Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive Read Free Page B

go with one, this man is under my skin. I feel myself falling hard for him and looking for signs that he’s falling for me, too. It’s insanity. I’m a contract, a responsibility. A possession to him. He should be nothing but pleasure and the escape he has promised me he will be. And that is all he has promised.
    It should be enough. It has to be enough before I allow myself back under his control, even for another encounter.
    That means I need to take a few days and decide if I really can do this. I need to find myself again, the me that doesn’t need anyone. The me that understands I’m the only one I have to count on in this world. The me that will allow him to pleasure me and expect nothing else in return, because expecting more from people just means heartache.

Thursday, March 17, 2011
    Lunchtime . . .
    I walked into the gallery this morning determined to make it about art. If anything can bring me back to me, that’s it. Once I arrived at work, though, I discovered Mark was dealing with off-site business and probably wouldn’t be in all day. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I know the rest of the staff is relieved when he’s gone, too. He always creates a subtle tension in the air, but he also creates a raw energy that excites the entire building and the people inside, even if they don’t realize it. I need that energy today.
    In his absence I turned to caffeine. I was just leaving the kitchen with a full cup of coffee when Mary, my fellow sales rep, and “frenemy” as Ralph has called her, knocked into me. The contents of the cup splattered everywhere, including down the front of my—fortunately black—dress. She apologized profusely and swore it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I’d thought things had improved after she’d had a meeting with Mark last week and become friendlier, but apparently her friendliness was short-lived. She simply hates me for existing and I can’t control that. There is a lot I can’t seem to control lately.

3:00 p.m.
    T he gallery was sealed off to customers about an hour ago to allow the removal of the art from our personal office walls, because apparently it’s part of Mark’s personal collection. He must be even richer than I realized to own as impressive a collection as this one. I’d thought the pieces belonged to the gallery since his family also owns Riptide, one of the largest auction houses on the planet. Anyway, it turns out that once a year, Mark replaces the art and invites elite customers in for exclusive showings. The event is highly anticipated.
    With the gallery shut for the art removal, I decided to head to the coffee shop for a caramel macchiato and was surprised to find Chris, Ava, and Georgia standing at the counter deep in conversation. Chris’s longish blond hair was rumpled, as if he’d been running his hands through it while working, and there was this devastatingly sexy energy about him that, based on how enthralled they looked as he spoke, clearly had Ava and Georgia spellbound. I waited in line to order, and my attention went to Georgia. Her beauty, next to Ava’s, had me feeling very ordinary. All my fears that Georgia had inspired the ring came back to me.
    Chris’s gaze lifted, and his brows dipped. I knew he’d seen something on my face, and thankfully it was my turn to order, which gave me an escape from his scrutiny. I have no idea what he saw in my expression—but too much, for sure. He and Mark both saw too much. But then, Chris is an artist, a man who studies details. What did I expect?
    Once I placed my order and turned back to the group, I found that Chris had disappeared back to his table and Ava was attending to a customer. Georgia greeted me with such a friendly smile that it was hard to remember why I’d felt uncomfortable a few minutes before. Apparently she’d stopped in for coffee on her way to a meeting with Ralph to go over the prior night’s sales and receipts.
    We chatted on the short walk back