Silent Night

by Kim Dare

  Frank said she only ever went to the same club. She had selected him from all the men there last time. The next time she went in there he would see to it she did so again. Next time he would find a way to get her to talk. Next time they would come to an understanding about how un-casual the future might be.

  Vincent wasn't about to doubt himself. A dominant should always be certain about what he wanted. Once he'd set his course of action, it was his responsibility to take his submissive along with the idea and make it work for both of them. Decisions made, he pressed another kiss to the top of her head. She stirred, pressed closer to his body as she stretched against him and then subsided in comfort, held safe in his embrace.

  Half an hour before she needed to leave, Vincent forced himself to wake Hannah up, trailing his lips over hers in a slow, sweet kiss. She blinked at him and offered an uncertain smile. He undid the cuffs and, pressing a kiss to each freed wrist in turn, gave her back her self-control. Only then did he take the door bell from her hand.

  The game was over. Hannah didn't wait for permission before slipping from the bed and collecting her clothes from the top of the box.

  "There's hot water if you want a shower,” he offered.

  Hannah shook her head. She pulled on her underwear and then her dress in barely more than a minute. Running her hands through her hair and trying to straighten it out from its tumbling, she looked surprised when Vincent tossed a comb across to her.

  She smiled her thanks, but even though the game was over she stayed silent. Twisting her hair back up on top of her head, this time into a neat coil rather than a complicated concoction of curls, she looked around as if trying to work out if she'd forgotten anything.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her every move. She was still deliciously unselfconscious. Her only hint of uncertainty appeared when he followed her to the front door and picked up his car keys.

  She touched his hand and looked to him for an explanation.

  "I'm taking you home,” he said, as if that wasn't obvious.

  Hannah shook her head.

  She didn't want him to know where she lived. It was a sensible safety precaution—practically the only one she'd given any sign of since he met her. He was glad she didn't let random men follow her home, but Vincent wasn't a random guy and he wasn't inclined to let her wander off into the middle of the night on her own.

  "And how do you intend to get home?” he asked, crossing his arms and making use of his height advantage to loom.

  She just looked at him. She didn't even need a gesture to tell him it was none of his damn business what she did once the game was over.

  "I'm responsible for you,” he pointed out in what he considered to be a very reasonable way. “I wouldn't be taking very good care of you if I let you wander off without even a coat."

  She touched his watch.

  It was two o'clock.

  "Unless you intend to turn into a pumpkin, I don't care. The scene is over. I know that—I'm not making any demands on you. But you're still not leaving until you can tell me how you intend to get home safely and without catching pneumonia. It's freezing out there."

  Hannah stared at him as if she could think of a few choice things to call him if she were to exercise her voice.

  Vincent hoped she would. There weren't many things he hadn't been called before, often with complete justification. He wanted to hear her voice too much to worry about what she actually said to him anymore.

  With a long suffering sigh she went back to the pocket she extracted the condoms from earlier and held up a card. A pre-paid bus card. Vincent had seen them before. It would let her on to any bus in the city.

  "You're kidding. You honestly think I'm going to let you go home on a bus at this time of night dressed like that.” He shook his head. “Forget kidding, you're crazy."

  Hannah raised an eyebrow at him.

  "No,” he told her firmly. “Don't look at me like I'm holding you hostage. I'm not. You can leave when you decide on a safe way to get home."

  She turned towards the door. He didn't try to stop her. It wasn't actually locked from the inside but it stuck like a bugger and there was a knack to getting the latch to work. It had taken him half an hour to get out the first morning and all his strength to bully the latch into co-operating before he'd worked out the exact sequence of nudges and tweaks it took to open it with ease.

  By the time she worked it out it would probably be light outside and the sun would be warming the day. Not that he'd let her wander home alone even then.

  When she became convinced she couldn't open the door without a key, Hannah turned back to him.

  He didn't mind seeing the anger in her eyes. Vincent knew he wasn't behaving the way a casual hook-up should. His manners for the situation were appalling and he'd probably deserve it if she gave him a slap for his trouble. He didn't like the trace of fear he saw in her eyes at all.

  Stepping forward, he stroked her cheek. She tensed and turned her face away. He tucked his fingers under her chin and coaxed her to look up at him. He wasn't willing to back down, but he backed off as much as he could without putting her safety at risk out on the streets when the clubs would be chucking the last of the drunks out any minute.

  "What if I call a cab for you?” he asked.

  Hannah looked at the door, took a deep breath and nodded.

  Fifteen minutes later, Vincent walked her to the cab and opened the door.

  "Where to?” the driver asked.

  She hadn't shared the information with him. Vincent looked into the back at Hannah. She handed the driver a slip of paper, no doubt extracted from the same little pocket in her dress, past the plastic divide.

  Vincent handed several notes through to her.

  She shook her head vehemently. “For the cab,” he said. “It's only fair, since I insisted."

  With a glance at the cab driver, she took it and handed it all immediately through to him.

