Being Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Enough, Ms. McMillan. Tell Chris he’s done a good job of arming you with reasons for me to agree, but make sure you bring me back clients.” He hangs up without saying good-bye and I hold out the phone and stare at it.

  Chris laughs and takes it from me. “Stop looking like it will bite.” He pulls me beneath him. “I believe I owe you an orgasm or two.”

  “Six,” I correct. “One for every time you spanked me.”

  His eyes twinkle. “Five. You had one already.”

  He leans in to kiss me and I press my fingers to his mouth. “If you make good on this, you can spank me again.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed a good challenge.” His mouth covers mine and I am quite certain that no matter what the final number is, this is a challenge I can’t lose.

  • • •

  Three orgasms later, I am naked when Chris carries me to his bathroom and sets me on the edge of the sink. Chris heads to the towel closet and I study the dragon tattoo, thinking about the wounded, lost teen he’d been when he’d gotten it. How young was he when he entered the BDSM world, and what is he keeping from me?

  “Have you ever had a reaction to the adrenaline rush like I did tonight?” I ask, hoping to get him talking.

  He freezes as he’s about to toss the towels over the top of the shower, and it’s clear I’ve hit a nerve. “No,” he says, completing his task, and glancing at me before opening the shower. “I told you. I’m always in control. I take people for the ride. I don’t go on it myself.” He turns on the water.

  “But how do you do that and have someone inflict . . . pain? Isn’t that what you said you need?”

  “Needed,” he corrects, walking over to me and lifting me off the counter. “And sex is never involved.”

  “You just have someone beat you?” I choke out, appalled.

  “It’s past history,” he says, pulling me toward the shower and inside, the warm water enveloping us. He molds me to him and stares down at me. “If I need to get lost, I’ll get lost in you.” His mouth comes down on mine, and the kiss is laced with the torment and pain he never lets me see. He is so much more damaged than I’ve imagined, and I wonder what I have yet to discover about my talented, beautiful artist. I wonder if I will ever truly reach him, if I will ever truly be enough to stop the pain inside him. If I dare love him for fear I won’t be . . . but then, it’s too late. I already do love him and I yearn to tell him so, to have him feel the same way. But there are other things I must confess first—things sure to bring me more pain than the whip he’s vowed to never use on me.

  Fifteen

  I do not like public floggings, but I don’t have a say in the matter. He is my Master, and I’ve agreed to do as he bids. It’s better than when he shares me, though. I hate it when he shares me and I don’t care that he says it’s to please me. It pleases him, not me, as do the many watchful eyes I endured tonight. The flogging went on endlessly, with me tied to a post while he circled me, paying equal attention to every part of my body. When it was over, my nipples were sore, my back raw, and my backside red. I was upset. I do not know why tonight was different than any other night, but it was, and I was. And then . . . he was.

  I am not sorry it happened. It pleased him, and after the flogging he seduced me as perfectly as he’d punished me. And as I sit here writing this, I love him more than I ever have, but I can’t help but wonder what price I will pay for such an emotion. He’s made it clear there is no room for such things in his life, and mine too, for that matter. He believes claims of love complicate life and make people react irrationally. He says there is no such thing as love, only different shades of lust.

  I blink awake with Rebecca’s journal entry in my head, and the soft glow of light in the room drags me from the hauntingly provocative entry. The dream fades, and my lips curve as I realize that Chris is holding me. His body is curved around mine, one of his gifted, artistic hands on my hip, and for once I’m not thinking of his talent on a canvas, but his skill at pleasing me. A girl could get used to falling asleep after being thoroughly sated and waking up with a big hunk of hot man wrapped around her.

  “I like you in my bed. I think I’ll keep you here.”

  My smile widens and I turn around to face him, finding his hair a sexy, rumpled mess partially because of my fingers. “It’ll be hard to catch our flight from bed.”

  “I mean ever. Move in with me, Sara.”

  I blanch. “What?”

  He caresses my cheek. “You heard me. Move in with me.”

