Hold Me Down (C 1), page 10
part #1 of Carolina Girls Series
It took a few minutes, but when I read his Have you been drinking, little miss? heat streaked through me like a comet.
Yes, sir, I replied. But I’m at home. I’m not going anywhere.
We’ll talk about it later, he said. Make sure you drink lots of water. Hangovers are nasty things.
Without even thinking about it, I replied, Thanks, Daddy.
Fuck.
He didn’t respond. My heart was hammering in my chest. Why did I call him that? Shitshitshit.
My brain screamed FIX THIS, so I added, Believe it or not, I’ve been hungover before.
Still nothing.
Sorry. I’ll be careful. I don’t want to worry you.
Silence.
I was halfway through typing, Sean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, when my phone rang. I pushed up out of the chair so fast I almost fell over. Halfway down the hall to my bedroom, I answered.
“Even if I accepted the request by text,” Sean said without preamble, “I wouldn’t count it tonight, because you’re drunk. If this is a thing you want, I need you to be sober when you ask for it. You need to remember the next day what it is you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“It’s okay, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing to apologize for.”
“I miss you,” I said.
“I miss you, too,” he said gently. “But you should go to bed. Drink some water, and get some sleep, okay?”
“I don’t want sleep. I want you.”
“Talia.” His voice was hard. I stood up a little straighter, my lips pressed together. “Drink some water. Go to bed. I don’t want to find out you missed any classes tomorrow because you were sick.”
His words were whip-sharp, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Part of me wanted to skip, even if I felt fine, just to be a brat.
Just to see what he’d do.
“Talia? Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry?” Cool. Aloof. As if I was one of his students with a transparent excuse as to why I didn’t have my paper finished.
“Yes, sir.” My cheeks were burning, and I couldn’t blame it all on the booze. God, who was this guy that he could do this to me? “I’m listening. Sorry.”
He cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about this more later. And, Talia?”
I waited for him to continue. Ten seconds feels like forever when you think you’re in trouble. When I realized he was waiting for me, I swallowed and said, “Yes?”
“I don’t know if you’re drunk enough to forget this conversation, but I am not.”
The disappointment in his tone twisted my stomach into knots. I retreated into my bedroom and shut the door, leaning against it before sinking onto the floor. “Sean?” I whispered. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, sweetheart.” He’d softened, his words quiet, gentle. “I’m worried because I’m not there to take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s one of the things that’s so beautiful about you. Any brittle thing can break. Only strength bends.”
I think I fell in love with him when he said that.
“Go to bed,” he said again. “Maybe we can have lunch tomorrow. We won’t talk about this until you’re ready. And sober.” I heard the smile in his voice in the last two words.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Thank you. I can’t wait to see you again.”
“Back atcha, cupcake. Now get some sleep.”
“Sean?” I swallowed. I couldn’t believe I was going to ask this thing. This stupid thing.
“Yeah, baby?”
I hesitated. Stupid. But it felt…right. Somehow. In the twisted mess of my brain. But pushing the words out?
“Talia?”
“I’m here,” I said. “I—well, when I texted you, I was—” I had started picking at my cuticles at some point, and I couldn’t remember when. I imagined Sean’s hand sliding over mine, stilling my nerves.
But he wasn’t here, and I couldn’t make myself stop.
“You were what?”
“I was watching a movie,” I mumbled. “With Mal and everybody and that’s why we were drinking, I mean, I wasn’t drinking alone and I just—I mean—”
“What are you asking me?” His question should have sounded rude. Short—like, get on with it—but it didn’t. It was like he was helping me separate my thoughts. Like he was feeling out my words, trying to get to the root of them.
I knew what I was asking him. And I kind of hated myself for needing to ask it. But I did. I needed to ask.
No rules yet, cupcake.
I wanted them. Lord, I wanted rules so fucking bad. I squeezed my hands into fists to keep my fingers still. “Can I finish the movie before I go to bed?”
I felt like I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Maybe this is who I’d been all along.
When he replied, I could hear the smile in his voice, but he didn’t laugh at me. Thank God, thank God he didn’t laugh at me. “Of course. It sounds like you were having fun. I want you to have fun. But I also want you to drink some water and get a full night’s rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Yes, sir.”
