24. Quinn
24
QUINN
I t’s hard to believe it just turned into September.
But as I stand on the porch, nursing my coffee cup in Smoke’s T-shirt, it’s still warm enough that it feels like summer, not fast approaching fall.
The sun casts shadows over the ridges of the mountains and makes everything seem gold around the edges.
The only difference is, there are some rolling clouds in the distance, and I’m praying that it’s gonna be the first big deluge we’ve had in a while.
It’ll be good for the bakery because people will linger and make use of the bench and stools that line both windows.
Maybe have more than one coffee or a single pastry.
My bread sales, bizarrely, increase in the fall too.
Like people have had enough of yogurt and granola for breakfast and the whole ridiculous get-your-body-ready-for-the-beach diet.
They’re now ready to embrace toast and thick stews and soups and chilis with slabs of properly buttered thick-sliced bread.
But for right now, I’m going to stand here and simply enjoy the fact that last night I got well and truly railed by Smoke.
The word railed makes me grin.
For a moment, I was very concerned about consent.
Maybe there’s still a lingering concern that I want to talk with him about today.
He gave me a safe word in the bakery.
In the books I’ve read, the Dom always gives a safe word to a sub.
It’s never occurred to me that the Dom might need a safe word too.
I’ve never dug into the dynamic much beyond reading about it and wishing someone would speak to me and care for me and fuck me in that way.
So, I don’t know if a Dom having a safe word is even a thing.
But, also, I wonder if it even matters what the rules say.
Maybe Smoke should have a way of stepping out of whatever we’re doing together with a word that helps him disengage without any hurt feelings.
I hear banging around in the kitchen and smile.
Smoke is rarely quiet.
Everything is done at full tilt.
There’s a muttered curse word.
Followed by the sound of footsteps on the wooden floors and the creak of the door as he steps onto the porch.
“Good morning,” I say as he comes to stand next to me.
He doesn’t say anything but tips his chin before taking a sip of coffee, and I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.
Who knew that could be hot?
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, unbuttoned, revealing tufts of dark hair.
There’s something incredibly sexy about a man in nothing but blue denim.
His bare chest is a masterpiece of ink and scars, and I wonder what will have happened to the tattoos beneath, once all the scarring is gone.
Will they have been burned away?
Will they heal? Will he be able to tattoo over them?
I wonder if he’ll want to.
“I forgot you’re not a morning person.”
It doesn’t get him to break a smile.
He just looks out into the distance.
“We shouldn’t do that again,” he says.
And just like that, my good mood is sucked out of me.
“No. You shouldn’t do this again.”
Smoke looks at me, wrinkles across his brow.
“What?”
“I get it. Life has been hard. Is hard. I get that this is confusing, me and you. And unexpected. But you’ve kissed me like I meant something. Touched me like I meant something. And last night, you railed me like I meant something.”
“Jesus,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Pfft. Don’t act like you’ve never heard the word railed , because a guy who knows how to spank my ass like you did does not get offended by that.”
“Not offended by the word railed . Just unexpected to hear it come from your lips.”
I sip my coffee as I search for the next words.
“You’re being a coward, Smoke.”
He almost chokes on his.
“A fucking coward?”
I turn to face him, rest my mug on the wooden porch railing, then put my hands on my hips.
“Yes, a coward.”
“That’s rich coming from the woman hiding out at the house of a person she hated because she was too scared to stay home.”
I try not to let the barb sting.
My heart tells me there is something more at play with Smoke, and it’s nothing to do with whether he really wants me or not.
He’s pushing me away for some reason I don’t understand.
And I won’t be able to leave until I know.
“Stop trying to hurt me to make this easier on you. If anything, it makes you even more of a coward.”
He places his mug down on the railing as well, then turns to mirror my body language, with the exception of putting his hands across his chest. “This I’ve got to hear. How the hell am I a coward?”
“You’re running from you and me. It’s easier to keep me at arm’s length and not need or want anything from me. That’s cowardly. And it’s wrong of you to use me like that.”
“How the fuck am I using you? You’re the stranger in my house. You’re not being used.”
“I believe you can be better. I didn’t before. I do now. You don’t just get to fuck me because it makes you feel better, then dismiss me like it meant nothing. In that moment, I was exactly what you needed. And it’s cruel of you to pretend it was anything but, and that what we did was wrong. I tried to tell you that last night, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Smoke goes to say something, then stops himself, grabbing his mug of coffee.
