All that is left now is for me to take a picture of both the contract and the ring on my finger. Then I’ll text the photos to him. Okay . . . done. Photos taken. I’m about to send the text messages. I’m nervous and excited. This is it. I’m really doing this.
Almost 1:00 p.m. and my lunchtime
I haven’t seen or heard from “him” since I texted the pictures. Not a word. This decision was huge for me, and I thought he’d know that and respond. I feel uncertain. I feel . . . confused. The gallery I normally love feels like a prison I need to escape. I’m leaving for lunch just to get out of here, though I know I won’t be able to eat. I guess I’ll walk to the chocolate shop and buy about ten pounds of the best they have, go to the coffee shop for caffeine, and then pig out. Chocolate isn’t food; it’s a drug meant to cure all. It should make me feel better, at least while I’m consuming it. There will be regret afterward, but if it’s the only regret I feel today, I’m okay with that.
2:00 p.m.
Back at the gallery in my office . . .
I saw him, my would-be, should-be-already Master, who is twisting me in knots. The chocolate/coffee plan turned into the encounter with him I’d been waiting on all morning. After I bought my chocolate, I headed straight to the coffee shop, where I found a corner booth (and hoped to dodge Ava, the chatty owner of the place who is always trying to dig up gallery gossip from me).
I’d just settled into my seat when the air shifted around me, telling me he’d stepped into the shop even before I saw him. I always know when he’s around. There’s this subtle energy that seems to crackle in the air, and I know I’m not the only person who feels it. I can see how the gazes around me seek him out, how attention finds him.
My nerves went haywire at the knowledge he was there. My stomach fluttered and my heart raced so quickly, I actually felt faint.
I keep replaying the moment he came into view and stole my breath, as he always does. Tall and broad, he sauntered toward me with sleek, feline grace, and I had the sense he was stalking his prey and that prey was me. His eyes found mine, or maybe mine found his, and the hardness in their depths had actually made my chest hurt. He affects me that much, like no other man, or anyone, ever has. He was angry. I had no idea why, but he was angry. I knew then what his silence had already told me; I just didn’t want to admit it. I’d dared to open myself up to him and he was going to reject me.
I had to cut my gaze away from his in an effort to recover my lost composure. I rarely feel out of sorts in such a way. My skin tingled and almost burned as he neared, closing in on me, and I cursed my inability to control my physical response to him. I can still feel the dread that filled me, paralyzed me, when he stopped by my table, towering above me.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly, but there was no softness to the command.
I forced my gaze back to his and those hard eyes were still hard. Still angry. Some part of me had hoped that I’d read him wrong moments before.
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak. I simply had no idea what to say; I didn’t even fully understand what I felt.
“You don’t sign the agreement or put on the ring until I say you’re ready,” he said in a low, commanding reprimand.
I was stunned. This wasn’t a rejection. It was a . . . I didn’t know what. “But you tried to convince me to sign—”
“To be open to signing,” he corrected. “And then, only when I say you’re ready—not a moment before.”
“I am ready,” I declared.
He leaned down, hands pressed to the table in front of me, his erotic scent teasing my nostrils. He leveled me in a stare, and that cruel, amazing mouth of his was so near I could feel his hot breath on my lips. “No,” he said tightly. “You are not ready and clearly you still don’t understand the rules. But you will. Take off the ring until I say otherwise.”
My chest had tightened to the point of misery. I remember thinking, “Do I really want to be with someone who can make me feel pain so easily?” But as much as I knew what my answer should be, I heard myself ask him, “Are you serious?”
“Do I ever say anything I don’t mean?”
I stared at him for several seconds and decided that no, he did not. I took off the ring. When I tried to hand it to him he said, “Keep it, but you don’t wear it until I say you can.” His lips thinned. “Now. Let’s go to the bathroom and finish this conversation.”
My mind immediately raced. Who was in the coffee shop? Who would see us go to the bathroom as a pair? “What if someone sees us?”
