And it shattered her into so many pieces she had no idea how she would
ever pull herself together again.
Finally, completely worn, she slept.
Roan’s head hadn’t stopped aching since Miranda had rightfully told him to fuck off
and he’d realized what he’d done. Fucking inexcusable. So utterly inexcusable he hadn’t
been able to bring himself to face her. He had to do battle with himself first.
The sun was beginning to set and he was still naked, sitting on the end of the bed.
He could still smell her in the room, that delicate scent of citrus and jasmine.
She tried to show him her strength even as she submitted to him, but he knew there
was a certain fragility to her beneath. And he’d fucking hurt her. There was no way
he couldn’t beat himself up about it.
He’d let her down. But first he’d purposefully taken her up, to the soaring heights
of D/s play, of pain play. Taken her to the space where she was no longer able to
care for herself, where she was his responsibility. And he’d let her fall, rather than preventing it.
“It’s like Kerri all over again,” he muttered, scraping a hand over his jaw.
Where the hell had that come from? It was nothing like Kerri. Kerri had cancer. That
hadn’t been his fault.
But he’d felt somehow that it had been. He thought he’d let that go. Apparently not.
“Jesus.”
He was one messed up bloke.
But this really was nothing like Kerri. Or, it hadn’t been until he’d been an asshole
and made Miranda leave and he was left…without her. Maybe he’d created a self-fulfilling
prophecy of loss. Maybe he was fucking scared, even now, after all this time. He’d
always thought he was simply done with love—that Kerri had been it for him. But maybe
what he’d been doing was hiding from it, keeping most of his heart shut down, locked
away. It had taken Miranda to open it up again, and it was apparently rusty as hell
from lack of use. What had the grief counselor told him? That grief happened in stages?
He just hadn’t expected to have yet another stage ten years down the road. It had
popped up and bitten him in the ass. So damn hard he’d freaked out. Was still freaking
out, if truth be told. But at least he was getting some perspective as to why .
When his cell phone rang he answered without looking, thinking—hoping—that it would
be Miranda.
“Hallo.”
“Daddy?”
“Jenna? I thought you were away at summer camp.”
“Oh, that was over days ago,” she said, in the dismissive manner only a teenager could
manage. “Well, I was supposed to stay for another two weeks, but Tricia went home
early and then I was bored and Mum let me come home.”
“Didn’t you have any fun, darling girl?”
“We went riding every day, and there was a painting instructor who was really quite
good. And his assistant was so cute. But I suppose you don’t want to hear that part.”
“I’m your old man—I don’t want to hear about any ‘cute’ males unless I’m there to
hold a shotgun to their heads should they consider hurting my girl.”
“You’re so dramatic, Dad,” she said with a long sigh.
“I learned from the best, my darling.”
Jenna huffed. “So Tricia and her aunt are going to Paris in a week and they’ve invited
me but Mum said I was getting spoiled and wanted me to talk to you before deciding.”
“And what are you to do in Paris?”
“See the Louvre, of course! If I’m going to be a famous painter someday, I have to
see the Louvre. And the d’Orsay. And maybe wander around Montmartre a bit.”
“Just watch out for those French artists. They’re a lustful bunch.”
“All creative types are.”
“And how do you know that at your age?”
Another long, dramatic sigh. “Dad. I’m sixteen, not six.”
“Thanks for the reminder. But yes, you may go, if my opinion counts. You should see
as many of the museums as you can. It’s a good way to spend some of your summer.
ever pull herself together again.
Finally, completely worn, she slept.
Roan’s head hadn’t stopped aching since Miranda had rightfully told him to fuck off
and he’d realized what he’d done. Fucking inexcusable. So utterly inexcusable he hadn’t
been able to bring himself to face her. He had to do battle with himself first.
The sun was beginning to set and he was still naked, sitting on the end of the bed.
He could still smell her in the room, that delicate scent of citrus and jasmine.
She tried to show him her strength even as she submitted to him, but he knew there
was a certain fragility to her beneath. And he’d fucking hurt her. There was no way
he couldn’t beat himself up about it.
He’d let her down. But first he’d purposefully taken her up, to the soaring heights
of D/s play, of pain play. Taken her to the space where she was no longer able to
care for herself, where she was his responsibility. And he’d let her fall, rather than preventing it.
“It’s like Kerri all over again,” he muttered, scraping a hand over his jaw.
Where the hell had that come from? It was nothing like Kerri. Kerri had cancer. That
hadn’t been his fault.
But he’d felt somehow that it had been. He thought he’d let that go. Apparently not.
“Jesus.”
He was one messed up bloke.
But this really was nothing like Kerri. Or, it hadn’t been until he’d been an asshole
and made Miranda leave and he was left…without her. Maybe he’d created a self-fulfilling
prophecy of loss. Maybe he was fucking scared, even now, after all this time. He’d
always thought he was simply done with love—that Kerri had been it for him. But maybe
what he’d been doing was hiding from it, keeping most of his heart shut down, locked
away. It had taken Miranda to open it up again, and it was apparently rusty as hell
from lack of use. What had the grief counselor told him? That grief happened in stages?
He just hadn’t expected to have yet another stage ten years down the road. It had
popped up and bitten him in the ass. So damn hard he’d freaked out. Was still freaking
out, if truth be told. But at least he was getting some perspective as to why .
When his cell phone rang he answered without looking, thinking—hoping—that it would
be Miranda.
“Hallo.”
“Daddy?”
“Jenna? I thought you were away at summer camp.”
“Oh, that was over days ago,” she said, in the dismissive manner only a teenager could
manage. “Well, I was supposed to stay for another two weeks, but Tricia went home
early and then I was bored and Mum let me come home.”
“Didn’t you have any fun, darling girl?”
“We went riding every day, and there was a painting instructor who was really quite
good. And his assistant was so cute. But I suppose you don’t want to hear that part.”
“I’m your old man—I don’t want to hear about any ‘cute’ males unless I’m there to
hold a shotgun to their heads should they consider hurting my girl.”
“You’re so dramatic, Dad,” she said with a long sigh.
“I learned from the best, my darling.”
Jenna huffed. “So Tricia and her aunt are going to Paris in a week and they’ve invited
me but Mum said I was getting spoiled and wanted me to talk to you before deciding.”
“And what are you to do in Paris?”
“See the Louvre, of course! If I’m going to be a famous painter someday, I have to
see the Louvre. And the d’Orsay. And maybe wander around Montmartre a bit.”
“Just watch out for those French artists. They’re a lustful bunch.”
“All creative types are.”
“And how do you know that at your age?”
Another long, dramatic sigh. “Dad. I’m sixteen, not six.”
“Thanks for the reminder. But yes, you may go, if my opinion counts. You should see
as many of the museums as you can. It’s a good way to spend some of your summer.
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