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What did that mean, exactly?
They hadn’t sat down to discuss the future, not in any concrete, long-term way. This visit to London was just a trial period—a chance to get to know each other outside the controlled environment of the Masters Club. She had loved each moment so far. Of course, the BDSM play and lovemaking were beyond amazing. But this was also a chance to just be together, like any vanilla couple.
She had loved going food shopping and clothes shopping with him. She enjoyed cooking for him, and brushing their teeth together before bed, and all the mundane, wonderful aspects of an actual relationship.
At the same time, the sane part of her brain cautioned her to slow down. Spending a week or two with someone was not the same as making huge life decisions. Cleo wasn’t sure she was ready, or even wanted to return to London.
She truly loved the life she’d built for herself at the New York club. Mistress Dominique and Master Grayson had given her increased responsibilities running the place as she’d shown aptitude and interest. While she had enjoyed doing hair and makeup back before the move to the States, she felt much more fulfilled in New York in her capacity of club service slave. She enjoyed learning how to keep the books and had even thought about attending a few night courses at a community college to hone her newly acquired skills.
While she would definitely rather be in an intimate M/s relationship with Master Jack, she still loved and cherished her connection with both Master Grayson and Mistress Dominique, as well as her brother sub, Brandon. And she’d made real friends in New York, friends she would dearly miss if she returned to the UK.
Leaving London hadn’t just been about escaping Jack Hartford. She’d created a full, happy new life in New York. Was she willing to take the risk and give it all up?
“Okay, Cleo,” she said aloud. “Stop obsessing about the future. Just enjoy the now.”
She left the kitchen sparkling and sat down with another cup of tea and her mobile. It was nine in the morning, too early to text Jess, as it was only four a.m. back in New York. She decided instead to send her friend an email detailing her adventures so far, and what was going on in her head.
She could text Marissa, her best mate at the London club. Yet, as friendly as they once had been, Cleo no longer felt as close to Marissa, or indeed, to anyone in London, as she did to her BDSM family and friends in New York. Though she’d been there less than a year, it felt like home. The only draw London now held for her was Master Jack. Though, admittedly, that was a pretty good draw.
But right now, she wanted to talk to Jess. Aside from being a terrific, supportive friend, Jess was a great sounding board. She listened thoughtfully and offered great advice, which Cleo appreciated.
After sending her email, she wandered around the flat. She checked out the books in the floor-to-ceiling case in the sitting room—lots of murder mysteries, some boring looking tomes on finance and economics, and a lovely cache of BDSM romance novels. Had those belonged to Annette?
The thought was disquieting, reminding her once more this had been Annette’s home, too, and was still filled with Annette’s things. She moved around the room, examining this and that. She imagined Jack and Annette sitting together after work, watching the telly and chatting about their day. The image made her uncomfortable and sad, and she shook it away.
She went upstairs into the master bedroom, her mobile in her hand, the sound on so she would hear the ping of Master Jack’s text. After making the bed and putting away various articles of clothing they’d tossed here and there, her gaze shifted to the other walk-in closet. This must have been Annette’s closet. Curiosity seized her, even as she was aware she was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
Nevertheless, she slid open the pocket door and stepped into the space. The air was musty, a lingering, if faint, scent of perfume and talcum powder still noticeable. She found and flicked on the light. Dresses, skirts and pants hung neatly from the racks. A woman’s elegant gold watch sat on top of built-in drawers set against the back wall, along with a pair of earrings, as if the person to whom they belonged might return home any minute.
Why hadn’t Jack, after nearly two years, cleaned out Annette’s things? Had he left them intentionally, as if by doing so, he might somehow conjure her memory more clearly? Was this closet a kind of shrine to his dead wife? Would there ever really be a place for someone new in his life?
