The Art of Control

Chapter 6

Dylan

“Please don’t say that, sugar,” Isa sobs. She buries her face in my chest and sobs as I hold her close, still angry and scared at what I just witnessed.

F*cking hell. I know what I saw. She can deny it, but I know what I f*cking saw. How could she think about doing that to me? I can’t lose her, not like that. I can’t lose her period. F*cking hell. I sweep her up into my arms not giving a shit about my pain and carry her to the bed. She’s shivering from being out in the cold and I can only wonder how long she was out outside contemplating whatever it was she was contemplating.

I disrobe her and pull the blankets up over the both of us and hold her tightly.

“Don’t you ever think about doing that to me,” I repeat.

Isa hides her face in my neck and drifts off to sleep. I listen to the sound of her breathing and try to fall asleep, but I’m unable to. I can’t stop thinking about the sight of her standing dangerously close to that ledge and damn near teetering over it. I want her f*cking father dead. I recall what she said about still loving him and I’m amazed at her kindness in the face of his cruelty.

Giving up on falling back to sleep, I sit up on one elbow and tuck Isa’s hair behind her ear. She starts mumbling something and whimpering so I whisper calming things into her ear and her whining subsides.

I check the time and decide to call Sawyer again. I’m still pissed off about the attack and what its implications mean. Maybe I am being paranoid, but after everything that happened with Cassie and Alex, I have every right to be.

Sawyer picks up his phone on the third ring and sounds out of breath.

“Sawyer here,” he answers.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

I hear a muffled female voice and rustling, and realize that I’ve probably just interrupted his playtime.

“No. Is everything okay on your end?” he asks, getting straight to business.

“I was still thinking about the attack from earlier. Something doesn’t sit right with me. I’m going back to see if I can find the knife and have it fingerprinted. I should’ve thought of it earlier but it all happened so fast,” I vacillate whether to tell him about what happened with Isa.

“What else is going on? Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asks as if he’s read my mind.

I pause and sigh. I don’t want Isa to feel like I’ve betrayed her.

“Tell me, Young. Is it Isabel? Is she okay?”

“Christ, Sawyer. We’ve definitely been working together for too long.”

Sawyer laughs under his breath. “That’s true enough. So what is it?”

“It’s Isa. I caught her tonight just as she was… Shit, Sawyer. She’s in a bad way. That’s all I can tell you.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Unfortunately, nothing. It’s something Isa and I need to work out on our own.”

“You two will figure it out whatever it is. If it at all involves her father, I’m working on getting that resolved.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later. By the way, tell Sonya Isa and I say hello.” I couldn’t resist throwing that out there. Sawyer coughs nervously and I can’t help but chuckle at him.

“Yeah, sure,” he says and I can just imagine the look on his face at being called out.

I hang up and make my way to the bathroom to inspect my chest. I peel off the gauze and change the dressing after applying more antiseptic. I really am a lucky son-of-a-bitch. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve come close to death. It’s no wonder Isa is just a little freaked out.

By the time I’m done cleaning myself up, the sun is just starting to come over the horizon and I call down and order an early breakfast.

When it arrives, I set the food out and ready our plates. Isa rouses with the smell of breakfast and sits on the edge of the bed and rubs her eyes. She stands, stretches and puts her robe on, moving next to me at the table while I attempt to read the newspaper.

“Do you need help with that?” Isa asks.

“No thank you,” I tell her clipped.

Isa stands motionless watching me so I glance over the newspaper and motion for her to sit down. She sulks to her chair and sinks into it. She eats her breakfast slowly and pouts the entire time.

She puts her silverware down, stands and pulls the newspaper out of my hands.

“Talk to me,” she demands.

“What do you want me to say?”

“So you’re still angry with me?”

Feeling like exploding, I decide it best to hold my tongue and count down from ten to slow my breathing and rein in my temper.

“I’m not angry with you; I’m concerned.”

“There’s really no need for your concern. I’m fine,” she protests irritably.

