The anger coursing through me is amazing. I’ve never felt like this. It’s like I’ve drunk six bottles of champagne. I feel high, wild, furious, incredibly sick.
“No,” I say. “Why do you need to do this? Why should I be punished? Hit? I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone. I never meant to do anything wrong.” My voice rises. Panic—I don’t know why I feel panic—makes my heart pound.
“I don’t deserve this,” I blather. “I’ve done bad things but I never sat down and said: I want to destroy someone. I was destroyed. I hated myself. I blamed myself for everything that happened. But to feel like I deserve to be hit, that I deserve to be punished—”
I want to run. I want to scream.
Jonathon’s going to say something, but I shout, “I do deserve to be punished. Why don’t you do it? Whip me raw. Hurt me. Hurt me like I should be hurt.”
The fury scares me. And I’m angry I said all those things. It’s not what I want. “I’m supposed to feel less because I don’t want this. I’m supposed to embrace being a victim, because somehow I deserve it,” I scream at him. “I can’t do this.”
His arms go around me. “I don’t want you to feel less. You are not a victim.”
“What I need is to be loved and respected. Period.”
“I will love and respect you. I would never do anything but that. You are strong.”
“I’m doing this because you need this, not because I do.” This isn’t what I want and that should be a simple decision, but it’s not. I feel twisted up inside. I want to share things with Jonathon. Deep things. Intense things. I can’t. Can’t. Can’t. What I said isn’t true. He’s right. It’s not all about him. It’s about me too—that’s why I’m here, why I told him I would try things.
“Talk to me,” he says. “Get angry at me.”
I—I can’t. He must hate me now. I have to get out of here. I’m shaking, because I hate confrontation. I let my soul and psyche be destroyed to avoid confrontation with my stepfather, after all.
I push away from Jonathon. I run down to the beach. What do I do now? I should run for the hotel’s marina, because I’m going to have to go home now, aren’t I?
And I’m going to get a boat to the airport using what?
I run and run until water splashes my bare feet and I almost fall over because the sand is wet and kind of dissolves under my soles.
The rolling, rushing sound of the waves wraps itself around me. My heart rate slows down. I breathe in salty air.
If I were the little mermaid, I could keep on walking and dissolve into the water and become part of the sea. That’s the ending I remember to the story. Not the happy Disney one. No, in the story I remember, the little mermaid isn’t enough for the prince. He loves someone else and he isn’t going to change his mind. That’s the tragedy. He doesn’t do anything wrong—he’s just in love with someone else. She gambles everything and loses.
I feel like that. I gambled on a relationship with Jonathon. I’ve lost.
He’s seen me act crazy. There’s no way he’s going to want anything to do with me.
Why couldn’t I just be able to play kinky games? Why should I go off the deep end when it really is just a meaningless sex fantasy?
“Mia?”
Jonathon has followed me again. I’m ashamed of my outburst. He didn’t even hurt me and I went nuts.
“I’ll pack and leave, if you want.” I speak calmly.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“You want a content little submissive. You saw me—I’m a mess. That’s the truth, Jonathon. I am a complete mess.”
“You are not. The fault and blame lies with me. I pushed you too hard. I set off one of your triggers.”
I turn, confused. “A trigger?”
Moonlight turns his eyes to a silvery-green. It illuminates the concern on his face. Concern for me. He reaches out for me and puts his arms around once more. “I’ve had a hell of a lot of therapists.” Quietly, beneath the soft, dark, star-dotted sky, he explains about triggers. He holds me against his chest as he does.
He tells me stuff I know—that repeated abuse has effects that last forever. Like panic attacks, thoughts of suicide, flashbacks. Apparently, flashbacks are called intrusive memories. A traumatic event can trigger those memories and reactions. Can make me feel all the things I’ve felt before, like shame, depression, humiliation, guilt.
I realize I feel something new, too. What I feel is an all-encompassing, consuming anger.