  “You’ve only known me a few weeks.”

  “I know enough.”

  But he doesn’t. “You didn’t even invite women to your bed before me and you want me to live with you?”

  “They weren’t you.”

  I am warmed by his words, tempted to dive into a deep blue sea of risk with Chris, and I would, if not for my secret. “Chris—”

  “Don’t answer now. Think about it over the weekend.” His cell phone rings and he rolls over to grab it from the nightstand. “Morning, Katie.”

  I sit up against the headboard at the mention of his godmother and watch as he hits the remote control to open the electronic blinds over the window. Slowly, the gorgeous glow of the San Francisco skyline comes into view but I can’t appreciate it. I am reeling from the knowledge that I am out of time. I have to tell him everything and I am not ready.

  “Yes, she’s here,” Chris replies to Katie.

  My gaze goes to Chris. “Katie says hello,” he informs me.

  “Hi Katie,” I call out, touched by her asking about me, and doing my best to seem cheerful when I’m holding it together as well as shattered glass.

  “I’ll have to see what Sara’s schedule is and see when we can come out,” Chris continues to his godmother. I’m thrilled at his assumption that I’ll be by his side, until he adds, “I won’t head back to Paris without stopping out to see you.”

  Paris. I wouldn’t believe I could be more shaken this morning than I already am, but that one word does the job of a jackhammer. All my assumptions that this invitation meant something are crushed. The journal entry I woke to screams in my head. He says there is no such thing as love, only different shades of lust. I can’t help but wonder if Chris feels this way, too. How can he ask me to move in, to change my entire life, when he’s going back to Paris soon? All for what? A few weeks of hot sex? It’s enough to shred my heart.

  Tossing aside the blanket, I climb out of the bed, snatching Chris’s shirt I’d worn during a late-night kitchen raid, and the earthy, male scent of him sizzles through me when I pull it on. But then, why wouldn’t it? Hot sex is his expertise.

  I rush across the room and I can feel Chris’s eyes following me, and I pray he doesn’t pick up on my frazzled mood. Seconds before I escape, his hand comes down on my arm, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I hear, “Let me call you back, Katie.”

  Chris turns me to face him and I’m at the disadvantage of him being breathtakingly naked. “I have to go back for the holidays and my charity commitments,” he explains, as if I’ve asked a question. “I want you to go with me.”

  I shake my head, knowing this will lead to certain pain. “I—”

  “Have a job,” he completes for me. “I know. Do you have your birth certificate?”

  “At my apartment, but—”

  “Good. We’ll run by there and grab it so you can apply for your passport today.”

  “I can’t just leave.”

  “There are amazing opportunities in Paris and I can help open those doors for you.”

  “My entire life has been about what someone else got for me. I don’t want to repeat that scenario. I won’t.”

  “You’re afraid to count on me.”

  “I’m afraid of not being able to count on me.”

  There is a hint of emotion in his stare before his expression becomes unreadable. He drops his hand from my arm. “I understand,” he states, his voice monotone, his expression impassive.

 
; I think I’ve hurt him, and reality slaps me in the face. I’ve let myself think of him as some kind of demon, to avoid the real demons of my past.

  In two small steps I am in front of him, wrapping my arms around him, and pressing my cheek to his chest. “I don’t think you realize how much I care about you, or how easily and badly you could hurt me.” I lift my head and let him see the truth in my face. “So yes, I’m scared to count on you.”

  Tension eases from his body, his expression softening. He runs his hand over my hair and there is gentleness in his touch. “Then we’ll be scared together.”

  “You’re scared?” I ask, surprised by such a confession.

  “You’re the best adrenaline rush of my life, baby. Far better than the pain you replaced.”

  For the first time, I think that maybe, just maybe, I am all Chris needs.

  • • •

  An hour later, I’m standing at the kitchen sink, sipping coffee, while Chris talks to one of the charity organizers on the phone in the other room. I am still reeling from his invitation to move in with him, my mind tossing around one worry after another. How will I keep my job and identity? Do I need my job to have my identity if I delve into new opportunities? Will any of this matter when Chris finds out I’ve lied to him? Will he understand why I did? Why I’m so ashamed of the truth? If anyone could, I believe it’s Chris.