  The cab driver looked from Hannah to Vincent and back again. With a mental shrug that announced they didn't even make the top one hundred strange people he'd driven somewhere, he put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.

  Vincent watched the cab to the end of the street. When she was out of sight, he walked back up the short path to his front door. Five minutes later, he finally convinced that same front door to let him back into his house.

  * * * *

  "There are other women here,” Frank said. He'd made the same observation the last three nights. Vincent wasn't blind or stupid. He knew there were other women there—he could see them sitting all around him.

  "You're getting pathetic,” Frank told him.

  Vincent knew that too. “When you said Hannah comes in here and only here, you failed to mention she only turns up once in every blue bloody moon."

  "It's only been a week,” Frank said.

  "You think this is funny, don't you?” Vincent demanded.

  "Yep. Very.” Frank took another drink of beer. “You're moping over some girl you screwed around with once."

  "I am not moping."

  "Pouting?” Frank rephrased with a laugh. “What's so special about her anyway? You've had lots of women, lots of sex, probably more than your fair share of very good sex judging by your exes. What does she do that's so special?"

  "She's different,” Vincent said, knowing he sounded more like an idiot than ever.

  He didn't know her last name. He didn't know what she did for a living or how she lived her life. All he knew was when he looked into her eyes he saw something he hadn't seen in any other woman. Her silence reached a part of him no one else's words touched.

  Frank's interest perked up. “You mean she does something different when you screw?"

  "No."

  "When she gives you head?” Frank guessed.

  "No.” He was not going to discuss his sex life, or at least the part of his sex life that included Hannah, with Frank.

  "You were a lot more interesting las
t week,” Frank complained. “And I'm including the half hour you spent asleep in your chair."

  It had become very much Vincent's chair over the last week. He'd been at the club every night. He knew all the bar staff by name. The chair was becoming moulded to the shape of his backside.

  If he wasn't there, Vincent knew that would be the one time she would turn up. If he wasn't there she would pick someone else to play the dominant. He couldn't allow that to happen. For the hundredth time in the last seven days, he remembered why the dominant should be the one who chased the submissive. If he'd chosen Hannah then he would have played from his own rules from the beginning. He wouldn't be sitting in the bar waiting for her to turn up.

  He wasn't suited to waiting. His temperament demanded action and control, and deprived of either he was just getting more and more tense as the week went on.

  "About bloody time."

  Vincent glanced across at Frank and then followed the direction of his gaze.

  Hannah.

  For once he agreed with Frank. About bloody time.

  She scanned the room briefly. Vincent was sure she saw him, but she looked quickly away. He could hardly believe it as he watched her slip into her normal routine—a routine that had absolutely nothing to do with him.

  Someone walked up to her as she approached the bar and asked her something, probably if he could buy her a drink. On the one hand he knew she could handle some idiot hitting on her. He also knew the guy was probably a perfectly decent man who helped little old ladies across the street at every opportunity. But the guy put his hand on Hannah's arm.

  Before he made a conscious decision, Vincent was standing next to them both and staring the man down. The other guy blinked first. Then he looked away first. Not long after, he walked away first too. Vincent felt a little bit better about the world.

  Hannah didn't appear to share his sudden good spirits. She looked incredibly pissed off with him. Shaking her head, she tried to turn away from him.

  "No, you don't. It was ladies’ choice last week, this time I'm calling the shots right from the word go."

  He ordered her a Coke from the bar and took it and his beer across to a table. Hannah planted her feet firmly where she was, not the least bit impressed with his display of dominance. “That table over there,” he told her, pointing to where he'd placed their drinks—an out of the way spot in the corner of the room. “If you'd prefer, I can pick you up and carry you over there."

  The look in her eyes had real fire in it. Vincent had more sense and better survival instincts than to tell a woman that mad at him she looked beautiful when she was angry—even when it was true. “I'm only trying to talk to you."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Okay, so he had a lot more than talking planned. “A conversation is the only thing I'm demanding right now,” he corrected. He wasn't demanding she do more than listen to him.

  Hannah sighed and nodded just once.

  Holding her seat out when they reached the table apparently didn't win him any points. He sat down opposite her and studied her carefully. “Since we aren't in a scene, is there any reason why you can't talk to me?"

  She said nothing.

  "You do talk?” he checked.

  She shook her head.

  "Never?"

  Hannah shook her head again.

  Vincent leaned back in his chair and considered both her and the possibilities. “It's a lifestyle thing, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, no exceptions?"

  Hannah nodded.

  Silent sex was one thing. It was a kink that fell a little off the beaten track, but Vincent had enjoyed their last scene enough to accept it as part of Hannah's sexual makeup. Lifestyle silence was a whole different ball game.

  It was already a habit to look into her eyes and try and read what she wouldn't say to him from their blue depths. She was wary now, more so than when he threatened to carry her to the table, even more so than when she thought he'd locked her in his house. She was waiting for his verdict.

  As much as he wanted to reassure her and put the trust back into her eyes, Vincent wasn't going to rush in with platitudes.

