His To Have

by Devon Birchley

  The first show is great. Two girls are performing a circus show with fire poi and hula hoops. They’re tiny and impossibly agile, and when they’re done, there’s a thunderous round of applause. Dominique excuses herself to get ready for her show and I sink gratefully into the background, already tipsy on a drink and a half. I hate the way alcohol affects me when I’m tired. I get dizzy and kind of nauseous. Good going, Rea. If you turn into any more of a lightweight, you’ll have to quit drinking altogether.

  The spot where I’m standing, elbows propped on the table, is a great vantage point for checking out the new arrivals, and I’m happy to see the place is filling up, ready for Dominique’s show. There’s still no sign of Adler. He’s not coming. He’d be here already if he was. And I’m disappointed. There it is: the heaviness in my stomach isn’t relief. I want to see him again. I want those deep brown eyes that watched me with such interest in the bar to burn into mine again. I long for him to kiss me the way he kissed me outside the metro. However much he unsettled me, infuriated me even, there’s something about him that’s hard to forget.

  The second show begins with a door slamming loudly, and I jump along with the rest of the audience. It’s a spoken word/experimental dance mash-up, and quirky is a kind way to describe it. I can’t work out if it’s supposed to be a parody of the genre, or if that’s the girl’s natural voice. Going by the serious expression on her face, it’s the latter.

  I lean back against the wall, and my mind wanders, annoyingly, back to the question that Adler asked me: what created such a powerful desire in you to submit? Assuming for a second that Adler’s right, and I have this secret urge to be dominated, where did it come from? I’ve posed this question to myself too many times during the past few days, and I’m no closer to coming up with an answer. The fact is, I hate being controlled or giving in to someone. I’ve been this way ever since I was a kid. I couldn’t stand being disciplined by my parents or schoolteachers, and that hot, squirmy feeling of humiliation that always accompanied it. It was so intense I can feel it now, and it makes me want to cross my legs tight.

  My emotions must’ve shown on my face because one of Dominique’s friends appears at my elbow and says, “Pretty terrible, isn’t it?” He’s wearing a flat cap and has dark hair and mischievous dark eyes.

  I laugh loudly. “It’ll make Dominique’s star shine even more brightly,” I reply, aiming to be judicious. He grins, and the next thing I know, he’s handing me a JD and Coke. Me and Jack don’t have a good history, but I take it automatically.

  “Thanks?” I say, raising a quizzical eyebrow. He shrugs.

  “Friend of Dom’s is a friend of mine.” We keep talking until Dominique’s show starts, and then, along with everyone else in the packed room, we fall silent. She’s very talented. Even as a burlesque ingénue, I can see that. She looks stunning in her teal-colored costume, and she’s raunchy and sensual. My attention doesn’t waver as I watch her, and for a while I forget about the squirmy feeling that reared its ugly head from over a decade ago.

  The air is thick with cheers, whoops and wolf whistles as the show ends. Dominique takes a bow, standing in the middle of the stage in the nipple pasties I saw earlier tonight and a rhinestone encrusted G-string, that, thankfully, I didn’t. By the time she exits the stage, blowing kisses to the audience as she goes, I’ve finished the entire drink. Damn. I was planning on dumping it on the bar when the guy wasn’t looking. And now I suddenly feel wide awake as though I’ve pushed through the tiredness barrier. It’s getting late, but I shouldn’t leave before Dominique gets back. I decide to get one final drink, and one for the guy as well.

  There’s a long line at the bar. What else did Adler say? I think as I jostle back and forth, awaiting my turn to order. It might be the opposite of what you expect it to be. I hate being controlled so I secretly yearn for it? Is that it? I think about his hand in my hair, his tongue probing my mouth, and an image screams across my brain: me tied, hand and foot, on my knees, while he stands over me, a hand twisted in my hair, a smile playing on his lips, knowing he can do anything he wants with me. My body’s reaction is nothing I’ve experienced before. It’s like something shot me in the clit, and I shudder all over. Before I know what I’m doing, I take my phone out and locate his number. I write one sentence, I think I know what you mean by opposites. I remember something…and I hit send. Then it’s my turn to order, and I buy three shots.

