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  I tried to sound brave. “Ok. Tell me what you want.” He looked at me and narrowed his eyes.

  “It’s not that simple, but I’ll try to explain it.”

  “Ok.” I took another gulp of coffee. Where was the calm happy feeling now?

  “I want sole access to you. No other boyfriends, girlfriends, sex toys, whatever. You come with me, and me alone.”

  This was promising. The little voice said, what about when he’s away, and what about when he can come, and I drowned it in more coffee. Shut up. You come with me. That phrase alone was pulling me in. I tried to stare back at him. Those eyes. I blinked. “Ok. Nobody else and not me either?”

  “Right.”

  “Ok, I can do that. What else?” I sounded like I negotiated sexual relationships all the time. Right. Bloody hell.

  “When I want you, you come. I won’t be unreasonable—obviously you need to work and you have responsibilities. So do I. But if I need…want you there, you need to do what you can to come to me, wherever I am, as soon as you can.”

  “Ok.” I needed a new word. But my brain was still stuck on him calling me, wanting me. I could only come with him. No touching myself. After last night, and this morning, that had lost its appeal anyway. I looked up at him, waiting for more.

  “I like control. Power. Dominance. Over you. There are going to be…demands…I will make of you. I’m assuming that you’ve got a safe word that you like to use that you’ll share with me.” He was drumming his fingers on the table.

  “I…no. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  His eyebrows went up again, and his eyes darkened slightly. He looked angry. Did he really have to leave? He could fuck me right here, on the table, and show me what he meant.

  “You’ve never played in this scene before.” He sounded disbelieving.

  “Unless you count being tied up with a t-shirt. Oh, and once I got a nose bleed when someone tried to mildly asphyxiate me. So no, not really.”

  “Oh shit, amateurs. And you still want to do this?” He looked slightly annoyed.

  It was my turn to smile. “I have a feeling you know what you’re doing.”

  His eyes grew dark and faraway. “It’s possible.”

  His long hair shadowed his face, with a sprinkling of stubble and his eyes stared off into space, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

  He looked back to me suddenly, completely serious. “I don’t want to do this. Take away your innocence. I don’t know what you want from me. You’re complicated.”

  I inhaled, sharply. No. This wasn’t going to go down this way. “I think we’re both complicated. That’s why last night was fun. Ok, maybe I haven’t had the best luck in finding people to match up with me. True. But I want this. I want you.”

  He looked at me, waiting.

  “You see something in me, and I feel what you see.” He was still silent. “For fuck’s sake, help me with this. I want this, I’ve always wanted it, and I’m not even sure what it is. But I’ll still want it…” And here an idea occurred to me. “And I’ll still want it, whether or not you’re the one to initiate me into it. I’d like to feel lucky enough to have you do it properly.”

  He stared at me, and then there was a hint of that strange smile. He held up his large hands facing me, in some parody of a gesture of defeat. “Well played, little girl. But when I’m standing over you with a whip in my hand, I want you to remember your little speech.”

  My mouth went dry. Jesus.

  He smiled at me. “I do like you, you know.” He got up, and put his cup in the sink and turned and came back over to me. Bending down, his soft lips brushed my ear. “And you make me come insanely hard.”

  He pulled me up by my hand, and kissed me, his tongue gently exploring my mouth. God.

  “Come on sweetheart, I’ll call you a cab. I’ve got to get ready.” And he walked back over through the living room, picked up his jacket and pulled his cell phone out and made a quick call. Looking up at me, he nodded. “Five minutes darling. Have you got everything?”

  I grabbed my jacket, checking for keys and phone and credit card in the pockets. I nodded. I still felt breathless.

  He pulled me to him again. “The cab’s all paid for, don’t worry about it.” He placed a line of kisses from my ear to my neck that made me dizzy. He stuck a bill in my pocket and patted it. “That’s for the underwear. Don’t argue.” The tone in his voice settled it.

  I looked up at him, and nodded.

  His phone went. “They’re here. Alright little girl. Expect to hear from me.” He kissed me again. “Beautiful. Don’t doubt it.” And he opened up the door, and the elevator was there, the same one that had brought me up several lifetimes ago. I stepped in, feeling like I was in another world again. He smiled at me. And blew me a kiss.

