The Training (Book 3: The Submissive Trilogy)

by Tara Sue Me

  “Thank you for allowing me to serve you,” I said. I never wanted him to think I didn’t get just as much out of our weekend time as he did. Especially considering the mistakes I made.

  It was crazy, but I felt different after the collar was off. It was difficult to describe. I wouldn’t call it a weight. It wasn’t a burden, but once it was off, I knew exactly what Nathaniel had meant when he said it put me in a certain frame of mind.

  I peeked up at him and felt a smile tug at the edges of my lips.

  “Will you sit with me?” he asked. “So we can talk?”

  Something about him had changed as well. He looked different. Acted differently. Less certain of himself.

  I wondered if it was my imagination.

  The weekday me would tease him. The me of last week would answer with a snappy comeback.

  But I’d spent the last two and a half days giving in to my more primitive desires, and those desires didn’t include the voicing of snappy comebacks.

  He knew that, of course.

  “I had hoped you would be more”—he paused, looking for the word—“uninhibited once the collar came off.”

  Okay, that was too much.

  “You think I was inhibited this weekend?” I asked. “What part would that have been? When I was bent naked over the whipping bench? Or was tied to your padded table?” I tapped my finger to my forehead. “Oh, I know. It was the nipple clamps, wasn’t it? Definitely the nipple clamps.”

  I didn’t have a chance to get to my next sassy comeback. I took a deep breath, gearing up for a nice teasing launch into Saturday night’s activities, when his hands took my face and he pulled me close for a long, passionate kiss.

  “There you are,” he said when our lips parted, his hands still on either side of my face. His eyes gazed steadily into mine. “I knew you were in there somewhere.”

  I ran my hands through his hair, tugging at the tousled strands. “I never left.”

  “I know,” he said. “I just feared you wouldn’t talk. That this would be awkward.”

  “Give me a few minutes. I just need to”—I wrinkled my eyebrows—“is adjust the right word?”

  “‘Adjust’ is just as good as any,” he said, pointing to the couch. “Sit with me? It seemed to help Friday night.”

  He sat down first, patting the spot next to him. “Put your feet in my lap. I’ll give you a foot rub.”

  “I’m tempted to say you’ve given me far too much already.” I settled myself onto the couch, placing my bare feet in his lap. “But I’m a sucker for a foot massage.”

  He smiled and took my left foot, his long fingers magical as they stroked between my toes and tugged them. “I’ve given you far too much? How is that?”

  “By letting us be us,” I said. “However we choose us to be.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to throw your hands up and tell me you don’t want my collar anymore?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?” I asked.

  He worked silently for a few minutes, a frown marring his expression. “I wondered if I was too rough, too hard. That you would decide you didn’t want me. Not every part.”

  “That’s what you wondered?”

  “Yes.”

  I had to tell him my fears. I had to be honest. He was working so hard to be honest with me. “I feared you wouldn’t want me. That you’d decide training me was too much work. Not worth it.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I messed up so much.”

  His hands stopped. “It was our first weekend. I was harder and more demanding than I’d been before. I’d have been more surprised if you hadn’t messed up.”

  “Really?” I felt better for some reason.

  “I told you that Friday night,” he said.

  “Right, and an hour or so later, I messed up again.”

  “I need you to be honest with me,” he said, restarting with the rubbing. “Not letting you swallow, how did you feel?”

  “Honest?”

  His only answer was a raised eyebrow.

  “I was so afraid I was going to gag and spit everything out on you,” I said, remembering. “And I felt so bad for not answering and knowing I’d disappointed you. I hate that feeling.” My voice dropped a notch. “But then there’s a certain power in knowing how strongly I affect you. Knowing you wanted to wake me up. Had to wake me up.”

  “Yes.”

  “But to turn that power back over to you, to give you free rein . . .”

  He smiled and waited for my response.

  “I love that part,” I finished.

  “The actual punishment, though?”

  “I didn’t love that part,” I said, then noticed his mouth start to open. “I know it’s punishment. I’m not supposed to.”

  “Was it effective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it served its purpose,” he said. Then he added, “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “My brain thinks too much,” I said. “I kept thinking about how I should answer, how you wanted me to answer. What would happen if I said the wrong thing?”

  “The only wrong thing was what happened.” His thumbs swirled over the bottom of my foot, pressing and rubbing the spot right under my big toe. “It’s not often I’ll give you a choice on the weekends, but when I do, I expect you to make a decision. You could have picked anything—even your hand.”

  “If I’d said I wanted to ride you?”

  “Did I give you any stipulations?” His eyes were dark. “I simply wanted you to choose.”

  An image of us moving together floated to my mind. “And if I’d asked you to make love to me?” The way he’d burst into my room didn’t mesh with the image. I doubted I would have asked him to make love to me, but I still wanted to know what he’d have done.

  He lifted my foot to his mouth and kissed the underside. “It would have been a very different ending.”

  “You would have done it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “If that was your choice.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed in myself once again.

  “Abby,” he said, as if sensing my sadness. “Don’t let one mistake weigh you down. It’s a learning experience.”

  “But it was a rare occasion, and I blew it.”

