The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) (26 page)

At any rate, Paulina would surely know if he were seeing
someone. That she approached me had to mean he wasn’t.

I mentally ran a recap. Gibson and I were both still single.
It was possible that I’d been impatient for results and rushed a resolution,
which meant there was a chance that more patience could yield a different
result. And I was armed with new knowledge that might prove to make the biggest
difference of all.

It all added up to a chance. A miniscule chance, perhaps,
but a chance.

I needed to make a decision.

I’d made a decent life for myself, but I’d only been playing
at it. It was time to decide, to stop waiting around and get on with it, or try
to reconcile with Gibson.

I turned and glared at the window. Who was I?

I wasn’t fucking Rapunzel, that was for sure. Not anymore. I
knew from hard-won experience that if I went around waiting for my life to
change, or waiting for someone else to do it for me, I’d be waiting forever.

I’d get myself out of the damned tower. One way or another.

I could live without Gibson. I’d survive, especially once I
quit clinging to false hope. But there was no denying that a life with Gibson
was so superior to one without him, that I’d have to be a fool not to venture
one last effort to get him back.

More thoughts along the same lines pumped me up and soon had
me feeling I could do this. My blood was high and my vision was clear.

Dammit.

I wanted Gibson Reeves.

I could keep looking down that street every day and
torturing myself with the impossible, or I could get up and seize what I
wanted.

If life had a soundtrack, mine would have been playing the
theme from “Rocky,”, or any other uplifting score which accompanied montages of
athletes training to do the impossible.

That was me. I was going to do the impossible.

And I was going to do it now.

I jumped up, found my cell and scrolled to the number I
wanted. The call was answered right away.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said. “Roundtree Holdings. How
may I help you?”

“Gibson Reeves’ office, please,” I said, breathy from
adrenaline.

“One moment.”

A few seconds later, a familiar voice came on the line. “Mr.
Reeves’ office. May I help you?”

“Hi Mary,” I said. “It’s Nonnie Crawford.”

“Oh, Nonnie. It’s so nice to hear your voice. How are you,
dear?”

“I’m okay, thanks. And you?”

“You know me. I just keep plugging along.”

I smiled. Sweet woman. “Is Gibson there or is he out of
town?”

“He’s in, but he’s not in the office right now.”

“Do you expect him back this afternoon?”

“He didn’t say, but you know how he is. I’m sure he’ll be
back at some point. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No, thanks though.”

“I’ll tell him you called.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Hmm. Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“I appreciate it.”

We said our goodbyes and I ended the call.

My head swirled with a hundred thoughts at once. I would do
this, I would go to Roundtree and wait for him, spy on the entrance until he
arrived. When he did, I’d let him go to his office, then I’d follow him, force
my way inside if necessary (not that force would likely be necessary, as if
Mary and Kurt would resort to fisticuffs to hold me off, but it was
satisfyingly dramatic to consider the possibility), and then I’d march up to
Gibson and demand that he listen.

I’d tell him we needed to try again, and that we needed to
meet in the middle. We’d been apart long enough. I missed him. He’d have to
listen. I wouldn’t allow no’s. I’d pull out all the stops. Seduce him if I had
to, not that seduction would be a sacrifice on my part.

God, I wanted him so badly. I ached for him, for the
pleasure of his company as much as the thrill of his touch. For everything
about him.

A mental warning buzzed in the background, dampening some of
my excitement. What if it doesn’t work? What if you put yourself out there and
he doesn’t agree to try? Or he does try, but nothing changes. You’ll break your
heart all over again, just when you were finally getting over him.

It didn’t hold me down for more than a few seconds. I
dismissed the warning, reminded the voice that I clearly wasn’t getting over
him. And possible embarrassing dismissal was no deterrent; risking my pride was
nothing.

I headed to the bathroom for some cosmetic and hair repairs.
I worried over what I should wear, but the montage soundtrack was so loud and
insistent in my head that I couldn’t take much time with my appearance. I was
raring to go. I threw on a fresh pair of slacks and a pretty blouse and called
it good.

I grabbed my coat and my purse and stood in front of the
door. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

It was time to storm the citadel and rescue my man.

I opened the door, marched out, locked it quickly behind me
then tromped down the stairwell like the woman on a mission I was. I was beyond
determined. I debated subway routes. I was bursting with energy and confidence.

I turned the corner at the mid-level landing, and much to my
surprise, came to a jarring halt.

With a loud oomph, I ran straight into someone on the
remaining half-flight of stairs, a complete and shocking end to my charge.

I looked into the eyes of the someone I’d run into ... a man
...

