“And how did you reprimand her?” Charlie asks him tightly.
“I told her to suck my dick. She quickly decided she didn’t want to play at being submissive, after all. Lesson learned.”
Charlie sputters in unfeigned surprise. I gasp, hot mortification flooding my veins. Mortification and anger. My weakness forgotten, I spin and glare up at Cross’s expressionless face.
“You have no right to make it sound that way! I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
Darkness flickers in his eyes. “Weren’t you? You’re not a submissive, London. You thought you might like it, but when push came to shove, you were just pretending.”
I gape. “Do you have selective amnesia?”
Will you hurt me?
The words ricochet like a bullet between us, taking pieces of us and leaving wounds behind. Exposing the ugly truth—our fear of what we want, tied inexorably to our primitive needs.
Cross’s eyes drop to my throat. Mine veer to his jaw, clenched tight, a muscle ticking as he grinds his teeth.
“You could have been kind,” I hiss.
“Yes, I could have been,” he grinds out. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”
The blow lands squarely, taking my breath. “You don’t have a fucking clue what I want.” My voice wavers. “You’re too wrapped up in your self-hatred to see it.”
His eyes widen, then narrow with a look that makes me want to run. Fast and far and immediately. But my feet are glued to the ground. Even when he steps so close the toes of our shoes connect, I don’t move.
With my job gone, I’ve got nothing left to lose. I don’t even know why I’m arguing—what I’m fighting for—but it feels more important, bigger and more real than anything in recent memory. More than anything since—
“Say it again.” His voice drops like a machete through my thoughts.
“Say what, exactly? That hating yourself is no excuse for treating me poorly?”
“Whoa!” shouts Charlie. “Mind clueing me in on what the fuck you two are talking about?”
“No,” snaps Cross.
Without breaking eye contact with Cross, I tell Charlie, “I asked the oh-so-respected Dominic Cross to hurt me. Safely, sanely, and consensually. Because the more I think about it, the more I want it. Need it. And he refused because he’s had his head up his ass so long he can’t see I’m not his fucking wife.”
17
“I’d say that went well.”
I lift my arm long enough to give Charlie a disbelieving look, then relax again into the pile of pillows. I shouldn’t have hated on them earlier; they’re ridiculously comfortable. A surface depresses near my hip as Charlie’s weight settles.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks softly.
I snort. “Because you’re scary and I didn’t want to lose my job. And frankly, I didn’t really know what I was feeling.”
Charlie sighs. “I’d never, ever stand in the way of someone wanting to explore kink. But, London, listen to me.” She waits for me to lower my arm and meet her gaze. “Dominic is in a tough place. He hasn’t had a steady sub since Ashley, and that was years ago.”
“I was a real asshole about his wife, wasn’t I?”
She smirks. “He needed to hear it. But since you know some of what happened, maybe you can understand why it’s hard for him to trust it when a woman offers him what he most needs. Something he denies himself.”
The words bring me upright. “But—I saw him in one of the rooms. With a sub. And don’t you—”
“Something you don’t understand—yet, at least—is it’s not always about sexual gratification. In Dominance and submission, a huge part is the emotional experience, a catharsis found for both parties through the transfer of control. What I’m saying is, Dominic hasn’t let himself be physically satisfied by a scene in a long time. Honestly, I’m not even sure he’s being fulfilled emotionally anymore. He’s still an amazing partner, one of the best Doms I’ve ever been with, but something’s missing. That bitch took his mojo.”
“What does that even mean?”
Her brows lift, a teasing glint entering her eyes. “He doesn’t have intercourse with his partners. Not even me—unfortunately.”
For the third time in an hour, my jaw hits the floor. “Are you saying he’s”—I can barely get the next word out—“celibate?”
She laughs. “If your definition of sex is penis-enters-vagina-and-ejaculates, then yes, I suppose Dominic is celibate.”
