by Eden Bradley
“I’m sorry. This has all got to be incredibly boring for you, hearing about my family.”
“On the contrary, I find it fascinating. I want to know about you, Ava. Tell me why you say your mother has an ‘idea’ about being a feminist.”
“That’s probably an unfair judgment for me to make; I shouldn’t have said it.”
“No, you’re just being open with me. I like that. So, tell me what you meant.”
“Oh, she just … claims to be this modern woman who thinks you can do it all, have it all. But that’s such … bullshit. I mean, sure, she worked through my childhood, but she was never really there. We were fed and clean and educated, but I never really had a mother. At least, that’s how I felt. And my sister is doing the same thing, spending twelve hours a day at work rather than with her kid. It’s not right.”
“So, you don’t think women can have it all?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What do I know about it, anyway? I don’t have kids, I don’t even hold down a full-time job.”
“You’re very hard on yourself.”
“Am I?”
But she knew it was true. He was quiet again.
“Will you tell me what you’re thinking about the things I’ve just told you, Desmond? I feel sort of … foolish.”
“No, there’s nothing foolish in what you’ve told me. I’m simply absorbing information. I’m not qualifying anything you’re saying. But all of these experiences make up who you are, contribute to how you’ll respond to certain things. Knowing you is my job.”
It was her turn to be quiet for a moment.
“You take your job, as you call it, very seriously,” she said to him.
“It is serious. It’s a responsibility. I’m not one of those Doms who just plays a girl and lets whatever happen, without thinking about it. Without contemplating the results of my actions.” His accent was thick again. It seemed to get heavier when he felt strongly about whatever he was talking about.
“I appreciate that, I really do. But I wonder … what makes a person like that? What makes you—anyone—feel that intense sense of responsibility, seek it out?”
“I think we’re simply born with these tendencies, and in this world of overstimulation, the tendencies are brought out, until we can’t resist our own natures.”
“Forgive me for saying so, Sir, but that’s too easy.”
“Desmond.”
“Alright, Desmond. Is that what you do with all your submissives?”
“With some.” They were both quiet. Then, “Maybe there is more to it,” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Yes. But maybe it’s not something I like to think about.”
“But … is it … is what you do, then, a healthy expression of whatever it is you shy away from thinking about, talking about? I don’t mean to pry, and you certainly don’t have to tell me. I’m just trying to figure this all out. And you don’t seem to mind … well, you seem to be allowing me to get to know you, as well.”
“Yes, I want you to get to know me; that’s my intention.” Another long silence. She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “I like to think it’s healthy: the Shibari, the power play. It has been a positive outlet for me.”
“So, there’s something … something has happened to you.”
“That’s the nature of life, isn’t it? Everyone goes through something, lives through it, comes out the other side.”
“Yes. I suppose so.” She paused, twining a curl around her finger, tugging on it until she felt the pull in her scalp. “I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, that’s alright. It’s fine. I started this conversation.”
“But it’s not my job to analyze you.”
“Maybe … maybe it is.” Another long pause. “Ava. I need to tell you, things are different with you. I don’t know yet what that means exactly. And I’m not entirely comfortable with it. Some of it is the blocks you have when we played. That numbness, that lack of feeling.”
“Desmond …” Panic gripped her. “Do you mean you don’t want to see me again?”
“No, of course not. But I need to let you know that. I need to be honest with you. Honesty is part of a strong, effective power exchange. And it has to come from both sides in order for it to work. That’s one of the most basic concepts involved, and the one thing that can make the exchange falter, or even fail.”
“Yes, that makes sense.”
She heard him draw in a deep breath, blow it out. His voice was so low she could barely hear him. “Ava, I will admit that I have seldom been as attracted to a woman as I am to you. Possibly never. And that challenges my sense of control. But I swear to you, I am able to maintain it. It won’t affect my judgment with you. It does not make you unsafe with me.”
The edge of desire in his voice, the raw power of what he was telling her, went through her like an electric charge, lighting her nerve endings with need. Lust, sharp and pure. Her breasts tightened, her sex swelling between her tightly clasped thighs.
God, if he could do this with only his voice, a few plainly spoken words, what else might he do to her?
“Sir …”
“Desmond.”
“Desmond.” The name sounded strange on her lips. Strange but lovely. Seductive. “The feeling is mutual.”
“We are on the same page, then.”
“Yes,” she said, breathless. Her body, her head, was buzzing. “I want you to come to me again. At the club this time. I want to see how you respond in front of an audience. You did say you had a streak of exhibitionism.”
“Yes! Please.”
He laughed. “We are going to have a very interesting journey together, Ava.”
Journeys. They always had a beginning, and an end. She didn’t like to think about that part. “Yes, I think we will.”
“Read your books. I’ll pick you up tomorrow and take you to Pinnacle. Nine o’clock. Dress all in white for me. Clothing, lingerie, everything.”
“Yes, Desmond.”