Jonathon’s body is warm, damp. I press my cheek hard against his chest and close my eyes. “I can’t play the submissive who just takes a whipping. I’ve realized that now. It’s more than just a sex game to me, Jonathon.” I shake my head against him.
I realize he ran out after me naked.
“There are many other aspects to what I do. Many things that won’t make you react like that.”
“It won’t work,” I say softly. I’m scared to try. Scared to go back into the past. “Now I know it for sure.” His heart is pounding in his chest. I feel it against my cheek.
“Stay through Christmas,” he says, his voice husky. “No whippings, no spankings. I promise.”
What else am I going to do? Swim home? But I’m stubborn. “I can’t. It’s not fair to you.”
“I want to spend winter break with you. That’s the most important thing to me.”
I don’t understand that. He couldn’t compromise when he was dating Lara. Why would he be willing to do it for me? That makes no sense.
The truth is I don’t want to go home. I know I shouldn’t stay, but I really don’t want to leave.
“Okay,” I breathe.
Chapter Seven
The next day, Jonathon and I take a boat in to the main island to watch a cricket match, shop, and have dinner. Cricket is fascinating, I don’t understand all the rules about batting and runs and overs, but it’s tremendously fun to sip tea and eat scones while watching.
We stop for some of the famous Christmas treats, including slices of Black Cake, a fruit cake where the fruit is soaked in rum for weeks. Some people soak their fruit for a year. Rum is also drizzled on the cake, with more rum added to the remaining pieces after slices are served.
After my second slice, I am buzzed. We drink a rum drink that has cream and crushed ice, and is topped with nutmeg—kind of an island eggnog.
The brilliant sunshine makes it seem surreal to have Christmas coming. It helps take away the homesickness of not having Christmas Day with my mom. This was the first year Dad wanted to have me visit for the holiday—but of course, now I won’t be there.
Shopping on the main island makes me nervous. I have the exact opposite problem of what I had with Ryan. Ryan was hurt because he felt I’d assumed he couldn’t afford a gift. I guess I did think that, and I didn’t want him to spend money he would need for school.
Jonathon can have anything he wants and his own personal fortune continues to grow. What can I get him for Christmas? I have no money and can’t even dream of buying him something expensive that will dazzle him.
I’d love to get something meaningful, but would that be too much too soon? If there was a sex shop, I could get him a new spanking paddle or a set of handcuffs, but since getting spanked proved to be an emotional roller coaster, it might not be a good idea.
We split up for an hour since he says he has something to buy on his own. I chew my thumbnail. Is this where he buys my gift? Wearing a large hat, jean shorts and a tanktop, I stroll one of the main shopping streets. Beautiful, inviting stores lure me to stop and look in the windows.
There are gorgeous clothes. Sparkling jewels. Delectable edible treats. I see the price tag dangling from one jewel-encrusted clutch bag, which is in a locked four-tier glass case in the window. I swallow hard. It costs more than my entire first year at Yardley.
As I watch, a pretty saleswoman with a dark brown complexion and long braids highlighted with strands of pink unlocks the case and takes out the clutch. I wat
ch it sail away. But really, what would I have done with something like that? Lock it away out of fear of losing it.
“See something you like?” Jonathon’s deep voice washes over me.
I turn to meet his sexy smile, and my heart stutters.
“There are some beautiful things. It’s fun to just look,” I say brightly. I feel out of place. My mom stayed with my stepfather for years because she didn’t think she could support both of us alone. That was after she knew the truth. She asked me if it was okay with me if we stayed, as long as the abuse stopped.
What could I say? That I feel creepy, wrong, sad, weird? I didn’t want to force her into poverty.
Dad left anyway, for another woman, a couple of years after we’d made that bargain. And I got used to not having things. It became a matter of pride for me. I only wanted what I could buy myself. I wanted to be in charge of my own life, independent.
“What’s wrong?” Jonathon asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Just Christmas memories.” Then I smile. “Is there anything you like? Christmas is coming in just two more sleeps.”
