Chapter 7 #2
“That’s not how things work in this world. How do you not know that?” I demand, then force myself to draw in a long breath and blow it out. “No. I’m sorry. Maybe you didn’t.”
Her shoulder slump, and she bites her lip for a moment before letting it go. “No. You’re right. I do know, I suppose. I just wish it were different. And perhaps in all this time where I am alone in my own head, I convinced myself that this was possible.”
A single tear spills onto her cheek, and for once it doesn’t give me a sadistic thrill. No. Instead I feel a sort of defeat at her hurt. Because I know I fucked up. Her unrealistic scenario or not, I could have handled things better, maybe. But we’ll never know, will we?
“Do you want me to take you back to The Training House? To return you to Master Damon and Master Christopher? I can have Cook work you until they return. I can give you back the life you’ve known.”
“What?” she demands, her brows rising over her tear-damp eyes. “I did not imply that’s what I wanted. I never asked for that.”
“No. But I’ve fucking let you down. I wouldn’t blame you if that’s what you wanted now. It would likely be what’s best for you.”
“How can you think that after what I’ve just told you?
Did you bring me here to admit to you the most secret things buried in my heart only to ignore it all and return me to my life before this?
Before you took me from the House and asked me these questions?
Is this simply some new sort of mind game you dreamed up?
” she asks, anger in her tone. Her cheeks are burning pink now, her jaw clenched.
“What? No, no. I’m trying to figure this shit out.
Trying to figure out what the hell to do.
And that’s something I don’t admit to anyone, and sure as hell should not be admitting to you.
But it’s too damn late, isn’t it? Too late for either of us to take this shit back.
And it’s my responsibility to decide what the next step is. ”
“Is it, Gilby? Is it all up to you now? And if so, then why did you have these conversations with me in which I am told to speak to you not as a slave, but as a person? Because if I am to be a person, even for short periods of time, then I must have some say in what happens, or there is no point, is there?”
I’d forgotten how damn smart this girl is.
“Fuck. No, you’re right. You do have some say in this. But tell me first; how do you feel? About me? About all of this?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. I have said enough for the time being. It’s time for you to tell me how you feel, other than that envy when another is using me.”
“Fuck,” I repeat, swallowing down the last of my gin, hyper-aware of the rattling of the melting ice cubes against the crystal.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I set the glass down on the side table, wipe my palms on my trousers, then take both her hands in mine.
There’s the damn warmth again. “I’d have wanted all the same things you did,” I admit to her.
“If it was a possibility—and to be clear, it absolutely was not. But if… Yeah. I would have wanted you at the foot of my bed, or in it, every damn night. I would have wanted to be the one who owns you and holds your contract. And it fucking killed me—and still does—that I didn’t have the resources, and could never hope to.
Not by a long fucking shot. I’ll never have that kind of money, and it’s never bothered me in the least. I don’t mind working hard, and for a fucking sadist like m’self?
This is a goddamn dream job. But knowing I would never have enough to make you mine?
That’s bloody well killed me every damn day of my life.
Every single day. No matter where I was, what I was doing, you’re on my mind.
It’s always been like that, and it’s not likely to change. ”
“Then what?”
“Then I lived with it, knowing I did what was best for you. Knowing I was nearby, at least. That I got to see you now and then. That it was the most I could have of you, and damn glad of it.”
“But now, here we are.”
“Yeah. Here we are, indeed.”
We’re both quiet. I don’t know what more there is to say.
Finally she says, “Gilby?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember the night before we left London? When Sandrine was fast asleep and I came to you in your room and climbed into bed with you?”
My whole body goes hot all over. Of course I remember that night. And of course I’ve shoved those memories to the darkest recesses of my mind, because remembering was not about to do anyone any good.
“That night we made love, Gilby,” she says, her throat tight, the words sounding as if they’re half stuck.
“I’d never had anything like that before.
It wasn’t fucking. It was you and me. We had those moments together, and…
and it’s both sustained me and tortured me all this time. Knowing we could have that.”
I blow out a long breath. What in the fucking world am I supposed to say to that?
