The Art of Control

Chapter 3

Dylan

Isa sounds childlike and I feel like a miserable jackass for making her tell me about her father when I know damned well she doesn’t like being forced into a confession. Then I ignored her, compounding the situation. F*ck. Me. I’m such an a*shole. I just want all of this to be done and over with. I want her father dealt with once and for all. More than anything, I want that cruel son-of-a-bitch dead and buried.

I pull Isa back away from me and her eyes are cheerless.

“You deserve someone better than me; someone who’s not so useless,” she whispers and her statement floors me.

She hasn’t talked like this since we first got together. Holy hell. I can see all of the progress we’ve made melting right before my eyes. “Don’t do this to yourself. There is no one better for me than you. No one. You’re not pathetic. You’re beautiful and talented, and…” I can’t finish my sentence because she cuts me off.

“Flawed?”

“Yes, you are flawed, but so am I. I love you and all of your wonderful, amazing flaws. They’re what make you unique and special,” I tell her.

She smiles weakly and I see the light in her eyes returning.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, Isa, and that’s the truth. Am I your Dom?” I ask.

She blinks rapidly and answers, “Yes.”

“When you doubt yourself, you doubt my decision to having chosen you to be my submissive and my wife. I love you, but I won’t tolerate my decisions being second-guessed. You already know this, don’t you?” I gently remind her.

She nods and her smile widens ever so slightly.

“That’s my girl. Show me that smile.”

“To Paris?” she asks.

“Yes, to Paris.”

I grab her hand and we make our way back down the terminal and to the jet. The day is bright and the weather is superb for flying. I’m not looking forward to the long flight and having to deal with Isa’s nerves, but hopefully we can enjoy each other’s company. I’m still surprised that she can speak French. More than seven months together and I’m still learning about her. It’s a never ending process, I suppose. Once we get seated and buckled in, Isa immediately starts twisting her hair between her fingers. It’s the takeoff that she hates the most. She looks out the window and taps her foot incessantly.

Once we’re in the air, her nervousness dissipates and she relaxes. She looks over at me and we sit staring at each other without saying anything. I love these moments of silence between us when we sit and reflect on things. I don’t feel like I have to make friendly conversation just for conversation’s sake.

I reach over and touch her hair and twist it between my fingers the way she does and she smiles and closes her eyes. I wonder what it is about doing this that calms her. I try to imagine a young Isa only eight years old and what she must’ve been like: Shy and timid, and with her spirit broken after her mother left. She must’ve looked both adorable and sad sitting quietly like she is now, working her hair over between her fingers with no other way to express her anxiety or fear. Isa’s eyes remain closed as I loop her hair around and around, thinking about what a living hell her childhood must’ve been for her. She’s obviously comforted by this action and it was cruel of me to insist that she stop doing it simply because it aroused me at the most inopportune times. I feel sickened at the thought of the punishment that I doled out to her over this action. I vow to myself that if she does it again, I will simply allow it.

I drop the lock of hair and without opening her eyes, she murmurs, “Please, don’t stop.”

Yes, I will allow whatever makes her feel comforted. I work over the strand of hair until she falls asleep. Feeling enraged with her father, I dig out my phone and call Sawyer.

“Sawyer here,” he answers.

“I want him dead.”

Sawyer remains silent on the other end and he doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t have to; he knows exactly who I’m talking about.

“I know, so do I,” he says, keeping his answer short and his voice composed.

“Make it happen,” I snap.

“All in good time, Young,” he answers calmly.

With that, I hang up. I know Sawyer is right. As ever, I’m impatient to have my way, especially when I look over at Isa to see how peaceful she looks. I want nothing more than to keep her safe and to give her peace of mind, and as long as her father is still breathing, she’ll never have that. Closing my eyes, I hold her hand while I drift off to sleep, too.

When I wake, I look over at Isa and her knees are pulled up to her chest and she’s watching me fearfully from behind them. I can’t tell if she’s awake or still asleep and just having a nightmare. She’s done that before. I could’ve sworn she was awake, her eyes were open, but she was stark raving mad and screaming about Alex. I reach out to her but she winces. Shit, she’s still sleeping.

“Isabel, you’re still asleep. You need to wake up,” I say unemotionally.

She remains motionless for a moment and then starts rocking herself.

“I got blood on my dress, sugar. It’s ruined. Please don’t be angry,” she says in the most heartrending child’s voice I’ve ever heard.

