“And how would setting up a dungeon in the prime minister’s official residence go over?”
Because for Max, kink isn't optional.
He’s got me there. No dungeons allowed. I slide the pile of house listings across the table and start leafing through. There aren’t as many as I would have thought.
“No row houses or condos, I see.”
“Back to that whole dungeon thing. Single family dwellings make for good neighbours—and better play parties.”
Jesus. I know he'll be discreet, and he's a private citizen, so it's nobody's business but his—and a play party is a fun fucking time—but I'm nervous about the potential exposure. Which makes me a terrible friend. I shove that thought away.
“Any front-runners?”
“Yeah, there’s one near Civic Hospital that looks like it might do.”
I shuffle through until I find it. “Four bedrooms? What on earth are you going to do with four fucking bedrooms?”
“Have sleepovers?”
I shake my head and smile. He can live in whatever house he wants if it’s going to be within an easy drive of mine.
“What time are we picking Beth up?”
“Ten. You really could stay here and go back to bed.”
“Nah. I’m up.” I take a long sip of the coffee Max had placed in front of me. I’d almost forgotten how good his coffee was. I pay closer attention to what he’s doing and spot the waffle iron on the counter. My morning is definitely looking up.
“Waffles will be ready in a few.” He places the bottle of maple syrup on the table.
"Where did that come from?"
"Beth had your housekeeper do a more thorough grocery shop this week in anticipation of my arrival." He flashes me a wicked grin intended to get my back up. "I told her I'm a gourmet cook."
"Hands off."
He just winks.
I study the label. Product of Quebec. It reminds me that he’s going to be here for winter and I make a mental note to get him a toque for his house-warming.
By six that evening, we’ve seen every house on Max’s list and the only positive thing I can say about the entire experience is Beth made it through unsullied.
I had hoped it would help keep my mind off Ellie. It didn’t. Every house we entered, I saw the counters I’d bend her over, the walls and doors I’d fuck her against. The showers we’d share.
If she wasn’t my intern and if I had a clue how to broach a real, honest conversation…if that didn't expose me politically in a dozen different ways…but I’ve pushed her away twice.
I’m not going to get a third chance.
14
Ellie
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
Nope, I still think Gavin needs to wear the shame on this one. And the first time was a pseudo rejection. Didn’t really count.
This was a definite, shut-it-down rejection, but everything that happened before that?
I was just going to kiss him.
Now I’m not even sure I know what kissing is. Because what we did? Or what he did to me, because beyond the first touch, I was hardly in control…that was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.
Friday night I went home and crawled into bed.
Saturday I went to yoga, then let Sasha drag me out for drinks.
Today?
Today I started thinking.
We’re not… compatible, and I let blind lust get in the way of good judgement.
I pulled a notebook from the box of unused notebooks in my closet. This one has Japanese cherry blossoms on the cover. Super pretty. Gavin doesn’t really deserve it, but it’s got a spiral binding and after I make this list, I can tear it out and the pretty notebook will be pristine again.
Not Compatible, I write at the top of the page.
Then I draw a mad face beside it.
Age difference, I write beneath that.
West coast/east coast?
Experience…
I draw a lazy line beneath that one. I’m twenty-five.
There’s no way he thinks I’m a virgin, right?
But even if that were the case…
I draw a circle around compatible.
Something’s missing.
Sasha knocks on my door and I shove the notebook under my pillow. “Yes?”
She pokes her head in. “Brunch? My treat?”
I shouldn’t take advantage, but Sasha’s loaded. And I maxed out my credit card buying the dress that likely won’t have any effect on the PM.
No, that’s not true.
I glance toward the dress, hanging in a place of honour on my closet door.
“Yes…brunch.” I hop off the bed. “And maybe we can go to Sephora and find me a new makeup look for the fundraiser, too.”
“So that’s still happening.”
I have no idea. “Yes, of course.”
“You were out late Friday night.”
“Working.”
“Mmm.”
“Are we going for brunch or having an inquisition?”
“Who says the two things are mutually exclusive?”
“I want fancy brunch.”
“I want fancy gossip.”
We go to the diner and neither of us gets what we want.
“I can’t believe you’re seriously not going to tell me anything,” she grouses as we head back to our apartment.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say more smoothly than I expect. But it’s true. What happened—what happens—between Gavin and me is private.
I wasn’t sure before, but I am now.
“In fact,” I add, stretching out my words. “I think my crush on the PM is over.”
Sasha snorts.
“Really. We’re…not compatible.”
“Unless you’re into something really kinky, I can’t imagine how you aren’t compatible with Prime Minister Hottie.”
I wince. “Don’t call him that.”
“Whatever your complicated feelings about our nation’s leader are, they don’t do anything about the objective fact that he’s smokin’ hot.”
“Now you’re just trying to bother me.”
“Okay, I’ll stop.” I can feel her gaze burning into me as we climb the stairs to our apartment. But when we get inside, she stays true to her word and disappears into her room.
