If my axis had a wheel, Dominic Cross’s hands are on it. Since our first night together, my unconscious—my subconscious—all of me—has been consumed by him. I exist in a new state of sexual awareness and craving. Even the sight of his broad shoulders moving through the club accelerates my heart. And his touch?
I’m an addict—he is my drug.
We meet in his loft approximately twice a week. On the nights I have to work the next day, he takes it easy on me. Relatively. The other nights, though… we are gods who pray only at each other’s altars. Sacrifice and surrender, brutality and succor. And each time we’re together, I see him forgive himself a little more. Accept himself a little more. Honor himself a little more each time he honors my needs. My pain. He takes it, or maybe I give it.
Whatever it is, whatever is happening between us, it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced with another person. Despite my past, which is firmly in the do not talk about category, with Dominic I’m honest in a way I’ve never been before. I’m free to speak the truth of my body.
I don’t know what will become of me—or rather, who I’ll become. And I’d be lying to myself if I said I’m not still haunted by demons, don’t have trouble sleeping on the nights I’m not with him, or never think about Paul and the past. But when I’m with Dominic, there are no ghosts.
There is only him.
At work, we pretend we don’t seek each other out, watch each other, or trade a thousand punishments and pleasures in one look. We’ve never been to a playroom on my off hours. We don’t hide in a closet to make out. Far from it—he hasn’t kissed me since that night I woke up from a nightmare in his bed.
But there are other ways he shows me he thinks of me when we’re not together. A brush of his fingers on mine as we pass in the hallway. A book of erotic poetry left where only I would find it. And notes in my locker almost every day. I look forward to them, feel fluttery and hot with anticipation every time I get to work.
No underwear tonight
How does your ass feel today?
You didn’t call me when you got home last night
How bad do you want my cock, kitten?
The answer is bad. The pleasure I’ve felt at his hands far surpasses any I’ve experienced—or even dreamed of—but as the days and weeks bleed by, there’s a rising emptiness inside me only his body can remedy.
Before Dominic, I never would have thought it possible to get sick of a man eating me out, fingering me, or using any number of toys to get me off. But I am. At this point, I’m not sure who he’s punishing, himself or me.
But the alternative is to walk away, and I can’t. Don’t want to. Might not ever.
In addition to the notes, Dominic also likes leaving little presents in my locker, usually with brief instructions. Ben Wa balls. A butt plug. A tiny vibrator with a wireless remote—which I learned about the hard way while chatting with a customer.
If you come, you’re in trouble
Put it in. Use spit for lube
Don’t spill any drinks
If I were a whole woman, I’d be halfway in love with him. As it is, my pain and pleasure take the place of my heart. My body is his playground, his canvas, his instrument. His inhuman restraint is my greatest agony.
I want him to break—or maybe I want him to break me. He seems to know, and before every scene he reminds me of my safe word.
I haven’t used it. Don’t want to. Might not ever.
25
On a Thursday evening in August, I take matters into my own hands. Dominic has been out of town the last three days visiting his parents in Napa Valley. In lieu of pining in his absence or stalking his social media for updates on his whereabouts, I’ve spent the time brainstorming with Nathan on how best to seduce my Dom. I even picked Charlie’s brain. As awkward as that conversation was for both of us, I learned some essential facts about Dominic. Facts I’m going to use mercilessly against him tonight.
I spent the afternoon getting everything ready in the loft. I’m wearing his favorite color—blood red—from panties to dress. I’ve made his favorite meal, chicken cacciatore, and his favorite Miles Davis album is queued on the record player. All that’s left is to wait and try not to chew off my lipstick.
Thanks to Google, I know his flight landed forty minutes ago. He should be here any minute. Every sound outside makes my heart leap and fools my ears into thinking it’s his key in the door.
Another twenty-five minutes pass. The oven goes off. I pull out the chicken and promptly start worrying it will be cold by the time he gets here. To distract myself, I re-toss the salad, fuss with my hair in the bathroom mirror, and wipe off then reapply my lipstick. Dominic has taught me plenty about patience, but it’s still not my strong suit.
When I finally crack and grab my phone to call him, it rings in my hands. Sighing in relief at the sight of his name on the screen, I answer.
“Sir?”
“Room six. Now.” The line goes dead.
Lowering the phone from my ear, I consider that all my preparations are for naught. I glance at the counter where our dinner is rapidly cooling, then at the candles flickering merrily on the table.
I laugh and bend over to blow out the flames.
Screw the chicken.
If I didn’t know the club like the back of my hand by now, I might be nervous walking down the shadowed hallway housing the playrooms. But though I’ve never used a room, I’ve seen firsthand what each has to offer.
Knowing he wants room six fills me with a delicious mixture of anticipation and dread. Among regulars at the club, it has the nickname Devil’s Den. Like something out of a gothic horror novel, the playroom has dark walls, minimal lighting, and an antique-flare with accents of crimson and navy. One wall is covered entirely in tools of the trade—gags, cuffs, harnesses, hoods, spreader bars, clamps, paddles, floggers, hooks, ropes, chains…
It’s a torture chamber.
