Clark, Rachel - Alicia's Awakening (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (8 page)

Shivering with uncertainty, still vibrating with arousal, and shaking in nervous anticipation, I manage to scrub the makeup off my face. Considering how unsteady I am, “no makeup” is probably a fortuitous sort of rule. I don’t fancy poking out an eye trying to get eyeliner in the right place.

Showering quickly and careful to leave the bathroom as tidy as I found it, I head to the kitchen. Doug comes over and buckles the now-familiar fur-lined cuffs onto my wrists and then kneels at my feet to wrap a new set around my ankles. He stands up, gives me a once-over, nods at my pale, unmade face in approval, and points to the stool—yes
that
stool.

“Sit.”

I want to roll my eyes and woof like a dog, but it seems more respectful of my Dom to do as I’m told. Although his soft chuckle suggests he read my instinctive reaction anyway. A glass of juice is sitting in front of me, and he nods as I lift it to my lips. I’m halfway through the drink before I realize he’s drinking white wine while he makes dinner.

I realize that I should be happy that the man seems to be able to cook, but I’m more than a little distracted on wondering why I get fruit juice and he gets wine.

“Sir,” I ask respectfully, knowing I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but annoyed at the feeling of being placed at the kiddy table, “may I have a glass of wine, please?”

“No,” he says without even turning around.

Again I want to argue, or at least demand an explanation, but this time I manage to control the impulse. He turns around after a few moments, gives me an approving sort of smile, and then goes back to making dinner.

“Can I help you with anything?” I quickly add the word “Sir” when he turns and raises an eyebrow.

“You can help by being quiet,” he instructs before he turns his attention back to the salad he seems to be making. The kitchen is already filled with the spicy smell of lasagna. I don’t know if it’s the store-bought kind or if he made it himself earlier, but it does smell delicious.

“Did you—” I begin to ask, but shut up the moment he puts the knife down and turns toward me. He doesn’t look
un
happy, but I’m not sure I can interpret his actual mood.

He crosses his arms as he looks at me. Just looks at me. He doesn’t say a damn word, and I’m starting to fidget in my seat. Crap, considering the seat I’m sitting in—the saddle-shaped orgasm-inducing one I’ve used on more than one occasion thanks to Doug’s kinky orders—I probably shouldn’t be wriggling around, especially since I was just told to sit quietly.

I can feel the urge to hyperventilate, the nervous flutter in my stomach, the need to cover my race toward another panic attack with empty words into a conversation I’m no longer focused on. Shit.

“Stand up,” Doug orders me in a low, growly voice. Even just his instruction seems to settle me a little. “Lean over the bench.”

I do as he says, grunting softly when he places a hand between my shoulder blades and pushes my naked breasts harder against the cold marble. I lie there for only a moment before he steps past me and reaches into a cupboard that I know from experience contains all sorts of interesting toys. He slips something into his front pocket that I didn’t quite see, and I’m still trying to imagine what it might have been when he reaches for something else. The paddle he chooses already has me squirming, but the first hit leaves me howling in pain. Holy fuck.

Twice more he smacks me with the hard piece of wood before helping me to stand and then bodily lifting me back onto the stool. I hiss as my abused flesh touches the smooth wood.

“Better?” he asks as he uses his thumb to brush away the tears that continue to fall from my eyes. Suddenly wearing no makeup seems like a damn good idea. I nod, the sore bottom very easily dragging my attention back to the here and now. He stands back, folds his arms across his chest, and looks at me as if he can see every thought in my head. “I want you to explain why you feel the need to fill silence with words. It seems to be a habit you’re quite fond of.”

I shake my head. It’s not really a habit, is it? “I don’t really know why, Sir. It just feels like something I should do.”

“So you’re playing hostess?” he asks as he washes his hands and then goes back to preparing the salad.

“I don’t think so,” I say as possible explanations flit through my brain. “The silence just makes me uncomfortable, sort of.”

I know I sound like a scatterbrain, but it seems weird that I’m actually suggesting I’m not happy with silence. I don’t even play soft background music at work like some of the other accountants do. I like silence. I actually find it very calming. Just…not when other people are around? How strange.

Doug turns and gives me an assessing look. He glances at the timer on the oven.

“For the next twenty minutes I want you to not talk. Just concentrate and enjoy the comfortable silence between us. Embrace the idea of being in the same room with another person without actually speaking. Can you do that for me, little sub?”

I’m nodding even before I really absorb the meaning of his words. I want to please him. He asked me to do it, so I plan to get it right.

“This will help,” he says as he pulls that thing from his pocket and moves to wash it in the sink. My heart pounds heavily as I recognize the ball-gag. I’d noticed lots of subs wearing them when we visited the club, but I hadn’t been enamored by the thought. I’m not sure what’s worse—the idea of sucking on the ball like it’s some sort of pacifier, or gagging on the damn thing until I have drool dripping off my chin.

Thankfully, Doug doesn’t try to put it on me. He simply hands it to me and goes back to what he was doing. At first I wonder if he means for me to put it on myself, but since he didn’t actually tell me that, I’m content to just hold it in my hand. I suspect it is a tangible reminder and a warning of sorts—speak and I
will
end up wearing it.

I don’t plan to speak.

In fact for the next twenty minutes I not only manage not to speak, but I also manage not to wind myself toward a panic attack. It’s actually kind of nice not to feel the need to fill the silence. When it comes to friendly chatter, I suck at it anyway. In fact, by the time the buzzer goes off on the oven, I’m wondering why I even bother to strike up a conversation with some people.