I do the same, because I suddenly have some research to do.
How do you go about asking the prime minister if he’s kinky? Is that even the right word? What exactly are you into, sir?
If I even got a chance.
And what if I’m wrong? It would be easy to let my imagination run away from me here.
I open my computer.
I’ve done two Women’s Studies degrees. If he thinks I’m some innocent flower, unaware of the wide spectrum of sexual desire—
Oh. Warm, embarrassed heat sprints through my body.
So “incompatible kinks” brings up some interesting search results. And I’m getting way ahead of myself.
I can’t ask Sasha where I should look…but one of my classmates in Toronto was openly kinky. I go to her Facebook page and scroll back. She’d posted something a few months ago—a munch meet and greet—and thankfully she’s one of those people who only posts a few times a week so it doesn’t take me that long to find the link.
I hit the motherload.
An entire website with kink organized by subject.
But I need a profile to go any further. I tap my finger against my chin. Is this a dumb idea?
Fingers flying, I type in a made up username and password that doesn’t match anything in my real life, and use a throwaway email address. Don’t be like Dave, I tell myself, and make a silent promise never to check that email at work.
Location…well, I’m definitely not saying Ottawa.
I click back to my friend’s page. Is she open about her username? No such luck. But a couple of the people attending the meet and greet apparently live in Antarctica.
I snicker and type that in for myself.
Then I click on the location, and gasp. Apparently thirty-seven thousand other people had the same idea.
Kinky sneakers.
But now I’m at a loss for what to look up. A few groups are suggested for me, based on the short questionnaire I completed.
Gender…female.
Sexual orientation…straight. Straight? I want to put heteroflexible because I’m a Women’s Studies major and fuck the patriarchy, but it would have to be a pretty specific set-up for me to want to have any kind of sex with a woman. Maybe if Gavin…Nope. Straight. And suddenly quite selfish, apparently. No sharing Gavin.
Role…
Role. This drop down menu has twenty, thirty…too many to count very specific sounding roles. Some I know. Others I can imagine. A few make my fingers itchy to Google, but I shut the computer instead.
I can’t get ahead of myself. I need to figure out what role Gavin is. And only that will properly frame the million dollar question.
Are we really incompatible?
Or does the prime minister have a secret kink that just maybe could work for me too?
That question gets under my skin. I clean the fridge and make a grocery list. Sasha’s doing marking for the summer class she’s a TA for, so I head out by myself and stock up on everything we need for the week.
And I’m still thinking about it, because until this weekend, kink has always been an “other” in my life. I know of it, of course. Paddles. Discipline. Release. Submission. Bondage. Control. Power Exchange. And then on the edges of my awareness, the other things that drop down list of roles alluded to. Role playing. Humiliation. Pain.
After re-stocking our kitchen, I go to yoga and push myself hard—to the point where my muscles are shaking and sweat is dripping down my face and making my hands slick.
This is discipline. This is pain. Control, too. But I’ve never wanted anything like this in my sex life—of course, I’ve never thought about it like that, and if you asked me to score my sex life on a scale of one to ten, I’d probably give it a five.
When I have one, which I currently do not.
Sex is nice. I’ve never had awful sex, but I’ve never had sex so good I’ve wanted to post about it on a message board, either.
Really, my favourite part of sex is kissing and touching. Ben in Toronto was pretty good at going down on me. That would have notched it up to a seven, although I never came like that, so maybe he wasn’t pretty good.
Kissing Gavin, though, that was a ten. When he spun me around and ground his erection into me—although that might have been me doing the grinding—that had been a ten, too.
Everything except the bucket of ice water had been super hot.
So if his desires create that level of heat, I’m game to at least try something different.
Is kink-curious a role? Maybe that’s what I am.
I shower at the yoga studio, taking my time to strip out of my clothes so by the time I step under the steamy spray, I’m alone with my thoughts.
Making a mental list of questions I have, I decide to dig a little deeper into the website I found.
When I get home, Sasha’s gone out for the evening.
Somehow I feel better about being alone for my research, anyway.
I log back in and join a couple of groups.
One of the newbie threads is about books and movies. I flag a couple of books to read as soon as possible, but I need more immediate intel. After reading the film reviews, I hop over to YouTube and check out a few trailers and clips.
An older James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal movie, Secretary, makes me gasp out loud.
I watch the clip three times over. A man in a suit telling his secretary to read a letter she’s typed—as she’s bent over his desk. And as she reads, he spanks her.
Replay.
Replay.
By the time it stops, my eyes are already closed. My fingers are pressed to my mouth as I remember our kiss. Gavin’s hands in my hair, the way he moved against me.
The way he moved me.
How he bent me over the desk.
Is that what his face looked like, that twisted battle on James Spader’s face, not sure if it was right or wrong, but hellbent on doing it anyway?