When I reach the room, I’m breathing heavily, fear spiking as I see the curtain drawn over the viewing window. I wonder what he has planned for me. If I can stand it—if I want it.
Despite my nerves, the answer comes swiftly. Yes. Yes, I want it. Anything and everything he has to give me.
I don’t care if my needs classify me as a masochist. If some might think me weak, or damaged, or lacking self-esteem. They don’t know shit. And I don’t care, either, that to the general population Dominic’s desire to deliver pain is considered a mental illness. To me—for me—he is an iron glove swathed in velvet. Redemption at the end of a whip.
Before my fingers touch the doorknob, the wood swings open. Air leaves my lungs in a rush.
All the furniture save one piece has been removed. Candlelight glows around the thick, padded bench set perpendicular on the opposite wall. Shackles hang from it, waiting for my limbs. A thick collar also rests on the black surface, its attached chain linked to the wall. Soft, lush music drifts from speakers, the rhythm fluttering against my skin. But what makes my pulse pound in need is the man waiting for me.
“Good evening, London,” says the demigod in leather pants and nothing else. A smile teases the corner of his lips. “Are you ready to play?”
There’s only one answer.
“Yes, sir.”
He nods. “Clothes off. Hands and knees on the bench.”
I rush to obey, stripping out of my dress and lingerie with Dominic’s searing gaze caressing my every move. His appreciation glows in my chest, spinning my anticipation to new heights.
The supple leather of the bench is cool under my palms and knees.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, warm palm sliding down my spine, making me sigh in relief. “You have no idea the things I want to do to you.”
“You can do whatever you want, sir.”
“Mmm. Is that so? Head up.”
As I obey, he lifts my hair from my nape and reaches for the collar. The interior is soft, the buckles clinking softly as he fastens them. In short order, my ankles and wrists a
re shackled. I squirm, testing the limits of the chains.
“One more,” he says, reaching overhead to a thick belt that hangs from the ceiling. He fastens it around my waist, pulling the chain until my spine is straight. The support is a false promise—it only means I can’t lower onto my forearms without hurting myself.
When a tremble shakes me from head to toe, he sighs in pleasure. “You love not knowing what’s coming, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, my head dropping forward.
“Head up,” he snaps, “unless you want me to tighten the chain on your collar.”
I jerk my chin up, my eyes fluttering closed. “No, sir.”
“I thought not. Point your toes. Like that. Are you comfortable?”
“No, sir.”
He chuckles darkly. “Good. Maybe this will help.”
I know by the tone of his voice that whatever this is, it’s only going to heighten my anxiety. Sure enough, a strip of dark fabric covers my eyes. There’s a tug as he ties it, a small pinch in my scalp as my hair pulls. I whimper.
He strokes my shoulder, my flank, then gently squeezes my breasts. Pleasure spreads in waves from the contact, then turns on itself as clamps bite down on my nipples. Because of my inverted position, the pressure is more painful than usual, but I welcome it. Embrace it as the high-pitched hum of a vibrator fills the air, as he attaches it to a mount and positions it between my legs.
I’m not ready for it, the vibration on my clit an unwanted shock. I squirm helplessly to escape even though there’s nowhere to go.
It sets the tone of the evening.
Whatever’s on his mind tonight gives him an edge I haven’t seen, brings a rawness to his actions, makes everything brighter and more potent.
Whistling whip.
Searing fire.
Pulsing heat.
Warm glow.
Crack—crack—crack.
Stinging feet.
Shoulders.
Ass.
Harsh commands.
Filthy purrs of approval.
I break, and break, and break.
Merciless pleasure. Pitiless pain. I’m ready—exultant—when the sweeping wave of surrender takes me. I belong to pain and him, and they belong to me.
My pain is my choice.
I’m his therapy and redemption as much as he is mine. The taste of our communion is bitterness laced with cream. Sugary arsenic. For what I want, he doesn’t give, in the end spilling his seed on my back instead of inside me.
Never inside me.
Sadist.
But also my savior, for when he’s unraveled me to the most fundamental level of my humanity, the greatest gift arrives. Whispery nothingness. Floating peace. If not exactly forgiveness, it nevertheless feels like acceptance.
Each time he breaks me, I rebuild a little more.
After, he holds me as I come down, his face tucked into my neck. My fingers play in the soft hair at his nape.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
He nuzzles me, holds me tighter. I don’t protest—it’s worth the discomfort. “I am now,” he answers at length, lips against my pulse.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
His smile curls against my skin. “I just did.”
I huff out my amusement. Beneath it, though, is a tingle of intuition coupled with fear. The good kind of fear, like falling with a parachute.
“You just missed me, didn’t you?”
He nips me lightly. “You’re pushing it.” No bite in the words, only soft affection. Content with my sleuthing efforts, I snuggle deeper into his embrace.
26
“So…”
“So, what?”
