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“How many hours' sleep do you get a night? I checked out your cupboards and your fridge this afternoon, and everything in there is geared toward Alicia's tastes. You're neglecting yourself to keep her alive, Connie. It can't go on.”
“She's my responsibility.”
“Not anymore. It's about time we all pulled our weight with Alicia. We let you take her on without thinking about the long-term effects caring for a disabled woman would put on you. Starting tomorrow, you'll be spending weekends away from home, and one of us will stay with Lisha.” He stroked her back. “No arguments, Connie. We've all agreed on it.”
It hurt to open her eyes again. “I haven't.”
“You've been outvoted.” Atticus shifted her on his lap so her back was to him. “Tell me what you are, Connie.”
“A Domme,” she whispered. “A psychologist and a Domme.”
His hands peeled her out of her jacket, cast it aside, then settled on her shoulders. She hissed out a harsh whimper as his fingers and thumbs began to knead the painfully tight muscles, flooding her brain with more pain before an odd bliss washed over her. “Don't lie to me, sweetheart. Try again.”
He shouldn't be touching me like this without my permission, her inner Domme snarled.
Oh, shush. He has the most wonderful hands, the submissive whispered.
Lost in the rhythm of his hands, the quick sweep of pain followed by that beautiful uplifting of pleasure, she felt her head loll forwards to give him better access. The throbbing in her head began to ease, the nausea gathering in her stomach dissipated. She sighed and, when she spoke, the words were little more than a whisper. “Switch. I'm a Switch.”
“That's my girl. That's my good girl.” His thumbs dug into the nape of her neck, massaging out the knots holding her muscles prisoner. “Wound up real tight, aren't you. You've been at Avalon for, what, twelve years now?”
“Ten,” she mumbled.
“So you've denied your sub for a decade, letting the Domme take control while the sub pines away in the closet.” Atticus tsked quietly and, as one hand continued to work on her neck, the other released her hair and began to tend to her scalp. “It's time we brought the little sub back out to play, Connie. No, don't stiffen up. This is why I wanted the club empty for now. We're going to take a walk into one of those pretty new rooms Braun installed, and Connie the sub is going to have some fun.”
God, he had the best hands. The more they kneaded, the faster the migraine receded. It was almost completely gone, and she was barely keeping herself sitting up. “No. No one respects her, not like they do Mistress Connie.”
“I do, sweetheart. Tonight, I'm the only one who matters.” Atticus slid his hands down her back until he gripped her hips, then lifted her up as he stood. A second later, he laid her down along the padded seat, balling up her jacket and sliding it beneath her head. He crouched beside her. “Stay still for a few minutes, okay? Just rest.”
Rest? She could sleep for a day. She couldn't remember the last time her shoulders felt so relaxed. Drifting, she sensed him walking away. Time ticked past slowly until her head was eased up and a bottle pressed to her lips. She drank slowly, deeply, and murmured a protest when her body was tugged gently into a sitting position.
Atticus knelt in front of her, maintaining eye contact. “Liam's opening the club in fifteen minutes. He's behind you, at the bar, but you're not to worry about him, okay? He won't say a word to anyone about this, he's given his word.”
Connie snorted and ran her hands over her face. The migraine was little more than a vague ache now, for which she was grateful. “Sorry, but I'm not trusting his word. He's lied to me once already tonight.” A little embarrassed, she tried to pull the Domme façadeback into place. She stood up, swaying slightly. “Thanks for the massage, Atticus, I appreciate it. I think I just need to go to bed now and—”
“Sit. Down.” The command in his voice hit her in all the right—wrong—places.
Connie sat without consciously agreeing to do so.
“If you walk away now, we're just going to have to go through all this again. If you don't want to submit to me, I'll ask Loki or Liam. You need some serious release, Connie, and you need to be with someone you trust when you let go.” He cupped her cheek, staring into her with those sympathetic eyes. “No one is questioning your dominance. Every submissive in Avalon, especially the ones with balls, has the utmost respect for you as a Domme. It's about time you gave that same respect to your own submissive self.”
Stand up and walk away. Connie ordered herself, but his eyes glinted, echoing a repeat of his vocal command. “Atticus—”
“Let's start there, shall we? Address me properly.”
Her teeth clenched. “Atticus.”
He pinched her thigh with his free hand. “Properly.”
“Master Atticus,” she ground out, nudging his hand off her leg. She would never admit how nice the honorific felt on her tongue.
“Better, but a sweeter tone would be beneficial,” he informed her, raising his eyebrow. “For you.”
Her jaw loosened. Fighting was too exhausting. “Master Atticus, Sir.”
“Excellent. Good girl.” He checked his watch. “Hard limits?”
She couldn't really be doing this—she hadn't stooped so low she'd just abandoned her control so easily, had she? When her mouth opened and words came out, she realized that yes, yes, she had. “Pet play. Blood play. Watersports.” They fell off her tongue as though it hadn't been over a decade since she'd uttered them. “Blindfolds and hoods.”
