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“What was it? It felt…like I was going crazy.”
“Do you remember what you said?” he asks, curiosity lighting his eyes.
I think carefully. I remember the pain and the ache in my chest and crying harder than I think I ever have, but…no words. “No.”
“At the end you were saying that you were sorry. You promised you would listen, and that you would be good. You asked me not to leave.” I stiffen, and I try to pull away from him, to create space between our bodies, but he holds me close. “Breathe, Emma,” he says, and I pull in a shuddering breath.
“Before we go any further, let me assure you that I am not leaving. I’m going to stay right here all night. You’re not alone.”
Those words comfort the irrational panic that I’m feeling. It doesn’t make sense. That was…almost four years ago now. I can’t possibly be still affected by that. By him.
“Who left you?”
I look up into Matthew’s eyes, those gorgeous green eyes that attracted me to him in the first place. I don’t see anger or judgement there. I see…safety. I clear my throat, and it feels rough from my crying earlier. “Jeremy.”
Matthew nods. “You loved him?”
“Yes.” It comes out a whisper. “I loved him more than I thought was possible. But—” I break off, considering my words carefully, “I know he wasn’t a good guy. He didn’t hit me or anything, but he never really seemed happy with me.” I laugh, even though nothing about it is funny. “It took me a long time to even realize that.”
“Let me guess,” Matthew says gently. “He told you that you never listened to him.” He catches the look on my face and drags his fingers through my hair again. “I heard what you were saying. It’s not a far leap.”
I nod. “When he left, he told me that since I wasn’t going to, he’d find someone that would ‘listen and be good for him.’ I don’t know what it was, what I could have done differently to make him happy. I thought I’d tried everything—”
“Emma,” he says, and his voice has that low current of power. “You did nothing wrong. Nothing, do you understand me?”
I bite my lip, nodding. I understand that he thinks that, but he wasn’t there.
“You don’t believe me, do you.” Not a question.
“No, Sir.”
He closes his eyes, “And this whole time when I’ve been asking you to trust me to know what’s best for you, you’ve been reminded of him.”
“I honestly hadn’t thought of it until last night. Not consciously, anyway.”
Matthew leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. Slow at first, then deeper, stronger. A flash of heat sears through me and I remember that I’m naked and that he’s almost naked and the ways that could be fun. “I’m not surprised you’re so resistant to the idea of being submissive. The last man you trusted with that kind of power didn’t ask for it. He took it from you, made you feel small and helpless, and then let you fall when you needed him most.”
Unexpected tears spring into my eyes, and I blink them away. I think I’ve already cried enough. Hell, I’m not even sure how I have water left in my body.
“Submission doesn’t make you weak, Emma. It makes you strong. A true Dom doesn’t take power unless it is offered. Doms can’t exist without the power the submissive gives them. That’s why it’s so precious, and why anyone with an ounce of sense in their head would never, ever take it for granted.”
“It makes sense, and it doesn’t,” I say, that familiar frustration rising. “On the one hand I can understand, and the other, why would I do that? Why would I voluntarily give power to someone else? Especially when it can make me feel like that.”
“It can seem complicated,” he admits. “There are a hundred reasons to explain how and why the dynamic works with some people and doesn’t with others. And it also can be incredibly simple: it can just be something you need.”
“Why?”
“Why do people have favorite flavors? Why do some people need to have their office organized in order to function and some like it like a bomb just went off? Why are some people gay and some people straight? Why do I feel most satisfied when someone leans on me? When she lets me decide for her and trusts me to protect her?” He gently taps my forehead with a finger. “It goes deeper than we know. It’s a part of who some people are. There doesn’t always have to be a reason.”
“And you believe, truly believe, that I’m one of those people.”
“I do.”
I readjust myself, trying to look more resolved. “And what if I am, and I still choose to walk away and let this not be who I am?”
