What was that about, she wondered, but said nothing.
The traffic was light and they made good time. Rylee liked watching Taggart’s hands on the steering wheel. They were large with big knuckles, his fingers long and blunt at the edges, the skin roughened from a life of physical labor. He was wearing a black silk button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled midway up his muscular forearms, and she couldn’t help but flash back to the day before, when those strong arms had pinned her wrists to the ground as he rose over her like a god.
As if he could feel her eyes on him, Taggart glanced at Rylee, a smile ghosting his lips.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, Rylee turned her head abruptly and faced the front of the truck.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Taggart said after a while. “Hopefully, it’s not too personal.”
Rylee had to smile. “We’ve been pretty up close and personal over the last twenty-four hours. Ask away.”
“Those needle marks you had on your breasts when we shot the demo video.”
Rylee stiffened. She had managed to put Simon Barrister and that whole horrible scene completely out of her mind. Taggart’s words brought it all back with a painful rush. “What about them?” she asked in a small, tight voice.
“Who did that to you? You haven’t mentioned being involved with anyone. How well did you know the guy who did that?”
Rylee wrapped her arms around herself and stared out the side window. Her initial impulse was to tell Taggart to mind his own fucking business. She was ashamed of what had happened and, aside from Alice and Marco, had confided in no one.
At the same time, she recognized Taggart was within his rights, after what they’d shared, to ask the question.
Taggart placed his hand on Rylee’s thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It wasn’t a good scene. I can tell by your reaction to the question. It’s obvious the guy didn’t know what he was doing.”
Rylee put her hand over Taggart’s and stared down at them. She’d always felt too big, too masculine, but her hand over his was small and feminine in comparison. She liked the way they looked together and somehow this made it easier for her to speak.
“The guy was a flaming asshole. He went too far, too fast and didn’t listen to my safeword.” Tears pricked her eyelids, the sharp memory of the terror and helplessness she’d experienced while trapped in Alice’s dungeon with that bastard for a moment nearly overwhelming her.
“Tell me,” Taggart said quietly. “I sense you’re holding in a lot of pain it would be better to let go of. Sometimes talking about it can help.”
Rylee began, haltingly at first, her eyes straight ahead. After a time, she glanced at Taggart as she was talking. There was sympathy and understanding in his eyes that gave her the courage to continue. His face darkened, hardening into angry lines when she got to the part about the safeword and the needles.
“Jesus, Rylee, I’m so sorry you were put through that. Guys like that,” he said, “pervert the beauty of erotic submission. They pretend to be Doms, but they’re really just chicken-shit cowards and bullies. I’m not a violent man, but when I hear something like this, I’d like to cut off his dick and shove it down his throat.”
“I feel like such a jerk that I let it happen,” Rylee admitted.
“You didn’t let it happen. You did nothing wrong. He abused your trust. He is solely to blame. I just wish I’d been there to protect you.”
A surge of warmth moved through Rylee at his words. At the same time, her hackles rose, if just a little. “Actually, when I’m not chained up, I can protect myself.”
She related what she had done once Simon had let her out of the cuffs. As she talked, the anger seeped out of Taggart’s expression, surprise and then delight replacing it. When she described Simon lying on the ground, his jeans tangled around his legs, his hands cuffed behind him, the ball gag stuffed in his mouth as Alice and she stared down at him, Taggart burst into laughter. His laugh was so big and hearty that Rylee found herself laughing too.
It was the kind of laughter that grabbed you from inside, rising up from your belly and completely taking you over. They laughed for a long time, until tears were rolling down their cheeks, hiccups of breath gasped between spasms of silent laughter. When they were finally laughed out, both sighing and wiping their faces with the backs of their hands, the small but heavy weight Rylee had been carrying in her heart since that night had somehow melted away.
