The Dominant (30 page)

“My submissive inclinations?”

She didn’t know? How was it she didn’t know? The truth hit me then—it was because we’d never talked. About anything.

I leaned toward her. “You’re a sexual submissive, Abby. You have to know that. Why do you think you hadn’t had sex for three
years before you were with me?”

“I hadn’t found anyone who . . .”

Ah, she understood. Finally.

“Who would dominate you the way you needed,” I finished.

She dropped her head.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I just hadn’t thought of it like that before.”

The puzzle pieces started falling into place.

“Of course you hadn’t,” I said. “Which is why you were so angry when I suggested other dominants for you.”

A flash of anger shot through her eyes. “I hated you for that.”

As I suspected. “I was very much afraid you would take me up on it,” I said, wanting her to know how painful those words had
been for me to say. “I searched my mind trying to find someone I thought would suit you. But I just couldn’t bring myself
to imagine you with someone else. I would have done it if you’d asked, though. I would have.”

“You were thinking of me and what I needed when you suggested other dominants?” she asked, and I knew she was still having
a hard time understanding my offer.

“I knew you had asked specifically for me, but after actually being a submissive, I knew you would need to do it again. Then
I saw how you reacted, so I’m sorry for that as well.” Because as her dom, it had been my responsibility to make her understand,
and that was just one more way I’d failed her.

I’d failed her. That was the truth.

“Jackson keeps saying you should have done more,” I said. “Tried harder to get through to me. But he doesn’t know the details.
What I did. It’s easy for him to place blame. He doesn’t understand there was nothing you could have done that would have
changed my mind that morning. Nothing would have changed the outcome. Don’t blame yourself.”

Because it was all my fault.

“I pushed,” she said. “I shouldn’t have expected so much so fast.”

“Perhaps not, but you could have expected more than I was
willing to give you.” Anything but my rejection of the love you gave so freely. “Instead, I shut you down completely.”

She nodded.

“But there’s more,” I said.

“Todd?”

Elaina still didn’t know, Todd had told me. Which meant Abby still didn’t know about Tampa.

“I didn’t pursue you, but I couldn’t let you slip away either. I would watch you at the library, hoping to catch a glimpse
of you. He knew I was watching someone, but I told him I was working up the courage to speak to you.”

“He believed you?”

Smart woman, that Abby. Even she didn’t believe it.

“Probably not, but he knew I wouldn’t do anything improper.” Without realizing it, I reached across the table toward her.
I wanted so desperately to touch her. I caught myself just in time and pulled my hands back—she still wouldn’t want to touch
me.

“And I didn’t, Abby. I promise you. I saw you only at the library. I never attempted to find out any more about you. I never
followed you.”

“Except the morning I left you.”

So she knew; she’d noticed me on the road behind her. “It had been snowing and you were upset. I had to make certain you were
safe.”

“So when you saved my mother’s house—you knew who she was? You knew she was my mother?”

Maybe she hadn’t figured that one out when I thought she had.

“Yes, I did it for you. I knew your name from the library. It was on the bank paperwork as well. You were the goddess I longed
to worship. My unobtainable dream. The relationship I could never hope to have.”

I peeked up at her, wondering if she remembered the words
she’d said right before I kissed her. How she’d called herself a goddess.

“When we were in Tampa, after we played golf, Todd joked with me about the library girl from all those years ago. Dinner the
night before had jogged his memory. I told him it was you and he got angry.”

She nodded absentmindedly.

“
A relationship like yours demands complete truth and honesty
.” I ripped the napkin in my hands apart as I quoted Todd. “That’s what Todd told me. And I was not being truthful in keeping
my past knowledge of you a secret. He wanted me to tell you, and I agreed. I asked for three weeks. I thought that was enough
time for me to plan how to tell you, and he thought that was reasonable.”

“But we never made it to three weeks.”

“No. We didn’t. I would like to think that if we had, I would have told you. I had every intention of doing so. But then that
night happened and I was afraid you would think I had tricked you or somehow manipulated you.”

“I might have.”

Tell her
.

My heart thumped.

You have to tell her
.

“I’ve never felt for anyone the way I feel for you,” I said. “I was scared. You were right about that. I thought it would
be easier to let you go, but I was wrong.”

