He joined me seconds later and passed me a glass of red wine. I noticed he didn’t have one. Not too much of a shock, considering what he’ d told me days earlier.
“You probably thought I was being melodramatic the night of Jackson and Felicia’s party,” he said, as we sat on his leather couch on Tuesday night after dinner. “When I told you that your leaving almost killed me.”
“I did,” I admitted. “I never thought of you as being one for dramatics.”
“I was bad after you left,” he said. “It started as soon as I returned from following you home.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. Talking about that time in our lives wasn’t something I enjoyed. Certainly, he felt the same.
He frowned. “I’m not sure how much I drank that day, but when Jackson found me, I was trying to burn down the library.”
“You what?” I asked.
His eyes closed. “I don’t remember it very well. Don’t remember parts of it at all. I just . . .” He trailed off momentarily. “I just needed to tell you. It felt important, somehow.”
“You could have died,” I said, shocked at the nonchalant way he talked about burning his house down.
“Probably not,” he said. “I was too drunk to do much of anything. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not like I had a death wish. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted . . .”
“To burn your house down?” I volunteered.
“No.” He shook his head. “Just the library.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I argued. “You can’t burn just the library. The entire house would go up.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sure it made sense to me at the time. All I really remember is pain, emptiness, and despair.”
I took his hand and stroked it. “No wonder.”
He kissed my knuckles. “No wonder what?”
“No wonder Jackson felt the way he did.”
His lips stopped their kissing. “Did he say something to you? I swear, if he did, I’ll kick his ass.”
I hushed him with a finger. “No. He never said anything. Now, Felicia . . .” I laughed, remembering her outburst the day she came home with a ring. “Felicia ripped into me something awful. It makes sense now. She’d heard Jackson talk about how my leaving affected you.”
“He came by my house every day for a long time,” he mused. “I worried the entire family sick. I told him, eventually, that your leaving was my fault. That it wasn’t you.”
My hand rested on his knee, and I squeezed him gently. “Must be why he hugged me the night of the party. I noticed a change in him that night.”
“I’m sorry if he ever treated you like our breakup was your fault.” He sighed, a sad, regretful sound. “So much I should have told you.”
“Which is why from now on, we’re going to talk,” I said. “A lot. And about everything.”
Talk a lot about everything. Probably what he had in mind for the library.
He held out a plate. “I know you had an early dinner. Are you hungry?”
My stomach let out a growl in reply, and he smiled. Why hadn’t I realized I was hungry before?
Cheese and crackers, almonds, grapes, and dried cherries covered the plate. He set it down between us, and I took a block of cheddar cheese. When that was gone, I grabbed a handful of almonds and ate those as well. He munched on a few grapes and a cube of Gruyère cheese.
The snack was nice and welcome, but surely he had another reason for asking me to the library. We could have gone on to bed. He could have told me to grab a snack in the kitchen. Why would he want to meet in the library?
You could ask him, I told myself. Even though I knew this was my library, it still felt odd to just address him like I would during the week.
I was beginning to see what he meant about talking.
We hadn’t done a lot of it the last time I was collared.
But what should I say? Thank you for the amazing orgasm?
He cleared his throat. “I won’t do this every night, but I thought it would be a good idea to come together and talk about how the evening went.” He smiled at me. “Since it was our first night. And only your second time in the playroom.”
I traced the golden filigree design on the plate.
“I need for this to be a two-way conversation,” he said.
“I know,” I said finally. “It’s just . . . odd.”
“Maybe talking about the oddness will help.”
We both reached for a grape at the same time and our fingers touched. I jerked mine back.
“See?” he asked, voice heavy with emotion. “What was that for?”
I took a deep breath. “Just trying to keep the weekday Nat . . . I mean, man, separate from the weekend one.” I glanced down at the plate. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”
He lifted my head so our eyes met. “Why?”
“I don’t want to mess up,” I admitted. “I don’t want to overstep.”
“I think it’s highly doubtful you would overstep.” He gave a small laugh. “You may have difficulties in other areas, but I don’t think showing respect in the library or at the kitchen table will ever be a problem for you.”
“You say that because this”—I pointed from him to me and back again—“is easy for you. This you’re used to.”
“I would argue that this”—he indicated the space between us—“is new to me.” He looked up at the ceiling and frowned. “But, on second thought, perhaps you’re right in other regards.”
I know I am.
“The fact remains,” he continued, “that we can’t talk honestly about the scene if you’re not open and relaxed with me.”
I sighed deeply.
