As his brow furrowed, she bit her lip and revised. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. Of course it means something to you. It's your art, like a religion, and I'm like a canvas or an altar. I should be grateful for any moment I get like that, because how many women get the chance to be worshipped? To totally be the center of a man's attention to that depth and intensity, ever. It's an incredible gift, like going on a once in a lifetime trip or doing something on your bucket list."
She shook her head fiercely, denying herself. "But I don't want the once in a lifetime trip. I want the whole lifetime. I want eggs for breakfast, or pancakes or cereal. I want those kinds of decisions with someone I love, not jumping out of an airplane or saving baby seals in Alaska, though I don't want seals hurt. What I'm trying to say is that, for me, quiet moments are just as breathtaking as adrenaline shit is to other people."
His lips parted to speak, but she rushed on. "Yet in those intense moments, you invite me into your soul, which is a huge wow factor. But I don't know if you want me to stay. And next week, next performance, next session, it will be someone else, another woman you take to the same level of ecstasy. Some part of me says to ignore it, to ride the same train, refuse to allow it to be more than that, but see, that's where I always fuck up. I can't settle. I want more, and I'm afraid you're not a 'more.'
"You're a drug masquerading as a 'more,' and I'll get addicted to it. Every man has a shoe drop factor, when you realize they're too good to be true. Your problem is you are too good to be true. I'll be in your soul watching other females go through like a revolving door. I'll wither and die there."
She closed her eyes, stepped back from him. "I'm a private person, a possessive person. When I decide I'm falling in love with someone, I don't want to share the house with anyone else. I'm not that friendly. Yet everything you're doing to me, it's so incredible, and so I wonder if I'm letting the decisions I've arrived at after so much careful thought derail the chance for something incredible, even if it is temporal. I'm not strong enough to handle my heart getting crushed, Des. I'm not. And everything about you says you're capable of crushing my heart. You're too much, too amazing, too...beyond anything I ever expected to be able to call mine, so I know it can't be right or real..."
She took a breath. "And all of this is why I shouldn't be doing a relationship with anyone, let alone you."
She'd finally run out of words before those fathomless brown eyes. This was the part where he could tell insane, babbling woman it was okay, they could just be friends. And that would be that. Or maybe she'd learn she hadn't done it in time and her heart would be crushed anyway.
"Thirty-five," he said. "Thirty-six in three months. That's how old I am."
She stared at him. He was somehow holding her hand, his thumb rubbing her palm, her rabbiting pulse. "No way," she said. "You're in your twenties."
"Thought you were getting a much younger man, did you?" His lips curved but there was no humor in his eyes. Her words had made an impact and she realized his touch was as much firm hold as caress. "I've always looked about ten years younger than I actually am. Arrested development. It was a bitch when I was seven. Must be why the kids in the class nicknamed me Fetus."
"Great. Like most men don't already have the advantage in aging; you got the extra helping."
"Most gifts like that come with strings attached." He tipped up her chin before she could pursue the faint bitterness she heard in his tone. She was too worked up anyhow. She realized she was shaking and so did he.
"Hey," he said, dropping his hands to run them up and down her arms in a soothing manner. "It's okay."
She shook her head. "I really liked what happened on stage that night. I wanted more of it. But I don't want to become whatever the term is for someone who's strung out on sub experiences. And I don't want to go down a road with someone whose interest in me... It's like the 'everyone is special' argument. If everyone is special, no one really is, according to the literal definition. I want to be special to someone. I want to see a look in their eyes that says I'm the person that makes their day better. I'm the one who lights up the room for them, even if it's just a sixty watt bulb. Actually, I prefer it that way. I don't want to be this grand explosion of light and passion that happens for one rope session or for a short, unforgettable relationship."
She curled her fingers in his shirt. "I want to be the person who will always keep the porch light on for the other person, and he knows that, he can count on it. I'll put a night light in the bedroom so he can find his way to me without stumbling in the dark."
She didn't want to blind her soulmate. She just wanted him to know he'd always be able to find her heart, because the light they shared would be soft, steady and strong, like love itself. And why was she telling this to Des, when she knew he wasn't willing to go that far with her? Was she using him like some kind of bizarre confessor?
"Take a breath," he said, drawing her attention from the whirl of her thoughts to his serious face. "You've been spun up over this for a while now."
"Yeah. Since...well, it's been building since the orchids, really. You have a really bizarre effect on me. I wasn't going to get involved with anyone ever again. That was the promise I made myself."
"That's a shitty promise," he observed. "Like promising to shut your hand in a car door once a week."
"Not if falling in love feels ten times worse than that. The car door would be preferable."
"Good point. I've never let myself fall in love. Never thought I could afford it. Turns out, we're not given much choice about that, are we?"
Her gaze flicked up to his face, not sure what he meant and not getting any further clues from his neutral expression, because he changed the topic. Somewhat.
"When I came in to meet with Harris this week, I watched you. Doing something right is in the details, and, more than that, in loving those details, the subtle ways they add to a scene. You have that. That's how you'll make the show come alive and become something memorable. It's not about pyrotechnics or the big flash. I like that about you." He stroked her hair over her shoulder, ran his thumb along her collarbone. The sleeveless knit tank she was wearing allowed him to slide his thumb beneath it, tease her bra strap.
