Chapter 30
NOVA
Iwoke up to homework from Wes. Straight up homework.
Apparently, he was connected to the Internet somewhere in his multi-million-dollar townhouse, because the man asked for my email address and then sent me a list of articles for kinky education.
Wes
Take your time. Flag what you like, don’t like, and any Qs.
Your text gets an A-. You managed to use an oxford comma even with your medieval torture device, and while you did include an abbreviation, it was of satisfactory usage.
Wes
U better watch it… I’m the one grading next.
A shiver of anticipation crawled down my spine, and the aroused energy stimulated me through a solid three-thousand words of my manuscript.
Over the next four days, I managed to dodge invites from The Circle and its various characters, using the tried-and-true sorry, I’m in the Writing Cave excuse. Though, I would admit, the temptation of free meals was enticing on this month’s shoestring budget.
Before I went back in, I needed a game plan to find Lorelei that was more foolproof than my past failed attempts.
It was a miracle I could focus on writing with Wes’s homework waiting for me every evening. He’d sent me articles on different types of power exchange dynamics, safety guides, and questionnaires that proved hard for me to answer with my glaring lack of experience and barely subdued shame.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” Wes told me on the phone. “I just need to be sure of what you truly want. That’s important for my own safety too.”
“But what if I don’t know exactly what I want?” I asked. It was Thursday night, the night before our first official date.
“Leave things blank if you’re unsure. You’re not married to anything you write.
You can change your boundaries at any time, and I will always talk to you first before I assume.
We’re not in a dynamic. If you want to focus on getting to know each other before any of this, we can do that too.
I just wanted to help, given what you said about not knowing where to start. ”
I released a breath, deciding to be brave and honest even when my entire body protested the unfamiliar approach. “No, I—thank you. I’m enjoying the learning part.”
“Somehow I knew you would be the perfect teacher’s pet,” he drawled.
My toes curled, smiling because I knew he couldn’t see it. “Maybe, but it’s a selective predisposition. Depends on the teacher.”
“You know just what to say,” he said. “I’m going to need you in a plaid skirt when you sit on my lap and read what you’ve written.”
I rolled my eyes, biting on my smile as my nose wrinkled. “I thought you were better than that, Wes.”
“I’m still a man, at the end of the day.”
I gulped. “Frightening.”
He chuckled. “One last thing. Don’t think about me at all while you’re answering any of the questions.
None of this is about me—or anyone else, for that matter.
It’s about you. Let the world hold its judgments and misunderstandings.
It’s none of your business what others think.
Your world matters, Nova. Every desire, every need, every limit. Those are all yours, no one else’s.”
“You know just what to say,” I echoed. I sighed, once again jealous of all those bold women and men on dating apps who could just own their true freaky selves without a care in the world.
“I just know how hard it can be to unravel your own wants from everyone else’s. You’re not only dealing with the complexities of your upbringing—you’re also dealing with a society that is brutally unforgiving of anything it doesn’t understand.”
A million different VidWave and PicWave posts came to mind. The puritanical discourse was never-ending. Everyone had an opinion, and anyone could make their opinion sound like the only reasonable and moral one with enough of a pseudo-intellectual lilt.
“I’m so sick of the assumption we’re only like this because of trauma or some bullshit classical conditioning model from psychologists who never thought to consult an actual kinky person,” I admitted, reflecting on one of the articles about the history of kink.
“Or the supposedly feminist idea that I’m just a dumb robot with no agency who’s only a sub because of the patriarchy. ”
An unfamiliar irritation eclipsed the shame I’d become accustomed to—for the first time in my life, I was actually defending who I was instead of agreeing with everyone who thought people like me shouldn’t exist.
“Someone should tell that group about male subs and female Dommes,” I continued. “Or, you know, queer kinky people. It would blow their minds.”
It was like I could hear Wes’s smile on the other line. “You’re not you because of your trauma, Nova. You’re you in spite of it.”
I went still, everything inside me calming and settling.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said. “I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself.”
The urge to deflect with a joke was so strong, I felt the muscles in my neck straining.
“Thank you. I’m trying.” I watched Inara’s paws curl under my door, creating an abrasive banging sound. “I’ll bring my plaid skirt,” I added, because I couldn’t help myself.
