by Lila Dubois
Part of her was aroused.
Part of her didn’t think it was crazy to fly halfway around the world to find the one man who could give her that immersive submissive experience she craved.
But that wasn’t why she was here. No, she was here because when he walked away from her, he left her in an emotional whirlpool. Experience—from the last time he walked away—told her that swimming out of that whirlpool, finding a sense of normality, wasn’t a matter of days, but months. She wouldn’t let him do that to her again.
“Your home is lovely. Perhaps you would show me around?”
“Why don’t you wait for the regularly scheduled tour which starts at fifteen minutes past the hour, every hour?” The sarcasm was so thick that his tone was almost genuine.
“A simple no would suffice.”
“You don’t get to show up on my island then expect to be treated like an invited guest and make demands about tours.”
“I thought we could be civil for this conversation, but it appears that you’re determined to be an ass.” Sniping and arguing with Solomon was both familiar and unpleasant. Their conversations and interactions could vacillate between intimate and adversarial so quickly that she felt as if she had whiplash.
She was hardly innocent in this and did her share of bouncing between feeling affectionate toward him, aggravated with him, attracted to him, and even a very mild hatred. If only that hate were stronger, she wouldn’t be here.
“Is that why you’re here? To talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“You could have picked up the fucking phone.”
“Would you have answered?” Vivienne stepped into her shoes, liking the added height, which made her closer to eye level with Solomon. Only in sky-high heels—the kind she couldn’t wear for more than a few hours—did she come close to being truly eye level with him. It was always one of the things she’d liked—how much bigger he was than her. Solomon made her feel small and dainty. His physical size reinforced the dominance that his personality and behavior expressed.
There was nowhere besides the staircase for her to sit and fasten her ankle straps, so Vivienne bent forward, reaching for the ties. Solomon beat her there. He dropped to a crouch and tied the ribbons on her right shoe.
This felt too much like he was putting her in bondage. She raised her gaze to the staircase, but couldn’t stop her blood from heating, her body from reacting to his touch.
“Other foot,” he commanded.
Vivienne looked down at his dark hair. In the golden light of the candles and distant recessed lights, his hair had only a few hints of the warm brown that she been able to see as he walked down the dock toward her.
Solomon fastened her other shoe, put his hands on his knees, and pushed up. “If you told me it was answer the phone, or you would show up on my island, I sure as fuck would have answered.”
“Didn’t you tell me that you flew all the way to Paris to talk to your friend James? And I assume James had far fewer reasons for not accepting your call than you would have for refusing to talk to me.”
Solomon’s jaw muscles tightened visibly. “Come into my office and we’ll talk.”
Vivienne followed him through the foyer to a door hidden in the shadow of the stairs.
They entered a long but narrow room that ran all along the back of the main wing of the house. The exterior wall was almost entirely windows. Outdoor lights illuminated a patio that stretched the length of the house and groupings of plush outdoor furniture. Instead of the ocean view the front of the mansion boasted, here the scenery was a dense wall of lush foliage. There were palms and emerald-green glossy plants with lush-hued flowers. Creeping tropical vines snaked around the trunks of short palm trees, and verdant green beach grasses carpeted the sandy soil. Through a break in the foliage she caught a glimpse of the peaked center of the island.
Against that lush backdrop, the furniture in the room seemed odd, yet familiar. It took her a moment to realize why.
There were several distinct work areas, including multiple desks, a small conference table, and club chair seating areas. All the furniture was masculine leather and wood and far too heavy for the tropical location. There were delicate pieces—a small sideboard serving as a bar with a distinct Louis XIV style, a spindle-legged curio cabinet that held shells and brass nautical knickknacks. It was elegant and masculine, but not brutishly so.
A sense of deja vu hit her so hard she rocked back on her heels. This room looked like the office he’d kept in Maison Delphine. When she’d taken over as CEO of CRD Beauvalot, she and Solomon had moved into the Parisian mansion owned by Beauvalot. Living there had been about status, about making a statement, and there’d been more than enough room for them to each have their own home office. Their designer had furnished his office to look just like this—dark, heavy, and masculine, with a few touches of refinement in lighter pieces. If she hadn’t known better, she would say some of these pieces were actually the same ones he’d had in Paris, but that couldn’t be.
She left Maison Delphine not long after he’d left her, unable to live with the memories.
She hired a decorator to go through and redo the house with an eye toward it being an event space rather than a residence. The next time she was in the building, morbid curiosity had driven her to peek into the rooms that had been their private residence. Instead of their lush and comfortable furnishings, the rooms were freshly wallpapered, the floors perfectly polished, and antique oil paintings hung in places of honor. Other than that, the rooms were Spartan, with only a few pieces of furniture that could be moved depending on the event needs.