“Or a dozen more fucks,” he teases.
“Is that all? I plan to fit in more than that. So what would you like for Christmas?”
“Nothing, Mia.”
“You must want something.”
“I don’t do Christmas,” he says. “Even before my mother died, my parents were never around for it. We had it with nannies.”
“That’s terrible. I love Christmas.” I did, even without money for gifts. My mom and I would buy stuff from Walmart—pens, cheap nail polish, discounted books, even stuff we needed like tape and dishwashing liquid—and wrap it up. I decorated my gifts for her to look as precious as Faberge eggs. We did it by saving paper and keeping bows and ribbons.
Jonathon slips his arm around my waist and leads me into one of the dress shops on the shopping strip.
I start to blush. A sales girl comes hurrying up. In a melodic accent, she says, “Can I help you?” She is far better dressed than me.
“I’m just looking,” I say awkwardly.
But Jonathon insists that I want to buy dresses and shoes. I panic as he describes what he wants in the dress I’m supposed to wear. As the salesgirl sashays off on her heels to do his bidding, I move close to him. “I can’t afford anything here.”
“I want to take you out tonight and I assume you didn’t pack a formal dress.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t even own one, except for my prom dress.” And that was bought second-hand. “I wasn’t thinking beyond the beach and bed.” Even then, I blew my entire budget for January on bras and panties.
“Then let me buy you a gift.”
I shake my head fiercely. “That’s just...wrong. You’ve already brought me here, which I shouldn’t have let you do. I believe in paying my own way.”
“Stop being stubborn. Your pride is getting in the way. I want to do this for you.”
“It makes me feel owned.” But maybe that is the point? Is that part of a dominating personality? “All right, but I will pay you back.”
“No, you won’t.”
Now I understand how Ryan felt. My pride is provoked.
“I want to take you to the most exclusive place on the island for dinner,” Jonathon murmurs close to my ear, making me shiver. “There’s a waiting list of several months.”
“You booked months in advance?”
“I don’t need a reservation.”
“Why not?”
“I gave the chef the investment money to start his restaurant. I met him the second year I started spending Christmas here, when my father stopped coming to Azure.”
Once again, he surprises me. “You knew he would be successful.” Restaurants and bars are notoriously shaky investments and usually money pits. From what I’ve heard, Jonathon’s aren’t.
“I knew he deserved to be successful,” Jonathon says. “He proved me right. He works hard, his food is fantastic.”
Now I feel guilty if I don’t take the dress—I don’t want to show up Jonathon in front of the chef. That makes it about business. In a way, I’m letting him buy me a uniform. I’ll pay him back. Somehow.
Six dresses await me in the fitting room. Jonathon takes a seat to watch me when I parade out, and he’s given a flute of chilled champagne.
I pull on the first dress, which is black, satiny and slit up to the top of my thigh. Black shoes are provided—strappy, with five inch heels. I see the tag on the shoes and almost slither to the floor. $1500. The dress is $2000. Okay, I can’t pay this back.
Jonathon doesn’t like the dress when I come out and turn in front of the mirror.
We go through all six. Each one is a pure fantasy dress. I look like I should be on the Oscars’ red carpet. Six more are brought. In the end, Jonathon chooses a little black dress that costs the earth, yet transforms my body into a stacked arrangement worthy of a porn star. And somehow it’s classy at the same time. The second dress is a column of gold. Then he selects a third that is jade green, enhances my red-blonde hair, and even makes my freckles look cute. Matching shoes are selected, all with skyscraper heels.
Back at the villa, I hang the dresses in my closet and arrange the shoes below them.
I love the dresses. Each one is beautiful. But Jonathon made the decision, not me. And that makes me feel wrong. Not like a whore, but like a gold digger—as if I’m willing to give up anything to be taken care of.
I want to be independent. Certainly, I never dreamed of marrying a rich guy and being given everything on a silver platter. Not when I’m an ordinary girl with a reasonable body, wild red hair, and freckles.