  I smiled back, bravely, and the door slid closed.

  Suddenly alone, it was though the focus changed and everything looked sharper and harder. I was sure every feeling I had was written on me and when I walked past the handyman in the lobby, I tried to stand up a little taller. Nothing to be ashamed of. I just didn’t know what I’d agreed to, or who I’d really agreed it with.

  Sitting in the cab, with hardly any room for my legs because of the security glass, and inhaling the strange mix of very old cigarette smoke and oil from the taxi, I leaned my head into the crook by my breast, like a bird trying to sleep. And I could still smell him, that glistening wetness that made everything better. Deep breaths, heading somewhere that was supposed to be home.

  Chapter 14

  Did I imagine it, or did the cabbie wink at me as I got out? I went to give him a tip, and he waved his hands at me. “All paid, all paid,” he said in heavily accented English, and shooed me away, smiling.

  Yeah, all paid for. I couldn’t decide whether I felt spoiled or bought and sold. Oh, shut up, I told myself, and let myself in the building. Quite a different scene here, and walk up stairs, no endless elevator ride. And it was afternoon now, not first thing in the morning, but it reminded me of that euphoric return after that first meeting in the limo. Nothing was the same. He’d been inside me, in me, god, it felt different, I felt different, why should it matter so much, but it did. It made all the difference. My body felt like someone had held it in their hands. Bruised, satisfied, and thoroughly fucked. I liked this feeling. Where had it been all my life? I let myself in to the apartment, and ran to my room and shut the door. And locked it. I didn’t want anyone to ruin this feeling by looking over me, at me, whatever. I spun around, and dizzily fell on the bed, stupid giant smile on my face. I buried my head in the pillow and breathed in, and quickly flipped over on my back to get some air, my heart beating so fast. Too much to take in. Too much to feel, after so long of not feeling anything but a kind of distant prickly longing that only held echoes of what had been and what could be, but never had been. This was different; everywhere on me and in me, liquid emotion. His scent. His sweat, still part of my skin. Oh god.

  A song I hadn’t thought of for ages came through my head. What was it? Real love? No, true love? Sweet Love, that was it. “So sweet, so sweet, so sweet,” sweeping up into the air, “oh baby, no sweeter love.” Who was it again? I couldn’t remember. It would come to me. “Sweet love…hear me calling out your name, I feel no shame.” High notes. Anita Baker, that was it.

  I didn’t want to think words and I forced myself to think of nothing but the song, and its plaintive, soulful joy, so much like the feeling running through my body. A feeling that didn’t ignore my body, or my head, or my heart. As I heard the voice in my head singing, I could hear his voice, crying out in pleasure, ripping through me. I fell asleep with the two mixing through me.

  • • •

  I woke up when the front door to the apartment slammed. I felt disorientated, then as consciousness slowly swept up me, a divine liquid achiness took me over. It was though as with sleep, all the reactions of my body changed, just a little shift, and all the sensation came back aga
in, now mediated through pain, or soreness, or a tightness in my stomach, the tiny thrill of knowing what happened couldn’t be confused with a fantasy. I stretched out, toes to fingers deliciously all of a piece, instead of the fractured disconnection I usually felt. Even the background knowledge that there was something wrong with Alice, that I would have to hear about and deal with, possibly for days, if not weeks, could not take away my languid happiness. Everything felt sharp and up close from the ache between my legs to the throb of the wound at my neck, yet at a distance, like I’d been wrapped in some silk cocoon.

  I stretched again. My usual impulse, to run to Alice’s side, the fixer, was gone. Did I even care? Where was I, and who had replaced me? Or maybe this was the real me, divinely indifferent, scorched by the gods. Or god. I giggled. This would never do. She’d hear me, and this would only increase her wrath. Oh I didn’t care. The whole world felt open, and warm. I’d move out of this apartment, and away from her moods, and life would be sweet and complete, and yes, I felt I being somewhat unfair, but it was all ok. It was finally, blissfully, completely good. At last.