Gibson Reeves.

Bouncing off his hard body sent me stumbling backward. The
impact didn’t budge him at all, which was a good thing since his position on
the top step was more precarious than mine on the landing. He reached out and
grabbed my arm, steadying me so I wouldn’t fall.

His touch ignited my senses.

Holy hell. It was like when I saw him for the first time, a
fiery spark of energy ping-ponging through me. Now here it was, happening
again.

This uncanny reaction, the physical recognition, left me
with a single thought blazing in my mind.

He’s the one.

Our gazes held and, at the same time, we blurted out,
“Sorry.”

He looked wonderful, and he smelled like I remembered, with
the addition of the scent of the wind and the outdoors. His hair was slightly
mussed. He wore a knee-length overcoat, like the man I’d mistakenly thought was
him earlier.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I didn’t —”

“I’m fine. Are you —”

“Fine. Fine.”

We stared at each other. He took me in, head to toe, and I
did the same to him. I looked where I wanted to touch.

“Um, were you coming to see me?” I asked.

“Yes. But it looks like you’re going out.’

“No, that’s okay.”

“I don’t want to inter —”

“No, you’re not. I was ... it wasn’t important.”

He nodded and I nodded back.

“So come on up,” I said, gesturing with my arm and inwardly
cringing at my lameness.

We climbed the stairs and I fumbled with the keys in the
lock. He followed me inside.

I hung up my coat and ditched my purse then dared to glance
over at him. He stood not far into the room, looking around with a solemn
expression.

“It’s not much, I know,” I said. “But it’s —”

“I like it. It’s all you.”

A flush of pleasure passed over me. I asked him to hand me
his coat and after he did, he strolled around the room inspecting my drawings
and paintings. I inspected him.

He wore one of his immaculately-fitted suits, but his
necktie hung loose and the top of his shirt was unbuttoned, as was his jacket.
His hair was longer than he usually wore it. In all, he presented a less
put-together version of his usual self.

He stopped in front of a still life painting. “When did you
start doing water colors?”

“This semester.”

“You’re a quick learner. It’s good.”

“Thanks.”

“I hope this doesn’t offend you, but what is it?”

I grinned. “I have no idea. I found it in the store where I
work. I can tell you the owner wants $22.50 for it.”

“$22.50? I thought it might be a mushroom, but that seems
pricey for a single mushroom, unless it’s a truffle, which it’s not.”

“I thought it might be a mushroom, too. Then I smelled it,
through the packaging. Fishy. Whatever it is, it came from water.”

He studied it a bit longer, then moved on. This time, he
stopped in front of a series of six chalk drawings. He looked at the pictures
then out the big windows, then back to the pictures.

“It’s the view from your window seat, isn’t it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Interesting. I like what you did with the shadowy figure on
the sidewalk, how his size changes out of proportion to his distance. It’s hard
to know if he’s near or far.”

I mumbled a thanks and wondered how he’d feel if he knew
that shadowy figure was him, that I’d drawn the series in a futile attempt to
exorcise my daily vigil in the window seat.

After he finished his tour of the room, I offered him a seat
on my lumpy sofa. I asked if he’d like some coffee or tea, but he declined. I
sat at the other end of the short sofa, unnervingly near him.

We exchanged small talk, the how-have-you-been’s and the
fine-how-are-you’s. He mentioned he hadn’t seen Ron and Elaine in a while, I
told him I saw them the weekend before. We both said we’d been keeping busy,
that we enjoyed work, and so on and so forth. We sure wished spring would come.

And then we ran out of inanities. We sat there, me picking
at the little nubbly bunches on the afghan which covered my side of the sofa,
and him crossing his legs and staring at the far wall.

I finally took the initiative, unable to stand the suspense
any longer. “I haven’t seen you since I left your house that day. Why are you
here, Gibson?”

“I’d almost forgotten how forthright you are,” he said.

“You could call it that. Or impatience. I’d dearly like to
know why you’re here.”

He readjusted his seat on the sofa, turned more toward me.
“Paulina came to see me last night, at home.”

“She was in the visiting mood. She came to see me, too.”

“I know. She told me. I hope she didn’t upset you. You
couldn’t have appreciated her prying into your business.”

“You’re right. I didn’t appreciate it, but she didn’t upset
me.”

“I’m glad.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Plenty. The gist of it was that you were never going to
come back to me and that I needed to read a book she bought me, ‘How to Move on
When Your Ex Has Moved on Without You.’”

“Ouch. At least I didn’t get a book. But then, she likes you
more than me.”

He smiled a little. “What did you get?”

