“That was an important job, sir. I’m sure you’re missed.”
“I don’t know about that, but sometimes I miss it. And then I remember I don’t wake up every day scared to go to work for fear some kid is going to accuse me of something horrible.”
“I’m sure that was a very real threat, sir. You’re a very handsome man.” Then her face turns red and I can’t help but smile. “I mean, you’re not fat and you’re tall, and your skin is pretty, and I like your hair.”
“Which part? The lines or the fade?”
“I’ve seen those lines on TV but I’ve never touched them.”
“You can. Touch them, I mean.”
“Lines. I like them,” she says and reaches up. I can feel her tracing over them, between them, then swirling her finger through them. “I like the way they feel.”
“Thank you. Now come over here and sit between my legs.” She gives me an odd look. “With your back to me. Where’s your hairbrush?”
“Here, sir.” Once it’s in my hand, she crawls over and sits down between my legs. I start to brush her hair, slowly and methodically. “No one’s ever done this before, sir.”
“Not even your mother when you were little?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember. Have you ever done this before?”
“Um-hmm.” I keep brushing, but my mind is drifting back. “I had a girlfriend I used to do this for.”
“But you broke up with her?”
“Um-hmm.”
I expect her next question to be why, but instead, she says, “What was her name?”
“Esme.”
“What was she like?”
I brush a little more and then lean around her just enough that I can see the side of her face. “Long, straight, dark hair, brown eyes. Heavier than you by quite a bit.”
“Was she pretty?” she asks, and I’m struck by the innocence in her voice.
“Very. Very pretty, very smart, very funny.”
“It sounds like you really liked her.”
“I was in love with her.” Those words … I’m unprepared for how emotional saying them out loud makes me feel. It’s like opening an old wound. “I thought we’d be together forever.” Now I’m hoping she can’t hear the tremor in my voice.
“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, no. It’s okay. Have you been with anybody you loved?”
“No, sir. They didn’t love me. I was their slave. Did she love you? That lady? Esme?”
“I thought she did.”
“Did she say she did?”
“Yes. Often.”
“But she didn’t?”
“She did the one thing that would hurt me the most.”
Here it comes. “What?”
All I can do is sigh. “She got pregnant and had an abortion without telling me.”
I have to stop brushing because she pulls away, then turns halfway around to look at me and asks, “Why in the world would she do that?”
“Because she knew her family would be furious.” Before she has a chance to answer, I add, “Because she’s white.”
“Well,” she says with a snort, “I would never do that. That’s terrible. I’m sorry she did that to you, sir.” With that proclamation, she turns back as before and waits while I start to brush her hair again. “That was pretty low. Not very nice at all.” There’s something in her voice that I haven’t heard before, and it takes me a minute to recognize it.
It’s anger. She’s angry that Esme hurt me that way. That’s a shock. When it all happened, I barely knew Brian, so I didn’t have him to confide in. All of our friends were friends in common, and they felt they had to choose. Of course, they chose her because they’d known her longer. I was out in the cold, hurting and betrayed, and I had no one. Mom was dead and Dad was in France. There were nights I didn’t think I’d make it, and no one seemed to give a shit.
And this woman I barely know is angry because of something somebody else did to me, somebody she didn’t know, and at a time when she didn’t know me. I’m struck by that level of compassion. “No, it wasn’t very nice. It was very hard for me. I was sad and alone.”
“Did you cry?” she asks quietly.
This is your chance, Lucien. Don’t blow this. Be honest and open. She needs it, I hear a little voice in my head scold. “Every night for a long, long time. She was an English teacher at the school, so I had to see her every day. It was hard, going in and seeing her there, knowing what she’d done and having to act civil, like nothing was wrong. Between that and the stress of the job, I decided I’d probably have to change jobs, at least schools, because I didn’t know how long I could keep doing it. Brian asking me to come to work for him was like a huge gift. I didn’t hesitate―I took the job instantly.”
“I’m a little surprised,” she says as I keep brushing.
“At what?”
“That you cried.”
“Why?”
“Guys don’t cry. You’re supposed to be tough. I don’t get it.”
“Rayanna, it doesn’t matter that I’m a guy, or that I’m a Dominant. I’m a person. You cut me, I bleed. You treat me like shit and it hurts me. Doesn’t matter if I have a penis or a vagina. We’re all the same.”
I’m unprepared when she reaches up and grabs my wrist, then turns to look at me. “Master Lucien, you’re a brave man.”
“Brave? How am I brave?”
“You lived in France, but you came here and lived all by yourself. And you took a job in a city you didn’t know very well and made it your home. That’s very brave.”
“More an act of desperation.”
“I stayed with Connor because I was afraid I couldn’t do anything on my own. Look at me―I’m here with you like a beggar without a street corner.”
She’s eloquent, I’ll give her that. “That’s not true. You want to be independent, don’t you?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. I haven’t thought about it. I just know I can’t go back to Connor because he’ll kill me. I mean, he already almost did.”