An empty space where I love you should have gone. Too soon, I knew. I’d wait. I could wait. I squeezed my fists tighter, my nails biting into my palms.
“I’m glad I got to hear your voice,” he said. “Be careful with my girl, okay?”
“I will,” I promised.
“Good girl.”
My chest loosened and my fists uncurled. If I was a cat, I’d have been purring.
He said, “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“I can’t wait.”
I ended the call, smiling. I went back into the living room and Mal threw a pillow at me from the floor. She was sitting up, her back against the couch, and I laid down with my head in her lap. She put her hand on my shoulder like we’d done so many times before.
We finished the movie.
I drank some water.
I went to bed.
We were eating sushi at ten o’clock the next night, because that’s when Sean got out of his last class. I’d already been to the gym and showered. The tiny restaurant was nearly empty, and only one waitress wandered the floor.
Sean was watching me. Watching my hands as they handled the chopsticks. Watching my mouth as I ate. Watching like he could devour me.
Oh. And he was wearing a suit. Charcoal gray. Lavender shirt, no tie. Fucking suspenders. His sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his coat draped over the empty chair next to him.
I hadn’t expected this: that plaid shirt he’d been wearing the first time we met was the closest to fancy I’d seen. But this—this was in an entirely different league. Something about that suit, knowing what was underneath it, knowing what he was capable of, knowing what he wanted, was making me squirm in my seat. Like, actually squirm.
We weren’t talking much. Just staring at each other and eating.
Okay, fine: eye-fucking each other and eating.
Because he may not have dressed with anyone’s libido in mind, but I certainly had. Slouchy sweater, pencil skirt, tall boots with socks peeking over the top. Not much skin showing, maybe a few inches of knee, a shadowed slope of clavicle. Carefully constructed.
He was just watching me, watching like he was planning something, his eyes dark with predatory desire.
I pointed my chopsticks at him. “So what’s with the fancy get-up?”
“I had a meeting this afternoon, and no time to go home and change,” he said. “I don’t spend every day digging holes and rustling through crumbling documents.”
“You do actual archaeology?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, actual archaeology. Most of the time it’s not that exciting. It’s really nothing like what you see on the History Channel.”
“Your age is showing,” I said. “They haven’t played any real history shows on that channel since I was in elementary school. They oughta call it the Hitler Jesus Channel.”
“Now that the Mayan Apocalypse has passed.”
I grinned. “So, Indiana Jones, talk to me about archaeology.”
“You don’t want to hear about the meeting?”
“Do you want to tell me about the meeting?”
“Not really.”
“Very well,” I said. “Plus, if you’re talking about archaeology while wearing that suit, you’re pretty much pushing all my buttons at once.”
He smirked. “Oh yeah?”
“Yup. Go on. Talk dirty to me, Daddy.”
As soon as it came out, I wished I hadn’t said it. Why couldn’t I stop calling him that? But his eyes flashed, and everything in my body cinched tight. I was suddenly very aware of my pulse, of my exposed skin. The feel of his eyes as they crawled over me. The suppressed power of this man sitting across the table from me.
He settled his arm across the back of the empty seat next to him. “Dig a hole. Walk ten meters.”
It took me a second to remember what we were talking about. I couldn’t hold his gaze, hyperaware of how much room he was taking up. Of the proximity of his knees to mine under the table.
I looked anywhere but at him, taking a drink as an excuse to not to meet his eyes. I finally said, “Oh yeah? Is that it?” I hoped my voice came out as light, as flip as I’d intended.
“More or less.” He rolled his shoulders, and I couldn’t tell if he was shrugging or forcing himself to relax. “Add some poison ivy, wasps, the occasional artifact, a lot of booze, and you’ve pretty much nailed it.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I had, at some point, folded my hands and stuck them between my knees under the table. My shoulders had hunched, my head dipped down.
The waitress came by. I don’t know if Sean flagged her down, or if she stopped because she thought we’d finished eating.
Sean said, “I think we’re about ready for the check.”
My mouth went dry.
When the waitress left, Sean leaned forward and said, “Got any big plans tonight?”
Shit. Shit. I pressed my lips together. “Nope.”
“You’ve been to the gym already?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I even showered before coming out this time.”
