Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive (2 page)

Midnight

Finally home . . .

G
eorgia O’Nay is thirty-five, with long, sleek black hair and gorgeous pearl-like skin, and the talent of a goddess. It didn’t surprise me that she drew a wall-busting crowd. The event had spectacular desserts, expensive champagne, and great art. It was pure heaven for art lovers. It should have been for me, but it wasn’t.

All the local artists who show in the gallery were present. Ricco Alvarez and Chris Merit were crowd favorites. Chris, unlike the rest of the guests, who were in suits (Ricco included), was a rebel in jeans and a leather jacket. When he stood next to Mark, the contrast in the two men was extreme but the power and sex radiating off them both was overwhelming.

It bothered me that “he” spent a lot of time by Georgia’s side. I tried not to let it. I really did. In my defense, I was feeling insecure after the entire ring situation. But what really set me off was the concrete block of realization that hit me as I admired her work. Georgia paints flowers. Roses mostly. Yes. Roses. How could I not connect his attention to her to the design of the ring? How could anyone not in a similar situation? Had she been his sub at some point? Did he help her launch her career? And if so, what happened between them? Why did they part ways? Or had they parted ways? Am I just a side dish?

During one moment when the two of them appeared rather intimate, my stomach actually churned. I wondered then, again, what was happening to me. How had I gone from being the girl who needed no one to feeling such intense need for one man? I suddenly felt that this new life was controlling me, not the other way around.

Needing air, I rushed for the back door. The instant I stepped outside into the chilly San Francisco night, I inhaled deeply, yet I still felt like I couldn’t breathe. I hugged myself, the little lace vest I’d put on for the evening doing nothing to warm me.

Then the door opened behind me and I whirled around, shocked to see him standing there. And damn him, no matter how inadequate he’d made me feel inside the gallery, his presence still washed over me with a consuming, all-powerful burn. I resented it, not wanting him to have that power over me.

Before I knew his intention, he pulled me around a corner so that we were out of the line of sight of the door. He pressed me against the wall, the warm glow of a lamp fixture casting us in its light, his thighs hugging mine. His fingers framed my face. “You’re upset. I don’t want you to be upset.”

“Funny,” I said bitterly, “I didn’t think what I felt mattered to you.”

His thumb caressed my cheek. “Ah, little one, you’ve become confused. As your Master, my greatest desire and responsibility is your pleasure, happiness, and safety. To upset you is to fail you. In this agreement you will make me your world, but I, too, will make you my world. Now,” he said, stroking the hair from my face, “tell me what’s wrong.”

For the second time today, embarrassment assailed me. I buried my face in his chest but he wasn’t letting me escape. He lifted my face, forcing my gaze back to his. “Tell me what’s wrong, Rebecca.”

My hands went to his hands and he let me touch him. So often, he doesn’t. It calmed me enough to confess my feelings. “Everything. Everything is wrong. You didn’t contact me all morning and I was in knots wondering what you thought. Then you made me take the ring off. Do you know what a big deal it was for me to have signed that contract? Do you know how much it ripped me apart when you rejected what I offered you?”

“No matter how much I want you to be mine, to let you sign when you aren’t ready would be assuring our agreement will fail. I don’t intend to let that happen.”

His voice was raspy, thick with emotion, and I want to believe he feels something for me. Actually, I know he feels something for me. But what does a man like him feel? A need to possess some new toy, and I’m that toy? Perhaps even a passionate need to possess that toy? And while I’m no Cinderella looking for a Prince Charming, nor a damsel looking for a hero, while standing there with him, I had a sense that I will always want more from him than he will give me.

“Why didn’t you just say you wanted me to understand more, rather than taking me in that bathroom today?” I asked, trying to understand him.

“Because while I am willing to give you more time before you sign the agreement, I admit that I am impatient to make our agreement official. Before that happens, you have to understand what’s in the contract, including the rules.”

“And the punishments,” I added.

“Yes. And the punishments.”

“How . . . intense does punishment get?”

