The Art of Control (3 page)

Isa furrows her eyebrows at me but remains silent.

“Speak, Isa,” I tell her gently.

“That’s ve
ry selfish of you,” she retorts.

I’m taken aback at her accusation and feel the itch to paddle her, but I did insist that she speak freely.
Perhaps I should reconsider what she said.
Selfish?
Maybe. But I hunger for her touch and I want nothing more than to be with her and have her at my beck and call at all times.

“I want you when I want you,” I reiterate.

“I understand that, but its torture not being with you and not the good kind of torture, either. I need to keep myself busy or my mind spins out of control. Sometimes it goes to places that are dark and depressing, and I don’t like it,” she whispers.

Christ. I drop t
he clothes back on the floor, kneel in front of her and pull her chin up so that she’s looking at me.

“
Yes, perhaps I am being selfish. I don’t want you thinking about dark and depressing things. I want you happy and content at all times, love.”

She smiles and touches my mouth.
“Thank you, Sir.”

***

Isabel

Dylan crookedly grins
back at me, but I can see in his blazing baby blues that he’s conceding and not really seeing things my way. So be it. I don’t like being here alone all day. Dark and depressing is putting it lightly. I’ve tried to put the things that Alex and my father did to me out of my head, and I thought I could do it, but I sorely misjudged my own resilience. Alex’s actions only brought what my father did to me to the forefront of my mind. I’m suffering the consequences of pushing those things to the back of my mind all those years. I don’t know how to tell Dylan without sounding needy and weak, so I’ve kept it to myself.

As more and more details about my mother’s death come out, my nightmares have returned. Delv
ing headlong into the BDSM lifestyle and learning how to be a better submissive for Dylan has helped to ease my mind of the gory details and I’m thankful for it.

It really is a
complete change for me, but Dylan seems to be in his element being a Dom. It’s like a second skin for him. He’s a strict Dom with a vicious sadistic streak a mile wide, but I love it just as much as I love him. His hand is firm and he’s not afraid to use it when I’ve broken protocol, but his heart is soft and he’s gotten less and less afraid to show that side of himself. He still has a problem admitting when he’s wrong, but he’s working on that, too, and so am I.

I wonder if he was like this with
Erika? Shit.
Why am I still thinking about her
? I know he was nothing like this with Erika. He was much harsher and more demanding with her. He’s told me as much. Dylan has opened up more about their relationship and been much more honest with me about his feelings towards her. He can deny it all he wants, but I know he had sentimental feelings for her. Why else would he have been so wounded when she betrayed him?

It still irritates me to no end thinking about how deeply she hurt him. On the rare occasion that we’ve encountered her at the Dark Asylum, I have to restrain myself from kicking her
perfectly straight teeth in. As exhilarating as it was to dominate her, I regret it because she’s done nothing but swoon over me and beg me to whip her again ever since that little episode.
Yuck
. Dylan seems to be quite amused by it, but I’m not at all happy about it.

Dylan picks up the clothes,
heads to the bathroom and calls after me so we can get showered and packed. We clean up quickly in the shower and I call work to let them know my plans. I feel bad that I’m giving such short notice. They’ve been very patient with me after the chaos with Cassie and Alex. All the publicity from that horrible night did wonders for Canyon Creek sales, though, so I suppose they’re not going to complain too much. All of my paintings flew out the door as well. It’s hard to believe that my artwork is hanging on the walls of some strangers’ homes. It’s a bit nauseating to think about really.

Not knowing what to pack, I stand in the closet looking
at all of the clothes Dylan has bought for me and feeling like a deer in headlights. I peer out into the bedroom and at all the gorgeous furniture I’ve picked out, glad to be finally done decorating our bedroom. We just got our Soho Tufted Daybed a few days ago and now we don’t even get to enjoy it.

Dylan is swiftly packing his bags and not paying any attention to me at all. He’s on his Blue
tooth headset talking sternly to an employee about what their duties will be while we’re away. He truly is a Dom. This is the same way he talks to me when he lets me know what he expects of me before he leaves in the morning. I turn back to the closet, still at a loss for what to take. Dylan goes silent and I feel his hands on my shoulders.

“Why aren’t you packed yet?” he asks.

“I don’t know what to pack.”

“Here, let me help,” he says.

He completely takes over and picks out several outfits without so much as asking me what I think, but I don’t mind so much. Dylan is quick to grab my corsets. I’m still getting used to wearing them on a regular basis, but I know how much he loves seeing me in them so I’ve accepted the ritual of donning them when he’s home. I grab a few things and pick out my skivvies, and we get it all packed into the suitcases.

“You’re such a clotheshorse,” I tell him when I see that he has more bags packed than I do.

He gives me his goofy
really
look and I laugh at him. While Dylan calls Carson and Raul, I find his birthday gift and stash it away in my bag. The thought of giving it to him sends butterflies fluttering in my belly. Next, I clean up the kitchen and the half made dinner that I had started before Dylan’s arrival.

When I’m done, Raul
drives us to the airfield. It’s almost spring and the cool breeze outside excites me as I think about flying away to an exotic location with my husband.  Dylan’s birthday is coming up and I realize that we’ll be in Paris when his special day arrives. I think maybe he planned this out so that his birthday will be celebrated in Europe.
Sneaky, boy.

When we get to the airfield, Sawyer is waiting to see us off.  He looks happy and I know it’s because of Sonya. I inwardly pat myself on the back for
my matchmaking skills. He smiles broadly at me and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen his teeth. He looks handsome when he smiles and I almost voice that sentiment, but I hold my tongue, not wanting to make my Dom jealous.