"There's very little about you I don't like or find pretty terrific, except your absence. Seeing you here today was like a birthday three times over."
"See, you're doing it again," she accused. "Making me feel so special, like you--"
"Hey." He tightened his grip, commanding her full attention. "You are special to me, Julie. You're giving me a lot of good information, but you're not listening. Or rather, I think you are listening, but there's so much static from your past relationships, my message isn't getting through."
She wanted to get her back up at his impatient tone, but he wasn't done. "Sounds to me like you're saying you need a guy to court you, not just stumble into it. You don't want him leaving himself a clear path of retreat by never openly declaring his intentions."
"I guess that's asking too much of the average guy," she said bitterly, thinking he was mocking her.
"It is. There's nothing average about you, Julie. You should be demanding something exceptional. You want subtle but you also want sincerity. Courage."
He cradled her jaw so she had to meet his eyes. "Say it. Honestly, from the gut."
He was doing that Dom thing, drawing her into his gaze, holding open that door inside her soul that couldn't lie to him. That couldn't lie at all.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm done with anything less."
He nodded. "That's a hell of a lot different from giving up on love. If you're going to have your guts torn out, it should be for a guy who's worth it, not a loser who doesn't know how to appreciate the gift of love."
He returned to the light stroking of her collarbone and bra strap. He didn't say anything further, either to deny he was that guy, or confirm he wanted to be in the running. Probably because of that wall she sensed within him before and could feel rising now
. Only this time, from his words and expressions, she suspected he was struggling with it. Which didn't make her as eager to throw up her own defenses. What an idiot she was.
"At one time, the first step in courtship was asking permission to write to the person who interested your affections," she ventured. "Then you moved to carriage rides and walks in the park. It was more balanced."
He considered that. "So, in a way, dating services where you meet online and get to know one another through email first are connecting to a historic tradition."
One of the things she liked about him--among many things--was that he could shift topics with her, all while retaining the original motive driving the conversation. His gaze flickered with heat now, proving it.
"If I kissed you again, would things be better balanced?"
"It might. You're a decent kisser." She adopted a nonchalant look rather than that of an eagerly panting puppy, though it took an effort. His dark eyes gleamed and he slid an arm around her.
"Liar. I'm a hell of a kisser, love. I can make your knees weak."
"If my knees wobble, it's because I haven't had lunch. Just for the record, I'm not trying to be pathetic or clingy. It would really piss me off if you thought that. I'm trying to be rational and calm, except I don't really do rational and calm. I'm just--"
"Shut up a moment."
Her attention flicked up from the hole she was staring into his throat, and his mouth was on hers again. Slow, exploratory, deep. She was still worked up enough she tried to wrench away, thrust at him, but he clamped a hand on the side of her throat, the other at her waist, and held her fast, refusing to let her throw him off.
It was the blade he knew how to draw at the right instant, more instinctive than calculated, which made it far more powerful, galvanizing her own instincts. Her body softened against his, despite all her internal warnings that he still hadn't provided an answer that could make this turn out okay. Her fingers slid up to his neck and tangled in his sweat-dampened hair. She was vaguely aware of whistling across the street, but she couldn't be embarrassed or care, not when Des didn't seem to be paying attention to anything but taking her will and her heart in one soul-penetrating kiss.
When he lifted his head this time, his eyes bored into hers. "I don't kiss them, Julie," he said, low. "Not like that."
She blinked, uncertain of his meaning, and he let her lean against the bumper of her car, keeping himself pressed against her knees, his hands at her waist.
"My turn to talk. Okay?" He brushed a finger over her swollen lips. "I love the way you look after I kiss you. Makes me want to have you right here on the hood of your car like some kind of animal."
When she quivered and closed her eyes, everything too fragile to look at him, that same protest rising to her lips to protect her, he brushed his knuckles against her face. She opened her eyes again.
"I do sessions with submissives who love rope. I care about each of those women and, in the session, you're right, we can get fairly intense and intimate. But there's a beginning and an end. It's a lot like a stage play where the actors lose themselves and become those characters. But when the curtains come down, the spell is lifted.
"When the session is over, I do whatever aftercare they need, kiss their forehead, light kisses on the mouth. I stroke them, give them an orgasm if they need it to decompress. And yeah, if she's the kind of sub who doesn't feel complete unless she's given her top release, and that's within her boundaries, I might make her go down on me. Sometimes there's sex, because, hell, I get worked up too. Until now, I've never thought about having someone who'd be that outlet for me afterward."
He moved his hands to her shoulders, caressing the round shape of them revealed by her sleeveless tank. She'd become more rigid at the discussion, but she didn't look away. She understood he was trying to tell her something that would answer her question, even though she wasn't really thrilled about the route he was taking toward it.
"After it's over, I help them dress and I make sure they're okay. Then we go our separate ways. If we see each other socially, it's at the club BBQs or hanging out at play parties, talking about what other Doms and subs are doing. I don't kiss them like I just kissed you. When I kiss you, it's different and new."
