Luna Exposed

by Kristin Leigh

  I cover my mouth and nose too and ask, “How old are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. No. But if you’re younger than me…”

  “I’m thirty-nine,” he interrupts.

  Eight years older. Well that’s good news. I have a thing about not dating younger men. It’s silly, and for the right man I might change my mind. In the meantime though, I’m glad Gabe’s older.

  “I’m thirty-one,” I mutter, though I’m fairly certain he already knows that.

  We stay quiet for a moment, just watching each other from behind our breath-barriers. The strange drone that’s been humming away at a low level gets louder for a few seconds then quiets down again. “What is that sound?”

  “The house is 100 percent green. Solar panels everywhere I could fit them, and what you’re hearing are the wind turbines. I had to stick to the smaller ones since I’m so close to shore, but I needed more than one because the house is big and I’m going for total green energy.” He pauses and looks away. “This is the first house I’ve built, and I wanted to be completely self-reliant for energy. Off the grid, so to speak. At least until GWE can get control of the electric grid in Alabama. But I’m not just powering this house with these. I own three houses down on either side as rentals. They pull electricity off of me.”

  I watch him, a little confused. “But you have gobs of money. Why would you care about making your house green, and affordable energy? Or the environment?”

  He sighs and flops over on his back. “To tell the truth, I don’t have as much money as you seem to believe. Not on the same level as Sam Cottrell. Not yet. And as for the environment, the fact of the matter is that I really don’t care. Not a whole hell of a lot, anyway. But I had an economics professor in college who used green energy as an example. He laid out the production cost versus profits of oil, then did the same for solar and wind energy. What it boiled down to, basically, is that we won’t get away from oil because there’s too much profit because it’s a limited resource. Green energy is too readily available and cost effective to be that profitable. And I’ll never forget what he said.” Gabe looks back over at me and quotes, “‘The man who figures out how to make a profit off of something that’s perfectly free and available to all mankind will be the richest man in the world.’” He shrugs. “For a kid that depended on a rich stepfather for everything from college tuition to my socks, it was like holding a match to a stick of dynamite. I took every penny I got after that and started buying every cheap acre of land I could find. But I’m not naive enough to think I could have done it without Sam. A poor kid from a middle class family wouldn’t have the funds to buy the land or build the turbines.” His voice turns bitter as he says, “But a rich man’s stepson has a hell of a lot more opportunity than a poor, middle-class Irish bastard.” He turns over and plucks at the blanket between us, watching his hand instead of me. “Why do you ask?”

  I don’t care about GWE anymore. I want to know more about the “Irish bastard” comment, and how he ended up a rich man’s stepson if he grew up middle-class. But I know without trying that he’ll close off if I pry. So I stick to the original topic. “Curiosity, mostly. But also…” I take a deep breath, as reluctant to share anything about my kids as he would be to tell me about his past. But he shared with me, just a little, so it’s really only right that I do the same. “My daughter Hannah is extremely intelligent for her age. She’s very concerned about global warming, and reads everything she can about living a clean lifestyle.” I smile, remembering. “She even insisted we start a compost pile last year instead of buying fertilizer. It’s the biggest, smelliest thing you’ve ever seen and we use less than half of what we make.” He looks up and meets my eyes with a smile as I continue. “But she saw the GWE license plate frame on the back of the Tesla and recognized the name. So she Googled it. She spent quite a while reading about GWE and ‘the king of green.’ You’re her new hero.”

  He chuckles a little and says, “Well that’s flattering. Did you tell her about us?”

  I look away, uncomfortable. “What ‘us’ Gabe? The ‘us’ that’s going to end as soon as Dan can come home? Should I tell my nine-year-old that? Or do you mean the ‘us’ that…”

  He rolls on top of me and puts a hand over my mouth. “No. The ‘us’ that wants to see where this goes because we like each other a little too much. That’s the one you should tell her about. There will be an ‘us’ even after Dan comes home, Luna, as long as you want there to be.”

