The Art of Control (4 page)

After finishing up, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror to inspect myself. I look horrible. My eyes are bloodshot from crying and I have dark circles under my eyes from my recent lack of sleep.
What does Dylan see in me?
I’ve been feeling more and more pathetic lately.

I need to talk to my cou
nselor again before the old self-loathing Isa rears her nasty head and damages my fragile self-esteem.
Damn Cassie and Alex.
I was fine until they showed up and fucked everything up.
Damn my father for killing my mother.
Life could have been wonderful if we had just gotten away from him. There are several people staring over at me and I wonder why. Looking in the mirror again, there are tears streaming down my cheeks. I didn’t even realize I was crying. Several voices are heard near the restroom entrance, one of them being Dylan’s. He comes walking in and a handful of women give him the evil eye, but it doesn’t deter him.

“A
re you okay?” he asks concerned as he turns me around to face him. “You’ve been in here for more than 20 minutes.”

Have I?
I feel dazed and out of it. He guides me out of the restroom and sits me down in a café chair and orders me a raspberry spritzer.

“Drink this,”
he says, handing me the beverage.

I chug it down
promptly and the cool bubbly drink refreshes me. Pulling a chair up next to me, Dylan runs his fingers through my hair.

“Isa,
please don’t do this. I know that look and what you’re thinking,” he says evenly.

His words are gloomy and make me feel worse
than I already do. I just want to forget about everything and hide somewhere warm and dark.

“Maybe we should call Maggie and postpone the honeymoon,” Dylan says.

I feel wretched. “Please, no. Take me somewhere far away,” I beg him. My voice sounds unfamiliar to me and I hug him, hiding my face in his chest again.
Why do I have to be so pathetic?

Dylan

Isa sounds childlike and I feel like a miserable jackass for making her tell me about her father when I know damned well she doesn’t like being forced into a confession. Then I ignored her, compounding the situation. Fuck. Me.
I’m such an asshole.
I just want all of this to be done and over with. I want her father dealt with once and for all. More than anything, I want that cruel son-of-a-bitch dead and buried.

I pull Isa back away from me and her eyes are cheerless.

“You deserve someone better than me; someone who’s not so useless,” she whispers and her statement floors me.

She hasn’t talked like this since we first got together.
Holy hell.
I can see all of the progress we’ve made melting right before my eyes. “Don’t do this to yourself. There is no one better for me than you.
No one.
You’re not pathetic. You’re beautiful and talented, and…” I can’t finish my sentence because she cuts me off.

“Flawed?”

“Yes, you are flawed, but so am I. I love you and all of your wonderful, amazing flaws. They’re what make you unique and special,” I tell her.

She smiles weakly and
I see the light in her eyes returning.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, Isa, and that’s the truth.
Am I your Dom?” I ask.

She blinks rapidly and
answers, “Yes.”

“When you d
oubt yourself, you doubt my decision to having chosen you to be my submissive and my wife. I love you, but I won’t tolerate my decisions being second-guessed. You already know this, don’t you?” I gently remind her.

She nods and her
smile widens ever so slightly.

“
That’s my girl. Show me that smile
.
”

“To Paris?” she asks.

“Yes, to Paris.”

I grab her hand and we make our way back down the terminal and to the jet.
The day is bright and the weather is superb for flying. I’m not looking forward to the long flight and having to deal with Isa’s nerves, but hopefully we can enjoy each other’s company. I’m still surprised that she can speak French. More than seven months together and I’m still learning about her. It’s a never ending process, I suppose. Once we get seated and buckled in, Isa immediately starts twisting her hair between her fingers. It’s the takeoff that she hates the most. She looks out the window and taps her foot incessantly.

Once we’re in the air, her nervousness dissipates and she relaxes. She looks over at me and we sit staring at each other without saying anything. I love these moments of sile
nce between us when we sit and reflect on things. I don’t feel like I have to make friendly conversation just for conversation’s sake.

