20. Abby
20
ABBY
“ Y ou’re exhausted,” Dane says before I can formulate a reply, his voice deep with concern rather than judgment. “Let’s sit down, and I’ll treat your hand. We can talk more after.”
I practically float as he guides me into an ultramodern, minimalist living room. I’m no longer certain if I’m conscious or if I’ve slipped into some sweet dream where my charming prince is focused on me like I’m the most important person in the world.
He urges me to sit on the plush cream couch and orders me to stay before disappearing into the next room. I take a moment to stare at my surroundings, taking in his private space.
All of the furnishings are sleek and clearly expensive, but there’s something almost sterile about the pale color palette. It feels like a show home that someone has designed as a model of a house rather than a place someone actually lives in. Everything is too new, too perfectly polished and clean. Even the glass coffee table doesn’t have so much as an errant water mark marring the surface.
I remind myself that Dane only moved in a few months ago, and he’s admitted that he doesn’t have an eye for art. It’s likely that he hired some high-end interior designer to furnish this place, and he simply hasn’t lived here long enough to make the space his own.
He returns to me before I can puzzle over it further.
“Give me your hand.”
I comply without hesitation, even though my cheeks flush with soft heat. I’m still embarrassed that I was so careless at work.
“It’s really not bad,” I assure him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. My skin just feels a little tight.”
He frowns at the angry red splotch over the back of my fingers, but his touch is achingly careful as he rubs a cool salve into the burn. I release a long, slow exhale. The relief from the lingering burn is almost euphoric; I hadn’t realized that I was still experiencing pain until he soothed it away.
When he’s satisfied that my injury has been treated, his green eyes meet mine, pinning me in place with that rapt focus that makes my stomach flip.
“I should’ve come for you sooner,” he says, as though it’s an admission of a grave sin against me. “But I needed to get the paperwork together first.”
My brow furrows. “Paperwork?”
He sits down beside me and reaches for a leather folder that I hadn’t noticed on the side table. His expression is blank, completely enigmatic as he hands it to me.
“I had my lawyer draw this up. I hope you’re not offended, but I have to be careful.”
I open the folder and glance over the official document.
“An NDA?” My gaze meets his again, and I still can’t read him. It’s like a wall has gone up between us, and I’m shivering in its cool, looming shadow. “What’s this about?” I press. “You can trust me, Dane.”
His jaw tightens ever so slightly, the barest sign of tension. “I think I’ve made it clear that I’m not exactly close with my family, and I want things to stay that way.” The words are so formal in his accent that they almost sound rehearsed. “But if what I want to say to you ever got back to them, they wouldn’t let me be. It took a good five years for them to accept that I wasn’t coming back home. They’re content with their spare now, and they leave me to live my own life in America. I don’t want that to change if I cause a scandal.”
“Their spare ?” I ask, still not understanding. “What do you mean?”
His face remains a careful, stony blank, like a beautiful sculpture of male stoicism.
“My father is the Earl of Ripley. I am the firstborn son. But I rejected my birthright when I left England to study at Johns Hopkins. They’ve learned to make do with my little brother, James, as the new heir.”
I place my hand over his closed fist, trying to get him to open up to me again. My heart tugs toward his as though we’re tethered by an invisible cord.
“My family isn’t royalty, but I understand the desire to avoid scandal,” I assure him. “I don’t want to draw my parents’ attention, either.”
“Nobility, not royalty,” he corrects me in a bland, rote tone. “The British media aren’t all that discerning when it comes to celebrity, though. If there’s juicy gossip, they’ll splash it all over the tabloids.”
I want to earnestly promise him again that he can trust me, but I get the sense that my words won’t reach him at the moment. He’s protecting himself; he’s possibly even in survival mode. That’s why he’s shut down right now.
I’m not good with emotions. I recall his vulnerable confession.
He needs action, not words. I’ll prove to him that he can trust me.
I’m burning to learn more about him now that he’s shared a little more insight into his fraught relationship with his family. I’d been right to think that his estrangement mirrored my own.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask.
“You’ll want to read it carefully,” he admonishes. “There are some steep penalties involved if you break the terms of the NDA.”
I hold out my hand, expectant. “I’m not worried about any consequences because I won’t betray your trust. I need a pen, please.”
His eyes remain shuttered, but his mouth softens as some of his tension eases. There’s still something too formal about his bearing, and I realize that his stiff posture isn’t so different from my own.
He picks up a pen from the side table and places it in my uninjured hand.
