the screen, then hit the little video icon. His own face appeared as the video call clicked

angle—she would be looking up his nose—and hopped off the counter. It rang again. He was nervous. This was a risky move, and broke many of the limits they had on their relationship. But he was also nervous-excited, the same sort of jitters he got on a

Ring.

many had that

on a first date since he’d been bonded to her, but he remembered

chimed as

relief and happiness rushed through him in that split second between her answering

into desire. And happiness into something he couldn’t name—a feeling that was both

then Davina exhaled, her lips parting enough to expose the

Grif’s cock twitched. “Davina.”

“Grif.”

his bed and sat on the side.

I answered. We were only supposed to call each

happened—how we left it—is