“Two cups of coffee and lectures on numerous topics.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Don’t be. One cup was decaf.”

“But you didn’t drink it.”

“Of course not.”

“I meant the lectures, by the way. I’m jealous of those. You
got a variety. She was a broken record with me. Told me in every possible way
that you were gone forever.”

His dark gaze held mine. I saw vulnerability there, and
something else. I wanted to believe that something was hope.

“She surprised me,” he said. “You’ve been gone for four
months and I guess I’d never admitted it was truly over. Paulina woke me up.
You weren’t coming back.”

I thought of how if he had he waited a little longer, I
would have proven Paulina wrong.

“This might sound ridiculous, Nonnie, but every night when I
went to sleep and you still hadn’t come back, I told myself that the next day
would be the day. You’d come back then. Always tomorrow. I never stopped
thinking it. Even when I was traveling, I’d tell myself that you’d call.”

“What did I say when I came back, or when I called?” I
asked.

“You told me you’d changed your mind, that we’d work it out.
That our problems weren’t as important as being together.”

Hearing him, seeing the pain in his eyes, in the lines
around his mouth, I wished I had called, had shown up, told him what he dreamed
of hearing.

“Then Paulina made me see the truth. It was over,” he said.

Something twisted inside me. “So you came here to tell me that
you realize it’s over?”

“No. Knowing you weren’t coming back forced me to face the
reality of never seeing you again. And I can’t do it.”

He rubbed his palms over his thighs. “I can’t, not without
trying to explain and make it work. God! I’ve got to know. Are you seeing
anyone? Am I wasting my time? Is there any chance for us ... to try.”

The giant lump in my throat prevented me from answering at
length. I managed to shake my head and say, “No one else.”

Relief shone from his features. “I’m not too late then.”

I stretched my hand toward him then, and he accepted it into
his own, gently brushed his thumb across mine.

“Never,” I said.

Chapter 22

We sat in silence for a while, our hands touching, the blood
thrumming in my veins. I knew that I shouldn’t be too excited, that there was
still the same old issue between us.

The only revelation thus far was that he was as willing to
try as I was. I needed to keep perspective, not jump on his lap and kiss him
breathless. Wits. I needed them now more than ever. If I didn’t keep my wits
about me, I’d be repeating the same old mistakes in no time.

I needed distance, so I pulled my hand back with a gentle
smile then went into the kitchen to make coffee, whether he wanted some or not.
I got the pot brewing then returned to the sofa, feeling more even-keeled than
when I’d left it.

“We have a lot to work through,” I said.

“I know.”

“I haven’t changed my mind about anything, Gibson. I can’t
be with you if you don’t trust me. And I want all of you, not just the parts
you think I can handle. I’m willing to give you more time, and to try to prove
myself. You did have cause to doubt me, I see that now.”

“No —”

“You did. I was flippant about D/s and the rest of it. I
wanted all the excitement and none of the dull parts, like knowing what the
hell I was doing. I laid what I thought was boring on you and made you
responsible for it. I’m sorry I did that.”

“I was supposed to be your teacher. You weren’t necessarily
wrong in that.”

“No, I was. Let me accept my share of the blame.”

He gave me a small smile, though it seemed sad to me. “I
should have done my job and educated you properly. But your enthusiasm was ...
distracting at times.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. All mine, Nonnie.”

“Both of us then, if you want. Also, I want you to know that
I realize I should have been more patient, given us more time to build the
trust you needed.”

He nodded in a slow way. He appeared thoughtful, and perhaps
a little uncomfortable, but I didn’t know why that should be.

I hopped up off the sofa. “I’ve got something to show you. I
think you’ll like it.”

I went over to a small file cabinet I kept near the door. I
opened the top drawer, pulled out a file folder then returned to the sofa.

I laid the folder on the cushion between us. “Open it.”

He took up the folder and opened it, scanned the top page
then began leafing through the rest, slowly, one page at a time.

I bubbled up with excitement, wanting a reaction. “It’s D/s
checklists and contracts. I got them on the Internet. They’re supposed to be
good ones.”

He nodded, his gaze moving over the page.

“I’ve filled them all out,” I continued. “And I promise you
I understood everything I ranked. I’ve done loads of research. I know about all
sorts of things, even the ones that are scary, or gross me out.”

Gibson turned pages, not saying anything. I couldn’t read
his expression.

I reached out and tapped the thick pile. “There’s so many,
see, because I filled out the checklists twice, and some of the other stuff,
too. I thought it would be a good idea to do one version that’s all about me,
what I find sexy or pleasurable, or what I’d like to try.”

