13. Funny Stuff
THIRTEEN
Funny Stuff
The hours stretch like taffy.
I try to read. The book Sebastian gave me—Wuthering Heights, still only three chapters in—sits open in my lap, but the words blur and swim.
The Protocol won't let me concentrate. Every few minutes, my mind drifts to him.
To his hands. To the way he said I want you to choose me before his phone interrupted us.
The arousal is a constant now. A low, pulsing ache that never quite fades. I shift on the couch, press my thighs together, and it helps for about thirty seconds before the need comes roaring back.
I haven't come all day.
He's come twice—once down my throat, once inside me bent over his desk. And I've gotten nothing. The imbalance feels deliberate. A lesson. A reminder of who controls what in this arrangement.
I give up on reading.
The penthouse is massive. I've seen the main spaces—the kitchen, the living room, his office, his bedroom—but there are doors I haven't opened. Rooms I haven't explored. He said I was free to do whatever I like until dinner, and right now, what I'd like is distraction.
I wander.
The first door leads to a home gym. State of the art equipment, a wall of mirrors, the faint smell of clean sweat and expensive rubber. I picture him here in the mornings, building the body he uses as a weapon, and close the door quickly.
The second door is locked.
I try the handle twice, thinking maybe it's stuck, but no—locked. Deliberately. Whatever's behind this door, he doesn't want me seeing it. I file the information away and move on.
The third door opens into a library.
I stop breathing.
It's not large—maybe fifteen by twenty feet—but every wall is floor-to-ceiling books. Real books, leather-bound and paperback and everything in between. There's a reading chair by the window, a lamp, a small table. And on the far wall, a section that makes my heart stutter.
My books.
The battered paperbacks from my apartment—the romances I've collected over years of thrift store hunting—are arranged on two shelves like they belong here. Like they've always been here. He didn't just save them. He integrated them into his library. Gave them a home.
I cross to the shelves. Run my fingers along the cracked spines. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. A dozen historical romances with half-naked men on the covers. They look strange here, among his leather-bound classics, but they're here. He kept them.
On the small table by the reading chair, there's a framed photograph.
I pick it up before I can stop myself.
It's old, the colors slightly faded, the edges worn. A woman and a young boy, maybe eight or nine. The woman is beautiful, dark-haired and smiling, her arm around the boy's shoulders. The boy is blond, serious-eyed, unsmiling even in what should be a happy moment.
Sebastian.
I'd know those eyes anywhere. Even at eight, they had that quality. Watchful, assessing, older than they should be. The woman must be his mother. They have the same bone structure, the same elegant lines.
I set the photograph down carefully. He hasn't mentioned his mother.
Hasn't mentioned any family. This single photograph, hidden away in a library he probably assumed I wouldn't explore, is the only evidence that he came from somewhere.
That he was once a serious little boy with a mother who smiled.
I leave the library with more questions than I entered with.
At seven, I'm summoned to the kitchen.
I expect the dining room. The table, or the cushion, one or the other. But when I arrive, Sebastian is standing at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smells incredible.
He's cooking.
"Sit." He gestures to a stool at the kitchen island without looking up. "This will be ready in a few minutes."
I sit. Watch him work. His movements are efficient, practiced. This isn't performance. He knows what he's doing. He's made this dish before, probably many times.
"You cook."
"I live alone." He plates the food, some kind of pasta with a cream sauce, vegetables, herbs. "Staff handles most meals, but occasionally I prefer to do it myself."
He sets a plate in front of me. Then rounds the island and sits on the stool beside me. Not across from me. Beside me. Close enough that our elbows could touch.
The silence is thick.
Neither of us seems to know what to say. The conversation at lunch cracked something open, and now we're both navigating the debris. I pick up my fork. Take a bite. The food is excellent, of course. Rich and perfectly seasoned.
"This is good."
"Thank you."
More silence.
We eat without speaking. The tension builds with every bite, every accidental brush of arms, every moment that stretches too long.
I'm hyperaware of him. His heat, his presence, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
The Protocol amplifies everything until even sitting beside him feels like foreplay.
"You found the library."
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "How did you know?"
"The door was open when I passed." He takes a sip of wine. "You're welcome to use it. That's why your books are there."
"I saw the photograph."