He gave me a sharp leonine grin, leaning back as the waitress set the check down in front of him. “I appreciate the consideration.”
When she walked away, Sean said, pulling bills from his wallet, “We’ve got some things we need to talk about.”
I felt like I was going to puke.
He looked up at me. “Do you want to meet me at the house?”
I swallowed. I knew what he was doing. Knew he was giving me a way out. Knew he was making sure I wouldn’t feel trapped. But I didn’t know if I had the willpower to drive myself over there.
“Talia, look at me.”
I did. I couldn’t not.
He put his hand on the table between us, palm up. I slid my fingers into his hand, the hard ridge of callouses tickling my palm. He said, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to do.”
I do want to do it. I want to do it all.
I’m fucking terrified.
“Do you want to come over?”
I found myself nodding before I’d even processed the question. He grinned, squeezed my hand once, then released it.
“Good. Then hop to, cupcake.”
Eleven
Brooks was out. Dexter was in the backyard.
We were in the living room, and Sean’s hand was on the back of my neck, bringing me to him, and then he was kissing me. His beard soft against my lips, his fingers hard against my skin.
Then he pulled away. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. We’re supposed to be talking.”
I reached for him, and his face was pained as he moved back. “I don’t want to talk.”
“We need to talk about this,” he said. “We need to talk about it, because I don’t want to cause you any harm.”
“But I don’t know what there is to talk about,” I said. “I know what I think about, but I can’t tell you if it’s a fantasy, or if it’s a real thing I’ll get off on. That’s awful. I know. But I—I want to try. I want to try everything.”
“I don’t,” he said. “No kids, no animals, no bathroom.”
I laughed. “Okay, well obviously I don’t want to try those things.”
“That’s what I mean, though,” he said, heading back towards the kitchen. “We have to talk about it. Do you want something to drink?”
“I’m good,” I said. “And do whatever you want. I’ll let you know if I don’t like it.”
“Not liking something and needing it to end are two different things.” He came out of the kitchen with two bottles of water anyway. “You not liking something doesn’t mean I won’t do it. Have you ever been spanked?”
“I’ve been slapped on the ass a few times,” I said. “But never like, spanked spanked.”
“So you’ve had rough sex, but never been punished.”
“Well, no—I mean. It’s never happened during sex before.”
He blinked. “Are you a virgin?”
“No.” My laughter was too loud, too bright. “I just have very…limited experience.”
“Okay.” He nodded, running one hand over his chin. “So do you want to be punished?”
I chewed on my lip. “Can I say something?”
“Anything. We’re just talking.”
“That sounds like a trick question.”
He chuckled. “It’s not. How about this: do you want rules?”
“Yeah.”
“So if you break the rules, there needs to be some kind of consequence, right? Based on the nature of the transgression, of course.”
“Sure.”
“So you do want punishment. When it’s deserved.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, looking at me as if my heart and mind were printed on my skin, “but I don’t think spanking would provide much in the way of discouragement for you.”
I laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not. Depends on the kind of spanking, I guess? Or how long it lasted? Honestly, shit, I have no idea.”
“I have it on good authority hairbrushes are pretty uncomfortable.”
“I will take your word for it.”
He showed me his teeth. “You probably won’t have to.”
“Ha. No. Probably not.”
“Anything you don’t want me doing?”
“I don’t want you lending me out.”
“No,” he said. “I won’t. I don’t share well.”
I took a deep breath. “And I don’t want like—little-kid punishments. I don’t want to write lines or be sent to the corner. I want to be treated like an adult.”
He nodded, his eyebrows knitted together. Watching me. All but taking notes. “Sure. Okay. But would you be upset if I, for example, gave you a stuffed animal or a coloring book?”
“What kind of monster says no to stuffed animals and coloring books? Honestly, Sean.”
There is nothing in the world better than a man who wants to look stern but can’t stop his smile. The smile you put there.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s fair. So you’re fine with corporal punishment. Any limits on implements—floggers, canes, wooden spoons?”
“Wooden spoons?”
He gave me a wicked grin.
“Whatever. Implements don’t matter to me. Interaction does.”
“What about marks?”
I swallowed. “Like permanent ones?”
