Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  And when it was over, he’d held me for long minutes, like he didn’t want to let me go, until finally he’d rolled me to my back and declared, “Don’t move,” and he walked to my bathroom and returning with a towel before, in all his naked glory, and let me tell you, that man naked is all about glory, he brings me my clothes. “I owe you dinner,” he said. “If you still want to go?”

  “Of course I want to go,” I’d replied.

  Approval had lit his eyes and I cannot explain how that look affects me, and even arouses me. I shouldn’t need a man’s approval, of course, but it’s really not about that. In that moment, I’d remembered how intensely erotic, and addictive being owned by this man can be. I’d almost changed my mind about dinner out of fear that this was headed right back where we’d once been: master and submissive. And I’d feared I couldn’t say no.

  But I just couldn’t say goodbye right then. Not when he’d just told me he’d missed me but after we’d dressed, and headed to the car, I remember holding my breath, after asking, “Where are we going?” afraid it would be some familiar spot that would stir more of those old feelings.

  He’d surprised me though, and opened my car door, to announce, “Someplace new. Someplace you pick.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  And since as my master he always chose, I knew this was him telling me, he was really trying to give us a new future. “There’s this hole in the wall Italian place,” I said. “I love it and I want to go there.”

  “Then we’ll go there,” he’d said.

  And so we went to dinner, and while we didn’t share deep, dark secrets, we’d talked about art, which we both love, for hours. While true, even as his submissive, I’d shared dinners and conversation, with him, and there was always a bond between us, it felt different. Maybe because we’d had that passionate explosion that started the night. Maybe because at the end of the night he’d taken me home and kissed me on my doorstep, before leaving with a promise I’ll never forget. He’d held me close, his lips near my ear, as he’d said, “If I don’t leave now, I’ll do things a proper gentleman would not do to you.” He’d turned then and left me tormented. Because you see, I do not want him to be a proper gentleman. I just don’t want him to be my master.

  And that brings me back to the package, that I fear is an invitation to be his submissive again.

  Tuesday, seven am

  I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. I’d had the nightmare again only this time I wasn’t in the icy bay water. I was on that trolley, racing toward the plunge that never happened, dreading it. Fearing it. If dreams have meanings to me this one was about the package I haven’t opened. It was telling me that dread and fear, feels as horrible as an unpleasant outcome we don’t want to be real. And you see, fear is what kept me ever entering the art world, where pay tends to be low, and dreams high. But I’ve made it work. Because I got over the fear. I don’t ever want to live my life in fear again.

  So I opened the package, and inside was the ring he’d given me as his submissive, but the note inside, stunned me:

  Rebecca,

  It belongs to you, the way you once belonged to me.

  That is all the note says. He does not even sign it. And I don’t know what it means. I just know that as much as I love that ring, I’m not ready to put it back on my finger. Because you see, I fear losing him. I do. I’d admit that to no one but myself. But I fear losing me more than I do him and I was losing me as his submissive. So I put it on a chain around my neck. It’s a message to him. He can have me but this time, it’s on my terms.

  Wednesday, twelve pm

  Have you ever gone to bed dreading the next day then woke up and felt the same? Not because you just didn’t want to get out of bed. More like something was wrong. Something was going to go wrong this day. That’s how I felt this morning when I woke up, and it had nothing to do with a nightmare. For once, I didn’t have one. I thought perhaps it was about my former Master discovering the necklace that would bind us together, on a chain at my neck, rather than on my finger. I mean, yes, I want more from him, but the truth is, I have enough self worth that I do not need more at the cost of settling. And I don’t think that is what he really needs or wants either. I think I fear finding out I’m not the person who can help him see that though. That I’m really not the woman for him. But if that’s true, then parting ways is right for both of us. Painfully right. Anyway, maybe that was part of the dread I was feeling, but it felt more foreboding.

  The day has officially started weird. This morning, I arrived at the gallery and parked in the back lot, only to find no other cars. Everyone but me seemed to be running late. I headed inside and the lights were out. I left them off because I didn’t want to encourage people to come to the front door when no one else was there. But here’s the weird part. I entered the back offices and my light was on. Bossman, as everyone calls our boss, left after me last night. He’s methodical and anal. Even if I had forgotten to turn my light off, which I wouldn’t do, he would never have left it on. A shiver of unease had slid down my spine and I’d pulled my phone from my purse and dialed “911” without punching the call button. Just to be safe. A girl who is single, and a girl who was raised by an absent single mother, learns to be cautious.

  I walk to the door and peek around the corner, and to say that I was stunned is an understatement. Mary, my co-worker, who not only has an obvious crush on Bossman, but wants the opportunities he’s allowed me with his family’s auction house letting me place and sell through them, was sitting at my desk, reading one of my journals. I felt violated. Which is crazy considering the things I’ve done at the club with a master in control but that had been a choice and I’d always known, no matter how uncomfortable I felt, that he’d protect me. I’d also known I’d made the choice to do those things, no matter how reluctantly at times. But this. This I did not choose. This was, is, an invasion of my privacy. Thankfully, it was my work journal, which was at least a little less invasive but it still had my inner most personal thoughts on the staff and our clients. On her.

