by Helena Maeve
They wouldn’t be the first well-heeled men to take long walks across the Kinsey scale while keeping up a front of respectability.
Dylan was quiet for a long moment. “Could we talk over coffee?”
“Afraid someone bugged your phone?”
“No, but I can tell you’ve got some thoughts,” Dylan said softly.
That was putting it mildly. Hazel glanced at the rain-spattered window. “You could come over.”
“Right now?”
“Unless you’re busy—“
“No,” Dylan said, a little more forcefully than was necessary. “No, now is fine. I can come now.”
“Bring coffee,” Hazel told him.
She hung up and set about putting the apartment to rights. It wasn’t as bad as it had been two nights ago, when they’d wound up at her place because his was under occupation. There were no dirty dishes and the living room was as spotless as it got. The bedroom was another matter. Hazel found last night’s dress scattered at the foot of the bed, her pumps by the door. She stuffed her underclothes into the hamper with the rest of the laundry, to be washed in three days’ time, the earliest she’d been able to book the washing machine in the basement.
Dylan rang the intercom just as she was brushing out the knots in her damp hair.
Hazel buzzed him in.
“I didn’t know if you had breakfast already, so I got us a couple of BLTs,” Dylan confessed, holding up a plastic bag.
“You’re not huffing and puffing.”
“They fixed the elevator.” They stood in Hazel’s foyer, neither of them entirely at ease, until Dylan sighed and leaned in to peck her on the cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Last night. This morning. Whatever’s going on… I should’ve told Ward it was too soon, but he insisted.”
Hazel felt her face heat. “Didn’t seem like he knows how to take no for an answer.”
She produced two plates and a couple of paper napkins from the kitchen before joining Dylan on the couch. The napkins were patterned with snowmen and mistletoe, remnants from last Christmas’ sad-sack, one-woman feast—a far cry from three-figure dinners at an upscale restaurant in the heart of the city.
It was a little late to feel awkward around Dylan. After all, last night she’d been naked in his bed, his cock down her throat. Yoga pants and a hoodie couldn’t be any more embarrassing than no clothes at all.
“Speaking of Ward,” Dylan started cautiously, “I just got off the phone with him.”
Hazel froze, paper cup halfway to her mouth. “Oh. Do you have report to him before you’re allowed to see me?” She might have been able to keep the arch tone at bay if she’d bothered trying. “What did he say?”
“That he had a great time and would love it if we’d join him at his place in San Diego next time he decides he’s too good for L.A… Full disclosure, I may have taken liberties with that last part.”
“Huh.” Hazel tilted into the cushions stacked against the armrest of the couch. “Didn’t see that coming…” Intimidating, background-checking Ward wanted to play host. What’s he planning now? A ‘greatest hits’ exhibition?
Dylan picked at a pill on his trouser leg. He was dressed for work, the clean lines of his suit a cross between undertaker and CIA operative. “I think you have it wrong.”
“What, you mean Ward really, really likes me?” Hazel rolled her eyes. “He’s not that good of an actor.”
“No, but he does have a hard time making himself understood.”
“His accent isn’t that thick.”
Dylan pressed his lips into a thin line, breathing out through his nose. He seemed to be trying hard to indulge her, but it was costing him. Hazel felt a touch of remorse for the unnecessarily flippant tone. When she got nervous, she lashed out whichever way she could.
“He’s never been comfortable with new people. That’s why he does his homework, why he overcompensates with a slew of anecdotes… It’s not that he’s trying to monopolize the conversation,” Dylan insisted. “He’s just nervous.”
“He’s a thirty-year-old CEO.” Did it bear recalling? Hazel hadn’t felt more out of her depth since she’d had to sit next to Reverend McDaniels at her brother’s wedding, after the pictures came out.
“And in debt up to his neck. And trying to keep his father’s company from sinking… If it’s Ward you’re worried about, don’t be. He’ll learn to like you.”
