"Thank you." It didn't feel like enough, so she leaned into him and kissed him. He returned it. A gentle kiss, or it began that way. But it didn't take more than a few seconds for the fire to flare in both their bodies, and then the intense desire that was such a powerful part of their connection took over. Every part of her ached to be closer to him.
"On second thought," he said, lifting his mouth off hers, "Ravish now, talk about the relationship later."
She giggled. "I knew you couldn’t sustain that for long." Curling her arms around his back, she pulled him down so they were sprawled on the sofa with him on top. "If you had a black mask to go with that gorgeous black shirt, you would look just like Zorro."
"So Zorro turns you on, does he?"
"I like all those swash-buckling types."
"I will definitely keep that in mind."
Later that night, she came out of the bathroom after showering, wrapped in one towel and drying her hair with a second.
Stephen was stretched out on her bed. He rose when he saw her and gave her a grin. "I do have a bone to pick with you, babe."
"What about?"
He'd been thinking about Jeff’s suggestion that he allow the Bart side of himself to crawl out from under his rock. Maybe, in a weird way, it was Master Giles who was needed here.
"Like you, I'm thinking that maybe I have more in common with my own hero than I'd previously realized."
"I don't think that."
"No?"
"I
worry
about it sometimes, but that's just my messed up psyche operating. I don't actually
believe
it."
"Maybe you should. Like Bart, I have a rigid sense of justice. I'm loyal to my principles. I like to analyze things and solve mysteries. When people engage in wrong-doing, I think they should be punished. And, yeah, I have my own personal dungeon. To some extent, all characters an author creates are aspects of himself. Even the nasty, violent ones."
"Okay," she said a tad warily.
"But that's not necessarily a bad thing," he said cheerfully. "It might even be useful, at times, to be like Bart. He's a damn fine interrogator, and I have some questions I need answers to."
She caught on immediately. Her eyes danced away again. He thought she colored slightly, and he could see her pulse beating in her throat. "You want to hear what happened to me, don't you? What if I'm still not ready to talk about it?"
"Are you afraid you might have another flashback?"
"If I do, I'll deal," she said, sounded determined. "I am not going to let that asshole continue to hurt me from afar."
"Good for you. So talk to me. I want to hear your story."
There was a long pause before she sighed and sat down on the end of the bed. The sheets were tumbled and at least one of the pillows was on the floor after their exertions. "I'd rather do it when I'm sure I'm ready."
His inclination was to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he had tried that approach several times. He sensed that he might make more progress if he maintained a tougher stance.
"No." His word fell between them, seeming to echo off the walls. He moved closer to her, crowding her. "Now."
She resisted him as he came to the foot of the bed and put his hands on her shoulders, but her resistance was half-hearted. He was running on instinct, and hoping he wasn’t about to make a huge mistake. She had given him some contradictory signals. But now that he was touching her, he sensed in her the same arousal that had instantly gripped him. He knew her body so well.
"Talk to me, babe. You'll feel better after you do."
She looked at him defiantly and started to speak, then changed her mind. She unwrapped the towel from around her, tossed it, and lay back gracefully in the middle of the bed. She gave him a come-on smile. "There are many ways to communicate."
Did she think she could distract him with sex? Well, yeah, they'd been distracting each other that way since the day they'd rediscovered each other. Already the surge of desire was muddling his brain, making him want nothing more than to fall upon her.
She moved her lovely long legs a couple of feet apart and stretched languorously. Then she raised an eyebrow, silently inviting him to join her.
Drawing a hollow breath, he marshaled his resources. "Looks to me as if you want to get fucked."
She laughed, low and amused. "Don't I always?"
"Pretty much. But I have a better idea." He sat down beside her. "You’re beautiful," he said, running his hand down the front of her body. "But turn over. On your belly."
She looked at him under her lashes for a moment, considering.
"Now," he said in a sharper voice.
She flipped over, graceful and sinuous. When he placed his hand on her ass, he could feel her shiver.
"Did you bring your floggers with you, or are you just going to do it with your hand?"
He caressed her gently. "I use those whips for pleasure." He swatted her butt lightly, "As you've discovered, it can be erotic."
She wriggled sensuously. "Very."
"If I were to strike harder," he did so, bringing his palm down smartly on the curve of her buttocks, "it would begin to hurt."
"That didn’t hurt. Do it again."
His pulse had sped up and his cock was getting uncomfortably hard. Keep it together, he cautioned himself. This was not about the sex. Not this time, anyway. "If I used a rattan cane, it would hurt like hell. I wouldn’t have to say, ‘scream now for me,’ because you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself."
He waited, his hand resting on the small of her back now, hyper-alert to her response. She shivered a little, but she did not panic. He caressed the line of her spine, massaging her until he felt her body relax. "I would never do that without your consent. I won't cane your wayward ass unless you want me to."
"Why would I want you to?"
"Atonement. Expiation."
She went still. "Expiation?"
"Words like expiation and atonement sound outdated, don't they? But it's something Bartholomew Giles understood. Punishment has a purpose. It can purge you of your sins."
"My sins?" She pushed up on her elbows and swung her hair around in a flaming arc as she looked back at him. She was still lying on her stomach. "That's another outdated word. What do you think I need to atone for?"
"You lied to me. I asked you more than once if you had ever been the victim of abuse, and you denied it. As your dominant, I should have known you had that in your past. I inquired about your health, your medications, and whether you had even been raped or abused. I questioned you about the scar on your throat. You lied several times. A top can't ensure his partner's safety when he lacks a huge piece of relevant information."