They arrived at the hotel where the BDSM convention was taking place with twenty minutes to spare before the sales event was scheduled to open to the public. They hauled the gear into the large ballroom where dozens of long tables had been set up. Most of the tables were already crowded with the wares of other sellers of BDSM toys and gear. Placards had been set up on the tables or in front of them with names like Mistress Diane’s Premium Corsets, CBT Toys for Bad Boys, Whips & Chains, Unlimited, and others, including some of the big online BDSM catalog suppliers Rylee recognized. Sellers were bustling around, arranging their items for sale, counting change and looking busy.
It took a few minutes to find the table that had been reserved for the Leather Master. As they set down the heavy bags, Rylee asked, “Where’s your sign?”
Taggart shrugged. “I don’t have a sign. Never needed one, I guess.”
Rylee glanced at the long tables filled with gear. “It would be good if you had one. It would help you to stand out. I can make you one.” She ran her hand through the air over an imagined sign. “Leather Master’s Quality BDSM Gear.” Suddenly afraid she’d overstepped, she added quickly, “If you wanted me to, I mean. I’m good with that kind of stuff.”
Taggart smiled. “That sounds great. When you do my website, we can talk about it.”
Rylee grinned, biting back a whoop of excitement. “Wow, that was easy. Here I was gearing up for a sales pitch, and I already got the job.”
“I figure it’s a good way to keep you around,” Taggart teased.
“Yeah, I can’t really think of any other reason to stick around,” Rylee teased back.
A man in his forties approached the table. Of medium height, he was dressed from head to foot in black leather, even his hands gloved in the stuff, a pair of metal handcuffs and a length of heavy chain attached to his belt. “Is the girl for sale? Or does she belong to you?” He raked Rylee’s breasts, prominent in the sexy corset, with a lingering, insolent gaze.
Taggart glanced at Rylee, a small smile playing over his lips. “You’ll have to ask her that.”
Something in the man’s knowing, haughty expression told her he was the kind of guy who would order her to kneel on the ground and kiss his feet upon first meeting her, stating something like, “You’re a sub. You have to.”
“I belong to myself,” she snapped, annoyed with the man’s presumption.
His gaze, which had been glued to her breasts, shifted to her face, his lips lifting in a sneer. “Sounds like somebody needs a good spanking.”
“If so, you’re not the one to give it to her,” Taggart interjected.
The guy held up his hands, as if in sudden surrender as Taggart loomed over him. “Hey, man. Take it easy. That’s why I asked if she was owned.”
Taggart said nothing. The guy touched one of the whips on display. “How much is this?”
“It’s not for sale,” Taggart replied.
“But”—the man began, but then stopped, frowning. He flashed a look at Rylee and then shrugged elaborately. “Whatever. Your shit’s overpriced anyway.” Thankfully, he turned and melted away into the crowd.
Taggart flashed an apologetic grin at Rylee. “I apologize on behalf of the whole gender,” he said.
Rylee laughed. “I accept on behalf of all females.”
For the next three hours, they barely had a chance to exchange a word. It seemed like everyone into the scene within a three-hundred-mile radius had come to this event, all of them prepared to buy. Taggart sold every single whip, flogger, strap, collar and pair of cu
ffs he had brought with him. Rylee signed up as many people as she could on a mailing list for Taggart’s future website.
When the event was winding down, the people running the convention invited them to stay for that evening’s play parties, free of charge.
“No, thanks,” Taggart replied, putting his arm around Rylee’s shoulders. “We need to get back to Portland by nightfall.”
Though she would have stayed if he’d wanted to, Rylee was glad they were leaving. Whatever was developing between them, she wanted to explore it on their own.
As they drove back from Seattle, they talked about the various people who had purchased Taggart’s gear, making up stories for each other about the people’s lives, and laughing as they talked. “I was impressed when you turned down a sale to that jerk,” Rylee said. “It was a chivalrous thing to do.”
Taggart shrugged. “The guy was an asshole. I didn’t like the idea of his using one of my whips on anyone. It might sound weird, but I’m kind of possessive about my gear. Each piece is special to me.”
