Chapter 50
Genevieve
The metal spoon scrapes against the side of the ceramic bowl as I swirl the cheesy, oniony goodness around. I haven’t even touched the grilled meat and vegetables on my plate. I don’t lift the next bite to my mouth, instead I let the utensil fall from my grasp with an abrasive clatter.
Staring at the crispy piece of baguette, I consider dragging it through the hearty soup, but refrain.
For some reason, it bothers me that he remembered my favorite food, like he’s trying to prove he’s still the man whose messages lit my blood on fire.
Rationally, I know he’s probably attempting to make me feel at home or some shit. Nonetheless, this meal is tasting sour.
The worst part is that this is the best French onion soup I’ve had in fourteen fucking years, and it’s wasted.
When I got back from Amsterdam, the restaurant in The District with the best soup had closed and nothing I’ve had since has compared.
It’s frustrating as hell that today would be the day that’s changed for me.
Reaching for my downright filthy martini—my second of the night, and probably not my last—I take a sip, the brine lingering on my tongue after I’ve swallowed. Then, I take another gulp.
Ford’s blue eyes drill into the side of my face from where he sits at the head of the table, but I ignore him.
I spent the day getting my hair dyed back to blonde to cover my onyx roots, as well as enjoying a manicure and pedicure. I also went for a four-mile run on the treadmill in Ford’s state-of-the-art gym.
Leaning back in my seat, I take yet another drink, nearly draining my glass at this point. The alcohol swims in my brain now, and wading through my thoughts has become like trudging through wet concrete. Just as I’d hoped.
“Would you rather have something else?” Ford asks after several moments.
I set my lips, shifting my eyes to his. “I’d rather drink my meal tonight.” After a moment, I snark, “Besides, it’s a hard adjustment from the shit prison calls food.”
He stares back at me, the flex of his sharp, flawless jaw the only indication that he heard me. Tearing my gaze from the seductive oceanic pool of his irises, I toss back the rest of my martini, moving to the bar to make another.
I’m being prickly, and we’re both aware of that fact, but I can’t find it in me to give a damn.
As I compile the ingredients, Ford speaks again. “I’ll have the remainder of your things brought here from your place.”
I shrug, even though my back is to the man. “Why? It makes no difference to me. I have no attachment to those things.”
The closet of the guest room is already filled with more than enough clothing to supply me for the foreseeable future.
It’s all my favorite pieces, too, which is presumably Corinne’s doing.
I never truly moved into my place, never bothering to make it a home.
It had what I needed and nothing else. I spent all my time at work, anyway, so that’s where I chose to spend my money.
I’m far more concerned with the state of my office, which is something I plan to check out as soon as possible.
“Because we’re married.”
Married. There’s that word again.
I whirl around to find his attention already on me. Maybe it’s the gin, or maybe prison has changed me entirely, but I find my mouth moving before my sluggish brain can catch up. “For how long?”
There’s an end to this at some point. Right? It won’t be necessary to keep up appearances in five or ten years. The world would’ve moved on by then, so we can, too.
“Forever.” Firm resolution is etched into his stony expression.
Rationality clearly isn’t on the menu tonight. Neither is finishing this meal together now that the F-word hangs between us.
When I’ve finished pouring my martini into an icy glass and garnishing it with four olives, I mutter something about wanting to take a bath.
Inside my temporary bedroom, I close the door and sag against the cool wood as I blow out a breath.
My gaze connects with the ring I still haven’t removed.
The sparkly diamonds catch the warm lamplight, casting a rainbow on the wallpaper.
It really is a beautiful piece of jewelry and exactly what I would’ve chosen if I’d had the chance.
But none of this is real. It can’t be.
I broke my cardinal rule, and he betrayed me. It doesn’t matter who he was to me in a past life. The Genevieve who crawled for Grady Blandon is dead. That woman who trusted freely is long buried.
I knew better when I kneeled in Ford’s office, yet I did it anyway. I won’t do it again.
The rug gives way to hardwood then tile as I make my way to the bathroom, drawing a luxurious bath using the lavish tinctures I find in the cabinets. When I finally sink among the bubbles, I take a deep breath, forcing the tightness in my chest to ease.
As I sip my martini, I find my mind wandering to my clients and the damage control that’s in store for me tomorrow. I have no doubt that Henry will still be interested in seeing me, but considering what I’ve been through, how will I be able to tap into the powerful, dominant side of myself?
I’d never admit it aloud, but a sliver of me that was once whole feels utterly broken, and no matter how hard I fought to glue those pieces back together in prison, they never seemed to fit as seamlessly as they once did.
I set my martini on the little side table, next to where I placed my wedding band, the water molecules transforming from gas to liquid as they form droplets and slide down the exterior of my cool glass.
Closing my eyes, I plunge my arms through the pile of bubbles and into the warm water.
Tilting my head back, I try to center myself, my fingers deftly beginning to caress my breasts.
It’s been ages since I even considered getting myself off, and the last orgasm I had came from Ford. I wonder if a climax or two might help tape a few of my shattered pieces back together. After a few calming breaths, I formulate a mental image, one that usually does it for me.
