Chapter 54 #2
The left side of his mouth lifts. “You’re mistaken.
A white night doesn’t commit felonies to get you out of prison.
A white night doesn’t spend weeks crafting a very illegal plan and allocate seven figures to making sure you get off on a technicality.
I didn’t do it to be a hero of any kind, or because I felt guilty for whatever happened fourteen years ago. I did it for you.”
“You hardly know me,” I argue, my voice only a notch above a whisper.
He scoffs. “I know you quite well, actually. French onion soup is your favorite, especially when it’s served with a fresh, crusty piece of bread.
You prefer the color red to any other, and you’d rather have new shoes than a new handbag.
Your sweet tooth could rival that of a pastry chef’s.
You wash your sheets on Sundays. You care more for the lives of others than you do your own, and you guard your heart to protect yourself. I know you, Genevieve.”
My pulse whirs faster than a jet engine, my knees threatening to buckle, my body melting as the iron bars around my heart fall away.
My breath hitches, my jaw slackening, but what the fuck can I say to something like that? I’m tempted to ask what, specifically, that means, but if I do, I’ll be forced to contend with the answer. And that’s not something I’m quite ready for.
A part of me is tempted to tell him that I know him, too.
Like how the color of his eyes makes him think of his parents, and that he’s a bit of a food snob.
He prefers his steak medium rare and indulges in breakfast food with extra syrup.
I know that the deep, throaty sound of his laugh haunted me for years to the point that I’d swear I heard it even when no one was around.
He doesn’t like to talk about his years in the military, but there are pockets of that time that he still likes to laugh about.
He can dance, maybe better than a professional, and his arms feel like home.
I’m well-versed in the subject of Ford Crawford, but I don’t divulge any of that.
I move for the door, desperate for some space to think, to breathe, to fortify myself, but I’ve only taken a couple of steps when he stops me. “Gen.”
Twisting my neck, I meet his gaze, finding a glimmer of sadness and hope reflected back at me.
“What movies did I miss?”
Something in my chest shifts. If I didn’t know better, I’d be seeking medical attention for this feeling.
I hate that I know exactly what he’s talking about; referencing a conversation from our past life and how I mentioned that I like to spend my Saturdays curled up with a movie.
I’ll beg you to show me every movie I missed.
Even after all the time I spent trying to forget, I still remember those messages. They’re embedded in my mind, permanently fixed.
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen one in fourteen years.” Haven’t wanted to, not without you. That pastime was ruined for me when I pulled that trigger and the walls were painted in shades of Leo.
Something indecipherable slides across his vision, even in the low light of the room. “What happened after that night? Is that when Allison was born?”
It’s obvious which night he’s referring to, and it was only a matter of time before he truly broached this subject. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t go directly for the obvious question of why didn’t you come to Logan Circle? It’ll be mentioned at some point, though, I’m sure.
“I moved to Amsterdam and spent four years being mentored by a professional Domme at a brothel. She taught me everything I know about BDSM, more specifically dominance and submission. Allison was born when I moved back here ten years ago.”
He nods slowly, like he understands, but I doubt he does. I likely only left him with new questions.
Instead of pressing the issue, he’s quiet for a moment, shifting in his seat, his elbow resting casually on the armrest. He looks at ease, confident, as he asks, “So what kind of Domme are you?”
My eyebrows crease as I attempt to follow his line of questioning. “What?”
“You said in one of your lessons that there are types of Doms, so what are you?”
“I’m a dominatrix, a pro-Domme. I get paid to dominate people. I don’t fall into any of the other categories you’re thinking of because I’m not a Domme outside of my playroom.”
Grady changed everything; he changed me. Engaging in risky sex outside of the safety of my playroom wasn’t something I was interested in anymore.
Ford tilts his head to the side, confusion clouding his face. “And you don’t submit, so what? You just don’t have sex?”
This topic isn’t uncomfortable for me, not after almost two decades of sex work, but there’s something about conversing with Ford about my recreational bedroom activities that has my insides twisting.
Still, it’s not enough to make me blush.
I lift a shoulder casually. “I’d top or opt for something vanilla that kept me and a partner on a more even playing field. ”
He holds my gaze, his features hard. “Not with me, you wouldn’t.”
His bold statement vacuums the oxygen from the room, tilts the room on its axis, and leaves me dizzy. I believe him. There’s no doubt in my mind that what he’s saying is true. It makes being in the same vicinity as this man absurdly dangerous.
“You know,” he adds carefully. “I’d give you whatever you wanted.”
Something tells me he’s not talking about sex, but that’s the problem. My stomach flips like a fish out of water, and my survival instincts implore me to leave. Staying in this room is dangerous.
But as I turn once more, Ford inquires, “Would you go to the Acme Ball with me?”
The Acme Ball is the largest, most prestigious ball in Washington, behind the Inaugural Ball.
Held every year, it’s where the world’s elite drink and conspire.
The lobbyists pressure and petition under the guise of friendship.
Cabals of politicians from varying countries collude and deceive one another.
And capitalism’s finest corollaries extort, coerce and compel until there’s no one left undefiled.
It’s where games are played; chess pieces locking into place as pawns topple over.
There was certainly no way I was going to miss it.
I didn’t foresee Ford as someone interested in the District’s gala season.
I figured I’d be securing my own ticket—after spending a cool twenty-five grand or weaseling my way back onto Julien’s arm—but now that Ford is asking, I weigh the consequences of going with him.
We are married, and having the public backing of the Crawford name and estate might not be the worst thing in the world. Beyond that, though, the longing simmering in his gaze like the flames flickering in the fireplace makes my chest ache.
“Alright,” I say, hoping the confirmation will force the twinge behind my ribs to abate.
It doesn’t.