“I meant bruising, mostly. But I guess we can address that while we’re here.”
“Bruises are fine.” Come on, Benson. Own up. “Uh, great actually. They’re great. But don’t like, brand me or some shit.”
“Don’t worry. I will not.”
“Excellent. Good. Thank you.”
“So,” he said. “Bruises. They’re great?”
“Sure. Yeah. I mean—they’re souvenirs.”
He grinned, wide and menacing. “You know how hard it is to bruise an ass with your hand?”
“Since the answer is obviously no, I’m going to assume it’s very hard, and that shit-eating grin on your face tells me you’ve done it, so I ought to be intimidated. Am I close?”
He pursed his lips and sucked in a breath. “The mouth on you.”
“You like it.”
“I really do.”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the churning in my stomach, and said, “Boss me around, Sean.”
His brows flickered, like he was surprised I’d finally located my spine. He put his water on the coffee table, and I’m not sure how he made such an innocuous move so damn threatening. And when he straightened up again, I swear to God he grew three sizes. “What’s the magic word?”
“Um,” I said, “boss me around, sir?”
He chuckled. “No,” he said, “the magic word is please. Same as when you were seven, you little brat.”
But he didn’t move, or say anything else. So I rolled my eyes and said, “Fine. God. Boss me around, please.”
He closed the space between us in two long steps, and this time, when he slid his hand around the back of my neck, he fisted his fingers in my hair and yanked my head back. My mouth fell open and it was all I could do to focus on staying upright.
He wasn’t kissing me. He was just holding me there, my head tipped back and throat exposed. He said, “So, the suit does something for you?”
I licked dry lips. “Yes.”
“Yes…?”
Shit, what did he want to hear? Please obviously wasn’t the right answer. Or was it? Did he want me to say his name? Mr. Poole? Fuck. Fuck.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, uh…is sir appropriate here?”
He sighed, and pulled down on my hair. It didn’t quite hurt, but it drove me to my knees. “Tell me why you like the suit.”
“That purple really complements your skin tone.”
“Talia.” He sang my name more than said it, amused by my flippancy, his fingers tightening in my hair. Chills spiderwebbed across my scalp, down my neck. “You know that isn’t what I meant. Tell me why you like the suit.”
Yes, sir, I replied. But I’m at home. I’m not going anywhere.
We’ll talk about it later, he said. Make sure you drink lots of water. Hangovers are nasty things.
Without even thinking about it, I replied, Thanks, Daddy.
Fuck.
He didn’t respond. My heart was hammering in my chest. Why did I call him that? Shitshitshit.
My brain screamed FIX THIS, so I added, Believe it or not, I’ve been hungover before.
Still nothing.
Sorry. I’ll be careful. I don’t want to worry you.
Silence.
I was halfway through typing, Sean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, when my phone rang. I pushed up out of the chair so fast I almost fell over. Halfway down the hall to my bedroom, I answered.
“Even if I accepted the request by text,” Sean said without preamble, “I wouldn’t count it tonight, because you’re drunk. If this is a thing you want, I need you to be sober when you ask for it. You need to remember the next day what it is you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“It’s okay, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing to apologize for.”
“I miss you,” I said.
“I miss you, too,” he said gently. “But you should go to bed. Drink some water, and get some sleep, okay?”
“I don’t want sleep. I want you.”
“Talia.” His voice was hard. I stood up a little straighter, my lips pressed together. “Drink some water. Go to bed. I don’t want to find out you missed any classes tomorrow because you were sick.”
His words were whip-sharp, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Part of me wanted to skip, even if I felt fine, just to be a brat.
Just to see what he’d do.
“Talia? Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry?” Cool. Aloof. As if I was one of his students with a transparent excuse as to why I didn’t have my paper finished.
“Yes, sir.” My cheeks were burning, and I couldn’t blame it all on the booze. God, who was this guy that he could do this to me? “I’m listening. Sorry.”
He cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about this more later. And, Talia?”
I waited for him to continue. Ten seconds feels like forever when you think you’re in trouble. When I realized he was waiting for me, I swallowed and said, “Yes?”
“I don’t know if you’re drunk enough to forget this conversation, but I am not.”
