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She kisses me back, but only for a moment before she breaks the kiss and pushes me away with such harshness that I almost stumble backward.
“Stop it. Stop playing with me,” she says.
Playing with her? Damn, she’s right. Iamplaying with her. But somewhere…somehow… The lines between play and reality have become blurred.
So blurred I don’t even understand them anymore.
Is Mandy truly in love with me?
If she is, how have I not seen it?
I just never thought of her that way, but honestly, playing with her was amazing. I felt things I’ve never felt before. And I almost feel like…
I almost feel like it wasn’t play at all.
If Blossom was the teacher, that means Mandy was taking a submission class. Not a Dominant class. Not a bondage class. A submission class because that’s what Blossom teaches.
Blossom has been a submissive for at least three years. I know this because three years ago, I became a member of the club, and Blossom was already there. In fact, Blossom taught me a lot about being a Dominant. She’s good at what she does, so I imagine she’s probably good at teaching submission as well. If Mandy learns how to be a submissive from Blossom, she’ll be a damned good submissive.
God, just the thought of Mandy submitting to anyone else, and I suddenly feel light-headed.
Am I actually in love with her?
No. I can’t be. It’s all wrong. Mandy and I… It could never work. It’s purely physical, like it always is with me, and what I’m feeling will fizzle out in mere months.
But what if it’s true? That she’s in love with me? And what if she’s only trying to learn to be submissive to please me?
God.
This has to stop. I don’t want Mandy to be something she isn’t just to please me.
Except part of me does. The submissive’s job is to please their Dominant. But I can’t allow Mandy to do this if it’s not who she truly is.
I rub my stomach absently. “Can we please talk?”
She holds my gaze for several beats before her shoulders sag and she nods. “My place.”
“Okay,” I say. “Your place it is.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Amanda
I try not to think about the bouquet of lilies Jackson was bringing to Mary as I usher him into my living room.
I slide my purse onto a barstool as I turn to face him. And realize I have no idea what to say. Talking to Jackson has always been the easiest thing in the world. Like breathing. So why do I suddenly feel like all the oxygen has left the room?
“Umm. Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”
He seizes the distraction. “Yeah, kind of. Ham on rye?”
“Of course.”
I know everything about this man. His favorite sandwich is ham on rye. His favorite drink is Tanqueray and tonic, except when something’s bugging him. Then it’s bourbon. His favorite sushi roll is a simple spicy tuna. His favorite color is blue, and his favorite fruit is the same as mine. Sweet cherries.
I head to the kitchen, grab the stuff out of the fridge, and make him a sandwich. Dijon mustard. The only mustard he likes. He doesn’t like spicy deli mustard, and he doesn’t like regular yellow mustard. He hates any kind of mustard that’s been sweetened. Dijon only. Grey Poupon if possible.
Which is why I always keep Grey Poupon in my refrigerator. To be honest, I hate the stuff.