“Now, just what—” He pushed the plate of food out of the way, took my wineglass and set it aside. “Just what are we going to do about that?”
My heart started to thump faster. “Beats me.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Beating you wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
My head shot up. “Sign?” I asked, using my old way to determine if he was joking.
“Yes,” he said. “It was a joke, and not a very good one. I’m just trying to lighten the mood a bit.” His voice dropped to a low whisper and his eyes darkened. “Come here.”
I scooted closer, and he took my face in his hands.
“How am I ever going to get you to relax?” He kissed my cheek. “To talk openly?” He kissed the other. “To tell me how you feel?”
His touch was the connection I craved, what I unknowingly needed, and I felt myself melt under his hands. His lips traveled from my cheek to my ear. “Yes,” he said, feeling my body react.
I turned my face toward his, and our lips brushed softly. I unconsciously moved closer to him, and his arms came around my shoulders. He held me close to his chest and leaned us back so we reclined against the pillows.
“Better?” he asked in a whisper.
“Much,” I said, closing my eyes. “Thank you.”
He stroked my hair for a few minutes, and I listened to the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it this way—you tell me what you liked.”
We’d talked about our checklists for hours. About what we enjoyed and wanted to try. Why did talking about something we’d done make me embarrassed? I told myself it was crazy. Nathaniel had seen all of me. Touched all of me. There was nothing to be embarrassed about.
“Not being able to vocalize was very intense,” I said.
“Very intense meaning, I loved it; let’s do it again?” he asked. “Or very intense meaning, I hated it; never try that again?”
I took a deep breath and inhaled the deep woodsy scent of him. Someone else had taken a shower recently. “Mmmmm. I loved it; let’s do it again,” I said.
“I think you can handle more,” he said. “Next time we’ll see if you can go a bit longer.”
My body tingled with anticipation. Longer next time. I could only imagine what he meant. I was glad he thought I could handle more. Frankly, I thought I had reached the end of my control there at the end.
“I liked the flogger,” I said, wanting to switch subjects. “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”
His hand ran down my side. “I’ve decided to use only the rabbit fur this weekend.” The press of his fingers grew rough against my backside. “But I meant what I said about the clamps. I’ll use them tomorrow.” He leaned down and spoke softly in my ear. “And it’s a good thing you’ve been using your plug.”
I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. The tingle in my body became stronger and moved lower, coming to rest right between my legs.
Gah.
“The eight strokes?” he asked.
“Hurt like the devil,” I finished.
“They were meant to.”
“I know,” I said. “I completely understand that part.” I lifted my head. “You didn’t seem surprised. Did you know I’d mess up so soon?”
“I thought you might,” he said. “It made sense to me you would. I didn’t want to say anything before it happened, though. How would that have sounded?”
I laid my head back on his chest. “I probably wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”
“Probably not,” he said.
“What hurt most was knowing I’d disappointed you,” I said.
“That was my least favorite part of the night,” he said. “Having to punish you. But you learned. You didn’t make the same mistake twice.”
I didn’t want to dwell on my failure. “Your turn,” I said. “What was your favorite part?”
“Look at me,” he said, and I tilted my head to catch his gaze. “My favorite part was you. The trust you have in me. Your obedience. The joy you find in pleasing me.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant—”
“Shhhhh,” he hushed. “I’m not finished.”
I pursed my lips together.
“You are,” he said slowly, “exquisite in your service to me. And that, my lovely, was my favorite part. Is my favorite part.”
I found I couldn’t help myself. I brought my head up and kissed him, our lips merely grazing.
I love you, I wanted to say, but wasn’t sure it was allowed. Didn’t know if it would be wise. Perhaps some things were best left unsaid during the weekends. At least for now, anyway. We had plenty of other days to murmur our love.
He didn’t often tell me he loved me. Mentioning it, perhaps, only a handful of times. It didn’t bother me that he wasn’t very vocal with his feelings. Somehow, the rarity of his words made them all the more special.
He didn’t attempt to deepen the kiss, and neither did I. Both of us feeling that, for right then, the simple touch of our lips spoke loud enough. We fell into a comfortable silence while I listened to the steady beat of his heart again and enjoyed the security of his arms.
“Anything you didn’t like?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Nothing I’d change.” I knew in time the talking would become easier. I wondered how the conversation would go if or when he did something I didn’t like. “You?”
“Nothing.”
I’m not sure how long we stayed in the library. It wasn’t until the mantel clock chimed midnight that he spoke again. “You should go on to bed if you’re finished eating.”
“I know,” I said. As I extracted myself from his arms, I felt the absence of his touch immediately.