  I rounded the corner. “What are you doing?” I’d demanded.

  Shock had radiated across her pale face, and she shoved her bleached blonde hair behind her ears. “Oh I…I…” She’d shut the journal and shoved it in the drawer. “I was looking for sales records for last month. I can’t find them and need to do a presentation for Bossman.” She’d stood up. “You weren’t in and I was desperate.”

  “How long did desperate make you read my journal?” I’d asked.

  “Journal? That book? I’d just opened it. I need to get to my desk.” She’d rushed toward me and I wanted to stand my ground and make her explain herself, but really, what would it have solved? She’d lie and it would get more awkward. But the interesting thing. She didn’t ask me for those sales figures.

  I’d rushed to my desk and opened my drawer, removing the journal to thumb through, wondering how bad the damage would be from my words. I’d barely opened it when I’d heard, “Ms. Mason.”

  My gaze had jerked up to find Bossman himself leaning on the archway of my doorway, his blue suit, fitted to perfection, his very presence an explosion of power. And my God. He’s just so overwhelmingly male. So overwhelmingly good looking. It’s hard to work for a man like that.

  “Mr. Compton,” I’d said.

  “Why was Mary in your office?” he’d asked, his stare hooded, his tone unreadable but somehow expectant.

  I considered that answer with caution. He’s a man who doesn’t like any game he doesn’t create, though he certainly excels, at those. And he wouldn’t be asking me this question, staring at me right now, and waiting for a reply, if he didn’t suspect trouble. In a matter of seconds, I decided that that If I were to tell him what Mary had done, he’d fire her.

  “We’re co-workers,” I’d said.

  “You mean competitors.”

  “Because you pitted us against each other,” I’d reminded him. “
She wanted to work with Riptide.”

  He’d stared at me with those hard gray eyes, several intense beats before he’d said, “Yes. She did. But I don’t trust her.”

  “And you do me?” I’d asked, taking the bait he’d lead me to, and waiting for what I was certain would be an answer I did not expect.

  “You get trust when you give it,” was his reply, and he’d watched me, expectation in the air again.

  He’d wanted me to say that I trust him and I was, am, stunned by the fact that I don’t want to give him the power that would offer him. I realize now that I don’t want to play his games. I don’t want to play games at all. I’m changing personally and professionally.

  My silence had told him this. I’d seen it in the darkening of his gaze, the hard set of his jaw. Something had flickered in his eyes. I didn’t like that. His lips had twitched, and I’d known in that instant I’d displeased him when I’d spent a year trying to please him. Too often, I did not.

  He’d turned and left without a word. He does this often. It’s his way of making you wonder what he is thinking. And as you do, he has control, but remarkably, I find, it also makes me self reflect to the point, I know me better. Maybe that is why I work well with that man. His games, even when I do not, want to play them, make me grow. And this time was no different. I sat there after his departure, my fingers on the ring where it hangs at my neck, and I’d asked myself why I couldn’t give him my offer of trust. This is work. This is my career. And then, I’d realized many things, but one quite large thing I think. When I’d come to the gallery, to Mark Compton, I’d been an innocent girl, eager to earn this job. I’d come to him a young girl who had an open heart and I had trusted easily. I’m not that girl anymore, if I were the ring would be back on my finger.

  Wednesday, six pm

  I cannot write everything there is to write. Not now. I’m still at work. But this day has been crazy. I was at Ava’s coffee shop grabbing coffee to get me through what will be a late night, and I found her and Mary huddled in a corner. It made me uncomfortable. I don’t know why but I felt that it was about me. That is very self-centered, I know. I’m not that girl. I don’t think everything is about me but it just felt off in some way. I’d left before they’d seen me and that’s when I’d come face to face with him. I’d stepped outside and was halfway back to the gallery when he’d stepped in my path. Have I ever mentioned he smells like a wonderful spice? I don’t know what kind of spice. Just spice. Really, yummy, delicious spice. Nutmeg and honey? No. No. That is a strange comparison. Just warm and wonderful. And he’d been so close I could reach out and touch him, but of course, you never touch a master without behind told to touch him.

  Which is why I touched him.

  I put my hand on his chest, and I swear he sucked in a breath. And I was holding mine. To my surprise, his hand had covered mine, and he’d held me to him. “Rebecca,” he’d breathed out, and this new way he says my name, like I’m the reason he has a voice, set my heart to racing.

  “Hello,” I’d said, which was silly. Hello? I should have said his name. Why can’t I ever say it? Why is he still Master to me?

  “Did you get my gift?”

  “Yes I-” My free hand goes to the ring on the chain. “I’m wearing it.”

  He’d gone still. So very still.

  And I have to go back to work.

  More soon…

  Wednesday, eleven pm

  Somehow, I made it through an evening at the gallery that included an open house with a wine tasting. Normally, having artists in the house like the famous, Chris Merit–a local that is famous worldwide–would enthrall me. Tonight, I couldn’t stop thinking about that encounter on the street with my former Master. Former. There is the key word that we defined tonight. I think he really didn’t believe I would stick to my word. I think he really believed I’d become his submissive again. I know he did. From the very instant his heavy stare had landed on the ring where it hung on a chain at my neck, I could feel the dark energy radiating off him. I could feel the iron will of that man, telling me without words, I’d broken the rules. I knew then that sending me that package, with my ring in it again, had been his way of reclaiming me.

