Pleasure's Edge (12 page)

Some of it had to do with Alec, with the sheer power of his size, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke to her. Who he
was
.

He was every bit as commanding now as he was when he was awake. And her body was responding exactly as it had last night: heat and a melting desire that made her want to do anything he asked of her.

Anything.

Fear throbbed as harshly as the need piercing her body.

She had to get out of there. Had to leave before he woke up.

Before . . . what?

Before she gave any more of herself to this man.

She slid from the bed, found her clothes draped over the arm of a dark suede chair by the window and stepped as quietly as she could into the hal . She crept down the stairs and got dressed quickly in the entryway. It felt odd to put on her sexy outfit from her night at the Pleasure Dome in the early-morning cold, in the silent, dark house. It felt total y out of step with how she was feeling.

Just go.

She slipped her shoes on. Her heart was hammering as she opened the front door and slipped outside.

It was foggy, too cold and damp to be without a coat, but she hadn’t worn one the night before. She’d been too anxious to get to the club. Alec had lent her his for the cab ride last night, she remembered. She shivered, as much from the memory of the scent of leather and Alec surrounding her as from the early morning chil .

She started to walk down the hil , stopping several blocks away in front of a smal neighborhood grocery store that had a narrow wooden bench in front. Sitting down, she pul ed her cel phone from her purse and cal ed a cab.

The street was quiet, and she final y thought to check the time on her cel phone. It was nearly six in the morning.

It occurred to her that Alec might be mad that she’d left the way she had.
Would
be. But she’d had to get out of there. She didn’t know how to face him after what they’d done together. After the way she’d given herself over to him, to his command. It had felt right at the time, somehow. Natural, the way her body, her mind, had responded. But now . . . she was embarrassed. Not by the fact that he’d had his hands on her, that he’d known her body so intimately. It was the way she’d gone so easily into submitting to him.

She got up and began to pace, back and forth in front of the bench, too keyed up to sit stil .

God, her head was spinning! She wasn’t even making sense anymore.

Think.

But maybe, for once, thinking wasn’t going to get her through this situation.

She’d always relied on her mind, on her problem-solving abilities, to get her through life. She’d had to, ever since she was a child. Ever since her mother had begun to real y lose it, to sink into her il ness. Dylan had been the one to take over, to handle the life of their smal family. But this time, logic and organizational skil s just weren’t going to cut it.

It had been years since she’d felt helpless about anything. She didn’t like it.

But when it came to Alec Walker, she had very little sense of control. And when it came to Alec speaking to her as a dominant, her body, her mind, automatical y responded as a submissive.

He’d been right about that.

How had she not seen it? How had she been so blind to this side of herself?

Maybe because you didn’t want to see it.

She didn’t want to see it now.

The cab pul ed up and she got in, gave her address, sat back against the cool vinyl seat.

Seattle was stil asleep as they drove across town, as it often was early on a Sunday morning. Stores and restaurants were closed, windows shuttered or gated. The sidewalks were empty.

Even the inevitable coffeehouses were closed. Everything was too damn quiet. It was too easy to get lost inside her own head.

When she got home she turned up the heat in her apartment, changed immediately out of her club clothes and into her white cotton nightgown. She turned the television on to some morning news talk show as she made herself a cup of tea, then got into bed.

She just needed to tune the world out. The news would help. It had been her shutoff valve since she was ten years old. Whenever things got too rough at home—which they did al too often—she’d turned to news of the outside world, where things were bigger, more dramatic, than what was happening at home. She could lose herself in bombings in foreign lands, political debates, crimes committed in places she’d never been. Anything that helped to distance herself from her life, herself. An old habit that brought comfort in some odd way. And when she hadn’t been able to turn on the television because her mother was too stirred up, too panicky and on edge, she’d escaped into books. There had always been some form of escape for her, in between handling her mother’s rages.

She saw like a movie montage in her head scenes from her childhood: her brother, maybe five years old, cringing under the fort he’d made of sofa cushions while their mother, Darcy, had one of her fits in the kitchen. The sounds of breaking glass, of sobbing and ranting. Dylan was only eight, herself, but she’d crawled under there with Quinn, holding his hand and tel ing him stories: fairy tales, bits of books, anything she could remember or make up, until it was over. And after, Darcy would be exhausted, regretful.

Crying and apologizing. And Dylan had comforted her, feeling angry and guilty al at the same time. Responsible for everyone’s wel -being: her mother’s, Quinn’s.

Her stomach clenched.

She took a few breaths, forced her mind to clear those old images that haunted her stil , whenever she was too tired to stop them.

Instead, she watched the images flit across the screen as the day grew lighter outside, but there wasn’t enough going on to distract her. From her past. From the fal out from her night with Alec.

Picking up the remote, she flipped through the channels. More news, reruns of old sitcoms that had never appealed to her. She final y settled on a movie,
Sleepless in Seattle
.

She had a secret love for romantic films, something she’d never admitted to anyone but Mischa. They were comforting, even though she felt they were completely unrealistic. Maybe that was why they were so soothing. It was easier to lose herself in something that was total fantasy.