  I close my eyes and try to think, reason through what he’s saying. Because it doesn’t make sense. Rich, up-and-coming business owner wants to date a single mother who waits tables when she’s not taking college classes…It’s the stuff of fairy tales, and I don’t clap for Tinkerbell anymore. “What do I have that you want?” I whisper.

  “Luna, sweetheart…” He grunts and rolls away. I open my eyes to see him sit up on the side of the bed. He grips the sheets by his hips, crinkling the soft fabric in his fingers. His head is bent and he speaks so softly I have to strain to hear him. “You have everything that I want. You’re straightforward and hardworking. You want to give to everyone around you, but have enough pride that you won’t take where there’s no need.” He glances back over his shoulder at me. He narrows his eyes and his voice hardens when he reminds me, “I’ve told you before not to underestimate your value.”

  “Fine, I’m valuable,” I snap, irritation quickly taking the place of the pitiful self-doubt that seems to creep in at random times. He runs hot and cold so quickly that I can’t keep up; controlled, quiet, and pensive one second, angry and biting the next. Is this how men feel when a woman’s PMSing? Surely not.

  His eyebrows lower over the blue fire eyes. He seems to be waiting for something but I have no idea what. Several heartbeats pass and he’s suddenly in motion, yanking me into his lap and twisting his hand in my hair to hold my head back. Fear snakes through me, cold and paralyzing but is followed immediately by a thrill of exhilaration.

  I wait silently, my breath coming a little faster than it should, louder than his quiet, steady breathing.

  “I’m going to ask you again, Luna. A little more specifically this time. And by God you will tell me the truth.” He waits for me to nod as much as I’m able with his hand still holding my head back by my hair. “Did. He. Hit. You.” He enunciates each word, speaking slowly and deliberately.

  “N-no,” I whisper, incapable of much more than that. Not his business.

  His eyes pierce mine and he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you. When I get a little rough, a little forceful, you have fear in your eyes even though there’s some excitement there too. I’m glad that excitement’s there because I put it there. But someone else put the fear there and that pisses me the fuck off. Especially when everything about you tells me you would love to be dominated, even if you’re too afraid to trust me yet.”

  Did he just say dominated? I open my mouth to say something—I’m not sure what—but he cuts me off. “And you’d love to dominate me too, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs against my hair.

  I’m not following his one-sided conversation at all.

  The hand in my hair gentles and he strokes his fingers down my neck. “Moon goddess, do you have any fucking idea what I’m talking about?”

  I shake my head. Then I nod. Then shake again.

  He laughs and buries his face against my neck. He pushes me to stand between his legs and pats me on the butt. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s see what kind of food we can find.”

  He stands and I can’t help noticing the bulge in his boxer briefs, the clear outline of his erection pressing against the cotton. He reaches out and pinches my nipples lightly, one after another.

  “Later, sweetheart. Much later.”

  * * * *

  I find some pancake mix and manage to whip us up a few pancakes while he sits at the island watching me. I haven’t spoken at all since we came downstairs, my mind racing too qui
ckly to process a thought completely enough to form a coherent question.

  Him dominate me? Or me dominate him? Or him dominate me while I dominate someone else? Or some combination of the three? Sometimes one way, sometimes another?

  And do I even want that? I mean it’s sexy as hell to read about, and when he tied me up with pearls it was out of this world. But benches and anal plugs and clamps? An involuntary shudder works its way down my spine. Hell no.

  I put a stack of pancakes in front of Gabe, jumping a little when I drop the plate too hard and it clatters. His fingers wrap around my wrist before I can pull away and he says gently, “You’re working yourself up over nothing. Relax and eat.”

  I cover my own stack of pancakes with syrup, add a healthy dollop of butter and get to work. I can only eat about half, but when I’m done Gabe looks longingly at the half-eaten remains of my pancake tower. I slide my plate to him and take his to the sink to wash. By the time I’m done washing it, he’s finished my pancakes and brings the plate to the sink. Instead of dropping it in for me to wash, he nudges me out of the way and does it himself. Then he washes the pan I used to cook with and the mixing bowl.

