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It’s dark when the front door opens. The fire has long since burnt out. A light flicks on in the entrance. Heavy footsteps approach. I turn my head toward the sound. Maxime stops in the frame.
“What are you doing in the dark?” he asks.
“I haven’t noticed.”
He flicks on the light. He’s wearing a black suit and purple shirt. “That you can’t see your hand in front of your face?”
“I was looking at the fire.”
He glances at the ashes, and then at the photo book on the coffee table. “What did you do with yourself today?”
“I arranged the books alphabetically.” A belated thought strikes me. “I hope you don’t mind?”
He looks at the shelves. “You didn’t strike me as the OCD type.”
I shrug.
His steps are purposeful as he walks over and stops in front of the chair. “Come here.”
I made a promise. I said I wouldn’t give him trouble. Slowly, I rise.
Approval sparks in his gray eyes. “Take off my tie.”
Reaching up, I untie the knot and pull the tie from his collar.
His face is harsh, his features always frightening, but there’s something friendly, playful almost, in his expression when he says, “Go pour me a drink.”
My first reaction is resistance. It’s like telling a dog to fetch a newspaper. I’m not his damn servant. Yet yesterday’s lesson with the picnic gives me pause. Fine. I’ll trust him on this. I’ll play along.
I go to the wet bar and pour a few fingers of whiskey the way I saw him do it, then carry the glass back to him. Our fingers brush when he takes it.
“Thank you,” he says, holding my gaze as he takes a sip.
The way he looks at me heats my belly. It’s a stare that communicates want, need, shared secrets, and praise. It’s the praise that makes the warmth spread to my chest. I’ve always been a pleaser.
His lips curve as he hands me the glass. It’s more than offering to share his drink. It’s sharing a private moment and a part of himself with me. He’s opening up, letting me in. He’s making himself vulnerable. That’s what this lesson is. He didn’t order me to fetch his drink to humiliate me. He’s showing me how to be kind to him, and how my kindness will be rewarded in return.
I turn the glass and put my lips on the spot where his has been. His eyes widen a fraction, surprise thawing their usual coldness. The alcohol burns down my throat when I swallow. Taking the glass back from me, he leaves it on the table and reaches for the zipper of my dress. Without the fire it’s cold, but I let him push the dress over my shoulders and hips. My breasts tighten in the lace cups of my bra. The matching panties grow wet. Now that I’ve had a taste of the forbidden, my body craves it.
He drags his gaze over me, lingering on the underwear and long boots. “I think I’ll leave those on.”
The approval of earlier turns into a different kind of approval, something more carnal than appraisal. He likes what he sees, and he doesn’t mind making himself vulnerable by showing me. No. He’s exposing himself on purpose, rewarding my trust by giving me power. The exchange feeds the part inside me that needs approval and above all kindness. I’m starving for this kindness. I need this kindness.
As he shrugs out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt, a revelation hits me. This is nothing but science, the law of energy. The more he tortures me, the more I need kindness to restore the imbalance in my soul. What he proved yesterday when he forbade me to speak to his brother is that the only person permitted to give me kindness is Maxime himself. The man who torments me is the only man who can make it better.
The cure for my pain is the cause of the pain.
It’s confusing. It feels like a mind-fuck. It’s messing with my head as he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper. I need distance from this, to figure out what he’s doing to me, but his cock is hard and huge. I know it’ll hurt a bit, and I need that, too. Maybe it’s to punish myself for giving in to the emotional needs I allow him to fulfill. Maybe I’m flogging myself with physical pain for my weakness.
He removes his shoes and socks and straightens to stand naked in front of me. He shows me his scars and ugliness, a gift for my kindness. He’s exposed—vulnerable—but so am I, and I can’t tell the difference between manipulation and lessons any longer. Not that it matters, because when he touches me, my mind recedes to a place where thoughts don’t matter. All that matters is the burning desire for him to hurt and please me, to bring me relief from the torment he orchestrates with such clever design in both my body and soul.