“You two have a wonderful time and don’t worry about anything,” he says as he nods to Dylan.

Dylan squeezes Sawyer’s shoulder and we bid our farewell and load ourselves and our luggage onto Mustang Sally. I dread the long flight and dig out our itinerary to see exactly how long it will take. We’ll fly from here to New York to fuel up before our long flight to Paris.

“Can Sally really fly such a long distance?” I ask, feeling my nerves kicking in.

Dylan squeezes my hand and assures me that, yes, this new upgraded version of Sally can.

“She can fly
4,000 nautical miles nonstop,” he tells me.

I never did figure out why he wanted a bigger jet. I had grown fond of the smaller Sally that only seated four people. It seemed more private. This large jet now seats 10 and I just can’t seem to get used to her.
Men and their toys.
Dylan leans over and dutifully buckles me in and then himself. I do enjoy how he’s always watching out for my safety.

When we’re safely up in the air, Dylan removes his seatbelt and digs out his satchel.
Pulling out an English-French pocket-sized dictionary, he starts thumbing through it. I’m surprised and, frankly, amused that this man of the world, this former NSA agent, and possibly secret-spy, doesn’t know how to speak French. Hell, even I know how to speak French. I let a giggle slip out and he turns his head, looking befuddled by my response.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re cute.”

“I know, b
ut why are you giggling?” he says cockily.

“Because
you don’t need that, silly boy, I can translate for us,” I tell him.

Dylan’s eyebrows go up and he looks shocked. “You speak French?” he asks as if he doesn’t really believe me.

“Uh, yes. I thought you knew everything about me?” I ask.

“I didn’t know that. What else have yo
u been keeping from me?” he replies, sounding a bit hurt.

“I haven’t been keeping anything from you.
It just never came up. And I thought with all your technological expertise and the stuff you looked up about me, that would’ve been in there.”

He furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head at me. “What other languages do you speak?”

“Spanish and a bit of Portuguese,” I whisper.

“Shit, Isa
, you never cease to amaze me,” Dylan replies, kissing the top of my hand.

I suddenly feel shy though
I’m not sure why. No – I do know why. It’s because I’m reminded of how and why I know how to speak those languages. I turn to look out the window as a flood of horrible memories wash over me. Pulling my hand away from Dylan, he immediately senses my withdrawal.

“Isabel, tell me,” he simply states.

I shake my head,
no
, “Don’t make me.” I know honesty is the key to this relationship, but there are just some things I still don’t want to share. “Please, Dylan. I don’t want to. I just want to enjoy this trip, not think about the past.”

Dylan
lifts the armrest between us, unbuckles my belt and pulls me over to him, forcing me to look at him. His look reflects kindness, yet he is also stern.

“I need to know,” he tells me.

Fine. I know he won’t drop this until I tell him. “My father taught me Spanish and forced me to learn French. He said it would make me well-bred. My mother taught me Portuguese. She was insistent on teaching it to me before…” I trail off.

“Go on,” Dylan prods.

“She wanted me to know Portuguese before we left my father. She had planned on taking us away to Brazil so she wanted me to know the language,” I say brusquely, pulling away from him and looking out the window again. I hate being forced to answer questions about my past.
Why can’t he just leave well enough alone?

“Are you angry?” he asks.

Dylan is so dense sometimes
. I don’t respond because I don’t want to say anything rude, but I’m seething at his persistence.

“Isabel Young, look at me,” he t
ells me in his fatherly tone which irritates me even more.

I shoot a look of anger at him and his
eyes widen at me.

“I’m a grown ass woman, not a child, so don’t speak to me like one,” I snap at him.

Dylan turns his face away from me, looks forward and sighs. He’s trying to contain his temper, which is what I should’ve done. I immediately feel like hell for speaking to my Dom in such a manner. I still have my moments of immaturity and lack of self-restraint, but there’s no excuse for being so rude to the man I love. Damn. He’s angry with me and I hate that feeling. I want only to please him and to make him happy. Trying to make up for my bad behavior, I grab his hand and kiss each finger.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know you’re just curious,” I tell him.

Dylan doesn’t like to hear
I’m sorry
, he believes that actions speak louder than words and he’s right about that. He doesn’t respond and this is his way of punishing me. To be ignored by him is worse than a spanking or paddling, because most times a spanking is quite enjoyable. He’s learned that receiving pain from him is my weakness and not really a penalty at all and so he’s taken to different forms of true punishment when the situation calls for it.  I sigh and turn back to the window, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.

During my nap, I dream about my mother. S
he’s speaking words that I can’t quite understand and I can only make out some of them. “
Eu te amo, anjo
,” she tells me. I understand those sweet words spoken to me; she loves me and I’m her angel. She wants to run away with me. I’m hot and uncomfortable. My father’s hands are wrapped around my neck and I can’t breathe. I gasp and try to claw his hands away from me but I can’t get loose. I try to scream, but my mouth betrays me and nothing comes out.
Please Dylan, help me…

“Isa, love, wake up!” Dylan says loudly.

I wake to him shaking me violently and when I open my eyes he looks panicked.  I throw myself into his arms and bury my face in his chest, sobbing silently.

“I shouldn’t have made you talk about it,”
he says softly and sadly.

“Just hold me,” I cry.

Dylan wipes my tears and whispers sweet nothings in my ear, calming me completely. I match my breathing to his and my heart rate slows.

It’s not long before we land in New York. We make our way off the plane for a breather and to stretch our legs before our long journey. Dylan looks upset and keeps squeezing my hand a
s we walk through the terminal, never letting go of my hand the entire time. When we get to the restrooms, I’m finally able to pry my hand from his and do my business.