There was no use in fighting a useless battle within myself. I knew what I felt for him, I supposed I’d known all along, and the realization disconcerted me. The thought of going through our arrangement until it ran its course stirred something deep and painful inside of me. And yet I knew I had no choice. It wasn’t just Seton’s control over me that took away my choice but also my heart. I couldn’t leave him, and I wouldn’t try to. Not anymore. I would take whatever he offered, however little it was, and for however long it lasted, just to be close to him. I would relish our limited amount of time together and treasure it in my heart forever.
Still, I would never tell him that he already had my heart and soul. No use giving away everything about me.
I yawned and squinted at the dimly lit room. I had no idea where Mitch was, and I didn’t care. Exhaustion swept through me, so I pressed my face against Seton’s neck, stretched an arm across his cloth-covered chest and settled down to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
“Why haven’t you called me?” my mother’s agitated voice poured into my ears. “It’s been almost two months since I last spoke to you.”
I had been asleep, and my mother’s barking voice was hardly a pleasant wakeup call. I said nothing for a few moments, just lay there, staring almost blindly at the ceiling and trying to stifle a yawn but not succeeding. “Mom,” I croaked groggily, “you do realize it’s only seven in the morning, do you?”
“I know it’s early, but I was worried about you. I’ve been calling you and talking to that stupid machine of yours for days, and you never called me back.”
“Did you try my cell?”
“Of course I have. It always goes straight to voicemail. Why have you been ignoring my calls?”
“I’ve been busy—”
“Too busy to call your mother for a few minutes? Just wait till I die, then you’ll be sorry.”
I rose up on one elbow and pressed two fingers to my temple. Man, sometimes I felt like I was trapped inside a Cathy comic. This was so not my idea of a good morning. I hated speaking to my mother when she was upset because she sounded just like one of those cliché moms found in the pages of almost every chick-lit book ever written. And then people wonder why the heroines’ mothers in those novels sound the same. It’s because they’re based on real-life moms. I mean, you there, reading this. You’ve probably had this kind of phone chat with your mother, say, dozens of times, right? You have? Well, okay. Let’s make a deal. If I ever have a daughter and I turn out to be as nagging and as annoying as our mothers…shoot me. Just shoot me.
“Sorry, Mom,” I said earnestly. “But I’ve really been busy. It won’t happen again though, promise.”
She made a loud “hmmph” sound and continued to nag away as I flung off the covers, scrambled out of the bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, took a quick shower and was now peering inside my closet while my mother continued to jabber about something or other. I clutched the phone to my ear, half-listening. Mom’s calls were always long and boring, and my mind often wandered about halfway through the one-sided conversation. Even now, as I stared blankly at my closet, I felt my mind drifting to the one subject that had been monopolizing my brain for a long while now.
Seton had been in London for a week. He’d decided to travel with his sister Dana because he had to “sort out some personal matters,” as he put it. He had also gone to show his work-in-progress to his UK publisher. Karen York had gone with him, and the thought of them together made me sick. He came back yesterday, but I hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t expected to, but that hadn’t stopped me from jumping with excitement every time the phone rang. But the calls were never from him. They were either from Alfred, Jeremy, Magda, some authors, or in this unfortunate case, my mother. Seton was probably still jetlagged from his trip.
A month had passed since I went to Mitch’s place and engaged in that delicious ménage a trois with him and Seton, but it seemed much longer than that. In fact, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
My life now centered on Seton. He called the shots, and I obeyed like every submissive girl should obey her master. After the thorough spanking I received at Mitch’s, I had gone out of my way to be as compliant to Seton as possible. I hadn’t defied him, so he hadn’t punished me. It was as simple as that. I still hadn’t seen him completely nude and he still made me wear campy hooker outfits that Tatum “Raven” Fox sent out to us from her fetish shop in Manhattan. I played along with his fantasy roleplays involving a gentleman and his whore. Then he fucked me. Hard. Just the way I liked it. It was like passionate lovemaking to me. But it wasn’t lovemaking, not by a long shot. “Making love” was too polite a phrase to describe what we did. He was dominant and overpowering, now more so than ever, and I loved every second of it.
Then things got interesting. Seton stopped over to my place unannounced one night (the first and only time he had been inside my apartment) with a copy of Casablanca and a bottle of wine. We had sex, then settled down to watch the movie. Humphrey Bogart was about to deliver his here’s-looking-at-you-kid line to Ingrid Bergman when Seton whispered my name in my ear. I turned my attention to him, expecting sex, a command, something. But all he did was reach over and wrap his arm around my shoulders. My body stilled for a second, unsure of what he’d do next. He did nothing, just gave me a sideways glance, and the smile he gave me just about turned me to mush. Something akin to that of adoration crossed over his face, then disappeared, a look so brief I wondered if it had been there at all. He was sweet and attentive and affectionate for the remainder of his visit. I had no idea what to make of it. Maybe the final scene in Casablanca had put him in a romantic mood. That movie could melt the coldest of hearts.
