Surefire (13 page)

“So, we’re to be parents then, you and me? That’s the plan, right?”

I look at him, holding his gaze, suddenly filled with doubt, hesitancy and fear that his agreement last night might have been just intended to keep me happy, acquiescent. I do him an injustice.

“Yes. That’s right. You said it was okay…”

“It is. It’s a lovely idea. Count me in.” He grins, and it’s infectious.

My smile must be positively radiant as I glow back at him. A baby. My own baby. Safe, well, healthy. And most important of all—alive. It could happen. It really could happen.

“But we need to talk, there are conditions, things we need to have settled.” Tom’s tone is serious despite his warm smile.

“What? What conditions?” My optimism evaporates as I watch his face take on just a hint of his Dom sternness, his solemn green gaze holding my now slightly desperate one.

“Number one, should I be talking to your father? Should I be asking his permission to marry you?”

Now this I hadn’t expected. Never considered this possibility. I blurt out my surprise, blunt to the point of rudeness, “No! Of course not. Why should you…? I mean, I don’t want, don’t expect… There’s no need to marry me.”

Apparently less offended than he might be, he just grins at me. “Ah, my generous offer not an answer to a maiden’s prayer then? Okay, set that idea to one side. We may need to re-visit it later, but for now, let’s look at the most pressing stuff.”

I’m finding this whole discussion little short of bewildering—I’ve no experience of this sort of conversation, this sort of planning. My confusion must be written all over my face.

“Don’t look so worried, love, I told you I’d keep you safe. And the baby. Our baby. I’d want to look after you in any case, but it’s particularly important to us, isn’t it? You know why.”

I nod, gratitude and relief flooding me as I wait for whatever’s coming next.

“Given our—lifestyle—I’ll need to know as soon as you suspect you may be pregnant. You understand why, don’t you? The early weeks are the most fragile, we’ll need to look after you, wrap you in cotton wool, so to speak. And definitely no roughing you up. That means no spanking, no whipping, no caning. Nothing remotely…” He’s obviously searching for the right word.

Keen to help, I put in my suggestion, “Brutal “

He fixes me with a stern look, his Dom persona surfacing. “I prefer ‘physically challenging’. Demanding perhaps…”

I nod meekly, the perfect submissive. “As you say. Sir.”

“Sassy little wench. You’re not pregnant yet, so have a care. Seriously though, you’ll tell me? Yes?”

“Yes. I promise. Do nipple clamps count as brutal? Sorry, I mean demanding?”

He scowls at me, rocking his hand to indicate ‘could be’.

“I see. And clit clips?”

He shakes his head. “Depends, but probably not.”

“Butt plugs?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “For the avoidance of doubt, sex toys are fine. I think I read somewhere that orgasms are very healthy for pregnant women. Probably help with conception too. We’ll have to put in even more effort.”

More
effort.
More
orgasms! I feel my face flush at that prospect, but manage to offer a suitably restrained response.

“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your help and your concern.” Then, “What about The Hermitage? Can we still go there?” We’ve become fairly frequent visitors to the kinky club in Leeds, although our activities are mainly confined to the private rooms and the health spa.

He considers that briefly. “Fine, but as a spectator sport.” He regards me seriously, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Not sure how well your corset would fit, obviously, might need to buy you a maternity one. I wonder if they sell anything like that at Marks and Spencer?” He grins at me. “What about your business? You’re just beginning to get somewhere. You’d need to take some time out, at least for a few months.”

“I know, but I think it could work. I work from home, and I can do my editing and such like when you’re here to look after the baby. If that’s okay with you, I mean. I don’t expect you to do a lot of baby-sitting…”

He holds up a hand to stop my flow. “Ashley, I’ll help. You don’t have to ask. And I won’t be doing any baby-sitting. Baby-sitting’s what you do for other people’s children. With your own it’s called parenting. If we do this, we do it together. But it’ll affect you the most and I’m just thinking it might be difficult. For you.”

“I think I’ll be fine. Tom—I want to do this. I really do.”

He smiles at me, his gaze tender, affectionate. And caring. “I know. I’ve seen you with Isabella. I
do
know.”