  “Ready to head out?”

  Chris saunters into the room and my lips curve at the sight of him. He is wearing jeans and a brown Allure Gallery tee to match the pink one I have on, both compliments of a special delivery from Mark. “I still can’t believe you actually wore the shirt.”

  He stops in front of me and that earthy, deliciously Chris scent of his teases my nostrils and tingles through me. “I have my disagreements with Mark but he’s been supportive of the hospital.”

  I open my mouth to ask exactly what the disagreements were, but he takes my cup and finishes off the contents. This isn’t the first time we’ve shared a cup but there is this new intimacy between us and I feel it in every part of me. Our eyes meet and I am instantly wet, squeezing my thighs together.

  Chris reaches around me and sets the mug in the sink, bringing his hand to the back of my head, and leaning in to brush his mouth over mine. I shiver and his lips hint at a smile that tells me he notices. “You taste like coffee and temptation,” he murmurs. “If we don’t go now, we won’t.” He straightens, and I approve of the new brown tee that molds every rippling muscle of his torso.

  As we head to the living room, I freeze when I see the stack of journals on the coffee table. “What are they doing there?”

  Chris grabs a leather bag and begins loading them inside. “The PI wants to see them.”

  “We can’t just let him have them.”

  “Jacob’s copying them and then locking them up for us.”

  “You trust Jacob?”

  “Completely. I had him checked out before I hired him for some private work for the charity.”

  “But what about Rebecca’s privacy?”

  “If we end up going to the police, the journals are as good as public record. Better to let the PI check things out completely.”

  “Does the PI think we need to go to the police?”

  “All I know is he needs more to go on, and he’s hoping the journals and your insight from basically living Rebecca’s life will help.”

  My eyes go wide. Am I living Rebecca’s life? The idea sends a wave of nausea through me. I’m trying to find myself again, to create the life I always wanted. Have I simply lost myself in Rebecca’s?

  I think of the man who’d stolen her identity and I stare at Chris, thinking about how he’s consumed me, and I reject the comparison of him to the Master in the journal. Chris has helped me face myself. He’s forcing me to face the past.

  • • •

  After I apply for my passport, Chris pulls the 911 up in front of several big-name retail stores only a few blocks from the gallery and parks at a meter. I frown. “Where’s your bank?” I ask, since he’s told me that’s where we’re headed.

  “Around the corner. I thought we’d shop first.”

  “For what?”

  “You need a dress for Saturday night.”

  “I have something at home.” A pathetic dress, but a dress.

  His fingers slide into my hair and he pulls my mouth to his, caressing my lips with his. “I’m buying you a dress. You can pick it or I will.”

  “I don’t need—”

  He kisses me and his tongue is a delicate whisper gone too soon. “You do and so do I.” He lets me go and gets out of the car, and I don’t think he’s talking about the dress.

  By the time I shove open my door, Chris is beside me, offering me his hand. The instant my palm touches his, a sharp pang of awareness rushes through me. “You know,” I start to say as I stand directly in front of him, “I don’t like—”

  “Spending my money,” he finishes. “But I like it enough for both of us.”

  “You don’t have to spend money on me. I love—” I stop, astounded at how easily it had slid to the tip of my tongue.

  His gaze sharpens and he steps closer, his arm wrapping my waist. “You love what, Sara?” he prods softly.

  I am on the verge of a confession better made in private. “I love . . .” I pause, torn about what comes next. “Being with you.”

  His eyes dance with mischief and his lips curve. “I love . . .” He pauses as I had. “Being with you.”

  My eyes go wide. Have we just confessed our love? Surely not. “You love . . . being with me?”

  “Very much,” he assures me, and slides his fingers between mine. “And Saturday night I’m going to love peeling off the dress you’re about to buy. I’m imagining it will get me through the torture of my monkey suit.”