  There are so many flying elbows at the bar I have to drink mine right away, and then I bring the other two over to Dominique and her friend. She’s glowing with excitement, and I tell her how much I loved the show and meeting her friends, then I make my excuses and leave.

  Why the hell did I write that? I push my way out of the venue and into the quiet street. The logic behind the thought is already blurring in my mind as I turn the corner onto the main street. And then I narrowly avoid walking smack bang into a tall, dark man who’s looking down at his phone, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “Adler!” I say helplessly. He looks up and meets my gaze with sparkling eyes, and my knees go weak. This is the man I was just fantasizing about. And he’s even hotter than I remember. That jaw. Those cheekbones. Those smoldering, molten-caramel eyes.

  “You know what I mean by opposites, huh?” he says, his voice low and gravelly.

  “I’m not sure I meant to send that.”

  His smile gets wider. “You drunk texted me!”

  “No,” I insist, but my face goes beet red.

  He looks around. “Come here.” He takes my hand and leads me to an alleyway several feet away. He props me against the wall and leans over me, one hand on either side of my head. “What were you trying to tell me, Reagan?”

  His nearness is doing crazy things to my body. I want him to press me against the wall, crush me with his weight, lift me up and wrap my legs around his waist.

  “I don’t know. It was just a fleeting thing.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Tell me now.” His eyes are hard, and something deep in my core surrenders to him.

  “I used to hate being controlled as a child. I mean, really hate it.”

  He dips his head, and his mouth is just below my ear. “Were you a willful child?”

  “Pretty much.”

  His lips are on the corner of my mouth, tantalizingly close to my own. “And you got punished for it?”

  “Yup.”

  “And it made you mad?”

  “Yes, and—”

  His mouth meets mine, his beard scruff chafing my skin, but his lips are soft and full. He kisses me as hard as before, even harder, his tongue forcing its way right to the back of my throat, and his thigh slips between mine. As it makes contact with the seam of my tight jeans, I moan into his mouth. He draws back and presses the pad of his thumb against my lip.

  “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now, let’s get you home.” He takes my hand, and I follow him dazedly into a taxi.

  “Your address?”

  I give it to him. As soon as the car starts to move, he reaches for me and doesn’t stop kissing me for the rest of the journey. It’s the most passionate, heady make-out session of my life. He’s gentle, almost tender, and he strokes my face and my hair, tells me I’m beautiful. And even though I can tell he’s hard, his cock bulging against the zipper of his pants, he doesn’t try to grope me. He’s almost gentlemanly in the way he holds me.

  I feel a flicker of embarrassment as the taxi turns into my slightly rundown, red-brick neighborhood and pulls up in front of my very functional apartment block. I try to pay, but he stops me.

  “I’ll pay at the end of the journey,” he says.

  “You’re not coming in?”

  He lifts my hand and kisses it. “No. It’s late and you’re tired. I need you full of energy. Are you free tomorrow?”

  I hesitate. “Yes,” I say at last.

  “Good. I’ll pick a venue and text you the address.”

  “Okay.” I stumble as I get out of the
car and, quick as a flash, he runs around to the other side and helps me, leading me over to my front door.

  “Sleep well, petite,” he murmurs and kisses me on the cheek, then steps back and watches until I let myself inside and close the door.

  “Wow,” I mutter as I make it up the stairs and through the door of my apartment. “Just, wow.” I think I can deal with telling him embarrassing things about myself if the reward is being kissed like that.

  I get ready for bed fast and climb in between my sheets. I wish he was there with me, his mouth on mine, his leg between my thighs, those long-fingered hands running all over my body…

  And then I pass out.

  5

  The good thing about being a lightweight is that you get all the drunkenness with none of the hangover, and I sleep deeply and head to work with a bounce in my step the next morning.

