Let it Snow

by Suzan Butler, Emily Ryan-Davis, Cari Quinn, Vivienne Westlake, Sadie Haller, Holley Trent

  She couldn’t, and she was tired of arguing. She knew that. Yeah, she ached to say something—anything—to put that cap on the conversation, but for once, she’d just listen. She’d take it all in, even if it was chewing her up from the inside out. Even if woke up that Giselle who wanted to go on angry rampages and take out her frustrations on things that couldn’t fight back—the Giselle who came out when she’d been locked away too long. That was the deal with it Giselle. Her methods were crude, but she always got the attention she wanted.

  “Take off your clothes,” he whispered, then adjusted his mask’s string around his head and tightened his ponytail.

  She hesitated only a moment, then turned her back to him and finished unbuttoning her blouse.

  “So, how long have you been doing this?” the other man asked.

  Max made a noncommittal noise as if he had to really think about it.

  Giselle could answer it. She knew exactly how long Max had been donning leather and cracking whips even if he didn’t. She’d been angry the first time she learned of his predilections, but her coolness didn’t have anything to do with his supposed deviance. It had more to do with the company he kept. As in, not her. Yeah. She was just as jealous as him.

  “About five years,” Max said.

  She gritted her teeth as she folded her shirt. They didn’t even speak regularly five years ago. When he’d left for college, they’d lost touch. Those things happened all the time and after a while, she managed not to feel so bruised about it. But, she’d heard about some of Max’s antics in college. The clubs he frequented. How the older women flocked to him and abased themselves for him: a fucking twenty-one-year-old. Virgin to Dom in three years.

  She scoffed and unhooked her shirt fastener. And now at twenty-six, he was a master. Hell of a thing to be a prodigy at.

  To remove her hose, she sat facing the trio again. The pale man was ingloriously naked and standing with his hands on his hips. The woman was nude as well, but held an arm over her chest and a hand over her crotch as an attempt at modesty. Unlike the man, whose skin reminded Giselle of mottled chicken flesh, the woman actually had a cute little body. Firm where it mattered, soft where it didn’t. She could do better than the man with the shockingly pink pecker. Indeed, he and the iceman had something in common. Or rather, they both lacked something.

  Giselle diverted her gaze to the hose she was pushing down her calves and suppressed a snort. He seemed so proud of that thing. Given five minutes with Max, though, she suspected it’d either try to run scared up into his crotch or he’d come unprovoked. She’d seen both. People always talked a good game until Max scrambled their brains.

  She tucked her too-fucking-expensive pantyhose into one of her shoes and reached for her bra catch.

  Max walked over and put her hand over it. “Leave it,” he whispered.

  “Why?” She’d never had a problem with nudity, and he’d didn’t generally have a problem with her being nude, either.

  “Remember what I said? Just trust me and pretend that nothing bad is going to happen. Don’t question everything.” He put his finger over her lips, stilling them before she could get a word out edgewise. But he leaned in closer, insinuating his front against hers, grabbing her ass possessively. “We won’t be here long.”

  He let go, and she pressed her lips together tight to hold back the unnecessary retort.

  “When you play in rooms like this,” Max said as he approached the couple again, “the very first thing to do is communicate and establish the ground rules for the encounter. We’re talking hard limits and taboos. Everyone needs to know when to stop and when to know it’s over. It may help to pick one thing you’d like to try and end the session after you’ve accomplished it.”

  “What do you like to do?” the woman asked.

  Giselle pressed her lips together again.

  “I do scenes with partners I know well.” He nodded to Giselle, and she willed herself to stay very still. “Mostly, we play things by ear, but we understand what each other’s nonverbal cues are. When one of us shifts the current, the other adjusts accordingly.” He held out his hand. “Come here, please, G.”

  Giselle crossed the room and stood in front of him.

  He nudged her chin up and locked his gaze on hers. The instruction was clear. Keep your eyes here.

  That had never been hard. She loved having a reason to stare at him. The view was a lot better without that damn mask, though. The first time she’d seen him in ninth grade, she’d thought he was almost too pretty to be a boy. Those lips…that elegant nose…

  He was all man, though. No doubting that now.

  He rested his hands on her wrists and gave them a small, upward nudge.

  She locked her hands together over her head and Max grabbed her wrists in one hand, still looking into her eyes.

  When his gaze roamed down her body, she knelt for him and he let her arms fall to their sides.

  “How’d you do that?” the man asked.

  “G knows my cues, and I know her limits.” Max moved around her and skimmed fingers down her spine.

  She sat on her heels.

  “I know she’d prefer not to be on her knees, so I don’t ask her to do it often. She complies because I don’t take her willingness for granted.” Max squatted next to her and draped his forearms across his thighs. “She does what I ask because she knows that in the end, I’ll take care of her. She lets me take care of her.” His eyes narrowed again, but only she could see them. “If you abuse your partner’s trust, even in a small way, you have to work twice as hard to win it back. Honesty. Empathy. Never breach their trust, because there’s a chance you’ll never re-earn it.”

