couldn’t seem to get enough of me.
When I finally collapsed on top of him, I lay there and listened to his heartbeat, fighting a wave of emotion very unlike me.
“Move in with me, Rebecca,” he ordered softly.
“Why?” I asked this time.
“Because I want more than we have now.”
“But not the same kind of ‘more’ that I want,” I whispered. “And I’m not sure how I let that happen.”
He slid his hands to my face and forced my gaze to his. “It’s the only kind of ‘more’ I know how to give.”
“Maybe that isn’t enough for me.”
“How do you know if you don’t try?”
“I just . . . do.”
“You are more to me than any other sub has—”
“Don’t,” I said, rolling off him and struggling into my seat. “Don’t finish that sentence!” By the time I was sitting where I belonged again, he’d raised his seatback.
“You’re upset. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“No.” I managed to awkwardly deal with the mess we’d made of my clothing and my emotions. “I don’t want to talk tomorrow. I want to go to work and love my job and not think about this at all.” I got out of the car and he followed. I knew he would. The Master must protect—right? But who was going to protect me from him?
At my apartment, I turned to him. “Goodnight.” I opened the door to go inside.
He gently shackled my arm. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’m done. This isn’t me. It never was.”
His eyes glinted hard. “I’m going to change your mind.”
I didn’t answer and he let me go.
I quickly went inside, before I did something stupid like telling him to change it right now. I rested against the other side of the door and I could feel him doing the same on the outside.
He is an addiction, and addictions are never good for you. He’s taking me deeper into his world, deeper into his dark desires, but I’m never able to get behind the physical aspect of our relationship. I just lose more of who I am.
• • •
A nd then came the roses . . .
They arrived at my door the next morning, and I was seduced by the romantic gesture. And later, when we talked, he assured me that these new, darker places I could feel him taking us was just another part of discovering us, and delving into a deeper level of trust.
I was scared. I knew it meant that calling him “Master” would take on a new meaning. But I convinced myself that if I wanted more from him, maybe he still needed more from me first.
And so I gave up what was left of my life outside of being his. I thought I wanted my life to be his life but somehow, by letting him control more of me, he gave me less of him. The things I have done to please him . . . well, let’s just say I’d never do them for anyone else. I’ve gone everywhere he’s asked me to go. I’ve gone places I never thought I could go. Done things that shredded me inside and out. Now, I need more from him.
9:30 a.m.
At my desk . . .
I have work to do, important details for a big event we are hosting off-site Sunday night. A local artist who paints food is showing at a new bakery owned by the renowned chef Michael Adams. I set up the event after a visit to the bakery, managing to arrange for the chef and the artist to attend. It’s like nothing the gallery has ever hosted, and Mark actually complimented me. Even after all of this time, a compliment from “Bossman,” as Ralph calls him, is hard to get. But then, he put me in charge of the Riptide auctions. I’d say that is a pretty big compliment.
And I should be thinking about the event, calling customers to confirm they are attending, rather than focusing on the fact that “he” hasn’t called me, and what that means. I should go get coffee and clear my head. Yes. I’m going to get coffee, and not next door. I’m sticking to the kitchen and the gallery.
3:00 p.m.
C ontrol. He has it. I do not. I want it back. He thinks I already have it back, and now he’s punishing me for
When I finally collapsed on top of him, I lay there and listened to his heartbeat, fighting a wave of emotion very unlike me.
“Move in with me, Rebecca,” he ordered softly.
“Why?” I asked this time.
“Because I want more than we have now.”
“But not the same kind of ‘more’ that I want,” I whispered. “And I’m not sure how I let that happen.”
He slid his hands to my face and forced my gaze to his. “It’s the only kind of ‘more’ I know how to give.”
“Maybe that isn’t enough for me.”
“How do you know if you don’t try?”
“I just . . . do.”
“You are more to me than any other sub has—”
“Don’t,” I said, rolling off him and struggling into my seat. “Don’t finish that sentence!” By the time I was sitting where I belonged again, he’d raised his seatback.
“You’re upset. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“No.” I managed to awkwardly deal with the mess we’d made of my clothing and my emotions. “I don’t want to talk tomorrow. I want to go to work and love my job and not think about this at all.” I got out of the car and he followed. I knew he would. The Master must protect—right? But who was going to protect me from him?
At my apartment, I turned to him. “Goodnight.” I opened the door to go inside.
He gently shackled my arm. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’m done. This isn’t me. It never was.”
His eyes glinted hard. “I’m going to change your mind.”
I didn’t answer and he let me go.
I quickly went inside, before I did something stupid like telling him to change it right now. I rested against the other side of the door and I could feel him doing the same on the outside.
He is an addiction, and addictions are never good for you. He’s taking me deeper into his world, deeper into his dark desires, but I’m never able to get behind the physical aspect of our relationship. I just lose more of who I am.
• • •
A nd then came the roses . . .
They arrived at my door the next morning, and I was seduced by the romantic gesture. And later, when we talked, he assured me that these new, darker places I could feel him taking us was just another part of discovering us, and delving into a deeper level of trust.
I was scared. I knew it meant that calling him “Master” would take on a new meaning. But I convinced myself that if I wanted more from him, maybe he still needed more from me first.
And so I gave up what was left of my life outside of being his. I thought I wanted my life to be his life but somehow, by letting him control more of me, he gave me less of him. The things I have done to please him . . . well, let’s just say I’d never do them for anyone else. I’ve gone everywhere he’s asked me to go. I’ve gone places I never thought I could go. Done things that shredded me inside and out. Now, I need more from him.
9:30 a.m.
At my desk . . .
I have work to do, important details for a big event we are hosting off-site Sunday night. A local artist who paints food is showing at a new bakery owned by the renowned chef Michael Adams. I set up the event after a visit to the bakery, managing to arrange for the chef and the artist to attend. It’s like nothing the gallery has ever hosted, and Mark actually complimented me. Even after all of this time, a compliment from “Bossman,” as Ralph calls him, is hard to get. But then, he put me in charge of the Riptide auctions. I’d say that is a pretty big compliment.
And I should be thinking about the event, calling customers to confirm they are attending, rather than focusing on the fact that “he” hasn’t called me, and what that means. I should go get coffee and clear my head. Yes. I’m going to get coffee, and not next door. I’m sticking to the kitchen and the gallery.
3:00 p.m.
C ontrol. He has it. I do not. I want it back. He thinks I already have it back, and now he’s punishing me for
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