by Joey W. Hill
It was the blade he knew how to draw at the right instant, more instinctive than calculated, which made it far more powerful, galvanizing her own instincts. Her body softened against his, despite all her internal warnings that he still hadn’t provided an answer that could make this turn out okay. Her fingers slid up to his neck and tangled in his sweat-dampened hair. She was vaguely aware of whistling across the street, but she couldn’t be embarrassed or care, not when Des didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but taking her will and her heart in one soul-penetrating kiss.
When he lifted his head this time, his eyes bored into hers. "I don't kiss them, Julie," he said, low. "Not like that.”
She blinked, uncertain of his meaning, and he let her lean against the bumper of her car, keeping himself pressed against her knees, his hands at her waist.
“My turn to talk. Okay?” He brushed a finger over her swollen lips. “I love the way you look after I kiss you. Makes me want to have you right here on the hood of your car like some kind of animal.”
When she quivered and closed her eyes, everything too fragile to look at him, that same protest rising to her lips to protect her, he brushed his knuckles against her face. She opened her eyes again.
“I do sessions with submissives who love rope. I care about each of those women and, in the session, you're right, we can get fairly intense and intimate. But there's a beginning and an end. It’s a lot like a stage play where the actors lose themselves and become those characters. But when the curtains come down, the spell is lifted.
“When the session is over, I do whatever aftercare they need, kiss their forehead, light kisses on the mouth. I stroke them, give them an orgasm if they need it to decompress. And yeah, if she’s the kind of sub who doesn’t feel complete unless she’s given her top release, and that’s within her boundaries, I might make her go down on me. Sometimes there’s sex, because, hell, I get worked up too. Until now, I’ve never thought about having someone who’d be that outlet for me afterward.”
He moved his hands to her shoulders, caressing the round shape of them revealed by her sleeveless tank. She’d become more rigid at the discussion, but she didn’t look away. She understood he was trying to tell her something that would answer her question, even though she wasn’t really thrilled about the route he was taking toward it.
“After it’s over, I help them dress and I make sure they're okay. Then we go our separate ways. If we see each other socially, it's at the club BBQs or hanging out at play parties, talking about what other Doms and subs are doing. I don't kiss them like I just kissed you. When I kiss you, it's different and new.”
She twitched under his hands and he nodded. “Yeah, sounds like that load of manure you always hear, ‘It was just sex, baby. It didn’t mean anything.’ But those sessions do mean something, Julie. I don’t deny that. When I’m that connected to a sub, the sex can be out of this world, but it is sex, not love. I have affection and care for every woman I’ve ever tied up, because I’m never going to treat her like an object or an instrument.
“I move in and out of a world where there are very distinct lines between session play and a relationship that’s outside a session. Doesn’t always work out that clean or neat, but up until now, I’ve made sure it is for me, because as I said, that’s what I thought I could afford. You’re changing that viewpoint.”
Humor glittered against the taut set of his mouth. "You said the quiet moments, like choosing breakfast, are just as special to you as the passionate stuff. In only a few days, you've made me very interested in figuring out breakfast with you.”
She lifted her chin. “But it’s still there, Des. A wall. You’re bullshitting me without bullshitting me.”
"What do you mean?” He frowned. “I'm being straight with you."
"Yeah. You’re being straight with me, telling me incredibly personal things and yet somehow weirdly holding me at arm's length. It’s like we're in a classroom and you're standing up front, relaying info about yourself without giving me any of yourself. I can't really figure it out, but I can feel it. I bullshitted myself, thinking I could come out here and say ‘hey that rope session was nifty, thanks and bye.’ I want more, no matter how scared I am. But I will not go out on that ledge by myself one more time. I just can’t. Just please…tell me now. Am I ridiculous to think I already feel something so strong for you that we’ve fallen into a relationship without any warning, or am I on that ledge by myself?"
“No. No you’re not.” His hands were on her shoulders, and his expression was frustrated. She saw a flash of aching need so powerful it both frightened and reassured her in a way a million charming words couldn’t. “I don’t want you scared, love. Of anything. And particularly not of me.”
“So tell me.” Taking a page out of his own book, the way he could use wry humor to make her feel okay about saying anything, she took both his hands. “What's your issue? Daddy, Mommy, fear of love, of commitment? Spill, then it's out of the way and in the open. Treat it like a Tweet. One sentence or less, because the rest is window dressing, justification, caviling, explaining. I just want to hear the basic problem.”
He brushed his fingers through her hair, giving it a little tug. “I've been really careful not to let anyone be too close, Julie. Not that I've closed myself off, but I make sure they don't get so deep they get hurt."
“Okay. We’re getting closer, but we’re still not there. Don't invite me in but leave me in the front room. Don't use protecting me as an excuse to protect yourself."
She’d struck home. For a moment she saw something angry in his eyes, but he reined it back.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But first tell me why you stopped dating. You’ve given me some of it, but I’d like to know the other part of it. It’s something beyond what they’ve done to you, isn’t it?”
