Maybe, too, he was feeling a little more at his ease than he should have, because he’d been completely unable to get her out of his head and she was here anyway. Without him having to break.
That was the only justification he could come up with for why he kept talking. “Not long ago I decided that it was better for everyone concerned if I committed myself to conventionality.”
More to the point, his mother had carried on about what he owed the family name, and Conrad had already lost Erika, at that point. He’d been certain his version of tough love was what she needed after she’d abandoned her education, but that hadn’t made it any easier. Especially when she’d been so gleeful in her hatred of him. He’d been more susceptible to Chriszette than usual.
And perhaps, deep down, he’d viewed it all as an act of redemption. A way to prove that everything he did was in the family’s best interests, from cutting off Erika to finding himself the sort of fiancée his mother would approve of, social climber that she was at heart. Surely that would show everyone that his heart was in the right place whether they could see it or not.
“Conventionality?” Rory blinked, and this time, when her gaze strayed from his it went toward his chapel. “You?”
He felt his mouth curve in one corner. “Me.”
“But what would that even look like? Whips only twice a week and chains on alternate Thursdays?”
She amused him. That was the part he couldn’t seem to get past.
“I was prepared to commit myself to a vanilla life,” he told her, because now this was becoming another way she could entertain him, and he had no intention of analyzing that, thank you. “Vanilla means—”
“I know what vanilla means,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. Cute, but unacceptable. He filed that way “I’m pansexual, hello.”
“How foolish of me to forget.” Her eyes narrowed a bit at his dry tone, but he ignored it. “I picked the perfect vanilla bride, prepared to march happily down a vanilla aisle, and had I done so, I would have carried on dutifully, vanilla to the end.”
The truth was a bit more complicated than that. Lady Jenny Markham, his perfect vanilla bride, was perhaps a bit more delightfully twisted than he’d anticipated. Or known, since he’d never touched her during their whirlwind courtship.
When he’d had the distinct displeasure of walking in on her and the man she’d ended up marrying, he’d recognized their dynamic instantly. It certainly hadn’t been anything he’d sensed in her on their few dates, though he did wonder, now and again when he thought of that strange period in his life, if that was why he’d chosen her. When he could have chosen anyone.
But then, he’d always had an eye for submissives hiding in plain sight. Like his house cleaner, for God’s sake.
Not that any of it mattered now. He and Jenny would have married for convenience’s sake, but she’d chosen someone else. Someone far less convenient who clearly made her far happier than he ever would have. And he couldn’t help but think that despite the considerable embarrassment of being so publicly jilted, he’d had a lucky escape.
Because here, now, he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever imagined that he could be vanilla for an evening, much less a lifetime.
“No one should have to spend their life pretending to be someone they’re not,” Rory told him, very seriously. And he let her, because she didn’t realize that she ought to have been intimidated by him, and for some reason he found that charming. “The world is filled with people who are withering away and dying because they think they need to wear masks all the time. I think it’s a good thing that you’re living your truth.”
Conrad endeavored not to wince at that. “Yes, thank you. ‘Living my truth,’ indeed. How... American.”
Rory shrugged, and gifted him with another eye roll. “I know, I know. Americans, so embarrassingly in touch with their feelings. How gauche. Whatever is the world coming to, with all this maudlin sentiment?”
That she had a point was one more thing Conrad chose not to examine. He concentrated on her, instead.
“You keep pushing us away from the conversation we ought to be having,” he pointed out mildly. “If you’re having second thoughts, you know where the door is. I will continue to enjoy my evening, uninterrupted. You can go back to doing whatever it is you were doing.”
“I was on a date.” He’d spent years perfecting his facial expressions—or rather, his lack thereof. And yet despite that he must have done something, because she grinned. “I’ve had a lot of dates since I last saw you. I’ve always liked dating. It’s like a social media post, but in person.”
“I’m happy to say I have no idea what that means.”
“Everyone knows that social media is all about curating, yes?” She waited for him to shrug and clearly took that as assent. “Picking the best parts, leaving out anything that’s sad or weird. Which I think is a good thing, by the way. Some things you should save for your friends. And dating is the same. You have to take all the best parts of you and kind of act them out for an evening. They do the same. Then, if all the performances match well enough, you get to have sex. It’s fun.”
“That sounds delightfully progressive-minded,” Conrad murmured. “I applaud you. But I can’t help thinking about the fact that all that curation led to you against my wall, begging me to make you come for the first time. So was the curating worth it?”
She sighed a little. “I’ve been having some trouble coming to terms with that myself.”
“Did you experiment with your dates?” And he was amused at the little scrape of something inside him that almost felt like possessiveness. Possessiveness. He’d been sure he’d left that far in his past. The closest he’d come in recent memory was walking in on Jenny and her lover in that club in Sydney. And not because it had hurt him, because it hadn’t. At all. But because she had agreed to marry him, and when Conrad claimed something, he preferred it remain his.