“Good girl.”
A wave of pleasure rippled through her. She wanted to be good for him, more than anything. Perfect. Or as close to it as possible.
“Good night, sweet Ava. Rest and be ready for me tomorrow.”
“I will. I’ll be ready.”
Ready and wet and pliant for him. Oh, yes …
They hung up the phone.
Desmond could not believe how easily he’d sidestepped getting into talking about his own past with her. He could not believe how much he’d wanted to tell her. His dark secrets, those things he didn’t talk about, think about. Not even Marina knew the whole story. She knew nothing about Nessie.
Small shot of pain even thinking of her name.
Marina knew only what had happened with Lara. How she’d left him. How that had embittered him.
As though he hadn’t been bitter before.
But no, when he’d met Lara he’d opened himself to her, put his past behind him. And look what that had wrought. No, he was better off like this, living his life as he had for the last ten years.
Until now. Until this girl had reached inside him somehow.
He went to the window, his stomach knotting, but he wasn’t really seeing the view, the sparkle of lights against the night sky.
Not too deeply. He’d make sure of that. He wasn’t going to go through that shit ever again. He knew himself. Knew what he was capable of. And what he no longer was.
Things with Ava would be just fine. He had to have her, really have her, and she’d be out of his system. But the timing had to be right in order for him to serve her needs in the way he owed her, owed any bottom he played with.
He moved away from the window, went to the dining room and opened the doors on the sideboard, pulled a bottle of Scotch out of the bar inside. Glenfiddich single malt, forty years old. One of his small indulgences, aside from the gadgets in his office. He poured two fingers, threw it
back in one swallow. A shame to waste rare Scotch in this way, but he needed it.
It warmed him quickly, and he poured some more, not really paying attention to how much.
He should go downstairs, into his office, get some work done. He lifted the glass to his lips, inhaled the sharp, sweet scent, thought better of it, and took it into the kitchen, poured it down the sink.
What the hell was going on with him?
He ran a hand over his hair, blew out a slow breath.
Work it out, damn it.
Yes. Work. He headed down the stairs, into his office. His retreat, if he was being honest with himself. He’d been honest enough on the phone with Ava already tonight. He’d had enough honesty. Right now, he would bury himself in work and simply forget.
Chapter Seven
HE WAS UNDER the water. Above him the sun was shining through in undulating, glassy shafts. But beneath him everything was murky. Muddy.
He kicked, swam through the water, so light and pure, the sunlight casting gold into the blue, his body carried along effortlessly.
One more kick upward and he was almost at the surface, but somehow it grew farther and farther away.
Small hitch of panic in his gut.
Control.
But he needed air. He couldn’t calm down. The panic rose and began to choke him, panic and the lack of air. His lungs were going to burst! And the surface was gone now; everything as murky as the bottom of the lake had been, and he didn’t know if he was going up or down, if he was moving at all.
He stopped swimming, his lungs too empty to keep going. And he saw her.
Nessie’s face, as sweet as it had ever been, that small bit of baby fat on her twelve-year-old features still. Her long, dark hair like a mermaid’s, like a halo around her head.
Nessie!
He wanted to yell for her to swim for the surface. Needed to. But he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
It was too late. She floated a few feet away, but even through the hazy water he could see there was no life in her pale, staring eyes.
God damn it!
Not again. I will not let it happen again.
He kicked once more, hard, but he couldn’t reach her, couldn’t reach the surface. And the water was closing in on him, almost as though it were something solid. Drowning him. And he was helpless against it.
Helpless.
God damn it!
He kicked, his leg tangling in the blankets, and came up gasping. His bedroom was dark around him, the pale light of the moon coming through the fog outside his windows, washing the room in silver and smoke. His heart was thundering, his pulse wild.
Only a dream. That damn dream again.
He ran both hands over his head, fisting his fingers in his hair and pulling tight.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
But it wasn’t. When was the last time he’d had that dream? Had to have been a year or more.
He knew what had sparked it: his conversation with Ava earlier tonight. He’d come too close to talking about it. He’d allowed himself to think about it.
Not it. Her. Nessie. His baby sister.
His chest was still so damn tight he was having almost as much difficulty breathing as he’d had in the dream.
He got up, went to stand naked at the window, touched his hand to the cold glass, needing it to center him.
Was opening up to Ava a mistake? He always held certain things back when he was getting to know the women he played with. He was well aware of that. Sure, he shared about his work, his hobbies, his desires, certainly. But nothing about his past. Nothing about his pain. Why the hell this urge to tell her … everything?
He’d just met the girl.
It didn’t feel like that.
If he hadn’t already said he’d see Ava tomorrow he’d take a few days to get his footing again. But no, that was bullshit. He couldn’t wait to see her.
He looked at the glowing numbers of the clock on his night-stand. Five in the morning.
There would be no more sleep for him tonight. He was too worked up. Ava. Nessie.
