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He shakes his head. “I don’t talk about Terminator 1. As far as I’m concerned, they only ever made one Terminator movie.”
I laugh, but the humor quickly fades to something heavier when our eyes meet. My legs are curled under me on the couch and I’m sitting slightly sideways, facing him. He’s reclined casually, looking absolutely irresistible. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing off his amazing forearms and strong hands. His shirt has come slightly loose from where it’s tucked into his slacks, and I can see just the slightest hint of flat, tanned skin.
My eyes wander down and find the bulge of his cock. I suck in a breath.
Logan’s eyes narrow slightly and the corner of his mouth twitches up in the faintest grin. “You know, if you dropped that glass of wine, I would be extremely upset with you. I might have to punish you.”
I look at the glass in my hand and then back at him, his meaning sinking in quickly. It’s an offer. He’s giving me the choice. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the new, closer connection I feel to him. I don’t know what it is that pushes me to do it, but I don’t just drop the wine glass. I sling it down, spraying the lush white carpet with red wine and shattering the glass when it lands.
His lips press together and he breathes out a long, hard breath through his nose, not breaking eye contact.
“Upstairs. You remember where my room is. Go there. Wait by the leather door.”
He grabs my arm as I’m about to stand. “Avoid the glass.”
I nod, realizing I was actually about to just walk right over the pile of broken glass. I cross the living room to the huge stairs, tracing the path I followed weeks ago when I was searching for a bathroom and exploring his house. I find the leather door in his bedroom and wait, not knowing exactly what to do or how he expects me to wait. All I know is my heart is pounding. I’m putting more trust in him than I have yet. I’m alone at his house and no one knows I’m here. The thought thrills and terrifies me.
I decide to sit on the edge of his bed, but he only makes me wait a few minutes before he stalks into the room wearing his suit and mask. I feel a jolt of excitement when I see the outfit. Like a switch has been flipped, he’s my dom now, completely. I lower my head, feeling the dynamic has shifted and knowing I don’t want to displease him. I want to be his perfect little sub. His perfect little slut.
I would laugh at myself if I wasn’t afraid of upsetting Logan. Listen to me. Just a month ago I was the average, sensible woman with everyday ideas about sex. My experience with sex may have been boring and unsatisfying, but it was normal. Now I’m getting wet to think of myself as an obedient little slut. Even as my body is responding and readying itself for the experience I’m about to have, my mind races, trying to make sense of this strange kink I’ve found myself so drawn to.
As much as I try, I just can’t figure out why this is working for me. Maybe it’s because it lets me split off a little part of myself, a different, less responsible part of me that can be uninhibited and let someone else call the shots for once. Maybe I’ve developed some twisted self-punishing complex from watching my mother let the men who came after my father verbally and physically abuse her. Or maybe I’ve been backstabbed so many times I need to have a man show he can take my complete trust and treat it with care. Whatever the reason, even the thought of submitting to Logan and letting him bring me into this world of leather and punishment lights a fire of desire in me unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
Maybe the best approach is to stop asking why. I should just close my mind to the doubts and questions and listen to my body, because my body is sending a much more clear message than my mind. Fuck him. Submit.
Logan eyes me through the mask he wears and then moves to a dresser on the far wall. He twists the false bottom from a vase and pulls out a key. It’s an old, antique style key, thick, gold, and ornate. He moves to the leather door, slides the key in, and twists. There’s a series of metallic clicks from deep inside the door and the sound of something heavy shifting. When Logan presses, the door slides smoothly open.
“Come,” he says.
I stand, following his tall frame into the room. The room is large, but not so big that it’s not intimate. The walls are made of a plush, velvety material that is a dark scarlet color. There’s no shortage of toys and devices either. I recognize some, like the spreader bars, nipple clamps, and metal rings on the ceiling like I’ve seen women suspended from at Club Crave. Others are more mysterious, like a tall wooden object that looks vaguely like a cross, and a leather chair that looks like something from a massage parlor. There’s also a huge bed in the center of the room that looks slightly out of place.