I don’t bother to peruse the NDA further before signing at the bottom. I meant what I said: the consequences don’t matter. I will never betray Dane.
I close the folder with a decisive snap and place it on the coffee table.
“There,” I declare, capturing his eyes with mine again. “Now you can tell me anything.”
He huffs out a breath and considers me for another long moment, as though he’s choosing his next words carefully.
“I treated you gently because I thought you were scared of men,” he says. “The way you reacted when I kissed you on our dates indicated that you wanted me, but your fear got in the way. I only ever want you to feel safe with me, Abigail.”
I thread my fingers through his, and after a tight moment, he parts them to allow me to hold his hand.
“I do,” I promise. “I haven’t let myself lean on anyone in a long time. I was scared to let go and trust in your support, but I know now that you won’t let me fall. I can be vulnerable with you.”
A shadow flits at his jaw. “You’re scared of more than that.” It’s a rough statement of fact. “You don’t have to tell me what happened until you’re ready, but I know someone hurt you. That will never happen again. I’ve got you now.”
I lean into him, finding strength in the undeniable connection we share. This intimacy is almost painfully intense, and a thrill races through me. He could crush me with a word, but I’m held safely in his strong hands.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” I breathe, lacing my fingers more tightly through his.
His eyes rake over my face, reading every nuance of my expression.
“But you want me to.”
My stomach drops to the floor.
He can’t know. I can’t let him see that fucked-up part of me. He’ll be disgusted, and he’ll walk away from me forever this time.
I remember the way my lust surged when he stood over me after I faked my orgasm. I’d been afraid that he’d read my moment of dark desire in response to his dangerous aura, the power of his fury. That beautiful, terrible scowl directed at me had made me wet.
I open my mouth to protest, to try to salvage this, but he speaks before I can find the desperate words to keep him close.
“You chose the dark god, Abigail.” He repeats the secret he plucked from my soul when we talked about The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.
My heart shreds, pain lancing deep in my chest.
He knows.
And I can’t bring myself to lie to him again.
Shame presses down on my shoulders, and my head dips in defeat. I drop my eyes to the cream rug, unable to bear the censure that I’ll see in his handsome face.
Two fingers touch my chin, and my ravaged heart gives a weak flutter as he lifts my gaze back to him.
His eyes blaze with green fire: desire, not disgust. “I choose the dark god too.”
Hope buds in my chest, wrapping my aching heart in tentative warmth.
“What are you saying?”
“I want you, Abigail. I want all that you are, and that includes the dark parts of your heart. Because they match my own perfectly.”
My lower lip trembles as my hope surges through me. “I didn’t think you’d understand,” I confess. “You’re a good man. You’ve proven that you want to protect me.”
He cups my cheek, grounding me to him. “I will always protect you. And I will never violate your trust. But I suspect that I have your consent to indulge in my darker games.”
Desire shudders through me, strong enough to make my fingers tremble.
He caresses my shaking hand. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I promise. “I’m scared you’ll leave if you find out what I’m really like. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You have me, Abigail. I’m not going anywhere.”
My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips. “I’ve never talked to anyone about this. I don’t think I know how.”
His thumb traces the shape of my mouth, and my sensitive lips tingle at the tender contact.
“This is new territory for me too,” he admits. “I’m skilled at what I do, but I’ve never kept a submissive of my own before.”
My pulse quickens. I’ve spent enough time reading erotica that I’m familiar with BDSM, even if my own fantasies have always blurred the lines of consent.
“Do you understand what I’m talking about?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.
I swallow hard and nod.
His jaw tightens. “Have you engaged in BDSM before?”
Is he...jealous?
My chest heats with feminine gratification, and my nerves finally start to settle. Dane truly does want me as fiercely as I want him. The dangerous flash over his verdant eyes is pure possessiveness, and my core pulses in response.
“No,” I reply. “But I’ve read about it.”
The tension eases from his powerful frame, and he traces my cheekbone. I lean into his touch, proving my trust in him with my body language. He needs reassurance, too, no matter how strong he is. He’s making himself vulnerable, and I’m drawn to support him.
“You’re safe with me too,” I promise. “You can be yourself with me.”
He features sharpen with unmistakable hunger, and for a moment, I think he’s going to crush his lips to mine in a savage kiss.
Instead, his hand drops from my face so that he can retrieve the leather folder from the coffee table. Cold air rushes over my heated cheek, and I quickly breathe through the knifing sense of loss at his withdrawal.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” I reassure him. “I won’t tell anyone your secrets.”