“And, I could probably pay for a child minder if I needed one, later on. And perhaps me and Eva could help each other out. I’ll ask her…”

“Parenting, remember. We’ll share the childcare. And the costs.” He sips his coffee idly, his gaze still holding me. Then, “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought, Ashley.”

I nod. “I have. It’s what I want, what I need.”

His mouth turns down, calm, philosophical, obviously accepting my resolve to do this thing that’s going to turn our lives upside down. “I can see that. So, let’s make it happen.”

Stern Dom or not, I leap to my feet and run around the table to plant myself on his lap and huge kiss on his mouth. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you. God, I love you…”

He raises his head, captures my face between his palms. “The feeling’s mutual, Ashley.”

And I’m kissing him again.

* * * *

Back at Greystones, daily life resumes. Reinvigorated, my eye once more firmly fixed on a future I can see unfolding for myself, a future I can strive for and is now within reach, I throw myself even more energetically into my new life, incredibly thankful to have this chance. To
still
have this chance. I’ll probably never know for sure what Kenny and his bunch of thugs intended to do to me that day in Gloucester when they all turned up at my mother’s house, but deep down I do suspect they might have killed me. Or Kenny might have.

Tom and Nathan play it down, but I’m pretty sure they saved my life that day. Attacking me, abducting me even, would have been an ill-fated, senseless thing to do and Kenny would never have gotten away with it, but he’s too stupid, too deluded, too obsessed with his own self-importance to ever realize that. And in any case, no matter how heavily the full weight of the law might eventually fall once more upon Kenny’s dim-witted head, none of that would have helped me much. The best I could have hoped for would have been that someone would have had the sense to bury me with my mother and baby, but that would be cold comfort indeed—for me, and for those around me who care.

For the first few weeks after we arrived back I was nervous, although I prefer to think of it as natural caution. I tended to stay close to the farm, only going out with Tom, or maybe just scuttling across to Black Combe in my car to spend time with Grace, or Eva and her mother, Victoria, who seems to have been permanently installed in Nathan’s spare bedroom.

Rosie’s animated chatter is delightful as always, distracting and amusing, but I have to confess somewhat mixed feelings about baby Isabella. She’s lovely, an impossibly pretty little baby, sweet natured as well. Eva is incredibly lucky—I know that better than most. From the beginning, Isabella’s sparkling presence has reminded me of my own loss, and for that reason I should probably avoid her. It wouldn’t be difficult, no one forces me to pick her up, to cuddle her at every opportunity. No one insists that I volunteer to give her a bottle every time she gurgles or whimpers. No one expects me to be the first to reach for the Pampers when it’s time to change her nappy. But no one stops me either, and I silently bless Eva, Nathan and Grace—and Victoria too—for their tolerance and quiet understanding.

Perhaps sensing my need for him, Tom’s been around the farm a lot, much more than usual. He’s very busy just now, gearing up for the music festival in a few weeks’ time. The place is over-run with contractors and suppliers, a hive of activity. But despite the manic frenzy surrounding us much of the time, Tom’s always happy to spend time with me. We talk—a lot—and the sex between us has been off the scale during these last weeks of the summer.

The encounter in Gloucester was terrifying, unnerving, but gradually I’m starting to relax again, to regain my confidence, my self-belief. With Barney in tow most days I’m once more enjoying my trips up onto the moors I now think of as my own, bouncing across the rugged landscape on my beloved quad bike, invariably making long detours to avoid the stiles and narrow footpaths that hikers seem so fond of. There was no direct evidence linking Kenny to the arson attack, so the police questioned him but then had to let him go. The case remains open, but meanwhile the insurance company has settled my claim, paid up and the repairs are well underway. The damage was limited mostly to the ground floor so the house should be fit to let to students again by the time the new academic year starts in October. Mr Miller reports to me regularly, usually about once a week, and I’m intrigued to find myself doing the arithmetic to work out how much loss of income I should be anticipating and the impact of this on my long-term business plan. The financial losses are not that great, and I’m once more intrigued. When did I become such a capitalist?