Christ, she’s dreaming about the night Cassie damn near killed her. I feel the same anger I felt that night. I want Cassie dead, too, for what she did to Isa.

“I’m not angry. You’re dreaming. Can you wake up?” I ask, caressing her arm softly.

She blinks rapidly.

“Yes, that’s it. Come back to me. Wake up, love,” I tell her as I squeeze her arm. She blinks again and her knees slowly come down. She blinks long and hard one last time and looks bewildered.

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Hi,” she answers.

“You were dreaming about Cassie again.”

“Was I? I don’t remember. Are we there yet?” she asks, looking out the window.

“No. I’m not sure how much further we have.” I look at my watch and realize we still have another four hours of travel time. “Four more hours and we’ll be there,” I tell her. “You want to make out?”

She looks over at me and smirks naughtily. “Just make out?” she asks.

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay, but don’t try anything lewd because I’m not that kind of girl,” Isa says playfully and crawls onto my lap.

“Oh, you’re not? That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at me.

“I heard you like it rough and tumble,” I tell her and grab her brusquely.

“You heard wrong. I’m sweet and shy. I’m a delicate f*cking flower, thank you very much.”

I laugh loudly at her remark because I think she really believes it.

“Most of the time, yes you are. But behind dungeon doors, well, that’s a whole different Isa.”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me already,” she tells me and grabs my face.

Her tongue invades my mouth and her hands find my hair. My hands are all over her, under her shirt, on her breasts and in her pants, and I feel like a teenager as we pass second base. My dick is rock hard and I shove my fingers into her.

“Third base,” I whisper to Isa and she giggles into my neck.

“Are you hoping for a home run?” she asks as she straddles me and looks into my eyes.

“Always.”

“Whatever shall we do about that?”

“How about you be a very naughty girl and let me have my way with you?”

“Only if you promise to make it hurt,” she answers, her eyes changing color.

“I thought you were a delicate f*cking flower?”

“I am. I’m a delicate flower that likes to be f*cked hard. So what?”

Wielding my own words against me, I can’t argue with her. I push Isa off of me, unbutton her pants and pull her towards the back of the cabin to the couch. I take my pants off as well and sprawl out. Climbing on top of me, Isa slowly lowers herself onto my hard-on. She grinds down on it, her p-ssy lips meeting the base of my rod and I involuntarily grunt. She lifts her shirt so I can bury my face in her overabundant cleavage and I pull her bra up over her tits as I suck and bite at her.

She starts to speeds up her pace but then abruptly gets off of me and sits reverse cowgirl, slamming down onto me harder and faster. Her hands are resting on my thighs and I’m reminded of our first sexual encounter in my office. Just like before, her hips do their magical dance and she starts twirling and rocking her pelvis back and forth. She throws her head back and garbles out something other worldly. I grip her hips and pull her down onto me again and I thrust upwards, filling her to capacity. I still so that I can feel her hot core contract around me and she gives me what I want. Her p-ssy clamps down and she rises up to the very tip of my dick and lowers herself again. God, I’ll never get tired of seeing that. She does it again, but this time she paces her movements to an agonizingly slow rhythm and f*cks me seductively as she leans back onto me.

“This is just like our first time, Dylan,” Isa breathes. “Do you remember that?”

“I’ll never forget it.”

Isa quickens her movements and her p-ssy muscles clutch my shaft.

“May I cum, Sir?” she asks like a good submissive.

The sound of her silky voice asking permission and the feeling of her pulsating cunt are too much.

“Yes, cum for me, p-ssycat,” I command and we both climax within seconds of each other.

Isa purrs and then leans back onto me until her quivering movements subside.

“That’s my good little wench,” I mutter in her ear as I cup her breasts.

She slowly gets off of me, smiles and punches me in the arm for my lewd term of endearment. While she excuses herself to the restroom, I dress and make us some martinis. When Isa comes back out, we lie together on the couch and listen to Enya playing through the stereo. It’s soothing, but I can feel Isa’s eyes on me.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.

“I was just wondering what you were like when you were a young boy.”

“I was moody and mischievous,” I tell her.

“So you weren’t much different than you are now,” she laughs.

“Touché, Isabel.”

“Were you bullied in school?” she asks.

“No.”

“Were you the bully in school?”

“No. Other than a few friends, I pretty much kept to myself. How about you? Were you bullied?” I ask, wondering why she’s curious about something like that.

“Not really. I was quiet and kept to myself, also. I always looked a mess and you know how cruel girls can be so I got my fair share of snotty remarks and teasing,” she answers.

