***
Wednesday 6 pm
I cannot write everything there is to write. Not now. I’m still at work. But this day has been crazy. I was at Ava’s coffee shop grabbing coffee to get me through what will be a late night, and I found her and Mary huddled in a corner. It made me uncomfortable. I don’t know why but I felt that it was about me. That is very self-centered, I know. I’m not that girl. I don’t think everything is about me but it just felt off in some way. I’d left before they’d seen me and that’s when I’d come face to face with him. I’d stepped outside and was halfway back to the gallery when he’d stepped in my path. Have I ever mentioned he smells like a wonderful spice? I don’t know what kind of spice. Just spice. Really, yummy, delicious spice. Nutmeg and honey? No. No. That is a strange comparison. Just warm and wonderful. And he’d been so close I could reach out and touch him, but of course, you never touch a master without behind told to touch him.
Which is why I touched him.
I put my hand on his chest, and I swear he sucked in a breath. And I was holding mine. To my surprise, his hand had covered mine, and he’d held me to him. “Rebecca,” he’d breathed out, and this new way he says my name, like I’m the reason he has a voice, set my heart to racing.
“Hello,” I’d said, which was silly. Hello? I should have said his name. Why can’t I ever say it? Why is he still Master to me?
“Did you get my gift?”
“Yes I-” My free hand goes to the ring on the chain. “I’m wearing it.”
He’d gone still. So very still.
And I have to go back to work.
More soon…
Chapter Six
Wednesday 11 pm
Somehow, I made it through an evening at the gallery that included an open house with a wine tasting. Normally, having artists in the house like the famous, Chris Merit–a local that is famous worldwide–would enthrall me. Tonight, I couldn’t stop thinking about that encounter on the street with my former Master. Former. There is the key word that we defined tonight. I think he really didn’t believe I would stick to my word. I think he really believed I’d become his submissive again. I know he did. From the very instant his heavy stare had landed on the ring where it hung on a chain at my neck, I could feel the dark energy radiating off him. I could feel the iron will of that man, telling me without words, I’d broken the rules. I knew then that sending me that package, with my ring in it again, had been his way of reclaiming me.
In all of sixty seconds, he’d taken my hands and led me to an alcove in front of an antique shop, the concrete wall hiding us from the public eye. I’d ended up against the wall, that big body of his, caging mine, against the stone at my back. But not touching me. See, that is what he does. He makes me feel him, even when he’s not touching me. He makes me want him, when I swear, I’ll never want him again. He smells good and it makes me remember how good he tastes and feels.
“This is how it is?” he’d demanded.
“What does that even mean?” I’d whispered, and God, my throat had been so dry. And my heart had been racing. It’s racing now just typing this.
“You know who and what I am,” he’d said, without directly answering my question.
“What I know,” I’d said, “is who and what I am. And it’s not your submissive. I am, however, the woman who loves you. I’m also the woman who says that to you, and never gets a reply. That’s not enough anymore.”
He gray eyes had sharpened, and he’s stared at me for so many seconds, it had felt like a year. “You know you’re special to me.”
“I know every submissive you’ve ever had was special to you.”
“You aren’t them.”
“I know,” I’d said. “I’m not. And I will never pretend to be again.”
His hand had come down on my hip, a branding that had scorched me from the inside out. “You belong to me.”
When he says those things to me, I get wet, and hot, and want in so many ways. There is just something about that man saying you belong to him, that makes me want to be owned. In bed. That’s the thing. I like how he owns me in bed. I don’t, however, want to be owned the rest of the time. And damn it, I want to own him, too. I want him to belong to me, too.
“I belong to me,” I’d replied, and I’d let the defiance I’d felt lace my words.
“I’ll share.”
“That’s the problem,” I’d said, those words cutting me with bad memories. I’d remembered him inviting another Master to our games. I remember him inviting her to our games. All to push me away. And I hate myself for letting him. For saying yes. “You will share,” I’d added. “And that’s not okay with me.” I’d reached up and removed his hand from my hip. “When and if you ever want to be with me, not a submissive, call me. Until then, this is goodbye.” I’d tried to step around him, but he’d tangled fingers into my hair, and stared down at me, “Rebecca,” he’d breathed out, and even now, I can still taste the kiss that had followed, the power in its depths. The push and command. It had been his body claiming mine, where his words had failed. And my body had responded. Before I’d know it, his hand was under my skirt, under my panties, and I’d been panting and moaning. I’d shattered, in too few seconds. He’d owned me.
And yet, nothing had changed.
I still wanted more.
I still want more.
And I’d told him that. “This changes nothing,” I’d said.
He’d tilted his head upward, torment he never allows me, or anyone, to see etched in his features, the hard lines of his body, telling the same story, as the edginess radiating off him. Seconds tick by, before he lowers his chin, and looks at me. “I’m me. I can’t be anyone but who I am.”
“And I can’t be anyone but who I am.”