Her denial damn near sends me over the edge. “You’re seriously going to stand there and tell me that what happened last night is nothing to be concerned about?”

“Nothing happened last night,” she replies.

“Only because I stopped you,” I huff.

Her cheeks flush and she starts playing with her hair, and my irritation quickly subsides.

“That’s not true. I wouldn’t have done anything.”

I pull her onto my lap and grab her face. “Don’t lie to me, Isa. You were thinking about it, weren’t you?”

“Yes, okay, it flashed in my mind, but I never would’ve done it. And anyway, even if I had... You’re strong. You would’ve been just fine without me,” she counters, making me completely come unglued.

“Fine? No, I wouldn’t have been fine. Jesus Christ, Isa. I f*cking love you and I wouldn’t have been fine without you. Why would you think that?” I bellow much too loudly.

Isa’s eyes get big at my reaction and her body stiffens.

“If your ass wasn’t still sore I’d paddle it right now for saying such an asinine thing,” I gripe harshly.

Isa frowns and looks remorseful. Her fingers find her hair again, her eyes remaining on my mouth as she twists her golden lock around and around.

My anger wavers when I see how much she resembles a scolded child. “We’ll fix whatever’s wrong, okay? You won’t always feel like this, I promise. But you can’t ever do that to me. Don’t you dare deprive me of your love and the world of your talent,” I tell her, my eyes welling up. Christ, man up, Young. “Promise me you won’t harm yourself,” I say softly.

“I won’t hurt myself,” she tells me, but I don’t believe her.

“Promise me you won’t harm yourself, Isa,” I say more adamantly when she doesn’t tell me the exact words I need to hear.

“I won’t harm myself,” she says tetchily.

“God damn it, say it,” I tell her sternly, grabbing her jaw.

Isa looks dazed and finally gives in. “I promise I won’t harm myself,” she says exasperated with me.

I feel mildly better to hear her say the words because I know a promise from Isa is a serious thing and she always keeps her word.

I pick out something for her and me to wear and then inform her that we’re going back to the same neighborhood we were in last night, leaving out the fact that we’re going there to find the knife. Isa seems less than enthused, but then I tell her that first, we’re going to The Louvre and her mood brightens.

I’d love to watch her paint something here in Paris, but at this point, I’m not sure how inspired she is. Maybe I can propose that idea a little later.

Once we arrive at The Louvre, Isa seems in her element as she wanders around all wide-eyed and inquisitive about everything. I’ve been here numerous times before so I know my way around and I show her my favorite pieces.

“This is so amazing, Dylan. I really can’t believe how beautiful it all is; and to see it close up… it’s just so wonderful.”

Turning to face me, she throws her arms around me, hugging me ferociously.

“Thank you for bringing me here. I never in my life thought I’d be standing here looking at the Mona Lisa. I love you so much. You’re so kind and generous,” she sniffs.

“Oh, no, not the waterworks. No tears today, love. Not even tears of joy. The only expression I want to see on your face today is happiness.”

She beams widely at me and responds, “What about orgasmic? Don’t you want to see that expression on my face, too?” she asks playfully.

“That goes without saying.”

We spend far too much time looking at the masterpieces, but I don’t rush Isa and I let her enjoy herself. I’m aching to get into her panties, but my mind keeps wandering back to last night’s horrible episode.

Isa stands gazing at a water painting and I watch her closely. Her eyes scan the image and a smile plays on the corners of her mouth. I wish she was this content all the time.

“Where does your love of art come from?” she asks.

As usual, her question comes out of nowhere and she asks a question that no one has ever asked me before. I sit on a nearby bench thinking of how to answer her seemingly simple question. Isa turns to look at me, walks over and sits next to me. Her hand softly rubs my back while she continues to look around the room at the different paintings.

“After my parents died, my guilt was overwhelming. It still is, but you already know that. Work and training submissives wasn’t enough to keep my mind off of them and everything that happened. Art did that for me. All of the wonderful images took my mind off how horribly they died and how I was responsible for it. I threw myself into the art world and learned everything I could about it.”

