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It took me a long time to realize that myself.
But what I did learn was that I could never reproduce what Allison and I had, so I was no longer going to try. I’d find a place where I could satisfy my sexual desires without commitment, without a relationship of any kind. Where I didn’t have to reveal anything more about myself than what I wanted in a scene.
And I found it.
I found Black Rose Underground.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Frankie
“Sounds like we’re in kind of the same boat,” I say. “You had Allison and then your next relationship, and that’s it. I’ve pretty much only had Penn. I dated a little bit in high school and in college, but I never had anything serious. Penn was the first guy I said ‘I love you’ to. And the last.”
“I’ve only said it twice,” Hunter says.
“To Allison…and the other one.”
“Teresa.”
I resist widening my eyes. This is a big step for him already—I can tell. He said her name to me. For a man who wanted to keep himself masked, he’s revealed more than I ever thought he would.
“She’s the one I never talk about,” he says.
Curiosity is of course gnawing at me, but he’s already disclosed so much. This is a man who normally disguises himself to hide who he is from his sexual partners.
“Tell me something, Hunter,” I say. “If I hadn’t recognized you in the coffee shop, would you be telling me all of this now?”
He pauses…clearly thinking. Then, “No.”
“Why? You’ve already said you’re developing feelings for me.”
“I am. And I’ve been fighting them, Frankie.”
“Then why? Why did you come here? Why did you send me that email? You could’ve walked away.”
“True. And I probably should have.”
“How can you say that? After all you just shared with me. After all I’ve shared with you.”
“Maybe I’m having second thoughts.”
“Are you really?” My heart drops.
He sighs and finishes his glass of wine. “Actually, Frankie, I’m not. I’m not having second thoughts at all. I want to tell you everything. I want to tell you the hell Teresa put me through and the reason I stopped seeing women with the goal of having a relationship. Hell, I want to tell you what my favorite flavor of ice cream is. And it’s driving me to the brink of madness.”
I want to smile. A great big smile. But I don’t. Because even though he wants these things, he’s not happy about wanting them. I’m trying to understand, but I just don’t.
“My favorite ice cream is vanilla,” I offer. “Would you like some more wine?”
He shakes his head.
“A glass of water, maybe?”
He nods, so I rise, pad over to my tiny kitchen, and get a glass of water from the faucet. I return and hand it to him.
He downs almost all of it in one gulp.
“You okay?”
He sets the glass down on the table as if he’s just taken a shot. “I’m so far from okay. I mean… Hell, I don’t know what I mean.”
My God. That woman—Teresa—must’ve done a real number on him. Is it possible she was worse than Penn?
“We don’t have to talk, you know,” I say. “There are…other things we could do.”
He widens his eyes a bit, and then he scans my small apartment. “I don’t see any toys here.”
“Do we need toys, Hunter?”
“My God,” he says. “I want to say no, we don’t.”
“Then say it.”
“But that would mean…”
“That would mean regular old sex, Hunter. And you’ve trained yourself to think that’s not what you want anymore.”
“It’s usually not.”
“And…”
“I want it now, Frankie.” His eyes narrow, darken. “I desperately want to fuck you, and I don’t care if you’re tied up. I don’t care if you’re gagged. I don’t care if I don’t get to spank that sweet little ass of yours. All I care about is getting my dick inside you. That’s all I care about in this single moment.”
This time I don’t hold my smile back. I stand, and I begin to peel my dress from my shoulders. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hunter
God, she’s so beautiful.
I suppose there’s no rhyme or reason to love, is there?
God knows I’ve read enough books.
In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy fought his love for Elizabeth Bennet, but in the end it consumed him.
In Jane Eyre, Mr. Rochester was willing to commit bigamy to have the woman he loved.
In The Scarlet Letter, Hester paid dearly for falling in love with Arthur Dimmesdale.
In The Great Gatsby—my favorite novel of all time—Daisy Buchanan was married, but Jay Gatsby still loved her, still pursued her.
Why is it my favorite novel? Love and marriage are hardly portrayed in a positive way.
Yet it speaks to me on a visceral level.
That’s probably why I’ve become so hard-hearted about the idea of relationships.
I decided, after Teresa, that I would only engage in transactional sex with submissives who were in it for the same reason I was—pure physical pleasure devoid of emotion.
