by Ward, Deena
He laughed. “I can see how that would be a hard one. What else?”
“It’s weird not doing my own grocery shopping. But don’t get me wrong, I don’t miss it. Kind of like scrubbing toilets. I don’t miss that, either.”
He laughed again. “So you’re adjusting, then, for the most part.”
“I am. How about you? Are you adjusting to having me underfoot all the time?”
His gaze fell softly on me, and his expression was fond and tender. “Definitely.”
I leaned over and kissed him, enjoying the sweet taste of the cookies on his lips, and the sweetness that was naturally his.
We snuggled then, and made out, no rush or hurry, no destination in mind. Just kissing and touching and enjoying being with one another, enjoying the leisure of unlimited time to explore, taste and savor one another.
Eventually, I recognized his arousal, his hard cock ready for me again. And it made me want it again.
I whispered into his ear, letting my warm breath tease him. “I want you to take me again. Fuck my ass, Gibson.”
His hand cupped my ass cheek. “You’re sore.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. So no.”
“I’m fine. It won’t harm me, will it?”
“No. But it’ll hurt worse than before.”
I pulled back from him, looked into his frowning face. “I told you. I don’t care if it hurts. It will still be good.”
“Nonnie, you wouldn’t get any pleasure out of it.”
“Yes I would. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t want to.” I pushed his hand between my ass cheeks. “I know you do.”
He pulled his hand away and sat up straight. “That’s irrelevant. I know better than you, and you’re in no shape right now for me to use you again.”
I tried a sexy smile and ran my fingers down his chest. “You’re wrong about what’s irrelevant. What it’s like for me doesn’t matter. I’m telling you that I want to do this. For you.”
“It’s not necessary. You’ve given me more than enough.”
“Do it again.”
“No.”
“Come on. Imagine. I want you to use me hard again. Hard and fast. I can take —”
He grabbed my hand which I’d slipped down to dick level. “No. It’s not going to happen. Stop it, now.”
I frowned, yanked at my hand. What had begun as playfulness, on my part at any rate, was rapidly changing into something else. “Why?”
“Because I said no.”
“Why? It should be up to me.”
“It’s not, though.”
“I’m the one who’d be dealing with the pain, so it damned well should be up to me.”
“And yet it’s not.”
I sat back on my haunches, studied his implacable expression. “You’re pissing me off.”
“I sorry to hear it, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“So let me get this straight. You’d like to fuck my ass again, and I want you to fuck me, but you won’t, because I probably won’t be able to come. Have I got it right?”
“That’s basically it.”
“But I don’t care if I come.”
“I care. If you can’t come, then it’s too much.”
“Too much what?”
“Too much for you.”
I truly didn’t understand what his problem was. “I’m the one who says when something is too much for me.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You make no sense.”
He inhaled deeply. “Look. Let’s just go to sleep. I don’t know about you, but I think the moment has passed anyway.”
“No. I want to know what you mean when you say that I’m not the judge of what I can and can’t take.”
“Nonnie,” he said, his features softening, “please don’t turn this into a big argument. Just accept that I know what’s best. You don’t have much experience and should —”
“Oh, I’m getting a pretty good idea that this isn’t about my experience level, Gibson. I’m getting the feeling that this is about something else entirely.”
“You’re blowing it out of proportion.”
“I’m not. You’re acting like I’m a twit with no sense.”
“I don’t think you’re a twit.”
I got out of bed and stalked off to the bathroom where I poured myself a glass of water. I took my time drinking, trying to get my temper under control and put my thoughts in order. When I returned to the bed, Gibson was still sitting as I’d left him, his face the old enigmatic mask I hadn’t seen in a long while.
I stood beside the bed. “You believe you’re protecting me.”
“I know I am.”
“From myself.”
“If necessary.”
He was shut down tight. It would take a mighty effort to tear off that mask in order to make my point. And suddenly, I felt tired, and sad, and not altogether up to the effort it would entail. My shoulders sagged.
What had gone so wrong to turn one of the best nights of my life into this mess? I didn’t want to fight with Gibson, ever. I only wanted to give him what he wanted. And tonight, he wanted me to deny him.
So then, I would grant him his wish. For tonight. But only because it was late, and I was confused, wasn’t sure how to make sense of this. And only because I’d realized tonight that I loved him. Deeply, truly loved him.
I sat down next to him on the bed, stroked my fingers down his rigid cheek. “Okay, Gibson. If that’s what you want. Let’s go to sleep.”
And I thought I’d made the right choice when I saw the mask fall away to reveal his relief at my acquiescence.
He took my hand, kissed the tips of my fingers. “Come here.”
I let him turn off the lights, then pull me down and rest my head on his chest, my arm slung over his stomach, the blankets loose over our forms. I felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing, heard the gentle thumping of his heart.
But I didn’t fall asleep for a long while. I don’t believe he did either, though neither of us spoke again.