  I lay there, smiling, and listened to more things being banged. Maybe I could just go back to sleep, and dream sweet dreams of a certain dark eyed, dark haired divinity. Yes. That’s what I would do. I didn’t want to talk. Bathing could wait.

  I rolled over and checked my cell phone. No messages. That was almost a relief. I needed a little time to myself, to readjust, and introduce myself to this new happy, selfish, achy person who seemed to be me. I shut my eyes against the setting sun, and vowed a few more blissful hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt me. My weekend. My time.

  I buried my head into the pillows. Yes, I wanted a text from him. Telling me how fabulous I was. How happy he was. Yes, I did. But I wanted even more than that just to cuddle into the bed and not let anything ruin this feeling. But I sat up and looked at the phone one more time, just in case. Nothing. It was ok. I sank back down into the pillows and closed my eyes. Just a little while longer.

  When I woke again, it was full dark outside, and there was just a strip of light falling onto the floor. I did feel achy now, and thirsty, and I needed to get up. I’d have to face the music. Hopefully, she was asleep. Or maybe she had gone out again. I creaked out of the bed, and grabbed a bathrobe. I was sure it was still obvious what I’d been up to, but maybe she’d be kind.

  I went to the bathroom first. I didn’t look at myself—I didn’t want to. There was time for reassessment later, after some tea and food. I walked into the kitchen, and there was Alice, bottle of Jack in front of her. It looked like she’d been crying. This wasn’t good.

  “Hey girl, what’s up?” I tried to sound neutral.

  “Eh, life sucks. What else is new? Never agree to threesomes, that’s my new mantra.” Alice took a swig from the bottle. Whoa. This must be serious.

  “What happened?” I didn’t want to ask, but there it all was in black and white. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t.

  “He decided she—no, they, needed to go shopping, and I needed to go home. That’s what happened.” Her face twisted into a bitter smirk. “Fucker.” She took another swig, and passed me the bottle. “Here, have a drink.”

  “Nah, I’m making some tea. You want some? I need a little caffeine first.” I actually didn’t feel like getting drunk and losing the buzzy euphoria of hurting so sweetly in so many places, but I wasn’t going to say that. I turned to the kettle and busied myself getting out tea bags and cups. Don’t look at me don’t look at me, I repeated in my head. I did not want the interrogation. Would I luck out? I doubted it, but I could postpone the inevitable. The kettle boiled and I brought the two reddish cups of Assam, strong the way we both liked it, but no milk, to the table. Tea. I suddenly felt starving and horribly empty, and I realized it had been over 24 hours since I’d eaten anything, or drunk anything but champagne and coffee. Coffee. His sweet skin, and creamy coffee. I must have smiled.

  “Hey!” Alice broke me out of my reverie. Shit. “Dream girl! I just remembered! So how did the dream date go with the dream man? Was it all dreamy?” Ah, bitchy Alice, out to play.

  “Yeah, it was fine. Very nice.”

  “Nice? That’s it? Sean told me he was a total player since the break up, a string of all kinds of girls. You’re lucky—apparently he likes all shapes and sizes.” Alice took another swig, ignoring her tea.

  Bitch Alice was about to get bitch slapped. No, deep breathing. Ignore it, said some smarter side. Time for a bath. I picked up my tea. “Yeah, I am lucky. My size seems to be just right. Maybe you need some sugar in that tea, take away some of the bitterness.” I felt on the edge. “Or maybe you should just mind your own business, you’ve got enough of it.” I walked out. I didn’t care anymore.

  I locked the door to the bathroom. I wanted quiet, to drown out the hatefulness of her words, and I ran the water. I was horrified at the idea of washing off him, his everything, but I needed to soak. I was one big ache. When I got in, the mixture of relief and stinging sensation was disturbing. My body. What had happened? I calmed down in the hot water. It was all good. All good.

  Chapter 15

  I lay in the bath, playing idly with the bubbles, smoothing over the bruises and soreness. I could still hear banging in the kitchen, distantly. I didn’t want to fight with Alice, but her casual meanness had removed my sympathy for her, for what had happened. Usually, I would have helped her, not now. And I was glad I didn’t have to do it. I added some more hot water, and watched my skin color up with the temperature. Soaking up the water like a sponge. Soaking up all his energy, no wonder I had felt confused. And all my insecurities. Too much thinking. I swirled the water around with my hands, practicing the deep breathing that I’d been told would make me feel more grounded. I wondered how often I’d have to use it in the future.