“Then after I finished that,” I said in a rush, “I went
through it all again with the premise that you liked everything on the list. I
rated activities based on how willing I am to do things because you want it,
even when I don’t like it. I thought that way, you could know ahead of time
whether your wishes would change my feelings about it.”

He stared at the pages. He swallowed hard, once, his jaw
muscles clenching and his Adam's apple visibly bobbing up and down. He blinked.

I babbled on. “If that’s not useful for you, it’s okay.”

Gibson looked up from the file folder finally. “Thank you.
Not just for doing it, but for doing it with me in mind even though we weren’t
together.”

“Oh.” I realized it was kind of telling that I did the list
that way, considering. “You’re welcome,” I said, hating how stupid it sounded
under the circumstances. “I just wanted to do the right thing and I guess I was
always thinking of you when I was learning about the life. I wanted you to be
proud of me and I —”

“I’m proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you.”

“I guess, oh, you know what I mean.”

He closed the folder and set it on the cushion. “It’s
perfect,” he said. His hand lay on the file, his fingers spread, almost as if
he were caressing it.

I couldn’t seem to stop babbling. “I’m glad it’s all right.
It’s not normally how it’s done, I know, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. And
you had concerns about being selfish, so this would reassure you that you
weren’t —”

“I’ve been a selfish man my whole life, Nonnie.” His voice
was low, a confession he’d been waiting to share.

“That’s not true,” I said. “You take care of everyone, put
everyone before yourself.”

“No. I was raised to accept responsibility, taught to do my
duty and to always consider the impact of my actions on others. Worthy goals.
But I was given free rein in how I went about it. Few would gainsay me.”

“Few would need to. You always put yourself second.”

“I wish that were true, but it’s not. I’m used to getting my
way, to making the decisions and having everyone obey them without argument.
I’ve become arrogant, convinced I know what’s best. If that’s not selfishness,
what is?”

I didn’t have an answer.

“You, wouldn’t back down, though,” he said. “I expected you
to fall in line, the way everyone else had. But you didn’t. You actually left
me. And even then, I wasn’t humbled. I convinced myself you’d eventually see
things my way and come back. If that’s not conceit and arrogance, what is?”

“And it’s not the only time you put me in my place and shook
my conceit,” he said. “You’ve done it over and over, even when you didn’t
realize it. All the way back to the first time we met.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. Some things have become clear to me of late and
I’ve discovered I don’t know myself as well as I thought I did.”

I wanted to reach out and reassure him, but I held myself
back.

“I pride myself on my self-control,” he said. “In business
deals, with employees, family dealings, even in the bedroom, I always have
myself under control. You can’t control a situation if you can’t control
yourself. My father used to tell me that.”

“Your self-control is impressive, Gibson. I admire it and
wish I had some of it.”

“I rarely lost control, and the older I got, the better I
was at it, to the point that I never lost it in even the smallest way.” He
paused. Looked down at the folder, then back up at me. “Then I met you. You
changed everything, did it without even trying, it seemed. I didn’t know what
to make of it.”

“The first time I saw you, in that bar,” he said, “I was
attracted right away, obviously, but I didn’t follow you to the bathroom with
the intention of seducing you. I just wanted to walk past you when you left, I
had a longing to smell your perfume. Maybe I would say hello. And then you came
out of the bathroom and everything shifted. The next thing I knew I was
dragging you down the hall, and we know what followed.”

I smiled. “I do.”

“It’s a fond memory now, but back then, it was as disturbing
to me as it was exciting. Everything spiraled out of control. I barely managed
to keep from having sex with you, but it was a hard struggle. When it was over,
I wanted to tell you my name, then I realized what I’d done, how far I’d gone
with someone I didn’t know, and I lost it.”

“I wound up putting my tie in your purse and leaving,” he
said. “I regretted it afterward, but mostly I was shocked at how I’d lost
control. I never, not even when I was younger, had encounters like that. I
never picked up unknown women, never played the seducer. I always chose my
partners carefully, didn’t rush the process of getting them into my bed. That
night with you was unprecedented.”

“It was for me, too. And it never seemed to me like you were
out of control,” I said.

“You’ll have to take my word for it. And that was only our
first meeting. The next time we were together, at the Frederick Hotel, my loss
of control proved disastrous, and cost you so much I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You’re taking too much on yourself.”

“I’m not. Nothing went the way it was supposed to that
night. From the call about Rose to the way I treated you. From the moment I
entered that suite, none of it went the way I planned.”

