My Very Own Gideon Cross
- Jan 28
- 2 min read
Fifty Shades of Grey doesn’t hold a candle to the Crossfire series by Sylvia Day. I’ve read both more than once, and while I’ve never had a billionaire fall helplessly in love with me, I understand the fantasy. The control. The devotion. The intoxicating idea that someone sees you as the center of their universe.
Let’s be honest... Sometimes women reread these stories because we want to believe a life like that could exist. Effortless luxury. Passion without apology. A man who chooses you loudly and without hesitation.
Several years ago, more than several, actually... A man did come into my life who made me feel like that. I was head over heels, and for once, it felt mutual. He treated me like a queen, and I don’t say that lightly. I felt wanted. Seen. Desired in a way that didn’t ask me to shrink.
One day still plays on repeat in my mind.
We were meeting friends down at the creek, planning to spend the day doing nothing but laughing and drinking and pretending time didn’t exist. We were early. Too early. We drove the buggy down with a cooler rattling in the back, dust kicking up behind us like we were escaping something.
I sat sideways on the seat, my legs stretched up on the dashboard, cold beer in my hand. The sun was warm, the air thick and lazy. He had this way of making me laugh effortless, natural, like joy was something he carried around just for me.
Then he moved.
He came around the back of the buggy slowly, deliberately, like he knew exactly what he was doing. His hand slid over my thigh not rushed, not accidental... just enough pressure to make my breath hitch. He leaned in close, close enough that I could feel his voice more than hear it.
We were early, he said. No one would be there for at least an hour.
His fingers lingered, tracing just enough to promise more without giving anything away. And then he said it quiet, certain, unashamed.
“I want you now.”
Not a question. Not a tease. A statement.
My pulse betrayed me immediately. He smiled like he knew exactly what that did to me. Like he’d planned it. Like he enjoyed watching me unravel in small, controlled ways.
Trust me, he said.
And I did.
He wasn’t a billionaire. There were no penthouses or private jets. But to me, in that moment, he was my Gideon. Maybe even my Christian. He was confident without being cruel. Demanding without being reckless. When he took control, it didn’t feel like dominance it felt like relief.
With him, it was always about me. What I wanted. What I needed. He led without asking me to follow, and somehow, I always did. Not because I had to,
but because I wanted to.
That kind of desire stays with you.
And once you’ve felt it, nothing else ever quite compares.
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