  In all of sixty seconds, he’d taken my hands and led me to an alcove in front of an antique shop, the concrete wall hiding us from the public eye. I’d ended up against the wall, that big body of his, caging mine, against the stone at my back. But not touching me. See, that is what he does. He makes me feel him, even when he’s not touching me. He makes me want him, when I swear, I’ll never want him again. He smells good and it makes me remember how good he tastes and feels.

  “This is how it is?” he’d demanded.

  “What does that even mean?” I’d whispered, and God, my throat had been so dry. And my heart had been racing. It’s racing now just typing this.

  “You know who and what I am,” he’d said, without directly answering my question.

  “What I know,” I’d said, “is who and what I am. And it’s not your submissive. I am, however, the woman who loves you. I’m also the woman who says that to you, and never gets a reply. That’s not enough anymore.”

  He gray eyes had sharpened, and he’s stared at me for so many seconds, it had felt like a year. “You know you’re special to me.”

  “I know every submissive you’ve ever had was special to you.”

  “You aren’t them.”

  “I know,” I’d said. “I’m not. And I will never pretend to be again.”

  His hand had come down on my hip, a branding that had scorched me from the inside out. “You belong to me.”

  When he says those things to me, I get wet, and hot, and want in so many ways. There is just something about that man saying you belong to him, that makes me want to be owned. In bed. That’s the thing. I like how he owns me in bed. I don’t, however, want to be owned the rest of the time. And damn it, I want to own him, too. I want him to belong to me, too.

  “I belong to me,” I’d replied, and I’d let the defiance I’d felt lace my words.

  “I’ll share.”

  “That’s the problem,” I’d said, those words cutting me with bad memories. I’d remembered him inviting another Master to our games. I remember him inviting her to our games. All to push me away. And I hate myself for letting him. For saying yes. “You will share,” I’d added. “And that’s not okay with me.” I’d reached up and removed his hand from my hip. “When and if you ever want to be with me, not a submissive, call me. Until then, this is goodbye.” I’d tried to step around him, but he’d tangled fingers into my hair, and stared down at me, “Rebecca,” he’d breathed out, and even now, I can still taste the kiss that had followed, the power in its depths. The push and command. It had been his body claiming mine, where his words had failed. And my body had responded. Before I’d know it, his hand was under my skirt, under my panties, and I’d been panting and moaning. I’d shattered, in too few seconds. He’d owned me.

  And yet, nothing had changed.

  I still wanted more.

  I still want more.

  And I’d told him that. “This changes nothing,” I’d said.

  He’d tilted his head upward, torment he never allows me, or anyone, to see etched in his features, the hard lines of his body, telling the same story, as the edginess radiating off him. Seconds tick by, before he lowers his chin, and looks at me. “I’m me. I can’t be anyone but who I am.”

  “And I can’t be anyone but who I am.”

  Seconds ticked by, before he’d stepped back, giving me space to leave. Oh God. My heart had hurt in that moment. I’d taken a few steps and my back was to him when he’d said, “Rebecca.”

  I’d stopped but not turned, as he’d added, “You matter to me more than you will ever know.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore than I am now. I just knew it wasn’t enough and I’d started walking again. I’d left him there in the alcove and despite the org
asm he’d given me, nothing about the experience had been satisfying.

  Anyway, back to the open house. There had been a man there. A good looking, rich, charming man. He asked me out. I said no when the truth is, maybe I should have said yes. Did I mention he’s good looking, rich, and charming? He made me laugh, even tonight, after the alcove. He made me feel pretty and wanted. He was what most would call a Dream Man.

  And yet…I said no.

  Thursday, eleven pm

  It’s been a week and one day since that encounter in the alcove. He hasn’t called me. He hasn’t sent me a note. I haven’t contacted him either. But I’ve seen him several times. We’ve made eye contact. And I’ve felt him. Not literally, but in those looks, I’ve felt his torment, his desire, his need for me. But I’ve also felt his resistance to what I need from him. I think this means we’re over.

  That Dream Man I wrote about stopped by the Gallery today, and bought a very expensive Chris Merit painting from me. It was a big commission, and I should be pleased, but he asked me out right after, and it made me feel as if he were buying me. I just…I don’t want to be owned in any way ever again. I declined the date, and when I left work tonight, he was waiting for me, leaning on a fancy sports car that I’m pretty sure cost more than that painting which was a cool hundred thousand dollars. His suit, a black pin striped number, had been thousands too I assume. I still felt the same. Like he was trying to buy me. And so I decided to just be clear and direct. I marched right up to him.

  He’d pushed off his car, and we’d stood toe to toe, closer than I’d meant to stand. “Rebecca,” he’d said, giving my velvet coat, a gift from my mother, I’d paired with an emerald green scarf, a once over, his brown eyes both warm with a gentleness and hot with attraction, when they’d met mine. “You look beautiful,” he’d added.