He tone became tense. “When I walked in and saw you sitting
there in your robe, you don’t know. I wanted to take you right away, rip that
thing off you and have you there. But I fought it back and stayed as distant as
I could, not touching you.”

“I had already decided,” he said, “to keep the meeting
impersonal, the way I always did when interviewing a new sub. But it was hard
with you. I didn’t plan on having you bring yourself to orgasm in front of the
mirror, but I wanted to see it and I gave in to the urge. It was a struggle to
get up and walk away afterward, and then you called me back, accused me,
demanded to know why I wasn’t having sex with you, why I hadn’t touched you.”

I remembered it well, always recalling it with great
embarrassment.

Gibson shook his head. “I should have walked away, gotten
myself in hand. But there you were, so beautiful, and I wanted you more than
anything. Whatever sliver of restraint I had left, shattered. I came after you
like an animal.”

“Not an animal.”

“I was. I fell on you like one. I’m just glad I didn’t do
anything worse, not that what I did wasn’t bad enough. I did what I wanted, and
I didn’t come back to myself until after you came, when I was still inside you.
When I realized what I’d done, I got away from you as fast as I could.”

“I went into the bathroom to get myself together,” he said.
“I was appalled. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I never had sex with subs
during the interview, and I especially shouldn’t have been so brutal with you.
I was ashamed of myself. I calmed down enough to get myself out of the room. I
said something to you, I don’t exactly recall what. I had to get away.”

“I thought you’d punished me for being demanding,” I said.

“No. And I should have confessed what happened, and been
honest. But I didn’t do the right thing. I ran away and you wound up with
Michael Weston because of it. Not just because I lost control, but because my
pride and selfishness wouldn’t allow me to confess what happened.”

I thought about it for a minute. Remembered that night. How
he acted. What I knew about him now. “I think you’re being too hard on
yourself. It’s just as likely that you were freaked out by it and that’s why
you didn’t confess. You weren’t yourself.”

“I appreciate you making excuses for me,” he said. I could
see by his look that he couldn’t accept my alternative explanation.

He shifted on the sofa. “I was always losing it to some
degree or another with you. Things almost never went the way I planned. When I
was with you, I felt constantly on the verge of abandon.”

“But you never really did lose it, Gibson. You never did me
any harm. You were always in control, even if it wasn’t as complete as you’re
used to.”

“After the disaster at the Frederick Hotel, I was on guard,
and I got better at restraining myself, somewhat. When I first proposed that we
move in together, well that wasn’t my finest moment. Then, after the discovery
of the videos, when I realized the extent of the damage I’d done to you, I
clamped down on myself even harder. It wasn’t total, or perfect, but it was
good enough, I hoped, to protect you from me.”

I started slightly, gave him a hard look. “What do you mean?
Protect me from you?”

“I didn’t push you to resume a D/s relationship with me
because I thought with more time and familiarity, I’d get better at controlling
my physical reaction to you. I needed confidence in myself before we returned
to the temptations of the power exchange.”

“And when we did start up again ...”

“I did all right. Held myself in check.”

“And did weird middle-of-the-night workouts to compensate?”

“Yes. Then you started pushing me to go further. Asked too
many uncomfortable questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to tell you the
truth because I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“I don’t see how it would have frightened me.”

“To learn that your dominant feared losing control with
you?”

“Okay, well, maybe a little, but I’ve always trusted you.”

“I couldn’t risk losing the faith you had in me. And so I
put the focus on your resistance to using safe words. It was a genuine concern
anyway, something you needed to work on. And then there were issues with how
easily you passed into subspace. I knew I was holding back more than I needed
with you, but I thought it was necessary for both of us. I thought I was protecting
us.”

“Protecting us from you.”

“Yes.”

“So then,” I said quietly, “it wasn’t so much that you
didn’t trust me. It was that —”

“I didn’t trust myself.”

I sat there, absorbing those last words. He didn’t trust
himself. Because of the times he’d lost control with me in lesser ways, he
didn’t trust himself not to lose it in bigger ways. I’d shaken the walls of
safety he’d built around himself, walls supported by his vaunted control. He
lost faith. Not in me. In himself.

He was studying the far wall, purposefully avoiding eye
contact, or perhaps lost in thought, recovering from his confession. I stood up
and went to the kitchen, took my time puttering around, finding mugs and
pouring coffee. Giving him a chance to settle, and giving myself a chance to put
my thoughts in order.

This confession changed everything. I thought I knew what
came between us, and all my plans to fix what was broken revolved around what I
thought was true — that he didn’t trust me, that I needed to prove myself, that
he needed to bend enough to take a risk and give me a chance to do the proving.