  He nudged the small of her back, and she stood.

  He didn’t. His hands passed over her knees and shins, brushing the dust off them. Loving her in small ways.

  She wanted to look down. To thank him. To say something. But, she kept her eyes forward until he stood and tipped her chin again. At ease, girl.

  Giselle returned to her bench, cheeks burning hot and nervous fingers flitting over her folded garments. She’d played with Max for years, but she’d always managed to keep him out of her head. Now, he’d flipped the script and upped the ante, and he didn’t have to bring out his favorite flogger to do it.

  Max relayed some instructions to the couple and they moved to a case stocked with various implements, still in their pristine packaging.

  She tuned them out and rubbed the hem of her shirt until it rolled.

  He was right. He’d never pushed her past her limits. He respected her enough to not demand she do things against her nature. He always rewarded her for her trust.

  He’d never lied to her. Not once.

  He said that she knew in the end that he’d take care of her, and that had always been true. He’d been trying to make it a permanent arrangement—not just a playroom promise.

  It didn’t make sense that she’d comply in one place but be so resistant in another, even with all her fears about the worst happening.

  She wasn’t a strong, independent woman who didn’t need a man. She was a coward. A lovestruck coward.

  Maybe she could pretend for a night and a day that nothing bad was going to happen just so she’d have some time with Max. After that…well, she wished she knew.

  Chapter Five

  The moment Giselle came out of her daze, Max could tell.

  Her shoulders squared and forehead furrowed. She turned her head and scanned the hotel room around her. Her hands settled on the plackets of the black silk robe she’d left the playroom wearing, and she looked up at him.

  “How did I get here?”

  “You walked, G.”

  “I did?” She grimaced and tightened the robe’s belt. “Shit. Losing time again.”

  “How often does that happen to you?” It had taken him a good five minutes after arriving at the room to realize she wasn’t quite there. The fact that sh
e was doing what he asked without her usual flippant remarks should have been a red flag.

  She shrugged. “I think it happens more than I’m aware of. I can’t really say.”

  “You’ve always been like that?”

  “As far back as I can remember. It seems to get worse the older I get. My grandmamma used to say it was the devil trying to get inside me and do his work.”

  “I’ve always thought you had the devil in you, but not that way.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If I’ve got the devil on my back, then he’s blue-eyed, wears leather, and has size eleven boots.”

  “Eleven and a half, actually.” He grabbed the chair next to the dresser and pulled it closer to the foot of the bed where she sat. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “You were talking to the naked people in the black room.”

  “G, That was twenty minutes ago. I left them there to fondle the equipment and each other, should they be so willing.” Max suspected that one of them was more willing than the other, and that was why he left them to their own devices. Eventually, that lady would find someone more compatible to play with. The guy didn’t seem so picky.

  She let out a long exhale. “I feel like one of these days I’m going to zone out and walk into traffic.”

  “Fuck, and you worry about something happening to me? Honey, at least I’m conscious when I’m supposed to be.”

  “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

  “But, it’s scaring me all the same.” He raked his fingers through his hair and tugged it. “God, girl.”

  He’d been trying to take care of her for years, but this—this knocked him off his axis. The possibility that she actually, couldn’t take care of herself seemed very real. If something happened to her…

  He shook his head on the thought.

  He wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. No fucking way.

  She stood and scanned the room. “Where are my clothes?”

  He leaned back in his seat and watched her search the drawers in vain. “G, you don’t need them at the moment.”

  “If I lose that uniform, I have to pay to replace it. Assuming I actually have a job come tomorrow. I don’t buy for one minute my ass isn’t out of here the moment Mr. Beaudelaire comes to his senses.”

  “I’ve always found Henri to be reasonable.”

  “But, this isn’t reasonable, Max. Not even a little bit. In any other hotel, I would have been marched straight out to the street by security and had any shit I left behind mailed to me along with what was left of my docked paycheck.”

  “Don’t worry about the bills. I’ll take care of them.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  He knew that was coming. “You keep telling me that, but, I’m not giving it to you. I’m simply repaying Henri.”

  “I don’t need you to. I fucked up. It’s my responsibility.”

  “But I have the money to burn. You don’t. How is this any different than me buying you lunch when we were kids?”

  She dropped her chin to her chest and leveled him with a withering stare. “Three or four bucks here and there is not the same thing as paying for a defaced ice sculpture and room damage.”

  “You don’t have to pay for the sculpture. That was going to melt anyway, and there were four others the guests are likely enjoying as we speak. The other things…” He shrugged. “Well, I feel somewhat responsible for those.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t want to owe you anything.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Except maybe your affection.” He winked.

  She sneered at him.

  Typical G.

  He grinned. “Look, G.” He reached out and laid his hand on her knee. “You need to find ways to get it under control if this is what happens you get stressed or angry.”

  “Or scared,” she said in a low voice he suspected wasn’t meant for him to hear.

