Page 88 of His Turn

“Jesus,” I say. “So many points. That you have money, for one,” I say, holding up a finger. “That you have that money in cash.” I hold up another finger. “That you have people at your beck and call who will set up house tours at the last minute, and then not blink an eye when you refuse to go into two of them. That you can command me to live there.”

“Don’t you want to live there?” he asks. “With Jordan and me?”

“Well, I guess if Jordan were here, I could give you a complete answer to that question. But he’s not.”

“He’s working, Nadia. He’ll be around when this case of his calms down.”

“OK. I’ll let that go for now.” But I’m mad at Jordan.

“Any more points I’m trying to make tonight?”

“Yes,” I say, holding up a fifth finger. “The whole point of tonight—from the moment you picked me up to this one right now—is to make me depend on you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It can be,” I say.

“Were you in a dependent relationship in the past?”

“No.” I scoff. “I’m the top, Bric. I know you don’t believe that, but I am. I’m the one who controls the men in my life.”

“Until Jordan came along and took all that control away. And you let him.” Bric has one eyebrow cocked. Like this explains everything. “And then he gave you to me.”

“Is that what he did?” I ask, genuinely interested in this new direction. “Because I might not be OK with that.”

“Which part?” he asks. “The part where he owns you and can therefore give you away? Or the part about you belonging to me now?”

“Both of those and,” I say, stressing the word, “the fact that I cannot be owned. Thus, none of what’s happening is real. It’s just a game.”

He shrugs. “Are you enjoying the game?”

“Sure,” I say. “It’s fun enough so far. But I’m not looking for a master, Bric. So if you push me too hard I might call it quits.”

Another cocked eyebrow from Bric. “Is that a warning? Or a challenge?”

I sigh as I roll my eyes. “Take it any way you want.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but there’s a knock on my door that breaks the moment. He gets up, pays the delivery guy, takes the bags of food over to the table, and then says, “For you, giving in is like being ambidextrous, Nadia.”

“Is it?” I say with mock fascination as I join him at the table.

He pulls out the food—tacos, but the gourmet kind that come wrapped up in fancy foil—and unwraps them. “Sit,” he commands.

I do, even though I’m tired of his commands tonight. I’m also hungry and my legs are still trembling.

When we’re settled and have each taken a bite of the sea bass tacos—fucking amazing sea bass tacos—he continues.

“You’re a well-honed muscle. You’ve exercised your mind regularly. You believe yourself to be dominant and I can see you’ve done pretty well in that regard.”

“Praise from the master,” I say, then take another bite of food.

“But everyone has another side to them, Nadia. Most people don’t like to admit it, but they do. No one is one hundred percent dominant.”

“Not even you?” I ask. It’s my turn to cock an eyebrow.

“Do I look dominant when I’m taking care of you after playing hard? No. I’m giving in to you, Nadia. I’m putting my wants and needs aside for yours.”

“OK.” I laugh. It’s bullshit. He takes care of me afterward because it makes him more dominant, not less.