Chapter 2
“All I want is to dominate you…”
Fucking hell. I shove another spoonful of cereal into my mouth, determinedly attempting to ignore the voice that’s been echoing in my head all day.
I can’t manage it, though; it’s like last night’s bathroom encounter with Jazz has been seared into my brain, with the scene stuck on an endless replay loop.
I can’t stop hearing his words in my head, or recalling the way my body reacted when he got all up in my space…or how I came so close to losing it and just grinding up against him.
A wave of heat floods my body and I hastily scoop up more cereal.
“You want to feel your power stripped away from you, be made to submit to someone else’s control.”
My cock twitches as arousal tingles through me, launching a fresh wave of confusion and denial.
I don’t understand how recalling those words could possibly turn me on.
I mean, I don’t really understand any of this, but those words in particular…
I’m not a submissive person; I might not be a cocksure, arrogant bastard like someone else I know but there’s sure as hell nothing meek or biddable about me.
“…you get off on being toyed with, and tormented, and dominated, and pushed to the brink.”
Fuck, I really need to get a grip. My cock is throbbing now and I’m pretty sure I just groaned.
I startle as I see fingers snapping in front of my face; and the reminder that I’m currently in Blake and Owen’s kitchen, with my brother standing mere feet away from me, is the dousing of cold water I desperately needed.
Thankfully the kitchen counter is between us, hiding the situation in my pants.
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowed with concern.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Well, you looked like you were trying to challenge Sauron through your cereal there.”
I stare at him in confusion for a moment before letting out a groan when I finally clock the Lord of the Rings reference. “Fuck, you’re such a nerd. But I’m flattered by the Viggo Mortensen comparison.”
“You seemed very intense is all I’m saying,” Blake comments.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” I assure him. “I’m just a bit tired, I guess. It’s been a busy weekend, and I didn’t sleep well last night.” I slide from my stool and round the counter to place my bowl in the dishwasher, trying not to think about the reason for my sleepless night.
“Well, at least you’ve got some time off to look forward to,” he says brightly.
I smile as I think about the twins’ impending visit for Thanksgiving weekend, which I wrangled time off for before I’d even started my first shift at Whiskey Tango. “Yeah. Just need to get through tonight first.”
A blast of nervous energy rushes through me at the prospect of seeing Jazz again after that conversation in the bathroom last night.
He said he wouldn’t text or call but he said nothing about toning down his inappropriate songs, and after last night’s set I can’t even imagine what he has in store for me tonight…
But it’s just one shift. Five hours. I can manage that, no problem. And after tonight I won’t have to see him until next Sunday—that’s almost an entire Jazz-free week. The perfect opportunity to detox from this insanity.
Jazz was unexpectedly absent on Monday night, which I should have been thrilled about but instead I spent my entire shift in a state of inexplicable agitation.
By Wednesday I feel like I’m going out of my fucking mind.
It’s the third morning in a row I’ve woken to a blank phone screen and a churning sensation in my gut that I can no longer pretend is anything other than disappointment.
My mission to detox has been a miserable failure; instead of the relief and peace of mind I’d hoped for, I feel edgy and out of control.
The only time I feel any semblance of calm is when I scroll down the list of recent texts on my phone just so I can reread that filthy exchange from Sunday morning.
I don’t know how the hell this happened to me.
This time last week I was normal. And now I’m this fucked up creep, using crude text messages from another fucked up creep like a nicotine patch. And it’s barely working.
So it’s hardly surprising that when I emerge from the bathroom after a shower on Wednesday morning to hear my phone chiming with a text I practically vault across the bed in my haste to reach my nightstand.
But my spirits plummet when I see it’s not a filthy text from Jazz; and right on the heels of the disappointment is a burning sense of shame and guilt, because the text is from Joel.
How could I possibly—even for a microsecond—be disappointed to hear from my son?
Joel Forrester
Hey Dad, I won’t be coming to the city until tomorrow after all. I just got invited to the Dean’s Thanksgiving reception!
My brows shoot up in surprise. Not that I think my son isn’t worthy of recognition from the Dean—he’s smart as hell and he’s extremely dedicated to his studies—but he’s a Freshman and this is Princeton we’re talking about.
My guess is he managed to wrangle a last-minute invite as someone’s plus one.
Even so, this is an amazing opportunity for him.
Me
That’s awesome buddy! Have a great time - looking forward to hearing all about it tomorrow
I set my phone down and stride over to my closet. As I’m getting dressed the thought occurs to me that with Ava already planning to travel from Boston tomorrow morning my reason for scheduling tonight off work no longer exists.
I consider the situation for a moment before ultimately deciding to text Gia about possibly picking up a shift tonight.
I could definitely use the extra tips, and considering this cold turkey approach clearly isn’t working I think it’s important I sort this shit out with Jazz before the kids get here.
He told me to figure out what I want and I think it’s pretty clear after the past few days that I want more dirty text messages and more phone calls—I can’t explain why I want it, but I’m done trying to convince myself otherwise.
I also know what I don’t want, though; I don’t want to do any BDSM stuff—Valerie and I tried it once after she saw Fifty Shades of Gray and it really didn’t go well.
But even putting that aside, I’m not a masochist and certainly not an emotional one. It just doesn’t make sense.
But surely there’s room for compromise, right? He claimed he’s not trying to seduce me and that it doesn’t matter that I’m not attracted to him so why can’t we just keep it to the texts and phone calls like on the weekend?
