“And like I’ve been saying all along, I’ve been trying. So far, not succeeding.”
“Honestly, kiddo. I’m not sure what the best approach is. But I’d start by going to The Cellar.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yeah. If you go and tell him you’re there to play, I promise you he’ll show up, if only to keep you away from anyone else.”
“But I wouldn’t do anything with anyone else. And he knows it.”
Brody lifts a shoulder. “Knowing it and knowing it are two different things. He’ll come.”
I nod. About that, Brody’s probably right.
“You need to make it clear that even though he’s the one in control, he won’t hurt you. Pick a safe word. I can’t guarantee it would have made a difference, but if you’d yelled a safe word—something offbeat—I bet it would have crashed through his dream, zen state, whatever the fuck it was. And if he knows you’re thinking in those terms—”
“Then maybe he’ll understand that I can handle it. That I want to handle it.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “Honestly, this is out of my league. But that’s my best advice. We’re not talking a normal dom/sub relationship, here. You get that, right? This is all Dallas. All pain and past, and I don’t really have a road map for you.”
“I know. I don’t need a map. I just need—I don’t know, I guess I just need help.”
“I’ll always give you that in spades.”
“I know. And I love you for it.” I exhale, then nod. “Okay. So, back to The Cellar. Do I just … show up?”
“I’ll arrange it for you. And I’ll make sure you two have a private room available, too, because—hang on.” He tilts his head, obviously considering something. “You know what? I take it back. Forget The Cellar.”
“What? Why?”
“This is not a man who wants to share you, and we already know he’s afraid of freaking you out or humiliating you.”
I lean forward, listening. “Go on.”
“Dallas wants the kink, sure. Hell, he needs it. But he doesn’t want to need it. And he sure as hell doesn’t like that he wants it. He goes to the club to fill a need, not because he likes it there or is comfortable being there.”
I nod, because all of that rings true. “So where does that leave me?”
“You need privacy. And we’ve already set up pretty much what you need back in your townhouse.”
“Except I told you that he seems entirely uninterested in christening that room. And, honestly, after the way he bolted from me, how the hell would I get him in there, anyway? I mean, after last night, I’m not sure he’ll set foot in my house again.”
Brody’s grin is devious. “Oh, I can get him there. He may end up being pissed as hell and a little freaked out, but I think you can manage him.”
“Pissed and freaked?” I repeat, then widen my eyes when I realize what Brody’s thinking.
I almost start to protest, but then I close my mouth tight. It just might work. And, honestly, I’m desperate enough to try anything.
Master of Illusion
Dallas pretty much hated himself. Worse, he was damn sure that Jane hated him, too.
He was a fucking mess, and it’s a wonder she didn’t just kick him in the balls. He sure as hell deserved it.
With a groan, he bent forward and lowered his head, letting the spray from the shower pound against his aching back, wishing that it could wash away all his mistakes.
His body ached as he remembered the way she’d felt on top of him, his cock hard inside her warmth. But he’d only been half there. The rest of him lost in a dream.
A dream of darkness. And torment.
A dream where he was at her mercy—Jane’s, the Woman—it didn’t matter because in the dream they’d been all mixed up. They’d been one. They’d been taunting him, torturing him, using him.
The first time he’d awakened to find himself hard and inside of Jane was like a fantasy come true. It had rocked him to the core, and the way she had taken control had aroused him so fully that for the first time he had hope that he might actually be able to finish inside her.
And now the memory of the Woman was destroying that pleasure. Taking something he cherished and turning it around on him, twisting it up now, seventeen years later, just like she’d done when he was a boy.
Fucking bitch.
He couldn’t take it any longer. He couldn’t live with the memories. With the fear. He couldn’t live knowing what she’d done to him.
And all he could hear was Jane’s words in his head. She took control? Take it back.
Well, fuck if that wasn’t exactly what he’d tried to do.
Except it wasn’t the Woman who was riding him. It wasn’t the Woman he’d tossed to the ground, slammed against the wall. A damp concrete wall, hidden away in an underground fortress.
It wasn’t the Woman he’d grabbed by the throat, holding her tight—so damn tight—as he’d thrust his fingers hard inside of her. Claiming her. Taming her. Proving that it was he who held fast to control.
It wasn’t the Woman he was punishing. It wasn’t a cell he was inhabiting.