But mainly, I want to be independent because I have a brain and because I should aspire to be something.
“What’s wrong?”
I turn and face Jonathon. “I shouldn’t have taken these from you.”
“They are a gift.”
This is driving me crazy. Yes, I know they are a gift, but they still feel wrong. Every time I look at them. I think they should go back...but then what am I going to wear that won’t embarrass him?
That’s the problem, isn’t it? My poverty will embarrass him. He may want me, but I’m sure he doesn’t want the part of me that lives in a frosty, rented bungalow in Milltown.
I don’t even know what’s going to happen sexually between us tonight. He said no whippings, no spankings. He’s lived up to it so far.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can change, Jonathon. You don’t want to push me or rush me, but I don’t think I can ever change. I can’t do pain. That’s not who I am.”
But I’m not being honest. Something snapped in me when he started spanking me. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted him to hurt me.
And that terrifies me.
He was right. The spanking that was supposed to be playful was a trigger—a trigger for the most destructive emotional reaction I’ve ever had.
I don’t want to frighten him away with my fears and my issues. But I know that’s inevitable.
“I would have said I can’t do vanilla,” he says. “It’s not who I was.”
“Then we have an impasse, Jonathon. I can enjoy being tied up. Maybe I can get into a light spanking. But no further.” I sigh. I know it’s over. We’re going to spend five more days here just burying a relationship that can’t exist.
Then I think more about what he said. As if it was in the past tense.
Jonathon cups my cheek, then brushes it with his knuckles. Tenderly. “Mia, I would have said that before I met you. With you, I’m willing to give you all the vanilla you want.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always had my sex with bondage,” he muses. “Before this week, I’ve never done straight vanilla.”
That isn’t what I mean. I meant: why is he willing to change for me? But what he revealed stuns me. “How is that possible?” Jonathon strikes me as a man who lost his virginity young. There are traits i
n him that I recognize from the boys I knew who were sexually active at fourteen or thirteen.
“I was introduced to sex through bondage.”
I guess I can understand that. Though it makes me heart lurch. Consensually or not? I know if he wanted to tell me, he would, and his eyes look cool and shuttered. A question won’t get an answer, I can tell. But I’m too curious not to probe a little. “What about in high school? You really tied up girls in high school?”
He shrugs. “Girls went along with what I wanted of them. Several of them discovered they enjoyed the lifestyle and have stayed in it.”
“And you are really willing to try...normal sex for me?” I don’t know if normal is the right word, but he seems to get what I mean.
“I have already done it with you. It was...good.” He leans against the doorframe. Strokes his chin. Black stubble shades his strong, tanned jaw. He looks as if he is thinking intently. “We have time before dinner. How vanilla do you want to be?”
“Very.” I guess for Jonathon, ordinary sex is more unusual than BDSM and group sex is to most people.
Stripping naked, I draw back the satiny quilt and the silk sheets. I slide into the bed.
“I suppose you want me to be on top,” he says.
“Ooh yes,” I say playfully, since missionary with me on the bottom would be the most ordinary and vanilla sex possible.
His biceps flex as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. I love watching his broad, bare back. I’m also jealous—in just days, he’s tanned to a deep bronze. I have to use sunscreen or I burn.
Jonathon strips off his shorts. They’re swim style, and he’s naked underneath. Grinning, he goes to the door and clicks off the light.
I giggle. He curses as he fumbles toward the bed. “I did this to tease you, but the joke’s on me, damn it.” He bangs into the bedside table.
The bed creaks and moves as he jumps on it, landing beside me.
He gets on top of me, braced on his arms.
My eyes get used to the moonlight. Silver-blue light touches Jonathon’s sculpted cheekbones and his full lips, making his eyes glitter. I hear the soft tear of a condom packet.
Seduction in the Sun: Adult Romance Box Set (9 Sizzling Tales with BBW, Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Alpha Males) Page 13
