Dark Secret Love (14 page)

Tears started at some point. I was feeling sorry for myself. I’d had an idea of what Jack would do to me, and
I’d hoped that his fantasies would match my own. But now he had thrown me off balance. While I had been planning on steeling myself, taking whatever he had to give, showing him my strength, he had been planning on exposing my weaknesses.

Pacing calmed me. From one end of the patio to the other, my arms crossed over my chest as ever, my hair in my eyes, head down. Back and forth, never stopping to look into the room to see if he had come back. Never sitting on the chair or the table. Not bothering to look back at the view. The darkness of the sky was heavy—a weight over me. I kept walking. My feet were cold. My whole body was cold. My lips were cold. The soft breeze in the air touched the tears streaking my cheeks.

But this wasn’t right. He didn’t want me to pace like a caged animal. Not really. Did he? He must have been waiting for me to understand. Waiting for me to get the test. To make sense of it. My mind worked rapidly. Furiously. And yet I was at a loss. What did he want?

And then suddenly, a light came on in the living room. He was sitting on the sofa and he’d turned on the light next to him. The golden glow looked warm and inviting. How long had he been sitting there? Could he see me out of the window? Or did the glow in the room create a mirrored effect, and was he only looking at his own reflection?

I hesitated, then walked toward the glass. And then went on my knees, and from my knees to my belly. Head down. Not looking at him. Not even guessing anymore how long he’d leave me out here. But letting him know—I hoped—that I would stay without screaming, without pounding on the door, without making a scene. I would stay as long as he required.

Trust me.

That’s all he’d asked for.

Trust me.

And I did.

When the door slid open, I stayed prone, head down, until I felt Jack’s hand on the top of my head. He stroked my hair. He pet me softly, gently. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice just reaching my ears. “Good girl.”

And then he pulled me to standing and wrapped me in his arms, and I could feel the softness of his shirt, the rough fabric of his slacks, the way his cool silver belt buckle pressed against me. The shudders working through my body came for a different reason now. Relief flooded me, and I would have wet his shirt with my tears if he hadn’t spun me around so that I was looking back out onto Sunset once more.

“This isn’t punishment,” he said, as I heard his buckle undo. “This is a reward, kid. For good behavior.” My back tensed, muscles alive and ready. I could understand this sort of action. I could comprehend this type of talk. “I’m going to whip you until you’re really crying. Don’t try to fake me out with false sobs, because I won’t even hear them. I’m going to whip you”—oh god, those words—“until you’re crying, and then I’m going to fuck you.” His hand wrapped the coils of my hair, pulling tight so that my head went back and my chin was forced up. “This isn’t punishment,” he repeated, and I could tell that he understood what his words were doing to me. He knew that the words were almost as important as the action. “This is a reward. I’m giving you this because you crave it. You need it. Fucking you without the pain would be punishment for you. It would be like almost letting you come but never bringing you to climax. It would be like leaving you
teetering, breathless, begging for more. Am I right?” “Yes, Jack.” His hand was painful in my hair. “Then say it. I want to hear you say it.”

A deep, shaking breath. “This isn’t punishment.”

“What isn’t?”

Eyes shut tight now. “The fact that you’re going to use your belt on me …”

“I’m going to whip you.”

Oh, Jesus, please.

“You’re going to whip me,” I repeated obediently. “But that’s not punishment. It’s a reward.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it.” I choked on the statement, so difficult to admit, so hard to confess.

Jack brought his mouth to my cheek then, kissed me fiercely, and when he spoke, his words were so soft I could barely hear them. “Don’t worry so much, Sam. I need it, too.”

I think about that word all the time.

Need.

“I need this, too,” Jack told me. And everything changed. By taking care of me, he was taking care of himself. I don’t think I’d ever tried to envision the situation from a Dom’s point of view before. I was so fucking grateful whenever I found a man who could fulfill my own dark cravings that I forgot the other half of the equation: The fact that I was fulfilling his as well. Nate tried to explain that to me—two sides of the same coin. But to Nate, our relationship ultimately had to be a game. He was helping me get over Byron—not the loss of Byron, but the death of the relationship. And then he was helping me write my book.

With Jack, everything was different. Somehow his words gave me power. He let me know that as much as I wanted him to take off his leather belt and make me cry, he desired that as well. My mind tried to put everything in
order, but then we were starting, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

Who gives a fuck about need when a man tells you to bend over and grip your ankles? Who gives a fuck about anything, except paying careful attention and doing what he says?

I hadn’t stopped shaking since he first locked me out on the balcony. But now those vibrations were electric, my whole body trembling. Jack set one hand on my naked ass, then stroked my cherry tattoo with a light fingertip, and I could imagine that he must be smiling. He was taking his time. He was stretching this out.

Am I the only sub who has second thoughts in those final moments?

Do I really want this?

No, I can live without this sort of power play.

I can get off with my fingers and a fantasy.

I can exist with a book of porn and a vibrator.

But I can’t.

Byron showed me what I couldn’t take. I was suicidal by the end of our three years together. How crazy that all he had to do was this. Strip me down. Take charge. Make me cry. Make me beg.

But still—in those last tremulous moments before the belt strikes, I have doubts.

Jack drove all those doubts away. “It’s going to hurt,” he said, “you know that.”

“Yes, Sir.” Spoken to the floor of the balcony.

“I already striped you pretty good in the garage. And that whipping is going to seem like nothing compared to this. You understand that, don’t you, girl?”

“Yes, Sir,” my words catching in my throat, my voice hoarse.

“Say it, Sam.”

I comprehended this part of the process now. He liked me to speak the things that were hardest for me to accept about myself.