I roll onto my side, sinking into the fantasy. Gavin holding me down. Telling me to keep my hands flat on the desk. Standing behind me…
We’re incompatible.
Hmm.
If he just wants to spank me, I’m not sure that we are. But nothing is that simple, surely. I peel my eyes open and watch another clip from the movie.
I need to watch the whole thing. Thank goodness for iTunes.
My stomach growls, so I go to make some popcorn before I hit play.
Three minutes into the movie, silent tears are rolling down my cheeks. This is not a popcorn movie. I set the bowl aside and curl my arms around my legs, transfixed by the story unfolding on the screen, but worried inside my head because this is a movie beloved by many in the BDSM community?
It’s so sad.
Except…the heroine has a spark to her. You can see it even as she drifts and I want her to find her way. I want that desperately for her.
The lawyer she goes to work for is no Gavin, that’s for sure. But if I squint I can see some similar traits. I file that away. Would he like this movie? I find myself thinking about that question more than searching for commonalities, because this is a specific story about two damaged people, and that’s not us.
Well, that’s not me.
And everything I know about Gavin’s life, that’s not him, either. Except you never really know someone from their public biography, do you? And it’s human nature to have hidden desires. Secret pasts and transformational moments that twist us in weird ways.
The more I watch the movie, the less I’m looking for what Gavin might like and the more I’m seeing myself in the heroine. Not the darkest bits, but she’s endearing in her awkwardness, and I don’t know if I’m endearing, but I’m certainly awkward.
And the way she lights up at praise. Jesus, I can feel my cheeks pinking up. I know I do that, seeking out approval and leaning into it when I get it.
It sounds crazy for a grad student to say that, because doctoral studies are notoriously brutal and advisors mostly tell you how much you suck. But not my advisors. I chose Ottawa, and Toronto before it, for my studies because of the faculty members and a certain kindness I sensed in them.
Another point in my personality where I’m open to pain and pressure, as long as someone tells me at the end of it that I’ve done a good job.
Maybe all grad students are submissives. We’re definitely masochists to one degree or another.
And isn’t that really what it is for everyone? A spectrum? I just always assumed I fell on the…
Don’t say normal.
But I’m watching a movie where the heroine wears a saddle.
I always assumed I fell on the more conventional end of the spectrum.
I don’t want to wear a saddle.
That’s a hard limit.
But maybe everything that I’ve done before isn’t the sum total of all that I might like to do, with the right person.
Before Gavin, I had a completely unremarkable dating life.
Don’t put the cart before the horse. You and Gavin don’t have a dating life yet. Yet. We will. I’m eighty-three percent sure of that fact.
I had two boyfriends in high school. One in college, until he cheated on me toward the end of second year. I dated casually until grad school, then dated one guy, Ben, more seriously for about six months, but it was mostly itch-scratching on both our parts and we ended things amicably.
None of them ever turned me around and bent me over a table—to spank me or anything else.
The closest I’ve ever come to this feeling of something kinky is a pretty innocent flirtation I had in my fourth year of undergrad with one of my sociology professors. I was the best student in h
is seminar, would always stay late afterwards to keep talking, and a few times he walked me back to my apartment.
We never crossed the student teacher line, but I wanted to, desperately, and it felt like this attraction I have toward Gavin. Hot and secret. More significant, emotionally, than the more conventional relationships I’ve had.
Except now I’m five years older and hopefully wiser, at least when it comes to who I am and what I want.
Who I want. The real measure of wanting someone is not having them: losing them or missing out on having them at all.
That prof? I can’t even remember his first name. I left Montreal that summer and went backpacking in Germany without another thought.
In six weeks I’m moving back to an office ten blocks away from Gavin and I’m already aching at the distance.
I curl up in a tight ball and watch the rest of the movie. It gets dark in places and I give a grumpy side-eye to my laptop. Surely this isn’t the best how-to on BDSM.
That’s not exactly how it was praised on the website.
No, but it’s what I wanted.
Oh well. If life wasn’t a little challenging it wouldn’t be interesting.
I do a search for Secretary on the fetish site. Tons of comments and threads. Some critique, lots of love, especially for a couple of the scenes, including the one I watched the clip of earlier—the one that hooked me into the movie.
Hmm.
Gavin’s always reacted well to pencil skirts. I’ll wear one tomorrow.
But when I sort through my closet, the only blouses are ones he’s seen before, and none of them are even remotely like what Maggie Gyllenhaal wears in the movie. I’m just as likely to wear a blazer over a tank top, and that doesn’t scream submissive in the least.
I carefully hang my skirt over the back of my chair and put my Louboutins beneath it.
“Hey, Ellie?” Sasha calls out.
I meet her just outside my room. “You’re back.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m just trying to find something to wear tomorrow.”
“Want to raid my closet?” She tries to peek around me.
Did I close my laptop screen? Better if we go into her room just in case. “Yes I do.”
Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1) Page 8