Indulgence

by Liz Crowe

  He scowls. “Nah. They’ve got other rooms. We can stay as long as you want. Need anything?” I nod. “Yeah? What?”

  “For you to keep holding me like this. You’re warm.” I can feel him shake with laughter, but he doesn’t make a sound. “Well, you are.”

  “And you’re soft. I love it. You feel so good.”

  Tears are right at the surface, and I know why. My heart wants to hear him say, I love you, Kimmie. Because I know the truth.

  I’m in love with him. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s the man I’ve been waiting for, the Dom I’ve been hoping to find. I want to tell him that. I can’t. Not yet.

  But I will.

  Chapter Six

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. I drive through the development, looking at the houses. They’re all very nice, but they’re all very cookie-cutter. I had Jaz pegged for someone who would want something unique and unusual.

  And I find out I wasn’t wrong when he opens the front door. The living room is plum with one burnt orange wall, and the furniture is upholstered with fabric that has plum, burnt orange, and gray half circle figures on it. The tables are a gray wood, and I’m impressed by the artwork on the walls and the little touches he’s put in place, the gray throw over the sofa, the toss pillows that echo the color scheme but also bring a blue and green into play. I love it all.

  The kitchen is just as unusual. The cabinets are a bright blue, and the walls are a light cantaloupe color. Red and yellow canisters sit on one side of the room on the stainless steel countertop, and the glass-front cabinet is home to Fiesta dinnerware in every color they make. It’s so cheerful that it makes me want to giggle. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. It’s all ready. I roasted the chicken this morning, and the vegetables are about ten minutes out. Want something to drink?” he calls out as he disappears into the dining room.

  “Sure!”

  “Okay, let’s see . . . I’ve got beer, all kinds, and all kinds of mixers. And wine. I’ve got some pinot grigio, and pinot noir, and merlot, and cab franc, and . . .”

  “I’ll take a glass of the cab franc, please.”

  “Coming right up.” In a matter of seconds, he reappears with two wine glasses. “Sounded like such a good idea that I decided I’d join you. A toast.”

  “A toast!” I repeat as I raise my glass.

  “To us. May we navigate the minefield of this relationship and come out with not only exactly what we want, but with all of our limbs intact.”

  I laugh right out loud and call out, “Hear, hear!” One sip and I grin. “Oh my god, this is good. So good! Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Standing there, leaning back against the counter with the wine glass in his hand, I don’t remember ever seeing a more handsome man. He’s let that scruff grow back just a little, more like a well-defined five o’clock shadow, gray mixed in with the dark hair there, and on his chest, more dark hair laced with white peeks out the top of his V-neck, pale heather gray tee. Soft, worn jeans hug everything that matters, and he’s padding around in a pair of heavy knitted heather gray socks. Everything about him says comfortable and relaxed, and when he drags a hand through that thick, dark hair with the gray frosting heavy at his temples, I want to lick him all over. Just lick until I can’t lick anymore. Yum. A band tightens around my heart and squeezes when he says, “You look especially beautiful tonight.”

  “Thank you. I don’t feel very beautiful, but . . .”

  “Well, you should. I mean, look at you! You’re just so . . .” And the timer goes off. Damn it. I wanted to hear the rest of that. “Oops, veggies are ready. If you’ll hand me those potholders, I’ll . . .”

  “Nope. I’ll get it.” I grab the potholders behind me on the table and rush over to the oven. The aroma that greets my nose when I open the oven door has me drooling. There, in a large roasting dish, are potatoes, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, and sugar snap peas in some kind of gorgeous sauce. I place it on the cooling rack he’s put out, then turn off the oven before I say, “Oh my god, it smells so good!”

  “It’s a sauce my mother used to make when I was growing up. It’s just simple cream of mushroom soup and some other ingredients, but it really makes the vegetables taste, I don’t know, warm and comforting, I guess, like you’ve spent hours on them when it really only takes a few minutes to put together.” Then he adds, “Oh! Grab the bread out of the warming tray, please. Bottom.” I turn with the potholders and open the warming tray at the bottom of the stove. What greets me there is a sight for sore eyes.