  “And you’ll blow it again. I’ll blow it sometimes. We learn. We move on.”

  He switched to my other foot, slowly working his way from the top to the bottom.

  “Thank you for the poem,” I said. His reciting of “Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her” had been just what I needed to calm my fears early Saturday morning.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Felicia and Jackson’s new house was beautiful. It had five bedrooms, five full bathrooms, three half baths, and a large rooftop deck. I spent most of my lunch hours and many of my evenings going to furniture stores, antique dealers, and designer fabric makers. Felicia was an astute decorator. She knew what she wanted and, most of the time, got it. Of course, being engaged to one of the country’s most well-known football players helped.

  Yet there was a certain sadness overshadowing my time with Felicia. We had been neighbors for years, and it was hard to believe that in less than two weeks, she’d be gone. When I wasn’t with Nathaniel, I’d be all alone.

  Unless . . .

  No, I wouldn’t even think that. It was much too soon to even think about moving in with Nathaniel. Even if he wanted to.

  Right?

  What’s the big deal? I asked myself. I mean, you will probably be at his house most of the time after the wedding anyway.

  Still . . .

  Best not to push it, I decided. Everything was still too new for both of us.

  “What has you thinking so intently?” he asked as he opened the passenger’s-side door. “Abby?” he asked again, holding out a hand for me.

  “Just thinking,” I said. His hand was warm and firm around mine. “Nothing in particular.”

  “Remind me to ask you something about next wee
kend,” he said as we climbed the steps to the front door.

  “Next weekend?” I looked up at him. He didn’t usually tell me his plans for the weekend. “What about it?”

  His hand squeezed mine. “Later.”

  “There you are,” Jackson said as the door swung open. “Come on in. I was just getting ready to light the grill.” He leaned over and gave me a one-armed hug. “Felicia needs your opinion in the kitchen.”

  “No,” I said, returning the hug. “She just wants me to smile and nod in agreement with her opinion.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  We walked into the kitchen, where Felicia was busy setting out salad ingredients. Once the men gathered the steaks and left the kitchen to go outside, she cocked an eyebrow.

  “No collar?” she asked.

  “I thought you didn’t want the details.” I hadn’t told her about our new arrangement. Still, she knew I had spent the weekend with him and probably guessed the rest. I sat down at one of the new barstools we’d picked out early last week. “I knew these would look good.”

  “Yes, they do look good.” She took a head of lettuce and washed it in the sink. “And no, I don’t want the details. I just thought you’d have it on. You did spend the entire weekend with him. And you didn’t take an overnight bag with you.”

  Damn girl was too observant for her own good. “You either want the details or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways.” I took a knife. “Need help?” She passed me a cucumber and I started chopping. “Since you asked, yes, I did wear his collar this weekend. But I wear it only on weekends.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Honestly, Felicia,” I said, dicing the cucumber into smaller pieces.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just worry about you. Especially since the last time—”

  “You’re sweet to worry,” I said. “But don’t. This is nothing like the last time.”

  “He better be careful,” she said. “It’d look really bad if I had to murder my cousin-in-law.”

  The realization that Nathaniel would become Felicia’s cousin-in-law always left me with an ache in my heart. It was as if she would have some kind of connection with him I didn’t.

  “At least it’s got diamonds,” she said. “It’ll look good with the dress.”

  Her comment caught me off guard. I hadn’t thought about wearing the collar to the wedding. But it would be held on a weekend. Per our arrangement, I would wear it. I chewed my lip as I threw the diced cucumber into the salad bowl. It was no big deal. I’d worn the collar around Nathaniel’s family before. I could do it again.

  But this is Felicia’s wedding.

  But again, no big deal. It wasn’t as if Nathaniel would pull me into a darkened closet and spank me with a coat hanger.

  Of course, on the other hand, that could be fun.

  My face heated at the thought.

  No. Must. Not. Think. That. Way.

  Or maybe he would command me to crawl under the table and suck him off.

  No, he’d never do that.

  Salad, Abby, I told myself. You’re making salad.

  But the more I tried not to think about serving Nathaniel at Jackson and Felicia’s wedding, the more I thought about serving Nathaniel at Jackson and Felicia’s wedding, and the more my imagination ran away with me. By the time the salad was finished, I’d concocted scenario after scenario of wedding possibilities. Each one dirtier and more exciting than the last.

  Laughing voices came from down the hall, and I looked up from washing my knife just in time to see Nathaniel and Jackson walk into the kitchen.

  Jackson would probably be the man most eyes would be drawn to. Not only was he handsome, but he had a build that just screamed for attention. And because he was always laughing and smiling, one just had a natural tendency to want to be with him.

  But it was his quieter, unassuming cousin I focused on. Even from the doorway, his presence called to me. Nathaniel walked with an understated elegance and confidence that totally mesmerized me. My eyes caught his, and our gazes held as he walked into the room. He set down a plate of steaks, his eyes burning into mine. My gaze dropped to his full lips, and it was as if I felt his kiss again, along my back after he’d taken me over the whipping bench the previous day. The way he’d commanded me to look at myself after he put the clamps on.

  You naughty girl.