He just stared at me, the look on his face as steely as any I’d ever seen. He fully intended for me to do as he wished. I knew that if I didn’t, this thing between us would end there and then.
With my fingers curled around the ring, the sharp corners digging into my tender flesh, I stood up. He straightened with me and somehow I resisted the urge to scan for who might be watching us. He stepped backward, giving me just enough space to pass him, and I was thankful we were so close to the back of the shop and the bathroom that perhaps we wouldn’t be seen together. It was the facade I needed to be able to move forward.
Once I managed to walk, I quickly cut to my left and down a small hall before rushing into the bathroom. My awareness of his joining me in the small space was instant; the tiny box of a room suddenly made me feel like a caged animal, wild and uncertain. My emotions were a jumble of uncontrollable knots that he was pulling tighter.
I heard the lock seal us inside, and I started to turn when he grabbed me and pressed me against the sink. My fingers curled around the white ceramic as he yanked my snug-fitted dress up my hips. Then he was at my side, his thick erection resting on my hip, his fingers sliding between my thighs, under the black silk of my thong. But what stilled my heart and then set it racing was the way the palm of his other hand began to caress my bare backside.
“Do you know why you aren’t ready?” he asked, his head resting against mine, his fingers doing a delicious slide over my clit.
“I am ready,” I declared—and while I tried to sound firm, my voice was a raspy whisper.
“No,” he insisted. “You aren’t ready because you don’t understand the rules.” He slipped two fingers inside me and I panted at the intimate invasion, ripples of pleasure pulsing through me, as he added, “You don’t do anything unless I say you do it. That especially applies to signing the contract.”
“I thought—”
“Did you?” he challenged, flicking my clit with his thumb. “I’m not sure you did.”
I opened my mouth to reply but one of his hands still caressed my backside, and the strokes became rougher, his fingers kneading into my flesh. Sudden realization overcame me. He was going to spank me. I knew it and it terrified and aroused me. I didn’t know how that was possible then, any more than I do now as I write this.
“Did you read every line of the document, Rebecca?”
“Yes.” I barely whispered the reply due to the sensations ravishing my body. His hand was still stroking my backside, his fingers stroking inside me.
“Then you must understand that acting without my permission comes with punishment.”
“I-I didn’t think . . . I—”
“Exactly. You have to learn to think. You cannot be a sub, my sub, and not understand the rules and the consequences of misbehaving. I intend to give you a lesson on those things, Rebecca. Do you want that lesson?”
No. Yes. What lesson? “You mean now, or . . .?”
“Now,” he said firmly.
Looking back now, I should have said “no” or asked questions. I didn’t. I felt pressured to do as he wished, and his fingers were doing delicious things to my body. Actually, I’m lying to myself. I don’t think I felt pressured at all. I think I wanted to know what he would do to me. The truth is that all I was really thinking was to say “yes” so his fingers would keep doing exactly what they were doing in the exact spot they were in.
“Yes,” I gasped, and his fingers sent wicked,
wonderful sensations spiraling through me. “I want the lesson.”
“Yes, what?” he demanded.
“Yes, Master.”
Instead of rewarding me for my agreement with the orgasm I so desired, his fingers stopped teasing me, sliding away so that his hand rested on my pelvis. I wanted to cry out, to demand satisfaction, but I was stayed by the way his palm on my backside stilled and flexed into my skin.
“I’m going to spank you, Rebecca,” he declared, “and you need to know that I will do it again, or use other forms of punishment if we move forward beyond today and you fail to follow our rules. Understand?”
No. No, I did not. I was scared and confused, but I was also aroused and curious. I wanted him. I want him even now, no matter how much he’s twisted me in knots. I knew I couldn’t turn back.
