The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) (23 page)

And when I began to have those thoughts, a hollow ache
flared inside me and a vise settled around my heart.

I couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t. I loved him.

Damn that video. It was incomprehensible that Michael might
get what he wanted all along: to destroy my relationship with Gibson, no matter
that the destruction would be realized in a different way than he intended.

Avoiding Gibson, then, became more an act of putting off
what I dreaded was the inevitable outcome of our standoff rather than lingering
anger from our argument. Foreboding obliterated resentment.

The more I feared an ending, the harder I searched for
potential solutions. What could I say? What could I do? It seemed there was no
way to go back, to find that happiness from before.

I despaired of finding actual answers, and eventually,
convinced myself there was an option of a different kind. Funny, what hopeless
panic can accomplish which reason and sense cannot.

And love. Desperate, dogged love that wouldn’t brook
surrender. Too much was at stake. I loved him enough for anything, I thought,
even pretense.

It was Sunday morning, and I found Gibson in the TV room,
stretched out in a recliner and watching a ball game. He turned off the TV when
I entered the room. I thought he looked tired, a little drawn. I knew I
certainly was tired, and looked it.

I sat in the matching recliner. “So.”

“So.”

“This week sucked.”

“Yes.”

“I have an idea.”

A few beats passed. Then he said, “Good.”

“Let’s just forget everything,” I said. “Go back to how it
was before I asked you to show me your dungeon. Forget subs and doms. All of
it. For now.”

“You think you can do that?”

“I can if you can.”

“It’s not a real solution.”

I shook my head. “I know. But it’s all I’ve got. I don’t
know what else to do.”

“We can try taking it slower.”

“No. It won’t work for me. And not for you, either, if
you’re honest with yourself.”

His answering nod was a minute thing, the barest
acquiescence.

“Besides,” I said, “given time, we might work back into it
in the future. When we’re ready.”

“I’ve missed you.”

I was taken in by his eyes, so dark and proud, hopeful. “And
I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve hurt you.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Let’s not go over that again. Forget it happened,” I said.

“How?”

“We just do.”

“I want to touch you so badly.”

“Go ahead. There’s nothing to stop you.”

“It’s too easy,” he said. “Nothing is this easy.”

“Never mind that. This time it will be.”

And we stood, together, and he took my hand. I followed him
to our bedroom, where he kissed me and we undressed. And he made love to me.

And it was as easy as I said it would be.

While it lasted.

Chapter 19

It was late November. Cold and wintry, barren. The landscape
seemed bleak, but perhaps that was simply my emotions draining the color out of
my surroundings.

School was the only bright spot in my life, my refuge, my
savior.

I loved Gibson, but every time he held me, every time he
smiled at me, and every time he told me I was beautiful, I remembered that he
didn’t trust me. Black of the blackest sort oozed over every action, everything
we did together, a sludge on the happiness I pretended to feel. For him. For his
sake.

No, that’s not true. I pretended for myself, also. The same
as I pretended I could forget everything that happened. Because I couldn’t face
the truth. Couldn’t stand up to it.

I held out as long as I could. And now here I was, facing
the inevitable, again. Only one, desperate gambit remained, and I had never
planned to use it. Unless. Unless there was no other choice.

A last chance.

I lingered in front of the double glass doors in our
bedroom, looking out over the brown grass of the south lawn. Some stray, dead
leaves bounced by, the wind scooting them toward the lake. Small whitecaps
dotted the surface of the water. It was a freezing, blustery day.

I wrapped my robe tighter around myself and shivered.

“Come back to bed,” Gibson said. “It’s cold in front of
those doors.”

I turned to him. So handsome, he was, sitting in bed,
propped up against the headboard, bare-chested, the blanket snugged up to his
waist, his hair mussed from our recent lovemaking. He was flipping through his
favorite business journal.

A perfect picture, he was. In fact, the whole room was
perfect. A picture.

A fiction.

I walked over and sat on the side of the bed. “It’s not
working.”

He knew what I meant, right away. I saw it in the blink of
his eyes, in the sudden catch in his breath and the clench of his hand on the
magazine. But he wasn’t ready to admit it. “What’s not working?”

I gave him a sad smile. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About the
past.”

