“I’ll share.”
“That’s the problem,” I’d said, those words cutting me with bad memories. I’d remembered him inviting another Master to our games. I remember him inviting her to our games. All to push me away. And I hate myself for letting him. For saying yes. “You will share,” I’d added. “And that’s not okay with me.” I’d reached up and removed his hand from my hip. “When and if you ever want to be with me, not a submissive, call me. Until then, this is goodbye.” I’d tried to step around him, but he’d tangled fingers into my hair, and stared down at me, “Rebecca,” he’d breathed out, and even now, I can still taste the kiss that had followed, the power in its depths. The push and command. It had been his body claiming mine, where his words had failed. And my body had responded. Before I’d know it, his hand was under my skirt, under my panties, and I’d been panting and moaning. I’d shattered, in too few seconds. He’d owned me.
And yet, nothing had changed.
I still wanted more.
I still want more.
And I’d told him that. “This changes nothing,” I’d said.
He’d tilted his head upward, torment he never allows me, or anyone, to see etched in his features, the hard lines of his body, telling the same story, as the edginess radiating off him. Seconds tick by, before he lowers his chin, and looks at me. “I’m me. I can’t be anyone but who I am.”
“And I can’t be anyone but who I am.”
Seconds ticked by, before he’d stepped back, giving me space to leave. Oh God. My heart had hurt in that moment. I’d taken a few steps and my back was to him when he’d said, “Rebecca.”
I’d stopped but not turned, as he’d added, “You matter to me more than you will ever know.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore than I am now. I just knew it wasn’t enough and I’d started walking again. I’d left him there in the alcove and despite the orgasm he’d given me, nothing about the experience had been satisfying.
Anyway, back to the open house. There had been a man there. A good looking, rich, charming man. He asked me out. I said no when the truth is, maybe I should have said yes. Did I mention he’s good looking, rich, and charming? He made me laugh, even tonight, after the alcove. He made me feel pretty and wanted. He was what most would call a Dream Man.
And yet…I said no.
Thursday, eleven pm
It’s been a week and one day since that encounter in the alcove. He hasn’t called me. He hasn’t sent me a note. I haven’t contacted him either. But I’ve seen him several times. We’ve made eye contact. And I’ve felt him. Not literally, but in those looks, I’ve felt his torment, his desire, his need for me. But I’ve also felt his resistance to what I need from him. I think this means we’re over.
That Dream Man I wrote about stopped by the Gallery today, and bought a very expensive Chris Merit painting from me. It was a big commission, and I should be pleased, but he asked me out right after, and it made me feel as if he were buying me. I just…I don’t want to be owned in any way ever again. I declined the date, and when I left work tonight, he was waiting for me, leaning on a fancy sports car that I’m pretty sure cost more than that painting which was a cool hundred thousand dollars. His suit, a black pin striped number, had been thousands too I assume. I still felt the same. Like he was trying to buy me. And so I decided to just be clear and direct. I marched right up to him.
He’d pushed off his car, and we’d stood toe to toe, closer than I’d meant to stand. “Rebecca,” he’d said, giving my velvet coat, a gift from my mother, I’d paired with an emerald green scarf, a once over, his brown eyes both warm with a gentleness and hot with attraction, when they’d met mine. “You look beautiful,” he’d added.
I’d gotten pretty warm then, too, which had stunned me. I’d really started to believe no one else but my former Master, could make me anything but cold. It had kind of scared me. It made me feel like I was losing the man I love. But then, I’d suddenly remembered a saying my grandmother used to tell, when she was alive: If you have a bird and it flies away, if it comes back, it was yours. If it does not, it never was.
“Thank you,” I’d told him, in response to the compliment. “Is there a problem with the painting?”
“Yes,” he’d said. “There is. It made you uncomfortable.”
I was blown away that he was in tune enough with me to know this. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I’d said, daring to say exactly what I’d felt. “You asking me out after buying it did.”
He’d arched a dark brown. “Because you don’t want to go out with me?”
“Because if felt like you bought the painting to buy me.”
“It’s my second Chris Merit painting,” he’d said. “The first I picked up in Paris. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, I don’t buy women. I don’t have to.”
“Oh. No. I mean–your–of course you don’t. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m coming off a strange relationship.”
“And you felt like property?”
“Something like that. And at the risk of sounding like a jerk, you do flash your money around. How do you even know if you’re buying a woman or not?”
“You can tell a lot about a person when you flash your money around. It certainly has told me a lot about you.”
“What has it told you about me?”
“That you don’t care about my money. Go to dinner with me.”
“No.”
“Go to dinner with me,” he’d repeated.
“I don’t even know you. I know nothing about you.”
“That’s what you learn over dinner. But if it makes you feel better, let’s make it coffee. Now. Next door.”
I’d found myself wanting to say yes, but still I said, “No.”
He’d given me one of his warm brown stares, seconds ticking by before he’d said, “I’ll walk you to your car. Where are you parked?”
“At a meter around the corner but you don’t have to do that.”
“If I had to do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”
I have no idea why but that comment charmed me. Really. He’d charmed me from the moment I met him. “All right. Thank you.”
We’d started walking and I remember thinking that he was so very big and powerful, beside me. By big, I mean, his presence. I felt him there. I think everyone and anyone would. And really, it’s perhaps because he has that force about him, that he could even get my attention right now. I mean, my Master–ugh–no, no, no–former Master–consumed me.
“How long have you been interested in art?” he’d asked.
“Since I was a teenager,” I confess. “I wanted to be an artist, but I wasn’t gifted enough.”
“Perhaps you’re hard on yourself. Do you have any of your own work?”