The Art of Domination (43 page)

Dylan narrows his eyes at me and bites his bottom lip. “I already said I’d have sex with you, so stop whining.”

“I don’t want your pity fuck.”

“How many times are you going to say fuc
k? Are you trying to get spanked again? Is that what you want?”

I rub my still sore ass and contemplate whether or not I really want one. I know he hates it when I drop the F bomb.

“Fuckity fuck,” I say before I can filter my language. I’m so immature sometimes.  He’s pissed me off and my juvenile behavior just continues. “And fucking hell.”

Again, Dylan moves at the speed of light and
pulls me over to him, but instead of spanking me this time, he lays a huge wet delicious kiss on my sassy mouth.

“Shut up, Isa, seriously. You’re trying my patience,” he breathes into my mouth in between l
icks and sucks on my bottom lip.  Then he reaches around and digs his fingers into my tender bottom, making me squeal from the pain.

“I’m s
orry,” I pant into his mouth.

“
You better be. I’m going to work out, you should join me. It’ll help you work off some of that nervous energy.”

Is that what he thinks I have?
Nervous energy?
Dylan can be so oblivious sometimes.

“More like sexual frustration,” I say, walking into the bedroom.

We both get changed and go down to the main floor where there’s a medium-sized workout room stocked with all sorts of cardio equipment and a few weight benches. I get on the incline treadmill and run my overly round ass off like there’s no tomorrow. I’m still sore from Alex’s beating, but it feels good to be on here and forget about everything.

Just as t
he sun is coming up through the frosted windows, one of the doormen comes in with a newspaper. He avoids making eye contact with me and hands the paper to Dylan.

Dylan looks fantastic all sweaty and I keep running, trying to keep myself from letting my mind wander with salacious thoughts of him.

“Motherfucker,” Dylan blurts out.

I step off the treadmill, wipe my face with a towel and walk over to see what’s upsetting him. I
tiptoe and try to lean over to read the paper and he pulls it away from me.

“You don’t want to know,” he says.

I grab the paper out of his hands and give him stink eye.
Like hell I don’t want to know
. What I read makes me regret having opened my mouth the previous day. My words are in black in white for the world to see. There’s a God awful picture of me all swollen and wide eyes looking like a dumb ass blonde with a caption that says:

New wife to entrepreneur Dylan Young admits she
shot her husband, stating, “It was an accident. I thought I was shooting my father.”
Father to Isabel, Emilio Ibanez, a well-respected Atlanta, Georgia, businessman was contacted for comment, but was unable to be reached.

The article below reads:
The wedding that took place only a few days ago at the Denver courthouse was unplanned, according to our sources, and no prenuptial agreement was signed. All of the recent publicity surrounding the couple and their whirlwind romance, kidnapping and attack didn’t stop the couple from shopping for jewelry upon their arrival to Denver yesterday. Our confidential source tells us that the platinum and diamond band picked out for Dylan Young was paid for by his wife. Was this her gesture of good will considering she nearly shot him to death?

I can’t read anymore. Every aspect of our lives is out there for the world t
o read about.
They don’t even know me and they’re judging me
. We can’t even go shopping for rings without it being publicized. I drop the newspaper on the floor and march out of the room and to the elevator. Dylan catches up with me and stops the elevator and pulls me to him.

“It doesn’t matter what people think, Isa. We know the truth.”

“People who don’t even know me are judging me. They think I tried to kill you for your money.”

I’m too pissed to be sad right now. I just want to throw some shit and slap that stupid wench at the jewelry store.
Confidential sources, my ass.

“I’ll make sure that woman loses her job for revealing personal information about us,” Dylan says, pulling my chin up. He knows exactly what I’m thinking as usual.
My show is tomorrow and all this crap is happening. This should be a time of celebration for me. I’m married to the man I love and he’s given me more than I ever expected or wanted, including being able to share my art with the world and I can’t even enjoy the moment.

I sulk into the bathroom to get showered. A few moments later, Dylan joins me and washes me down and grabs the razor
. He soaps up my legs and cha cha and prepares to groom me. I love it when he does this for me. He looks so handsome kneeling in front of me, concentrating as he glides the razor over my legs. He occasionally looks up at me and smiles. 

As he moves up to my labia, I spread my legs wider so he can get a better
angle. This part makes me nervous. I put my hands on his shoulders as he focuses intensely, going slow. The look on his face is almost comical. He cocks his head to the side, his tongue is hanging out of the corner of his mouth and his eyebrows are furrowed. I don’t dare laugh for fear that he’ll lose his concentration and knick me. When he’s done, he looks me over carefully.

I run my fingers over my pussy,
checking for smoothness and praise him for a job well done. “Good job, sugar. Thank you.”

He smiles proudly and stands to finish washing himself.

When we’re done, we both dry off and dress. Dylan makes his way to his office to do who knows what. No doubt he’ll ream the jewelry store management for leaking personal information and threaten them with a lawsuit or something. 

I make us some coffee and take it to his office. Sawyer and Dylan are relaxing and their af
tershave and clean scents fill the room. The odor of men is sexy and I feel my lower belly ache to be filled with Dylan. I set the coffee down for him and give Sawyer my cup. I walk over to the large window and look out at the white landscape of Denver. The view is breathtaking. The Rockies are just to the west and the sun is just making its way over the eastern horizon. Dylan and Sawyer are talking about my art show and moving my paintings over to the gallery this afternoon.