It hadn’t been easier, not for me, and more important, not for her.

She didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I’m in therapy now—twice a week. It feels strange saying that. I’m working through
things. Your name comes up often.”

She gave a small laugh.

“I haven’t allowed you a chance to get a word in, but you
haven’t run off screaming,” I said. “Dare I hope any of what I’ve said makes a little bit of sense?”

She inspected her nails. “I need to think,” she said finally.

She wanted to think—maybe that meant she would want us to talk again. She didn’t say anything else, but simply rose to her
feet.

I stood with her. “Yes, you need to think things through. It’s more than I could hope for.”

It was probably crossing a line, but I couldn’t help it, I had to touch her. I took her hands and pressed my lips to them.

“Will you call me later this week?” I asked. “I want to talk more.” Not once, in all our time together, had she ever called
me. Would she this time? “If you want to, that is.” Because again it was entirely up to her. Everything, this time, would
be up to her.

“I’ll call you,” she whispered. “I’ll call you regardless.”

On the way home, I called Paul.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“I think it went well,” I said, remembering the conversation. “She talked and I listened. I talked and she listened. She said
she’d call me. I hope she does.”

“From what you’ve said about Abby, if she said she’d call—she’ll call.”

I merged onto the highway and headed to the estate, barely noticing the traffic I passed.

“She’ll call,” I said. “I just hope . . .”

“What?” he asked after several seconds.

“It’s just—” I forced myself to acknowledge the truth. “I want it all. I want to take her to dinner, ask her what her favorite
meal is, what she wanted for Christmas when she was twelve. I want to take her to my bed and keep her there all night.” I
paused. “And, God help me, Paul, I want her in my playroom.”

He laughed softly. “Got it all planned out, have you?”

“Most of it depends on her.”

“All of it depends on her,” he corrected. “Every step from here still has to be up to her. Take it slow. Get to know each
other. Build her—”

“Trust in me. I know. I know. You’ve told me.”

“Just making sure you listened.”

“I did.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if you bring up the playroom too soon, you’ll scare her. And before you even
think
about returning to the playroom—”

“We have to talk,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Safe words, our new arrangement. We’ve gone over and over this, too.”

“I know we have. I just can’t emphasize enough how important it is for the two of you to talk this time.”

“This time,” I scoffed. “You say that like it’s going to happen.”

“I think it will,” he said. “Eventually. Eternal optimist, remember?”

“Hmmmp.”

From his end of the phone came the unmistakable sound of a baby’s howl.

“Oops,” he said. “Naptime’s over. Christine’s out shopping. Girl time, you know?” The howling got louder. “Call me after you
talk to Abby.”

We disconnected, and I spent the rest of the drive home in silence, reflecting on my talk with Abby. When would she call?
Would she want to meet again, or would she tell me to leave her alone?

But she’d let me kiss her hand—surely she wouldn’t have let me do that if she planned on telling me to leave her alone.

I brought my hand to my nose to see if any of her smell lingered on me.

Maybe.

For once, silence wasn’t my enemy. It was a friend—allowing me time to reflect and think. I smelled my hand once more, certain
I could catch her scent and letting myself ponder Paul’s optimism.

When I arrived home, Apollo rushed to me and sniffed me all over as soon as I entered the foyer. I squatted down and he licked
my face, whining. Occasionally, he looked back to the door as if expecting Abby to enter.

“I know. I know you miss her.”

He whined again and pawed at me.

“Soon maybe,” I said, hoping for both of us that I was right.

She didn’t call on Monday. I spent the day in my office with my cell phone on my desk, waiting for it to ring, and I gave
Sara explicit instructions to let me know the second Abby called.

It was okay, I told myself. She needed time. She had to think.

Kyle called and invited me to attend the high school play he was in the coming weekend. I agreed to go and ran over and over
in my mind whether or not I should ask Abby to go.

Yes. No. Maybe.

I slept restlessly that night.

Tuesday wasn’t any better. I went home that afternoon feeling a bit dejected, knowing every day that passed meant either she
wouldn’t call or else she’d tell me she didn’t want me around when she did call.

My phone rang right after I’d eaten a quick dinner and was getting ready to take Apollo out for the night.

Abby King
, the caller ID said.