I reach o
ver and touch her hair and twist it between my fingers the way she does and she smiles and closes her eyes. I wonder what it is about doing this that calms her. I try to imagine a young Isa only eight years old and what she must’ve been like: Shy and timid, and with her spirit broken after her mother left.  She must’ve looked both adorable and sad sitting quietly like she is now, working her hair over between her fingers with no other way to express her anxiety or fear. Isa’s eyes remain closed as I loop her hair around and around, thinking about what a living hell her childhood must’ve been for her. She’s obviously comforted by this action and it was cruel of me to insist that she stop doing it simply because it aroused me at the most inopportune times. I feel sickened at the thought of the punishment that I doled out to her over this action. I vow to myself that if she does it again, I will simply allow it.

I drop the lock of hair and without opening her eyes, she
murmurs, “Please, don’t stop.”

Yes, I will all
ow whatever makes her feel comforted.
I work over the strand of hair until she falls asleep. Feeling enraged with her father, I dig out my phone and call Sawyer.

“Sawyer here,” he answers.

“I want him dead.”

Sawyer remains silent on the other end and he doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t have to; he knows exactly who I’m talking about.

“I know, so do I,” he says, keeping his answer short and his voice composed.

“Make it happen,” I snap.

“All in good time, Young,” he answers calmly.

With that, I hang up. I know Sawyer is right. As ever, I’m impatient to have my way, especially when I look over
at Isa to see how peaceful she looks. I want nothing more than to keep her safe and to give her peace of mind, and as long as her father is still breathing, she’ll never have that. Closing my eyes, I hold her hand while I drift off to sleep, too.

When I wake, I look over at Isa and her knees are pulled up to her chest and she’s watching me fearfully from behind them. I can’t tell if she’s awake or still asleep and just having a nightmare. She’s done that before. I could’ve sworn she was awake, her eyes were open, but she was stark raving mad and screaming about Alex. I
reach out to her but she winces.
Shit, she’s still sleeping.

“Isabel, you’re still asleep. You need to wake up,” I say
unemotionally.

She remains motionless
for a moment and then starts rocking herself.

“I got blood on my dress, sugar. It’s ruined. Please don’t be angry,” she
says in the most heartrending child’s voice I’ve ever heard.

Christ, she’s dreaming about the night Cassie damn near killed her. I feel the same anger I felt that night. I want Cassie dead, too, for what she did to Isa.

“I’m not angry. You’re dreaming. Can you wake up?” I ask, caressing her arm softly.

She blinks rapidly.

“Yes, that’s it. Come back to me. Wake up, love,” I tell her as I squeeze her arm. She blinks again and her knees slowly come down. She blinks long and hard one last time and looks bewildered. 

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Hi,” she answers.

“You were dreaming about Cassie again.”

“Was I? I don’t remember. Are we there yet?” she asks, looking out the window. 

“No. I’m not sure how much further we have.” I look at my watch and realize we still have another four hours of travel time. “Four more hours and we’ll be there,” I tell her. “You want to make out?”

She looks over at me and smirks naughtily. “
Just
make out?” she asks.

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay, but don’t try anything lewd because I’m not that kind of girl,” Isa says playfully and crawls onto my lap.

“Oh, you’re not? That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at me.

“I heard you like it rough and tumble,” I tell her and grab her brusquely.

“You heard wrong. I’m sweet and shy. I’m a delicate fucking flower, thank you very much.”

I laugh loudly at her remark because I think she really believes it.

“Most of the time, yes you are. But behind dungeon doors, well, that’s a whole different Isa.”

“Oh
, shut up and kiss me already,” she tells me and grabs my face.

Her tongue invades my mouth and her hands find my hair. My hands are all over her, under her shirt, on her breasts
and in her pants, and I feel like a teenager as we pass second base. My dick is rock hard and I shove my fingers into her.

“Third base,” I whisper to Isa and she giggles into my neck.

“Are you hoping for a home run?” she asks as she straddles me and looks into my eyes.

“
Always.”

“Whatever shall we do about that?”

“How about you be a very naughty girl and let me have my way with you?”

“Only if you promis
e to make it hurt,” she answers, her eyes changing color.

“I thought you were a delicate fucking flower?”