“Come on,” whines Paris. “We don’t keep secrets, remember? Spill.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughs at my horrible attempt at lying. “Bullshit. Something happened. Something’s changed. You sound”—her voice softens—“more like yourself. Like the baby sister I’ve missed so much.”
The words are double-edged. Sweet and painful. My chopping of lettuce pauses, then resumes with more force. “Maybe it’s just time, you know? I’m finally getting used to… it.”
“So you don’t have a boyfriend?” She doesn’t bother masking her disappointment. “I thought maybe—”
“Nope,” I interject. “No boyfriend.”
Just a Dom.
A Dom who still won’t fuck me. He’ll whip me, flog me, tie me up, hang me from the ceiling of his bedroom, play my body and senses and make me orgasm like it’s his freaking job, but he has yet to make good on his promise. You’re going to have to see it eventually. He won’t even let me touch it or taste it, no matter how much I’ve begged. It’s frustrating. Painful.
I love it.
Smiling to myself, I separate the lettuce onto three plates and top the salads with pine nuts, crumbled gorgonzola, and thin slices of bell pepper. Across the country, Paris is calmly asking my niece why she decided to cut the hair off her Barbies. My smile widens as Suzie states her case and runs, squealing, from the room.
“Lord, did you hear that?”
I chuckle. “Seems logical. No hair, no lice.”
She groans. “A kid she goes to school with had lice last month, and the school did a big assembly on it. Put ideas in her head.”
“At least she didn’t cut her own hair, right?”
“Oh, shit, I didn’t even think of that.” She pulls the phone away from her face. “Josh! Will you hide all the scissors, please?” There’s an indistinct male response in the background. “Gah! I gotta run. He’s in one of those moods where he pretends he doesn’t know where anything is. I swear, there are days I want to strangle—” Choked gasp. “London, God, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
I laugh past the ache in my chest. “Hey, stop that. I don’t want you to walk on eggshells with me. It’s been almost two years.”
She hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I say, though I’m anything but.
“Okay. Love you. Talk soon?”
“Yep.”
I end the call just as there’s a knock on my front door. Without waiting for permission, Nate and Steph enter in a frenetic cloud of fragrance, glitter, and nightclub attire. Within minutes, the conversation with my sister is forgotten as we dive into salads and fresh bread rolls and chat about what bar we’re hitting before dancing the night away.
Shocking everyone—myself included—I was the one to suggest going clubbing. Nate initially wanted a low-key celebration for his twenty-fifth birthday, but I couldn’t allow that. Twenty-five is the last great measuring stick of youth—you’re finally allowed to rent a car in most foreign countries. For my own milestone, Paul surprised me with a trip to… yes, London. And of course, I did the honors of renting us a car.
I can’t take Nate somewhere exotic, but I can make sure he has a memorable birthday.
“Oh here, before I forget.” Grabbing the small, wrapped package from my purse, I hand it to him.
“I told you not to get me anything!”
“Just open it.”
After another look of censure, Nate tears the paper off and opens the little cardboard box. He reads the note inside, then gapes at me. “Are you serious?”
“What is it?” demands Steph.
I wink at her. “I got him a spot in that photography workshop he’s been talking about.”
Nate grabs me in a spine-cracking hug. “Oh my God, London! That workshop has been booked for months! How on earth did you manage this?”
I giggle. “Trade secret.”
“Whatever, I don’t even care if you sold your soul for it. I’m so freaking stoked. You’ve made my day, month, year, et cetera.”
I kiss his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
“At least my card was really funny,” grumbles Steph.
Laughing together, we head into the night.
By 3:00 a.m., I’m ready to call it
quits. Even though working nights has recalibrated my biological clock, there’s a huge difference between bartending for six hours and dancing in heels for the same amount of time. If someone threw a pillow into this dark booth with me, I could pass the fuck out.
Seeing Cross last night also took a lot out of me. It was a new experience—he spent close to an hour crafting a complex masterpiece of rope and my naked body. By the time he attached me to the ceiling and slowly elevated me, I was half-asleep in my rope hammock and painfully aroused.
Then he kissed me on the cheek and left.
I’m still processing the mindfuck he put me through, and the emotional hangover from learning he was only gone for fifteen minutes. Those fifteen minutes felt like fifty. The combination of pressure and weightlessness mixed a cocktail of anxiety, claustrophobia, extreme sadness, and equally potent euphoria. And finally, peace.
When he returned, lowering me and cutting me free, I ugly-cried in his arms for another ten minutes. After… well, that’s a big slice of the mindfuck. Cross carried me to the bathroom and lowered us both into a cool, lavender-scented bubble bath. He fed me chocolate and strawberries and washed me from head to toe, even conditioning my hair. And though he was naked and hard against the crevice of my ass, I didn’t even try to look. Sex was the absolute furthest thing from my mind.
And that’s not even the weirdest part. We didn’t speak one word to each other the entire night, and we still haven’t kissed since our first and only, but the intensity of the suspension and his tenderness after opened a portal inside me. One I thought forever closed—the conviction that I could easily spend eternity in someone’s arms. His arms.
Perfect Vision (The Vision Series Book 2) Page 10