  God damn tears again.

  I brush them away and hope he doesn’t notice. But he’s an observant bastard and grabs my chin to tilt my head back with wet, soapy hands.

  “Hmm,” he intones before turning back to the dishes.

  The infuriating tears keep dripping, slowly trickling to a halt as I manage to get it under control before I turn into a snot factory, and I just watch him. What the fuck does “hmm” mean?

  He finishes the last few dishes and pulls the plug, silent the whole time. The water gurgles down the drain, and he leans his hips back against the sink as he dries his hands on a dish towel, his expression serious.

  “I’m assuming you read the same popular literature as most women today?”

  I clear my throat. This could be embarrassing. “Yes, I do.” Although in some cases, the word “literature” may be pushing it a little. Girl porn is a bit more accurate.

  He tosses the dish towel into the sink and meets my eyes. “Discard everything you’ve read as absolute fiction. Some of it may be accurate, but I’m not going to try and find that particular needle in a haystack.” He straightens and crosses to the glass doors that lead to the back patio overlooking the ocean and folds his arms across his chest, staring out at the water. “It’s not always cut and dry. Sometimes you just want to make love before you go to sleep. Sometimes you need to put everything aside and let someone else take control. Sometimes you need to be the one in control.” He turns back to me and runs a hand through his hair. “Every relationship is different. It changes and grows, and the intimacy of that relationship adapts. You can’t expect one thing all the time and you can’t possibly think that what works right this minute will work in a week, or a month, or a year.”

  Well that sounds reasonable. But still…clamps and whips. Hell no. “I’m not a big fan of being hurt. I don’t want to be humiliated or beaten to a bloody pulp.”

  He shakes his head viciously. “God no, neither do I. And I don’t want to do that. A little bondage, a little domination and that’s the extent of my kink. Maybe a light spanking, but very rarely. I don’t want to chain you up and cane you until you call me ‘daddy,’ and I absolutely do not want to be in charge of your every waking moment. Nor do I want those things from you. But this…”—he gestures between the two of us—“…is how we figure it out. By talking about it and trying things.”

  I stare out the window at the white froth of the waves. No wonder this man’s making money selling something that’s perfectly free. He’s a natural born salesman.

  “What are your thoughts, Luna?” he asks quietly. “Because if you want straight vanilla, that’s all right too.” He follows my gaze out the window and says, “I do prefer to be dominant most of the time. It’s just who I am. But I can go both ways. It’s called being a ‘switch.’ And I know you enjoyed your little power play at the hotel last time.”

  I have a flashback of him beneath me, the muscles of his chest and arms rigid with the strain of holding himself back, his teeth clenched against simultaneous urges to beg me and take over. Fuck yes, I enjoyed it.

  I reach out to flick the lock and slide the door open, stepping outside to take a deep breath of the muggy, salty air. The breeze coming off the ocean is only slightly cooler than the temperature on the patio, but the difference is enough for it to be refreshing. I glance around, taking note of the solar panels mounted around the house and yard, probably in some strategic order or location that I don’t understand. The whir of the turbines draws my eyes upward, but I can’t see anything.

  “There are six on the roof, and one on each end of the house. The panels surround the house and cover as much of the roof as the architect would allow.” His voice turns dry, irritated. “And I’m still required to connect to the local power lines and pay a flat rate for them to deliver absolutely no electricity to this house and my six vacation rentals.”

  I nod, happy enough with the temporary change of subject. I tear my eyes from the house and look back to the ocean, the dark blue and white of the Gulf more of a distraction than a tool to clear my head.

  “Do you have any thoughts?”

  He’s not asking what I think of being self-sufficient and green energy, and he probably couldn’t care less what I think of the view. But I don’t know what I think, don’t know how to answer him.

  “Moon goddess,” he whispers, and I feel him approach, feel the heat of his body against my back though he’s still not touching me. “I’m asking you to talk to me. Tell me what you need. Then I’ll tell you what I need and we can figure out if we have any business trying to have a relationship.”