I flush, feeling foolish, and she touches my hand gently.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I can see why Nate likes you, why Dominic does—even though he probably doesn’t want to. You’re curious, straightforward. Unafraid of asking questions.”
“Even if the questions make me look stupid?” I guess dryly.
“No,” she says, squeezing my hand. “It’s a gift, London. Being teachable is a greater gift than you know, especially to someone like Dominic.”
The full magnitude of the situation starts to sink in. I rub my face with my hands and mutter, “What did I agree to again?”
Charlie pats my back. There’s laughter in her voice when she answers, “Think of it as an adventure. At the end of the adventure, you’ll know without a doubt if the lifestyle is for you. There’s no better teacher out there, London. You’re in the safest hands.”
Dominic Cross’s hands.
When I enter the employee lounge ten minutes later, Steph jerks up from her seat on the floor in front of my locker. She darts across the room and grabs my shoulders.
“What happened? I heard yelling. Did you get fired? Tell me you’re not fired.”
I wheeze out a laugh. “No, I’m not fired.”
I still don’t understand it myself. One minute, I was yelling in Dominic’s face, and in the next, we were standing before Charlie’s desk like schoolchildren before a headmistress. She talked. We listened, nodding and shaking our heads as she asked questions and swiftly drafted a contract between us.
A contract between a Dominant and a submissive.
I don’t even remember most of my hard-limits. Blood-letting, I think. Hopefully fisting. Charlie gave me twenty-four hours to modify my choices. A copy sits folded into a thick square in my back pocket, and I plan on making Nate go over it with me. Once I can think straight again.
“Then what was the yelling about?” asks Steph, wide eyes unblinking.
I glance at the several other employees in the room, dressing and loitering before the club opens in a half-hour. “Can I tell you later?”
She groans. “Yes, even though I’m dying of curiosity. Breakfast in the morning?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
“Ten minutes, people!” chirps one of the cocktail waitresses. I think her name is Susanne. Nate calls her Teacher’s Pet behind her back.
Steph gives her a cheesy thumbs-up, then turns to me. “You’d better get a move on. Wear the lipstick I gave you and no one will notice your sad lack of makeup.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever you say, boss.”
She winks and heads back to her locker.
By the time I’m dressed—including startlingly red lipstick—the employee lounge is empty. A glance at my watch tells me I have forty-five seconds to get behind the bar. Slamming my locker closed, I hustle out of the room and run smack into someone striding past the door.
From the electric awareness that alights beneath my skin, I know who it is even before I look up.
Dominic cocks a brow and checks his watch. “You’re late.”
I have thirty more seconds!
I bite my tongue on the words, aware of my impulse toward defensiveness in a way I’ve never been before. Lowering my gaze, I say, “I’m sorry, sir.”
His exhalation—relief? annoyance?—grazes my bare shoulder. “I was actually hoping to find you before your shift. To tell you I understand if you change your mind about the contract. You were put on the spot earlier, and Charlie can be… persuasive.”
&n
bsp; “I haven’t,” I say quickly, “and I won’t. Sir.”
In the following pause, the urge to see his expression is an almost physical pain.
“Very well.” The bland words contrast sharply with the tension in his voice. “The schedule says you’re not working tomorrow evening. Is that still correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
My voice is thready with excitement, but I can’t help it. I want this. Him. So much it scares me. Which I also like, the pulse of fear elevating and sharpening my conviction. The disturbing realization comes too late—I’m already off the cliff and soaring toward either doom or salvation.
“I’ll expect you at my loft, then. Six p.m.” He pauses. “Here’s your first lesson, kitten. On time is late, early is on time, and late is unacceptable.”
“Y-es, sir.”
A warm finger beneath my chin draws my face upward. The gentle touch floods my limbs with languorous warmth. My knees locked against weakness, I hold my breath as his eyes find mine. They’re so dark—the pupils barely visible—but they’re not empty or cold.
They’re burning.