While
I continue to stand staring out the window, Dylan moves up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He buries his face in my neck and inhales deeply. Sawyer never stops talking. I block the sound of his voice out and focus only on Dylan’s touch. I push my ass back against him hoping for some kind of response and he moans low and deep in my ear. It’s just what I need. I turn around and pull him down to me and kiss him, not caring about Sawyer. When I pull back, his cheeks are a charming shade of pink and his eyes are shining brightly at me. His mouth twitches a hint of a smile and I hear Sawyer cough nervously.

“I love you,” I whisper to him
and mouths the same words back to me. “I’ll go make us all some breakfast.”

I leave the office and make
my way down to the kitchen to make some waffles and eggs for all of us. There’s a convenient intercom between the rooms and I use it to call Dylan to come and eat. The morning is spent listening to Dylan on the phone with employees and his lawyers. I sketch the afternoon away, drawing Dylan at work in various poses. He’s unmindful to my activities which makes him the perfect model.

Early afternoon
, the gallery people show up and start carting off my paintings. I get the nervous ‘I’ve got to pee feeling’ and have to excuse myself as my anxiety bubbles on the verge of exploding. Dylan finds me in the bathroom in the studio. I’m sitting on the toilet like a moron hyperventilating.

“Oh, Isa, e
verything will be fine. You’re work is wonderful. You should be excited about this.”

I know he’s right. I just can’t fathom all of those eyes on
my art, judging it, ogling it, some probably even drooling over it.

“People will think I’m a dirty girl,” I tell him

He smiles at me and gives me his sarcastic stare. “You are a dirty girl. So what?”

I can’t argue with that.
“But I don’t want the world to know that.”

“There are far worse people than you and I in this world and being a little d
irty minded never hurt anyone, so fuck anyone who has a problem with it.”

That’s e
asy for him to say
.

Isa has no idea how talented she is. It’s hard to believe that at this point she hasn’t figured it out. I leave her in the bathroom to pull herself together and go out to the studio to oversee the gallery staff loading her paintings.

When I walk with the
m out to the gallery van, there’s a reporter hanging around and his photographer is snapping photos. It’s the same dickhole who shoved his way into Isa’s face and it takes everything I have not to punch him in his obtrusive mouth. He tries to touch me to get my attention. When he sees the look on my face, he must sense my fury because he immediately backs off.

“Tell me, Dylan, is Isabel’s fat
her going to be in attendance at the gallery show tomorrow?”

I completely ignore him and motion for one of my doormen to dismiss him.

After the gallery staff leaves, I see Isa’s counselor, Maggie, pull up and I show her in. On the elevator, she asks how Isa’s been after the incident. I tell her I think she’s doing well, but Isa has a tendency to hide how she’s really feeling. Maggie nods in agreement.

W
e arrive at the second level and find Isa milling around in the kitchen, half looking at an interior decorating magazine at bedroom furnishings.  She’s still obviously uneasy about the gallery show tomorrow. Isa looks surprised to see us and then smiles sheepishly. I show Maggie to the living room and Isa politely brings us each a bottle of water.

“Isabel, i
t’s good to see you. Are you comfortable with Dylan sitting in with us?”

Isa snuggles up right next to me into the crook of my arm.

“Yes. Just don’t ask me anything about Dylan,” she winks at Maggie.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Are you still hurting from your attack?” Maggie asks.

“
A little, but overall, I feel good, despite what I look like.”

“Actually,
considering what you’ve been through, you look amazing, Isabel. You’re healing quite rapidly.”

Isa looks up at me and smiles. “Yes, Dylan says I must have vampire genes,” she answers.

“You definitely have good genes,” Maggie says as she takes out a notepad from her book bag.

Isa frowns
and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Maggie.

“Did I say something to upset you
?” Maggie asks.

“No,
” Isa shakes her head and plays with her ring, avoiding eye contact.

Isa’s so predictable sometimes and it amazes me that she’s unaware of her own body language. Not that I’m complaining; it’s part of what makes her so endearing to me.

“Was it about having good genes? Did that make you think of your father?”

Isa moves around uncomfortably on the couch and stares down at her wedding ring. I gently squeeze her arm, trying to relax her.

“Do we have to do this? I’
ve wasted enough time talking about him,” Isa says clipped.

“Okay. We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want. Let’s talk about what happened to you recently.”

Isa sighs loudly. “I just want you to know this was Dylan’s idea. I already told Dylan and the police what happened. I’m tired of talking about that, too.”

Shit. I’ve never seen Isa get so irritated before
with anyone other than me.
Is she always like this with her counselor
? Maggie looks at both Isa and I and writes something on the note pad.

“You haven’t told me what happened. I’d like to know, please,” the counselor says calmly.

“I was nearly raped by a lunatic, okay. He beat me with a belt like my father, he said disgusting things to me, touched me, tasted me, and degraded me. It was all in a day’s work,” Isa says wryly.

“
Isabel, you say you’re fine, but you’re obviously angry talking about this.”

“I’m not angry, I’m
bored with it. I don’t know why everyone thinks I should be so affected by it. I’m actually finer now than when I was a younger because this time I fought back and it was liberating. I’ve never felt more alive. Look, Maggie, I apologize for being so bitchy. I appreciate your coming here on such short notice, but, seriously, I’m fine.”

I
feel like paddling Isa’s ass for responding so brusquely to her counselor’s question, but Maggie appears completely unaffected by Isa’s outburst.

“Mr. Young, you seem upset. Is there
something you want to say?” Maggie asks me.