“I understand.”

“What do you understand?”

Just whip me, I wanted to beg. Don’t put me through this. This is hell. Don’t make me parrot those sentences. Don’t do it, Jack—

“You’re going to make it hurt. Sir.”

“Why?”

I actually started to turn around, to let go of my ankles and face him. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I might grab him around the knees and beg him? That I could somehow force him to do what I wanted instead of what he wanted? Who knows? I didn’t even make it to a standing position. Jack was in motion instantly, gripping my hair once more and forcing my head back down.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Hold onto those ankles and get back into position.”

My tears were hitting the floor steadily now. When did I get so weak? I’d always prided myself on my ability not to cry. Since grade school, when we played rough-and-tumble football. Sometimes boys would cry. But not me.

“Now!”

Jack’s icy voice froze me inside. I held my ankles, palms already slippery against my naked skin. And I tried my best to behave.

“Why?” he hissed. “Don’t make me ask again. I don’t like to repeat myself.” It sounded like he was biting off each word and spitting it out at me.

Nate had tried to get me to tell him why. Even Byron, when I’d told him to spank me with his brush, when I’d
begged him to put me over his lap, even he had asked later that evening, Why? Why would you want me to do that to you?

Need.

“Because I need it.”

“That’s right,” Jack said immediately, letting me know I’d given him the correct answer. “Take that fact into yourself and hold onto it. Embrace it. You need this.” He emphasized each word carefully. “I am giving you what you need. You need me to stripe your ass for you with my belt. You need me to make it hurt. Without that, you don’t have anything. You’re a ball of longing. A mess of cravings. Without that pain, you’re nothing at all.”

It was as if he could see those last flickers of doubt in my head and he was intent on quashing each one. He knew. Jack knew. I could make up fairy tales for myself in the seconds before the leather struck, but as soon as he began to punish me, all those fantasies of being normal would disappear. Good-girl sex, the type I always imagine other people to be having in their dark bedrooms every night, with minty breath and cooing dove talk, that sort of sex isn’t meant for me.

Yet he waited. Waited until my muscles were screaming, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. How insane that the waiting is always worse than the pain. At least, you think it is. Then finally he began. The flat leather of the belt slapped against my ass, first lightly, then with more power. I held my ankles. I stayed still. He worked rhythmically, left side, right side, occasionally catching me with the thin edge of the belt, leaving welts like those from a crop or a cane. He didn’t speak for the first part. He focused on whipping me. My glossy black hair fell forward to the ground. My whole body was intent on not
letting go. On not disobeying him. And then I remembered his promise.

I could cry. I could sob. But he wasn’t going to stop until he knew I was finished. And fear set in.

How much could I take? I didn’t know.

Jack knew. Jack slammed that belt against my skin until I was on fire. Then he doubled the belt and got closer to me, one hand on my lower back, forcing me to arch my ass higher for him. When he prepared to slap the belt between my legs, I lost it. My hands slipped off my ankles, and I placed my palms on the floor instead. Jack didn’t say a word—he simply gripped me in his arms, brought me over to the table, and spread me out on the cold glass top.

The belt flew in his hands now. Over and over, a melody of pain blooming each time it landed.

“Now spread your legs.”

I did as he said.

“Wider.”

Jack leaned over me, and I could feel his cock straining against the fabric of his slacks and the heat from his body, although he wasn’t out of breath in the least.

“You know what’s coming next, don’t you baby?”

“Yes, Sir.” Instantaneous response.

“Say it.”

I couldn’t. It felt like a metal ball was rolling around in the pit of my stomach. Back and forth. Weighing me down. Words are simple. Words are my friends. I can write for hours without a break, without looking up. And yet I couldn’t give Jack the answer he wanted.

He moved aside and bent down next to me, face to face with me. He stroked my hair out of my eyes. “Come on, kid. I’m not mad. Not yet. Don’t make me angry. I know this is our first time together, first time for real. But you
have to obey me. You have to answer me when I ask you a question.”

I had my head to the side and I shut my eyes tight. “You’re going to use the belt between my legs.”

The whistle of Jack’s breath between his teeth made me know I’d failed.

I’m lying.

I knew I’d failed when I spoke the words. Knew I was going to fail when I closed my eyes. He wanted me to meet his gaze and say that he was going to whip my pussy. To punish me there, on that most tender skin. To hurt me there. He wanted me to verbalize both my darkest desire and my biggest fear.

He almost laughed. I could hear the disbelief as he said, “Oh, baby. Oh, Sam. I thought you understood me better than that.”

And I was in his arms, being carried back into the penthouse, into rooms I hadn’t yet seen. Down a long hallway to his bedroom. White walls. White rug. Candles on the armoire. Incandescent light gleaming on the silver cuffs that lay on the bed.

“I was hoping to do this differently,” he said as he started to bind me into place. “Punish you out there, and then fuck you. A reward, like I told you. But you have to meet me halfway, don’t you think? You have to do your share.” He spoke sadly, because I’d let him down. Because I knew precisely what he’d wanted, and I hadn’t risen to the challenge.

With Nate, our games had always ended at the first light of dawn. With Connor, the power play had been because of the drama. The hiding. The cheating. The lying. With Jack, things were different. The cuffs were tight on my wrists, the bindings firm on my ankles. With
Jack, there was no going slow. Going back. Going home. This was no game.

“It’s my fault,” he said, his blue eyes shining. “I thought we were starting from a different place.” He licked his lower lip as he looked at me. “I’m not often wrong.”

I wanted to beg now, as I saw him regarding me with that inscrutable look. I wanted to apologize, to tell him whatever he needed to hear. But that time had passed.