Isa looks surprised at my reply.

“You weren’t expecting that answer, were you?”

She shakes her head no.

“You and I are so much alike, Isa; different, but alike. You threw yourself into your artwork to help cope with your abusive situation and to let your secret desires out, and I embraced it to forget about my parents’ death.”

“We really are meant for each other,” she whispers as she leans into my ear.

“Without a doubt.”

Another hour later, I’m finally able to pry Isa away from the paintings and we leave to eat some lunch. Watching her speak French is arousing me as she speaks to the waiter. Again, her mouth is captivating as it forms the strange words and I ache to be inside of her - all of her; her mouth, her ass, her p-ssy. Isa looks up at me and her eyes change color, signaling that Mistress Isabel is now in the house.

She asks our server, “Parlez-vous Anglais?” to which he responds, yes, in English. He leaves and Isa smiles deviously at me.

“I know that look in your eyes,” she says.

“Oh, you do?”

She nods and slides next to me in the booth, pressing herself into me and practically sitting in my lap. She runs her hand up my thigh and rubs my hardening cock through my pants, making me moan from the sensation. She unbuttons my pants, pulls my dick out and starts stroking me. I look around anxiously at the crowded room and no one seems to be paying any attention to Isa’s filthy movements as she jerks me off under the table.

“Be a good boy and cum for me,” she breathes into my ear as her hand squeezes around me and moves up and down.

“Yes, Mistress,” I grunt out.

F*cking hell. I have to fight the urge to clear the table off and throw Isa down onto it and f*ck my Mistress into oblivion. She licks my cheek and moans under her breath.

“Cum, Dylan,” she says softly.

Her voice… that tone… f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. I close my eyes tightly and concentrate on giving her what she wants.

We’re rudely interrupted by the waiter who brings back our drinks and appetizers, but Isa’s pace goes unchanged as she continues to stroke me, never taking her eyes off of me.

“Thank you, that’s all,” she utters to the man and he quickly retreats.

Watching her mouth move is the most God damned sexy thing ever as I imagine her pink glossed lips wrapped around my cock. I pick up a grape from the wine and cheese tray and run it along her bottom lip. She teases it with her tongue and I push it into her mouth along with my index finger. She licks, sucks and nibbles my finger as if it’s my dick and twirls her tongue over the tip. Thrusting up into her grip, her hand clamps tighter around me as she runs her thumb over the head of my cock. She speeds up her stroking motions making my finish build quickly. Shit. I’m really going to cum right here in the middle of this motherf*cking restaurant.

“That’s it, give it to me, Dylan,” Isa tells me as she watches my cock fixedly.

I clench my jaw trying to avoid the inevitable and Isa’s head goes down just as I spray my hot seed into her mouth. She quickly sucks me dry, then sits up nonchalantly and wipes her mouth with a napkin and sips on her wine. My eyes dart around to see if anyone has witnessed our lewd display of affection and the people around us could seemingly care less.

I put myself together and take a big gulp of wine while Isa snacks on the cheese laid out before us.

“You’re a naughty little thing, you know that?” I say to her.

She looks over at me and grins proudly.

“I have big plans for us tonight,” I tell her without explaining myself.

“Not another public scene, I hope,” she answers back with wide eyes.

“No, but that does sound like fun. Are you sure you’re not up to it?”

She shakes her head no exaggeratedly at me.

“Why not? You just jacked me off in public. What’s the difference?” I snort.

Isa blushes like a schoolgirl as though it never occurred to her that what she just did to me was scandalous.

The waiter arrives with our lunch and asks if we’ll be having dessert and Isa doesn’t miss a beat.

“My husband just gave me my dessert and I’ll be giving him his later.”

I can’t believe she just said that out loud. Her statement shocks the holy shit out of me and I choke on the mouthful of wine that I’m drinking. The waiter looks confused by Isa’s statement and alarmed at my reaction to it. He politely asks if I need assistance and I wave him away, trying to get my bodily functions under control.

“Jesus, Isa,” is all I can stammer and sputter out, and she laughs enthusiastically at me.