The disappointment in his tone twisted my stomach into knots. I retreated into my bedroom and shut the door, leaning against it before sinking onto the floor. “Sean?” I whispered. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, sweetheart.” He’d softened, his words quiet, gentle. “I’m worried because I’m not there to take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s one of the things that’s so beautiful about you. Any brittle thing can break. Only strength bends.”
I think I fell in love with him when he said that.
“Go to bed,” he said again. “Maybe we can have lunch tomorrow. We won’t talk about this until you’re ready. And sober.” I heard the smile in his voice in the last two words.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Thank you. I can’t wait to see you again.”
“Back atcha, cupcake. Now get some sleep.”
“Sean?” I swallowed. I couldn’t believe I was going to ask this thing. This stupid thing.
“Yeah, baby?”
I hesitated. Stupid. But it felt…right. Somehow. In the twisted mess of my brain. But pushing the words out?
“Talia?”
“I’m here,” I said. “I—well, when I texted you, I was—” I had started picking at my cuticles at some point, and I couldn’t remember when. I imagined Sean’s hand sliding over mine, stilling my nerves.
But he wasn’t here, and I couldn’t make myself stop.
“You were what?”
“I was watching a movie,” I mumbled. “With Mal and everybody and that’s why we were drinking, I mean, I wasn’t drinking alone and I just—I mean—”
“What are you asking me?” His question should have sounded rude. Short—like, get on with it—but it didn’t. It was like he was helping me separate my thoughts. Like he was feeling out my words, trying to get to the root of them.
I knew what I was asking him. And I kind of hated myself for needing to ask it. But I did. I needed to ask.
No rules yet, cupcake.
I wanted them. Lord, I wanted rules so fucking bad. I squeezed my hands into fists to keep my fingers still. “Can I finish the movie before I go to bed?”
I felt like I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Maybe this is who I’d been all along.
When he replied, I could hear the smile in his voice, but he didn’t laugh at me. Thank God, thank God he didn’t laugh at me. “Of course. It sounds like you were having fun. I want you to have fun. But I also want you to drink some water and get a full night’s rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Yes, sir.”
An empty space where I love you should have gone. Too soon, I knew. I’d wait. I could wait. I squeezed my fists tighter, my nails biting into my palms.
“I’m glad I got to hear your voice,” he said. “Be careful with my girl, okay?”
“I will,” I promised.
“Good girl.”
My chest loosened and my fists uncurled. If I was a cat, I’d have been purring.
He said, “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“I can’t wait.”
I ended the call, smiling. I went back into the living room and Mal threw a pillow at me from the floor. She was sitting up, her back against the couch, and I laid down with my head in her lap. She put her hand on my shoulder like we’d done so many times before.
We finished the movie.
I drank some water.
I went to bed.
We were eating sushi at ten o’clock the next night, because that’s when Sean got out of his last class. I’d already been to the gym and showered. The tiny restaurant was nearly empty, and only one waitress wandered the floor.
Sean was watching me. Watching my hands as they handled the chopsticks. Watching my mouth as I ate. Watching like he could devour me.
Oh. And he was wearing a suit. Charcoal gray. Lavender shirt, no tie. Fucking suspenders. His sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his coat draped over the empty chair next to him.
I hadn’t expected this: that plaid shirt he’d been wearing the first time we met was the closest to fancy I’d seen. But this—this was in an entirely different league. Something about that suit, knowing what was underneath it, knowing what he was capable of, knowing what he wanted, was making me squirm in my seat. Like, actually squirm.
We weren’t talking much. Just staring at each other and eating.
Okay, fine: eye-fucking each other and eating.
Because he may not have dressed with anyone’s libido in mind, but I certainly had. Slouchy sweater, pencil skirt, tall boots with socks peeking over the top. Not much skin showing, maybe a few inches of knee, a shadowed slope of clavicle. Carefully constructed.
He was just watching me, watching like he was planning something, his eyes dark with predatory desire.
I pointed my chopsticks at him. “So what’s with the fancy get-up?”
“I had a meeting this afternoon, and no time to go home and change,” he said. “I don’t spend every day digging holes and rustling through crumbling documents.”
“You do actual archaeology?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, actual archaeology. Most of the time it’s not that exciting. It’s really nothing like what you see on the History Channel.”