  He texted me while I was getting ready for bed last night. Sleep well, Reagan. I look forward to learning more about you tomorrow. Let’s meet at the main bar of the Hotel Savant at 9pm. While I’m waiting for the train, I check out the hotel on my phone. It has an artsy, oriental look with lots of red and black lacquer, and the walls are adorned with black-and-white photographs of sensual couples. The bar, it turns out, is quite famous for Japanese-style cocktails. I feel fizzy with excitement and confusion.

  I’m a little vague about what passed between Adler and me last night, but I have the sense that I gave him some kind of consent. And then he kissed me like he was trying to suck my soul out of my body. Like he liked me. Is this a date? Is it a hook-up? I’m not all that experienced with either. I feel completely out of my depth. Not only is Adler the hottest guy I’ve ever kissed in my life, but I have no idea what’s going to happen. At all. We’re just having a drink, I tell myself. We’re just going to get to know each other a little better. In the bar of a hotel that looks like it was made for sin.

  All morning, my excitement builds, along with my nerves. At lunchtime, I manage to catch Monica on the phone for ten minutes.

  “Ooh, sexy times ahead!” she says when I tell her my news.

  “I don’t do things like this, Mon.”

  “I knooow!” she says, drawing the word out. “No sex before the fourth date.”

  I giggle. “It’s worked for me so far.”

  She makes a hmph sound. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “My sex life has been okay.”

  “Okay is not good enough, Rea.” This is where Monica and I differ. I’ve always gone for guys I like, and the sex has fallen into place afterward, while she was always on a mission to find the perfect sex partner and hoped the romance would work out along the way.

  “I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Remember that. But be prepared, because it sounds to me like there’s a whole lot you want to do.” It’s true. There is. I’ve been fantasizing so much that I’m surprised I haven’t left a wet mark on my seat.

  “He’s so hot,” I murmur. “Like, I don’t even know why he’s into me.”

  “Shush. You’re stunning, Rea. Hot enough for any guy.”

  I smile into the phone. “You’re such a sweetheart, Monica.”

  “It’s true. Now, what are you wearing?”

  “I don’t know. Should I go all out, or—”

  “Yes!” she interrupts. “Wear your hottest outfit ever.”

  “Hold-ups?”

  “Garter belt if you have one.”

  “Maybe I could buy one on the way home.”

  “Good idea. That sheer black bra you got at Burlington’s. Maybe that black dress with the low neck.” I love that we know each other so well that she even knows the contents of my closet.

  “Yes, I was thinking of that dress.” It’s clinging, but elegant. The neckline shows a hint of cleavage, and it’s tight around my hips, finishing just above my knee, with a lace panel at the back. It always makes me feel like an old-time movie star.

  “And lipstick. It’ll drive him crazy because he’ll be dying to kiss you all night, but won’t be able to.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hey, I have to get back to work. But have fun, girl! You deserve it.”

  “Thanks, Monica. You’re the best.”

  Right after lunch, Jenny and I have a catch-up with Jeremy. She does most of the talking and my gaze keeps flickering in Jeremy’s direction, taking in his strong profile, his erect posture and effortless style. I have such a deep-seated fear that S&M is wrong, dirty, and plain weird. But if an educated, professional and successful man like him is into it, maybe I’m making a huge deal out of nothing.

  The rest of the afternoon drags, but at least we finish early on Fridays, and I manage to leave right on five p.m., stop by Burlington’s for a black, minimalist garter belt and stockings, and a new pair of panties—just because—and I’m home, freshly showered, and looking at myself in the mirror by six-thirty p.m. It’s the first time I’ve worn a garter belt, and it feels weird, but hot. Dressed up and naked at the same time. Restricted yet exposed. I eye my reflection as I do a full turn. The bra is the light, skimpy style I like best, no underwire, and my nipples are just visible beneath the gauzy fabric. The panties are similarly sheer. I imagine Adler undressing me, looking at me, and that ache starts up inside me again. Slow down. There’s a long way to go. Against my better judgment, I slick on a sheer red lipstick. I want him to be able to kiss me, but maybe Monica has a point.