He went to his dresser, pulled out a pair of cotton pajama pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, slipped the soft fabric over his body. He’d do some work, make use of the time.
He would not think about this anymore. Plenty of time to deal with it later, when he saw her.
A small clenching sensation in his chest, not entirely unpleasant.
Is this what infatuation felt like? It had been so long, he couldn’t seem to remember. But it was better to think of Ava than to think of Nessie. To remember the dream, to remember what had happened all those years ago.
No, don’t go there. Don’t even think of telling her about it.
He’d read somewhere that infatuation was chemically similar in the human brain to going mad. He was beginning to believe that. And it was totally unacceptable to a man like him.
If only he knew what the hell to do about it.
AVA WAS FOREVER watching the clock when it came to Desmond. Five minutes of nine.
She’d done exactly as he’d asked. She’d dressed in a short, white leather dress, white patent-leather stiletto heels that were impossibly high, white lace panties and bra. No jewelry other than a pair of tiny silver hoop earrings. Jewelry only got in the way of the ropes.
The ropes.
Her pulse sped up.
The ropes and Desmond Hale to tie her up.
Oh, yes …
The doorbell rang, and her fluttering heartbeat shifted into high gear. She could swear she heard her blood thrumming in her ears. Taking a breath, she went to answer the door.
He really was beautiful. Masculine. Imposing. Regal.
He was dressed all in black, as the Doms often were, and he looked damn good in it: the finely made slacks hanging low on his waist, the black button-down shirt making his shoulders look broader on his narrow frame. And that evil-looking goatee that made him look like the devil himself. She loved it.
He reached for her immediately, taking her hand in his.
“Are you going to invite me inside, Ava?”
“What? Yes, of course. Please come in.”
Such nice manners from them both, when they intended to do such depraved things later. She loved that, too.
Desmond stepped through the door, seeming to dwarf her small apartment. She’d never noticed before how tiny the place was. It must be his height. Or perhaps the enormity of his presence.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wicked scurry down the hallway to her bedroom. “You have a cat?”
“His name is Wicked. He’s good company.”
“I’m fond of cats.”
“Are you?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Everything about you surprises me.”
He smiled but didn’t respond.
“And you collect antiques?” He moved to the oversized dresser she had against one wall in the living room, ran a hand over the carving on the front of it. “You have some very nice pieces. I’ll have to really look sometime. But we should be off to Pinnacle now.”
A small thrill ran through her at the insinuation that he would see her again, be in her apartment. That he approved of her choice in furniture. Such small things, yet she couldn’t help but love them, revel in his approval of her.
“I’ll get my coat.”
She opened the hall closet and pulled her trench coat out, was surprised once more when he helped her into it.
“You’re different from some of the Doms I’ve been with, Desmond.”
“Am I?” He led her out the door, waited while she locked it, then they walked down the narrow staircase.
“Yes. You’re more commanding than anyone else I’ve been with. But at the same time, you’re so … careful with me.”
“That’s part of my duty, Ava. If these other men have failed to understand that, then they aren’t true dominants in my book. And they aren’t true gentlemen.”
/> “Marina told me that about you, but it’s different actually experiencing it.”
His car was parked right in front of her building, as though he had some strange power even over the street. It was a sleek, dark Lexus, which fit him perfectly.
He opened her door for her, helped her slide onto the seat before closing the door and coming around the car to get in on the driver’s side.
He buckled his seat belt, started the engine. “What else has Marina told you about me?”
Was this some sort of test? He was just letting the engine run, looking at the dark street rather than at her.
“Oh, well, not very much. Just that you were nawashi, a Shibari master, to surpass even her. That she’d learned a lot from you over the years. That she trusted you completely. That I could, as well.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. He pulled out, gunned the engine to make it up the hill.
They were both quiet on the drive to the other side of the city. The club was at the foot of the Potrero Hill district, tucked away between warehouses. Not the safest part of that neighborhood; she’d never walk around alone there at night. But it was best for a fetish club to have some distance from residential areas. And she wasn’t alone. She glanced over at Desmond, at his strong, angular profile silhouetted by the silvery wash of light from the street-lamps. A small stab of excitement went through her: anticipation, lust.
Desmond parked in the lot behind the structure that housed Pinnacle. It was an old brick building, three stories, with shuttered windows on the top floor. The enormous front doors were gated in black iron. There was no sign, nothing to indicate what went on inside, but Ava shivered as they approached the entrance. She’d been in Pinnacle before, knew exactly what happened within the old brick walls. But she’d never been there with Desmond. Never felt this lovely sense of titillation mixed with fear.
She recognized the doorman but remained silent while Desmond greeted him, keeping her head bowed, clasping her hands in front of her. Oh, yes, she was sinking down already, into her role as a submissive. Into that dark and calming place that was also somehow energizing, making her light up inside. And when Desmond took her hand to lead her into the club, that light turned into pure heat, suffusing her system.