“Yes. I understand.” I’d barely issued the approval when his hand came down hard. I gasped as the sensation rocked me, and I struggled to identify what I felt. My stomach knotted with the sting of my flesh that spiraled through me, and then, to my shock, tightened my sex. The rest of the punishment was fast and hard, ten full contacts of his palm, I think, all of which were harder, stronger. I had a moment when I was confused by the pleasure rippling through me and I thought I should object, I should scream my safe word, “red,” but my voice was swollen in my throat, and any protest with it.
The assault of his hand stopped suddenly and his fingers slid back between my thighs, and I was shocked that I was slick and wet and aroused. It was beyond belief, considering what he’d just done to me. But I was, and when he slipped his fingers back inside me and stroked my swollen flesh, I shattered almost instantly. It was breathtakingly good. He’d spanked me and I had one of the best orgasms ever, but I’d recovered angry and confused. Embarrassed. I still am.
“I will never leave you with anything but pleasure,” he murmured. “Remember that.”
“And I will never go to another public bathroom with you,” I ground out. “This is the last time.”
His response was to gently pull my dress back into place and then turn me to face him. “You will if I say you will.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he didn’t even acknowledge my anger. And then he stepped back and gave me space.
Both pissed me off more than ever, and I blasted him, “People I work with come here, and I have to walk out there and pretend I didn’t just do what we did!” The sharp edges of the ring dug into my palm, reminding me I still held it. I stepped toward him, grabbed his hand, and shoved the ring into his palm. “Anything near my work is off limits. That’s a hard limit for me. Put it in your damn contract.”
He captured my hand before I could escape. “That’s what I was looking for. Real thought. Real negotiation. An agreement you don’t just live with, but embrace.”
He released me and I felt shell-shocked. He’d pushed me intentionally, intending to force me to see what I’d missed when making my decision to sign the agreement.
“Now,” he said, “you can put the ring back on if you still think you’re ready.”
He didn’t wait for an answer because he knew I wasn’t. He headed to the door and exited.
I stood there for I don’t know how long, my thoughts a jumbled mess, before I forced myself to exit regardless of who might see me. There was only Ava, who stared at me with unabashed interest.
I rushed to my table and grabbed my things before heading back to the gallery to put my thoughts on paper.
My backside still burns, and it reminds me that this decision to give myself to him does come with consequences, just as disobeying him apparently does. Yes, those consequences seem to arouse me, but I barely recognize this person that is me, who finds a spanking hot and sexy.
But I did. I do. I’m scared to death that I’m losing touch with myself. Am I truly ready for this relationship?
The ring is sitting on my desk and I haven’t put it back on. I’m not sure I’m going to. I’m not even sure I’m allowed to. I dread tonight’s event, one that I would normally look forward to. It’s a huge open house for Georgia O’Nay, a brilliant local artist receiving critical acclaim. It’s an exciting event with an impressive list of attendees, but all I can think is that everyone who is anyone will be here, including him.
I’d actually rather go home and think and process where I’m headed in this new life, rather than attend a magical art showing.
What is happening to me?
Midnight
Finally home . . .
Georgia O’Nay is thirty-five, with long, sleek black hair and gorgeous pearl-like skin, and the talent of a goddess. It didn’t surprise me that she drew a wall-busting crowd. The event had spectacular desserts, expensive champagne, and great art. It was pure heaven for art lovers. It should have been for me, but it wasn’t.
All the local artists who show in the gallery were present. Ricco Alvarez and Chris Merit were crowd favorites. Chris, unlike the rest of the guests, who were in suits (Ricco included), was a rebel in jeans and a leather jacket. When he stood next to Mark, the contrast in the two men was extreme but the power and sex radiating off them both was overwhelming.
It bothered me that “he” spent a lot of time by Georgia’s side. I tried not to let it. I really did. In my defense, I was feeling insecure after the entire ring situation. But what really set me off was the concrete block of realization that hit me as I admired her work. Georgia paints flowers. Roses mostly. Yes. Roses. How could I not connect his attention to her to the design of the ring? How could anyone not in a similar situation? Had she been his sub at some point? Did he help her launch her career? And if so, what happened between them? Why did they part ways? Or had they parted ways? Am I just a side dish?