  My face heated, and I focused my attention on the knife I was still washing.

  “You okay, Abby?” Jackson asked. “Do I need to turn the air on?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just got a little overheated.” I nodded to the water in the sink. “Dishes.”

  Nathaniel, of course, knew exactly what I was thinking. He walked up behind me, took the knife from my hands, and gently set it on the countertop. “I think this is clean enough.” He turned me so I faced him. “Are you okay?”

  Are you okay?

  The three-word question he’d whispered over and over the last few days to ensure I was fine and safe and able to continue. My mind automatically checked each part of my body and mind to verify and ensure my answer was truthful.

  “Yes, Mas—” I stopped short at his intake of breath. “I mean, yes, Nathaniel.” I lifted up on my toes and brushed his cheek with my lips. “Yes, I’m fine.” I whispered in his ear, “I just slipped a little there.”

  His expression was unreadable, almost as if he was gauging whether to say something or not. “I did wonder,” he mumbled to himself, but didn’t finish what he wondered.

  “Hey, you two,” Jackson said. “Knock it off and let’s eat.”

  I noticed then that Nathaniel’s arms were around me, and to anyone else, we probably looked like a couple in a lover’s embrace. My gaze shot over to Felicia, but she just gave a short nod of approval and went about pulling plates from the cabinets.

  “Come on,” she said to Jackson. “Let’s take the plates and steaks outside. I’m not sure why you two brought them back inside in the first place.” She smiled at Nathaniel and me. “Bring the salad with you when you come.”

  “Will do,” I told her, my arms still around Nathaniel.

  Felicia and Jackson left, discussing the potatoes left on the grill and whether or not they’d be ready.

  “Sorry,” I said to Nathaniel, when they were out of earshot.

  “Whatever for?” he asked.

  “I didn’t mean to slip there. When I said—

  “I want you to do something for me,” he interrupted. “I want you to stop apologizing for everything. Matter of fact, I want you to go the rest of the evening without apologizing for anything.” His eyes sparkled. “Can you do it?”

  “I’ll try. I don’t know what happened there,” I said. “Hearing you ask if I was okay just triggered something, I guess.”

  “It was me,” he said. “I need to find new words.” He pulled away and took two bottles of dressing from the refrigerator. “She has only Italian and ranch? No bleu cheese?”

  I shrugged. “Hasn’t stocked up the refrigerator yet, I guess. Think you can do Italian for one night?”

  He didn’t answer, but instead went back to our previous conversation. “When I walked into the kitchen and saw you at the sink, you just looked”—he wrinkled his brow—“perplexed or confused or something.” He took a cucumber from the salad bowl and chewed it thoughtfully. “I wonder if we should have stayed at my house tonight.”

  I wondered the same thing. It was just odd being a “regular” couple after such an intense weekend.

  “I know,” I said. “But I think it’ll be good. Jackson’s such fun and I want”—I took the salad bowl and moved toward the door—“I want to show Felicia we’re fine.”

  We had gone out with Felicia and Jackson a few times since getting back together. While part of me wondered if Nathaniel and I should have stayed at his house for the night, a larger part of me wanted to be back around Jackson and Felicia. To prove, somehow, that we were able t
o do the dual relationship.

  Nathaniel and I made it to the rooftop deck right as Jackson took the potatoes from the grill.

  “Right on time,” Felicia said.

  Nathaniel placed the dressings on the table and took the bowl from me. Then he came behind my chair and pulled it out for me.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” I told him, taking a seat as he pushed the chair under the table.

  “Humor me?” He trailed his fingers down my back and then back up, coming to rest at the nape of my neck with a soft squeeze. It was as if he felt more comfortable touching me. Needed a physical connection with me.

  I glanced over to Felicia and Jackson. They stood by the grill, talking. Felicia balanced a plateful of potatoes.

  “I like taking care of you,” Nathaniel said, taking his own seat.

  “You took care of me all weekend,” I countered.

  “No.” He smiled. “You took care of me.”

  I placed a napkin in my lap. “How about we just agree that we both took care of each other?”

  “I’ll go with that,” he said. “But you need to accept the fact that I will always pull your chair out, open your car door, and stand when you leave the table.” He leaned over to whisper, “It’s the way I was raised. My dad and uncle did the same things for mom and Linda, and they never served them the way you serve me.”

  “That you know of,” I shot back.

  He laughed. “I’m not even going to think about that.”

  Jackson and Felicia walked to the table.

  “So,” Jackson said, sitting down. “What have you two been up to this weekend?”

  Felicia’s eyes bugged out. I almost giggled, it was so comical. What did she think I was going to do? Launch into a running commentary on the ins and outs of what we had done?

  “Abby treated me to her delicious French toast,” Nathaniel said, speaking of the breakfast I’d made for him that morning. He raised his glass to me. “Superb, as always.” He looked over to Felicia. “Has she shared her recipe with you? Jackson loves French toast.”

  Felicia shook her head. “I’m not much of a cook. I’m afraid Jackson will have to do without that particular delicacy.”

  And just like that, the conversation drifted away from our weekend. I placed a hand on Nathaniel’s knee and he reached down to intertwine our fingers.