Wes chuckled. “Not really my thing. I’d rather you come as you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That, I can do.”
This time, when Wes and I rode the L into Manhattan together, everything was different.
We were the annoying couple staring at each other as the doors opened and closed at each stop.
Wes was in a dark green, impossibly soft shirt and dark pants.
I wore a long, summery red dress and my beat-up sneakers.
I glanced down at the bag he’d given me.
He laughed. “You can open it now, if you want.”
The train stopped again. I pulled out a book that couldn’t have been longer than two-hundred pages.
“The Story of O,” I read. I smiled at him, vaguely recognizing the title.
“I thought you might appreciate adding a classic to your research pile,” Wes said.
“It was published under a pseudonym in France in 1954, and the identity of the woman who wrote it wasn’t confirmed until forty years later.
She’d originally written the novel as a series of love letters to her lover and editor, who admired the Marquis de Sade—another important kink history figure—and didn’t believe a woman could write an erotic masterpiece. She, of course, proved him wrong.”
“Thank you,” I said, placing the book back in the bag as I stared up at him in awe. His literary knowledge was so fucking hot.
Wes hadn’t kissed me since Sunday night, when we were listening to Slowdive. This was a fact I was intensely aware of the longer we stayed like this—close, magnetized, but never fully breaking the tension.
It was making me crazy. Feral, even.
And Wes knew it. I could see it in his eyes—the denial was intentional.
At our stop, he finally leaned down, his lips an inch from mine. I didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. They brushed against my skin just to the side of my lips, featherlight. A current rolled down my body, all the way to my toes.
Wes pulled away with a smirk and led me off the train, hand in mine.
“You are evil.”
Wes laughed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” We walked up the steps to rejoin the world above. “But I seem to remember warning you of this, so you have only yourself to blame.”
He had me there.
“You know they have Indian food in Brooklyn,” I said, eyeing the restaurant we were entering in the West Village.
“I’m broadening your horizons, Nova. It’s worth it, trust me,” he said.
He opened the door, his hand on my lower back as a guide. I relaxed into his touch. The wicker light fixtures were warm-toned, illuminating the tropical artwork and dramatic tile floors.
We were seated in a corner, a single tealight candle between us.
When my eyes met the menu, my brain turned to static, as it did every time I was confronted with a list of food choices.
I also quickly realized these entrées were not priced the same as my comfort Indian two blocks from my place. These prices made my palms sweat.
“How are you doing over there?” Wes asked. “You seem stressed.”
I looked up at him, his warm hazel eyes dancing with humor. “No. I am regular. Normal, some might say.”
“Who says that?”
I glared.
“Any allergies or culinary hatreds?”
“I have beef with olives. Other than that, no. I do not respect picky eaters unless they are children, and even then, it’s like grow up, you know?”
Wes’s lips curved. “Perfect. Your position, although severe, is helpful for my executive capacities.”
I snorted.
When the waiter returned, Wes ordered for us as if it were the easiest thing in the world, listing off several small plates and an entrée we would share.
Why had that turned me on? My brain was a frightening place.
“Did you bring your completed assignment?” Wes asked.
His previous humor melded effortlessly into a cool mask of authority that made my spine straighten an inch. His head tilted slightly as he assessed me like I was his next meal.
I glanced around the restaurant. Never in my life had I given a fuck what random people in this city heard me say. Until now, apparently.
“Yes,” I said softly. I glanced at my bag, where I’d recorded notes analogue style for the first time in ages.
“Relax,” Wes said in a commanding, even tone. “We’re not going over it now.” He leaned forward, reaching for my hand.
He made my hand look small in his broad palm. There was something aesthetically pleasing about my bare skin against his tattooed flesh, something aesthetically pleasing about every inch of Wes in general.
In an instant, Wes had transformed into something I feared, something I yearned for and lusted after more than anything.
With his intense, authoritative gaze on me, the confusion and dissatisfaction with my life and my career and my purpose in this world slipped away.
I was already exactly what I needed to be, a reflection of the certainty in Wes’s firm grasp.
His next words were spoken low, firm, for only me to hear. “I want you to—”
The spell shattered as a voice loudly interrupted him.
“Look who we’ve found.”