My heart thumped madly, and I hit the connect button with a trembling finger.

“Hello,” I said.

“Nathaniel,” she said, voice crisp and no-nonsense. “It’s me.”

I know, I wanted to yell. I know, trust me.

“Abby,” I said instead. Tuesday night was good, right? It was a good sign. Tuesday would be much better than Thursday or even
Wednesday.

“There’s a sushi bar down the street from the library,” she said. “Will you meet me there for lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I said. She wanted to meet, talk, and have lunch. That had to be good. “What time?”

“Noon.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

That settled it—Tuesday was my most favorite day of the week.

I arrived at the restaurant at five to twelve and looked around for an empty table. Then I found the most wonderful surprise—Abby
was already there, had a table, and was waiting for me.

Waiting for me.

I straightened my tie and walked directly to her. Her eyes followed me the entire time, and my heart leaped when she smiled
at me.

Fucking lucky-ass bastard.

“Abby,” I said, sitting across from her.

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Nathaniel.”

I smiled even brighter. So far, so good.

The waiter walked up to our table and took our orders. Abby knew exactly what she wanted and ordered her rolls with an air
of authority.

I took a deep breath after handing the waiter my menu and looked at her. “It’s going to be a beautiful spring.”

“I can’t wait for the cherry trees to start blooming. They’re my favorite.”

See? I told myself. You can do small talk.

“I have a few at the house. Apollo loves to roll around in the blossoms once they fall.”

She laughed. “I can see him doing that.”

“It’s a sight to behold,” I said, but I wasn’t talking about Apollo. I was talking about her. Her sitting across from me,
chatting easily, laughing. Looking beautiful.

“Apollo’s one of a kind.”

“That he is.”

“How’s work?”

“Just me doing my part to save the global economy. How’s the library? Anything exciting happening?”

She sat up straighter. “I’m organizing a poetry reading. Classics—Dickinson, Cummings, Frost. You know, all those boring things
no one ever reads?”

She was teasing me.

I loved it.

“Then you do the people of New York a great service by ensuring the poetry greats are kept alive.”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s really fun.”

“Do you read them all at the same session?” I asked, having never been to a poetry reading.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But I’ve decided to split this one up. We’ll give each poet their own reading, taking place over the
next few weeks. Dickinson’s up first—next Wednesday. I might even be able to drag Felicia along this time.”

“Felicia,” I said. “Jackson talks of nothing else. How is she?”

“Fine. I decided to let her live, even though she embarrassed me by playing that song at the party.”

“Very cordial of you.”

“After all”—her eyes sparkled with amusement—“she wasn’t the one who called my name in front of hundreds of people.”

She was still teasing me.

“In that case,” I said, “I commend you once more on your cordiality. This time for allowing me to escape with my life.”

“It was nothing. I’m rather glad you did it.
Now
, that is.”

The teasing tone had all but left her voice, and I knew it was time to talk about more serious matters.

“Before we talk about anything else,” I said, “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” she said warily.

“I need you to understand that I am in therapy to work on my
intimacy issues and my emotional well-being. Not my sexual needs.”

My doctor, along with Paul, and to a certain extent, Todd, had helped me see my lifestyle was completely acceptable. Why I
needed that assurance, I didn’t know, but I felt better having it.

“I am a dominant,” I told her. “And I will always be a dominant. I cannot and will not give up that part of me. That doesn’t
mean I can’t enjoy other . . .
flavors
. On the contrary, other flavors make for good variety.” I wanted that variety with her. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes. I would never expect you to give up that part of yourself. It would be like denying who you are.”

She understood. She got it.

“Right,” I said.

“Just like I can’t deny my submissive nature.”

She really got it.

I smiled. “Exactly.”

The waiter interrupted us briefly to deliver our teas. I felt better getting that part out, knowing we were both on the same
page, that if we ever did get back together, she knew what to expect.

Yet there was still one puzzle piece missing . . .

“I’ve always wondered, and you don’t have to tell me,” I said, “but how did you find out about me in the first place?”

She glanced down at her tea.

What? It was a reasonable question, wasn’t it?

At once, she looked up and waved her hand. “Oh, please. Everyone knows about Nathaniel West.”