Sipping her tea, she watched as Meg Ryan saw Tom Hanks for the first time from a distance. Saw the emotion on her face. And felt an answering twinge in her chest.

She quickly flipped the channel.

Maybe not so unrealistic after al .

She flicked the television off.

She was overtired. If she could just get some sleep she’d wake up with a clearer head. She’d know what to do.

She lay back on the pil ows and pul ed the blankets up to her chin. It was warm in bed, with her down quilt heavy on her body.

Not as warm as Alec’s skin.

Don’t think about it now. Don’t think at all.

About the heat of his skin. About his surprisingly soft palms on her flesh. His clever fingers. The lush sweetness of his mouth.

She groaned, her body buzzing with desire that was stil somehow unquenched. She knew with sudden, aching clarity that it would be until she saw him again. Until he touched her. Spanked her. Until she had him inside her body, the one thing that had been denied her so far.

Torture, to want something she knew she shouldn’t have.

Because if she al owed that to happen, there would be no turning back. She would be lost in some irrevocable way, the strength she’d built her entire life disintegrating in her ridiculous need for this man, and for what he offered her.

Alec.

What had he done to her already? And how much more could she—would she—al ow?

seven

It felt as though she’d fal en asleep only a few minutes before when her cel phone rang. She reached blindly for it, grabbed it from her nightstand and flipped it open.

“Hel o?”

“You left.”

“What? I . . . Alec.”

“Why, Dylan?”

She pushed her hair from her face, trying to get her brain to engage. Why
had
she left? She remembered the warmth of his big bed, his body beside her, the sheer comfort of his presence. She remembered her fright at how much she liked being there.

Needed
to be there. With him.

Her pulse fluttered, her heart beginning to pound.

“I just . . . had to go.”

He sighed quietly on the other end of the line. Or maybe it was a huff of irritation. “Dylan, we should talk about this.”

“Because it’s part of your job as a dom?”

“It is part of my job. You are my responsibility after a play session. I need to know you’re al right before I leave you.”

“I was the one who left.”

“Without checking in with me.”

Anger burned in her chest. “I told you, Alec, I am not some slave girl.”

“No, but there are rules for a reason, no matter the level of power play involved. To keep you safe.”

“I’m perfectly safe.”

He was silent a moment. Then he said quietly, anger simmering in his voice, “God damn it, Dylan. I recognize how strong you are.

How capable in your everyday life. But al of that shit just does not apply here. Not when you give yourself to me. When I am the one to take you down into that place where you aren’t capable of making decisions, of seeing to your own wel -being. And you are too new to this to be a good judge of when you come out of it.” Did he have a point? She couldn’t figure it out right now. She was stil so tired.

“Dylan? Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you. I’m . . . thinking.”

“Wel , think about this. I wil not play with a woman who cannot respect the rules I lay down. And one of those rules is that
I
decide when you’re okay to be alone.”

“Why are you so angry, Alec? I’m at home, in bed. I was getting some sleep, or trying to, until you cal ed. I am obviously fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” The smal lie tripped off her tongue far too easily.

“Your first experience with pain play, your first time at a fetish club, and you’re perfectly fine? No confusion about what’s happened to you, no difficulty in accepting your response, your desires. Even though this is the antithesis of who you normal y are?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. You didn’t have to. Look, Dylan, I’ve been doing this a long time. Developing some intuition, understanding the transitions people go through in entering this arena, is part of what makes a good dominant. And I am very good at what I do. So you trying to tel me that you’re perfectly fine, that you’re not affected by last night at al , is pure bul shit.”

“I didn’t say I was entirely unaffected.”

“You’re intel ectualizing this, Dylan.”

She bit her lip, rol ed the edge of the down quilt between her fingers. “Maybe I am. It’s a habitual response to . . . pretty much everything.”

“You’re going to have to go deeper than that if you truly want to experience this.”

She was angry now. She knew it was her self-defense mechanisms kicking in. She didn’t care.

“I never said I . . . I’m just researching for my book, Alec. How far am I supposed to go to do that?”

“As far as your desires take you. As far as you’re wil ing to go.”

“I don’t know how far that is. Okay?”

“Fair enough.”

“Wel , I . . . What?”

“I said that’s fair enough.”

She’d thought he would argue. That he didn’t made her feel a little ridiculous. She took a breath, blew it out, letting some of her anger filter out with the air.

“I’m sorry I left,” she said, only half-grudging.

“Okay.”

“Why are you being so damn reasonable about this suddenly?”

“I’m being reasonable because I
am
reasonable, and I’m done being mad. Does that throw you?”

“Yes.” She hated to admit it. Hated that it made her feel weak.

“Then I’m stil doing my job.”

“So, you admit mind-fuck is part of what you do?”

“Mind-fuck is an inevitable part of the process. It’s one of the reasons why you shouldn’t be alone after a scene until I determine that you’re al right. Because at least half the mind-fuck is the stuff going on in your head simply from doing these things for the first time. From having to shift your perception of yourself, your desires, your sexuality. It’s not al inflicted by me. And everyone entering the BDSM scene experiences this on some level. Until I know how extreme your reaction to being played is, it’s my job to care for you. To make sure you’re okay. And I can’t do that adequately from across town.”