“Did you have many friends?” I ask.

“I didn’t have any friends.”

“Not any friends?” I ask, stunned.

“No, my father wouldn’t allow them. He didn’t want me telling anyone about his abuse, I guess, so he kept me very isolated.”

Jesus. My poor Isa. “What did you do to keep yourself busy?” I continue.

“Oh, my father kept me busy with all sorts of things. He had every minute of my day planned out meticulously,” Isa says, getting up to get her drink. She hands me my martini and sits back down next to me.

“With what sorts of things?”

“French lessons for one. Riding lessons for a brief time until I broke my collarbone. Spanish lessons. Violin lessons. The usual boring activities that makes for a well-bred and proper girl,” Isa states plainly.

“You play the violin?”

“I played the violin,” she corrects me.

“I’d love to hear you play it sometime,” I tell her, surprised at the things she’s telling me.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t. I said I played it, I didn’t say I was any good at it. Anyway, I swore the last time I put it down I would never pick it up again. Playing it was like torture for me and it was more a form of castigation from my father.”

This is all eye opening. I enjoy learning new things about Isa, but I can sense her displeasure in talking about them. I know exactly how she feels about discussing her past.

“I appreciate your being so forthcoming with me, Isa,” I say to her, wanting to comfort her and not make her feel forced to tell me anything.

She looks up at me and smiles and sips on her drink.

“When did you start painting?” I lean back on the couch and she smiles again and shakes her head at me.

“Curious as ever, aren’t you, Sir?”

“I love learning about you.”

“I’ve drawn as long as I can remember. My mother would sit me in a corner with paper and colored pencils and I’d draw for hours. I learned early on to hide my drawings and destroy them so my father wouldn’t find them. When I was a little older, I think 14 or so, my art teacher really took an interest in my work. She said I had real talent and wanted to enter my work into a contest. I begged her not to, but she insisted. When my father found out, he put a kibosh on it immediately. He told me I was talentless and that as an artist, I’d never accomplish anything,” Isa tells me and her voice fades down to a whisper.

“But you proved him wrong, didn’t you?” I reply, pulling her close to me.

She looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows. “Have I?”

“Of course you have.”

“What have I accomplished? I’m the uneducated wife of a rich man who works less than part time. What kind of accomplishment is that?” Her voice is sad and self-disapproving.

“Don’t say that. You’re so much more than that. What do you want to accomplish?”

“Something. Anything.”

“Well, when you figure out exactly what it is you want to accomplish, you let me know and I’ll help you do it. And for your information, I’m uneducated, too. I never went to college, either.”

Isa smiles and touches my lips. “You’re so kind. I don’t de…”

I swiftly cut her off. “Don’t say it. Yes, you do deserve it. You deserve nothing but love and kindness,” I tell her sternly.

“You know me so well,” she replies.

“I should. I’m your husband and your Master.”

Isa lays her head on my chest and hugs me fiercely.

“I love you, Sir,” she says quietly.

We both fall sleep again and I wake to Carson’s voice and his tapping me on my shoulder. I open my eyes to find him kneeling next to me and Isa on the couch.

“We’ll be making our descent very soon, Young. You should both get buckled in,” he tells me.

“Very well. Thank you, Carson. Did you eat something?”

“Yes. You were both sound asleep. I even watched a movie. Anyway, I’m headed back to the cockpit to make preparations,” he says, standing up and walking towards the front of the cabin.

I wake Isa and she’s excited to be finally landing. So am I. I hate long flights like this. They remind me of my days with the NSA and all the traveling I had to do.

“This is so exciting, Dylan. I’ve never been to another country before. All the torture of learning French and I actually get to use it. I hope I remember everything I was taught,” she says looking out the window. With Paris lights in sight, Isa becomes animated and leans into the window to see everything.

“Have you been here before?” she asks.

“Yes, a few times.”

“Oh my God, it’s so beautiful. Look! I can see the Eiffel Tower!” she squeals.

We land without incident and quickly make our way off the jet and go through the usual airport protocols. Isa looks happy and it makes my stomach flutter with arousal to see her so pleased. I want to get Isa to the hotel suite and naked, and all of this tedious bullshit is driving me insane. Isa looks over at me and rolls her eyes. What?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask her.

“Because I know that impatient, horny look on your face,” she answers.

Hell, Isa knows me just as well as I know her.

“Where are we staying?”