The next day was Saturday and I spent a good portion of it in my studio, alone, sketching and thinking about what happened the night before. I prized my studio, the bright light pouring in the big windows, the big, open space of it. This was the only place in the mansion that was all mine, and I would have treasured it for that fact even had there been nothing else to recommend it.
Gibson and I didn’t speak much at breakfast, or at lunch, mostly just talking of simple matters, like the news in the paper, or what our plans were for the day. It was an unacknowledged awkwardness that had never been between us before.
I sensed it was my fault, that Gibson would have been perfectly happy sweeping it all aside and proceeding as if we hadn’t had a near blowout argument. The stiffness began with me, and he was only reacting, I felt, to the signals I was sending out.
And I was most definitely stiff. The more I thought about the things he said the night before, the more concerned I became.
I sketched a pile of dead leaves, rocks, vines and evergreen branches I had scavenged from the estate and had arranged in the center of the studio. The chaotic nature of it attracted me, left my mind free to simply draw what it saw, the haphazard lines with no meaning, or reason.
And in the meanwhile, I relived the conversation with Gibson.
He believed he was protecting me. From myself.
I wasn’t a child. I knew what I wanted, what I could handle. It was one thing to protect me from others, but from myself? The more I thought about it, the more insulted I became, the more I wanted to track him down and give him hell.
But I loved him, and that softened my response, made me consider an option I might have otherwise missed.
Maybe he didn’t understand what I was capable of. He mentioned my inexperience. And though it seemed to me like I had plenty of experience now, I recognized that he might not see it the way I did.
He never understood about what happened
with Michael in that shower. And I never told him about what came later. He didn’t realize that it was incredibly erotic for me, particularly in the days which followed.
I craved to have that experience with Gibson, to have him take from me selfishly, entirely serving his own needs and barely registering my own. I longed for him to think of himself, and I understood on a deep level that it would be an incredible experience, would eclipse what I felt with Michael. I would soar from it, probably during the act itself, but most assuredly afterward.
I thought about the times I’d seen that certain look in Gibson’s eye, the dangerous one, the predator, and I trembled at the memory. I considered how every time I saw it, it didn’t last, how he shut it down, nearly immediately.
He didn’t understand. That had to be it. I needed to manage my emotions, stop being annoyed and offended and recognize that this was all a big misunderstanding.
If I explained it, then he’d get it. And he’d quit insulting me with his overprotectiveness.
And maybe he’d let the predator come out and play.
For that reward, I could let go of practically any anger.
Charity served our dinner then left us alone. I looked down at the lobster salad on my plate. She had made this for me tonight, I knew, because I had complimented her on the dish once.
Now, the lobster seemed too rich, too much. I had a passing longing for one of the old frozen low-cal dinners I used to eat when I lived alone in my apartment. Maybe I would buy a few. Surely I could find some unused space in one of the huge freezers in the kitchen.
I poked at the greens of the salad. I glanced over at Gibson. He was intently studying his wine glass, swirling the liquid round and round.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“About what?”
“Last night of course.”
“I thought that was settled.”
“You’re lying.”
He sighed, set down his glass. “I should have said that I hoped it was settled.”
“Well it’s not. I need to talk about it. Get things straightened out.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands over his stomach. “Then by all means ... talk.”
I ignored what I perceived as placating behavior. “You shouldn’t leave a fight unsettled. We need to work it out.”
“I wasn’t aware we’d had a fight.”
“Fine then. A disagreement. Or maybe a misunderstanding. One thing’s for sure, you don’t understand me.”
“Explain.”
“Okay.” I tossed my napkin over my salad. “You don’t know what I can do. What I can take for you. What I want to take for you.”
“I know what you want, but I think you’re overreaching.”
“You’re wrong. I think you’re babying me because of what happened with Michael. You think I’m still fragile or something. I’m not. You don’t have to treat me like I’m breakable.”
“I know you’re strong, Nonnie. I simply disagree about what you’re ready for.”
“And I disagree that you have any idea of what my limits are, what I’m capable of doing for you.”
“It’s not necessary that you go to herculean lengths. I’m perfectly satisfied with our sex life as it is.”
I tamped down my growing frustration, picked up my wine glass and took a few sips while I ordered my thoughts. “I’m not complaining, Gibson. I’m simply saying there could be more, that there should be more. Last night, for instance, you didn’t need to check yourself. You could have taken me again. I would have been fine.”
“We’ve already been over that ground.”
“I know, but you’re not listening to me. I’m not a child that you have to protect from itself. I’m a fully-grown woman who knows what she wants. I’m trying hard not to be offended by your overbearing attitude.”
“I’m your dominant, Nonnie. It’s my role to protect you, to be overbearing if necessary.”
“Then stop being my dominant for a minute and just be my partner. Open your mind and listen to what I’m saying.”
“I can’t stop being your dominant. But I am listening. I’m just not changing my opinion the way you want.”