I really do need to work on my social skills. My entire adult life seems to be awkward conversations with people who don’t really want to talk and boring conversations with people who don’t want to listen. And somehow I’ve missed the social “gene” that tells me how to cope, how to not talk when I don’t need to, and how to politely leave a conversation when I want to.

It’s certainly a skill I could have used the day nearly a month ago when Lisa was ranting about women’s rights.

Of course all of these quiet, meandering thoughts bring me to my absent best friend. It’s true in the past year or so that we haven’t seen each other very often, but we do speak almost every day on the phone. I smile at the clause Doug and I have written into my submissive’s training contract—half an hour each day is my time to speak to Lachlan. It cannot be denied for any reason, not even as a punishment for appalling behavior. It was the one thing I was determined to hold sacred, so I’d been almost surprised when Doug didn’t argue with me on it.

Lord knows he’d held fast on everything else.

I’m not sure what being able to continue talking to Lachlan each day means about mine and Doug’s relationship—such as it is. Technically he is a Dom training a sub, nothing more. Maybe I’m being very silly and more than a little naïve, but I wouldn’t have let him write sexual touching and full intercourse into a contract if I hadn’t felt some sort of connection to him. Perhaps the emotion is only on my side, but for now I choose to keep my illusions.

“Come on,” he says as he carries our dinner into the dining room. I’m very relieved to see that one of the chairs has a thick, fluffy towel covering the leather seat. He places the plates onto the table, helps me into my seat, and then sits down. He’s arranged the place setting at the corner of the large dining table, him at the end, me sitting at a right angle beside him. I’m close enough to touch him, but still able to see his face.

Considering that he leans over and caresses my breasts gently before asking me if I want salad, I think that’s the point. Until that moment I’d actually forgotten I was naked on the top half, too.

He grins at the soft moan that escapes me.

“Eat,” he orders. I nod and lift my knife and fork. It truly smells delicious. Even if he didn’t make this himself, it’s obvious that he knows how to pull together a decent meal. It makes my freezer full of microwave meals look rather pathetic, actually. We eat quietly for several minutes. Again I somehow manage to keep my inane chatter to myself. It’s actually quite liberating not to have to talk.

“How was your day at work?” he finally asks as if we’re having a normal meal together. I suppose it would be kind of normal if I wasn’t naked, wet, still just a simmer below horny as hell, and didn’t have my tits hanging out.

“Long.” I say the word with great feeling. It had been the longest damn day of my working life, especially that last forty-three minutes. He chuckles evilly, obviously well aware of why my day seemed never ending. “What did you do today?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I already know he had the day off work. He arranged more than two weeks’ vacation, invited me into his home, and agreed to train me as a submissive—surely someone willing to do all that feels a connection to the person they do it with.

“A bit of work.” He’s a very successful defense lawyer, so I suppose even when he’s on vacation there’s going to be stuff needing his attention. “Grabbed some groceries, did some toy shopping, teased a sub until she was good and mad.”

My breath jams in my lungs. Teased a sub? It hadn’t even occurred to me that he probably plans to continue playing with the subs at the BDSM club while he’s training me. It’s not expressly forbidden in our contract for him to continue on with his normal activities. Fuck. I’m working my way into a serious case of mad when he grins and asks, “How did you like the vibrating egg?” and I finally realize the sub he’s talking about is me.

Fucking hell. Scratch mad, I’m actually just nuts.

“I…um…” Apart from the fact that my brain is still going off on a tangent, I seem to be having great difficulty putting into words my feelings about one little vibrating toy. “It was…um…different.”

“Different, how?” he asks, obviously aware of my delaying tactics. Damn. My brain can work so fucking fast when it’s leading me into a panic attack, but suddenly my thoughts are like molasses.

“I suppose different as in…not really pleasurable, but not painful either. It was sort of irritating, but in a way that made me want more.”

“Did you touch yourself?” he asks with a smile. I suppose technically our contract hadn’t come into force until I stepped into this apartment, but it hadn’t actually occurred to me at the time. I’d been desperate to orgasm, but because Doug hadn’t been there to tell me what to do I hadn’t done it.

“No, because you weren’t…I mean I didn’t…You’re the only one allowed—”

I cut myself off as I suddenly realize the very big fall I could be heading toward. If my ability to orgasm is directly related to my Dom, what happens when he isn’t my Dom anymore? That great big ball of dread starts to sit in my stomach again. I’m shaking violently as panic builds inside me. I’m not even able to control my breathing. My immediate reaction is there, hanging out in the open, my ability to control myself in front of this man all but destroyed.

A hard grip on my chin brings my gaze up to his. “Where are you, little sub?” he asks evenly.

I shake my head as tears fill my eyes. How can I possibly explain my dependence on this man? Do I even want to? I’ve never let myself be so vulnerable in my life.

He pushes his chair away from the table, grabs my wrist, and hauls me facedown over his knee. I’m already feeling calmer with just the promise of a spanking. He rubs over the still-raw-feeling welts of the paddle he used earlier, but this is a far gentler caress than what I’d been expecting. He continues to move his hands over my ass and thighs, his thick fingers grazing my pussy lips over and over. Slowly, even without pain, I start to come down from the near hysteria. I tuck my face into his calf muscle and try to hide how embarrassed I feel about my reaction.