  “Oh, god, ciabatta! What the hell are you trying to do, hook me with food?”

  “Is it working?” he grins from inside his wine glass.

  “Maybe,” I grin back. “I haven’t tasted it yet.”

  “True. Let’s fix that, shall we?” He points to the dining room and I hear him pick up the dish as I move that direction. After he’s plopped it down on the table with the most beautiful roasted chicken I’ve ever seen, he retrieves the bread and sits down. Almost immediately, he bounces up again and grabs the bottle of wine from across the room, then pours my glass full once more before sitting and doing the same for his own. Once that’s done, he smiles at me. “Well, go ahead. Please. Take what you want.”

  I sit politely. “Could you serve me, Sir? I’ll eat whatever you give me. My dining’s at your discretion.” It’s not about him serving me, after all. It’s about me having the portions he wants me to eat, and I want to give him that courtesy.

  Hot damn, my heart starts to pound when he lifts my hand to his lips. “I most certainly will. I’d love to.” I fight to hold off the tears as he starts to fill my plate, first with a good-sized portion of the chicken, fragrant and juicy and perfectly done, and then a large spoonful of the vegetables. He tears off a mighty hunk of ciabatta and places it on my plate. When he’s done the same for himself, he picks up his fork. “I started to make a salad, but I knew this would be plenty. I hope that’s okay.”

  “More than okay. Who needs rabbit food when you’ve got this?”

  He chuckles. “Well, technically, the vegetables are rabbit food.”

  “I don’t think rabbits have ever had vegetables in this sauce.” I feel him watching me as I fork a bite of carrot and broccoli and slip it into my mouth. The minute it hits my palate, I’m in heaven. “Oh my god, this is so good! I mean, really. It’s unbelievable, Jaz.”

  “Thanks.” He takes a forkful of chicken and chews for a second. “Well, the chicken came out pretty good.”

  One taste and I blurt out, “Pretty good? It’s just scrumptious.” Before I can stop it, it hits me and a huge tear escapes one of my eyes, followed by another one and then another, and before I know it, I’m sobbing.

  I hear his panic-filled voice and glance upward to see horrified eyes. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

  “N-n-n-n-nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry. It’s just that no one’s fixed me a meal like this in a long time. I go to Michael and Robyn’s and we eat, but a lot of times it’s just carry-out. Even then, it’s just once in a blue moon. I always eat alone.”

  “Well, I didn’t really go to any trouble either. The hardest part of this meal was peeling the vegetables, and that’s no biggie. Kimmie?” When I finish wiping my eyes, I look over at him, and he’s smiling. “I don’t mind. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I eat here by myself all the time too, and it’s nice to have somebody to share a meal with. Really. So eat all you want. And I’ve got dessert too.”

  “Butterscotch pudding?” I ask and then burst into giggles through my tears.

  “No! Something better.” He toys with his food for a second and then, softly, he asks, “Did you enjoy that?”

  A half dozen more tears escape as I nod and smile. “Yes. Very much. Thank you. If that’s what I’ve got to look forward to, my future is looking pretty damn bright.”

  “You’re welcome. It was fun.” Going back to the food, the quiet that desce
nds on the room isn’t awkward, just peaceful. Sitting here at the table with him feels good. When we’re done, he clears the table, pulls out smaller plates and clean forks, and then produces the most beautiful Black Forest cake I think I’ve ever seen. I start to say something when he interrupts with, “Before you ask, no. I did not make this cake. I bought it. But I bought one from her right after I moved here, for Melissa’s birthday, and it was delicious. She does a great job. So enjoy – I sure plan to.” He cuts a wedge apiece for us, and he’s right. It has to be the best cake I’ve ever eaten in my life. As we eat, he asks me if I like to cook, what I like to make, and if I enjoy baking, and I tell him about the sporadic culinary triumphs I’ve had over the years. I also let him know that the term sporadic is generous, and he laughs at me. That sound, his laughter? Even though he’s laughing at me, I don’t mind it at all.

