Cleave (Cutting Cords Series Book 3)

by Mickie B. Ashling

  I’d been preparing for weeks. Suffering through several anxiety attacks in the privacy of the bathroom as I forced the tiny dildo up my now virgin channel. The first time was the worst. Terror engulfed me, and I hyperventilated into a near faint. When my breathing returned to normal, and I realized my body could handle the intrusion without bleeding out, I gained a little confidence. My next attempt wasn’t as bad, and I experimented with larger dildos as the days went by. I’d always admired Sloan’s cock, but trying to envision it stuffed up my tight channel gave me chills. Dwelling on the pain instead of focusing on the pleasure was counterproductive. I had to get into the right frame of mind if I wanted this to work. And I did.

  Saving this gift for our wedding night was an old-fashioned gesture I knew Sloan would appreciate, but…we’d most likely be plastered by the end of the evening. Allowing him to top when he wasn’t in full control was a losing proposition. A controlled scene with complete awareness on both sides was more my style, and despite the residual fear, I was determined to do this right. I’d never failed at anything before, and I was damned if I’d let this blip from the past control me. I’d get through it with the same determination I’d used to get out of Illinois. The thought of seeing Sloan’s face light up when I made the offer was giving me an erection. It was a good sign.

  Chapter 32

  Trent didn’t say much once we got into the car. He just smiled when he reached over to help buckle me in, a chivalrous gesture that never failed to touch me. We both knew I was quite capable of putting on my own seat belt, but the physical act of keeping me safe was part and parcel of who he was. Instead of taking offense, I felt cherished.

  “Are you satisfied with all the details for the wedding?” he asked as he started Max’s Jeep.

  “I wish it wasn’t turning into such a circus, but I’m keeping my sights on the ultimate goal―becoming your husband.”

  “If I had my way, I’d sweep you off to a deserted island and spend one week making love to you.”

  “We can pretend,” Sloan suggested.

  “I had something else in mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Coincidentally, a boat ride.”

  “Really?”

  “One of my clients loaned me his yacht for the weekend.”

  “Does it come with a crew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d be crazy to turn down a weekend on a yacht with my fiancé.”

  “He was going to let me have it after the wedding, but things might get a little crazy that night.”

  “Absolutely. The city of Montauk celebrates the Fourth of July like most other places close to water, with the usual fireworks launched from a barge out in the harbor. Any hope of romance with so many people around is unlikely.”

  “Just what I figured.”

  “Do we need to go back to the house and pack?”

  “I’ve taken care of everything.”

  “I should have known better than to ask,” I said, admiring the ginger-haired man who glanced my way. It was easy to forget Trent wasn’t a natural redhead because the look suited him so well. He knew I loved it and promised to stay red until I got bored. “Why are we driving away from the yacht club?”

  “So your gossipy friends don’t intrude on our weekend.”

  “Gotcha… did you have an itinerary mapped out?”

  “I thought we’d cruise to P-town and spend the day.”

  “Sounds dreamy.”

  “If we leave tonight, we should be there by early morning.”

  “I have no clothes!” I exclaimed, alarmed at my lack of wardrobe.

  “Babe… didn’t I tell you I had it under control?”

  “Oh, right. Can we get going?”

  After driving around in circles, we turned back toward the marina. Max’s Lexus was gone, and Trent parked the Jeep in the vacated spot, then locked it. Trent took me by the hand, and we walked over to a white yacht with the name Mirabelle in big gold letters on the side. I wondered who owned it. The thing was enormous, and although I’d been on many yachts in the last six years, this one was impressive. It towered above the others and reeked of money and success.

  The uniformed captain was on deck to greet us, along with his two-man crew. They turned out to be from Marbella, a town on Spain’s gold coast catering to the rich and famous. Trent’s client owned several hotels, as well as resorts in Mexico and Central America. The Mirabelle, normally docked in Cancun, was a floating resort and traveled up and down the Yucatan peninsula. The owner liked to make impromptu visits to his properties and preferred the relaxing environment of a yacht rather than enduring lines and security at the airports. It was also a great way to socialize, and the Mirabelle invariably carried friends and family, as well as business associates.

  “I would think someone with his money would have a private jet.”

  “He’s got one or two lying around.”

  “Of course he does. How did you meet him?”

  “He’s into the lifestyle and volunteered to be my sub for a weekend when I was in Madrid about three years ago. We’ve been friends since then.”

  “All this time?” My voice must have changed because Trent stopped in midsentence and raised an eyebrow. I was swamped with a jealous vibe so intense it almost choked me. The thought of sharing Trent with anyone, past or present, made me queasy.

  “Hey,” Trent said, kissing me lightly on the mouth. “I haven’t played with him in years.”

  “Good thing ’cause I’d have to kill him if that weren’t the case.”

  “Listen to you.” Trent grinned.

  “Sorry?”

  “Come on, babe. We’re getting married in a month. What happens at a BDSM club has no impact on our world.”

  Whoa. I gaped. What did he mean? Was he planning to keep up his role as Dom, separate from our marriage? How come I never got the memo?

