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I felt my face burn up. “Lost his mind, I think.”

“I don’t,” she beamed. “And I know you’re feeling it too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed it, the spring in your step. The way you look at him when you’re at Explicit.”

“Nowyou’ve lost your mind,” I laughed. “We fuck at a sex club while he’s wearing a mask, that’s it.”

“Yeah yeah, and I don’t like hot, wet snatch.” She poked her tongue out. “Did he hit you, over his desk?”

“Did he ever. Metal ruler.”

“Fucking ow. Right on the clit, I’ll bet.”

I grinned. “You know him so well.”

“Yes, I do.” She raised her empty glass and made after the rest of the bottle. “And I’m telling you, Lydia Marsh, that James Clarke has many habits, but screwing at the office isn’t one of them. It can only mean one thing,” she said, topping up my glass.

“And what’s that?” I smiled.

“The man’s in love, Lydia. He’s in love with you.”

I found myself wishing I believed her.

***

Chapter Thirteen

Lydia

“So, tonight’s the night?” Rebecca dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of her stiletto. “Will there be tears?”

I looked towards the wooden doors across the street. “I don’t knowhowto cry, Bex.”

She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “It’s easy, baby, let it all go and those tears will flow.”

“So I keep hearing.” I watched Cara totter on ahead, waving at some other regulars just arriving.

Rebecca pulled my attention back to her, tapping my forehead with a long, red fingernail. “Whatever’s in here, Lyds, all your reservations, all your pride, all your self-control. You’ve got to give it all up. Let yourself break for him, and he’ll love you for it.” She took my hand and led me to where Cara was waiting. “Believe me, baby, cry for him and he’s yours.”

I took a breath as we made our way inside. Cry for him, sure, no big deal. Like I hadn’t been trying for weeks.

Masque was already at the bar; the sculpted muscle of his shoulders glowing blue under the neons. I took a seat next to him, smiling as he ordered me a wine.Cry for him and he’s yours.If only that one tiny statement didn’t mean so much.

I made no time for small talk, leaning straight into the musky warmth of his neck. “Cane me, tonight. Please, Masque.”

He turned to me, the line of his mouth deadly serious. “What’s with the urgency, Kitty Cat?”

I sighed. “I want to cry.”

His mouth curled into a smile. “The tears I want from you are anemotionalrelease, Cat. The cane will hurt like a motherfucker, I promise you, but there’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah, I know. I have tolet go. I’m trying,” I sulked.

He brooded awhile, shadowy eyes staring me out. “If you’re serious about this, you’ll need a safeword.”

“Doesn’t that kind of defeat the object?”

“Not at all.”

I sipped my wine. “I’m not going to use the safeword, Masque.”

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