Buoyed by this newfound clarity, I decide there’s no reason to wait until tonight to venture this idea.
Me
I know what I want
I set my phone on the breakfast bar and start rummaging through the fridge, retrieving ingredients for a ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwich. But I’ve barely started to assemble the sandwich when my phone chimes.
Jazz Grimsay
This is an unexpected pleasure. What is it you want?
Me
Phone calls and texts like last weekend. That’s it. I don’t want any BDSM stuff. I’m not a submissive
Jazz Grimsay
I’m afraid that’s not an option dirty boy
I stare at the response for a long moment, disappointment, frustration and annoyance all bubbling up inside me. What is he saying—that if I don’t agree to his terms I get nothing?
Me
I thought you said you weren’t playing hard to get
Jazz Grimsay
I’m not
For what it’s worth I’m not trying to be a dick here
I shake my head in irritation, the grip on my phone tightening.
Me
I doubt you’d need to put much effort into being a dick
Jazz Grimsay
Well I don’t usually put much effort into NOT being a dick but let me give it a whirl.
The only way any of this works is with the “BDSM shit”
That’s not me trying to get my own way, that’s me stating a fact. You’re not attracted to me so your humiliation kink is the only arrow in my quiver. Take away the S&M and I’m like Superman without his powers
I let out a derisive snort, rolling my eyes.
Me
Fucking hell your ego
I’m not convinced I even have a humiliation kink. You’re not exactly what I’d consider a reliable source
The conversation from Sunday night has continued to plague my thoughts over the past couple days but I haven’t come much closer to making sense of it all.
Jazz Grimsay
Dirty boy if you’re still trying to convince yourself you don’t have a kink maybe take a second to count how many times in the past few days you’ve jerked off while reading my texts from the weekend
I bet you need more than one hand
Fuck, I hate how he always seems to just know shit like this. My knee-jerk instinct is to deny it, but I quickly realize how ridiculous that would be. I’ve already admitted I want more calls and texts—what would be the point in hiding from this now?
Me
So?
Jazz Grimsay
Damn dirty boy, are you saying those texts seem vanilla to you? I need to up my game
I let out a grunt of frustration. That wasn’t what I meant to imply, but does that mean Jazz is right? Now I really don’t know what to think. Fuck, I can’t believe I started this conversation with a sense of clarity…
Me
That’s not what I meant. Stop trying to catch me out. I feel like I’m being backed into a corner
My phone starts buzzing with an incoming call and after a brief moment of hesitation I answer.
“That’s the exact opposite of what I’m trying to do,” Jazz says, his voice so uncharacteristically serious I feel the need to check the caller ID to confirm it’s him.
“Huh?”
“I’m not trying to manipulate you,” he continues.
“And this isn’t some epic challenge I’ve set myself whereby your capitulation earns me ultimate victory.
I think we could have a lot of fun together once you actually accept what you want but if that doesn’t end up happening, c’est la vie—we’ll just forget about it and move on. ”
I frown in consternation, completely thrown by the unfamiliar gravity in his words. “This is weird. I can’t talk to you like this.”
“On the phone?”
“Sounding all serious and shit. It’s weird,” I tell him. “Can you stop freaking me out and just be you?”
“I sound serious because this is serious,” he says matter-of-factly. “But if it helps I’ll try to throw in some witty banter and comments about your dick.”
I let out a wry breath of laughter. “Thank you.” I put the phone on speaker and finally get back to making my sandwich.
“Why did you decide you wanted texts and calls?” he asks.
“Because I was going fucking crazy,” I grumble. “I feel like a freakin’ addict going through withdrawals—which I’m assuming is what you intended to happen.”
He curses under his breath, then adopts that serious tone again.
“No, I definitely didn’t intend for that to happen.
As amazing as I am, I’m not all-powerful, all-knowing.
Like I already said, I’m not trying to manipulate you.
My intention was to give you space to figure things out. I wasn’t trying to force your hand.”
“Well, I have figured things out,” I remind him.
“No, you’re horny,” he states baldly. “And you want me to supply fresh material for your spank bank without you having to think too hard about why it turns you on.”
I let out a grunt of aggravation, setting the top slice of bread on my sandwich with more force than is probably needed. “I just don’t get what the big deal is. You didn’t make me jump through any hoops over the weekend. It was actually the opposite—I couldn’t fucking get rid of you.”
“Well, I doubt you’d have believed you get off on being debased and mocked unless I actually proved it to you,” he drawls.
I open my mouth to protest but quickly close it because, well, how the hell else should I describe jerking off to texts calling me a whore?
Noting my silence, Jazz lets out a soft laugh.
“Exactly. Last weekend you were confronting what turns you on. And it sounds as though your current state of horniness is clouding your memory a little so let me refresh it—it was hard freakin’ work.
I mean, fuck, you’re a stubborn bastard,” he says with a light chuckle.
“But that’s all part of the fun, I guess.
And now that you’re doing okay with the what you can start trying to wrap your head around the why.
Hardly surprising you’re being just as stubborn there… ”
I let out an exasperated huff. “If you know I’m so stubborn why would you think I’d make a good submissive?”
He’s quiet for a long moment before saying, “What does being stubborn have to do with anything? I think you’d make a good submissive because you get turned on from being dominated.”
“What? No I don’t.”
Jazz snorts in obvious amusement. “In the interests of forward progress I think a demonstration of some kind might be in order.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll see you tonight, dirty boy.”
Before I can utter another word he ends the call, leaving me to wonder what the hell is in store for me at work tonight.