  “Um… do we need to talk about this, sir? I don’t recall having a conversation about extracurricular activities at Wilde.”

  “We can discuss it at dinner.”

  “No,” I said, a little alarmed. “Let’s talk about it now.”

  “Drinks and appetizers are ready in the lounge, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Are we ready to cast off?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get going,” Trent said, nodding. “Come on, Sloan.”

  I followed him up the stairs into a glass-enclosed room on the upper deck. The focal point was a massive circular bar with tufted leather seats. The view was unobstructed, no matter where you sat. We could see the famous Montauk lighthouse overlooking the harbor, and all around us were bobbing sailboats and smaller yachts. They gave us a wide berth as the Mirabelle headed out toward open waters.

  “What do you want to drink?” Trent asked.

  “I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”

  “Make that a double,” he directed the bartender.

  He sounded so relaxed and unperturbed despite the bomb he’d just laid at my feet. My head was buzzing with questions, and it was difficult to sit and pretend I was as calm as my master when I was actually freaking out. What would I do if he insisted on playing outside the marriage? I would not agree, no matter how reasonable he made it sound. How come this never came up before? Did he need the club to augment our rather vanilla relationship? Compared to other couples in the lifestyle, what we did was pretty tame. Foolishly, I had assumed it was enough. I was getting everything I needed, but was he? I had a vision of the morning long ago when I’d watched him flog Jason at Max’s place, the weekend we’d first met. He’d loved it, judging from the incredibly erotic scene I’d witnessed. I knew then that Trent had a mild sadistic streak, yet he’d never insisted on playing rough with me. In retrospect, going to the club was probably his only means of getting his rocks off without crossing my hard limits.

  The Bloody Marys were served in heavy crystal glasses with t
he boat’s name etched on the side. Fresh celery was stuck in the middle of the icy drink, along with a few black olives attached by toothpicks. I pulled out the vegetation and dropped it on the white napkin before taking a large gulp. It was perfectly seasoned, and I could feel the vodka making a path down my throat, warming my belly, which was cold with dread.

  Unable to ignore this any longer, I asked him point-blank. “Do you expect to continue your membership at Wilde?”

  “Of course I do.”

  I must have looked like a guppy, opening and closing my mouth while I struggled for words, because he laughed.

  “Why are you so surprised?”

  “I… thought we were in a committed relationship. We’re getting married, for God’s sake. Do you think I’ll look the other way when you go to the club and have sex with another sub?”

  “Who’s talking sex?” Trent argued. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “Isn’t it always part of a scene at Wilde?”

  “No! If you had bothered to come with me occasionally, you would know better than to ask such a dumb question.”

  I realized my mistake as soon as I saw the look in his eyes. He was angry, but beyond the anger was hurt and outrage. I had no idea what his role was at the club, and he was perfectly justified to throw out his accusation about my nonparticipation. I’d assumed the worst. My old insecurities had cropped up before I could filter them out with rational thought. I’d insulted him and had no idea how to take back the words.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You damn well better be! I haven’t touched another man since you and I hooked up. As I recall, you can’t say the same.”

  “Oh God… don’t bring that up now.”

  “You brought it to the forefront by questioning my fidelity. I know where you’re coming from after having been with a man who hoped to have it all, but Cole and I are worlds apart. I never expected you to provide certain aspects of the lifestyle I enjoy, but it doesn’t mean I’m not satisfied with what we have. I love you, Sloan, and I’m prepared to make the ultimate commitment, which doesn’t include having sex on the side.”

  “What do you do at the club?”

  “I train fellow dominants so they learn the tools of the trade while I keep up my skills and get my itch scratched at the same time. It does not include fucking! Although it’s always an option in a controlled scene, I haven’t needed anyone outside our relationship, and if I ever do, you’ll be the first to know. I don’t jump before I look, Sloan. That’s not my style.”

  “Will you stop beating a dead horse? I thought sex was an automatic part of a scene.”

  “You know nothing about it, and yet you have the gall to sit there and accuse me of cheating.”

  “Guilty. I’m a piece of shit… how can I make it up?”

  Trent slipped off the barstool and went to stand closer to the glass wall. He sipped at his drink slowly, and I could see him grinding and clenching his jaw. His body language was murderous as he reflected on my accusation, and I knew I’d better do something fast or this romantic interlude would be completely ruined.

  I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned my head against his back. “I’m sorry I insulted you, and I’ll do anything to make it up.”

  Trent whipped around, and I stumbled back.

  “Anything,” he said, glaring at me with frosty eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Raoul,” Trent said, addressing the steward who’d been serving us.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Show us to our cabin, please.”

  “Will you be having dinner as planned?”

  “Not for another two hours.”

