M is for...: A standalone medical-themed romance (Checklist Book 13)

by L. DuBois

  That story was in many ways less real, and less true, than the fiction of his plays.

  Zidan Ghaffari—political activist, celebrated playwright and political refugee. He’d been a teenager when his home country suffered a coup. At the age of only eighteen he’d jumped from not only writing, but also directing and producing plays. Many of them were written to call out the misogyny and corruption of the religious fanaticism that had taken control of the government.

  At seventeen he’d married a fellow voice of dissension. Sana Saleh, the daughter of a pious, newly-elected government official, who fearlessly stood up to her father and defied her family.

  When he was eighteen, and after less than a year of marriage, his young wife was found dead, throat slit, body broken by the rocks they’d used to stone her before killing her.

  The death had been ruled an accident.

  Zidan had become even more active in the revolution, standing shoulder to shoulder with the displaced political leaders who were working to return their country to some kind of sanity. He was on the front lines at rallies, protests, and riots.

  At twenty-two, and at the urging of the rebel leaders, Zidan fled to America as a political refugee. He had nothing, and no one, but he found a home in New York, using his plays to raise awareness of the situation in his home country. He’d continued writing, directing, and then producing plays that regularly won awards, and sold out ever-larger theaters.

  At twenty-six he was well established in the New York theater scene.

  At twenty-seven he married longtime girlfriend Calista Leonard.

  That was his life story to outsiders.

  The reality was far more complex.

  Zidan forced himself to get off the floor, feeling creaky and far older than thirty-four.

  He used to be better about holding tight to the pain of his youth, a pain he’d used to shape a new life, as well as to wall parts of himself off.

  He’d been thinking about his past more and more in the last few years, and only recently opened up and begun talking to someone to help him work through what had happened to him as a young adult.

  He’d met Sana when she was cast in a play he’d written. She’d been bold and daring. Rebellious. And she’d hated her family, even more so after the coup. She rejected the religious fanaticism, and the role her father wanted her to play in his new version of reality.

  What he and Sana had, looked, and felt, like love. They’d married at seventeen, not only for love, but to protect her from a forced marriage, which was possible under the new laws.

  Maybe, had she lived, they would have realized they were better companions and lovers than life partners.

  Maybe, he would have realized then what he’d come to understand in therapy this last year—that the main source of his feelings for Sana was a young man’s romanticized notion of rescuing a woman. A dragon slayer like the heroes in old folktales.

  The other thing he’d finally admitted in therapy was that after her death, grief wasn’t the only thing he’d felt.

  There had been guilt too…and more guilt than grief. As his therapist had explained, guilt was a much more destructive force than necessary and productive grief. He’d failed Sana. Failed to protect her from the dragon.

  It had been with a young man’s passion and surety that he’d vowed never to fall in love again. Never to marry. He’d failed to slay the dragon, and because of that not only was he unworthy of love, but unworthy of being the hero in the story.

  When he’d arrived in the U.S., he tried to live a life as different from what he’d had with Sana as possible. It was easy to do in New York, and when he’d met Calista, the attraction had been instantaneous, the friendship easy. They’d come together as lovers, as roommates, as friends, so seamlessly that it felt as if he’d always been there, with her. As if the horror of his past were a different lifetime.

  And the guilt had festered each day he was happy, an ever present darkness and dread.

  Still, the alternative nature of their lifestyle had allowed him to hide from his own truth, even as he continued to bleed on the page in his plays.

  And when Cali left for L.A., he hadn’t let himself think about how much he missed her. How his life seemed both dim and pale when she wasn’t there. He’d forced himself to act the same way, do the same things he would have, if she hadn’t left.

  Then Cali asked him to be her husband in truth.

  He’d said no. Of course he had. He’d already loved, and buried, one woman. He wouldn’t put himself in the position of having to do that again. He wouldn’t defile Sana’s memory by turning what had been a marriage of convenience into a real union.

  And he wasn’t worthy.

  No.

  The expression on her face as he said it had broken his heart.

  When she left, he’d collapsed. Not physically, but emotionally. He’d alternately wept and raged for days. Wept in the way he hadn’t after Sana’s murder.

  When he was finally clear-headed enough to think, he started some deep introspection, a process that took years.

  He’d finally accepted that it was time to clear away ghosts and make way for the living.

  The next day he called a therapist.

  His craft was emotions, his profession illuminating the human condition. And he hadn’t known a damned thing about his own feelings. Hadn’t allowed himself to turn the lens of truth with which he wrote plays upon himself.

  It was in therapy that he verbalized the fact that it had been guilt more than grief he’d felt after Sana’s death. Where he’d come to understand that much of the way he’d lived his life was an attempt to never do anything, or find himself in any situation, that reminded him of Sana and thereby her death, and his perceived failure. It was human nature to avoid pain…and despite being a card-carrying masochist—as well as, of course, a sadist—he’d let pain- and guilt-avoidance control his life.

  It was in therapy that he admitted he’d been in love with Cali. That though he’d said no, he’d wanted to say yes. To be the husband and partner to her that he’d sworn he would be.

