So I refuse. I lock my knees, and stiffen.
He stops. Pulls out. And for a moment I think he’s disappointed. My body language is all wrong. I have failed to submit properly and he’s going to walk out.
Instead he unties my wrists. My shoulders burn when they are released, and fall, limp, at my sides.
He places both hands on my shoulders and turns me, still en pointe, so my toes do a little painful dance as I spin, and pushes me back against the brick wall. I see nothing but the crimson red of his tie, tightly wrapped around my eyes.
Then he reaches under my knees and lifts me up, pressing his body against mine, then pressing my back into the sharp brick wall until it’s painful. His cock slips back inside me. I moan for so many reasons. My legs, freed from agony. My toes—surely blistered by this point—screaming with relief.
I grab him. I hold him. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his hair and make him fuck me. He goes slow. And he’s soft. Even though I know he’s neither of those things.
When I submit, he is, I realize. He’s soft just for me in this moment.
And maybe I could love this man. Maybe I could.
By the time my orgasm begins to build, I’m crying. I don’t even know why I’m crying, I just am. Tears flood my eyes. Fall down my cheeks. But it feels so good to be sad.
I’m so confused.
Until I realize this is what submission is. Relief. Freedom from decisions. Trusting him to do it right. To know. And I am convinced in this moment that no one on Earth knows me as well as Elias Bricman.
I come, shaking and sobbing. And I don’t even know if he comes too, because I hear nothing but the vacuum of cancelled noise in my head.
But he slows. And I can feel his chest through his shirt. In and out. Hard, short breaths just like mine.
He sets me down and I don’t even pretend like I can remain en pointe. “I did my best. I swear,” I say, the words echoing in my ears. “I can’t give you any more.”
He places his fingertips on my lips. Shushing me. And then he walks away again.
I don’t panic this time. Just lean against the wall, the sharp brick poking into my back. And I wait.
He comes back. I knew he would. And drapes something around my shoulders. My robe, I realize. From the bathroom. I slip my arms into it, and never has terrycloth felt so luxurious. He ties the belt tight around my waist and leaves, one more time.
I wait.
And wait. And then I feel the vibrations of footsteps on the hardwood floor as he approaches.
He pulls one of the headphones away from my ear and says, “Nadia?”
But it’s not Bric’s voice.
I grab for the tie that’s making me see red, and tug it down my face.
“Logan?” I say, bewildered. “What the fuck—”
But that’s when I see Bric. Leaning against the doorjamb. Holding out a piece of paper. “Look familiar?” he asks, shaking the paper. “Your boy here called me the other day. Said he needed to see you.”
“What the—”
“Nadia?” Logan says. “I’m sorry.”
I look at Logan as I try to process what just happened. His shirt is untucked from his pants. His belt unbuckled. His hair rumpled.
And then I look at Bric. He looks like a million dollars. His suit is not rumpled. His hair is not mussed.
He was not the one who just fucked me.
Chapter Thirty-One - Bric
“You dick,” she screams. “You motherfucking dick!”
She flies across the room at me, her toe shoes clumping on the hard wood. Her fist hits me hard in the jaw. And I will admit, it fucking hurts.
But I only let her get one punch in. I grab her wrists and say, “Calm the fuck down.”
“Calm the—fuck you! Fuck you!” she screams as she fights my grip on her wrists. Flailing and out of control.
“Nadia!” Logan says. “I didn’t. It’s not what you think. I don’t know what the fuck you two are doing, but I didn’t do anything!”
Nadia looks at me. Confused. I almost laugh. But I figure that would not be in the spirit of things. I’m all about winning graciously. “He didn’t fuck you, Nadia. That was all me, honey. Come on. Give me a little credit.”
“What the hell is going on?” she yells.
I shrug. “You wanted to play, right? I warned you. I fucking warned you. And you practically begged me to do this.”
“To fuck with my head?”
“You’re the one who said it, remember? I like to mind-fuck people. Did you really think you could play this game with me and not get the full Bric treatment?”
She spins, looking at Logan. “What are you doing here?”
Logan looks… scared shitless. And you don’t need a degree in psychiatry to see it. So I figure I better save the guy. It’s the least I can do since his role in this whole charade just helped me win.
The paper I was holding fell to the floor during our scuffle, so I pick it up and hold it out to her. She snatches it from my hand, crumples it up, and tosses it over her shoulder. She knows what that paper says.
“I should’ve done a background check on you, Nadia. Would’ve explained so many things.”
She looks at Logan. Glares at him. “You told him?”
Logan just shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender. “You need to know something, Nadia. That’s why I’m here. I just need to tell you something.”
“I don’t need to know shit,” she says, almost spitting out the words. “Get the fuck out of my house.” She screams it. “Both of you! Get the fuck out!”
“Well, I believe that’s my cue,” I say, brushing a piece of lint off my suit. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Wolfe. Good game.”
I turn my back on them. I don’t know what the fuck they have going on, but I do not care. I read the police report Logan showed up with that day at the Club, and it does explain a lot. But I’m just not curious enough to figure the rest out.
She learned her lesson today.
I might’ve lost with Chella and Rochelle.
But I most certainly did not lose with Nadia.
Chapter Thirty-Two - Nadia
Logan just looks at me after Bric is gone. “Leave,” I say, walking out of the studio and searching for my coat in the living room. I grab my phone from the pocket, but Logan is right behind me.
“No,” he says, gripping my shoulder to make me turn. “I need to talk to you. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for months. And now that I’m here, I’m gonna have my—what are you doing?”
“You’re violating the restraining order. So I’m calling 911. You have two seconds to get the fuck out of my apartment or I will press that last number.” I hold it up so he can see my screen, the big ol’ nine and one staring him in the face.
“Nadia,” he says, pleading.
“Get out.”
“I just want you to know—”
“Go. Away.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. Frowning. Watching me. Seeing me.
“Stop looking at me,” I say. “Stop it.”
He lowers his eyes and turns. But just as he’s about to twist the handle on the front door, he stops. “It wasn’t your fault, Nadia. It was my fault.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you do.”