A faceless man on his knees, naked with his cock engorged, swinging freely between his legs like a creaky sign swaying back and forth in the wind as he crawls toward me. My black leather boots squeeze my legs like a collar.
My stance is wide, the delicate tails of the galley whip in my hand skimming the surface of the floor with the fluid grace of a serpent. When he reaches me, he sits back on his heels, his face pointed toward the floor as his palms rest face-up on his thighs.
I drag the whip over his back gently, and his breath hitches, my pussy fluttering as I circle his kneeling form. Behind him, I order, “Straighten up. Brace yourself.”
Moaning softly, I tweak my hardened nipple between two fingers, my other hand gliding through the fragrant water, skimming my stomach until I reach the apex of my thighs.
The pad of my middle finger circles my clit sensually, teasing myself. I arch my back, leaning into the pleasure beginning to ripple through my body.
The good boy sits up on his knees, his toned, muscular backside on display. I draw the whip back and let it fly.
One of my favorite toys, the galley whip is an amalgamation of a single tail whip and a flogger. It’s less risky in terms of leaving permanent damage than a standard whip, but more than capable of inflicting the pain I wish to dole out.
The moment the tails connect with the flesh of his upper thighs, he grunts, the short, throaty sound signaling his discomfort. I swing again, the blow landing across his ass this time and he jerks, absorbing the punch of pain.
My body jolts, the building orgasm dying a little with every blow I make in my imagination. As my eyelids flutter open, my finger drifts from my clit, my other hand abandoning my breast.
I huff, staring up at the cream-painted ceiling. After taking another sip of my martini, I decide to try again. Only this time, I conjure a new fantasy without limits or constraints.
The submissive kneeling this time is me. I squirm, discomforted by the vulnerability coursing through me. My knees are spread wide, my naked body on display as I sit on my heels, the floor growing severely harder with each passing moment.
“I told you not to move. What do you call what you’re doing?” The voice is rough and deep, shrouded in smoke and silk.
“Moving, Sir,” I reply, my gaze downcast, sounding reverent and meek.
“That’s right, doll. Good thing you have me to train you.”
Anticipation rockets through me. I’m soaking wet and the tails of the galley whip haven’t even touched me yet. When they do, I bite down on my tongue to bottle the moan that wants to escape.
“Sit up. Let’s see what a little training does for your obedience.”
I do as I’m commanded, my kneecaps drilling into the hardwood floor painfully, but I simply close my eyes, relishing the agony as I brace myself for the blow that’s to come.
“You may make noise,” he permits a second before the whip whizzes through the air and lands across both globes of my ass.
I let out a yelp, my body jerking violently, wobbling on my bony knees.
“I’ll add fifteen if you topple over,” he warns.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” I resist the urge to curl my fingers into a fist.
He strikes me again, this time a bit lower, and I scream.
Pain ripples through me, morphing into warm pleasure as my body digests the sensation.
My nipples are pebbled and hard, the kiss of the cool, conditioned air tightening them further.
Begging for attention, my needy pussy quivers between my legs.
My finger frantically strokes my clit in hungry desperation for release. I chase the high, sprinting after the looming orgasmic bliss that’s on the horizon. What I wouldn’t give to be fucked right now, filled and stretched in ways that my slender fingers could never satisfy.
The tails strike me again and again, until I’m covered in a sheer veil of sweat, a dull tremble rattling through me. I’m hovering on the edge of the cliff of rapture, small rocks and dirt falling to the ocean below my feet as I wait to be swept away.
My safe word looms like a gray storm cloud in the distance. I don’t use it; there’s no need. While I haven’t seen my Dominant’s face, I’m certain I’m safe in the palm of his hand.
When the next blow assaults my ass, I scream. As the shrill noise leaves my throat, it releases the mental and physical agony, unraveling my turmoil and uncoiling the dense thoughts that have clogged my mind.
Lost in the torture, I don’t notice the man step in front of me. My eyes remain on the floor, even as his warm palm gently cups my cheek, my body still quaking.
He crouches before me, but I don’t dare look at him without permission.
“You took that so well.” His voice is nearly enough to make me come, sultry and adoring. “This is a reward I’m proud to give you.”
Two of his thick fingers plunge seamlessly inside my overly eager cunt. He begins stroking my clit with his other hand, and within seconds, I’m slipping off the precipice of ecstasy.
“I… Oh, pl—”
He reads my mind. “Come for me, beautiful slut.”
I explode, crying out as I combust, the liberating orgasm seizing me in a firm grasp that doesn’t let me go for several moments. When my eyes open, I’m met with irises the color of a cloudless blue sky.
As the orgasm ebbs, I sink farther into the bathtub, realizing that the eyes in my subconscious belonged to Ford.
Upon reflection, I’m shocked I came to the fantasy of submitting to him. Typically, my mind supplies Grady as the Dominant and things die before they could ever really start. I refuse to analyze what this new revelation might mean, though.
I lounge in the bathtub until I finish my martini, wrapping myself in a plush towel. Padding into the room, I head for the walk-in closet. Once dressed in a black silk sleep set, I emerge, only to notice the door to the bedroom standing wide open.