  He swallowed. God, she needed a firm hand, and not just in the dungeon. “I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve taken enough classes to know there’s probably a clinical diagnosis for that.”

  “We don’t do diagnoses in my family.” She scoffed and made swirling motions around her head. “If it can’t be fixed with Tylenol or cod liver oil, then it must be a demon that needs to be let out.”

  “G…” He sat back and loosened his hair tie. “These things don’t fix themselves.”

  “I didn’t go to college like you, but I do know that. I don’t think this”—she pointed to her head—“is going to stop on its own. It plagued my grandmamma until she died, and though she tries to hide it, I know my mother has a problem, too. Me and Mama, well, we’re a lot alike.”

  Her jaw tightened and she pulled her feet up under her.

  He’d never met Giselle’s grandmother, but he had interacted with Mrs. Burke on numerous occasions. He’d spent so much time at their house during his and Giselle’s years that her mother had threatened to charge him rent a few times. She meant it in jest, of course, because the very next thing she’d do was slide a platter of food in front of him and command him to eat. “Does your mother still make that fried okra?”

  Giselle’s shoulders fell. “Is that the only reason you ever visited?”

  “Besides to let you copy my homework?”

  Her jaw dropped, and he laughed.

  “I didn’t copy it! I was just trying to figure out why mine was always wrong.”

  “I don’t remember it being wrong. You just didn’t show your work.”

  “Because the way I get from point A to point B on things doesn’t make any damn sense to anyone but me.” She sighed and scooted back on the bed.

  He took a moment to admire her contrast in tones. Her richly hued skin, dark brown hair, and dark robe against white sheets. If he’d had more than a cell phone camera within his grasp he would have taken a picture. He grunted and took the picture anyway. She’d probably delete it when she scrolled through and found it. She always did for reasons he didn’t understand.

  He left the phone on the dresser and walked to the closet. The layout of the white rooms—the Hotel Beaudelaire’s most basic offering—were unfamiliar to him. Most of the people who used the black rooms, which weren’t in general circulation and thus didn’t have sleeping accommodations, were assigned red rooms. Those rooms were laid out assuming the guests would welcome an audience of one or two. They were deep, with lots of places to sit and fuck. The red hues stirred passions that lasted late into the night.

  White rooms were cooling in contract. They were basic. If guests wanted heat, they had to bring their own.

  He grabbed a knit blanket from the closet’s top shelf and closed the door. Draping it over Giselle, he felt that same familiar pang he always did when he realized she wouldn’t let times like these be guaranteed in their future. He’d felt it every time she was at his apartment making herself at the home he kept insisting should be hers. But she breezed in and out, breaking his heart every time she left. He couldn’t exactly force her to stay.

  Sinking onto the bed beside her, he grabbed the remote from the top of the headboard. “If you’d like to go to the ball, we can see about getting you something to wear.”

  “Fat chance. That’d be too weird.”

  “Why weird?”

  “Okay. Maybe not weird.” She put her hands up in concession. “Embarrassing. I bet everyone knows what I did.”

  “I doubt that. I’ve never known Ms. Gibson to gossip, and Henri’s discretion is impeccable.”

  “Maybe so, but what’s the staff going to think about me being down there when, number one,” she counted off on her fingers, “I’m supposed to be working right now. And number two, I’m still sort of breaking the don’t-fuck-the-guests rule.”

  “Do you care what they think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. That’s a shocker.” He turned the television on and scrolled through the offerings. “I thought you
didn’t care about this job and were only here for the paycheck, not to make friends.”

  “I never said that.”

  “It was implied, honey.”

  She sighed. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Bullshit. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with working in a hotel, even if you’re not striving for upward advancement.”

  She groaned and shook her head. “I’m in the wrong department. You’d think my job is so easy. I deliver meals and go around picking up the trays later. I’m a glorified waitress who gets hit on all the time by drunk, horny lechers. When I applied, I wanted to work in the kitchen, but the pay was better in room service.”

  “I remember you telling me that.” He stopped scrolling when he found a home improvement show, knowing Giselle had a minor obsession for them, and set down the remote. He’d told her numerous times she could fix up his place if she wanted, but she always gave him that same, withering look that needed no translation. “Can you ask to be transferred?”

  She shrugged and laid her head on his lap.

  Immediately, he began smoothing her hair on the sides. It’d taken a long time to get her comfortable with him messing up her hair. He doubted it was a luxury she afforded anyone else.

  “I think about it every time there’s an opening in the kitchen, but I never do it. Like I said, the pay is lower there for prep cooks than what I’m earning now. It’d be at least a year before I’m up to my current pay level.”

  “If you moved in with me, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  “Don’t start that again.”

  “Remember what I said earlier? Pretend that nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “I’m trying, but it feels like I’m talking myself into believing a lie.”

  “We can’t control fate. Can’t predict what’s going to happen, and building up defenses to things beyond our control is sometimes a waste of energy. We can play the cards we’re dealt using the best information we have at the time, and hope everything turns out all right. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

  She didn’t respond. He hoped that, maybe, she was learning.