  "It's elective?” he checked. “You're medically capable of some sort of speech?"

  Hannah hesitated for a moment and then offered one slow nod. She obviously didn't like admitting it, that she did so rather than lie to him was promising.

  "You just prefer not to speak?"

  She offered him another nod.

  "Is there a reason? Is it...” He cast about for any possibility. Nothing came to mind. “Religious or something?” he finally asked. He had the hazy idea people did all sorts of weird things for religious reasons. Although, he wasn't sure what religion would let its followers have casual sex but not voice an opinion.

  Hannah shook her head.

  Vincent watched her across the table. If he couldn't solve the silent issue, he could at least make a few other things clear.

  "I want more than one night."

  She shook her head very firmly. She wasn't interested. Except those speaking eyes said she was very interested indeed.

  "You don't want to spend another night with me?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head again, but she didn't lift her eyes to meet his. Touching her cheek, he coaxed her to look at him. “I can tell when you're lying to me, Hannah."

  Her eyes opened very wide. Her tongue flickered out to lick her lips, as if nerves left them suddenly dry. She shook her head again, keeping her eyes on his. He saw the determination there, but more than that he saw the start of panic.

  "I think the idea that you want to spend another night with me scares you."

  She didn't bother to shake her head again, as if she didn't think lying about it would do her any good right then.

  "Why?” he asked as gently as he could.

  Hannah shrugged.

  "No,” he corrected, making her look back up at him. “There has to be a reason.” How could she follow a stranger into his home without betraying the slightest unease and then falter at the thought of a second date?

  She shrugged again.

  Vincent held back a sigh. Communicating with Hannah required a hell of a lot of work sometimes.

  "I'd like you to agree to a date—not a scene,” he specified. “Just a date. A meal in a nice respectable restaurant. Somewhere quiet where we can work things out."

  She shook her head, seemingly on instinct. Her instinct told her to say no to anything more than one night. Something in her past taught her the first night was the only safe one. He looked into her eyes.

  "One evening in a public place. You can meet me there and get a taxi home. I'll keep my hands to myself. I won't even try and kiss you goodnight. No leather. No submission. Just dinner."

  He could see her resolve wavering the more he bent his plans to accommodate her discomfort. For a moment it seemed like she might be trying to control the situation, trying to manipulate him. The idea instantly made him tense up, but he forced himself to push past that.

  There was no guile in her eyes and Vincent was sure he could read her well enough to see it if it were there. Maybe she just saw it as a sign he respected her limits. Maybe it gave her a bit of faith he wasn't trying to push her to do something she really didn't want.

  "You can pick the restaurant,” he offered.

  She hesitated one last time and shook her head. Hannah put her hand on his chest.

  "Me,” Vincent translated. “I pick the restaurant?"

  Hannah waited while he did so and nodded again.

  When she stood up to leave, he put his hand over hers on the table top. She looked back to him.

  "Are you going straight home from here?"

  She tried to pull her hand out from under his. Then she seemed to rethink the move. Hannah nodded.

  It wasn't the most subtle way to ask her not to screw around until their second date, but it was the best he could come up with on the spot. Hannah met his eyes and nodded once more
before she left.

  For what seemed like a long time, Vincent sat at the table watching the door. Something itched at the back of his mind but he couldn't place what it was. Hoping if he stopped thinking about it, his subconscious would sort it out, he walked back to where Frank and the others sat on the other side of the bar. As he approached he heard a familiar mix of laughing and groaning. Frank had obviously raided his store of old jokes again.

  "What's funny?” he said, taking his seat on the sofa.

  "Two deaf people get married. Everything's fine, except when they have sex with the light out they can't communicate ... hey it's not that bad...!"

  Frank's voice trailed after him as Vincent skidded to a stop at the door out of the bar. On the pavement outside, he looked both ways in case she might be waiting for a taxi out there. A line of taxis stood on the rank opposite. She was probably halfway home by now.

  "Damn!” He slammed the door.

  Everything clicked into place. The way she preferred not to speak, the way she watched his lips when he spoke to her, the way she hadn't responded to a command when she had her eyes shut. She hadn't responded because she hadn't been able to read his lips. She didn't like to speak because she couldn't hear herself do so.

  "Idiot!” he cursed himself again.

  He replayed the conversation with her at the table over inside his mind.

  She said she was physiologically capable of speech but she preferred not to. He'd had the idea she was hiding something. Well, in hindsight she was blatantly bloody obvious. She was trying to hide the fact she was deaf, and if it hadn't taken some stupid joke to make him twig he could have told her he didn't give a damn if she could hear him or not right then.

  Now he had to wait until their date to tell her. He wandered back to Frank's table, but he didn't hear much of what was being said around him.

  Something must have happened in the past to make her so acutely self-conscious. When she was little? Kids could be complete bastards to anyone who was a bit different.

  No, when she was older. She didn't seem to lack confidence in anything apart from dating. A man, then. Vincent's knuckles itched at the idea someone could have hurt Hannah so badly she'd taken such deep refuge in silence.