And speaking of which, conscious I’ve neglected my business with all these other distractions, I made arrangements for another trip to the Peak District. I spent four glorious days photographing the High Peak landscape, bathed in late summer sunshine, glowing with oranges, golds and vivid greens. I renewed my business contacts in Bakewell and Tideswell, and found a couple of more potential outlets. So many tourist hubs here, and I’m fast beginning to realize the potential of the many and various local markets, galas and shows. I’m pondering a series of prints themed around food—producing, growing, selling, eating—something for everyone. I could call it The Food Chain.

My head brimming with possibilities, I mulled over the prospects in the Yorkshire Dales, as I made my way back up the M1. Back home. Back to Tom.

* * * *

Barn. Now.

Why? Is there a problem?

What part of NOW is not clear?

Ah, like that is it? Who’d have thought he could inject that Dom tone into a text? But he has, and I know I need to be on my way.

It’s been raining. Again. That makes three days on the trot when I’ve been unable to get out onto the moors. I’ve been catching up on my edits and Photoshopping, but there’s a limit to that, even for me. I’ve got a whole new batch of Peak District material ready to send to my printer, and a lot more stuff in the pipeline now. I could start on the Lakes soon. If it ever stops raining.

Right now I’m in need of some serious diversionary therapy. And it appears my Dom has something in mind. Bring it on.

I shut down my computer, careful to save all my work in progress. I may be randy as hell and on a promise, but I’m not stupid. A few minutes later I’m wrestling the huge barn door open, just enough for me to slip through into the gloomy interior.

I stand just inside the door, looking for Tom, listening. The place is silent, eerily so. But he’s here, here somewhere. Even if it wasn’t for his text I’d know. I can feel his eyes on me. I shiver, the involuntary shudder creeping down my spine like ice. I’m not comfortable, I wish he’d show himself.

“Tom, Tom, where are you?” I call out, my voice echoing around the cavernous, dusty space, bouncing back at me from the bales of hay and unused farm implements. I turn, looking all around, and up into the open loft above my head. He must be up there.

I start for the ladder and shriek loudly as a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Tom’s voice, deep, low, right against my ear.

“Christ, you scared the shit out of me! What do you think you’re doing, creeping up on me like that? Where the hell did you spring from?” Dom or not, I can’t keep the anger from my voice, an anger born of nervousness. He really creeped me out.

“That’s no way to talk to your Master, little Ashley. Maybe you’d like to apologize. Now, before I really get irritated with you. You wouldn’t like me to get irritated, would you? Remember the last time I had cause to discipline you in here?”

“I don’t bloody care. You nearly gave me a heart attack. I…”

My tirade is rudely interrupted by a hand over my mouth, and Tom’s voice is in my ear, hard now, his warning tone unmistakable, “I’m sorry I scared you, I didn’t mean to. But you got my text, you knew I was here. And now, you’ve said enough. Too much. You badly need a little refresher course in respect, I think. I’ve obviously been much too lenient with you recently. You’ve been getting too much gentle fucking and clit clips, and not enough discipline. That changes, here, now.”

He drops his hand from my mouth to cup my chin, holding my head up, pressed against his unrelenting chest. “Do you agree, Ashley? Do you think you need discipline too?”

The threat is there, dark and slightly menacing, but shot through with that silken, suggestive thread of promise. That promise of pain and pleasure…and intense arousal. I’m shivering again, but this time it’s not shock. There may be some fear there, some nervous anticipation certainly. But mostly, I’m shivering with sheer joyful excitement. He makes me feel so good, so vital, so alive.

“Ashley, answer me. Do you need to be punished?”

“Yes, yes, Sir, I do,” I whisper my response as his lips explore my neck and throat, and I tilt my chin higher to allow him access.

“What should I do to you, do you think, Ashley? Should I whip you? Spank you? Maybe a punishment fuck? What do you think would work best?”

“I don’t know?” I’m melting in his arms now. He can pretty much do whatever he likes to me as far as I’m concerned. Then, “What’s a punishment fuck?”

“Ah yes,” he murmurs, “not something I’ve ever been minded to try with you. You’re always so hot, so responsive. You really wouldn’t like a punishment fuck, my love, because I’d fuck you, long and hard, but I wouldn’t let you come. You’d enjoy it, at first, up to a point, then the frustration would bite. You’ll beg me to let you come, to touch you, to let you finish. But no, no orgasm for you. How would that be, do you think? Would it teach you respect?”