“You’ll bring the signed contract with you, complete with any changes. We’ll review it together tomorrow evening after dinner.”
“Okay,” I breathe. The spark in his eyes makes me blurt, “Sir.”
He smiles slowly. I watch the progression like a blind woman who’s never seen the sunrise. It peaks in his eyes with all the warmth and brilliance of a star.
“Do you have any questions?”
I shake my head.
He pinches my chin lightly, then releases me. “Good. I expect you to be productive tonight and treat our customers with utmost respect. And under no circumstances will you flirt with anyone. Man or woman. Consider this a trial run. An assessment of your commitment. You’re mine. Mine to care for, mine to command, and mine to hurt. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The words pass my lips for the first time without even the shadow of intellectual resistance. With complete surrender. And it’s then that sweet bubble of relief closes around me. Cocooning me. I’m not alone. I’m his to care for.
Cross makes a sound, low and strained. “Get to work.”
I nod and dash down the hallway, the tone of his voice adding another layer of comfort. Because this time, there’s no censure, no irritation in the words. There’s a promise.
Mine.
18
Breakfast with Nate and Steph goes much as I expected—with a generous amount of gasping, cussing, squeals of approval, and heckling. Nate follows me home after and guides me through the contract line by line, offering insights from his years of experience with different Doms and Dommes.
Not counting the obscenely-long checklist of limits, the bulk of the contract is concise—less than two pages of text with our names in Charlie’s writing peppered throughout. The more times I read it, the more beautiful the verbiage becomes, the more it resonates in my mind. The essence of it is a simple vow. One of trust and mutual respect between two people. Between Dominic Cross and me.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
Nate, curled up under a blanket on my bed, gives me a sleepy smile as he watches me pace. “You need to get some rest, London. Come cuddle me.”
I give him a surprised glance. “I shouldn’t. Right?”
“Pfft. Cross won’t care. He doesn’t want you flirting with other Doms.” He pauses and sighs. “No, you’re right. You should ask him how he feels about it, though. I like cuddling with you. And God knows nothing else would ever happen.”
I roll my eyes. About a month ago, after a rowdy night and way too many drinks, Nate and I shared an awkward kiss. We laughed after—mostly in relief—at the utter lack of spark. A happy side-effect of the failed experiment is now Nate occasionally stays over after work, and I don’t have nightmares when he’s here. Something about a warm, safe body next to me at night keeps my demons at bay.
I wonder if I’ll ever sleep next to Cross, and whether or not I’ll dream.
I come to a stop at the foot of the bed and shake Nate’s foot until he opens his eyes.
“What?” he groans. “Just put pillows between us if you’re worried. It’s too bright in the living room for me to sleep on the couch.”
“There’s one thing still bothering me.”
“Is this about the piss-play? I’m telling you—”
“No, no. I can’t stop thinking about what Steph said once, about Cross wanting only the 24/7 types. What if he wants that? I can’t do that, all the house-slave type stuff, being told when to eat, to shower. I need space, my own time, freedom to—”
“Whoa there!” Nate fumbles from beneath the blanket and comes to the edge of the bed, taking me by the shoulders in a firm grip. His gaze is clear of sleep and direct. “Listen. The biggest pillar we uphold is consensual. It says right in the contract that either of you can terminate the relationship at any time.”
“Right,” I confirm, nodding quickly. “You’re right. Okay.”
“London,” says Nate gravely, “Cross is super smart and perceptive, but you also can’t expect him to read your mind. You need to be honest with him about how you’re feeling. As you get to know each other, he’ll be able to anticipate your needs better and whether or not they align with his. Maybe one of you will come to realize the relationship isn’t working. It happens all the time.”
My breathing is shallow and choppy; I pull at the collar of my T-shirt, feeling confined. “You keep saying relationship, and it’s freaking me out.” I laugh shrilly. “Shit, shit. Oh God, I can’t do this.”