  With the cake finished, I help him clean up and get everything into the dishwasher, and then he motions me toward the living room. When I sit down, he sits beside me and turns toward me, one leg drawn up on the sofa. “So you said you enjoyed last night.”

  “Yes. Very much.” I draw both knees up to my chest and hug them. I’d love it if he put his arm around me, but he doesn’t. I can tell he’s determined to have a conversation.

  “And I see you’re still wearing the collar.”

  “Yes. I’d like to keep wearing it, if that’s all right.”

  “Quite all right. Now we need to talk about moving forward and what that means.”

  “Okay. I’m all ears.”

  “No you’re not. You have other parts too – very interesting parts, I might add.”

  “Why, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome. Want more wine?” I shake my head. “Me neither.” He hesitates for just a second. “I had a good time too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And I want more. You?”

  “Yes. Hence the collar.”

  “Right.” He rolls his eyes and I chuckle. “You should know that I’ve avoided relationships for a good while now. But I think it’s time to stop that. I’ve met someone I think I’d like a relationship with, and I want to pursue it.”

  “And who is this lucky woman?” I quip.

  “Oh, I think you might actually know her. Beautiful lady, very smart, very talented. And I’m finding out more about her every day, like the fact that she’s quite the smartass when she wants to be.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. That’s absolutely right. For the record, I find it charming – for the most part.” He lets out a laugh. “And I’m hoping she’d like to be in a relationship with me, but I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I think she’d love that.” Instantaneously, a blush creeps across my cheeks when I realize I’ve used the word love.

  “Think so? Hmmm . . . Well, I can be very demanding. I like my food to be edible. And I like for my dirty clothes to be washed eventually. I also like for the bed to be somewhat made in the mornings and for the toothpaste spray to be wiped off the mirror at least once a week. I’m very rigid in a lot of ways.”

  “Well, as long as you’re rigid in the most important way.” I sense something shift between us, something uncomfortable. “Jaz, is there something . . .”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I’m just a little, well, I guess you’d say I’m shy.”

  Now I’m baffled. A seasoned Dominant? He’s been coming onto me since the first time we met, and he’s shy? There are lots of ways I’d describe Jasper Givens, but bashful certainly wasn’t the first one that came to mind. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Shy? You’re not shy. What do you mean by shy?”

  “I just . . . I am.” My mouth opens to say something else, but he interrupts with, “So where did you grow up? Go to school? What about your parents? Siblings?”

  Even though I want to know more about this shy thing, I tell him what he wants to know, and he does the same for me with his background. I finish with, “And I was married to a man for years and years before he finally left me and told me he’d never loved me.”

  “Fuck. That’s horrible.”

  “Yeah. Pretty damn horrible. And you said you’d been married?”

  “Yeah. That was pretty damn horrible too.”

  “What happened?”

  “Something pretty damn horrible. Very damn horrible.” There’s a war of some sort going on behind his eyes, and I want to know what it is. Even though he’s not touching me, I can feel him growing tense. It takes a few minutes, but I finally figure out what it is.

  It’s pain. And I want to take it away. I want it to leave him and never come back. What in the world could this woman have done that makes him shiver as he speaks of her? My mind goes into overdrive trying to come up with something, then I just decide to go for broke. “Jaz, whatever it is, you can tell me. It’s okay, I promise.”

  “It may not be.”

  “It will be. Do I come across as that judgmental?”

  He shakes his head. “No. But it’s a lot to take in.”

  “So give me the benefit of the doubt, please?” How can I make him feel comfortable? “I trust you. Can’t you trust me?”

  “But this is . . .”

  “Have I done anything – ANYTHING – that would keep you from trusting me?”

  Another shake of his head. “No. You’ve done nothing but be up front and straight with me.”

  “Then have a little faith in me, can’t you? I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  The expression on his face goes from confusion to pure dread. Then, like a lightning strike, he stands, grabs my hand, and says, “Come on. I can’t put this off. It’s not fair. You should know.”