“Concorde La Fayette. I only got us a junior suite since the Presidential is so damned big and I want to keep you close,” I tell her.

Isa gives me her sexy smile and her eyes warm to my statement.

Finally on our way to the Concorde, we bid our farewells to Carson. He’s pleased as well to be spending the next two weeks here and seeing the sights.

We call a cab and make our way through the city, making a few quick stops per Isa’s request. I just want to get her to the damned hotel room and she’s tormenting me. We make out in the cab ride and her hands feel amazing on me. We get to the hotel, but not soon enough. I’m walking through the hotel lobby with a raging hard-on and trying to adjust myself inconspicuously, but doing a poor job of it.

Our bags are brought up with us and Isa swiftly jumps into the shower before I have a chance to ravage her. That’s fine, though. It’ll give me time to set a few things out for us. Because I was unable to bring any kind of sexual implements with me, I’ll have to improvise. I grab several of my neckties, her hairbrush, some ice from the freezer, an umbrella that’s in the room, and a few towels. Then I look up the local BDSM club in Paris and write down the phone number and address. We’ll have to make a stop sometime during our stay and check things out kinky European style. I look up a few other addresses as well because there’s something I want us to do while we’re out here.

I strip the bed of all the top bedding, put some music on, dim the lights and undress. F*cking hell, come on already, Isa. I’m horny as a motherf*cker, hard and itching to get my sadistic groove on. As I stroke myself, my mind starts coming up with all sorts of fantastic ways I can torture my beautiful wife as I look around the room for more everyday items that will work in that regard. We may have to make a trip to the local hardware store for some tie downs and piping. I hear the shower turn off and I quickly run to the kitchenette to see what’s in there that’s sticky. Happy to see a bottle of syrup, I pop it in the microwave for a few minutes.

The bathroom door swings open and Isa stands in the doorway buck ass naked and smiling ear-to-ear.

“Are you ready, Master?” she asks excitedly as I stand near the microwave.

“I’ve been ready for the last 20 minutes. My cock is throbbing, now lay your ass down and spread wide for me,” I order.

Isa looks over at the bed and sees the items I have laid out. She looks bewildered but obeys my command. She lies in the middle of the bed and positions herself to be tied down. The microwave pings and I get the syrup out. Setting it down on the night stand, I instruct Isa to lie on her stomach and she does as she’s told. Let the honeymoon games begin.

***

Isabel

The assortment of items on the bed are confusing but titillating. My naughty boy has something up his sleeve and the look in his eyes is maddening and has my p-ssy soaking. Dylan moves hastily as he binds my wrists to the bed posts with his ties. Next, he moves to my ankles and places something rigid between them. I crank my head to the side to see an umbrella being fashioned into a spreader bar between my legs. How very creative of him. He loops, twists and knots the neckties around my ankles to the umbrella, making it impossible for me to close my legs.

After that, he grabs one of the pillows and pushes it underneath my belly and pulls it down slightly, raising my pelvis and ass higher. When I look back at him, he’s checking out his handy work and I see the gears turning in that gorgeous head of his. His mean streak is bubbling just underneath the surface as his eyes dilate beneath his long dark lashes. He licks his lips and strokes himself all the while just standing and watching me, not saying a word, and I’m getting impatient and wetter with each passing second.

Dylan reaches for my hairbrush and kneels between my spread legs. As he runs the bristles across my ass cheeks, I wince from the prickly sensation. Then he draws the brush down and over my inner thighs, down my calves and across the soles of my feet, making me jerk from the ticklish and slightly painful feeling. My toes curl and I moan out.

“Don’t move. I won’t say it again,” Dylan snarls.

My sadistic Dom is now present and I’m fully aware of the seriousness of his threat. He moves up behind and on top of me, kissing my neck tenderly while he runs the bristles over my shoulder blades and spine with more pressure than before. The feeling of his warm, damp breath on my neck in contrast to the stinging on my back is tantalizing. My body doesn’t know whether to wither or blossom from the pleasantly painful assault.

Just when my body relaxes and my breathing slows, Dylan brings the flat side of the wooden brush down onto my bottom swiftly and with force. I bury my face in the bed and shriek out. Sweet baby Jesus, that felt amazing. My buttock blaze with heat and start to throb. I don’t have time to process the pain when Dylan smacks the other cheek equally as hard. Keeping my face hidden, I yell out my acceptance and bite the sheet underneath me, wanting to tear at it and shred it like a wild animal from the searing pain. Concentrate, Isa.