She bit her lip. Well, it was no worse than what she’d already dumped on him, but if he didn’t have something comparably fucked up to share, she was going to be pissed. “I got tired of relationships kick-starting the same emotional shit. Can I trust him? When will he hurt me? It's the typical clichéd romance conflict crap that happens in everyone's story, and I got tired of being in the same play. But you…I can't predict anything about you, so it doesn't make me tired. Just scared."
"What are you scared of?" His hand settled on her shoulder again, fingertips tracing patterns. He really didn’t like hearing she was afraid, and she was just weak enough to respond to the light in his eyes, the closer shift of his body, that said he wanted to fix that.
"That I'm still in the same play. I just don't recognize the set."
He digested that. “Okay, but I’ll be the first guy you’ve dated who can give you something different.”
“What’s that?”
He grimaced and met her gaze. “I’ll be dead before I can tear your heart out and stomp on it.”
At first she thought he was saying something over-the-top romantic, like he’d die before he’d ever hurt her. But as he kept holding her with his piercing stare, it sank in. Her hands reflexively gripped his. “What?” she said faintly.
He swore under his breath. “I didn’t mean to say it that way. You’re a pushy woman, love. Let me take you out to lunch where we can talk. There’s a Bob Evans about a mile up that way. I’ll meet you there.”
From his closed expression, she supposed he wanted to take separate cars so that she had an escape route. She didn’t know what she’d want. She was torn between his hints of wanting to share pancakes with her, or not having a choice about falling in love, and the implication he was…
No, she wasn’t going to say it in her head. She was too confused. She focused on the other things he’d said that she could process.
He was right. The upfront things, like how he felt with a sub in session, smacked of every lame excuse for infidelity she’d heard. Yet she’d already known about his sessions, had experienced one herself first hand, and she’d been immersed in the BDSM world these past cou
ple months, witnessing the interactions between those who practiced it.
She thought her whole information dump upon him had been too much, too soon. She and he hadn’t come far enough in a relationship where infidelity could be a crime committed against it. They hadn’t even actually had sex yet.
But he’d taken her outpouring in stride, as if he felt strongly enough for her that he’d welcomed hearing every worry she had. Maybe that was also due to the BDSM dynamic. As he’d said, boundaries and structure were set quickly, to keep things safe and protect feelings. Only where was the line between letting love happen spontaneously and trying to control everything? She thought she’d obliterated that line a couple failed relationships ago, and now she was out to sea with him, trying to figure out how this was going to work or if she could walk away. And he’d just thrown a new wrench into it. A pretty damn significant one.
As they were taken to a booth and handed menus, he touched her hand. “Why don’t we keep it casual for a few minutes before we launch into anything?”
From the strained look around his mouth, she figured that was more for him than herself, but she was okay with giving him that breathing space. He’d implied she’d pushed him into a corner, and she guessed she had. But Des didn’t seem the type to let himself be pushed around, so she held onto the hope that he was willingly having this conversation with her.
As she glanced at the menu, he pulled out his monitor and fitted it with a lancet. At her glance, he passed it to her. “Want to try it? Test your blood sugar?”
“Oh, God, I’d pass out. I could never stick myself.”
“Do me then.” He held out his hand. “Just hold it against my finger tip, then press that button.”
She did, a quick click. He captured the tiny drop of blood on a test strip. At a beep from the monitor, he glanced at the resulting number and put it all away. Removing his pump from his pack, he slid it on under his clothes, connecting it to the injection site cannula by feel, his hand moving under the shirt.
“You’ve been doing this a long time.”
“A very long time.” He checked something on the pump screen, made an adjustment, then tucked the device back into the wallet he hooked over his belt. He flipped his shirt back down over it and picked up the menu as the waitress returned.
They ordered, and when the waitress asked if it would be one check, Des nodded. “I’ll be taking it,” he said. “My treat.”
“I should have ordered the Belgian waffles to go.”
“You still have time.” Whatever he saw in her face had him reaching across the table and gripping her hand. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you any sadness or doubts, Julie. I really enjoy being with you.”
“I love being with you.” She gave him a weak smile. “That’s kind of the problem. Sorry. I guess it’s impossible to get someone without baggage once they pass thirty.”
“I bet my baggage outweighs your baggage.”
“Oh really?” She fished in her purse, pulled out a dollar and set it on the table. “I’ll bet a dollar it’s not. You seem totally together.”
“I’m a Dom. We’re all about the illusion of total control.” He winked, but set his own crumpled dollar next to hers. He sipped his unsweetened tea then, as if gathering his thoughts. He’d let go of her hand and she curled both in her lap, feeling adrift until he pressed his foot against hers under the table, connecting them.
“Just tell me, Des. Please. I poured my guts out to you. Quid pro quo.”
His lips quirked, but he set down the tea and nodded, crossing his arms on the table. “I don't have any interest in in-depth discussions about this. But I owe you what’s behind the curtain if we’re going any farther. So I’m going to tell you what I need to tell you and, when this meal is over, there’s no need to talk about it further. I’m not a disease.”