“Or you’ll what? Leave him?”
Dylan cocked his head. “Is that it, then? You’re uncomfortable with our relationship.”
It wasn’t an accusation Hazel could easily refute. Instead, she scowled. “You’re acting like I’m supposed to be okay dating a man who’s sleeping with another dude. I don’t know many women who’d be on board with that.”
And it’s not why I’m struggling. It would’ve been easier if she could have drawn a line in the sand and claim that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—step over it, come hell or high water. At least then she could pretend to have standards.
“I don’t know any.” Dylan set his plate on the coffee table and pushed himself up. It was too controlled to kindle panic in Hazel’s gut.
He cut an incongruous picture, pacing the length of Hazel’s living room in his Italian leather shoes, charcoal gray suit draping seamlessly down his body. It was a bit like hanging the Mona Lisa over an Ikea sideboard. It just didn’t work.
“I’ve known Ward for more than a decade,” he confessed. “And yes, there have been others since, but I’ve never been interested in a relationship with any of them.”
“Until I came along?” Hazel asked, arching her eyebrows.
Dylan abruptly stopped pacing, his back to the window. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“It’s very flattering. Are you sure it’s because you’ve never wanted to date anyone before and not that Ward wouldn’t allow it?”
“Yes.”
“That makes one of us,” Hazel muttered under her breath. She knew that Dylan heard. She knew it in the narrowing of his eyes and the straightening of his broad shoulders, as if he was bracing for battle.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he replied, dipping into his ‘Dom voice’ at a moment’s notice. “Ward Parrish is my closest friend. My relationship with him is not up for debate. If you’re worried it’ll interfere with what we have—don’t be. I can keep them separate. I’ve done it for years.”
All that kept Hazel from spitting her coffee back was some dormant sense of propriety and the knowledge that somewhere at the back of his mind, Dylan was probably judging her already. She barked out a mirthless laugh. “And if I’m not convinced, you’ll pick him. Is that it?”
“I don’t see it as a choice.”
“Well, I do.” It was Hazel’s turn to stand. She pushed a slice of damp hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe you’re trying to guilt me for not wanting to share the man I’m seeing. Like that’s an outrageous thing to ask!”
“It’s not,” Dylan agreed. “But it’s not something I can offer.”
“That settles it, I guess.” It didn’t feel like much of a victory. “I think you should go.”
“Hazel—”
She shook her head. “Thanks for lunch.”
Dylan didn’t stop her turning her back on him. He didn’t block her path as she started down the hall to the bedroom.
“I’ll be in Shanghai for the next couple of weeks,” he said to her retreating back. “Can I call you when I get back?”
No simmered on the tip of Hazel’s tongue, rich and satisfying like chocolate liqueur. It was also the equivalent of closing a door she’d barely peeked through and too final to be spoken.
“It’s a free country,” Hazel retorted off-handedly.
The ugly wall-to-wall carpet in the living room and the dented linoleum that blanketed the entryway muffled Dylan’s footfalls. The click of the door shutting in his wake rang like a bell toll.
By the time Hazel s
pun around, he was already gone.
Chapter Eight
An hour stretched into three, then five. Noon rolled around before Hazel made herself pick at what was left of the BLTs. Her appetite remained elusive. No matter how faithfully she tried to devote herself to Days of Our Lives reruns, she couldn’t stop replaying Dylan’s parting shot in her head.
It spun in and out of focus like a screeching, broken record.
Hazel should have asked him to stay. She should’ve said It’s not you, it’s me. Clichés were cheap, but no cheaper than putting blame where there was none. She couldn’t get over the chance that maybe some of what he’d said was true.
Maybe he did want her—and not just to smack around in bed.
She rose from the couch to dispose of the sandwich wrappers. The trashcan overflowed. She needed to take it down the curb, get at least one thing done for the day.
Anxiety bit at her insides. Sadie had recommended that she go for a walk.
So why the makeup?