Things got all the more bizarre after that. Two days after the impromptu movie date, Seton asked me to meet him at Look Memorial Park, told me to wear whatever I liked. So I wore a yellow sundress and a pair of open-toe sandals. I slipped some manuscripts into my tote bag in case I had to work on them later, and showed up at the appointed spot. Seton sat under a tree, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, a large picnic basket perched beside him. We watched the ducks and swans float about the pond as we ate pasta salad and drank white wine in companionable silence. I tackled the manuscripts I brought with me as he read The Great Gatsby. Then we kissed and talked and laughed. He suggested we go on a stroll around the park. So we went.
It was a beautiful day. The leaves on the trees stirred from a slight breeze, casting a shadow over the late afternoon sun. Seton seemed calm, content, even happy. He raised his face to the breeze and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at me, looking at him, and I looked away. He was being affectionate, so affectionate that I wondered if there had been an ulterior motive behind this date. I was about to suggest calling it a day when he linked his hand to mine. My muscles tensed at the unexpected gesture. He had never held my hand before. It felt strange—almost as if he was treating me like I was his girlfriend or something. He must have sensed my tension, because he broke the contact right away. I wished I hadn’t tensed up the way I had. I had never been in a real relationship, so this was all alien territory to me. But I liked it. It felt comfortable and nice. Seton and I had shared a level of intimacy that was like nothing we’d shared before. It didn’t involve sex or domination. We’d just enjoyed each other’s company. It seemed that he had no ulterior motives after all. He just wanted to spend a sunny afternoon in the park. With me.
We didn’t have sex that day. In fact, he never once mentioned sex. After the picnic, he drove me home, gave me a long kiss before he rudely told me to get out of his car. I didn’t mind the coldness in his tone this time. It sounded forced somehow, almost as if he had made himself say it.
That was the only time he ever did something remotely romantic with me. It confused me, yet it filled me with hope—however misguided that hope was. He was back to being his old self. It was just another contradiction from Seton, one I had enjoyed to the full.
I had no idea for how much longer our affair would last. All I knew was that the more time I spent time with Seton, the more my feelings for him grew. I hid my feelings from him as much as I could, but sometimes I wondered if he could see the love flickering in my eyes. I also wondered if I’d ever let my guard down and done some needy, lovey-dovey gesture without noticing. Was that what had prompted him to do something so… light with me? He knew I liked old movies and enjoyed lazy afternoons at Look Memorial—details I never shared with him and yet he knew about—did he do them to somehow quench that needy part of me that craved more from him? I knew I was avoiding a more obvious question, but I couldn’t bring myself to dream it, let alone think it. I was a woman who had been stripped away from her defenses—defenses that she had carefully built into her soul throughout her life—and would never be the same way again. But he didn’t have to know that, not if he didn’t feel the same way. Ignorance is bliss, and it was best to keep him out in the dark.
Yup, things were definitely hot and heavy with Seton, and he had never failed to impress or surprise me. His shocking words and impromptu actions both bewildered and aroused me time and time again. Seton was a whirlwind of contradictions—an enigma through and through. It was impossible to grow bored with him. He was the man of my dreams, a man who complemented me in every possible way, a perfect fit. He was my heart, my life, my everything. I knew that now. If only he felt the same way about me.
If only.
“So, have you?” my mother asked, her rough voice jolting me back to the present time. I had totally forgotten that she was chirping away on the other line.
“Have I what?”
She sighed impatiently. “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
“Yes, Mom, but I’m getting ready for work—”
“Have you met someone special since the last time we spoke?”
I heaved out a sigh and rolled my eyes. Here we go. The question I’d been dreading. Perhaps she’d give me the whole I-won’t-hold-it-against-you-if-you-turn-out-to-be-a-lesbian speech, just for fun. Smiling to myself, I thought of Magda and her mother. I sympathized with Magda, I really did.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I burst out, mentally kicking myself afterwards.
There was a pause. “You’ve met someone?”
I applied pressure to my temples and closed my eyes, suddenly finding it very hard to keep this conversation going. “Yup.”
Another pause. “A man?”
“Yes, a man!” God, she really had a gifted way of ruining my day. I needed coffee—nice, searing coffee—and perhaps a Valium or two. I marched naked over to the sardine can that passed for a kitchen and stared at the stainless steel coffeemaker with lust. “His name’s David and he’s a writer.”
“What does he write?”
I balanced the phone between my head and shoulder as I filled the coffeemaker with water. “Books.”
“What sorts of books?”
“Fiction.”
“Novels?”
“Yes.”
“Bestsellers?”
I sighed. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” she answered sharply. “I don’t want you marrying some struggling author who can’t look after himself, let alone a family. Learn from my mistakes. I married a factory worker and look what happened!”
What happened, Mother? He gave you everything except for the moon and the stars? He hadn’t been forgiving and understanding enough every time you cheated on him?
I mouthed the words I knew would be coming next. “Love doesn’t pay the bills, sweetpea. Don’t make the same mistakes your poor, decrepit mother made.”
I spent five more minutes listening to her whine and nag. I had to cut it short if I wanted to maintain a semblance of sanity throughout the day. “Mom, I really gotta go, okay? I’ll call you soon, promise!”