“I won’t let that happen, Rayanna. As long as you’re my submissive, you’re under my protection, and I’d give my life to keep you safe.” I mean that. I barely know her, but it’s a point of honor. It’s my sworn duty. I’m responsible for her wellbeing as long as she submits to me. Then I realize I haven’t asked an important question. “Is that what you want? To be my submissive? And be under my protection? Because if you don’t want that, we can find you somewhere else to―”
“No! Don’t send me somewhere else! I like it here with you, Master Lucien! You’re kind and sweet and smart and …” She stops. “If love were real, I could fall in love with you.”
“Love is real,” I inform her.
“Yeah? But it wasn’t. With that Esme lady, it wasn’t.”
“That’s just it. It was real for me. It might not have been for her, but for me, it was as real as it gets.”
I can see the gears turning in her mind. Hell, I can almost hear them clicking. “So it’s real if it’s just one person?”
“It’s even more real then. There’s no love that’s more real than the love you give somebody that’s not returned. It’s real because it’s selfless. And it’s real because it’s the kind of love that breaks your heart.”
Her eyes are soft and innocent when she says, “I would never do that to you.”
And I believe her. I know she’s telling the truth. There’s no capacity to lie or deceive in a single fiber of this woman’s body―none. Even if she wanted to hurt somebody, I don’t think she could. My ability to think clearly is totally obliterated as my hand rises of its own accord and strokes her cheek. When I lean toward her, she meets me halfway and our lips touch. There’s a spark of recognition for me, a connection with a soul I’ve known all my life but only just met, and the fingers she wraps around the back of my neck feel as though they were created specifically to be there. My arms reach for her, wrap around her, and pull her in close, th
e heat of her body warming my chest.
This tenderness―I’m unaccustomed to it, but I’m also craving it. I haven’t had that with the submissives who play with me, and I didn’t have it with Esme. The joke between us was that we didn’t know much about lovemaking, but we fucked like bunnies. And yet, this somehow feels like what I’ve wanted all along, this sweetness and gentleness that envelopes both of us, drawing us together in a oneness that surprises me. That’s when I remember her challenge.
“Fall in love with me. Make me fall in love with you. I don’t think you can do it, sir.”
My brain is screaming, NOOOO!!!! but something inside me, deep down, wants to make that connection. The internal confession of my loneliness and isolation over the last three years burns, and I feel the sting of a thousand bees in my heart. She wants something from me, something I can give her. And I want something from her, something I didn’t even know I wanted. We drop together onto our sides on the mattress, my hands roaming her slight frame, her fingers stroking my cheeks, and I want to consume her, to take her inside me in a fashion both voracious and languid. My lips find her neck, sucking and nipping gently, listening to her moan, and move on to a nipple, tugging with my teeth as she cries out. “Master Lucien?” she whispers.
“Yes, precious?”
“I need you, Master Lucien. Please? I’m on fire …”
In seconds I’m buried inside her, stroking lazily, listening to her groan as I burrow in and whimper as I retreat. My cock aches, hard and throbbing and hot, and there’s no relief coming down the pike just yet, I can tell. She moves against me, a gentle dance of desire, and my fingers wander until they find what they’re looking for. The growl that starts down deep in her chest moves eagerly to her throat and in seconds, she bucks against me, her hips pumping as I swirl an index finger around her tiny bud. Her lips are planted firmly on my collarbone, the kisses they leave burning into my skin.
Three strokes past her orgasm, I’m done. Finished, emptied, poured out, drained. Esme and I would’ve rolled to our backs, stared at the ceiling, and laughed our asses off. That’s not what this seems to call for. Instead, I squeeze her to me and kiss the crown of her head, enjoying the sensation of her breath on my skin as she sighs. I’m looking for words and all I manage to find is, “Mmmmm.”
Over the days I’ve known her, she’s always seemed like a child, but the woman inside her whispers, “God, that was good. Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Get what you needed?”
“Yes, sir. You’re the best I’ve ever had. You acted like you actually care.”
I press her back from me and stare down at her. “Hey. Look up here at me.” When her eyes meet mine, I give her my best piercing glare. “That’s because I do. I care what happens to you, I care if you’re satisfied, I care if you’re happy. I really do care about you, Rayanna, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Those big blue eyes fill with tears and I feel myself melting. “Thank you, sir. You’re such a good person. And I am happy here. Right this minute I think I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life.”
“What about when Carly was born?” I know instantly I’ve made a huge mistake by asking when I hear that catch in her throat and she starts to cry. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”
“I’m never getting her back, am I?” she asks through her choking sobs.
“That’s the point we’re trying to get you to, the point where they’ll let her come back to you. Is that what you want?”
“More than anything in the whole world.” She curls up against me and just keeps crying. All I can do is hold her and silently curse myself for mentioning her child. Is there a chance in hell she’ll ever get the little girl back?
Honestly, from what I’ve seen, I think there’s a really good chance that someday in the near future, it’ll happen.
Her sobbing winds down to the occasional hiccupping shudder and when she finally stops, I know it’s because she’s fallen asleep. My arm is numb where she’s lying on it, but I don’t care. I’ve got her in my arms and she’s safe and cozy here. That’s all that really matters.
Tomorrow will be a new day, one where our relationship has gone to a different level and things are hopefully more comfortable for us. It’ll be Sunday, and we’ll have all day to ourselves. I hope it’s comforting for her. For me? I think it’ll be a revelation.
