To fuck Rachel. No, worse than that, if I am being honest. I want to dominate her, to make love to her by controlling her sensations beyond her expectations, to take her arousal past anything she and the boyfriend can imagine doing. I want an exclusive relationship with her. No one else for her. No one else for me.
How many students? Dozens, certainly. And she’s the first I want for myself, the first who’s made me crazy with the desire to keep her tied up just for me. I want to be the only one who touches her, makes her cry with pleasure, tortures her just so, sucks on her clit until she can’t stand it and screams her release. Me. My hands, my mouth, my cock.
There’s that word again.
Mine.
I look back at my office, picturing the learned papers on the psychology of dominance, all those dusty academics trying to figure out something so deliciously twisted. How can a man simultaneously hold the wish to treasure someone, making her the woman above all women, while also needing to control her? I’ve spent three years studying this. I think my thesis is sound, but in the real world, the desire to own and protect another person is so deeply visceral it defies civilized thought. My academic jargon hasn’t been able to capture that, although Lord knows I’ve tried. If I burned my thesis, it would give off more illumination than its words do.
In the end, all I know is this: I want a woman at my feet, in my bed, bound to me, only to me. And not any woman. A month ago, I didn’t feel this way even in the abstract. I thought myself immune. But now it’s Rachel and only Rachel.
Eight minutes past the hour. Oh, God. She’s late. She isn’t coming. My shoulders slump with the realization. I know it’s the right choice for her to make. I can call her cell phone to double-check, but I won’t. She’s free to skip the last session. After all, I’m the one who crossed the line. I thought I saw something in her face, a need, a craving for me, and it set me aflame. Hell, I went off with a whoosh, like dry tinder in a chimney. I had to make her come, help her come, watch her come, feel it, hold it, know that I did that for her.
I’m such an idiot. I broke the rules. I did to her what other students may have wished for, but only with Rachel did I cross the line. Yes, of course I get aroused during some of the couples’ sessions, but it’s an inconvenience. Nothing more. I make sure no one notices if I’m erect because I’ve found it shifts the focus in a very unhelpful way. I’m not teaching classes in ménage.
With Rachel, I wanted her to know. Now she’s gone. It’s probably for the best. I want her, I can’t have her, I took liberties nonetheless. I deserve this looming emptiness.
Sot! Bilingual and I still can’t think of names for how arrogant and selfish I’ve been.
I shake my head at my own failure, then I close the appointment book and start to turn off the lights. I’ve already canceled my eight o’clock with that couple from Brooklyn; it was hard to work with them last week when I was still suffused with my thoughts and need for Rachel. I’m done for the day. If I put more work in on my dissertation, perhaps I can finish the writing early and stay in France until I have to defend.
Leave New York? Leave Rachel? My heart freezes at the thought.
I’d be leaving Rachel to that man she’s dating, though.
I have to remember this. She isn’t mine, she’s dating some asshole banker. I’ll have to keep Ginny from mentioning them. It would be torture either way. If Rachel is happy, I suffer. If Rachel is miserable, I suffer even more.
I pull a stack of paper toward me, the only busywork I can find.
I’m tidying up when someone buzzes to be let in. I push away the hope it might be Rachel. She’s gone.
I press the intercom. “Yes?”
“Marc? I’m sorry I’m late.” Her voice sounds so tiny. I press the button to release the downstairs lock.
I’ve got the door to the loft open before she reaches the top of the stairs from the lobby. I stand there, watching her move stiffly. She has her hair down and a scarf around her neck, quite normal. When she turns, though, I rush to her with a gasp.
She has a black eye, a bruise on her chin, a bandage on her hand. She smiles at me, her expression rueful and self-mocking.
“Were you mugged?” I demand.
She ducks her head. “Not exactly.”
*
Marc looks horrified and I desperately want to slink back down the stairs rather than see the contempt he must feel.