He’d only collared one woman, long ago. If he ever collared another, it would be for good.
And because he was in no rush for that unlikely event, he kept his scenes intense but his relationships with the women he played with otherwise casual.
There was absolutely no reason he should care if she’d gone out and slept with half of Europe since he’d last seen her. He’d intended to do much the same himself.
“I really wanted to experiment,” Rory told him, again with that solemn expression. “But I couldn’t do it. I kept meaning to. I was certain all through each dinner that I would, but then it was just so... Boring. So I kept going home. Alone.”
Conrad assured himself that he felt nothing upon hearing that. That this was about gathering information, nothing more. “And then? What did you do when you got home?”
“I spent a lot of time online.” Her eyes got wider, her voice rougher. “Looking at a lot of pictures. And some videos.”
“And?”
“And...thinking about you. About what happened here.”
“Did you, now. I like that. But tell me, where were your hands while you entertained these thoughts?”
She was red-faced and sweating with it. She was lovely.
Especially when she didn’t look away from him.
“Where yours were,” she whispered, and then flushed again, and brighter.
“I can see that was difficult for you, Rory. You didn’t want to tell me that.”
“No,” she agreed, suddenly sounding winded.
“Do you know why honesty is so important?”
Her eyes widened, almost comically. “Because of all those things in that room of yours. I don’t think anyone would enjoy pretending that they were into it only to find that they really, really weren’t.”
“It doesn’t quite work that way,” he said, once again finding that what he wanted to do was laugh. When he was not exactly known for his hilarity in a scene. “
Honesty is vulnerability. Only vulnerability allows for intimacy. And for all the closeness you claim you had while tragic, untutored boys heaved about on top of you, it brought you no real pleasure at all. I can promise you that this will be different. If what you truly want is that kind of closeness—that vulnerability and intimacy—then this is where you will find it, within the confines of the games we might decide to play. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she said. “Or I want to, I guess.”
“Wonderful,” he said. He smiled. “Then get down on your knees.”
Conrad saw the shock go through her, electric and encompassing. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“H...here?”
He nodded toward the floor between them and opted not to point out how benevolent he was because there was a very soft rug there. Her knees would be pampered—a gift she could not possibly appreciate while this was shiny and new.
But her knees weren’t the point. Her head was.
Conrad watched her panic. He saw her eyes move this way, then that, as if trying to figure out how she could get out of this—while still getting what she’d come here for.
He waited, enjoying the show. There was more wringing of her hands. Her bracelets danced and jangled. He saw her toes curl in her sandals.
“Okay,” Rory said, very softly, her voice thready. “But how isn’t this demeaning?”
He didn’t quite laugh at that. “For whom?”
“For women!” When he only gazed back at her mildly, she shook her head. “For me, then. It’s one thing to wander around making people come at the drop of a hat. But kneeling? Isn’t that...?”
“Isn’t that what?” he prompted her when she fell silent. “If you don’t finish the question, you can’t expect an answer.”
“I have to wonder what you get out of it, that’s all.”
Conrad settled back in his chair. “I’m so glad you asked. I like it. That’s what I get out of it.”
He nodded, again, at the place between them where he wanted her to kneel before him. And he could actually see, to his delight, the goose bumps that marched their way over every inch of her bare skin. Far more bare skin on display tonight, and all of it reacting to him.
She only got more and more delightful.
“I mean, saying that you’re in charge, or controlling, or bossy, or whatever...” Her chest moved dramatically as she fought to breathe. “That’s not the same thing as telling people to get down on their knees. This is basically everything that’s toxic about cishet sex.”
“I’m sorry,” Conrad said, allowing himself to sound bored. “I’m not following this conversation. Are we having an academic debate about the great many social and cultural issues that inform the world outside this building? Because I thought we were talking about what it is I like. What pleases me, in my bed and out of it. And there are a great many things that I like, as a matter of fact, but I asked you to do just one of them. And you would rather bludgeon me with buzzwords.”
“You don’t think it’s problematic to ask women to kneel before you?”
“Not for me.” He bit back a smile at her appalled expression. “Or, Rory, for the women who choose to kneel before me not only for my pleasure, but theirs.”
He let her sit with that, because she clearly had to breathe through it. And unless he was mistaken, she wasn’t doing a great job of it.
“Their pleasure?” she asked, her voice practically strangled.
“You seem to be under a common misconception,” he told her, almost kindly. “I told you that I’m dominant sexually. I told you that the kind of sex I’m talking about begins in a conversation like this. And that vulnerability and honesty is how intimacy is built.”
“Yeah, that part sounds great. It’s the kneeling down I’m having trouble wrapping my head around. Weird. It’s almost like it’s a gross power trip.”