“Yes, you signed the NDA, even if you didn’t bother to read the ramifications.” He shoots me a wicked smirk that makes my heart skip a beat. “You’re mine now.”
He flips the page over and sets the open folder on my lap.
“I have a different contract for you now, pet.”
Desire shudders down my spine, quivering all the way to my core.
I think I’d like to have you as my needy pet. GentAnon’s dirty message plays through my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. This is Dane. He’s real and warm and solid, not an anonymous, faceless man on the internet.
“Is that a Yorkshire endearment? It’s sweet.” I can’t keep the breathiness from my voice when I try for an offhand tone.
His low chuckle rumbles deep inside me. “You can’t hide from me, Abigail. You’re pressing your soft thighs together to suppress your lust. I see you. I see everything. You want to be my pretty pet.” He taps the folder, an authoritative gesture that has me complying without thinking. “Read it.”
Unlike the NDA, this contract has been written in slanted cursive rather than neatly typed. I know it’s Dane’s handwriting without having to ask. It’s every bit as elegant as he is. The bold strokes of black ink indicate a fountain pen, and I can easily picture his long fingers deftly holding it as he wrote this illicit contract.
By signing below, my pet, Abigail Foster, gives herself to me, Dane Graham. She will abide by my rules and obey my commands. She will at all times endeavor to please me. Nothing is more important to her than my pleasure.
In return, my pet will be rewarded. When I am satisfied with her behavior, she will be allowed to come. When she disappoints me, she will be punished with a variety of implements of my choosing. She will submit to her punishments and will thank me for correcting her.
Sometimes, she will suffer because I will it, and for no other reason. She will find ecstasy in enduring this suffering and surrendering to my control.
In the unlikely instance that I ask too much of my pet, a safe word will be honored. “Red” will end our games, and I will ensure that she feels safe and comforted.
At all times, my pet will be cherished and cared for. She trusts in me to take responsibility for her. When it comes my decisions regarding her wellbeing, defiance will not be tolerated.
My pet is a valued individual, and she will speak her mind. She will deny me nothing, and that includes giving me full access to her thoughts and feelings. Dishonesty will be met with swift retribution.
With her signature, my pet gives herself to me, her Master.
I stare at the elegant script, struggling to process that this is reality. My body trembles with lust, and my sex is slick with desire. I can feel my inner walls clenching, and my labia are almost painfully swollen.
The contract is concise but powerful. There isn’t an endless list of rules and expectations. Dane’s will is the expectation. He’ll issue commands, and I will obey, no matter what he decides to ask of me.
Except for the clause that allows me to withdraw consent at any time. My safe word will make everything stop.
My mind spins at the deviant possibilities. I’ve never imagined having a safe outlet for my dark desires, but Dane is offering me exactly that: erotic abandon, but with a promise of security.
I read over the final paragraphs again.
He wants me to give myself to him, not as a mindless plaything, but as me.
He’d said that he wants all of me, and this contract proves it.
My fingers shake when I pick up the pen, and I can’t bring myself to look directly at him as I sign myself over to him.
In this moment, I’m choosing to trust that he means it when he says he’ll take care of me. I’m surrendering to the darkest, weakest parts of me that want to be both hurt and cared for. I never dared to dream that I could be with someone who understands my needs but also values my consent.
He plucks the pen from my trembling fingers and places the signed contract on the table. I stare at his slanted handwriting as he adds a final line:
With my signature, I vow to cherish my sweet pet.
The pen indents the paper with the force of his signature.
I take a moment to imprint the scene in my memory. Later, I’ll paint his dexterous hand firmly holding the pen, and I’ll strive to capture the confident strokes as he boldly lays claim to everything that I am.
He turns to me, and his triumphant grin is wickedly sharp, keen enough to cut straight into my chest and reveal my soul.
“You lied to me when you faked your orgasm,” he says, his tone heavy with condemnation even as his eyes glitter with carnal anticipation. “What does our contract say about dishonesty?”
I swallow hard, and warning snakes down my spine. “I’m sorry. I only faked it because I wanted to please you. I wanted you to feel good about our connection.”
He trails his fingers through my hair, the tender stroke belying the dangerous, hungry tension around his lush mouth.
“I know, but your apology won’t spare you. You’re going to suffer for me, and then you’re going to come for me. We won’t stop until you lose count of your orgasms. You will learn that there is exquisite pain in pleasure, and you will beg for mercy before I’m finished with you.”
He stands, looming over me like my own personal dark god. My lips part for an enraptured moment, and I stare up at his masculine perfection with open awe.
“It’s time for your punishment, Abigail.”