  The future. Whatever it would be. Completely unknown, you could hardly believe it would happen. But it did. Images swept through my mind. His leather pants. His face, dripping water, his hair slick and black, his body wet and hard. I felt my pulse racing and the ache start up again. But this time I had contracted to leave it alone.

  Before, I only wanted to feel his hands tracing torturous lines across and down and over my weak and willing flesh. But it wasn’t just a preference any more. Now it was a command. Don’t touch yourself. All my orgasms, all my sexuality I had willingly agreed were dormant until he brought them to life. No, that wasn’t it exactly. It didn’t take a lot to remind myself of the sexual madness he brought me. But anything else would be betrayal. I’d agreed. I wanted to follow his rules. They weren’t hurting me, I didn’t feel diminished. In fact, I felt desired. His desire. I could still see his face, the first time he came inside me. Yes, there was the emotional attachment. But maybe this desire was intense because of the intelligence behind it, that preferences were acknowledged, secrets revealed. It was a game, and I was learning to play. The space between “won’t” and “can’t” was being confused. Yet the “I can’t” part was as much my will as his. Strange.

  I drained the tub, and wrapped a towel around me and walked out to my room. I called out “good night.” There was no point in making more of it. Cowardice, or self-protection? I didn’t feel like examining the point.

  I curled up in bed and pulled the covers over me. The phone lay on the small white and blue table next to me. It was quiet. I realized suddenly that I had also signed up to never turn off the phone. I had to be on call. Me, who guarded my privacy and my space like a hurt animal, had just given it all over to a certain dark-haired man. I lay back and closed my eyes. What had I done? We’d had one night, one brief morning. Some people had that all the time with strangers they knew nothing about, and went on the next day like they’d done nothing more important than drinking a few beers. As much as I used to wish I was more like that, I wasn’t. So what was going on? I heard my stomach grumbling, and remembered eating. Tomorrow. I took a deep breath and tried to feel comfortable in my cocoon, but it felt co
ld all of sudden. Lonely.

  Finally I fell asleep, but I woke up in the middle of the night with a dream voice in my head, intoning, nodding intently that I should copy down the words. I reached for my notebook, which was always next to the bed, and scrawled down what it said in the dark. I knew from experience even turning the light on could chase away what seemed so vivid; it could make any vision, any phrase, suddenly other-worldly and distant and invisible. I wrote, checked the phone—nothing—then fell back on the pillows.

  I woke a few hours later, the sky lightening dimly through the window. Another city end of winter day. I stretched, and remembered the writing, but not what I had written. I pulled out the pad. There it was, scrawled and confusing:

  The future is metaphorical thinking.

  Like describing a sound with a taste, or an emotional state with a color or sensation. This is where we are heading.

  Strange, I thought. As the sensations from the bruises and soreness resurfaced, I wondered about describing them that way. What would my bruise taste like? Beyond the saltiness of blood, or sweat, or any of the literal descriptions. Fire, I decided, fire, like the coal in a grate, metallic and hard, dusty, scraping a trace on my hands, my thighs.

  And his kisses? His mouth, large and swollen, elegant, sweet? Ah, I was obsessed. I was. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Where had I gone? Or was I there, more there than I’d ever been? His lips. Elegant, fine, like the graceful sweep of silver candelabra, formed and polished, yet heavy. A Venus with an axe. Dionysus with a whip. Literally. My skin grew hot again. He reminded me of the Caravaggio painting from the late 1500s. That sullen, dark eyed invitation to pleasure, one nipple the centerpiece of his half-clad body, his face a question waiting for an answer. The Maenads, the women who would leave all behind, and follow him, drunk, sky clad, trailing animal skins and ivy vines. Unrecognizable. A cult of secrecy and power. Death to those to tried to view their revels. I lost myself in a dream of dusty hills and sweet wine, searing heat and soothing rituals on the cool rocks, a temple in nature to desire and the incomprehensible.