“Yes, Rory, because the only thing you’re thinking about is you.”
And that time, his voice was a whip. Sharp and fast, and devastatingly accurate.
She went still, then. Very still.
And silent.
Conrad continued. “You’re concerned about your orgasm. You want another one. Maybe a night filled with so many you’ll lose count. You want me to act as a kind of instrument to make that happen. A fully grown, autonomous vibrator. That’s not to say I couldn’t do that, of course. You already know I can, which is why you’ve come back here. But what’s in it for me?”
Her jaw actually dropped open a little. “I don’t... I thought that was what was in it for you.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy making a pretty woman come apart in my hands. Who wouldn’t? But I’m not after your orgasm, Rory. I could make any woman come, and have. I’ve already proved that.”
“What do you want, then?” she asked.
The very question he’d asked her, though her question was far more...fragile.
Conrad could feel the intensity in him. His gaze, his face. He did nothing to curb it. “I want your submission. Your surrender.”
“What...”
She looked as if she was reeling, there where she sat. As if the breeze from out in the garden might topple her over.
He loved this part. These sweet, hot moments of struggle.
Before she gave in to what she really wanted.
“Do you know why I let you in my door?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. He wasn’t sure she could, just then, all goose bumps and slick, shocked eyes. “It was your surrender, Rory. It was written all over you. And that’s what this is about. That’s what I want, not that you asked until prompted. I want the exchange.”
“How...how is it an exchange if I’m the one surrendering?”
“I’m not going to force you to surrender,” he said. “Or to do anything else. You should do the things I ask you to do because you want to please me. And I’m not foolish enough to imagine a temporary scene isn’t highly motivated by the prospects of orgasms, especially in the case of someone like you, who is so new to the things her body wants.”
He could see she wanted to argue with that. But didn’t.
“You’re here,” he pointed out. “I didn’t force you to come here. I won’t force you to stay. If I had to force you, how would that be any fun?”
“But...” She looked at the rug between them. “But you want...”
“I want you to kneel because you want to kneel,” he told her with a quiet intensity. “Because, even if it scares you or repels you or worries you, you want to please me more than you want to stay where you are. Stuck in that chair. Stuck in your life. Stuck pretending you’re happy with puppy love and pointless sex.”
“I’m not...”
“It’s up to you, Rory,” Conrad told her, intent and sure. “Do you want to change? If you don’t, you’re welcome to go at any time. But if you do...” He lifted a shoulder, then dropped it, and nodded once more at the floor. “You know what to do.”
CHAPTER SIX
RORY THOUGHT SHE must surely be ill, because she was considering it.
More than considering it. Her body was a mess. It hardly felt like hers. She was all...electrical surges, shivering that reminded her of the flu, and a great, heavy sort of rawness that just sat there. Deep inside her.
Thick and rough and greedy.
Conrad looked beautiful and remote. And above all, demanding. There was something about the contrast between his stern mouth and the blazing heat in his navy blue eyes that made her breath hitch.
While down below, her pussy was soft and wild and making its own demands.
Louder and hotter by the second.
Rory had watched so many videos. She’d looked at so many pictures. The images were shocking—disturbing, she would even have said, had anyone been there to ask. Except it was the ones she’d found
most personally disturbing that she’d looked at the longest. It was those same images that played over and over in her head as she thought about doing them with him.
And she thought about doing all of those things with him, no matter what words she flung at those fantasies in the light of day. When the sun was out, she was faintly embarrassed to discover, she was more of a pearl clutcher than the fearless warrior for alternative sexual experiences she’d always imagined she was.
But despite all her fantasies, each more feverish than the last, nothing had prepared her for this.
For sitting here in a converted church in a soft leather chair that she could feel like a caress on the bare skin of her thighs. For Conrad himself, sitting there so casually and yet clearly and indisputably in control.
Of himself.
And, unless she was very much mistaken, of her.
Worse—or better—when she stopped telling herself how offensive that ought to have been, she could tell that her body thrilled to the notion.
She thought of all those things of his, implements and devices and tools, carefully locked away beneath the stained glass. She thought of collars and hard hands against her ass, all those things she’d imagined when she was alone, and none of that imagining had been even half as intense as sitting here.
Just sitting here.
Fighting with herself.
First something like self-pity washed through her. Why didn’t he simply take control the way he had before? Why didn’t he handle things—particularly her—so that she didn’t have to do all this...choosing?
Her heart beat a little faster at that, but she had a terrible inkling that she already knew what the truth was.
And it was a galling thing indeed to realize that despite all the time she spent shouting about what consent was and what it should look like, and all the many ways in which she personally liked to indicate her enthusiasm to her dates, it was clear that all of that was easy. Because it required so little of her.
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