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Quietly, Matt closed and locked the dungeon door, then started with the important and familiar. He double-checked the view from every camera, both inside and out. The open kitchen/living room was empty. Madison slept on in the bedroom, looking as if she hadn’t moved a muscle. Outside, wind rustled in the trees, signaling that an afternoon storm might be brewing. A gator swam by as if he owned the place, then slinked behind a trio of bushes. A few feet away, a bunny bounced across a mossy shore. The circle of life on display…
Satisfied they hadn’t been followed, he dimmed the cameras and turned to address the rest of the room.
Inside a minute, he discovered the cabinet doors built into the back wall actually contained a folding table. The way it functioned reminded him of his grandmother’s ironing board, the legs extending as he pulled it down, but it stood shorter and wider, padded in red leather with O-rings studded up and down the legs. He didn’t need much imagination to guess a Dom could secure a submissive down like that.
Within an hour, he’d found the book Jack had mentioned on a discreetly hidden shelf, along with another light switch that shined a spotlight on what he’d discovered was called a St. Andrew’s Cross. That giant X, like the folding padded table, had lots of ways to restrain a submissive. And when he pictured Madison there, pinned and waiting for him to do whatever it took to open her up, get her talking, and gain her trust… Fuck, he ached for her as if he hadn’t touched her in years.
As the sun slanted low in the sky, he grabbed a bottle of water and some beef jerky and finished the book, thankfully with plenty of pictures and drawings, then set about identifying everything in the room, what it was used for and how to get Madison free quickly in case of an emergency.
When he closed the door and padded back to the living room, book in hand, he reread the section the detailed exactly how BDSM differed from abuse and tried to let it sink in.
The author acknowledged that, to those outside the lifestyle, it’s too often misconstrued as a broader reflection of misogynistic male violence against a more oppressed female. That perfectly described the behavior Matt had seen his father engage in for as long as he could remember. But the distinction between what Jack Cole practiced and what Dad wielded? Consent and rules.
The text stressed that BDSM required those two things. Never once had his father respected a woman’s refusal, her fear, her shame, or her limits. If he wanted her, he took her—whenever and however he wanted. Or he coerced and intimidated until she gave in. Bonus points if she cried. The only rules he needed were the ones he made up and enforced with an iron will. And if a woman left him because she felt used or victimized, dear old Dad labeled her a stupid whore and moved onto the next female susceptible to his smooth talk and too sweet to say no.
His behavior made Matt sick. He would rather cut off his own damn arm than take something from Madison she didn’t want to give. But she’d always seemed willing, even eager, with him. She certainly hadn’t been shy or had difficulty reaching orgasm, even this morning at the motel.
But instead of embracing her pleasure, what had he done? Apologized for the way he’d given it to her. He had inadvertently told her that the things she found bliss in were wrong and suggested that enjoying the way he touched her made her bad.
No wonder she’d been pissed off.
With a sigh, Matt closed the book. His brain spun. He felt as if he’d fallen down a rabbit hole and was now staring through the looking glass and seeing a completely new reality—one that wasn’t so black-and-white. Dad had a type—quiet, biddable, yielding. If she was too independent or had too many opinions, he labeled her a “feminazi” and discarded her. But the compliant ones, especially if they were naive and didn’t have much family to look out for them, that was Dad’s ideal…
Jesus, his father was a predator. Matt scrubbed a hand down his face. No wonder most people in Laramie, especially girls, had steered clear of him.
But he understood something now he hadn’t before. Submissives weren’t victims. They weren’t looking to be hurt or used. They had emotional needs fulfilled by giving themselves over to a Dominant partner who respected them and their boundaries while engaging in play that allowed them to express their true sexual selves. He also grasped how his father had been able to bamboozle so many women. They wanted. They yearned. They ached so badly to believe…so they trusted. Dad always took advantage. In some ways, Todd had done something horribly similar to Madison.
Matt had to separate himself from both those assholes. That meant he and Madison must have some terrifyingly honest conversation. He couldn’t hold back. And she would have to lay bare her concerns and needs. If they could manage that, then he had to take the next step and prove he could be responsible for her physical and mental wellbeing.
Once her divorce was final and this shit show with the Pershings was over later, they would tackle their past…and their future.
After tucking away the book in the playroom, he locked it again, then headed to the kitchen. He tossed together a quick charcuterie board from the cheeses, crackers, and cold cuts Jack’s wife had thoughtfully included, then set it in the living room and went to find Madison.
When he entered the bedroom, she was just rising and stretching. Her face looked sleep-soft, her eyes heavy-lidded and hazy blue. The desire to put his hands on her and earn her soft surrender jolted him.
Patience…
“Hey.” He approached softly. “Sleep good?”
“I crashed.” Then she frowned. “Did you carry me in here?”
He nodded, tucking his hands in his pockets to stop himself from touching her before they talked. “I thought you’d be more comfortable on the bed.”
“Did you sleep, too?”
“A couple of hours.”
Her frown deepened. “Beside me?”
He shook his head and chose his words carefully. “I wanted to, but you seemed like you needed space.”
She bit her lip, seeming to chew on his answer. “Any news or updates?”
“No, but we’re remote and well hidden, so I didn’t expect much this afternoon. And in case the rest of the crew is being watched, they’re going about their lives like it’s any other holiday.”
Madison nodded. “And Nash?”
“I’m sure he’s out of the hospital and recovering, probably at Trees’s place. Big brother would insist he convalesce somewhere with extensive security so he’d be safe, and Laila would want to fuss over him. I can’t guarantee that those three little boys won’t assault his ears, though. They really seem to enjoy climbing on Uncle Nash like he’s a jungle gym. That won’t go well with his stitches.”