“Your age is showing,” I said. “They haven’t played any real history shows on that channel since I was in elementary school. They oughta call it the Hitler Jesus Channel.”
“Now that the Mayan Apocalypse has passed.”
I grinned. “So, Indiana Jones, talk to me about archaeology.”
“You don’t want to hear about the meeting?”
“Do you want to tell me about the meeting?”
“Not really.”
“Very well,” I said. “Plus, if you’re talking about archaeology while wearing that suit, you’re pretty much pushing all my buttons at once.”
He smirked. “Oh yeah?”
“Yup. Go on. Talk dirty to me, Daddy.”
As soon as it came out, I wished I hadn’t said it. Why couldn’t I stop calling him that? But his eyes flashed, and everything in my body cinched tight. I was suddenly very aware of my pulse, of my exposed skin. The feel of his eyes as they crawled over me. The suppressed power of this man sitting across the table from me.
He settled his arm across the back of the empty seat next to him. “Dig a hole. Walk ten meters.”
It took me a second to remember what we were talking about. I couldn’t hold his gaze, hyperaware of how much room he was taking up. Of the proximity of his knees to mine under the table.
I looked anywhere but at him, taking a drink as an excuse to not to meet his eyes. I finally said, “Oh yeah? Is that it?” I hoped my voice came out as light, as flip as I’d intended.
“More or less.” He rolled his shoulders, and I couldn’t tell if he was shrugging or forcing himself to relax. “Add some poison ivy, wasps, the occasional artifact, a lot of booze, and you’ve pretty much nailed it.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I had, at some point, folded my hands and stuck them between my knees under the table. My shoulders had hunched, my head dipped down.
The waitress came by. I don’t know if Sean flagged her down, or if she stopped because she thought we’d finished eating.
Sean said, “I think we’re about ready for the check.”
My mouth went dry.
When the waitress left, Sean leaned forward and said, “Got any big plans tonight?”
Shit. Shit. I pressed my lips together. “Nope.”
“You’ve been to the gym already?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I even showered before coming out this time.”
He gave me a sharp leonine grin, leaning back as the waitress set the check down in front of him. “I appreciate the consideration.”
When she walked away, Sean said, pulling bills from his wallet, “We’ve got some things we need to talk about.”
I felt like I was going to puke.
He looked up at me. “Do you want to meet me at the house?”
I swallowed. I knew what he was doing. Knew he was giving me a way out. Knew he was making sure I wouldn’t feel trapped. But I didn’t know if I had the willpower to drive myself over there.
“Talia, look at me.”
I did. I couldn’t not.
He put his hand on the table between us, palm up. I slid my fingers into his hand, the hard ridge of callouses tickling my palm. He said, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to do.”
I do want to do it. I want to do it all.
I’m fucking terrified.
“Do you want to come over?”
I found myself nodding before I’d even processed the question. He grinned, squeezed my hand once, then released it.
“Good. Then hop to, cupcake.”
Eleven
Brooks was out. Dexter was in the backyard.
We were in the living room, and Sean’s hand was on the back of my neck, bringing me to him, and then he was kissing me. His beard soft against my lips, his fingers hard against my skin.
Then he pulled away. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. We’re supposed to be talking.”
I reached for him, and his face was pained as he moved back. “I don’t want to talk.”
“We need to talk about this,” he said. “We need to talk about it, because I don’t want to cause you any harm.”
“But I don’t know what there is to talk about,” I said. “I know what I think about, but I can’t tell you if it’s a fantasy, or if it’s a real thing I’ll get off on. That’s awful. I know. But I—I want to try. I want to try everything.”
“I don’t,” he said. “No kids, no animals, no bathroom.”
I laughed. “Okay, well obviously I don’t want to try those things.”
“That’s what I mean, though,” he said, heading back towards the kitchen. “We have to talk about it. Do you want something to drink?”
“I’m good,” I said. “And do whatever you want. I’ll let you know if I don’t like it.”
“Not liking something and needing it to end are two different things.” He came out of the kitchen with two bottles of water anyway. “You not liking something doesn’t mean I won’t do it. Have you ever been spanked?”
“I’ve been slapped on the ass a few times,” I said. “But never like, spanked spanked.”