Endorphins start to build in the soles of my feet and a warm feeling washes over me. I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out my mouth, trying to calm myself. Yes, that’s better. My ass is on fire, but it feels dirty and delicious. I remain still while my sadistic lover persecutes my backside over and over with smacks varying from light to hard, my ass jouncing and jiggling with each subsequent smack. Dylan runs his hands over my bottom gently, running his fingers up my spine. Just as I become accustomed to his soft touch and my heart rate slows, he paddles my upper thighs and the warm sensation of an orgasm builds in my throbbing Ms. Kitty.

“Beg for it, Isa. Tell me you want to be punished,” he murmurs in a deep hushed voice.

Whatever Sir wants, Sir gets. “If it pleases you, Master, punish me,” I whine out as I push my ass up, wanting more.

“I told you not to move,” he roars.

Dylan drops the brush on the bed and uses his bare hand, the skin-to-skin contact sending darts of electrifying pleasure throughout my body. The bed dips next to me and I hear rustling as Dylan prepares his next method of torture. Suddenly, something hot and liquid is dripped down my ass crack. Every muscle in my body contracts from the intense heat and my eyes well up.

Holy experimental sex toy, what is that? Dylan always has something strange up his sleeve and I can’t make out what the sticky concoction is. The gooey unknown substance pools in my puckered crevice, but Dylan spreads my cheeks wide and hungrily licks it up. The slurping sounds of his tongue in my ass make me squirm with anticipation, but I don’t dare ask what it is he’s licking up so eagerly for fear of his reprisal. Dylan has told me on more than one occasion that the sound of my voice distracts him, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut. The smell of maple and vanilla drifts past my nose and it’s then that I realize what the sticky liquid is that Dylan’s licking at. He pours more hot syrup down my spine and I cringe from the sweltering heat. He laps that up, too, and quickly soothes it with ice, letting the melting cube drip down my ass and back. It feels fantastic and soothing, and my panting begins to slow. I concentrate on my Master’s breathing and movements, and my own heartbeat in my ears. I love him so much and I want him to be pleased with my acquiescence and total submission.

I’m purring softly, yearning to be f*cked. Dylan lies next to me and starts brushing my hair, his engorged prick pressing against my thigh. I turn my face to the side and gaze at him dreamily. He’s smiling devilishly at me and I’m not quite sure what to make of his expression. I watch him cautiously, knowing that my sadistic Master isn’t done playing with me yet. His eyes betray his need to give me more pain and I wait patiently until he decides to give me more.

“You belong to me, Isabel,” he says out of nowhere.

He’s not telling me something I don’t already know.

“You’re my property and I want you marked as such.”

Here we go with this again. My belly flutters with nervousness at the thought of being marked. What exactly does he mean by that anyway? Another piercing? A tattoo? What? Though the thought of being marked for Dylan is sexy as hell and I’m excited at the idea of it, I’ll be damned if I’m getting my * pierced. Screw that business. My little tingly friend is off limits.

I smile at him and he digs his fingers into my ass, making me cry out in pain. His devious smirk widens and he licks and bites his bottom lip.

“Are you going to answer me?” he says.

“I didn’t think that was a question,” I respond.

Dylan’s eyes gleam and dilate. “It wasn’t.”

Leaning into my ear, he licks the crook, his lusty breath driving me insane.

“Master, please…” I purr.

“Please, what?” Dylan teases.

“I want you inside of me,” I beg.

“Not yet. I’m not done with you. I want to see that lush ass turn blood red,” he whispers into my ear.

He moves on top of me and breaches my wet entrance with his fingers, only to withdraw them, leaving me slick and uncomfortable. Without warning, the wooden brush is slapped on my butt again. He swats it time and time again, the blood rushing to the surface, sending my mind reeling. Holy stars and stripes, I swear to Mother Mary I can actually see stars as I close my eyes tightly. I’m near the limit of my pain tolerance. Just a little more. I want just a little more.

“More, Master, more,” I mewl.

Dylan’s breathing quickens and he straddles my thighs.

“F*ck, Isa, you look so God damned exquisite right now,” he groans.

I lift my ass up as high as it will go and the peak of my orgasm washes over me, my body shuddering with release. He wallops me one last time and I teeter on the edge of ecstasy and agony. My body flushes and heats from the inside out, but the warm rush turns to a cold chill and I start to shake uncontrollably. I try to say the word that will stop it all, but Dylan reads my body language and stops. I’m thankful because I can’t take anymore. I’ve had my fill of pain for the night.