I hung up before she could answer. A twinge of guilt coursed through me as I poured myself a large cup of steaming java and perched on a stool in the tiny kitchen. I loved my mother, I really did. She wasn’t a bad person. Okay, so she was kind of self-absorbed and was the worst wife in the history of marriage, but she wasn’t a bad mother. She took good care of me when I was little and, unlike my father, showed me affection every now and then. I knew that she cared for me and wanted me to be happy, but she only wanted to discuss my love life, as if that were the only worthy subject out there. She never asked about my job, my friends, or even if I’d paid up my bills on time. My love life—or lack thereof—was the only thing she ever mentioned.
Speaking of which, I couldn’t believe I mentioned Seton to my mother! What the hell was I thinking?
Grimacing, I grabbed my coffee cup and padded back into the bedroom to continue my search for some clean clothes, and jumped when the phone rang again. Damn it, why couldn’t my mother take a friggin’ hint? Didn’t she know by now that my abrupt hang-ups meant our conversation was over?
“What?” I snapped impatiently when I answered the phone.
A confused pause met my ears. “Marjorie?”
My heart did a quick little flip-flop at the sound of Seton’s velvety-smooth voice, rendering me speechless for a few moments.
“Everything okay?” he asked worriedly.
“Yes, fine!” I said hurriedly, hoping I’d managed to disguise the pleasure I felt at hearing his voice. “I thought you were my mother calling again. Sorry about that.”
“Aww, had a nice chat with your mum then?”
I grunted. “Don’t even go there!”
He chuckled softly. “How’ve you been, gorgeous?”
Gorgeous? “Fine, thank you.”
“That’s good.” He paused, and I could hear the muffled sounds of rock music playing in the background. He was probably in his bathroom, shaving and getting ready to go to his art gallery.
“You’ve never called me gorgeous before,” I pointed out, suspicious.
He paused. “I haven’t?”
“No.”
“Well, you are. Gorgeous, I mean.”
“Uh, thanks. I just find it strange that you’re using an endearment you’ve never used before, that’s all.”
“Strange?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why?”
I sighed.
“You don’t want me to say you’re gorgeous?”
“No, it’s not that—”
“Then what is it?”
Exasperation ran through me, and I huffed out a breath. He had never called me that before. Was it an endearment he used with Karen York and used it on me by mistake? Was he having a hard time keeping track of his multiple lovers?
“How was London?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Bleak and rainy, as usual.”
“Ah. And your submissive lovers over there?” I asked sweetly.
He laughed. “They’re quite well.”
Anger curled through me. Then I mentally counted to three and reminded myself to get a fucking grip. He thought I was joking, that was all. There were no other submissive lovers—or at least I hoped there weren’t.
“Karen is well too,” he added airily before I could think of a neutral response. “Very compliant, as usual.”
A chill ran down my spine. “I see,” I muttered morosely.
“She helped me convince the UK publishers to wait an extra three months for my next book,” he explained.
“Okay,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as remote as humanly possible.
I heard a low, breathy rumble from the other end of the line and realized that he was laughing. “Jealous, were you?”
Like that was hard to guess. I blushed even though he couldn’t see me. “No,” I answered meekly.
“I like it when you get jealous. It makes me feel special.” Amusement was evident in his voice. “If you hadn’t reacted so strongly, I would have been offended. Bruised male ego and all that.”
I was about to open my mouth to protest when I thought back to what his sis
ter told me. Seton was a jokester, a rascal, and enjoyed winding people up. She was right—I needed to get a grip, and thicker skin.
“Yeah, well, whatever,” I countered lamely.
He chuckled softly, then, “You still have that raincoat I gave you?”
I froze for a moment, suddenly apprehensive. I reached inside my closet and pulled out the black raincoat Seton gave me on our first night together.
“Uh, yeah,” I said uncertainly.
“Wear it to work today,” he said smoothly. “Just the rain coat. I want nothing underneath it—no clothes, no underwear, nothing. Then come by my house after work. Understood?”
I stared at the long black coat with shock. I blinked, and suddenly Seton’s words hit me like a ton of bricks. Of all the things I had been expecting from him, that wasn’t one of them! I had to go to work wearing only a raincoat? On a ninety-something-degree weather? Was he fucking nuts?
“And wear high heels,” he added.
“Seton, I don’t think this is a very good id—”
“What,” he uttered challengingly, “are you about to disobey me?”
“No! It’s just—” I blew out a frustrated breath. Protestations were pointless, so why bother making them? “Fine. You’re the boss. But how on earth am I going to explain the raincoat to everyone at work?”
“I’m quite certain you’ll come up with a suitable excuse. Maybe I’ll pop ’round your office later today if I’m not too busy. Hope that’s okay.”
I shrugged to the phone. “Whatever.”
“Very well. Until later then, gorgeous.”
My stomach roiled as I gaped at the phone receiver. Then I turned dubious eyes to my bedroom. Sunlight flooded in from the large windows, lending the yellow-colored walls some extra brightness. A Smith student lived here before I moved in, and she had painted the walls with cheery pastel colors. I hated the overly girly look, but hadn’t had the time or the inclination to change it. Blinking the glaring sunlight out of my eyes, I put the phone back in its cradle and crossed over to the closet.
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