Come Undone - A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Novel

by Gabi Moore

  “I’m so glad you finally made it,” he said politely. He guided me to the living room and thrust a drink in my hand.

  His apartment was super tidy, the kind of clean a house gets when the person who lives there is mostly at work. All his furniture looked new and unused. Like a comfy but unassuming three-star hotel.

  I looked around for evidence of a toddler. I found none.

  We chatted about the weather, about work, about every damn thing except what I really wanted to talk about: sex.

  It was the one thing neither of us had mentioned, had hinted at or, possibly, even though about. And the longer we did, the stranger it felt. It started to feel like maybe under those beige chinos was just a flat bit of skin-colored plastic, like a Ken doll crotch. I tried to hide my smile. The whiskey he had given me was going straight to my head.

  He sat on the sofa next to me and put his hand on my knee. We both looked down at it.

  God, why was I being such a prudish baby about all this? Anthony was the perfect catch. I had already decided that I would accept his proposal. I had done it quietly, this morning, all by myself, because it was the obvious choice. It made sense. There was no reason not to. He was stable, family minded, responsible and mature. He had a clean apartment, was well educated and, not least of all, he wanted me.

  So then why the hell did his hand feel like a chunk of concrete on my leg?

  It was Mark.

  He was getting under my skin.

  I had thought about him all this morning, all last night… I was dropping things and bumping into tables and zoning out. It was ridiculous. I forced him out of my mind. The kiss was an accident. Nothing more than a mistake.

  I smiled at Anthony.

  “You know, you are allowed to kiss me,” I said, and tilted my head to the side. He seemed surprised.

  “You want me to kiss you?”

  I laughed.

  “Don’t you want to kiss me?” I said, tilting my head to the other side.

  He took my hand in his, the way you would to a dying woman, the way a priest takes your hand, and looked me earnestly in the eye.

  “Kat, now’s probably a good time to mention how seriously I take the issue of consent.”

  “Consent?”

  “I think clear communication is vital. I don’t ever intend to overstep my bounds with you.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “Christ, it was just a kiss,” I said.

  He frowned.

  “Consent is consent. It doesn’t matter how small, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Sure, yes, of course. It’s just …OK, you’re being so serious now,” I said and tried to laugh again. His hand was no longer on my leg.

  “If we’re moving too fast, I’m happy to dial it back a bit, I totally understand if you’re not ready for anything physical just yet,” he said.

  Now it was my turn to frown.

  Moving too fast? It felt like I had to file an application in triplicate and wait six months just to mention the idea of kissing him. My nerve had anyway gone. The idea of kissing him now just left me cold.

  “Can I get some more whiskey?” I said, and held up my glass.

  He gave me a patronizing smile.

  “Kat, are you using alcohol to avoid anything?” he asked.

  I clanked my glass loudly on the table.

  “Anthony, I’m sorry, I’m just …this is all so serious, you know? Can we just have fun?”

  He looked pained. “You’re not having fun?”

  I glared at him.

  “Well, it’s just …I like to let things evolve organically. I suppose… we should just go with it when the moment feels right, you know?”

  He didn’t seem to like this idea. He frowned a bit more, looked puzzled, then shook his head and gave me a strange look.

  “Of course, I get that completely.” He smiled warmly at me. “It’s just …it’s been a long time since I’ve done this whole dating thing, you know, and I want to do things properly,” he said in earnest.

  I leaned forward and hovered a little in front of him, holding his gaze. He had a gentle face, soft eyes and a small, thoughtful mouth.

  I kissed him. Without thinking too much about it, I leaned forward and planted a sweet, brief kiss on his lips and drew back a little to see his reaction. His eyes were downcast, as though he was trying to decipher something I had just said to him in another language. After the longest time, his eyes still avoiding mine, he nodded and reached for my glass.

  “You said you wanted a refill?” he asked casually.

  I giggled.

  “Now who’s avoiding?” I said playfully. He shot me a hurt look. God this was awkward.

  “I’m sorry, should have I asked for consent?” I said and giggled again, trying to make light of how heavy everything suddenly felt.

  “You’re making fun of me. How would you have liked it, if I just sprung that on you?” he said coldly.

  “Um, like you sprung a whole marriage proposal on me?” In my head it had sounded like another playful jab. But once the words were on my lips I realized how irritated I sounded. “I’m sorry, we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. I just like a man to take some initiative, that’s all.”

  It was beginning to seem like not even a second whiskey would save this train wreck of an evening.

  “Initiative?”

  “Yeah, you know. You don’t have to discuss every last detail, sometimes it’s sexy to just go for it you know?”

  “Well, I have a more egalitarian understanding of relationships,” he said curtly.

  “I’m not saying I don’t support being egalitarian. Look, we’re misunderstanding each other here…”

  “I consider myself a feminist, Kat. I think cheap power plays between men and women are dangerous. And regressive. I don’t believe in ‘just going for it’.”

  I laughed nervously.