Seeing her brightened mood puts me at ease and the events of last night are pushed to the recesses of my mind. I just want to enjoy this time with Isa and I want our days to be spent getting to know each other better and learning to trust each other even more than we already do. I decide to voice those sentiments and when I do, Isabel beams with joy.

“I love you so damned much, Dylan Nathaniel Young. You’re just the best man in the whole world,” she declares with her eyes glossing over.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I say sarcastically and she lays a sloppy kiss on me.

“Seeing all of that beautiful art makes me want to paint,” Isa expresses dreamily.

It makes me feel ecstatic to hear her say those words without my having to suggest it. “Well, maybe we can arrange something.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent sightseeing Paris and visiting the usual tourist traps. Being Isa’s first time, she seems delighted. Me on the other hand, I’m bored out of my friggin’ mind, but I put on my happy face for Isa. Anyway, I’m pleased to see her so blissful so my joy isn’t entirely fake.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” she asks me as early evening approaches.

“I’ll never get used to you knowing me so well,” I admit and it’s the truth.

Later, we take a cab back to the same sleazy part of town we were in last night so I can look for the knife. Hopefully it’s still where I tossed it. It was dark and I’m not exactly sure where it will be. Isa looks at me dubiously when we drive past the club where we publicly f*cked, but I assure her there will be no boinking in the presence of a dozen strangers tonight.

When we drive past the sex shop Isa was peeking in, she tells the driver to stop.

“There’s something I want to get,” she says mysteriously.

Okay. I try to go into the store with her, but she insists I wait outside. I hand over my platinum card and her eyes gleam cunningly. I’m not thrilled about her going in alone, but I won’t ruin whatever surprise it is she has planned. Its times like these I wish Sawyer were around so he could keep an eye on her while I walk up the street and find the knife. I’m pacing in front of the store like a p-ssy-whipped footman and getting more annoyed as the minutes pass.

Just as I lose all patience, Isa comes strolling out with two bags full of goodies. I try to peek inside and she promptly pulls them out of my reach.

“Patience is a virtue, my dear husband,” she tells me.

To hell with patience. That’s definitely not a virtue I was ever blessed with.

We walk the same path we walked last night, retracing our steps. Isa’s swinging her bags and babbling on about something, but my eyes are on the ground as I scan the sidewalk. When we arrive at the location of the attack, I block her voice out and focus on finding the weapon. I feel Isa tug on the sleeve of my coat and when I turn around, her bags are sitting on the ground and she’s holding the knife gingerly by the tip of the blade.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” she asks very matter of factly, quirking an eyebrow at me and smiling

“Christ, Isabel, give that to me,” I huff at her.

I take the knife from her and wrap it in a handkerchief and place it inside my jacket pocket. Isa picks up her bags and looks proud of herself.

“You’re welcome,” she exclaims with her toothiest grin while bouncing on her toes.

“How did you know that’s what I was looking for?” I ask her.

“I knew the moment we arrived in the neighborhood the reason we were here. You know, for being a former spy, you’re so predictable sometimes.”

What the f*ck? “Predictable? I don’t think so,” I say defensively. “And I already told you that I wasn’t a spy.” Predictable, my ass. That sounds like a challenge to me. I’ll show her predictable.

We take a cab back to the hotel and I can see that Isa is in the mood to play. So am I, but I have something big planned first. She seems disappointed that there will be no f*cking and sucking at the moment, but I just can’t wait to do this any longer. Yes, I am impatient. I don’t give a f*ck. I want what I want, when I want it.

After picking out something for her to wear, we jump in the shower. I can’t resist her feminine wiles when she starts to jack me off so I permit her to give me head. She does such a fantastic job at pleasuring me I feel the need to repay her efforts. I kneel in front of her while she washes her hair and finger her to orgasm. She watches me with sleepy eyes as I push my fingers deep inside of her, her eyelids heavy with lust. I should really try and keep track of the many different hues that her eyes change. Right now, they’re the color of a sunflower in bloom. How apropos as her body blooms like a flower under my manipulation. Her eyes flit and flutter open and closed, and her mouth parts as her p-ssy muscles tighten around my fingers. I pull her by her waist close to me, holding her tightly while I tug at her inner wall. Good God, she’s so f*cking beautiful.

