in my youth, of course. Not until college, when I’d torn away my rose-colored glasses, did I realize we were like kept animals, pets to my father, controlled, not protected. Sheltered from the many lives he had led and the many women my mother had pretended she didn’t share him with.
“Ms. McMillan?” Jacob asks, and I snap my gaze up from the floor to his.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you, Jacob.” And despite my walkdown memory lane, I mean the words. Contrary to my actions the night before, I don’t make a habit of being stupid, no matter what my father might say otherwise. Someone was in that storage unit with me last night. Maybe it was teenagers, or maybe it wasn’t, but with my worries about Rebecca, I’m not sure I’m over the fear I felt inside the darkness.
His eyes narrow and glint with understanding. “I don’t care what time of the day or night, you call me if you need to. There is no reason too small. Better safe—”
“Than sorry,” I finish for him. “Yes, I know.” I incline my head. “I’ll call if I need you.”
A few minutes later, I walk off the elevator and into Chris’s apartment, taking in the twinkling skyline. Exhaustion begins to seep into my bones and I head to the bedroom, pausing at the doorway, entranced by the giant, unmade bed.
Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you .
And he had. I have no idea if that means he’s falling in love with me, but I am falling in love with him. I have already.
I wet my suddenly parched lips and kick off my shoes before walking to the bathroom and finding Chris’s shirt, which I’ve saved to sleep in. After undressing, I pull the shirt over my body and inhale deeply. The scent of Chris is a little piece of heaven. I head to the kitchen and spend some time exploring, pleased to find a box of macaroni and cheese that I quickly whip into dinner. Once it’s ready, I cave in to curiosity and end up at the door of Chris’s studio with dinner, my laptop, and my phone in hand.
I flip on the light and I don’t see the gorgeous city surrounding me. There is only the roll of tape lying by the stool. I squeezemy eyes shut and I can almost put myself back on that chair with Chris’s mouth and hands on my body. I settled my things on the floor by the wall where I intend to get comfortable, but I don’t sit. Now, and only now, do I let myself think about what has randomly slipped into my thoughts today, to be dashed away. The painting .
Slowly, I walk forward, my pulse accelerating as I near Chris’s depiction of me, bound by the ankles and wrists, in the center of the studio. As I bring it into view, my throat goes instantly dry, and heat burns low in my belly. It’s a black-and-white image, which he favors, and well developed with fine details, too well developed to be a draft. He’s been working on this for a while and he left it in the open for me to see, this morning and now. Chris does nothing without purpose. This is a message or a challenge. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. I’m not clear on either. And considering I’m both aroused and uncomfortable, I’m not even clear on what I feel. This is Chris’s sanctuary. What does it mean that he’s bound me in real life and on canvas?
Nine
Tearing my gaze away from the painting, I walk to where I’ve left my things. Knees weak, I slide down the wall and sit there a moment, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling, when a mission for knowledge hits me. Powering up my computer, I google “pain for pleasure” and find myself greeted by an eyeful of bound naked bodies and dungeonlike playrooms. Whips and chains appear to be a predominant theme and the idea of educating myself isn’t working. I’m just plain freaking myself out. I try bondage and BDSM and it’s pretty darn close to the same results.
Finally, I land on a site that highlights stories like “Toy with your lover” and
“Ms. McMillan?” Jacob asks, and I snap my gaze up from the floor to his.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you, Jacob.” And despite my walkdown memory lane, I mean the words. Contrary to my actions the night before, I don’t make a habit of being stupid, no matter what my father might say otherwise. Someone was in that storage unit with me last night. Maybe it was teenagers, or maybe it wasn’t, but with my worries about Rebecca, I’m not sure I’m over the fear I felt inside the darkness.
His eyes narrow and glint with understanding. “I don’t care what time of the day or night, you call me if you need to. There is no reason too small. Better safe—”
“Than sorry,” I finish for him. “Yes, I know.” I incline my head. “I’ll call if I need you.”
A few minutes later, I walk off the elevator and into Chris’s apartment, taking in the twinkling skyline. Exhaustion begins to seep into my bones and I head to the bedroom, pausing at the doorway, entranced by the giant, unmade bed.
Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you .
And he had. I have no idea if that means he’s falling in love with me, but I am falling in love with him. I have already.
I wet my suddenly parched lips and kick off my shoes before walking to the bathroom and finding Chris’s shirt, which I’ve saved to sleep in. After undressing, I pull the shirt over my body and inhale deeply. The scent of Chris is a little piece of heaven. I head to the kitchen and spend some time exploring, pleased to find a box of macaroni and cheese that I quickly whip into dinner. Once it’s ready, I cave in to curiosity and end up at the door of Chris’s studio with dinner, my laptop, and my phone in hand.
I flip on the light and I don’t see the gorgeous city surrounding me. There is only the roll of tape lying by the stool. I squeezemy eyes shut and I can almost put myself back on that chair with Chris’s mouth and hands on my body. I settled my things on the floor by the wall where I intend to get comfortable, but I don’t sit. Now, and only now, do I let myself think about what has randomly slipped into my thoughts today, to be dashed away. The painting .
Slowly, I walk forward, my pulse accelerating as I near Chris’s depiction of me, bound by the ankles and wrists, in the center of the studio. As I bring it into view, my throat goes instantly dry, and heat burns low in my belly. It’s a black-and-white image, which he favors, and well developed with fine details, too well developed to be a draft. He’s been working on this for a while and he left it in the open for me to see, this morning and now. Chris does nothing without purpose. This is a message or a challenge. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. I’m not clear on either. And considering I’m both aroused and uncomfortable, I’m not even clear on what I feel. This is Chris’s sanctuary. What does it mean that he’s bound me in real life and on canvas?
Nine
Tearing my gaze away from the painting, I walk to where I’ve left my things. Knees weak, I slide down the wall and sit there a moment, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling, when a mission for knowledge hits me. Powering up my computer, I google “pain for pleasure” and find myself greeted by an eyeful of bound naked bodies and dungeonlike playrooms. Whips and chains appear to be a predominant theme and the idea of educating myself isn’t working. I’m just plain freaking myself out. I try bondage and BDSM and it’s pretty darn close to the same results.
Finally, I land on a site that highlights stories like “Toy with your lover” and
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