She twitched under his hands and he nodded. "Yeah, sounds like that load of manure you always hear, 'It was just sex, baby. It didn't mean anything.' But those sessions do mean something, Julie. I don't deny that. When I'm that connected to a sub, the sex can be out of this world, but it is sex, not love. I have affection and care for every woman I've ever tied up, because I'm never going to treat her like an object or an instrument.
"I move in and out of a world where there are very distinct lines between session play and a relationship that's outside a session. Doesn't always work out that clean or neat, but up until now, I've made sure it is for me, because as I said, that's what I thought I could afford. You're changing that viewpoint."
Humor glittered against the taut set of his mouth. "You said the quiet moments, like choosing breakfast, are just as special to you as the passionate stuff. In only a few days, you've made me very interested in figuring out breakfast with you."
She lifted her chin. "But it's still there, Des. A wall. You're bullshitting me without bullshitting me."
"What do you mean?" He frowned. "I'm being straight with you."
"Yeah. You're being straight with me, telling me incredibly personal things and yet somehow weirdly holding me at arm's length. It's like we're in a classroom and you're standing up front, relaying info about yourself without giving me any of yourself. I can't really figure it out, but I can feel it. I bullshitted myself, thinking I could come out here and say 'hey that rope session was nifty, thanks and bye.' I want more, no matter how scared I am. But I will not go out on that ledge by myself one more time. I just can't. Just please...tell me now. Am I ridiculous to think I already feel something so strong for you that we've fallen into a relationship without any warning, or am I on that ledge by myself?"
"No. No you're not." His hands were on her shoulders, and his expression was frustrated. She saw a flash of aching need so powerful it both frightened and reassured her in a way a million charming words couldn't. "I don't want you scared, love. Of anything. And particularly not of me."
"So tell me." Taking a page out of his own book, the way he could use wry humor to make her feel okay about saying anything, she took both his hands. "What's your issue? Daddy, Mommy, fear of love, of commitment? Spill, then it's out of the way and in the open. Treat it like a Tweet. One sentence or less, because the rest is window dressing, justification, caviling, explaining. I just want to hear the basic problem."
He brushed his fingers through her hair, giving it a little tug. "I've been really careful not to let anyone be too close, Julie. Not that I've closed myself off, but I make sure they don't get so deep they get hurt."
"Okay. We're getting closer, but we're still not there. Don't invite me in but leave me in the front room. Don't use protecting me as an excuse to protect yourself."
She'd struck home. For a moment she saw something angry in his eyes, but he reined it back.
"Fair enough," he said. "But first tell me why you stopped dating. You've given me some of it, but I'd like to know the other part of it. It's something beyond what they've done to you, isn't it?"
She bit her lip. Well, it was no worse than what she'd already dumped on him, but if he didn't have something comparably fucked up to share, she was going to be pissed. "I got tired of relationships kick-starting the same emotional shit. Can I trust him? When will he hurt me? It's the typical cliched romance conflict crap that happens in everyone's story, and I got tired of being in the same play. But you...I can't predict anything about you, so it doesn't make me tired. Just scared."
"What are you scared of?" His hand settled on her shoulder again, fingertips tracing patterns. He really didn't like hearing she was afraid, and she was just weak enough to respond to the light in his eyes, the clo
ser shift of his body, that said he wanted to fix that.
"That I'm still in the same play. I just don't recognize the set."
He digested that. "Okay, but I'll be the first guy you've dated who can give you something different."
"What's that?"
He grimaced and met her gaze. "I'll be dead before I can tear your heart out and stomp on it."
At first she thought he was saying something over-the-top romantic, like he'd die before he'd ever hurt her. But as he kept holding her with his piercing stare, it sank in. Her hands reflexively gripped his. "What?" she said faintly.
He swore under his breath. "I didn't mean to say it that way. You're a pushy woman, love. Let me take you out to lunch where we can talk. There's a Bob Evans about a mile up that way. I'll meet you there."
From his closed expression, she supposed he wanted to take separate cars so that she had an escape route. She didn't know what she'd want. She was torn between his hints of wanting to share pancakes with her, or not having a choice about falling in love, and the implication he was...
No, she wasn't going to say it in her head. She was too confused. She focused on the other things he'd said that she could process.
He was right. The upfront things, like how he felt with a sub in session, smacked of every lame excuse for infidelity she'd heard. Yet she'd already known about his sessions, had experienced one herself first hand, and she'd been immersed in the BDSM world these past couple months, witnessing the interactions between those who practiced it.
She thought her whole information dump upon him had been too much, too soon. She and he hadn't come far enough in a relationship where infidelity could be a crime committed against it. They hadn't even actually had sex yet.
But he'd taken her outpouring in stride, as if he felt strongly enough for her that he'd welcomed hearing every worry she had. Maybe that was also due to the BDSM dynamic. As he'd said, boundaries and structure were set quickly, to keep things safe and protect feelings. Only where was the line between letting love happen spontaneously and trying to control everything? She thought she'd obliterated that line a couple failed relationships ago, and now she was out to sea with him, trying to figure out how this was going to work or if she could walk away. And he'd just thrown a new wrench into it. A pretty damn significant one.