True North (Compass series Book 4) (14 page)

“You don’t have to,” she rushes to assure me. “I just thought…”

“It isn’t something I’m used to talking about. It’s not you.” I can’t decide if Pressly is either the first or the last person I’d want to tell about my particular affinities. First, because I trust her and I’ll grab any scrap of intimacy I can from our interactions. I want to go back to being the man she trusted with her heart and body. Last, because if she thinks I’m a sick fuck for wanting what I want, I don’t think I could live with that.

These kinksters—they talk a good game about
Your kink’s not my kink but your kink’s okay
, but there’s a definite hierarchy of things, from ones that are totally okay to those that are less so. An unmistakable air of everyone’s kink is okay—
Except yours. You’re a sick freak.

What if Press doesn’t think me wanting to humiliate people is okay? What if she realizes that, for the entire time we were together, I was itching to call her names, make her cry, tell her she was a filthy little cockwhore who needed a good fucking? What if she figures that out, and instead of this cautious truce we’ve developed, we go back to being strangers? I don’t think I could show my face in the scene again, certainly not here.

Though I hadn’t thought there was a real possibility of getting her back before I ran into her here a few months ago, it’s all of a sudden become more than a fantasy, one that I’d like to indulge in for a little longer. If I tell her and she makes that face, then I’ll have to give it up, bury it for good. Maybe pack that disgusting part of myself away in a box for the rest of my life. Always wanting but never having because that’s too fucking far.

India said there are people who are into that shit, but the chances of Press being one of them are slim. Can’t rock the boat, can’t break the fragile bond.

“How about you? What are you into besides flying and laughing like a hyena while getting flogged?”

She makes a face and I half-expect her to stick her tongue out, but she doesn’t. She does, however, reach out and smack my arm, muttering as she settles back, “I do not sound like a hyena.”

“No, you don’t,” I agree and leave off the next thought in my head:
Or if you do, it’s the most adorable, sexiest hyena on the planet
. Because that’s just wrong.

“As for what I’m into…yes, flying and flogging. Not into much more pain than that. I’ve tried canes and whips, but they didn’t do much for me. I do like a good spanking, though, and if I’m in the mood, I don’t mind a paddle.”

Hearing her talk about this stuff—mostly matter of fact, although she’s staring at her fingers curled around her water bottle and not at me—is ridiculously hot.

“I have a love/hate relationship with orgasm denial, like a lot of subs do. Restraints are fine, but they don’t get me all fired up. I do like clamps.”

Her face flushes as she says it. From embarrassment or arousal I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn. I do shift because I’m starting to get hard. This is one of the top ten sexiest conversations I’ve ever had, no matter how awkward it is.

“And I…” She looks at me, thick lashes fluttering as her chest rises and falls more noticeably. Reaching under the paper band circling the bottle, she drags her finger through it and peels the label off. “You can’t be a dick about this, okay? I’m telling you this in confidence, and if it comes back to bite me in the butt, I’ll destroy you.”

The beating of my heart has practically ground to a halt, because what the hell is she going to say? There are as many kinks as people on the planet, and even though she’s confessed some of her desires, she’s scared about this one. I don’t want her to be afraid so I make a joke.

“So biting’s off the table then?”

She blinks, surprised, but then there’s the best sound in the world. I’ve always loved making Press laugh; it’s like pinning a merit badge on my mostly empty How-to-Be-a-Person vest. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and she tilts her head. “I don’t mind some teeth marks. Just don’t break the skin.”

Please let there not be a fire alarm because I’d have to go stand out on the street with a hard-on. But then again, so would half the club probably. And who am I kidding? We’d all duck into our cars parked a block or two away and drive home because that’s just what we all need, getting caught outside a kink club by any kind of media outlet. The thought deflates my dick some.

“Got it.”

“Well, I’ve got a thing for…humiliation.”

She looks at me expectantly, lips parted, big blue eyes begging for acceptance or at least tolerance. I’d like to comfort her, tell her we’re passengers on the same train, but somehow all the wires in my brain seem to have been snipped. I can’t get the words out. I’m gawking at her like an imbecile.
No fucking way
.

“Hale?”

“Sorry. From which side?”

“Oh, I…” Her mouth twists to the side and her flush deepens. But she’s got to realize, if I’m asking, it’s not because I want to shame her for it. She takes a breath and blows it out. “…I like to be humiliated.”

“For real?” God, I sound like an idiot.

“Yeah, for real. Why would I say that if it weren’t true? It’s not like it’s some super-sexy thing that brings all the Doms to the yard. A lot of people find it disturbing, so—”

She’s babbling and it’s adorable. She only babbles when she’s nervous. I don’t want her to be nervous. I want to share this palpable relief and—god help me—
excitement
that’s coursing through my body. Not that her being into that means she’d be down for doing it with me, but this is the best news I’ve had in weeks, maybe months, and possibly years.

I’m so thrilled I momentarily forget where we are and what the rules are. I reach out and wrap my hands around hers that still clutch the bottle. Steadying her. “I don’t, Press. Find it disturbing. It’s actually really hot. Because, me too. The other side.”

Her mouth drops open, and her eyes go so big I can practically see the whites all the way around her irises. She looks otherworldly with her thick eyeliner and bright iridescent shadow, the tiny butterfly wings attached to the outsides of her lids, but underneath all the showy cosmetics, she’s still very much my Pressly.