The sudden fierceness in his tone, the set of his jaw, alerted her to the maelstrom of emotions going on beneath the surface. She might lose that dollar. He wasn’t as together over this as he’d first appeared.
“Doesn’t matter what you tell me. I could never think of you that way, Des.”
He glanced over the dining room absently, as if he’d rather be anywhere else than talking about this. She shifted her foot so her toe pressed on his and he brought his gaze back to her. He had some kind of glitter on his shoulder, maybe from the shingles he’d been handling. When she reached toward it to brush it off, he caught her hand.
“It’s probably fiberglass. The splinters are nasty.” He held onto her hand, resting it on the table, playing with her fingers and studying them.
“I told you I had a bunch of health issues when I was a kid. I was a preemie, and my mom split as soon as they discharged her. They said I wouldn't survive a week, because she was a prescription drug addict and that affected my development. When I made it to age five, I started having seizures. They said I'd be dead before I was ten. Then the diabetes started. So on and so forth.”
Her heart skipped a beat as he lifted his gaze to her face. “About the time I hit twenty-five, the damn doctor stopped giving me the doom-and-gloom, ‘You won't live past so-n-so.’ Probably because I told him next time he said it, I'd feed him his stethoscope through his anus. But there are a couple things I can’t beat. I'm insulin-resistant and my kidneys are wearing out. I don't need dialysis yet, but it will come sooner than later. Renal failure. That's the track toward the end, love. I’m not a good transplant candidate because of my medical history.”
The waitress brought their food. As she placed the plates on the table and asked them if they needed anything else, Julie watched Des switch gears. His usual genuine charm and humor made the waitress smile and Julie’s chest ache. She’d poured open her heart to him, all her worries about pursuing a relationship, and he was giving her the same. Quid pro quo could be a bitch.
“Hey.” He drew her out of her head. The waitress was gone. “Don’t look like that, love. Nobody knows when it's going to end.”
He took a breath. “But that said, I’m not in denial, either. That’s why I’m telling you. I have no way of explaining to you, other than this, that you’re different to me. I’ve gotten involved with plenty of women in session. None outside of it. Yet when you look at me the way you do…I like it. I want to spend time with you, in every way I can. But I'm not going to let you get any deeper without knowing what might happen. I wouldn't want to do that to you.”
She swallowed and he narrowed his eyes, making a threatening gesture with his fork. “You get teary on me, I'll take your pancakes and eat them myself.”
She blinked the tears back. “That’s just mean.”
“I’m not always nice.” He made a stab at her plate and she fended him off with her fork, making him smile and things unknot a bit in her gut. He sobered though, probably because she couldn’t entirely mask her reaction.
“Will I have a much shorter lifespan than you?” he said. “Pretty likely, unless you die in a car crash, though I'd be severely pissed if you did.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.” He reached across the table and tapped her hand. "But I’m not going to be gone tomorrow. In the meantime, we can keep going as we're going, figure out where we’ll end up together. Or you decide we're friends from here forward, and that's the end of it. Ball’s back in your court, love."
His tone, his direct look, said he was ready to be done with the subject. She sensed a withdrawal in him, a closing down, the wall coming back up. He’d put himself out there for her, to let her know, but he must be anticipating rejection, pity, sympathy or her withdrawal. Whereas she’d dealt with her build-up of feeling with an outpouring that made her feel drained, he dealt with the same kind of stress by containing it.
He genuinely didn’t like talking about this. But he had, for her. Because he wanted more from her. He wanted to see where this would go.
He’d given her the answer she’d sought, mostly, and now the question was whether she was willing t
o risk taking this road one more time. Up until the other day, with Pablo, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to her mortality. Des dealt with his on a daily basis. Could she really be so chickenshit as to back away from a relationship with a guy she really liked for fear he might hurt her with his death? If nothing else, it was the first time she’d had that risk in a relationship.
“Ball’s back in my court, hmm? Thought you said once you had the ball back you wouldn’t give it up.”
“I did say Doms were all about the illusion of total control. You have to give me the control, love. Every time.”
She wasn’t sure that was entirely true. When he was exercising his will upon her, she couldn’t find her own with both hands. But this was a different kind of moment.
She picked up her fork. “Can you pass me the maple syrup?”
He obliged. "You're not going to tell me which way you're going to go on this?"
“Not until I eat. I don’t make any decisions on an empty stomach.”
“All right, but just keep this in mind. If I do tear your heart out like those other losers, you’ll get the satisfaction of dancing on my grave while you’re still young enough to do it without a walker. How many guys can offer a girl a perk like that?”
She paused in mid-pour, blinking at him, and then a laugh bubbled out of her, she couldn’t help it. He looked so earnest, only a little twinkle in his eye. She set down the syrup. “I’m sorry. Oh God, it’s awful of me to be laughing at that.”
“Actually, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
She stopped, seeing the truth of it in his gaze. He was looking at her as if he’d like to see her laugh every day of their lives. She cleared her throat, feeling heat in her cheeks.
“So this is why you haven't had many relationships outside of a scene.”