Her hands dig into my shoulders, steadying herself as she juices all over me. Isa leans back into the water and lets it run down her face and body, smiling like Mona Lisa.

***

Isabel

What did I do to deserve such royal treatment? I open my eyes and Dylan is watching me with a grin on his face that shows his sheer joy in pleasuring me. Oh, how I love thee, Dylan Young. I was hoping to tie him down tonight and show him what I learned from my homework assignment this week, but he has other plans. I’ve been practicing on the ropes at home and hopefully I won’t make a fool of myself when the time comes to show my new skills.

We both get dried off and while I change into the sexy yellow chiffon dress Dylan has picked out for me, he calls Sawyer. He scanned the knife with some kind of high-tech device and sent the image to Sawyer in hopes that the fingerprint will be detectable.

I wonder how Sawyer and Sonya are getting along. It would fabulous if they ended up together. I wonder if either of them has been married before. I wonder if…

“What are you chewing on over there?” Dylan asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Sawyer and Sonya.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I hope things work out for them,” I say as I get my shoes on.

“And if they don’t?”

“What do you mean? Are they having problems?” I ask, feeling heartsick.

“No, but I just don’t want you to be disappointed if things don’t work out for them.”

“Well, I will be. I can’t help it. They seem so right for each other.”

“Oh, Isa, how can you know they’re right for each other? You don’t know anything about either of them,” Dylan says, half rolling his eyes at me.

He’s right, I suppose. I don’t know them at all. I just like the idea of Sawyer being happy.

I’m daydreaming the entire drive to wherever it is we’re going. Visions of the wonderful paintings are still lingering in my mind. Being here in Paris is so surreal. Dylan hasn’t mentioned what happened last night and I’m thankful for it.

What the hell was I thinking anyway? I have no good excuse why I was out there so close to the ledge. It was just a moment of weakness. I push it to the back of my mind, along with all the other unwanted memories that are residing back there. The alcoves of my mind are getting crowded and the walls that I’ve put up there threaten to break free and let loose all the horrible things I’ve tried to forget. No - not here; not now. Pushing my shoulders back, I sit up straighter, resolving to myself that I’ll save that breakdown for another time.

Again, we’re in a part of Paris that isn’t mentioned in the tourist brochures. Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. He always has something up his sleeve and he does love his surprises. Dylan’s hands are on me – in my hair, around my shoulders, on my arm and thigh. I cherish the feel of his hands on me. His touch makes me feel secure. His hand slowly creeps up my thigh and his fingers find their way into my wet well, but he no sooner slips his fingers inside of me when we arrive at our final destination.

The neon sign out front reads Tatouage Mystique.

“It’s time to mark you as mine, p-ssycat,” he says in the lowest, deepest, most intimate voice ever uttered from his skilled mouth.

Holy possession. I guess my Dom was serious when he said he wanted me marked for ownership. So a tattoo it is. My stomach quivers with worry. I look over at Dylan and peek at him through the hair in my eyes. He pushes my bangs aside and kisses my forehead.

“Are you having doubts about doing this?” he asks anxiously.

“No, Sir. I want everyone to know I belong to you,” I announce and it’s the honest truth. I look forward to it.

A sexy-as-hell smile plays on the corners of his mouth and my insides go into complete meltdown. Seeing him pleased with me overpowers all my senses. I was built solely for the purpose of making this man happy and content, and I’m completely okay with that.

Inside the tattoo shop, I browse through the books while Dylan speaks with a few of the artists. He pulls out a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and signals to the men what he wants. I walk over, curious what Dylan has planned for me.

Dylan shows me the paper and I’m besieged with a myriad of emotions; longing, desire, immense love, adoration, and things I can’t even put into words.