“For real?”

Her breathy echo of my earlier question makes my mouth spread wide in a delirious smile. “Yeah, for real.”

The skin between her brows pushes together, forming a deep furrow, and she looks away from me. “You never told me.”

My spine goes stiff with defensiveness. “Why would I tell you that? It’s not something I’m proud of. You said it yourself—a lot of people are disgusted by it. You never told me either.”

She flinches at my tone and pulls her hands back. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t allowed to have wants. I came to your bed a virgin, remember? Political prizes don’t get a vote. I had a role to play. One you were only too glad to have me fulfill.”

Is that what she thinks? That I’d only ever wanted her for her influence? If anything, I wished I’d fallen for someone outside the political machine, someone with no interest in it. And especially not Beau Allwyn’s daughter because god knows Beau thought Press was wasted on me.

Not that I hadn’t taken advantage of her position—hell, she’d seemed to want me to, need me to even. She’d liked her job as an event planner fine, but that never seemed to be her vocation. No, that was all tied up in political power plays and backroom dealings and all the other Washington insider stuff she’s so good at. The role she’d been bred for.

That’s when the light bulb goes off, and my tone gets even harsher because I’m being blamed for things that weren’t my fault.

“That’s about you and your parents. Not about me. I would’ve loved you no matter what.”

“Loved me? You used me and then threw me away once you got what you wanted. Although, frankly, I would’ve stuck around a little longer if I were you. You’d probably be secretary of the whole show by now if you had.”

My brain explodes like a block of C4. How can she even—

“That is incredibly unfair, and what’s worse is you know it. I’ve got a lot of flaws, but using you for political gain has never been one of them. And maybe if you could get your parents’ voices out of your head, you’d realize it. Fuck this. I don’t need you blaming me for your own insecurities.”

I push off the chaise and head toward the door. I came here to apologize, have five minutes of bliss, and then it all goes to shit. Shards of our failed marriage fly like shrapnel, and I’ve gotta duck and cover. It hurts too much.

Her words pour salt on the wounds: “Sure, Slade, go ahead and leave. That’s what you do best.”

I grind my teeth together as I wrench the door open and slam it closed once I’m on the other side.

‡

A
fter our last
talk hadn’t ended so well, I was worried Press wouldn’t want to talk to me again. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to her. It should’ve gone better than that; we should’ve been able to find some kind of common ground. Instead we’d sniped at each other over old hurts, bared our scars, and left each other to lick our old wounds.

I’d been smarting since then with the things she’d said. And also because it felt like maybe that was nice, but I needed to move on. Give it a try with someone else. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I’ve never put my eggs all in one basket in any other facet of my life—why should I for kink?

It hasn’t been hard to avoid the Black House on the nights she’s usually there. I’ve done it successfully for a couple of months, but the last few weeks have been so insane I needed it. And tonight is the only night this week I could make it work, so a Wednesday it is. Hopefully we can stay out of each other’s way. Rey’s coming too, which I’ve been looking forward to more than I’d like to admit, and he said he’s got a special treat for me.

I’d perked up at that promise, made toward the end of our last phone call. Which was ridiculous. A special treat? What am I, a dog or a child to get excited about something like that? I’m a grown man, well-off and powerful. If I want something, I don’t have to wait for Rey Walter to give it to me. Except I sort of do. At least in this world. Because this is his world.

He swims down here where it’s dark and murky, where nothing is as it seems, where everyone digs up and spills their deepest, darkest desires. But the cool thing is—and it really is pretty cool—there’s someone who wants to fulfill those desires. Not here, necessarily, because while we’ve got a solid membership, the club’s not enormous. But somewhere, some way, there’s someone who’s all,
Yeah, that sounds awesome. Please do stick a metal rod up my dick.
And what am I even talking about? I not only know of two dudes who enjoy sounding, but have, in fact, witnessed them enjoying it. May have made my balls crawl inside my body, but they sure as hell looked like they were having fun. In that tortured, abject, writhing way I’ve come to recognize as pleasure in masochists.

So the moral of the story is maybe there’s someone else out there for me. Someone I don’t have a history with, someone I didn’t leave holding a ton of emotional baggage because I was a fucking wreck who didn’t even know what to do with my own self, never mind someone else. Maybe I could start over.

But I don’t know if I want to.

Whatever. I should push Press out of my head and get a move on because I can’t imagine Rey Walter’s a fan of tardiness. So I grab my keys off the sideboard, slip into my overcoat, and head down the steps to the parking spot I scored, sure to be gone when I get home. Whatever this special treat might be, it better be worth it.

*

Rey greets me
at the door with a big-ass smile on his face. It scares the living crap out of me because that man is devious. And evil. In a benevolent but still manipulative-as-fuck sort of way. I get the feeling we’re all pieces on a chessboard to him, but I haven’t quite figured out what would qualify as a checkmate. Not sure I ever will, and to be honest, not sure I want to. I might feel obligated to report it to the appropriate authorities, and not long after, I’m sure people would start saying, “
Hey, didn’t there used to be this guy named Slade Lewis?
” Rey would shrug those broad and effortless shoulders of his and say, “
Slade who?
” and then everyone would agree I’d never existed. He could do it.