Seconds ticked by, before he’d stepped back, giving me space to leave. Oh God. My heart had hurt in that moment. I’d taken a few steps and my back was to him when he’d said, “Rebecca.”
I’d stopped but not turned, as he’d added, “You matter to me more than you will ever know.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore than I am now. I just knew it wasn’t enough and I’d started walking again. I’d left him there in the alcove and despite the orgasm he’d given me, nothing about the experience had been satisfying.
Anyway, back to the open house. There had been a man there. A good looking, rich, charming man. He asked me out. I said no when the truth is, maybe I should have said yes. Did I mention he’s good looking, rich, and charming? He made me laugh, even tonight, after the alcove. He made me feel pretty and wanted. He was what most would call a Dream Man.
And yet…I said no.
Chapter Seven
Thursday 11 pm
It’s been a week and one day since that encounter in the alcove. He hasn’t called me. He hasn’t sent me a note. I haven’t contacted him either. But I’ve seen him several times. We’ve made eye contact. And I’ve felt him. Not literally, but in those looks, I’ve felt his torment, his desire, his need for me. But I’ve also felt his resistance to what I need from him. I think this means we’re over.
That Dream Man I wrote about stopped by the Gallery today, and bought a very expensive Chris Merit painting from me. It was a big commission, and I should be pleased, but he asked me out right after, and it made me feel as if he were buying me. I just…I don’t want to be owned in any way ever again. I declined the date, and when I left work tonight, he was waiting for me, leaning on a fancy sports car that I’m pretty sure cost more than that painting which was a cool hundred thousand dollars. His suit, a black pin striped number, had been thousands too I assume. I still felt the same. Like he was trying to buy me. And so I decided to just be clear and direct. I marched right up to him.
He’d pushed off his car, and we’d stood toe to toe, closer than I’d meant to stand. “Rebecca,” he’d said, giving my velvet coat, a gift from my mother, I’d paired with an
emerald green scarf, a once over, his brown eyes both warm with a gentleness and hot with attraction, when they’d met mine. “You look beautiful,” he’d added.
I’d gotten pretty warm then, too, which had stunned me. I’d really started to believe no one else but my former Master, could make me anything but cold. It had kind of scared me. It made me feel like I was losing the man I love. But then, I’d suddenly remembered a saying my grandmother used to tell, when she was alive: If you have a bird and it flies away, if it comes back, it was yours. If it does not, it never was.
“Thank you,” I’d told him, in response to the compliment. “Is there a problem with the painting?”
“Yes,” he’d said. “There is. It made you uncomfortable.”
I was blown away that he was in tune enough with me to know this. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I’d said, daring to say exactly what I’d felt. “You asking me out after buying it did.”
He’d arched a dark brown. “Because you don’t want to go out with me?”
“Because if felt like you bought the painting to buy me.”
“It’s my second Chris Merit painting,” he’d said. “The first I picked up in Paris. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, I don’t buy women. I don’t have to.”
“Oh. No. I mean–your–of course you don’t. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m coming off a strange relationship.”
“And you felt like property?”
“Something like that. And at the risk of sounding like a jerk, you do flash your money around. How do you even know if you’re buying a woman or not?”
“You can tell a lot about a person when you flash your money around. It certainly has told me a lot about you.”
“What has it told you about me?”
“That you don’t care about my money. Go to dinner with me.”
“No.”
“Go to dinner with me,” he’d repeated.
“I don’t even know you. I know nothing about you.”
“That’s what you learn over dinner. But if it makes you feel better, let’s make it coffee. Now. Next door.”
I’d found myself wanting to say yes, but still I said, “No.”
He’d given me one of his warm brown stares, seconds ticking by before he’d said, “I’ll walk you to your car. Where are you parked?”
“At a meter around the corner but you don’t have to do that.”
“If I had to do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”
I have no idea why but that comment charmed me. Really. He’d charmed me from the moment I met him. “All right. Thank you.”
We’d started walking and I remember thinking that he was so very big and powerful, beside me. By big, I mean, his presence. I felt him there. I think everyone and anyone would. And really, it’s perhaps because he has that force about him, that he could even get my attention right now. I mean, my Master–ugh–no, no, no–former Master–consumed me.
“How long have you been interested in art?” he’d asked.
“Since I was a teenager,” I confess. “I wanted to be an artist, but I wasn’t gifted enough.”
“Perhaps you’re hard on yourself. Do you have any of your own work?”
“Oh no. I’m not hard on myself, just realistic, but that’s okay. I appreciate art. I love it. I get to work around it every single day.” We round the corner. “When did you decide you loved art?”
“My father’s an art collector and has been since I was a small child. Museums and art exhibits have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.”
I’d stopped walking and pointed to my car. “This is me,” and then feeling curious about him and his family, I don’t know what really happened then but I’d blurted out, “How do you, and your father, make all this money you make?”
He’d laughed, this low, sexy laugh. “My family is in real estate, and I write novels, for a living.”