Dylan’s simple request for my mark - Sempre a sua, meaning – always his in Portuguese, my mother’s native language.

“When did you come up with this?” I ask with tears in my eyes.

“When you were sleeping on Sally and after you told me about your mother teaching you Portuguese.”

“I absolutely love it. Where will it go? On my shoulder? On my lower back? No wait, I don’t want a tramp stamp. Where?”

Dylan chuckles at my tramp stamp remark and grabs my left hand.

“Right here,” he says as he kisses the inside of my wrist.

What an odd place for a tattoo, but, “Whatever Sir wants, Sir gets.”

“Damn straight, I do,” he says fiercely.

I lie down and make myself comfortable on a long chair while the artist preps my wrist, cleaning it and draping it. Dylan allows me to choose a color and I pick a beautiful shade of blue that matches the color of his eyes. While the man gets the ink and equipment ready, Dylan seats himself in the station next to mine and another artist approaches him and starts prepping his left wrist as well. What on earth?

“Dylan, what are you doing?” I ask.

“What does it look like? You own me as I much as I own you, so it only seems appropriate that I’m marked as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”

This man never ceases to amaze me with the depth of his love for me. The best part of his decision to do this for me is that I didn’t ask it of him; he chose this for himself. I’m unable to find the words to say to him and beam at him like a teenager with a crush. I can hardly wait to see what he’s having put on his wrist.

When the tattoo begins, it’s painful; much more so than I ever imagined it would be. It feels as if hot needles are being stabbed into my wrist over and over, and all I can do is lie here and take it and do my best not to move a muscle. Ironically, it’s much like being in a scene with Dylan. I close my eyes, slow my breathing and heart rate, and immerse myself in the intense sensation. I’m being marked for my Master and though it feels sinful, it feels like the right thing to do.

I turn my head to see Dylan undergoing the same torture as myself. His eyes are fixated on me and remain unblinking. While we’re both being inked, our eyes never stray from one another. I can almost hear his lustful thoughts penetrating my brain. I love you, Dylan Young. I love you, Master, I repeat over and over, sending my telepathic message to him. I swear to everything holy that he can hear me as his expert tongue sweeps across his mouth, leaving a glistening layer of his saliva in its path, making my p-ssy ache to be filled with his thick cock.

The pain is exquisite and I wince and grit my teeth when a new letter is being etched into my flesh. When I do, Dylan bites his bottom lip and shifts in his seat. He’s getting aroused at my pain and I, in turn, am kindled from his reaction to it.

The needle hits another sensitive part of my wrist and I clench my jaw, trying to withhold my wanting to cry out. I close my eyes tightly, but Dylan’s voice draws me out.

“p-ssycat, I give you permission to be as vociferous as necessary. I want to hear how much you’re enjoying being marked for me,” he tells me in an alluring voice.

I do love it when he uses big words. Both tattoo artists look up at us and then at each other with raised eyebrows, and I can only imagine what they must think. Not that I give a damn. My husband wants to hear me and that’s all that matters.

When the needle hits my wrist again, I moan out softly and Dylan smirks devilishly. The hour passes slowly and my head is swimming from the powerful feeling of excitement and pain. I’m finally able to sit up when my tattoo is completed and bandaged. I move next to Dylan whose tattoo is almost finished as well. I practically throw myself on him and ravage him when I see the words branded into his skin - Sempre dela - always hers, inked in pitch black.

“Oh, my sweet lover, I’m going to tie you down and f*ck you so good tonight,” I tell him shamelessly. Dylan sputters at my lewd remark and both the tattoo artist and Dylan’s cheeks turn bright red.

“Jesus, Isa,” Dylan laughs.

Holy absurdity. These are grown men and they’re acting like a couple of shy schoolboys.