  “Hey, Anthony, you’re misunderstanding me, I completely agree. But I’m telling you I like a man to take some direction, you know. I’m telling you that. I’m not saying be like a caveman or something, just take the lead a little, you know, be a little bold.”

  “I could never do that to a woman.”

  We looked at each other. I got up, walked over to the counter and poured us both another whiskey.

  “I haven’t been myself these last few days,” I said lamely. “Can we just start again?”

  For some stupid reason, I thought of Massooma Tavawalla. She popped into my head, wearing the same frown Anthony had just given me. He was right, of course. I couldn’t hold some principles dear but then throw them out the window when they were inconvenient. I had built my whole life around empowering women. I had spent more than a decade teaching women to value their own voices, to demand respect, to earn their way in the world and to question the burdens placed on them by the cultures they were born into.

  And now here I was, play-acting some cheesy Fifty Shades style nonsense and asking this kind, sincere man to communicate less with me, and to show me less respect.

  I took a big swig of whiskey.

  I was crazy for sure. I had already decided that Anthony was the right man for me, and here he was, proving exactly why he would be so good for me. He’d hold me accountable. He wouldn’t put up with my bullshit. He’d take me seriously. Didn’t I say I was done dealing with immature boys, and that I wanted a mature man in my life? Well, here he was.

  I walked over to the sofa again.

  “Anthony, if you’re OK with it, I’d like to kiss you,” I said plainly. I put my glass down on the side table. He looked up at me, fingers interlaced over his knees.

  “I’d like to kiss you too,” he said.

  I knelt down in front of him and gingerly placed my lips on his. They pushed back a little, and we kissed awkwardly. He pulled away and smiled at me, then placed his hands on my shoulders.

  It would be fine. I didn’t even care about sex that much anyway. And things wo
uld get better. Chemistry was overrated. It’s not what ultimately mattered. Not really.

  Chapter Nine - Mark

  I always knew she’d come back. Just not this soon.

  She pitched up in a boring pair of work slacks and a blousy, loose shirt that gave no hint of her killer curves underneath. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and when she buzzed to come in for her second ‘consult’, she had a look on her face that …well, let’s just say I decided to play along with her claim that she had only come to chat about her piece, which, she was quick to remind me, she was only getting in the first place because she was curious. Just curious.

  She carelessly tossed a briefcase onto the floor and took off her jacket.

  “So, what have you come up with for me?” she asked.

  Without her copper mane, her cheekbones looked even more fragile than usual. In my fantasies of her, her hair was always loose. Always streaming around her face, falling into her half closed eyes as her head thrashed from side to side… But pulled back was also a good look, I guess.

  I went over to the shelf and pulled off a big leather bound book and started to show her some sketches and photographs from previous pieces. I had spent the better part of the week thinking about this woman. It wasn’t often that a client just gave me a blank slate and told me to build something for them from scratch, but I relished the idea.

  What would such a woman need? What would she want? Did she scream out and throw back her head at the moment of orgasm or was she the kind to curl up tightly and shake and whimper when her body couldn’t handle anymore? How much pain could a woman with such a delicate body really take? Or was it just the threat of pain that she’d enjoy? Dark wood or steel for this elfin creature? Chain restraints or velvet?

  When I pushed the leather bound book towards her, the expression on her face remained stony.

  “This is it?” she said. She pored over the sketches, then took a look at the diagrams with crudely sketched people using it. “Oh, I see…”

  I found a loose jump ring on the table and twirled it in my fingertips. I was seldom wrong about people. Sometimes you can tell what people are into just by looking at them. You can tell by the particular flavor of hunger in their eyes what they’re really all about. But she took long enough to reply that I briefly wondered if I had overstepped. The drawings I had shown her were …obscene. I watched the effort it took her to maintain a straight face.

  She pushed the book back to me.

  “No. No this isn’t want I had in mind at all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “I don’t know what gave you the impression that I’d like to …to have that done to me, but no.”

  “Oh. My apologies then. To be fair, though, you haven’t actually asked for anything specific,” I ventured.

  She sighed loudly and trilled her fingers on the leather cover.

  “You’re right, I didn’t. That’s my fault. So I should say that …well, I don’t want something so …violent. I won’t want to be …well, to be…”

  “Paddled?” I said and grinned. She shot me a fierce look.

  “Fine, if that’s what they call it, then no, I would not like to be ‘paddled’.”

  “Caned, then?”

  “What? No.”

  “Whipped, maybe?”

  “Oh my god, none of that. No, of course not!”

  I laughed.

  “Kind of like going to the ice cream shop and being angry they only sell ice cream, huh?”

  She didn’t look impressed.

  “Mark, do you have any idea of just how widespread the problem of violence towards women really is?”

  “I’m, I’m sorry, what?”

  “Violence towards women. I have just spent the morning working with a young woman who has endured unbelievable violence done to her. She’s been abused in ways you couldn’t even possibly imagine…”

  “What has that got to do with—”

  “Do you ever even think about that? About how unethical it is to go and deliberately promote more violence, more gender imbalance, more sexism?” she said, raising her voice.