Enthralled, at this creative side of him, that is in itself, a form of art, I’d quickly asked, “Novels? What kind of novels?”
“Thrillers.”
“Do you have pen name?”
“I do and you’ll have to go to dinner with me to find out what it is.”
“No,” I’d said again, when I really wanted to say “yes,” but a date with this would-be, could-be, dream man, means deciding the man I love is not my dream man. And I just couldn’t do that.
He hadn’t looked surprised. Instead, he’d reached in his pocket, then taken my hand, to press a card into my palm, and his touch–it had been surprisingly electric. “Change your mind and call me.” It had been an order, but then, he’d shocked me with this low, raspy. “Please.”
It’s the “please” that had gotten to me. The way he’d managed to command me but still ask me. It was sexy and right, in ways that I needed it to be right. But he hadn’t pushed. He’d turned and walked away. And now I sit here, staring at the card, that simply reads, “Alex Marque” and wondering if I should call. Of course, I googled him, and there is no writer, that has this name. There is a mega real estate empire though. I find myself wanting to know his pen name. I find myself wanting to call. But even more so, I want my former Master to call.
I’m very confused.
Maybe I should go to dinner. Maybe that will help me know if the past is the past or the present. I’m going to do, it. I’m going to call Alex, and just say “yes.”
Chapter Eight
Friday 10 pm
I know I said I was going to call Alex and accept that date, but I didn’t. I felt guilty, like I was betraying the Master, who is no longer my Master. But the thing is, I feel like I’m betraying my heart, too. I love him and I know the pain he’s hiding from. I’ve seen it in his eyes over and over and over again. I feel like I am hurting him by leaving him even though he’s hurting me by keeping me at a distance. And it’s not about being his submissive. Being a submissive, though not natural to me, is not a bad thing. In fact, I found it to be an incredible bond, shared with someone you trust completely. It can be freedom and a connection shared with someone else, that I don’t think I could explain if asked. It’s something you just have to experience. But my master used the role of submissive as his way of keeping me at a distance. It was a tool to protect himself from the emotional bond growing between us. The problem for him though, was it became a way that we grew closer, and each time I felt that happening, he’d push me to do something he knew I wouldn’t like. He’d bring in the second master, to share me. He’d bring in her. God. I can’t believe I let myself be shared. I can’t believe I don’t hate him for doing it. But I have no one to blame but myself. The power is always with the submissive. The submissive says “yes” or “no.” Until recently, I never wanted to say no to him.
So, I didn’t call Alex last night when I’d planned to do so. I told myself it was too late since it was nearly midnight when I put my journals aside. I went to work this morning trying to convince myself to call him today, but I just kept finding work to do and yet, I managed to find time to call down to the bakery and find out if they had my favorite chocolate cookies. That tells you, I didn’t want to call. And yet…I did. I’m very confused about why I felt that way. How could I have wanted to call Alex, and still be in love with another man? And almost as if Alex knew my conflict, he showed up. Not literally, but he might as well have.
I’d just sat down at my desk for a late lunch which included a bag of those chocolate cookies and a cup of coffee, because my diet couldn’t afford for me to eat a sandwich and the bag of cookies. And considering my tormented mood, I knew I was going to eat the cookies no matter what. I was three delicious cookies in when Amanda had appeared at my door.
“Flowers for you!” she’d exclaimed.
I’d nearly choked on crumbs, and had to wash them down with a hot swig of coffee, and not because of the flowers, but rather, the certainty they were not from the man I love. How did I know this? They did not match the ring on the ch
ain at my neck. They weren’t roses but rather some sort of orange blossom flowers.
I’d recovered from the attack of the cookie crumbs by the time Amanda set the flowers on my desk. “Are they from the same man who sent you the gift last week?”
I’d felt that question like a punch in the chest because, no. They were not from the master I love. “Let’s hope,” I’d said, with the hope she’d leave, because as much as I love Amanda, she’s young and she pushes and pushes and in that moment, I just didn’t have it in me to deal with that part of her.
I’d grabbed the card though, and read it:
Marigold’s represent a desire for riches, but I find all I desire is you. I can’t stop thinking about you. – Alex
“Well?” Amanda had pressed.
“Ricco Alvarez,” I’d lied. Despite hating lies. “Marigold’s mean desire for riches, and he’s thanking me for selling so many of his paintings the past few weeks.”
“Oh.” She’d looked disappointed. “Well that’s nice. And he is a good looking, rich and famous artist. I think he likes you.”
“I think he likes the money I’m making him,” I’d told her and motioned for her to leave. “Scram, you. I have to eat my lunch before my next appointment.”
She’d pursed her lips and headed away, and suddenly, Bossman, Mark Compton himself, had been standing in my doorway, looking better than any chocolate cookie could ever taste, in a blue suit and silver tie. And being that he’s blonde, he makes tall, blond, and hot mean way more than tall, dark, and good looking. “Ricco sent you flowers?”