  I don’t know why, but the thought of a relationship with Gabe is scary…considering making him more than just a fuck buddy leaves me feeling unstable and shaky. Is it because we had a one-night stand over a year ago? Maybe my discomfort stems from the feeling that he pities me, though he’s never done or said anything to make me feel that way. I pity myself, thinking about who I was then, how I was so desperate for affection that I threw myself at the first man that came along. Desperate enough that I couldn’t be reasonably certain he wasn’t an axe murderer and freaked out because I thought he was going to kill me in some awful, disturbing way.

  I was a fucking mess, and I’m still a fucking mess. Just not as much of one. So am I good enough for him now, but I wasn’t then? God, I’m so confused.

  But he wants to talk, so…I ask the question that’s been niggling at the back of my mind for more than a week. “Why now?” I look back up at him and he tilts his head, his eyes narrowed in confusion. He opens his mouth, and I know he’s going to ask for clarification. I give it to him before he can form the words. “You can’t tell me you pined after me for a year, then happened to find me when your brother ran to my best friend for shelter. That you just happened to wander into Sammy’s at two a.m. that morning, with a business card tucked into your pocket with your cell number already written on the back. Tell me, Gabe, that you didn’t know I was there.” It’s not fair that I’m picking this fight now, but I can’t have a conversation with him to begin a relationship without knowing this basic truth…did he come looking for me? He could have avoided seeing me altogether if he’d wanted to.

  He grinds his teeth together and spins, walking to the edge of the patio and gripping the railing until his knuckles are white. The wind ruffles the dark strands of his hair, the silver drifting in and out of sight. He starts to speak and stops a couple of times before sighing and leaning his forearms on the rail. He drops his head and mutters, “Fuck.” After a few moments of tense silence he straightens and turns to face me, putting his hands on his hips and staring at me, lips pursed into a scowl. “I knew you’d be there, and you are the only reason I would ever set foot in that miserable excuse for a restaurant.”

  “Hey!” I protest. “Dee’s a
great cook, and Gretchen…”

  “Nothing against your friends, and I’m sure the new owner will make some improvements.” He mutters under his breath, “God knows, it couldn’t get any worse.” He pins me with those eyes. “Dan called me on his way to Corybelle a few hours before I got there. Since we met at the club, he’s kept me…up to date on how you’re doing. At first, I didn’t care. You were just scratching an itch for me. And don’t be hurt,” he holds a finger up at my furious look and continues, “because that’s all I was to you too. How long had you been divorced before you crawled into my bed?”

  I look down and kick a rock off the patio. “About six hours,” I mumble.

  “That’s what I thought. So don’t act all butt hurt because I call it like it was. But a few months later, Dan started showing me pictures and texts, telling me about what good friends you, Sierra, and Brad were. I don’t think you realize what was going on in his life when you showed up. It’s not my place to tell you, but suffice it to say, he wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t found someone.” I look up when he brushes his fingers across my cheekbone, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I spent the better part of the past year hearing about how you were the strongest woman alive, Sierra was the most honest, and Brad…” He cups my cheek in his palm. “Let’s not talk about the things I heard about him. I started to wonder, after a few months, exactly what I’d let go and thought about looking you up. I was going to ask you out, dinner, drinks, movie, the whole nine yards.” His eyes darken and his tone changes. “But then I found out I was a rebound lay. You were barely out of a bad marriage and I realized I had to wait. So I did. I didn’t plan on approaching you so soon. Dan was supposed to get you and Sierra to go back to the club, and I was going to be there and talk to you. Then…well, you can figure out the rest.” He takes a deep, unsteady breath. “But when I left Sam’s that night, and Dan called to tell me where he was…I knew I was about to be thrown back in your life before you were ready. So, yes, I had the card ready with my phone number. Yes, I went in that disgusting little café intending to see you. And no, I didn’t know if we would hit it off when I actually met you for something besides sex. I didn’t know if our chemistry would be as good as I remembered. I still don’t know how we’ll work together, but I know the chemistry’s there, just as strong as it was the first time. The rest, I want to find out.”