  I laugh. “I can’t wait to see you in your monkey suit.”

  My mood is light and spirits high as we walk into the Chanel store that I adore but have avoided since becoming a struggling teacher. Chris releases my hand and I start wandering the store. A long, slim-cut, emerald dress catches my eye and I walk toward it; the color reminds me of Chris’s eyes when he’s in that dark, dangerous place I’ve come to crave.

  I stop in front of it, admiring the silk material, and I can’t help reaching for the price tag. Chris’s hand slides around mine. “Don’t even think of looking at that.” I tilt my head back to look at him over my shoulder. “Try it on,” he orders.

  “Yes, Master.”

  He laughs. “Like you’d ever allow that.” I gape at the implication that he would, and he smiles wickedly, then lowers his voice. “I don’t want to be your Master, Sara. I just want you to do what I say.”

  I snort and pick up the dress. “Good luck.” He glances at it and back at me, and I glower. “I like it. I’m not trying it on because you told me to.”

  “Of course.”

  Strolling away, I grab several more dresses before heading to the dressing room, only to find Ava standing at a rack near the entry, looking gorgeous in a pale blue dress with a belted waist.

  “Sara!” she exclaims and hugs me. “What a small world.” She gives Chris a nod. “I see you know how to take good care of a woman.”

  My face heats and Chris’s hand slides to my back, silently soothing the burn of the comment. “Hello, Ava,” he offers in a taut greeting.

  Ava runs her hand down the green dress. “Oh, this one is going to look gorgeous on you. I have some time. I can’t wait to see you in it.”

  Chris turns to me. “Why don’t I leave you to shop and I’ll run to the bank. I’ll leave a credit on the account. Buy whatever you want. We have a good hour before we have to leave for our appointment. The restaurant we’re meeting at is a few blocks away.”

  I can feel Ava watching us and it’s uncomfortable. “I’ll be ready when you get back.”

  He leans in and whispers in my ear. “I’m always ready.”

  I bite my lip to keep fr
om laughing. “Yes. I know.”

  His hand glides down my hair, and while his expression is unreadable as he says good-bye to Ava, I have the distinct impression he is not pleased she is here.

  A few minutes later I walk out of a room into the open area where Ava is lounging with a glass of champagne. “It’s spectacular on you,” Ava exclaims of the emerald dress.

  “I like it,” I agree, moving to a three-way mirror. “I usually don’t like something as much on me as I do on the hanger, but I do this one.”

  “Well then, this is reason to celebrate.” She calls the attendant. “A glass for Sara. We are celebrating a perfect dress.” She pats the blue velvet bench she is sitting on. “Join me. I’m dying to hear about you and Chris.”

  There’s simply no escaping her curiosity. I sigh inwardly and claim the spot she’s indicated. “We’re going to a gala in L.A. and I needed a dress.”

  “Interesting,” she comments, her lips pursing in a smirk that on her is still beautiful. On me it would just be twisted.

  “What does that mean?”

  “In all the years that man has been around my coffee shop, not once have I seen him with a woman. I figured he had some hottie back in Paris.”

  I instantly think of the tattoo artist, and she might as well have punched me in the chest.

  “Oh honey,” Ava purrs, grabbing my leg. “I upset you. I didn’t mean I think he has another woman. I was just telling you what I assumed because a man like that has to have women lined up.”

  Lined up? Lots of women?

  “Sara!” Ava exclaims. “He doesn’t have lots of women. You have it bad for Chris, don’t you?”

  “I . . .” I nod. “Yes. I guess I do.”

  She smiles. “He’s a catch, honey. Be happy, not paranoid. The man looks at you like you’re the biggest treasure on the island.”

  “I thought you said he looks at me like he wants to gobble me up?” I ask, reminding her of the day Chris and I had both been in her coffee shop.

  “That, too. That, too.” Her cell rings and she grimaces. “My ex. Grrrr. I can’t stand the man but I have to take it or he’ll call twenty times.” She stands up and walks to the other side of the lounge.