  Had been in love? After tonight, he was fairly sure he still loved her.

  His therapist had been encouraging him for months to reach out to Cali. Zidan walked out of each session resolved and ready to call her.

  But he didn’t. Hadn’t.

  Because he’d realized that she’d moved on. He’d hurt her, destroyed their friendship, and she’d cut him out of her life in every way that really mattered. Confessing his love could only confuse at best, or destroy at worst, her current life and relationships.

  And so he kept quiet, swore to never tell her.

  That hadn’t kept him from making changes, and accepting opportunities, simply to be close to her.

  The war between his resolve to protect her and his need to confess had gone cold. The sides too well matched for any one perspective to win.

  After what they’d just shared, Zidan’s resolve was gone, defeated and destroyed by the heat of the emotions that now rolled through him.

  He should leave. Get someone else to handle her for the rest of the weekend and come back when he had a handle on himself, when he remembered all the reasons he couldn’t be with her. Those reasons were no longer fueled by self-destructive guilt and fear, but by a mature understanding that he’d missed his opportunity with her.

  Zidan walked slowly to his locker.

  He’d failed to slay the dragon for Sana, and with Cali…he was the dragon.

  If he were a better man, he’d leave the club right now.

  But he’d forgotten just how good it felt to be near her. How much more himself he was when Cali was there.

  He would go to her, top her until they were done with their letter. He’d drag it out so he had an excuse to be with her.

  He might not be a good man, but he could, at least, not be a complete ass. The best he could do would be to hold his tongue.

  He wouldn’t confess all of the emotional work
he’d done, the realizations he’d had. Wouldn’t tell Cali he still loved her.

  She deserved better.

  Zidan snatched up manacles and a bit gag and went to get his wife.

  Chapter 10

  The room lacked personality, but was far from utilitarian. The elegant touches and high quality bed linens and towels marked it as a place of refinement. But there were no toys, beyond a few basic multipurpose straps she knew would be tucked into the top drawer of a dresser. The bed, though four postered, didn’t have metal ring anchors bolted into it, or a mirror mounted above.

  It was just a bedroom, with the possibility for it to be more.

  She would have preferred a playroom. A bedroom was too intimate. They’d shared a bed in New York, even after they were able to move from the first, tiny studio apartment to a larger one-bedroom. They could have done what many people did and used the living room as a second bedroom, putting up room dividers to give the illusion of privacy.

  Though their bed in New York hadn’t been only theirs. They’d shared it, and each other with many other people. They may have met in the BDSM scene, but he’d introduced her to the experiences of multiple partners, from ménage à trois all the way up to what would have been described as orgies.

  She’d enjoyed it. That was never in question. But it hadn’t been enough. Or maybe it had been too much. Not enough emotional intimacy with the man she loved. Too much chaos and change.

  Cali yanked her thoughts away from their past, turning her attention from the bed to the bathroom door.

  Zidan caught where she was looking. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  With her hands manacled behind her back it would be awkward, but doable, if she actually had to use the restroom. She didn’t. What she wanted was a momentary escape.

  Cali shook her head, swallowing the saliva that had gathered in her mouth thanks to the bit.

  Zidan stared at her for a moment. There was something sad, or maybe brittle was a better description, in the way he held himself. Now that she’d noticed it, all Cali’s attention tuned in to the strange vibe Zidan was giving off.

  Something had changed for him during the time they’d been apart. What?

  Zidan had a silk scarf draped around his neck, and as she looked at him he yanked it free, reaching for her.

  Cali backed up, not wanting to be blindfolded. She wanted to be able to watch him, see him. Figure out what was going on.

  He stilled, then nodded, as if to himself. “It will be easier if you fight.”

  “What will be easier?” she mumbled around the gag.

  He’d understood her, she knew he had, and yet he didn’t answer, only advanced as much as she retreated. Rather than continue to pull back, she went still, stayed passive as he reached up to cover her eyes with the blindfold.

  Zidan was careful as he knotted it, smoothing her hair out of the way. His fingers brushed her cheek as he adjusted the placement of the thin silk. Behind the blindfold her eyes filled with tears that she wouldn’t acknowledge.

  The heavy manacles were unlocked, clattering to the floor. His thumbs smoothed over her wrists, and for a moment he laced their fingers together, holding hands the way lovers would.

  The emotional impact was like a fist to the gut.

  Zidan. Zidan was here, touching her, caring for her, in a way he hadn’t in so long. It was just them, like she’d wanted. Her husband’s hands on her in the quiet privacy of a bedroom that they were going to share.

  His fingers skimmed up her back, shoulders, neck. He massaged her shoulders, once more triggering memories, before unfastening the bit gag.

  With it gone, she licked her lips and swallowed.

  His arms came around her from behind, pulling her back against him, her naked body against his fully clothed one.

  His cock was hard, but when he rested his chin on her shoulder he sighed, as if weary.

  Cali turned in his embrace and wrapped her arms around him.

  For a moment they clung to one another, silent and desperate.