I was such an idiot last week, putting Danny off every night until finally I agreed to see him on Sunday for brunch. He came over to the apartment but it wasn’t to pick me up before we walked to the usual place off Broadway for mimosas and salmon risotto. It was to accuse me of cheating on him.
“You’ve been fucking him, this Frenchie sicko, haven’t you? Haven’t you?”
This was so far from the conversation I’d planned, the one where I let him down gently, that I was stunned. My mind went blank. Danny had to connect the dots for me.
“Ginny told me about your so-called surprise for me. Well, it worked. I was surprised, all right. Surprised you’d think I’d be happy you had sex with some male whore. Where’d you get the idea I’d want sloppy seconds, bitch?”
I might have mustered up more outraged innocence if it weren’t for the fantasies I’d been having every time I’d ducked Danny’s calls. I’d fucked Marc Thibaud every way imaginable, in my head. I had been cheating on Danny, in a way, which was why I was going to break up with him.
To Danny my silence was proof of guilt. “What a slut. And you like it rough, I gather.” He moved in closer even as he took his jacket off. He unbuckled his belt and for a moment I’d thought he was going to rape me, but then he unthreaded the belt from the loops of his jeans.
“Let’s see if I can’t give you what you want, then,” he taunted.
He doubled the belt into a teardrop. I caught at the leather, trying to stop him from hitting me, but he yanked the belt to pull me closer, then shoved me against the wall. I swung at him, but he slammed my hand into the wall hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. The belt became a tie around my wrists, just tight enough that I couldn’t get my hands free.
I screamed at him to stop, trying to push him off me. I kicked and tried to slam my knee, my shoulder, my head into his body.
That was when he started hitting me, my face first, and then pulling off my pants so he could administer the punishment he said I deserved.
I must have passed out at some point. Danny’d left by the time I finally woke up and called the police.
All this goes through my mind as Marc stares at me. I wait for him to dismiss me, but then I can see that he’s not disgusted. He’s distressed.
He’s upset that I’m hurt. I can’t process how much better this makes me feel, even though I won’t see him again after today.
*
The sight of her injuries has me standing there on the landing, frozen. The questions swirl around me. What happened? Who’s done this to her? I’ll kill him. Has a doctor seen her? Is she going to be okay?
Rachel is looking up at me. “I can tell you’re upset. I’ll leave. I just wanted to apologize for missing, well, kind of missing, our final appointment.”
“No, you must come in. I’ll make you coffee. Or tea?”
“I thought ‘no stimulants’?” she teases. Her smile is shadowy compared to how she’s been at the beginning of the other sessions, but at least she’s smiling. I smile back, trying to reassure her it’s okay, that my revulsion isn’t aimed at her.
“Come.” I lead her into the loft, but take her through the atelier to my private space, which is partitioned off. A small seating area, the kitchen, my desk and bookshelves, and beyond a further half wall, my bedroom in the corner with the best windows.
Rachel unwraps the scarf, then shrugs off her jacket. I take them from her and arrange them carefully on the coat rack. My fingers linger for a moment on the warmth inside the jacket. Her warmth.
“What would you like to drink?”
&nbs
p; “What do you normally have?”
“Café au lait.”
She sits gingerly on the sofa. “That would be lovely.”
I make the coffee, glancing over at her from time to time. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looks uncomfortable.
“Are you sore?” I blurt out. I didn’t paddle her that hard last week. Did I?
“What?” She’s startled, turning to meet my concern. “Oh, you mean…?” She gestures vaguely at her ass. “Yeah, a little.”
I continue to frown until finally she senses my worry. She’s dismayed at the idea. “Oh, Lord, no. Not you. Never you. This is… It happened over the weekend.” Rachel waves a hand up to her face and down toward her knees. All of it, the black eye, the bandages, her ass—it all happened together.
Then, feeling very dense indeed, I get it. “The man you’re dating.”
It’s an accusation but not a question. I know the answer.
She nods.