I wail into the bed and float up above myself. My mind and heart are racing and I feel weightless and serene. When I open my eyes, Dylan has untied me and pulled me into the fetal position onto his lap. I’m covered with his body and his face is hidden in my neck.

“Oh, how I love to watch you fly, my precious angel,” he breathes into my ear.

Those words… they comfort me and exhaustion sweeps me away.

When I wake, I’m lying on my stomach and Dylan is lying next to me, rubbing my back and watching me obsessively. A cool wet washcloth is draped over my bottom, keeping my pain at bay.

“Hello, angel,” Dylan says softly.

His words remind me of my mother’s sweet nickname for me and my eyes wet with sadness. Dylan takes one look into my eyes and becomes distressed.

“What is it? Did I hurt you too badly?” he asks sitting up on one elbow.

“No, it’s not that,” I assure him.

His body immediately relaxes and he sighs. My sadistic husband has a soft side, too, and even though he likes to inflict pain on me, I know he would never hurt me beyond what I can handle. I move onto my side and the washcloth slides off my bottom. The rubbing of the soft linen sends embers of pain through the lower half of body and I cringe and involuntarily cry out. Dylan’s body tenses up with my show of torment and he sighs heavily.

“It was too much for you,” he says sorrowfully.

“No, sugar, I’ll be fine. My ass must look spectacular. I’d like to see what you’ve done to it,” I tell him.

“It does look spectacular,” he says, looking pleased with himself.

He’s been so earnest with me lately about his feelings, guilt overcomes me for not telling him what’s really been on my mind lately. I swore I wouldn’t keep anything from him and he deserves nothing less than the truth after I chastised him for not divulging completely to me when it came to his parents. I swallow hard and prepare myself.

“Dylan, please don’t be angry with me,” I start out.

“Why would I be angry?”

Okay, here it goes. “I’ve been keeping something from you.”

I can’t bring myself to look into his loving, crystal blue eyes. He remains silent, but his breathing changes and I can sense his irritation with me. He continues to say nothing while I try to think of the words to say to him. I coax myself to look into his eyes and he looks a combination of hurt and annoyed.

He finally asks, “Something good or something bad.”

“I’ll let you decide that. But first, promise me that you won’t be angry with me,” I implore.

He pauses and then answers, “I can’t promise you that, but I can promise that I’ll listen to you and hear your reasons for keeping it from me.”

“I love you, Sir. Thank you. It’s about what happened with Alex and my father, and Cassie, too. I can’t seem to get over it. I thought I could. I thought I was doing okay, but…” I keep my eyes downcast and feel embarrassed at my own weakness.

“But what?” he asks tenderly.

“I can’t. I’m not getting any sleep and my dreams are tormented. What Alex did to me has brought everything back that my father put me through. There are things I had even forgotten about that have come back to me, awful things, Dylan. I thought I could just push it all to the back of my mind like I’ve done for so many years and I just can’t do it anymore.” My voice sounds foreign to me and it’s barely audible. Don’t cry, Isa. Do not cry, Isa!

“Why did you think you couldn’t tell me that?” Dylan asks, running his fingers through my hair.

“I didn’t want to tell you because…” I’m not sure why I didn’t want to tell him. “Because I don’t want to be that girl.”

I look up and Dylan looks confused but concerned.

“What girl is that?”

“The girl who needs to be saved, the weak one, the girl who’s pathetic and needy. I want to be strong and independent for you. I want to be in control.” I sniff. “I just want to put everything that happened behind me. You have enough to worry about with your job and I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me, too. I don’t want to be a burden. I hate feeling helpless like this. I’m so sorry for bringing this up on our honeymoon. I wanted this time to be special, but your sweet words reminded me of my mother. It seems like everything reminds me of her lately and when I think of her, I think of my father and everything he did to us.” I hide my face in the bed, humiliated by my weakness.

Dylan pulls me up and bear hugs me. I don’t even mind the pain in my ass at the moment. His arms feel good around me and I feel loved. I was expecting Dylan to be angry or irritated with me, but he always surprises me with his kindness when I least expect it.

“Please, please, Isa, don’t keep these things from me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need. You’re never going to get over these things if you don’t talk about them. I know how hard that is for you to do. I know. You’re more important to me than work and taking care of you is what I live for, so don’t deprive me of it. I want you to need me. I love that you need me. It’s okay if you need to be saved. Sometimes even the strongest, most independent people need to be rescued.”