He stared down at me, his eyes searching mine, and then he shocked me by leaning in and tenderly brushing his lips over mine. “As I said in the bathroom, I will push you to your limit, Rebecca, but I will always leave you thoroughly pleasured.”

The gentleness in him, contrasting the hardness I so often saw, softened my worries, but there was still one thing I couldn’t let go. “And Georgia. Did you leave her thoroughly pleasured?”

He pulled back to stare at me, genuine shock on his face. “Georgia?”

“She paints roses. Was the ring once hers? And are you still involved with her? Because if you are, I’m done. I won’t be—”

He laughed, a sexy, surprising sound from a man so serious. “No, little one. It was never her ring. I’ve never been intimate with Georgia, nor do I intend to be.” His voice softened and his gaze heated to scorching. “Just you, Rebecca. This relationship will be exclusive as long as we have a written agreement. Understand?”

I nodded, but I wasn’t totally relieved. We would never be exclusive when he was willing to share me.

“And even if it kills me in the process,” he continued, “we’ll take this slowly, as I intended. I’ll teach you what each point in the contract means. Then we will negotiate the final terms. But know this. When you put that ring back on, there will be no holding back for either of us. You will belong to me.”

But will he belong to me? And why was I afraid to ask?

Probably because, deep down, I know the answer . . . and I don’t want to accept it. This powerful man will never belong to anyone.

He stroked my cheek again, tenderness in the touch. “We should get back before we’re missed,” he said, and I agreed.

•   •   •

A
n hour later, I ended up huddled in a chat with Mark and three amazing artists. Could I really be standing with Ricco Alvarez, Chris Merit, and Georgia O’Nay? Chris, Mark, and I chatted a bit about a charity event that I’m handling for Chris, and we set up a meeting for the next day. Remarkably, considering my first reaction to her presence, I bonded with Georgia quickly, much as I had with Ricco, and she turned out to be as nice as she was talented and beautiful. I think I just get artists. I connect with them. Despite all that Mark does for the art world, I’m not sure he always does.

I took a cab home at the gallery’s expense. The entire staff did since Mark won’t let anyone drive after a gallery event that includes alcohol, and this one had. I’d barely walked in the door when my would-be Master texted me.

You decide when the next lesson is. Call me when you’re ready.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready. Part of me says now. Part of me says I might never be. Yet I’d been downright excited to sign the contract this morning. Now I’m not sure of anything.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

H
ot bath. Pajamas. My own bed. What more could I want? Ah, but I know: him. I want to call him. I want to hear his voice and I want . . . so much. But it’s the wrong choice. I know this. I’ve been singing this song to myself all day, reminding myself of the need to think things through and make rational choices. Right now I need to figure out who I am, because somehow I’ve lost myself along the way. I should be upset that he spanked me. Instead, I’m upset that he thinks I need more lessons.

I’m trying to process this. I keep replaying the situation, and my way of thinking, and demanding I look beyond the surface of what I feel. Logic. I need logic. He’s trying to make sure I’m ready for the next step between us and that I won’t regret my decision. Why does this upset me?

Okay. This is where I need to be honest with myself. As much as I’ve sworn I do not want a relationship, or the strings and heartache that go with one, this man is under my skin. I feel myself falling hard for him and looking for signs that he’s falling for me, too. It’s insanity. I’m a contract, a responsibility. A possession to him. He should be nothing but pleasure and the escape he has promised me he will be. And that is all he has promised.

It should be enough. It has to be enough before I allow myself back under his control, even for another encounter.

That means I need to take a few days and decide if I really can do this. I need to find myself again, the me that doesn’t need anyone. The me that understands I’m the only one I have to count on in this world. The me that will allow him to pleasure me and expect nothing else in return, because expecting more from people just means heartache.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Lunchtime . . .

I
walked into the gallery this morning determined to make it about art. If anything can bring me back to me, that’s it. Once I arrived at work, though, I discovered Mark was dealing with off-site business and probably wouldn’t be in all day. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I know the rest of the staff is relieved when he’s gone, too. He always creates a subtle tension in the air, but he also creates a raw energy that excites the entire building and the people inside, even if they don’t realize it. I need that energy today.