I am so furious that I have to force myself to a calm I don’t feel. I focus on the task at hand. I can kill the son of a bitch later.
When the coffee’s done, I bring the two mugs over to the table by the sofa.
“Sugar?” I push over a bowl crammed with sachets of brown sugar, white sugar and sweeteners but she waves it away.
I wait for her to tell me. I’m desperate to find the boyfriend, whose name I can never remember, and show him what brutality feels like. But I won’t leave Rachel. She comes first.
“I was going to break it off with Danny,” she starts slowly. “But he… I gather Ginny’s fiancé told Danny about you—about my coming here and why. Danny didn’t like that.” She glances at me for a moment, then back at her coffee.
“So he beat you up?”
She considers this. “Yes. I guess he did.” When I make a noise, she adds with more certainty, “Yes, of course he beat me up. He said he was punishing me, and this is what I must like, but there wasn’t anything consensual about what he was doing.”
“You went to the police, yes?”
She nods. “And changed the locks at my apartment, and filed for an order of protection. I’m willing to press charges, but I need to talk to a lawyer first.”
I’m about to argue with her when my brain kicks back in. Of course she has to be careful. The bastard will argue that it was consensual BDSM sex play.
“I am so sorry.” I keep my voice low. I feel so impotent, inadequate.
She bends her head a bit. It’s almost a nod, but mostly a gesture of acceptance.
I’m missing a piece of this story.
“Rachel,” I begin. When she looks at me, I go on. “I thought… Forgive me, but I thought you were taking these lessons for him, for this banker. Had you not discussed it with him?”
She shakes her head. Her cheeks flush and she looks away in embarrassment. “I realized last week that I was confused about what I wanted. I thought I wanted to su—to be submissive to someone. Only Danny’s not a dominant, he’s an abuser. I signed up for the lessons because I knew I’d have to be able to say no if he took it too far. But I’d gotten him all wrong. He doesn’t want to think about my needs, he just wants to—well, it doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s in the past.”
She lifts her chin and glares at me. “I fought back, you know.”
I smile. “Of course you did.”
She frowns at me. Clearly, I’m still missing the point.
“No. You don’t understand. I don’t think I would have before my lessons with you. I might have let him do…what he did to me. I might have been too scared to stand up to him.” She puts her mug down on its plate and turns toward me.
“You taught me what submission is about. It’s so much more than surrendering. It’s all about accepting pleasure, accepting someone else’s gift. I’d hoped to give something to him, but it would have been all wrong. He wouldn’t have given anything back. You taught me how to receive.”
I ache to take her in my arms, to shelter her from all the suffering and pain in the world. I want to protect her.
But she doesn’t belong to me.
Rachel stands up. “I should probably go. I’ve got a check for you, though, as I didn’t cancel the session in time.”
I chop my hand in a dismissive gesture that stops her from opening her purse. Fuck the money. “I don’t want payment, Rachel. I want to know you’re going to be all right.”
I move around the coffee table and place my hands on her shoulders, very lightly. “Please, would you let me check you out? I have some salve that will help with the bruises.”
She hesitates, coloring a pretty pink, at least the bits that aren’t already the motley hues of healing bruises. Then her submissive side kicks in and she relaxes in agreement.
She’s moving toward the atelier but I stop her. “No, we’ll be more comfortable over here.” I’ve got a padded table in there, but I don’t want her to feel like a student. And I very much want her in my bed, even if it’s only medicinal.
I lead her over. I pull the top sheet and blankets away, letting them puddle on the floor. Then I turn to her and start the careful job of taking her clothing off very gently. She’s wearing loose jeans and a cardigan buttoned almost all the way to her neck. I undo the buttons, pulling the knit fabric away from her chest so my fingers don’t press on her skin.
She isn’t wearing a bra underneath and I can see why. The bruises on her breasts and ribs would have made even the loosest bra unpleasant. I resist the urge to kiss each tender spot and instead go to work on her shoes.