  Something inside Cali released, and the pressure of his hard body against her stirred desire to life once more.

  Cali dropped to her knees.

  His breath caught, hands cupped the back of her head. Blindly, Cali reached up, finding the fastenings for his pants. The button was stubborn so she settled for unzipping. Reaching in she found nothing but hot, hard cock. He hardened further the moment she wrapped her fingers around him. Cali pulled his cock out through his open zipper and leaned in.

  Nostalgia gripped her as she closed her mouth around the velvety soft head of his cock. It hardened further as she licked with broad, soft strokes of her tongue, gingerly drawing back the foreskin as he grew to his full length and girth.

  How perverted was she to feel nostalgic about sucking dick? But that’s what she felt…nostalgic, sad, and, as he cupped her head and pumped his cock so it hit the back of her mouth, at peace.

  She concentrated on pleasing him. Taking him as deep as she could from this angle. She reached around to cup his ass, digging her nails in just enough to add a little bite of pain, which she knew he liked.

  And when he came in her mouth she swallowed, something she’d never done with anyone but him.

  “That was beautiful,” Zidan panted. “Thank you, lover.”

  It had been a long time since she’d heard him call her that. From anyone else it would have seemed comical or forced. But the way he said it…it was both sexual and an endearment.

  “I’ll get us water.” The words were quiet, almost as if he hadn’t wanted to break the silence. And there was a slight tremble in his voice. The after effects of the orgasm probably.

  She listened to his footsteps walk away, heard the bathroom door open.

  Cali pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes, over the silk blindfold. She wasn’t going to cry.

  They hadn’t been standing far from the bed, and when she leaned over, her searching fingers brushed fabric. She stood and gingerly walked to the bed, sitting on the edge.

  Maybe this was what closure felt like—a gripping, tight sadness that made it hard to breathe. Harder still to keep the tears from falling. If it had been another top she could have cried and trusted the blindfold to absorb and hide the tears.

  Zidan would notice the water-marked silk. Know they were the result of his words and gentle touches.

  Years of strained silence between them, with the odd photo together on a red carpet if they both happened to be at the same event after he moved to L.A. Her publicist always managed their interactions, and had helped craft the narrative that they were an intensely private couple.

  Years of all but ignoring one another and in one day they’d both finally had a fight and come to some sort of peace.

  Zidan returned, and when he pressed a glass into her hand she drank half of it before passing it back.

  He’d led her here in chains, blindfolded her. Both signs that they were going to scene again.

  She didn’t want to.

  Cali was no longer aroused. She felt tired and empty.

  Closure. She’d finally found closure.

  Which meant she’d let go of the lingering anger and resentment she had for him. The hurt and embarrassment that had been festering.

  It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t loved her the way she’d loved him.

  And while she’d always known that was true, for the first time it felt true.

  Zidan urged her to her feet.

  Cali steeled herself, ready to push off her blindfold and…say what? That she’d finally come to peace with their past? That she was ready to move on?

  That it was time to get a divorce?

  The words didn’t come, and despite her lack of arousal, she didn’t want to walk away. Something held her in place, and so when he guided her arms up she didn’t protest. Cali laced her fingers together behind her head, but he tapped her wrist.

  “No, hands up, I’m helping you put on a dress.”


  “A dress?”

  Cool, silky fabric slid over her head. Together they got her arms through the holes, and then the dress fell to the floor, weighed down by what felt like an incredible amount of beading.

  “There are two items left for the letter M. Mummification…and modeling.”

  “Mummification?” Cali pressed her palms to her thighs, feeling the scattering of beads on what seemed to be actual silk fabric.

  “You had said you were willing to try that item, but for me…it’s a hard limit. I cannot…I cannot make a woman that helpless.”

  She heard the grief in his voice.

  She knew, had known from the beginning, that he would never love her the way he’d loved his first wife. She hadn’t expected him to, and whenever she felt jealous of the dead woman she gave herself a mental slap. The woman had fought and died for a righteous cause. She’d earned the right to have a man love and mourn her even after she was gone.

  Cali hadn’t ever thought she could take Sana’s place in his heart. But she’d thought that the love she and Zidan had—the companionship, friendship, and sexual chemistry—was enough for something that was still love, different enough to not be a betrayal.

  Thought that she could be enough for him, all by herself.

  “The other item,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “is modeling.”

  His footsteps were firm and slow as he walked away from her. “Model the dress for me.” She heard him drop into a chair. “You can take off the blindfold.”

  Cali reached up and pushed it away, letting it fall to the floor. She was positioned facing a mirror, and able to look at the dress he’d put on her.

  White silk so thin that it was nearly transparent, skimmed her body. Her nipples were clearly visible, as was the shadowy line of her labia. Just below her waist the beading started, a few scattered icy blue and periwinkle beads that gradually multiplied. The hem was completely encrusted with beads.

  She looked like a nymph rising out of the sea, or perhaps a siren come to tempt men to their death. It was both provocative and romantic.

  Zidan sat in a chair in the corner of the room, his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, index finger running back and forth over his lower lip.