Nate pulls me onto the bed, wrapping an arm securely around my shoulders. “Slow down, sugarplum. That’s it, deep breaths. Now tell me what you’re so afraid of. Are you second-guessing submitting to pain? Pleasure? Or is it the emotional exposure?”
Calm and numb now, I answer, “A bit of the second one, but mostly the last.”
Staring at the bare wall opposite the bed, I see another room, another wall, this one a rich navy-blue color. I remember the day Paul and I painted it, about three months after we moved in. How we measured and bickered and laughed over which photographs to hang and where. And after, the sight that greeted us every morning for years—a collage of love and happiness. Our wedding day. Felix on the grass with his tongue hanging out. Our families, our friends… our life.
That blue wall is gone now. Maybe it’s a different color, or maybe hanging on it are someone else’s framed memories. The tokens from my past life—as far as I know—are still sitting in boxes in my parents’ garage. All those messy, beautiful years ended with a car bomb. One click. One second. Everything gone.
I drag myself from the memory and look at Nate, at his concerned face and red-rimmed eyes. We both need sleep badly, the lack no doubt contributing to my anxiety. But either way, I can’t ignore the fear gripping my body and mind. Unlike the threat of consensual, physical pain, this fear doesn’t excite me.
Deep down, in the darkest corner of my heart, the shadow of the woman I used to be lifts her head. Listening. Waiting. She senses my fear; it ignites something in her. Dread, or possibly hope.
Can I keep her hidden from Cross? What if I can’t?
Nate strokes my hair, tucking strands behind my ear. “I get it. You’re afraid he’ll see you. The real you. The you that you keep on lockdown all the time, even from me.”
The words are without judgement, but I jerk just the same. “Nate, I—”
“Don’t,” he says gently. “Trust me, London, I understand. I’ve been exactly where you are. But I won’t lie to you—whatever happened to you, whatever you went through, it’s going to come out in a scene whether you want it to or not.” He pauses. “Do you believe things happen for a reason?”
“No,” I say harshly.
His lips quirk. “I do. I think there’s a reason you and Cross are in the same place at the same time. Why you’ve had a thing for him since day one.”
&nbs
p; I don’t even deny it. “And what’s the reason?”
He shrugs, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “Time will tell. Be the brave, badass bitch I know you are. Maybe it’s time to set the old you free.”
19
Our last fight was one of those stupid arguments between couples who’ve been together a long time. I can’t even remember the subject. He didn’t put the toilet seat down. I forgot to pick up the dry-cleaning. Felix got into the pantry again because one of us forgot to close the door before bed. I closed it—no, you didn’t.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter that the last words Paul and I spoke to each other were in anger. Even when we were pissed, we shared the unbreakable safety net of our love. Our arguments, few and far between, invariably ended in laughter, gentle affection, and finally, confessions about what was really bothering us. Something from work, or a troubling phone call, or some random insecurity triggered by comparing ourselves to others.
That’s what would have happened, had that final day gone differently. I’d planned on stopping at his favorite Vietnamese restaurant on the way home and picking up dinner. We would’ve eaten together, then taken Felix for a walk. Gotten ice cream, maybe some hot tea. I would’ve pretended not to notice when he smoked a cigarette, but would’ve made a face when he tried to kiss me. We would’ve talked it out. Brushed our teeth side by side. Lit candles and made love. Fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
That’s the story I tell myself, at least. A lie, one atop many, but I don’t care. It’s a worthy fantasy. A happy dream of what might have been.
No one who hasn’t been through losing their closest loved one understands the aftermath. The fundamental shift in how you view the world. In the early days, when I only rested thanks to sleeping pills and my mother’s arms around me, I used to try to put a name or shape to the pain. But it has no name, and there are no edges to define it. It’s merely absence. In my warped, grief-stricken mind, I theorized that if the soul was infinite, and someone punched a hole in it, then the hole itself was infinite by association.
Perfect Vision Page 7