When she’s naked, I help her onto the bed. I know I’m overdoing the solicitousness, but I can’t help it. I want to spare her any pain I can.
Before she lies back against the mounded pillows, I scoop up her hair and coil it loosely at the top of her head. I need to see that her neck is okay.
She must be reading my mind. “Danny’s never seen that part of me. Only you know how much more naked I feel with my hair up.”
I’m stunned. I hadn’t consciously thought about it, I just play with her hair because it’s so sensual, silky and soft. But then I remember how she shivered when I kissed her nape. Interesting. A part of her only I have loved.
“You are so lovely. Every inch of you is precious,” I murmur in French.
She gives me a flirtatious smile. “Je parle français.” She has an adorable accent, very French 101.
“Je sais.” I lift her hand, the one without the bandage, and press my lips to her knuckles.
I go to get the salve. I start on her face, dabbing it on, keeping well away from her eye. Then her arms, where the bastard must have gripped her viciously. Her ribs, which she assures me have been x-rayed and are fine. Her breasts. Her nipples pebble up and I can’t resist rubbing some salve into each of them even though they clearly aren’t hurting. At least not hurting from that barbarian’s blows.
Rachel’s eyes close and she’s moaning a little, but it’s a pleasure sound. She arches her back.
“Oh, my darling, I’d make love to you, I would, but I daren’t. You’re too sore,” I say in quick, idiomatic French.
She opens her eyes, stormy gray with reproach that she can’t understand what I said. “That was too fast.”
I grin at her. I know I’m over the line on every measure, but she’s my love and she’s hurt. Seeing her brutalized has shaken me—I won’t leave her and I doubt I’ll be able to let her leave until I know she’s okay. I’m done pretending I’m just her instructor. She can reject me when she’s healthy again.
“Turn over,” I say.
Her ass is the worst. The son of a bitch had clearly taken a belt to her and just flailed away with no finesse.
“It looks worse that it feels,” she insists.
I know it must have been excruciating at the time, but it’s been a couple of days. I check for broken skin or open wounds, but it looks like it’s only bruising. I rub in the salve. I’m a little firmer here; the massa
ging pressure will actually help with blood circulation to the area.
Rachel groans. Is that a pleasure sound?
“Too much?” I ask.
“No. No, it’s wonderful. Don’t stop.”
She parts her legs a little, pressing her left leg against my hip. Her inner thighs are slick with arousal, and the scent of it mingles with the herbal tang of the salve.
I want to dip into her, taste her even. But she’s too sore. She needs to heal.
Distracting myself from the urge to tie Rachel up and fuck her with my mouth, I press my lips to the small of her back instead. Her skin is fragrant with soap and her own smell. I kiss another step in her spine, and then another and another. Her mews of pleasure push me on, up her back until finally I have to straddle her to reach the final curve of her spine where it dips into her neck. I’m careful to keep all my weight on my knees as I start to knead her shoulders.
“Oh, God, yes.” She sounds like she’s in pain, but I know that tone—it’s straight from the “hurts so good” catalogue.
I’m not doing a really sexy massage, but it’s hardly clinical. I can tell from her frisson that Rachel understands what my hands are saying. That I love her skin, her body, her; that I would heal her with my touch alone if I could, that I want her very much, but that I won’t—I can’t—even suggest it until she’s well past the beating that swine inflicted.
“Marc?”
“Yes?”
“Could I still have my lesson?”
I stop the massage and straighten my back, stunned. “But you’re hurt.”
Rachel twists her body around so that she’s on her back, looking up at me, her hair a wild tangle on my pillow. “It’s not as bad—”
“As it looks. I know. But surely it’s too soon?”
She’s looking at me with hope and eagerness, and even a distinctly sexual expression in her eyes. “I want it.” Her voice is low but firm. “Please.”
Love Letters Volume 1: Obeying Desire Page 6
