Pursued (8 page)

She feared that Henry would push the issue… maybe ask what he wanted to do to her.
Humiliate me. Hurt me.
Bruises weren’t supposed to be a part of her lifestyle.

Henry didn’t say anything. All he did was place his hand next to hers on the table, where her fingers clenched a napkin and ignored the bread waiting to be consumed.

Monica did not accept his invitation to be touched. That was reserved for a man she could trust – and as attracted as she was to Henry Warren, she didn’t know if she could trust him yet. For all she knew…

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said. “Whatever you went through, it must have been awful. Nobody really likes that guy in the business world. We deal with him because we have to.”

“We?”

The hand disappeared. “Why, yes. I won’t say I know him personally, but he does pop up in many of my spheres. I’ve only met him on a handful of occasions. I never guessed he was into that sort of lifestyle.”

“You mean domination and submission.”

“It seems to be the sort of life that can easily turn dark. With the wrong person, that is.”

You have no idea.
How could he, as a man? Men held all the power. That’s what Monica liked about the situation, but it didn’t save her from the evil that sometimes burst from it. She wanted a man to control her in the bedroom, to tell her what to do sometimes, to make her life easier… but not to rule that life. That’s what Jackson ended up doing, and she paid for it.

The maid returned with their soup course. Neither of them picked up their spoons.
I’m being a terrible hostess.
Making it all about her past, failed relationships… “Enough about me, Mr. Warren. Tell me more about yourself.”

“I’m terribly boring. My job is boring, my hobbies are boring. My house is boring because I’m too busy to do anything with it.”

“What do you do?”

“Mergers. Acquisitions. Buy places. Sell them off. Keep the profits. Time-honored tradition my great-grandfather started a hundred years ago, and now here I am. I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I intend to earn the right to keep it.”

“That’s noble.” Sounded like what Jackson and most men of old money did. Either that or they married rich before telling her that their own fortunes were crumbling. Monica looked like a woman of means, but she would hardly say that she was. If she lost the Château, she would have next to nothing.
All the money I personally make goes back into it.
Not the best financial planning, but she wanted her business to succeed before worrying about her own future. “At least you keep yourself busy. I’ve known men who rest on their laurels and pretend everything is going to continue the way it always has. Life doesn’t work out that way. It’s good to be prepared and stay busy. What do you do for fun?”

“I told you, my hobbies are boring too.”

“I highly doubt that. There must be something.” Even reading could be an adventure. Assuming Henry had good tastes, of course.

“Reading is perhaps the only hobby I can regularly indulge in.”
Ha! I knew it.
Finally, Henry touched his soup, declared it delicious, but still too hot for him to completely eat at the moment. “I’m fluent in French, so I like to read the original works of authors like Proust. Oh, and the Marquis de Sade. I assume you’ve heard of him.”

Monica’s mouth twitched again. “I have. I’m afraid I don’t think much of him, though.” Of course she knew the word “sadistic” came from that man. She also knew why. Many Doms heralded him as some sort of father of their sexualities, which perturbed Monica, since the Marquis was infamous for coercing his servants.
Jackson admired him way too much.
She hoped Henry wasn’t the same way.

“His works are fascinating, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons.” That was all Henry said on the matter, and Monica did not press him further.

Over the course of dinner she learned a few more things about him. Henry’s parents were alive, but they lived in their favorite vacation home in Montana, where his father had a ranch and his mother made jewelry for a “living,” not that she needed to. He currently lived in their main house with his younger sister, who was in grad school getting her MBA. They almost sounded like a normal upper middle class family until Monica remembered that Henry Warren was probably one of the richest men in the country. He could do anything with his life… so why was he spending it with her?

“I also like to paint here and there,” he said at the beginning of their final course. “Nothing in particular. Just whatever moves me.” Henry pointed to the sunset, now sinking fast behind the trees. “Like that. I would like to paint that if I had the chance. The way the light passes through the branches of those evergreens and illuminates the labyrinth is simply breathtaking.” He glanced at her. “Looks nice on you as well.”

Flattery would get him nowhere. Monica knew what he was up to. “Thank you.” She would take the compliment anyway.

“So what do
you
do for fun?” Henry was on his second glass of wine. Monica was still on her first, but she could see the bottom of her glass. “I have a hard time believing you do this for fun all the time.” He motioned to the Château.

“Believe what you will or won’t. My work is my life now.”

“No movies? No books?”

“I read occasionally, but I’ve found recently that most of the stories I used to enjoy now only frustrate me.” They reminded her of her old relationship. Monica devoured books – dark and comedic – about alpha males and their unwitting women. She particularly enjoyed the recent trend of billionaires and mafia bosses and, and, and…
Nope. Too much like real life.
Few women could say that!

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you can enjoy them again soon.”

Henry’s voice wasn’t empty, nor was it full of sarcasm. When they made eye contact, Monica saw nothing but warmth in his eyes.
It’s a ruse. A game.
That’s what she had to tell herself in order to survive. No man actually cared that she enjoyed “A Billionaire Love Story” ever again.
Because they’re not real.
She thought she had that kind of love once. Perhaps she was too jaded by the heartbreak.

“If I may ask…” Henry’s fingered the stem of his glass, leaning back in his chair with one leg over the other and his eyes downcast. “What happened between you and Jackson Lyle? You were a famous couple in our circles, even if only by legend.”

What a strange thing to say.
“Bad things.”