I gritted my teeth. “You’re perfectly satisfied with our sex life the way it is.”
“I am.”
“You wouldn’t change a thing about it.”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said bullshit. You’re lying.”
He mouth thinned into a grim, straight line. “That’s the second time tonight you’ve accused me of lying. I don’t lie.”
“Then perhaps you’ve misspoken again.”
“I have not.”
“Maybe you don’t understand, then. Because I’ve had a moment of clarity and something is making sense that wasn’t before.”
He stared at me, not saying a word.
Fine, I decided. “I just realized that on those nights when you have problems sleeping, there’s something they all have in common. It only happens when we’ve pushed the boundaries a little, when you’ve called a halt to things, or stopped them before they went anywhere real. You can’t sleep because you’re frustrated.”
“You’re not getting what you need, are you, Gibson?” I asked. “So you go exercise, to work it out of your system.”
His face was a careful blank.
“I know I’m right,” I said. “It all makes sense. You’re not perfectly satisfied. You need more. What is it that you want that I’m not giving you? Is it something in particular? Some kink you don’t want to tell me about?”
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“If it’s not a particular kink, then maybe it’s how far we go with what we’re doing. How hard you ride me, or whatever. What is it, Gibson? What are you needing that you’re not getting?”
He flung his napkin down on the table. “Damn it. I’m sick of repeating myself. There is nothing I’m missing with you. And if I don’t take things as far as you want right now, that doesn’t mean we won’t some time in the future. Have patience ... and respect.”
“I can give you what you need right now.”
“You already do.”
I shook my head. “I’m not some damaged, fragile thing you have to protect. Not anymore. I’m ready for whatever comes.”
He pushed back his chair and stood up. “There’s no point discussing this any further. It’s all been said, several times. Either you’ll respect my position, or you’ll continue talking in circles and forcing arguments. The choice is yours. Either way, I’m finished.”
“I want —”
“If you’ll excuse me.” And with that, he stalked out of the room.
I stared at the open, empty doorway long after he was gone.
Wow. He was gone. Just like that.
I was right. I knew it. He wanted more than what he was getting from me, no matter how vehemently he denied it. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became.
And here I was, wanting to give him anything he desired. So what was the problem?
Was it because he saw me as fragile? I couldn’t be sure. I was positive, though, that he behaved differently with me now than he did before all the fallout from the video.
Before the betrayal, Gibson physically handled me differently. He was careful, yes, but he pushed me harder than he pushed me now. These days there was a tentativeness in his actions that wasn’t there before.
Before. After. A definite difference.
And he wasn’t getting what he needed.
Neither was I.
He might be prepared to settle for less, but I wasn’t. I had a need for what he was holding back. And I’d do whatever it took to get it.
Chapter 17
I gave him a break of a few hours after dinner, to spend time alone in his study, to cool down, and maybe consider some of the things I’d said. At least, I hoped he was reconsidering.
I spent the time showering, gro
oming myself with the unscented soaps and lotions Gibson preferred when we were intimate. Now I stood outside his study, fresh and smooth, naked under my white satin robe.
When he called out to enter, I opened the door and stepped inside. He looked up from his computer. I thought his dark hair looked less tidy than usual, but other than that, there was no sign that he suffered any lingering distress over our argument.
“If you would, I’d like you to meet me in your dungeon in ten minutes,” I said, my voice sounding calmer than I felt.
His face fell. “Nonnie, I don’t think that’s —”
“Please. You don’t have to come. But I’ll be there waiting anyway.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded once.
I turned and left him there, headed down the hall and upstairs to the dungeon. He had given me the passcode to the room, and showed me how to access the panel, so I had no problems getting inside.
After I set the temperature and lighting how I wanted it, I walked around the room, opening all the doors to the many cabinets. I even opened a number of the drawers. I hadn’t actually seen inside these cabinets and drawers, other than a few brief glimpses I’d gotten when Gibson went to them for something he wanted.
He had an impressive collection of BDSM paraphernalia, everything I thought he would have and then some. Whips, paddles, canes, floggers, gags, clamps, cuffs, masks, ropes, chains, on and on it went. Much of it looked well used, and well cared for. Ordinarily, these items would have intimidated and excited me, but tonight, they made me sad.
I pulled a chair out of a corner and sat down to wait. My thoughts were whirring and I took the few minutes I had left to put everything in order. This was no time to be screwing up.
It seemed only a short time passed when the door clicked open and Gibson entered. He glanced around the room, at all the open cabinets.
I felt a familiar thud of longing as I looked at his handsome face.
“What’s this about?” he asked, clearly displeased that I’d tampered with his things.
I stood up and walked over to him. “I wanted to make a point.”
“Then I guess I’ve missed it.”
I gestured at all the equipment. “Is this what BDSM is about? Stuff? Leather and chains and slappers? Restraining tables?”