“I am. I’m a delicate flower that likes to be fucked hard. So what?”

Wielding my own words against me, I can’t argue with her
. I push Isa off of me, unbutton her pants and pull her towards the back of the cabin to the couch. I take my pants off as well and sprawl out. Climbing on top of me, Isa slowly lowers herself onto my hard-on. She grinds down on it, her pussy lips meeting the base of my rod and I involuntarily grunt. She lifts her shirt so I can bury my face in her overabundant cleavage and I pull her bra up over her tits as I suck and bite at her. 

S
he starts to speeds up her pace but then abruptly gets off of me and sits reverse cowgirl, slamming down onto me harder and faster. Her hands are resting on my thighs and I’m reminded of our first sexual encounter in my office.  Just like before, her hips do their magical dance and she starts twirling and rocking her pelvis back and forth. She throws her head back and garbles out something other worldly. I grip her hips and pull her down onto me again and I thrust upwards, filling her to capacity. I still so that I can feel her hot core contract around me and she gives me what I want. Her pussy clamps down and she rises up to the very tip of my dick and lowers herself again.
God, I’ll never get tired of seeing that
. She does it again, but this time she paces her movements to an agonizingly slow rhythm and fucks me seductively as she leans back onto me.

“This is just like our first time, Dylan,”
Isa breathes. “Do you remember that?”

“I’ll never forget it.”

Isa quickens her movements and her pussy muscles clutch my shaft.

“May
I cum, Sir?” she asks like a good submissive.

The sound of her silky voice asking permission and the fe
eling of her pulsating cunt are too much.

“
Yes, cum for me, pussycat,” I command and we both climax within seconds of each other.

Isa purrs
and then leans back onto me until her quivering movements subside.

“That’s m
y good little wench,” I mutter in her ear as I cup her breasts.

She slowly gets off of me
, smiles and punches me in the arm for my lewd term of endearment. While she excuses herself to the restroom, I dress and make us some martinis. When Isa comes back out, we lie together on the couch and listen to Enya playing through the stereo. It’s soothing, but I can feel Isa’s eyes on me.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.

“I was just wondering what you were like when you were a young boy.”

“I was moody and mischievous,” I tell her.

“So you weren’t much different than you are now,” she laughs.

“Touché, Isabel.”

“Were you bullied in school?” she asks.

“No.”

“Were you the bully in school?”

“N
o. Other than a few friends, I pretty much kept to myself. How about you? Were you bullied?” I ask, wondering why she’s curious about something like that.

“Not really. I was quiet and kept to myself
, also. I always looked a mess and you know how cruel girls can be so I got my fair share of snotty remarks and teasing,” she answers.

“Did you have many friends?” I ask.

“I didn’t have any friends.”

“Not
any
friends?” I ask, stunned.

“No, m
y father wouldn’t allow them. He didn’t want me telling anyone about his abuse, I guess, so he kept me very isolated.”

Jesus.
My poor Isa
. “What did you do to keep yourself busy?” I continue.

“Oh, my father kept me busy wi
th all sorts of things. He had every minute of my day planned out meticulously,” Isa says, getting up to get her drink. She hands me my martini and sits back down next to me.

“With what sorts of things?”

“French lessons for one. Riding lessons for a brief time until I broke my collarbone. Spanish lessons. Violin lessons. The usual boring activities that makes for a well-bred and proper girl,” Isa states plainly.

“You play the violin?”

“I
played
the violin,” she corrects me.

“I’d love to hear you play it sometime,” I tell her, surprised at the things she’s telling me.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t. I said I played it, I didn’t say I was any good at it.  Anyway, I swore the last time I put it down I would never pick it up again. Playing it was like torture for me and it was more a form of castigation from my father.”

This is all eye opening
. I enjoy learning new things about Isa, but I can sense her displeasure in talking about them. I know exactly how she feels about discussing her past.

“I appreciate your being so forthcoming with me, Isa,” I say t
o her, wanting to comfort her and not make her feel forced to tell me anything.

She looks up at me and smiles and sips on her drink.

“When did you start painting?” I lean back on the couch and she smiles again and shakes her head at me.