* * *
The entire apartment building trembles with the last of the thunder and in seconds, another flash lights up the room and the crack of thunder following it is almost deafening. Then comes the rain, a downpour unlike anything I’ve ever known. I feel her tense and then relax against me again, and I roll to face her and draw her into my arms. It makes me smile when she snuggles into my chest, and her hand rises and wraps under and around my shoulder. She draws in a deep breath and sighs it out, then cuddles even closer when another crash of thunder hits, so I relax and try to go back to sleep.
There’s very little light coming in around the curtains when I wake the next time, but a glance at the clock tells me it’s almost nine. It’s little wonder it’s so gloomy outside―I’ve never heard rain like this. If it’s been pouring this way the whole time since I was last awake, they’re probably rowing boats down the middle of the street by now. She rouses a little and says, “Hey, is it still storming?”
“I’m not sure about storming, but …” I’m interrupted by the loud boom that follows another flash of lightning. “Yep, sounds like it.”
“Ummm. Perfect day for sleeping in. What time is it, sir?”
“Little after nine.”
“Oh my god. I’ve never slept this late. But it feels so good being here with you.”
I chuckle and kiss the part in her hair. “Yeah. It’s comfortable and warm, and you’re soft and sweet,” I say without thinking.
“That’s so nice. I feel safe here with you.”
“I think that may be the nicest thing anybody’s said to me in a long time,” I tell her and kiss her forehead.
“It’s true. It’s like our own little world where all the bad stuff has to stay out.”
She’s right. That’s exactly how it feels. I’m struck with the thought that I’ve got to start trying to shape and define the relationship or it’ll get out of hand pretty quickly. “This is a bad-stuff-free zone,” I tell her and laugh.
“Good! I’m tired of bad stuff, sir. I need good stuff. Shall I fix you breakfast?”
“What do you know how to fix?”
“Do you like oatmeal?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do you have oatmeal?”
I laugh again. “Sure do. Awesome Irish oatmeal. Big box in the pantry. There’s milk in the fridge, and some fresh fruit too.”
“So do you want me to fix it?”
“Sure! That would be good. Fix yourself some too, please,” I tell her as she pulls herself out of bed. My tee shirt is lying on the comforter at the foot of the bed, and she grabs it and tugs it on. “By the way, Rayanna, I want you to know that last night wasn’t just play for me. That meant something to me.”
“It meant something to me too, sir. I want to be with you, if you want me.”
“I do want you. We can talk about it more later. Right now, oatmeal,” I say and point to the kitchen.
“Yes, sir! Two bowls of oatmeal coming right up, sir.” I get a little salute and she disappears through the doorway, so I stalk into the bathroom, clean myself up a bit, slip my briefs and pajama pants back on, and crawl back into bed. By the time she carries the tray in, I’m sitting up, leaning back into the pillows, blanket up to my waist and magazine in my hand. “Here you go, sir,” she says as she slides the tray up my lap. Before I can speak, she disappears again and comes back with another tray. I wait until she’s climbed back in beside me before I pick up my spoon and take a bite.
“Oh. My. God.”
“What, sir? Is it okay?”
I’m almost speechless. “God, Rayanna, this has to be the best oatme
al I’ve ever eaten in my life. What did you put in here?”
She gives me a sly grin. “Oh, just a little secret of mine.” I wait and she finally says, “I suppose you want me to tell you what it is?”
“Please.”
“How badly do you want to know?”
I shoot her a side-eyed glare. “Badly enough that I’ll spank your ass if you don’t tell me.”
I watch her eyebrows vault upward and she starts to laugh. “Well, okay then! So Fenco told me to―”
“Who’s Fenco?”
“They guy my mother gave me to.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So he told me to put some coffee creamer in his oatmeal one day. Not the flavored kind, just the plain. He said it makes the oatmeal richer, and he’s right. It really does work.”
“That’s ingenious. It’s delicious.” I take two more bites and when I swallow, I ask, “Where is this Fenco guy now?”
“Dead. Got stabbed in a bar fight.” She says it as though she’d just told me he’d gone out for a gallon of milk.
“Oh, wow. Is that when you went to live with Connor?”
“No. I went to live with my friend Amy. Connor is Amy’s brother. She told me he was bad news but I didn’t listen. I lived with Amy for three or four months before Connor came over and took me.”
“Took you?”
“Yeah. He just came in one day and told Amy, ‘I want her and I’m taking her with me.’ I remember her telling me, ‘Just go with him and don’t make a fuss. If you fight it, things will go badly.’ And she wasn’t kidding.”
“What happened?”
“That was on a Friday. He made me have sex with him all day Saturday and Sunday, and when he went to work on Monday, he chained me to a post in the basement and left me.” There’s no anger in her voice, no sadness, just a matter-of-fact quality that makes my skin crawl, like everybody acts that way and it was no big deal.
“And how long ago was that?”
“Let’s see … I was twenty-five, and Carly wasn’t born for five more years, and she’s eight now, so … It was about thirteen years ago.”
Eternally Yours: Bliss Series, Book Six Page 6