“I thought we agreed to forget the past.”

“We did. But I can’t. I’ve actually been thinking about my
ex-husband. I’ve never told you much about him.”

“No. You haven’t.”

“He cheated on me so many times I lost count. But he was all
I had, my only family, so I forgave him, and after a while, I didn’t notice
anymore. Or at least, I acted like I didn’t, to myself. It was foolish and
didn’t work.”

“You deserved better,” Gibson said.

“I agree. It took me a long time, though, to figure that
out. And cheating wasn’t the only thing wrong between us. He was a taker, never
gave anything in return. When I divorced him, I swore I’d never sell myself
short again. Then I met Michael, and promptly did exactly what I swore I
wouldn’t do. The only difference was it didn’t take ten years to figure that
one out.”

Gibson watched me with sympathy, though warily.

“I think,” I said, “that I’ve always had this need to give
everything to the important people in my life. My grandparents. My boyfriends.
My husband. You.”

“Me.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t let me give you everything
physically, sexually, because of the trust and safe word problem. And I thought
that was the end, that there was no making us work anymore. Then I realized, I
could still sacrifice for you, but in a different way. I could make everything
okay.”

I smoothed the blanket under my palm. “I wanted it to work
with you, Gibson. You’re the worthiest man I know. So I told you I could forget
everything, forget that you don’t trust me, and that you blame me.”

“Nonnie, I don’t —”

“No, please. I have to finish this.”

He looked at me, hard and long. I waited for his decision.
Then he nodded.

“These past weeks together, this bittersweet time,” I said.
“It’s been my sacrifice. To you. I gave up what I needed for you. And for me,
too. Because I couldn’t stand to lose you.”

I took a deep, steadying breath. “But I can’t do it anymore.
I’m sorry, Gibson. I can’t forget and it’s getting more bitter every day. As
much as I dearly wish I could, this is a sacrifice I can’t make anymore. If I
did, I’d be selling myself short ... again.”

“I deserve your trust, Gibson,” I continued. “I can’t settle
without it. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. It weakens me, don’t you see? Wears me
down. You used to make me feel like I could do anything —” My voice caught in
my throat then, and tears threatened, so I stopped, to keep myself together.

Gibson appeared lost, as if he didn’t know what to make of
it. Or more likely, he didn’t want to acknowledge it had been between us all
this while, simmering right under the surface of our serene charade.

“I thought we were fine,” he said. “You seemed happy.”

“You, too. But I know better. You can’t tell me you don’t.”

His denial dropped away then, and he shook his head, slowly.
“Tell me what I can do to make this right.”

“I will. I’m getting ready to take a big risk and I need you
to listen with an open mind. I need you to hear what I have to say, to set
aside what you think you know about me. I’m going to tell you something I swore
I’d never tell you.”

“Okay.”

“You think you know what happened between Michael and me on
that video, the one when we were in the shower. You said it was rape. I told
you it wasn’t. You argued and I let it drop. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t rape me. He used me. He had sex with me, that I
agreed to, and there was no pleasure for me. He made sure of it, by bringing me
close to orgasm and then denying me.”

Gibson’s hands clenched.

“I know it’s hard to hear,” I said. “But you have to
understand. And you can only understand if I tell you everything. Later, in his
bed, he used me again. I was even more sore then. Once again, no pleasure. And
then in the morning, after he took me home. Twice, maybe three times. I don’t
remember exactly. Each time it was the same. He brought me close, then denied
me. He took his own pleasure, used me with my permission. I could have made him
stop, but I didn’t want to.”

“Here’s the part I need you to hear,” I said, giving him a
level look.

“Then say it already.”

“While it was happening, it was sexy, in an abstract way. A
mental eroticism, maybe because physically I wasn’t capable of much. But later.
When it was over, and he was gone, and I’d slept and catalogued all my hurts,
it became something else. Bigger. Huge. The memory of what we’d done was
intensely erotic. I’d never been so turned on.”

He stared at me, his features falling into stillness.

“And it was that way for a long time,” I said. “Even after I
broke up with him. I thought about it countless times. I analyzed it every
which way, and when I thought I had it figured out, it turned out I didn’t.
That time with him, it didn’t lose its power to arouse me until Michael’s
betrayal destroyed the memory.”