The awkward silence she created was not lost on the man dining with her. Henry continued to stare at the table before finally looking up and gazing at Monica’s figure in her chair. The maid came, taking away their empty plates and replacing them with a dessert of key lime pie. Perfect for a warm evening.

Yet Henry continued to gaze at her, those unwavering blues caressing Monica’s body as if they truly touched. If she closed her own and also leaned back in her chair, she could pretend that Henry stood right next to her, truly caressing her arm, her cheek, and even her hair as he wrapped each dark strand around his fingers and promised to make her feel better.

I’m tragic.
What was even more tragic was how pointless it all felt. Henry Warren couldn’t cure her of her heartbreak. She was a stupid girl to even pretend that it was possible, even in her fantasies.
It was those fantasies that made me hang on to him for so long.
When in love, the heart fucked shit up. “He hurt me. In ways you could never imagine.”

It was too easy unloading her secrets onto him. Henry was a courteous listener, at least, not once interrupting Monica as she attempted to put into words the horrors she went through.

“Everything started innocent enough. Isn’t that how it always goes? One day I was a girl in a lounge looking for a little trouble. I found it. His name was Jackson, and he bought me a drink and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s young girls like me back then who fall for that shit.”

“Long story short, he became my Dom. I was happy to serve him. We were deep into the lifestyle, you see. It’s how I wanted it, and he grew accustomed to it. He would come home, I would take off his clothes for him, make sure there was a bath ready, order his favorite foods, and then do whatever he told me to do. Sometimes it was sexual, and sometimes he told me to leave him alone, so I did. I suppose this sounds boring, the way I’m telling it. To those in the lifestyle, it is boring. We were just another sub/Dom domestic pair.”

“As the years went by, we went deeper. Maybe it happened naturally. Maybe it was all his machinations. Whatever happened, the next thing I knew he was picking out what I wore and who else I slept with. You see, sometimes he would bring home another girl and tell me to do things with her. I did them. I wasn’t disgusted. It was fun, really. But they weren’t things I would have asked for or pursued on my own.”

“I called him Master. I didn’t leave the house unless he accompanied me. When we were home, I stayed in our room until he invited me elsewhere. I couldn’t even go outside for a walk without his permission. To me, that was normal. I trusted him.”

“It may have happened on one day. It could have worked its way up to it. All I know is that one night he had me chained up like always. And then he slapped me.”

“He never laid a hand like that on me before. Not a violent one. It stung so much, and the glee in his voice as he laughed at my reaction made me feel sick to my stomach. After so many years together, though, I forgave him. It was a one time thing. Then he did it another night. Then another. Then he hit me so hard I had a bruise and no excuse for it.”

“One night he nearly broke my arm. He grabbed it so hard and turned me around to throw me on the bed so quickly I could feel a pop. I wish that was the worst thing that happened that night. When he was done with me, I felt like I could barely walk. That’s all I’ll say about that.”

“The final straw – because I was so weak – came when he literally kidnapped another woman and intended to make her his sex slave. I woke up that day. I stole his keys and his gun and got both that woman and me out of there. I never looked back.”

She let her words dissipate in the sunset, each one harder to dissolve than the last. By the time she realized her key lime pie remained untouched, Henry Warren grabbed her hand, making her fork clatter on the table.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” His grip on her tightened. Monica stiffened, not out of fear, but out of the sense that this man was too good for his own benefit. “It wasn’t right. That man doesn’t know how to appreciate what he has.”

Yes, that was the problem
Monica wanted to roll her eyes, but she was frozen in her seat, reliving those awful memories. Closing her eyes was dangerous. If she did that, her brain would place a scene on the back of her eyelids. Maybe the night Jackson slapped her and called her a whore because she always agreed to whatever he wanted.
Didn’t he understand that I wanted that too?
Serving him, making him happy…

“No, what he didn’t get was what a submissive is. We’re not toys, Mr. Warren. We’re not vessels of pleasure to be used however a Dom wants. Our joy and pleasure comes from bringing our Dom happiness. Of course we have our preferences and the lines we draw, but at the end of the day, we’ll try anything once if it brings him or her joy of any kind. That’s how we become so vulnerable. We bare our souls from the first meeting. If we’re put in the wrong hands… men like him knew that. I fear for any woman he cons next. He’s handsome and wealthy. There will be someone.”

“There are none that I know of.”

“That you know of. He keeps that shit private.” For good reason. He was the type of man to understand what wasn’t socially acceptable. But he did them anyway. “Forgive me. You didn’t need to know any of that.”

“Correction. I didn’t
want
to know any of that.” When Monica turned her head toward him, bemusement clouding her countenance, he explained, “I don’t get any glee or pleasure in hearing what that callous man did to you. Yet I needed to know it. I needed to know what you’ve been through, so I understand where you come from.”

“Where I came from is obvious to anyone who Googles my name.” Monica pulled her hand out of his. “Where I’m going, on the other hand, remains a mystery to most.”

“Even to yourself?”

“Perhaps. I take things one week at a time.”

“
Perhaps
you will be a little old lady running your Château a good forty years from now.”

“And I will be happy to do so.”

She knew what that look meant. The one telling her,
“Are you going to hide in your mansion of everyone else having pleasure but you for the rest of your life?
” She would if it meant she was never hurt again. Monica could sustain herself on the ambiance of her insular world and never again be touched by another person. She could die happy that way.

“I won’t pretend to understand,” Henry said. “Obviously I have never been in your position before. All I know is that the world would be a much lonelier place if you never ventured into it again.”

Monica blushed. “The world doesn’t know who I am.”

“I do.”