With Dylan’s tattoo done, we’re finally able to leave. I’m hungry but I just want to get back to the hotel room and bang my husband until we both can’t walk. As soon as we’re out the door of the tattoo shop, I lunge myself at Dylan and kiss him ravenously. He mirrors my response and kisses me back with the same force. I’m damp with anticipation and desire as our tongues dance in each other’s mouths, doing a sexy tango together as they twist and turn. He pulls me close to him by my waist as he leans down and with his other hand, he grabs my hair at the nape of my neck. He fists it and wraps his fingers deep into my tresses and pulls it hard making me cry out. My moans leave my mouth but no sound can be heard as Dylan sucks the air out of my lungs. He pulls back from me and nips at my jaw and down my neck, making me giggle and squirm in his arms.

“We’re connected, Isa,” he breathes into my ear.

“Yes,” I whine out in agreement.

The cab ride to the hotel room is pure torture. We’re fondling each other at a frenzied pace and I’m sure the driver is getting an eyeful as Dylan fingers me to near orgasm.

“What is it about Paris that I just can’t keep my hands off of you?” I ask him in between kisses.

“It has nothing to do with Paris and everything to do with my raw sexuality, baby. I’m f*cking irresistible,” he growls just before he shoves his tongue down my throat.

I can’t argue with that.

We pause our grope-fest just long enough to make it through the lobby of the grand hotel and up to our room. The elevator ride is agonizingly slow, but we maintain our composure for the sake of the uppity old couple in the elevator with us. Dylan’s gaze is unwavering as his eyes move up and down my body. We’ve been together for more than seven months and I still feel the same heated way I did the first time I saw him in Greer’s office when he was looking at me the same way. Speaking of which…

“What did you think of me the first time you saw me?” I ask and Dylan’s eyebrows go up with surprise.

“You always ask the oddest questions at the strangest times. Did you know that?”

“Don’t change the subject. Answer me.”

The old couple smiles at each other and look back at us. Apparently they speak English. Dylan looks from the couple back to me and smiles politely, but doesn’t respond.

“Well?” I prod.

“The first time I saw you, you were running out the door of the Republic and all I saw was a head of messy blonde hair.”

“I didn’t know you saw me then. What about when you saw me in Greer’s office for the first time. What did you think of me then?”

Just then, the elevator comes to a stop and the old couple gets off, but not before the old woman gives Dylan a good piece of advice.

“I’d choose my words wisely if I were you,” she tells him sweetly and then disappears.

The doors close and Dylan moves close to me.

“Okay, I’ll tell you the truth, but only if you think you can handle it.”

Maybe I don’t really want to know after all. “Never mind,” I tell him. Luckily the doors open up and I’m saved from the harsh truth. I make a mad dash out of the elevator and Dylan swiftly catches up to me. He grabs me by my upper arm just as we reach the door of our room and turns me around.

“Why do you always assume the worst?” he asks.

I shrug, not knowing the answer to his question. He opens the door and I kick off my shoes and go straight for the refrigerator to find something to snack on, but Dylan pulls me to the bed and sits me down. He sits next to me and forces me to look at him.

“Stop pouting and let me answer you. The truth is I thought you looked like an angel in wrinkled clothing. Your hair was a mess and it reminded me of an unruly halo sitting on your head. And even though you weren’t my type, I found you very attractive.”

I can’t tell if he’s just saying those things to be nice or not. Very attractive? With the women that he dated, I find it hard to believe he found me very attractive.

“You’re doing it again,” he tells me sternly, interrupting my thoughts.

“Doing what?”

“Assuming the worst. I’m not saying those things to be nice; I’m saying them because they’re the truth.”

“Okay, that’s just weird. How do you do that?” I ask, astounded with his telepathy.

“Do what?”

“Read my thoughts. Is that why you were a spy for the NSA? Because you’re a mind reader?”

Dylan falls back on the bed and laughs hysterically.

“Yes, that’s it. I’m a psychic wonder to behold. I told you, we’re connected. You’re in my head just as much as I’m in yours. You always have been. And for the umpteenth time, I wasn’t a damned spy,” he tells me as his laughter dies down.

He drags me down beside him and touches my cheek. The look in his eyes is smoldering and I know what he wants; the same thing I do.

“So what was that about tying me down and f*cking me good?”