  He nodded, and we followed him down the inside stairs to the cabins below deck. When he opened the door of the master suite, I gasped at the sheer opulence. The royal-blue carpet was edged in gold, and the color scheme was picked up by the bedspread and floor-to-ceiling curtains. The sun was setting, and the waning rays bounced off the water, turning it blood-red. The shoreline was receding rapidly as the yacht headed north, and soon, the twinkling lights of Montauk would be replaced by darkness. Being out on the ocean with nothing but the captain’s expertise to guide us safely to port was an act of faith when you analyzed it. Handing over my life to this man who looked at me so intently was also a leap of faith, and one I was prepared to take without further ado.

  Trent ordered me to strip. “Assume the position, Sloan.”

  “Sir?”

  “We obviously need to reaffirm our goals, and I think a good spanking would be an appropriate way to start our session.”

  “Spanking?”

  Trent walked over to a bank of closets lining one wall, and when he opened it, I gawked at the array of tools. Obviously, the owner of this floating dungeon was a great believer in never leaving home without his toys. They glistened enticingly, and Trent picked up a studded leather paddle and twirled it around, getting a feel for its weight. When he turned to me, there was a decided gleam in his eyes I’d only seen once before―the morning he’d chained Jason to the St. Andrews Cross in Max’s basement.

  “Ready?”

  Chapter 33

  I was filled with dread as I watched Trent take off his shirt and strip down to his boxers. Spanking was a punishment, and one I’d always resented. To my mind, there was nothing erotic about it, but I’d wedged myself into this tight spot by opening my big mouth and blurting out nonsense. If my master deemed it necessary, then I was willing to endure the beating. Hopefully, this would be a healing ritual for him as well.

  I should have known better than to question his integrity. He’d proven over and over that he was an honorable man and had handled each crisis in our relationship with patience and forethought. Unlike me, his needy sub, who routinely assumed the worst, Trent never jumped to conclusions. Doubting my worth was my modus operandi, and expecting Trent to stray was not surprising, even though he’d never given me cause.

  Conversely, Trent never questioned me, nor did he dredge up the past, until tonight. When I spent a day with Cole and the twins, my master never looked for any hidden agenda. He’d accepted my new role in their lives without asking for details, while I had not extended the same courtesy. I hoped to God this scene would wipe out my thoughtless words, which had wounded him more than I could have anticipated.

  “Who are you,” he said abruptly, starting with the usual question he asked every morning during our meditation.

  “Sloan Driscoll.”

  “What are you?”

  “I’m a model by day and your submissive after hours.”

  “Wrong answer,” he snapped.

  The alarms were going off in my brain. “Sir?”

  “Do you honestly think your role ends when you walk out the door in the morning?”

  “No, sir,” I said, backpedaling furiously. “I’m yours 24/7.”

  “Damn right! By the same token, I am your master, regardless of who I’m with or what I’m doing. You are the most important person in my life, and everything I say or do is with your well-being in mind. Can you say the same?”

  “I love you, sir, and strive to be what you want.”

  “What I want is your trust, Sloan.”

  “I trust you with all my heart.”

  “And yet, you question my motives by imagining a sexual agenda outside of what we have. Is that any way to show you believe in me?”

  My tears were already forming, and suddenly I was feeling like an insecure twentysomething-year-old again. Had I destroyed the most important thing in my life because I felt unlovable? Because I was sure I didn’t have what it takes to keep my man from straying? When would I realize I had the necessary ingredients to make someone happy?

  “I was wrong to question you. Please… say you’ll forgive me.”

  “You have to believe I’m in this relationship because I love you. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  My cheeks were covered in tears as I listened t
o him. His declaration was as significant as a marriage vow and made me realize, once again, how exceptional he was. Everything about my master was above board, and insinuating he had a side piece was beyond insulting. I wanted to throw my arms around him, but standing up before he gave the word would be a severe breach of conduct. I wished he would hold me or spank me to bridge the intolerable distance.

  “Would it help if I mentioned I’ve never been happier or felt as safe?”

  “Better. Now what else can I do to purge the other dangerous thoughts flitting around in your head?”

  “Needy wreck seems to be my default.”

  “I know you still harbor insecurities, and I’m doing my best to get rid of them, but you must work on it as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get on the bed and lie on your stomach.”

  I scrambled up and spread-eagled on the enormous bed. The silky spread felt cool against my bare skin, a perfect contrast to my master’s warm hands. He kneaded my ass cheeks with a light touch, and gradually, it grew heavier, until he was squeezing my flesh so hard it hurt.

  He growled when he said, “You can try the patience of a fucking saint, boy.”

  “I’m sorry, Master. Please spank me as many times as necessary.”

  “Don’t you think you should be punished?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you submit and do this willingly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Implicitly.”

  “Who loves you?”

  “You do.”

  “Do you believe I have your best interests in mind at all times?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The splat of the leather-covered paddle sounded much worse than the actual pain. It was the humiliation that made this so terrible for me, but I bore it because I had to, and Trent needed it to get past this incident. I knew my submission would be a stepping-stone to forgiveness. Ten times I felt the sting, and each blow was more forceful than the one before. I moaned but never tried to get out of his way. My compliance must have stimulated him, because his cock was as hard as steel and pressed rigidly against my thigh.