Hazel blinked at her reflection, mindful of smearing the mascara she’d just applied.
Why the push-up bra?
She donned a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Sadie had returned her car keys the other day. Hazel grabbed them off the hook by the door—just in case she felt like going for a drive. According to sources, Mulholland was supposed to be quite the scenic route.
Garbage bag stowed in the appropriate dumpster, Hazel idled for a long beat on the curb. There was no harm in driving around. It might even help clear her head.
She kept up the illusion as she gunned the engine and peeled away from the sidewalk.
The Volvo shook when she changed gears, but otherwise lurched along smoothly. Hazel told herself that if the brakes stuck again, or if the dashboard gas gauge lit up, she’d turn back.
Driving around LA was Sadie’s way of coping with a head full of terrible thoughts. Hazel preferred sleep—or work, when she absolutely couldn’t get more of the former. But if she closed her eyes now, there was a good chance she’d be catapulted back to Dunby.
Or, worse, she’d dream herself back to college.
She didn’t question her internal GPS when it bade her turn right on Aulden, or her foot when it eased off the gas. The odds of finding a parking spot were slim. Dylan and Ward were probably still at work.
Conviction didn’t stop her keeping an eye out for a silver BMW or Dylan’s eye-catching Tesla. She only saw the one. And lucky for her, Dylan had left a generous twenty feet between him and the next parked car.
Hazel slotted neatly into the gap, barely even grazing the curb with her rear tire.
This is a bad idea. She was better off going home and medicating with Ben & Jerry’s.
She tore the keys out of the ignition before she could think better of it. Inside, the walk-up gleamed with flickering electric light, just as it had on her first visit. Hazel took the steps slowly, every footfall bringing her closer to the lip of an invisible ledge. She knuckled the doorbell with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Since she was here, she might as well.
It didn’t mean that she was recanting.
It didn’t mean—
Dylan wrenched open the sliding door, phone pressed to his ear. Confusion settled quickly on his features when he saw her on the landing.
“One moment, please…” He pressed the cell to his chest. “Hazel? What’re you doing here?”
I came to apologize. I came to ask you not to contact me again. It was the first time in six years that Hazel found herself tongue-tied in a man’s presence. Her courage threatening to slink away, she surged forward and pressed her lips to his.
It was a chaste kiss, but it might have been more if Dylan hadn’t tilted back and out of her reach. “Let me call you back,” he said into the phone. A moment later, he thumbed the Call End key and opened his door a little wider. “Think you’d better come in.”
Hazel would’ve done it anyway, but the invitation raised goosebumps on her arms as she did so. The loft was different in the daytime. Amber light slanted through the west-facing windows, splashing across the floorboard in an artless, geometric array. Hazel noticed Dylan’s suit jacket dangling from the back of a kitchen chair. She saw a laptop, lid open, on the table before it.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” was the closest thing to a hello to pass her lips.
Dylan shook his head, the picture of exhaustion, and bypassed the question. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”
“Yes, well… I’m a woman. We’re notoriously indecisive,” she shot back, wincing.
Had that really come out of her mouth?
“That’s not what I’ve found.” Dylan crossed to the kitchen with a sure gait. He was so composed, so distant, that Hazel barely recognized him. “Would you like something to drink?”
She could put up with a lot—floggers, ropes—but she’d never mastered the cold shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, hating herself for caving in so easily. Hating Dylan for making her squirm while he pretended to peruse the contents of his fridge.
“What for?”
“Don’t do that,” Hazel pleaded. She didn’t mean to make her voice small and pitiful. It just happened. Many things did. She was out of practice, hard limits blurred like smudged ink.
Dylan let the fridge door click shut.
“Don’t make me grovel,” Hazel clarified. “I can’t… I’m not good at it and if you pull that shit again, I’ll walk out.”
“Are there only two speeds with you?”
“What?”
Dylan propped his elbows against the kitchen island, granite dark and gritty against his impeccable white sleeves. “Either you cut and run, or you throw yourself in full throttle? Seems like a dangerous way to live.”