“It doesn’t sound weird at all,” Rylee assured him. “They’re more than just toys. They’re works of art.”
“Thanks. If I knew how, I’d blush,” Taggart said with a grin.
They were quiet for several miles. After a while, Taggart, his eyes on the road, said, “When that guy asked if you belong to me, you said you belong to yourself. I was wondering, have you ever belonged to anyone? Have you ever been in a D/s relationship?”
“D/s, as in dominance and submission?” Rylee asked, though she knew what the initials stood for. As Taggart nodded, she said, “Like I mentioned the other day, I don’t really get this whole concept of submission. I bow to no man. Yeah, I crave erotic pain. I love a really intense whipping. I love to be tied down and I admit I get a thrill from being forcibly subdued and controlled. But like I said before, to me it’s really just a game.” She glanced at Taggart, whose expression was hard to read in the fading light. “I mean, it’s a fabulous game. A thrilling game. But I guess, for me at least, it’s never really been more than that.”
“I wonder,” Taggart said in a slow, musing voice, “if you’ve never submitted to anyone because you’ve never been with a real Dom, with someone who could guide you to that place. Someone who could show you what true submission is about.”
“Oh, and you’re that guy, no doubt,” Rylee quipped automatically. A wave of heat scalded her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to respond so flippantly, and her gut knew it. She glanced at Taggart to see if he observed her blush, but his eyes were on the road.
As if he hadn’t heard her, or more probably, had chosen to ignore her, Taggart continued, “I think you might be confusing submission with passivity. I think you equate dominance with domineering behavior—with aggression and intimidation.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Absolutely. A true Dom must inspire the trust that is the foundation of a D/s relationship. He can’t just demand submission. It doesn’t work that way, not if it’s going to be real—not a game, as you say. He has to make his sub feel safe enough to willingly give over control of her body and mind. If you’re fearful, nervous, threatened, pressured, whatever, then your Dom is not behaving as he should. He’s taking from you, instead of accepting the gift of your submission.”
“Like Simon did,” Rylee whispered. “And like that jerk today probably would have, given the chance.”
Taggart nodded. “Yeah. You need to feel safe. That doesn’t mean your Dom can’t be rough and edgy, that he can’t or shouldn’t take you to the very limits of your boundaries and then push you, just a little bit, past them. But there’s a broader context of trust that has to exist in which the edge play can take place.”
“I hear what you’re saying about Doms, and it makes sense. I’m still not really clear what a sub is. What makes a person submissive? Is it something you can learn? How can it ever be more than a game?”
Taggart was quiet a while, as if gathering his thoughts. “To me, a submissive is a woman, who, of her own free will, gives over control of her body, her heart and her mind to another. It’s a psychological thing—a mindset more than anything. For someone like you, it takes a special kind of courage to let go like that, to trust another person to take you along a training path to help get you there, without you trying to call the shots all the time. I imagine it would be hard to let someone else make decisions for you, to control extremely personal aspects of your daily life, including when or if you orgasm, how much of a whipping you can take, when you will kneel and serve your Dom, or Master, if you prefer the term.
“You’re not afraid of the lash or bondage. You can take a lot of pain. In fact, for you, pleasure and pain are blurred, at least in an erotic context. It can be very hard to trust another person to take you where you’ve always longed to go, without trying to top from the bottom. I think it would be a real challenge, but ultimately a deeply rewarding one.”
“Why?” Rylee asked, surprised her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat. “What makes you so sure it would be rewarding to me? How do you know where I’ve longed to go?” In spite of her protest, Rylee’s nipples and cunt were thrumming as if the Leather Master’s words were vibrators attached directly to her body. Despite a lifetime’s protestations that she wasn’t submissive, a part of her ached to present herself on her knees to this man, to this Master.