Their couch, their dining room set and desks…all the things they’d picked out together were gone. She told herself it was a relief, that all traces of their relationship were wiped away. Told herself that it was a good thing that the couch where they’d made love wasn’t there to confront her with the memory of their intimacy. But it had also made her feel even more alone, at a time in her life when she’d felt forsaken and isolated, suffering nearly daily panic attacks so bad that she’d cleared out a corner of her closet where she could hide while the prescription medication she popped like other people ate breath mints took effect.
Not only had she lost Solomon, but all traces of what they’d had together had been erased, leaving her to lie awake at night and wonder if she’d dreamed it all.
Now she’d walked into Solomon’s office to find it was a place that she both knew, yet was foreign to her. Rationally, she was sure the resemblance had more to do with his aesthetic preferences rather than some brooding, romantic desire to be reminded of their time together. And yet…
Vivienne put her knuckles to her lips, holding back the emotion that swept through her. If she blocked out the view of the tropical jungle beyond, she could almost pretend they were home in Paris and she was trudging into his office, emotionally and physically spent, seeking the one thing that had kept her sane—Solomon.
Walking into his office had usually meant she was done fighting that day’s battles, finally able to seek her place of safety and peace. Her refuge. Her Solomon.
Present day Solomon walked to the massive wooden desk in the center of the room. It was easily two meters long and at least a meter wide. The top was devoid of so much as a single pen.
He’d bent her over that desk, or one very like it, and spanked her. Her skin tingled at the memory of the cool surface of the desk pressing against her skin.
In the year they’d lived in Maison Delphine, it had never taken more than a few swats for her to break into tears, she’d been so tightly wound. Once she started crying, he’d lay her out on the desk or drag her to the floor and make love to her.
Rather than take a seat in the chair behind the desk, he leaned against the front, long legs stretched out, one ankle stacked over the other, the heels of his hands braced on either side of his hips. “Why are you here, Vivienne?”
Vivienne jammed her hand harder against her lips, pressing
them against her teeth, hoping the bite of pain would yank her out of the past and into the present.
It didn’t work.
The words were ripped from her, forced through a tightness in her throat and chest. “This room…it looks just like your office in our home.”
Solomon’s shoulders tensed, his tone as stiff as his body. “Our home.”
Vivienne swallowed, shaking her head. “Your office at Maison Delphine. This reminds me of it. I…” She inhaled through her nose, released the air through her mouth. If she controlled her breathing, she wouldn’t start to cry. “I need a moment.”
Skirting around Solomon and the desk, she walked to one of several sets of French doors, throwing them open and stepping out onto the patio and into the night.
The air was warm and humid, thick with the smell of growing things, and, more subtly, the faint smell of the ocean.
She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, looking up at the sky. A few of the brightest stars were just now starting to appear at the apex of the sky as the last rays of sunset retreated before the advance of night.
“Vivi…you shouldn’t be here,” Solomon said softly.
She crossed her arms over her stomach. “A moment, please.”
“Giving you time to put your armor back on isn’t going to help.”
“I am not putting on armor. I’m merely…gathering myself.”
Solomon appeared at her side, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. He too looked up at the sky. “You’re putting on armor…the same way I do. It hides the fact that we’re both still walking wounded.”
Vivienne closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. “It’s been five years. We should have moved on. I shouldn’t still think about you every day.” That admission hurt, but it was true. Standing here in the warm night, the wit and banter that she used to protect herself were gone.
Protect herself. Armor. He was right, though she usually thought of it more like a cloak she swathed herself in. Cloak or armor, whatever the metaphor was, in this moment she was naked and defenseless.
“I am very aware that I’m pathetic,” she whispered.
“You’re not. Or maybe you are, but if you are, I am too. I think about you, about us, every day.”
“Seeing furniture shouldn’t bring me to my proverbial knees, yet here I am.” She shrugged, forearms still pressed to her stomach, the movement tight.
“Like I said. We’re walking wounded.”
“Why, Solomon? Why can’t we move on?”
“Chemistry. We still have it. Probably always will. We’re good together. We are also so fucking bad for each other.” He huffed. “Please see exhibits A through Z.”
The hint of humor helped her relax. “I’m glad we can talk about it. It would be worse if we pretended we weren’t still affected by our past.”
“We taught each other to be honest with our emotions.”
“We had to be,” she agreed. “It was one of the things I most enjoyed about our relationship as Master and submissive. We had to communicate.”
He grunted in agreement. “Remember how long it took us to figure out we were both rich kids?”
She smiled up at the night. “I do. And do you remember standing in line outside that bar the night we first talked about BDSM?”
“I was terrified I was going to lose you.” His voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, but soft. The tropical breeze and resultant rustling of the plant life around them almost snatched the words away before she could hear them.
“That night?”
“Yes. I would have given it up for you.”
“You didn’t have to. I would have done anything for you.”
“And maybe that was part of the problem,” Solomon said. “We were too willing to change for each other. At least in the beginning.” His voice hardened and grew louder. “At the end what we had, what we were, didn’t matter enough.”
The lingering tightness in Vivienne’s throat vanished as vibrant anger swept through her. “And that, dearest Solomon, is why I’m here. You ran away again, and this time I’m not going to let you.”