Because she’s right about what it was. Never happened to me before that night, or since, with anyone.
I fuck. That’s it. Always. But with her?
Yeah, it was different. It was a goddamn epiphany.
But the contracts had already been signed.
The money deposited in our bank accounts: mine, Giselle’s, Sandrine’s.
The plane tickets were waiting for us, our bags were packed—what little we needed to take.
It was a done deal. But that night? That was when I really understood I was in love with her.
“I told m’self that what was done was done. There was nothing I could do that’d change anything. But I was changed. What’s that saying? I made my bed, and I had to lie in it.”
“As did I. And I know, I know. It wasn’t all your fault. I understand that. I know I made that bed every bit as much as you did.”
“Did you, though?”
“Of course. I read my contract before I signed it. And The Training House has been even better than I could have anticipated. So much more than I ever imagined—than any slave could imagine, I’m sure. All of it. The punishments. The service. The silence.”
“The silence,” I repeat, rolling the words around in my mouth, in my aching brain. “What of it, Giselle? Tell me what that was about for you. People assume it’s a sort of servile piety, but I know you better than that.”
“It was that, yes. It was a dedication to the life I had chosen. A symbol. But it was more, also. It was…a way to punish myself for loving you.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Why are you angry?” she demands.
I scrub a hand over my chin, the short beard stubble rough against my fingers.
“I’m mad at m’self. Because I did that to you.
I’ve long suspected it, but now, hearing the truth of it from you.
It’s fucking rough. No, I don’t mean to pity myself.
I mean it’s rough as fuck knowing what I did to you.
To have it confirmed. And I don’t know where that leaves us. ”
“Where do you want it to leave us?”
Good question. Wanting something and understanding the rules of the game we play in this weird life are two different things.
“I know as a Handler—a Master—I’m not supposed to tell you I’m not a hundred percent certain about what to do in any situation, but I don’t fucking know.
If I were Master Damon or Master Christopher, I could make my own choices.
I could pack you up and make you mine and buy out your contract, and take you off somewhere.
Home to Paris, or London, maybe. But I’m not them.
Oh, they pay well enough—very fucking well—but I’m no billionaire.
I don’t have those same options. I don’t fucking know. ”
I have to pause, to look at her. Her hazel eyes are still wet with her tears, but she’s stopped crying. Her lovely face is so damn serious, her elegant brows drawn together.
“What do you want now, Giselle?” I ask her. “Taking into consideration the reality we live in. Your contract. My position. What do you see happening here?”
She shakes her head. “I-I don’t have any idea.
I want it all. The House. You. But Gilby…
” She leans forward, her gaze on mine, then she slides from the couch and onto her knees on the floor.
“Tonight I simply want to be yours, in the only way I know how to be.” She pauses, then whispers, “Please. Use me. Hurt me. Make my body know it belongs to you, if even just for tonight.”
Well, fuck. My body—my goddamn brain—nearly bursts into flame at that. And what can I do but exactly what she asks?
I stand and pull her to her feet, then strip her down to her lovely, naked skin.
She gives a shake of her shoulders, draws in a breath and stands up very tall, her posture slave-perfect.
And I can see by the slowing cadence of her breathing and the glaze settling over her hazel eyes that she’s going down already into slavespace.
I press down hard on the top of her head, forcing her to her knees, and resting my weight on my heel, I raise just the toe of my heavy black boot.
She knows what to do; she doesn’t hesitate for even a second before bending down to kiss the toe.
Sweet, sensual, soft kisses that I swear I can almost feel through the leather.
Then her sweet, pink tongue darts out as she licks, then licks again.
And fuck if my dick doesn’t go hard just seeing her tongue sliding over the black leather.
Yeah, I’m a twisted fuck, and I know it, but my immediate reaction confirms it.
Then she shifts and opens her mouth and takes the tip of the boot into her mouth and even though it barely fits, she’s somehow giving it head, for fuck’s sake.
She moves back off the boot, licking her way up the laces, wrapping one hand around the heel in a caress.
“No,” I tell her. “Hands off.”