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Do I?
I don’t know. That’s the honest answer. It’s like that part in Superman 3 when Clark Kent has split into the good and evil versions of himself and they end up fighting it out in that scrap yard. There’s the me that I was before I came here. Unemployed, desperate for work, trying to get my book written and published. No interest in men at all.
Then there’s this new version. The one that saw everything in that room in the basement and wasn’t scared. No, that version was excited. Intrigued. Curious about it all.
This version is the one that likes the idea of bending over and showing him my ass, seeing what it’s like to have his hand slapping down on me, feeling his dominance over me as I willingly (or not so willingly) submit to his choice of punishment.
That’s the version that could imagine posing naked for Tracy Benn. Could imagine dancing naked in his office building. The version that I’ll never be. I’m not brave enough. I’m not that person.
Do I even want to be dominated?
He did say it would only be for a month and then we’d go our separate ways. He also said that what happens here would remain here. No one need know what goes on between the two of us.
The perfect time to experiment?
I even signed an NDA. Not that I’m likely to be telling people I made a deal with a criminal. Doesn’t exactly sound good, does it?
As I’m thinking all this, I’m looking for a way back into the house. I try again to get the door open but it’s not happening.
Luckily for me, the window into the study is open. Unluckily, I climb inside and manage to rip the incredibly expensive dress that Vincenzo provided for me just as he walks up the stairs from the basement.
I finish clambering through, losing my balance and rolling forward, landing with a crash at his feet. I look up at him and then back at the trailing length of fabric still attached to the windowsill. “Oops,” I say as I get to my feet. “Sorry about that.”
“You’re late,” he says, his voice cold.
“Yeah, I had to go outside to get enough service to send the message.”
“So you thought you’d climb back in through the study window?”
“The damn kitchen door swung shut and locked me out. That’s not my fault.”
“I told you what would happen if you were late back.”
“And I never expected to get stuck outside.”
“You ripped your dress.”
“I’m aware of that.”
He takes a step toward me. This close, I can see the anger in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I add, unable to meet his gaze. “Was it expensive?”
“I don’t care about the five thousand dollars. What I care about is the disobedience. You will soon be displayed in public as my wife. You must be obedient at all times or this plan will not work. When I give you a deadline, you must move heaven and earth to meet it or face the consequences.”
I swallow hard. “I understand.”
“You have your safe word. Do you remember what it is?”
“Tracy Benn.”
“Good. Now bend over my desk and do not move a muscle.”
“I’m not sure we should do this.”
“It is not open to debate. Bend over right now or I will make you.”
I see him looking at me and I think of saying the safe word. Would he listen to it? Do I want to find out the answer to that question?