  “Know what?” comes rolling out of my mouth as he drags me along, and I notice something else odd: He’s stroking himself through his jeans. What the hell? This isn’t making sense. Pulling me through a doorway, we’re in his bedroom, where he points to a comfy little armchair. “Sit.” He’s still stroking himself like mad when I sit down, and I can see his erection through the soft denim. In a voice tinged with sadness, he says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t look at you when you see it. I just can’t. It’s just too much.” He murmurs again, “It’s just too much,” and unzips his fly. Fingers on the waistband of his briefs, he says, “If you can’t take it, just get up and leave. Don’t say anything, please. Just leave. I’ll understand. It won’t be the first time.” Running through my mind is the mantra, What the hell?, What the hell?, What the hell? Thumbs hooked in the waistband, he pulls the front of his briefs out and down.

  All the air rushes out of my lungs and I fight to keep from making a sound. His erect penis is right there in front of my eyes. It’s plenty large enough, but it’s kind of twisted in a weird way and makes a bit of an angle, and I’m trying to focus well enough to figure out what I’m seeing when it all suddenly comes into painful focus.

  Scars. They’re everywhere. They run here and there up the length, and then back and forth too. Some are depressed, and some are raised, most with suture marks. It’s obvious they’re not fresh; they’re well cured, so they’ve been there for awhile. I can’t imagine anything that could’ve done that kind of damage, short of accidentally catching it in some kind of machinery or being attacked by a wild animal, but I’ve seen his legs and stomach, and they’re scar-free. I’m trying to take it all in and make sense of it, and then, without thinking, I look up at his face.

  Jaz’s eyes are squeezed shut against the sight of me knowing his greatest shame, and my heart breaks for him. A lone tear meanders down one cheek, but otherwise, his face is blank. The thought crosses my mind, How many women have seen this and run the other direction? Or has he ever shown anyone else? He said it wouldn’t be the first time, so it had to have happened to him. Oh, god, Kimberly, my brain screams, whatever you do, make it the right choice.

  Something comes over me in that instant, something so clear and pure that I know it’s the precise thing to do, and, without warning, I
reach out, grab his briefs and jeans, yank them down to the middles of his thighs, and run my mouth down over his cock in one smooth, seamless movement. I hear him gasp, and I grip his thighs with my hands and hang on in case he tries to move away, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands wind around in my hair and something else happens, something that takes my broken heart, dashes it to the ground, and stomps all over it.

  He starts to sob. I feel his body shake, feel his tears fall into my hair, and I don’t know if I should stop and comfort him or keep going and honor his pain. One hand leaves my hair and grips my chin, but I grab it with my hand and squeeze for dear life. To my great relief, he squeezes back, and I just keep going. I’m not sucking his cock; I’m making love to it with my lips, my tongue, my throat. I want him to know how precious it is to me – I want him to know how precious he is to me. Because he is. I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t care. He trusted me, and I want to honor that trust. I want him to know that trusting me with this secret, this painful truth, was absolutely, positively the right thing to do. I’ve never had a man give me the gift of such vulnerability, and I wouldn’t dream of dishonoring that gift.

  My lips leave his hardness for a split second when I murmur, “Oh, Jaz, you taste so good.” There’s no opportunity to go back to what I was doing before he drops to the floor in front of me, wraps his arms around me, and kisses me.

  This kiss. It’ll be with me for the rest of my life. My heart expands – I can feel it – and takes in his, giving it a home and a place to rest. Softer than a snow in January, I let my fingertips dance across the back of his neck under his hair, and he moans into my mouth. I manage to break free just long enough to whisper, “I love you, Jaz. Nothing else matters.” His mouth covers mine again, and I sink into the kiss like a Dane into the bog. It goes on forever, holding me hostage to its magic, until he finally comes up for air.

  “Kimmie, I . . .”

  My finger stills his lips. “It doesn’t matter. If you want to tell me, I’ll listen. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’ll be fine too. You, me, now – that’s what matters.”