I tried to pour all my sincerity into my next words. “Since
I’ve been with you, Gibson, I’ve wanted to give you what I gave him. I know
that as good as it was with Michael, it would be infinitely better with you.
I’m not suggesting that you do what he did. That’s not the thing. It isn’t the
act itself. It was that I gave him what he wanted, without consideration of
myself. And he took. And in doing that, it turned out I got everything in
return. Am I making sense?”

He only nodded. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking now.

“It’s not what you thought. I’m not trying to martyr myself
for you. I don’t want you to be Michael. Don’t you see? I’ll get as much from
it as you will, later for certain, if not in the moment itself. You think I’m
not ready for whatever it is you’re holding back from me, but you’re wrong. I
crave it for my own selfish reasons. What I did with Michael wasn’t wrong.
Nothing so sublime could be wrong. My only mistake was in giving myself to the
wrong man.”

I reached out to touch his clenched fist. “It should have
been you. You’re the right man. The only one. And it’s not about the sex, or
whatever you choose to do with me. It’s about trust. You simply have to believe
in me, believe in us. Trust me, Gibson. Trust that I know myself.”

I wanted to shake him, to make him tell me he was hearing
me, that he was getting it. Nothing. He gave me nothing, verbally or visually.

So I waited. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him everything,
potentially making it worse rather than better. But I was desperate. It was all
I had left.

I waited.

Finally, he pulled his hand out from under mine. I saw his
face change. Saw his expression morph from nothing to ... please, no, I
thought, not that ... to sorrow.

When he spoke, his voice was gentle, but resolute. “You’re
asking something of me I can’t do.”

“Nothing I said changed your mind in any way.”

“No. It’s more evidence that I was right all along.”

“But Gibson —”

“I can’t do it.”

“Even though it’s something I must have?”

“Even though.”

“Can’t you at least try? We’ll go now, to the dungeon. If
you tried, even if it failed, I could hope that someday we could get there.
Give in to it. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

I could hardly speak from the crushing weight bearing down
on my chest. “I thought you wanted me.”

“I do.”

“Not enough to try.”

“I can’t risk it. It would be wrong. So it would only end
the same as it has before.”

“My God, Gibson. Do you understand what you’re saying?”

So sad, he was, grief bending down the sides of his mouth,
the corners of his eyes, pushing a slump into his shoulders, making him seem
older. “I do. Stay anyway.”

“I can’t pretend anymore.”

“Stay.”

“I told you. I owe myself more than that.”

We looked at one another. My hand clutched at my robe, over
my pounding heart. Tears built inside and I struggled to hold them off. He
didn’t want this. He couldn’t want it to end this way.

I thought, but I love you.

Then I said, “So this is it.”

“I don’t want it to be,” he said.

“Then change.”

“I can’t.”

No compromise. Not even a half-hearted offer of one. There
would be no bending from him. And I couldn’t do it. I’d nearly broken myself
with trying.

No options remained. I was decimated by the recognition that
I’d hardly acknowledged I loved him, before I lost him.

I sat up straight, stiffened my spine. I deeply felt my next
words.

“I’m grateful” I said, “that I’ve had you in my life as long
as I have, Gibson. The way you fought for me and helped me when nearly everyone
else abandoned me ... I’ll never forget it. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a
good man. I’ll always believe in that, and you.”

I stood up. “I’ll stay the night in my studio. Pack up
tomorrow if that’s okay.”

“You don’t have to move out,” he said, his voice rushed.
“Stay in one of the other bedrooms if you want. Think about it. Don’t let an
impulse decide for you.”

“This isn’t an impulse. It’s been over for weeks. It’s time
to let it go.” I couldn’t take anymore. I sped over to the dresser, pulled out
some clothes and headed for the door.

I heard him get off the bed, walk toward me. I turned.

He stopped a few feet in front of me. “Don’t.”

A strange feeling came over me then, a rush of rightness
mixed with regret for myself, and powerful sorrow for the proud man who
couldn’t bend for me.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said.

Ah, there it was. No help for it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but this time, it’s not about what you
want. It’s about what I want. And I guess I’m the only one who’ll ever give it
to me.”

With that, it was well and truly the end.