  “Woah woah woah, Kat, just calm down for a second. None of this is violence, don’t be ridiculous.”

  She was on her feet again and looking agitated.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right, I don’t know why I keep coming back here, it’s so stupid of me. I just have this …this morbid curiosity, I don’t know. You probably think I’m a nutcase.”

  “Kind of.”

  I caught her eye and for a brief, glorious moment, her face opened up and we laughed together. But then her brows knitted again and she looked down at the sketches.

  “Don’t you have anything …I don’t know. Classier? A bit more politically correct? For real adults. Mature people, you know. It’s so humiliating to be …paddled.”

  I grinned.

  “Yeah, well, that’s kind of the point for some people.”

  “People are crazy,” she said with a smile.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I want something …more egalitarian.”

  “Egalitarian?”

  “Yeah. Like, feminist sex furniture, you know?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I’m serious. No paddling. No tying up. Just …equality.”

  “Sure, sounds hot,” I said.

  She tried to give me a sharp look but found herself laughing along with me.

  “Maybe you should start by giving me some idea about who else you intend to use it with?” I said cautiously.

  She stopped smiling.

  “Well… there’s nobody that I have in mind. I don’t know. I have no idea what I’m thinking, I just keep finding myself drawn to this idea over and over.”

  “Sounds like it’s your intuition.”

  She cocked her head at me.

  “Yeah maybe.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but are you and Mr. Burgess…?”

  “Anthony? Oh yes, we’re pretty serious,” she said and nodded so hard her ponytail bounced.

  She all at once reminded me of a little girl who had broken into her mother’s closet and was playing dress up with her serious grown up clothing. I was struck with something like desperate thirst, only what I was desperate for was to see her, truly see her, stripped of everything, naked and without any bullshit, any defenses, nothing at all.

  “Oh? That’s cool. He’s a …good guy,” I said. It was all I could manage.

  “Oh he’s fantastic. A person with real principles. Not too many of those around these days.”

  The thirst was deepening. She was so tightly wound, so deeply knotted …and she was trying to rile me, no question about it. What the hell was she doing here, anyway? I had met some repressed, conflicted personalities in my time, don’t get me wrong. But there was something in her that was so much more than just repressed. Somewhere deep in me, somewhere down on the cellular level …it felt like she was provoking me. She stood before me in her tasteful work gear and subdued ponytail and it’ll sound crazy, but some animal part of me registered all of it for what it unconsciously was: a dare.

  “You do know that …well, Anthony is pretty intense, right? He’s looking for a wife.”

  “I know that.”

  A lump grew at the back of my throat.

  “Well, then, in that case, you’re right, the sketches I gave you are completely the wrong thing. I misunderstood the situation,” I said quickly.

  “What do you mean? What situation?”

  I smiled at the sketches and then back up at her. “You honestly see a man like Anthony going for anything like this?”

  She frowned.

  “That’s kind of rude. Anthony is a very …interesting man. Just because he’s respectful and polite it doesn’t mean he’s not…” she struggled to finish her sentence.

  “So you’re going to marry him?” I asked outright.

  Her faced colored a little.

  “Yes, actually. I think I
will,” she said and the ponytail bobbed again.

  I stared at her.

  I knew she felt me staring but pretended she didn’t notice. I was no cheater. Not by a long, long shot. If this woman was seriously engaged, seriously committed to this guy, well, I’d back right the hell off. I had no interest in sharing, in stealing, in borrowing. I wanted all of it, or nothing at all. But something told me she wasn’t being completely honest with me.

  “Anthony is a wonderful guy, and we connect on so many different levels, and I know it’s soon and everything, but I really, I care for him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I looked her up and down.

  “I don’t believe you. You’re saying one thing, but your body is saying another.” I didn’t know what I was getting at, but something in me just wanted to get her to shut up, to stop saying what she was saying, and to just kiss me again.

  She laughed cynically.

  “My body?”

  “You’re not very good at lying, I’m afraid. Look at the how much more quickly you breathe when you speak about him. Look how your shoulders have sunken in, how much tension is suddenly in your hands… maybe you now want to tell me that none of that means anything?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “You know what I think?”

  She glared at me.

  “I think you hope that by marrying him, it’ll keep you safe and stop you from doing what you really want to do…”

  “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

  I lowered my gaze and gave her a long, intense look, cocking one eyebrow ever so slightly. We were at least four feet apart, her bundled in her conservative work uniform and me still wearing a thick raw leather apron with tools in the pockets. But with that look I wanted to tell her: I can see you. All of you.

  “How dare you,” she spat. “I would never, ever be unfaithful to someone I cared about,” she said with high indignation.

  “Ok, so be honest… has he fucked you?”

  The look on her face was priceless.

  “Has he even kissed you? I mean, properly kissed you? Are you actually even engaged yet?”