18. Briar
Briar
S miling, I press the phone against my ear. “Did you know that your doctor thinks you’re all psychopaths?”
River’s warm, deep laugh fills my ear. “How did it go?”
I bite down on my lip, guilt snaking through me. “It was fine.”
“You sure?” His voice lowers. “Anything make you uncomfortable?”
Sighing, I run my hand through my hair and lean back in my armchair. I’ve only just got here, taking a few hours this morning for a very interesting visit with the doctor they keep on call.
Who keeps their own doctor on call? Someone who prescribes sleeping medication for sex?
Although the older, stern-faced but kind woman I spent my morning with didn’t seem too pleased about it. “She slid me a leaflet for a women’s help center over the desk while she was talking. Didn’t even miss a beat.”
Silence. And then River speaks, amusement still in his voice. “I suppose I can’t blame her, given what we’re asking. But I’m glad she’s looking out for you.”
“Do you…,” I stare up at the ceiling. “Have you sent her women before?”
“No.” His immediate response has the tension in my muscles seeping out. “You’re the first, and we’ve been working with her for years. She probably thought we’d brainwashed you.”
But she was thorough. We talked through the pros and cons of different birth control options, choosing a small rod for my arm that stings slightly beneath the dressing, and I had some tests done.
They’re having the same tests. As long as everyone’s results are negative, we won’t be using condoms.
It all feels so real .
They’ve made sure every detail is covered. Things I would never have thought of. In the past week since I saw Jenson at the club – the memory still flooding my face with warmth – I haven’t seen any of them. But we’ve spoken. “So what now?”
“She’ll send us the report. No in-depth details, just a confirmation on if you’re healthy enough to go ahead and the results of the tests you had while you were there.” His voice turns teasing. “Anything you want to tell me now?”
I squeeze my eyes shut at the words that linger on my tongue. “No. Although I did have a severe iron deficiency when I was younger. My levels can still get slightly lower than normal, so I take tablets sometimes. I told her about it. I’m not taking anything at the moment, though.”
I wonder if the blood test will throw up an abnormal red cell count. I’ve never felt so tired as I have in the last week, my sleep well and truly disrupted by dreams that have me waking up in a trembling mess.
But I’ve never felt so exhilarated .
“Is there anything we should look out for? Any symptoms?” Any amusement disappears from River’s voice. “Anything you need us to keep here?”
Tension creeps back in. “No. I’m perfectly fine. I know my own body, River.”
My words come out snappish.
Silence. River’s voice is gentle when he finally speaks. “You absolutely do. So you’ll let us know, if there is anything.”
His careful sentence has my eyes closing.
“Sorry.” I bite down on my lip. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just – my father is overprotective because of it. Always has been. And I just… I don’t want that to influence what happens here. Not when it’s not relevant. I haven’t been truly ill since I was fourteen.”
“Noted. Let me know when you want me to collect the agreement.”
I eye it, scattered over my desk. I still haven’t finished it. Haven’t decided on my own limitations. “I’ll get it done today.”
“No rush. Take your time.”
When he’s gone, I stand and make my way to the desk, settling into my chair and tugging the forms toward me. They’re stapled together in an intimidating-looking package, and I take a breath before grabbing my pen.
The first few sections are easy enough. Some I’ve already done, like my health information as requested by the doctor. My emergency contact information, which I grimace at before giving my father’s details.
It had better be a life-threatening emergency.
We’re still not talking, the cold war helped along by the case he’s working on. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, had a few stilted conversations before he’s disappeared into the office he works in at home, or headed out to his firm.
And thankfully, it means I haven’t had to endure any more dinners with Philip, or his mother.
Flipping to the next section, I squint down at the list. My throat dries up, eyes widening as I take in the first few lines, each with a helpful little tick box next to them.
Anal – use of finger (singular) Anal – use of fingers (multiple) Anal – use of fist Anal – use of toy (non-vibrating) Anal – use of toy (vibrating) Anal – use of tongue
Wow.
“One at a time,” I mutter to myself. “Everything is my choice.”
But there are so many choices, stretching over what must be at least a dozen pages. I keep going, skating over A and moving on to B, my eyes only growing wider.
Body modification – piercing (please indicate locations and style) Body modification – tattooing (please indicate locations and style) Body modification – cold branding (please indicate locations and preferred style)
My hands are shaking as I grab my phone and send a message to Jenson. What exactly is cold branding?
A moment later, my phone pings. A permanent brand on your skin. Something I have no intention of doing to you, even if you asked for it. It’s a hard limit for us. We included everything to enable an open discussion if our expectations don’t match.
What if I do want it?
Then find a cattle farmer. I’m not as averse to tattooing, however.
My hand reaches for my throat at the thought of waking up to that. What would you tattoo on me? If I tick the box?
I’m not actually going to tick the box. Something tells me he knows that too. But he answers me anyway. My name would look lovely in your skin, Briar Rose.
The words, the mental image, steals my air for a moment. Unfortunately, I’m leaving that box blank.
A shame.
I keep going, moving faster now to see if there’s anything else that I can send to him. To tease more of those words from him.
I don’t think I’d enjoy caning.
His response appears seconds later. I seem to have a lot of hard limits when it comes to you. No caning, whips, or anything else that will draw blood. The others will agree. Spanking with our hands is another matter. It may still leave a mark.
Shivering, I flick through and tick the box . I think that’s acceptable.
Another message comes through. Truthfully, I have little interest in anything additional, be it toys or whips. You are more than enough to hold my attention. But if there’s anything you’d like to explore, tick the box.
My lips tilt up as I read another line, my awkwardness lessening the more we talk. My brows rise in surprise at the innocuous words. Hair cutting?
No.
I have a hair appointment this afternoon. My smile turns to a grin, remembering his words about my hair. I’m considering a change. Would that be a problem?
I’m not expecting the phone to light up in my hand, the buzz of an incoming call announcing Jenson’s name on my screen. “Um. Hello?”
“You are not cutting your hair.” His words are low and terse. The buzz of background noise fades behind him, as if he’s stepped away from something.
To call me. About my hair. “Tell me you’re joking.”
He sounds… deadly serious. I swallow. “What if I’m not?”
“Then I would be bereft.” He doesn’t hesitate. “Your choice. Always. But if you possibly would be willing to… wait, until after the arrangement, I would be grateful.”
I bite down on my cheek before I respond. “I’m not cutting my hair.”
Jenson loosens a breath in my ear, and something unravels in my stomach. “Good.”
“You really like my hair that much?” I ask curiously.
“Briar—,”
He stops. Takes a breath. “I’m fucking obsessed with it.”
And then, with those abrupt, rough words, he hangs up .
Well, then.
I glance back down to the form, the options underneath catching my eye.
Hair braiding Hair brushing Hair washing
Smiling, I tick off each one, leaving the cutting option blank before moving on. And when I’m finished a few hours later, I send all three of them a message.
I’m ready.