In sync, they turned to face one another, the quiet, melancholy intimacy gone in favor of that biting anger they’d held when they first saw one another in the club in Paris.
“I didn’t run. I walked away before I did, or said, something we would both regret.”
“Which time? Because you’ve made a habit of this,” Vivienne sniped.
Solomon all but snarled. “I walked away for the same damn reason both times and you know it.”
Anger made her palms itch to slap him. Once, overrun by grief and desperation, she’d given in to that terrible urge.
“No, you walked away because I wasn’t perfect, unlike you.”
Solomon inched forward, into her personal space. “That’s the lie you’ve been telling yourself?”
She didn’t back down. “It’s not a lie because it’s the truth. Once I became CEO of CRD Beauvalot, once I needed you there to support me instead of the other way around, you left.”
“That is a pack of bullshit.”
“It’s the truth, even if you don’t want to see it.”
“Don’t you dare paint me as some fragile masculinity asshole.” Solomon inched even closer to her. “I was planning to be with you. Love you. For the rest of our lives.”
Those words cut deep, and Vivienne felt her lip pull up in the snarl of her own. “You say that, but you left.”
“I left because what we had at the end wasn’t a relationship. I was your therapist who also fucked you, and that’s all I was.”
Vivienne sucked in air, shocked. “How dare you!”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Oh yeah? What was I doing those last six months? When you were done working I was there for you. You needed to cry, I held you while you cried. You needed to fuck, I fucked you.”
“And this means I was taking advantage of you, treating you as my hired therapist?” She threw her hands in the air. “I understand the problem. I came to you, needed you, because we were in a relationship. We were in love. You were the only one I trusted to see me cry.”
“That’s part of a relationship, but it has to be a two-way street.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I realized, even though I fucking prayed I was wrong, that once you were the CEO, your family, and the business, would always come first. Before me. Before us.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Really? Because I had shit going on those last six months. I was moving heaven and earth to try to figure out a way that I could be with you, could live permanently in Paris with you, and not leave my own family, my own business, in the lurch. Did you know that, Vivi?”
She hadn’t.
Solomon took a step, and this time she fell back a pace. “You didn’t. I kept waiting for you to ask what I was doing, what I was working on.”
“I didn’t have the mental energy—”
“And I get that. I understood…for a while. So I waited, and I supported you. Helped you.”
There was a sick feeling in Vivienne’s stomach, a tightness and sense of inevitability.
“I talked to friends, I read relationship books. I knew I had to give you time. Told myself that life is cyclical, that you needed support and so I would be there for you. Eventually things would even out, and if there came a time when I needed support, you would be there for me.” Solomon swept his hair back from his forehead, but a single piece fell forward over his brow.
She was physically and painfully reminded of that day when they first met in truth, back when they were both students. He was a world away from the graduate student she’d first met, yet some things hadn’t changed.
“But time passed.” His voice rose, each word clipped. “I realized there would always be a crisis. That your family is such fucking drama, and the business is such drama, they were going to suck you dry. When I finally realiz
ed that what I hoped was a temporary situation was, in fact, what the rest of our lives would look like, I realized I couldn’t do it.”
“No, I would have—” she whispered.
He shook his head and some of the heat was gone from his words, replaced by a resigned sadness. “No. What just happened a few days ago in Paris proves to me I was right. That’s why I walked away the second time.” He stopped, looking up at the stars. “I’m not being fair. I should have just come out and told you how I felt. I was still young, we both were. Instead of a conversation, I planned this elaborate weekend away where I would confess and we’d reconnect and…” His voice trailed away.
Vivienne felt like she’d been sucker punched. She had a terrible feeling the “weekend away” he was talking about was the trip they’d never gone on because as they’d been packing they had that final, explosive fight. She glanced at his scar. “But I needed you.” She winced, hearing a whiny patheticness in her words.
He calmed further, looked at her with pity. “I know you did, and it killed me to walk away from you. You were mine. Mine to take care of, and acknowledging that I couldn’t do it… Well…” Again he ran his hands through his hair. “It sure as fuck took me down a peg.”
“You’re making it sound as if I pushed you away on purpose. As if I didn’t need you. I did need you. I needed you so damn much.”
“I know you did. That’s not what I’m saying.” Solomon backed up and dropped heavily onto an outdoor chair.
The fact that he retreated hurt almost as much as his words. Some part of her had hoped their fight would turn into a kiss. That he would grab her and kiss her just to make her stop talking. It was something she would never admit to aloud, but nonetheless wanted.
“The truth is, I’m selfish. I introduced you to BDSM because I need that in my life. Part of being a Dom is taking care of the needs of a submissive. In a way, you needed me as your Dom more once you became CEO than you ever had before.”
The warm breeze wound around them. Insects hummed, and she could just make out the distant, gentle lap of waves. They were both physically and time-wise a world away from what he described, yet that year they spent in Paris was as real and vibrant in her mind as the stars above.