She didn’t want to tell me something. That called for drastic measures. “Maybe,” I said. “But not everyone knows he shackles
women to his bed and works them over with a riding crop.”

She choked on her tea.

“You asked for it,” I said.

“I did.” She wiped her mouth. “Completely.”

My swift response relieved the tension somewhat, but the question remained.

“Will you answer?” I asked.

She took a deep breath. “I first took real notice of you when you saved my mother’s house.”

So my actions had not gone unnoticed. I felt positively delighted.

“Until then, you were only a man I read about in the society pages,” she continued, “a celebrity. But then you became more
real.”

The waiter brought our food and I felt annoyed at his interruption. Abby had just admitted that she had known of me and followed
me in the papers for years. I needed more from her, had to know the details. The information shocked me. Was it possible she’d
been waiting for me nearly as long as I’d been waiting for her?

She prepared her soy sauce as she talked. “Your picture was in the paper for something not long after that—I can’t remember
what for now.”

Who cared what my picture was in the paper for? My picture was always in the paper. How had she found out about me? About
my lifestyle?

“Anyway,” she said. “My friend Samantha stopped by while I was reading the paper. I made some comment about how nice you looked
and wondered what you were really like.”

She had? From a picture in the paper?

“She got all edgy and shifty,” she said.

“Samantha?” I asked. I thought back quickly, but couldn’t remember a Samantha in the community.

“An old friend of mine. I haven’t talked to her in years.”

I ran through my memories again, but still couldn’t place a Samantha. How had she heard of me?

“She went with her boyfriend to a party or a gathering or
something, I’m not sure of the proper name, for dominants and submissives. They were dabblers.”

Of course—a play party.

“Ah,” I said. “And I was there.”

If this Samantha knew who I was, I must have been a participant or instructor. Apparently she had not wanted Abby to get involved
with the likes of me and felt so strongly about it that she’d broken confidentiality. Ordinarily this news would have made
me furious, but under the circumstances, I suppose now I should probably have thanked her for the introduction.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “and she told me you were a dominant. She said she shouldn’t tell me and swore me to absolute secrecy,
and I haven’t told anyone—well, except for Felicia, when I had to. But Samantha didn’t want me to get some romantic Prince
Charming fantasy going with me as your Cinderella.”

All those wasted years. All those years I’d longed for Abby and, miracle of miracles, she’d been longing for me.

How was it possible?

“Did you?” I asked, needing to know exactly what she thought of me.

“No,” she said offhandedly. “But I did fantasize about being shackled to your bed while you worked me over with a riding crop.”

Holy fucking hell.

Now I was the one choking on my tea.

She looked at me with innocent eyes. “You asked for it.”

I laughed. Abby wanted me. Had wanted me for years.

And she was teasing me about it.

“I did,” I said. “Completely.”

Completely and one hundred percent asked for it.

“I didn’t do anything but fantasize for a long time,” she said.

Fuck. She’d fantasized about me. For years. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.

Her eyes dropped to her plate.

“Then I asked around. Several of Samantha’s friends still live in the area, so it didn’t take long to find Mr. Godwin. I held
on to his name for months before I did anything.”

The timing had been perfect. Had she talked to Godwin earlier, I would have been with Melanie and her application would have
been ignored. I sucked in a breath at the realization of how close we’d come to never meeting.

She shrugged. “I eventually knew I had to call him, though—anything was better than . . .”

“Unfulfilled sex,” I said, still thinking about Melanie.

“Or just plain unfulfilled in my case.” She looked up as if needing reassurance. “I couldn’t have a normal relationship with
a guy. I just . . . couldn’t.”

Of course, I knew exactly what she meant. Thankfully, due to my talks with Paul, I could help.

“I believe there are varying degrees of
normal
, Abby,” I said. “Who really gets to define what normal looks like anyway?”

Because never again would I let anyone else define me. Not even myself. I refused to allow Abby to have the same doubts I’d
struggled with for so long.

“Frankly,” she said, “I’ve done what’s normal in the eyes of everyone else and it’s boring as hell.”

“Different flavors, and they can all be delicious when tasted with the right person.”
I want to taste them all with you
. “But yes, one’s natural tendencies do have a way of defining what one sees as normal.”

“You tried a so-called normal relationship once. With Melanie.”