He looks out to the fields and takes a deep breath, then another.
“I don’t do relationships. I don’t want kids. I fuck women, lots of them, and I enjoy it. That’s why we have club girls, to get us off whenever the fuck we want.”
“Well, if we’re setting our romantic and sexual wish list, I would love a relationship with a man who thought I walked on water, who wanted to care for me and love me, and one willing to rip me wide open and help me find me . And I don’t want kids either. My childhood was miserable. I’ve lived a life of responsibility to Melody and my parents, becoming who they all needed me to be to cope. I’m hoping there’ll be a time in my life when I can break out of the straight-jacket I feel like I’m zipped into, and kids are no part of that. And if your damn club girls are so important, why don’t you go there instead of reaching for me?”
I might as well have punched Smoke for the way he’s looking at me right now.
“You’re right, I should have just gone to the clubhouse last night.”
But there’s a hint of a dare in the way he speaks, in the way he narrows his eyes and takes a step closer to me.
“A good Dom would realize when his communication isn’t honest.”
He huffs at that.
“And what do you know about a good Dom?”
I shrug.
“Honestly? Not a lot. Because I’ve never met one. But I had high hopes over the last couple of days that you might be. Yet, if you can’t be honest with me when we’re clothed, standing on your porch, how on earth can I trust you to be honest with me when I’m naked and vulnerable?”
I’m sure I must look a hot mess.
My chest tends to flush when I’m angry, and I know my breath is coming fast, like I just ran a race.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t brush my hair when I snuck beneath Smoke’s arm and rolled out of bed with the plan to let him sleep in undisturbed and recover from his dreams.
But Smoke surprises me.
“You’re right, sugar.”
My mouth opens, then closes like a goldfish twice, as I struggle to find the appropriate response.
“I am?” I ask, then realize I shouldn’t be doubting myself.
“I am.” The second time sounds more like a statement.
Smoke smiles ruefully before reaching out to touch my cheek.
“You are. I’m acting like a coward. And you’re also right that a good dominant and submissive relationship is based on honest communication and a boatload of trust. I’m not doing the former or building the latter. So, yeah, you’re right.”
I nod and reach for my coffee cup, desperate to put some moisture back in my dry mouth and parched throat.
“I’m gonna need you to give me ten or fifteen minutes to get my thoughts straight. I came out here ready to send you home. To help you pack and get out. But that isn’t how I felt when I went to sleep last night. And it’s those thoughts I’m trying to escape now.”
His words sting, even though his earlier behavior would have suggested as much.
“Oh.”
He cups my neck, rubs it softly with his thumb.
“It wouldn’t have made me happy for you to leave, just because I’m scared of opening up to you. Go shower, then wrap yourself in a towel, and come back out here with the bottle of oil that’s under the sink in my bathroom. I’ll still be here. I promise.”
“Can I ask one question before I go?”
Smoke nods.
“Do you have a safe word?”
“Interesting question.” He touches a thumb to my cheek.
“It’s anchor. Why?”
“I want you to promise me you’ll use it.”
He nods again.
“I will. Thank you for asking.”
I’m in the shower before I realize I just stood up to Smoke.
Like, properly called out his behavior.
And I feel relieved and perhaps a touch smug.
For some reason, I believe him when he says he’ll still be there.
I take about fifteen minutes to shower, wash my hair, and then dry off.
My body lotion smells of orange and verbena.
I don’t even know what verbena looks like beyond being a flower, but it smells good.
I grab a clean, dry towel from the cupboard.
Before I moved in, they all had the softness of concrete.
Now, I hang them to dry outside but fluff them in the tumble drier after, so they become soft.
When I step out onto the porch with the bottle of oil, I see Smoke has brought out a soft fluffy blanket onto the porch swing, along with a couple of cushions from the sofa.
There’s also a fresh, steaming cup of coffee on the wooden porch railing.
“Sit,” Smoke says.
I do as he instructs, and he passes me the coffee when I’m seated.
Then, he pulls a small stool in front of the swing and sits on it before placing one of my feet on his knees.
It’s only when he squirts some of the oil into the palms of his hands and warms it, do I realize he’s about to massage my feet.
For some reason, I feel like I’m not supposed to talk.
Not sure why, but him sitting lower than me and massaging my feet feels…
reverential.
Special.
Apologetic.
And I don’t want to do anything to break the moment. So, I wait.