"Ah," she said softly. "The big lie."
"I won't accept lies from you. You're truthful with me and I'm truthful with you. Everything is built on that foundation."
"I don't usually lie, you know. I mean, I hate liars, too." She swallowed hard and looked ashamed. "I just—I thought I had everything under control. I didn't want to share something so painful."
"I get that. But as long as your ex is a dark shadow looming over you, you're not free of him. And it's not just you anymore. You're with me, now. I'm an easy-going guy, but I demand honesty in a relationship. So, yes, you've got a punishment coming your way, although I won't administer it until I'm reasonably sure it won't send you careening into a another flashback. That's another reason why I need to know what happened with your ex."
"So," she paused, considering this. "I should tell you about the debacle of my marriage so you can whip my ass with a cane? Not sure there's much incentive there for me to talk, Stephen. Maybe you should get some interrogation pointers from Bart?"
He started to laugh. She was giggling now, too. He smacked her ass again, saying, "God, you drive me nuts. I am trying, in my twisted way, to comfort you, babe."
"Bullshit," she teased him. "You want an excuse to get me back in your kinky dungeon."
"Well, that too." He flopped down beside her and cuddled her close. She didn't say anything for a while. Once again, she had managed to evade him. But he couldn’t force her to talk. Bart could have forced her. His hero was an expert at dragging confessions out of his victims. But Bart didn’t practice safe, sane and consensual BDSM, and he wasn’t in love with the women he tortured.
The last thought seemed to echo in his head, getting louder and louder as it bounced around the insides of his skull. In love? Where the hell had that idea come from?
"Stephen?"
A distraction. Good. He really didn’t want to think about the possibility of being in love. "Yeah?"
"I was going to tell you, you know. You really wanna hear this story now?"
"I do."
She flipped over to face him. Her eyes were huge and she seemed to be seeking reassurance, so he gathered her up and pulled the blanket from the end of the bed to cover them.
"I wish I were as comfortable with myself as you are. You seem like such a happy, easy-going person."
"I am, most of the time. But so are you. We wouldn’t be breaking each other up with laughter so often if you weren’t similarly fun-loving."
"That’s how I used to be when I first knew you. Now, not so much."
"Hardly astonishing, considering what you’ve been through. I wish there had been some way I could have prevented it."
She smiled and touched his cheek lightly. "Thank you." She was silent for a moment then said, "I told you that my husband lost his temper and assaulted me. I didn’t tell you why."
He was about to say that it didn’t matter why, that there was no possible way to excuse what Derek had done, but she didn’t give him the chance to interrupt.
"Our marriage was in trouble almost from the start. But it ended because Derek thought I was cheating. I wasn't. But it was true that I had mentally checked out of the relationship. I was miserable and I wanted an end to the marriage."
Always a dangerous time in a marriage, he thought, but he didn't say it aloud.
"I didn't know this when I married him, but Derek was very controlling. I'd always had lots of male friends, which made him crazy. Because he was so much older than I was, infidelity was something he feared." She hesitated for a moment before adding, "I did think about it, though. I mean, I fantasized about other men. Derek wasn't an abuser until he learned that I wanted my sexual freedom back."
"Of course he was an abuser," Stephen interrupted. "He put you in the hospital, didn’t he? You have that scar because he dragged a jagged piece of glass across your skin and sliced you open. You’re lucky he didn’t cut your artery."
She shivered a little. "I’m not making excuses for him. I’m just taking responsibility for my own part in the disaster that was our marriage."
"Fair enough. But you don’t assault someone because they fantasize about other lovers."
"I know. I just—I still feel bad about it. I had vowed the whole 'for better for worse, til death do us part' thing."
"That's why people shouldn’t get married at the age of 23 or whatever you were. That’s too young to be making solemn vows that are supposed to bind you for the rest of your life."
"You’re right that I shouldn’t have married him. It was a huge mistake."
"Why did you marry him?"
"I thought I was in love. He was urbane and intelligent, a full professor of anthropology, and he had that Aussie thing going for him—you know, the accent and all. A little bit of rough under the smooth exterior. In the beginning, the sex was good. He even reminded me of you."
"Gee, thanks."
"I just mean he was the first man I’d met since you who knew how to push my erotic buttons. He really excited me."
"Was he kinky?"
"No, not overtly. But he was rather dom-ish, taking control in the bedroom, telling me what to do, generally stage managing everything."
"Hey, I don’t stage manage everything. Do I?"
She laughed at him. "You do. But I like it. You have a much lighter touch. You make me laugh; we have so much fun together.
"But Derek regarded me as this younger creature whom he could shape and mold. He wanted to control every aspect of my life. He had ideas about my studies, my career. He was constantly advising me, and if I didn’t follow his advice, he would sulk. He insisted on managing all our finances, treating me as if I was an idiot child who didn’t understand taxes, investments or health insurance.
"Even around the house—I moved into his house when we wed—everything had to be just so. There was a schedule for cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry and the dishes. If I missed my turn to cook, he was scathing in his comments. If I left a dirty dish in the sink, he would lecture me on my untidiness. I’m not the neatest person in the world, and his criticism was hard for me to bear.
"He was possessive, and that kept getting worse. He was suspicious of all my friends, especially the guys. He tried to prevent me from socializing. If I was late coming home from my classes, he interrogated me about where I’d been and with whom. He grew more and more critical. I couldn’t do anything right.