“So you’ve had rough sex, but never been punished.”
“Well, no—I mean. It’s never happened during sex before.”
He blinked. “Are you a virgin?”
“No.” My laughter was too loud, too bright. “I just have very…limited experience.”
“Okay.” He nodded, running one hand over his chin. “So do you want to be punished?”
I chewed on my lip. “Can I say something?”
“Anything. We’re just talking.”
“That sounds like a trick question.”
He chuckled. “It’s not. How about this: do you want rules?”
“Yeah.”
“So if you break the rules, there needs to be some kind of consequence, right? Based on the nature of the transgression, of course.”
“Sure.”
“So you do want punishment. When it’s deserved.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, looking at me as if my heart and mind were printed on my skin, “but I don’t think spanking would provide much in the way of discouragement for you.”
I laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not. Depends on the kind of spanking, I guess? Or how long it lasted? Honestly, shit, I have no idea.”
“I have it on good authority hairbrushes are pretty uncomfortable.”
“I will take your word for it.”
He showed me his teeth. “You probably won’t have to.”
“Ha. No. Probably not.”
“Anything you don’t want me doing?”
“I don’t want you lending me out.”
“No,” he said. “I won’t. I don’t share well.”
I took a deep breath. “And I don’t want like—little-kid punishments. I don’t want to write lines or be sent to the corner. I want to be treated like an adult.”
He nodded, his eyebrows knitted together. Watching me. All but taking notes. “Sure. Okay. But would you be upset if I, for example, gave you a stuffed animal or a coloring book?”
“What kind of monster says no to stuffed animals and coloring books? Honestly, Sean.”
There is nothing in the world better than a man who wants to look stern but can’t stop his smile. The smile you put there.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s fair. So you’re fine with corporal punishment. Any limits on implements—floggers, canes, wooden spoons?”
“Wooden spoons?”
He gave me a wicked grin.
“Whatever. Implements don’t matter to me. Interaction does.”
“What about marks?”
I swallowed. “Like permanent ones?”
“I meant bruising, mostly. But I guess we can address that while we’re here.”
“Bruises are fine.” Come on, Benson. Own up. “Uh, great actually. They’re great. But don’t like, brand me or some shit.”
“Don’t worry. I will not.”
“Excellent. Good. Thank you.”
“So,” he said. “Bruises. They’re great?”
“Sure. Yeah. I mean—they’re souvenirs.”
He grinned, wide and menacing. “You know how hard it is to bruise an ass with your hand?”
“Since the answer is obviously no, I’m going to assume it’s very hard, and that shit-eating grin on your face tells me you’ve done it, so I ought to be intimidated. Am I close?”
He pursed his lips and sucked in a breath. “The mouth on you.”
“You like it.”
“I really do.”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the churning in my stomach, and said, “Boss me around, Sean.”
His brows flickered, like he was surprised I’d finally located my spine. He put his water on the coffee table, and I’m not sure how he made such an innocuous move so damn threatening. And when he straightened up again, I swear to God he grew three sizes. “What’s the magic word?”
“Um,” I said, “boss me around, sir?”
He chuckled. “No,” he said, “the magic word is please. Same as when you were seven, you little brat.”
But he didn’t move, or say anything else. So I rolled my eyes and said, “Fine. God. Boss me around, please.”
He closed the space between us in two long steps, and this time, when he slid his hand around the back of my neck, he fisted his fingers in my hair and yanked my head back. My mouth fell open and it was all I could do to focus on staying upright.
He wasn’t kissing me. He was just holding me there, my head tipped back and throat exposed. He said, “So, the suit does something for you?”
I licked dry lips. “Yes.”
“Yes…?”
Shit, what did he want to hear? Please obviously wasn’t the right answer. Or was it? Did he want me to say his name? Mr. Poole? Fuck. Fuck.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, uh…is sir appropriate here?”
He sighed, and pulled down on my hair. It didn’t quite hurt, but it drove me to my knees. “Tell me why you like the suit.”
“That purple really complements your skin tone.”
“Talia.” He sang my name more than said it, amused by my flippancy, his fingers tightening in my hair. Chills spiderwebbed across my scalp, down my neck. “You know that isn’t what I meant. Tell me why you like the suit.”