“Spare me the pop psychology.”
He tightened his jaw. “Why are you here, Hazel?” There it was, that gravelly note in his voice, the suggestion of authority where he had none.
“I told you—”
“You said something about apologizing. Were that true, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to pick a fight.”
Hazel couldn’t have answered if he stayed put, scrutinizing her from across the room. It was a foregone conclusion as he approached. She sucked in a breath when he slid his fingers through her hair. He had such beautiful hands. They hurt so good when he used them to strike, to pinch—to pull. Hazel smothered a whimper as the caress became a vicious tug, Dylan’s way of holding her still.
“What do you need?” he asked, pressing in so close that when he spoke, his breath fanned against her lips.
It was as irrational as it was pathetic, but Hazel wanted nothing more than to drown in his scent. “Hurt me,” she pleaded, as she hadn’t in years. Hurt me. It’ll make you feel better.
You’ll forgive me then.
Dylan released her abruptly, eyes dark with promise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His gaze darted over her face, taking in the set line of her jaw, the furrow between her brows. Then he nodded, rallying.
“I want you naked and spread over the spanking bench. Go.”
Hazel’s feet knew the way. She was tugging off her shirt before she reached the bedroom door. Dylan struck her as the fastidious type, so she made sure to fold her clothes into a neat pile before entering the playroom. Her heart slammed against her ribcage as the lights flicked on. Motion sensors. She scoped the torture implements on the walls. Dylan had invested an arm and a leg in this little corner of hell. But is it his money or Ward’s?
She had a brief, stomach-churning thought that she should check for cameras before she did anything else, but the echo of familiar footfalls aborted the intention.
The spanking horse was small and padded, with a couple of welded strap loops on the underside. Hazel positioned herself with her back to the door—and waited.
Dylan’s tread aborted a good fifteen feet away from the spanking horse, the silence pregnant with foreboding. She tried to see herself
through his eyes—pale and shivering, her hands awkwardly clasped under the padded bench. She’d rested her knees right up against the legs, but she parted them when Dylan crossed to her and nudged the toes of his leather shoe against her calves.
“You’ve done this before.”
It wasn’t a question, but Hazel breathed out a “Yes” all the same.
“With?”
“A switch or a paddle.” Or your bare hand. Her experience ran the gamut from impromptu fun to aches so persistent she couldn’t sit down for days.
Dylan brushed her hair from her shoulder, ignoring her shiver. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh… Oh.” Was she supposed to tell him about that? The rules, as she remembered them, were very clear. Keeping secrets from her Dom was a no-no. But Dylan wasn’t that in any real capacity, not yet, and Hazel found herself prevaricating. “Someone else, a while ago…”
“A boyfriend?”
No. “Yes.” Sort of. The more she talked, the less sure of herself she felt.
She heard more than saw Dylan crouch down. He slid a knuckle under her chin. The camber of her neck was only uncomfortable for an instant. Then Dylan was kissing her and Hazel felt something inside her—a tense knot of dread and suspicion—promptly unravel.
“Drop your head,” he instructed, guiding her with a warm palm on her nape. He didn’t sound angry anymore. He wasn’t asking questions she couldn’t answer.
Hazel did as told, cheeks burning when the spanking bench creaked beneath her weight. She gripped her wrists a little tighter. Dylan wouldn’t keep shoddy equipment in his playroom, would he? He wouldn’t put her in danger just for kicks.
His usual submissives are probably not as heavy…
That small, treacherous voice at the back of her mind abruptly fell silent as the sound of skin hitting skin rang out like a party popper. A sharp sting followed quickly on its heels, heat rushing up the length of Hazel’s spine to explode behind her eyes. She gasped. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered how much it might hurt to make herself into Dylan’s willing victim. The end—squaring things between them so he didn’t drop her before she was ready—more than excused the unorthodox means.