His hand stills on his glass. Just for a moment. Then the movement resumes, smooth and controlled.
"My mother." He doesn't look at me. "She died when I was twelve."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He sets down the glass. Turns to face me. "You haven't come today."
The abrupt shift makes my head spin. "I—no."
"That was deliberate." His eyes are dark in the kitchen light. "You needed to understand that your pleasure is mine to give or withhold. That surviving the day, following the rules, doesn't automatically earn release."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He reaches out. His hand cups my jaw, that gesture, always that gesture, and tilts my face toward his. "You've been aching all day. I can see it in the way you move. The Protocol is keeping you on edge, and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Is this the lesson? That I'm helpless?"
"The lesson is that obedience has rewards." His thumb traces my lower lip. "You've been good today. You accepted things you didn't want to accept. You pushed back when you needed to, and you yielded when it was appropriate. That deserves acknowledgment."
My heart is pounding. "What kind of acknowledgment?"
He releases my jaw. Stands.
"Come with me."
He leads me to the locked door.
He produces a key from his pocket, fits it to the lock, and pushes the door open. Beyond is darkness. Then he flips a switch, and soft light blooms.
My breath catches.
It's a playroom.
Not a dungeon. Nothing so crude. The walls are a deep burgundy, the lighting warm and indirect.
There's a massive bed against one wall, different from his bedroom.
This one has posts at each corner, metal rings bolted to the frame.
A padded bench in the center of the room.
A wall of cabinets, their contents hidden behind glass doors that reveal only shadows and shapes.
A St. Andrew's cross in the corner.
"This is where the funny stuff happens."
I choke on something between a laugh and a sob. He remembered. He's using my words, and somehow that makes it worse—the intimacy of shared vocabulary, the way he's folded my awkward deflection into something we both understand.
"You're shaking."
I am. I hadn't noticed.
"Fear or anticipation?" He moves behind me, his hands landing on my shoulders. "Be honest. The Protocol won't let you hide."
"Both." The word comes out strangled. "I don't—I've never?—"
"I know." His lips brush my ear. "That's why we start slow. Tonight is about introduction. About showing you what your body can do when you stop fighting it."
His hands slide down my arms. Find the hem of my shirt, one of the silk blouses he provided, and lifts.
"You have one job." He pulls the shirt over my head, leaves me standing in my bra. "Don't fight me. Whatever I do, whatever I ask, you accept it. Good behavior earns rewards. Resistance earns denial."
"And if something is too much?"
"Then you tell me, and we pause." His fingers work the clasp of my bra. It falls away. "I told you there are no safe words—but that doesn't mean I want to damage you. If something is genuinely wrong, speak. I'll listen. I just won't automatically stop."
The bra joins the shirt on the floor. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples, and I gasp.
"Tonight, I'm going to spank you." His voice is conversational. Calm. Like he's discussing the weather while his hands learn the weight of my breasts. "Then I'm going to bind you to that bed and fuck you. If you take the pain beautifully, I'll reward you with my mouth."
My knees buckle, and only his arm around my waist keeps me standing.
"Color?" he asks.
I blink. "What?"
"I don't use safe words, but I use colors. Green means good, yellow means slow down, red means we pause and discuss. It's not a magic stop button, but it's communication." He turns me to face him. "What's your color right now?"
"Green." The word comes out breathless. "Very green."
Something shifts in his expression. Hunger, yes, but something else too. Satisfaction. Approval.
"Good girl."
He leads me to the padded bench.
"Bend over. Hands flat on the leather."
I bend. The bench is the perfect height. My ass raised, my upper body supported, my face pressed against cool leather that smells like expensive care. Behind me, he moves. A cabinet opens. Something being selected.
"I'm going to use my hand tonight." His palm lands on my ass. Not a strike, just resting there. Warm. Heavy. "Twenty strokes. You'll count them."
Twenty. It sounds like a lot. It sounds like nothing. I have no frame of reference.
"If you lose count, we start over."
His hand lifts.
The first stroke lands with a crack that echoes off the walls.
I yelp, more from surprise than pain. The sting blooms across my right cheek, hot and sharp, and before I can process it, his hand is soothing the spot he just struck. Rubbing in circles. Spreading the heat.
"One," I manage.
"Good."