  Since I’m wearing very high, very pointy-toed pumps, I treat myself to a taxi. Soon, I’m passing through a gilded revolving door and being welcomed by a severely beautiful hostess in a slinky, east-meets-west midnight blue dress, all cheekbones and willowy limbs.

  The lobby is stunning, just like the photos, but even more opulent. I swallow down a burst of nerves as the hostess takes my coat and shows me through. I scan the room for him. He’s at the bar in a light gray suit and white shirt, open at the neck, a drink in his right hand, speaking to the bartender. My heart thuds against my rib cage. I’ve taken five steps when that perfect profile angles toward me, and the world seems to stop turning. There’s so much desire and hunger in his eyes that it makes me dizzy. For the first time in my life, I feel like a princess. He watches me approach, a hint of a smile curving his lips, and I feel self-conscious, like I’m on a catwalk. Don’t trip, Lockhart.

  “You look beautiful, Reagan,” he says, his voice a little husky. He lays his hands on my waist, draws me close, and kisses me on both cheeks. I can practically feel my pupils dilating as I drink him in. His beard is trimmed more neatly tonight, better displaying the smooth planes of his face, and his messy quiff is neatly brushed back. The open neck of his shirt reveals a hint of his pecs and the beginning of his tattoo. I imagine myself unfastening the rest of those buttons.

  He pulls out a stool for me. “Shall we stay at the bar? I think it’s secluded enough here.” We’re sitting right on a corner, out of the bartenders’ earshot.

  “Yes,” I reply, grinning like a loon.

  “Don’t be nervous.” His voice is as smooth as a caress.

  “I’m not.” I reach for the menu, study it for too long before I pick out a Sakura Martini. “Nice place. Very unusual,” I say, once the bartender has taken our order.

  “It’s my favorite elegant bar. It’s a very nice boutique hotel as well. Very well equipped.”

  “How so?”

  “They offer plenty of…equipment. On request.” I’m not about to embarrass myself by asking him what equipment. He means bondage gear, of course. I think of the rooms with the black-and-white nudes and wonder if this is a regular Friday night for him, seducing a girl at the bar, then taking her upstairs to one of the rooms.

  The bartender brings our drinks, and I slide what I hope is a covert glance at Adler as he’s sipping his, but he turns his eyes on me, and they’re like headlights. I force myself not to look away. Three or four seconds pass as we continue to hold each other�
�s gaze, and I feel tingly and breathless, like I have no idea what I’m doing here.

  He reaches for my drink. “Let me try it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Nice. Very savory.”

  “I like savory drinks best.”

  “Me, too. They’re usually more complex than sweet ones.” I try his drink too, and the atmosphere diffuses. He’s a fun, playful guy again, and we chat about drinks and bars. He even gives me some recommendations for places to go. Normal, everyday conversation, and the tension in my spine releases.

  “How was your day?” he asks.

  “Thankfully short. It’s been a long week. I was so tired last night when Dom dragged me out to her show.”

  “Tired? Uh huh.” He gives me that boyish grin.

  “Okay, I admit it. I was a colossal lightweight, and I got drunk on three— no, four—drinks.”

  “Would you have messaged me if you hadn’t?”

  I pause. “Well, the answer to your question occurred to me after I’d been drinking. So in that case, no, I wouldn’t have.”

  “And you might never have discovered the truth about yourself.”

  “I’m not so sure that I’ve discovered anything.”

  He leans back a little in his seat. “Did you have any more dealings with the boss you mentioned seeing at the Sexpo?”

  The abrupt change of subject gives me a mental jolt. “Yes, actually. He’s been giving me a lot of work. But maybe it’s more to keep me quiet than because I’m good at my job.”