In his absence I turned to caffeine. I was just leaving the kitchen with a full cup of coffee when Mary, my fellow sales rep, and “frenemy” as Ralph has called her, knocked into me. The contents of the cup splattered everywhere, including down the front of my—fortunately black—dress. She apologized profusely and swore it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I’d thought things had improved after she’d had a meeting with Mark last week and become friendlier, but apparently her friendliness was short-lived. She simply hates me for existing and I can’t control that. There is a lot I can’t seem to control lately.

3:00 p.m.

T
he gallery was sealed off to customers about an hour ago to allow the removal of the art from our personal office walls, because apparently it’s part of Mark’s personal collection. He must be even richer than I realized to own as impressive a collection as this one. I’d thought the pieces belonged to the gallery since his family also owns Riptide, one of the largest auction houses on the planet. Anyway, it turns out that once a year, Mark replaces the art and invites elite customers in for exclusive showings. The event is highly anticipated.

With the gallery shut for the art removal, I decided to head to the coffee shop for a caramel macchiato and was surprised to find Chris, Ava, and Georgia standing at the counter deep in conversation. Chris’s longish blond hair was rumpled, as if he’d been running his hands through it while working, and there was this devastatingly sexy energy about him that, based on how enthralled they looked as he spoke, clearly had Ava and Georgia spellbound. I waited in line to order, and my attention went to Georgia. Her beauty, next to Ava’s, had me feeling very ordinary. All my fears that Georgia had inspired the ring came back to me.

Chris’s gaze lifted, and his brows dipped. I knew he’d seen something on my face, and thankfully it was my turn to order, which gave me an escape from his scrutiny. I have no idea what he saw in my expression—but too much, for sure. He and Mark both saw too much. But then, Chris is an artist, a man who studies details. What did I expect?

Once I placed my order and turned back to the group, I found that Chris had disappeared back to his table and Ava was attending to a customer. Georgia greeted me with such a friendly smile that it was hard to remember why I’d felt uncomfortable a few minutes before. Apparently she’d stopped in for coffee on her way to a meeting with Ralph to go over the prior night’s sales and receipts.

We chatted on the short walk back and I asked her about the famous artist Georgia O’Keefe and the similarities in their work and their names. Turns out O’Keefe was her idol. Georgia had learned about their names both being Georgia (not an overly common name, she pointed out) when she’d taken an elective art class just to get the easy credit. The deeper she’d gotten into the semester, the more certain she’d been that their names were no coincidence but a sign she was meant to be an artist. Georgia’s story inspired me and, for the first time in days when I walked into the gallery, I felt a sense of rightness in being there. This was where I belonged. The art, this place, was me. Is me.

That was a few minutes ago, and already the feeling has faltered. The instant I sat down behind my desk I found myself staring at the empty wall where the painting had been removed, and I knew it couldn’t be just the art I love, nor could I hide behind it. Taking this job, daring to do what I’d dreamed of, had been, and is, about living life, finding myself.

And there are more parts to me, things I’ve only just discovered, and things I want to discover. I am still the same girl that walked in here: an art enthusiast who was waiting tables, and who dared to make my college major a career. But I am also the woman who’d stood in the coffee shop bathroom and been aroused by a spanking. I want to know all parts of me. I have to know myself to control my life and destiny. But does that mean “he” is the right man to help me make that journey?

That’s what I have to decide.

9:00 p.m.

L
ast night is repeating itself. Hot bath. Pajamas. My own bed. And again I ask, what more could a girl want? The answer is the same. Him. I clearly need to rethink my strategy, as I am in the same place as before. I feel mentally exhausted. I don’t want to think about contracts, or rings, or why it hurt when that ring was given back to me, though I’m pretty sure it means that I haven’t made this about sex and escape—what I vowed last night it had to be, in order to move forward with him.

Now I’ve been spanked, and I liked it. Not every girl can write that in her journal. And on that note, I’m going to bed and to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll figure the rest out. Tomorrow it will make sense.