Taggart glanced at her, his sensual lips curving in a half smile. “Because I’m the other side of you, Rylee Miller. The Dom in me has already connected to the sub in you, whether or not you’re willing to admit it.”
Rylee opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came. She struggled to take a breath, her lungs for some reason refusing to expand. Her heart was thudding against her ribs.
Taggart turned back to face the road. “Deep inside you, Rylee, you crave to be possessed by a strong, dominant man who isn’t afraid of your strength and your courage. You’re longing for someone to unleash the passion deep inside of you.”
They were just outside of Portland, and Taggart pulled over to the side of the highway and put the truck in park. Turning to Rylee, he placed his hand over her throat, instantly triggering a melting inside her that radiated from her core as he stared into her eyes. “I dare you,” he whispered softly. “I dare you to submit.” He paused a beat before adding, “And yeah, I’m that guy.”
Chapter 9
Taggart could feel Rylee’s rapid pulse beneath his fingers on her throat. Her pupils were dilated and fixed on his face. She swallowed, her muscles contracting against his palm. Taggart let his hand fall away.
As if waking suddenly from a dream, Rylee shook her head and touched her throat with two fingers. “I don’t know,” she said, turning to face forward. “I don’t know what I want.”
Her words were like a sucker punch that landed squarely in his gut, crumpling him to the metaphorical ground. He stared wordlessly at her for several long seconds as he willed himself to regroup—to get up and pull himself together.
As his emotional breath returned, he gave himself a mental shake. What was he after, anyway? What the hell was he doing? Was he actually asking this woman to become his submissive? Was he, the Leather Master, ready at last for something more than rough and tumble play?
Slow down, a different, more familiar voice inside his head cautioned. You’re moving too fast, and it’s scaring you both. Give her time to process what you’re asking of her.
Back on more familiar emotional ground, Taggart put the truck in gear. “Fair enough,” he replied. He returned his attention to the traffic and eased back onto the highway.
Rylee remained silent beside him, though he could almost hear the gears in her mind grinding and shifting. He had planted the seed. If his belief was correct, she was already busy clearing and watering the soil. He needed to have faith in her, and in himself. And if she said no, well then, that was that. He would be fine.
Liar, that same small voice whispered, but he ignored it
.
As they pulled off the highway, Taggart suggested, “How about we stop at this little Cuban place I like over on Hawthorne and grab a bite to eat before heading home?”
“Sounds good,” Rylee replied. “I’m starving.”
They didn’t speak again until they were seated in the tiny restaurant, pressed Cuban sandwiches and glasses of dark beer in front of them. Taggart took a bite of his sandwich and then a gulp of his beer.
He watched Rylee as she took her first bite. She closed her eyes as she chewed, her face suffused with pleasure. Taggart liked that about her—the way she threw herself into every experience, even something as simple as taking a bite of slow roasted pork.
She reached for her beer mug and took a sip. “So,” she said slowly. “This submission thing you’re talking about…” She trailed off.
“Yes? Did you want to ask something?” Taggart held his breath, attempting to keep his voice calm, his expression open. Rylee was like a skittish filly—if he jerked too hard, she’d take off in the other direction.
She was silent for a several long moments as she examined his face, as if memorizing its lines and planes. Finally, she said, “Okay, here’s the thing. We both know I love the whips, ropes, chain and leather. I even get off on that helpless feeling of being bound and temporarily in someone else’s control. It’s a hot, sexy game”—she frowned suddenly—“as long as it’s consensual. Why does it need to go further than that? Why would I want to subjugate myself to another person? As my dad was so fond of saying when I was growing up, ‘We Millers are winners. We don’t take shit from nobody.’”
All at once, Taggart understood her resistance to something he was so certain she already held deep inside herself. Without meaning to, he gave voice to his thought. “That’s it,” he said. “It’s because of your dad. The son he never had—the son you tried to be for him.”
“Excuse me?” Rylee leaned forward, elbows on the table. For a split second, Taggart thought she was going to challenge him to a fight.
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