During one moment when the two of them appeared rather intimate, my stomach actually churned. I wondered then, again, what was happening to me. How had I gone from being the girl who needed no one to feeling such intense need for one man? I suddenly felt that this new life was controlling me, not the other way around.
Needing air, I rushed for the back door. The instant I stepped outside into the chilly San Francisco night, I inhaled deeply, yet I still felt like I couldn’t breathe. I hugged myself, the little lace vest I’d put on for the evening doing nothing to warm me.
Then the door opened behind me and I whirled around, shocked to see him standing there. And damn him, no matter how inadequate he’d made me feel inside the gallery, his presence still washed over me with a consuming, all-powerful burn. I resented it, not wanting him to have that power over me.
Before I knew his intention, he pulled me around a corner so that we were out of the line of sight of the door. He pressed me against the wall, the warm glow of a lamp fixture casting us in its light, his thighs hugging mine. His fingers framed my face. “You’re upset. I don’t want you to be upset.”
“Funny,” I said bitterly, “I didn’t think what I felt mattered to you.”
His thumb caressed my cheek. “Ah, little one, you’ve become confused. As your Master, my greatest desire and responsibility is your pleasure, happiness, and safety. To upset you is to fail you. In this agreement you will make me your world, but I, too, will make you my world. Now,” he said, stroking the hair from my face, “tell me what’s wrong.”
For the second time today, embarrassment assailed me. I buried my face in his chest but he wasn’t letting me escape. He lifted my face, forcing my gaze back to his. “Tell me what’s wrong, Rebecca.”
My hands went to his hands and he let me touch him. So often, he doesn’t. It calmed me enough to confess my feelings. “Everything. Everything is wrong. You didn’t contact me all morning and I was in knots wondering what you thought. Then you made me take the ring off. Do you know what a big deal it was for me to have signed that contract? Do you know how much it ripped me apart when you rejected what I offered you?”
“No matter how much I want you to be mine, to let you sign when you aren’t ready would be assuring our agreement wi
ll fail. I don’t intend to let that happen.”
His voice was raspy, thick with emotion, and I want to believe he feels something for me. Actually, I know he feels something for me. But what does a man like him feel? A need to possess some new toy, and I’m that toy? Perhaps even a passionate need to possess that toy? And while I’m no Cinderella looking for a Prince Charming, nor a damsel looking for a hero, while standing there with him, I had a sense that I will always want more from him than he will give me.
“Why didn’t you just say you wanted me to understand more, rather than taking me in that bathroom today?” I asked, trying to understand him.
“Because while I am willing to give you more time before you sign the agreement, I admit that I am impatient to make our agreement official. Before that happens, you have to understand what’s in the contract, including the rules.”
“And the punishments,” I added.
“Yes. And the punishments.”
“How . . . intense does punishment get?”
He stared down at me, his eyes searching mine, and then he shocked me by leaning in and tenderly brushing his lips over mine. “As I said in the bathroom, I will push you to your limit, Rebecca, but I will always leave you thoroughly pleasured.”
The gentleness in him, contrasting the hardness I so often saw, softened my worries, but there was still one thing I couldn’t let go. “And Georgia. Did you leave her thoroughly pleasured?”
He pulled back to stare at me, genuine shock on his face. “Georgia?”
“She paints roses. Was the ring once hers? And are you still involved with her? Because if you are, I’m done. I won’t be—”
He laughed, a sexy, surprising sound from a man so serious. “No, little one. It was never her ring. I’ve never been intimate with Georgia, nor do I intend to be.” His voice softened and his gaze heated to scorching. “Just you, Rebecca. This relationship will be exclusive as long as we have a written agreement. Understand?”