Three and a Half Weeks (12 page)

“Well, you spent a lot of time in the UK. Want to watch
Little Britain
?”

“How did you know I did? I don’t recall mentioning it.”

“How
did
I know? Hmmm.” His grin is downright devilish. “I don’t suppose you’re aware of my superior stalking skills, Madame.”

“So you knew where I was then?”

“That time I actually had to hire a professional. You certainly covered your bases quite well.”

“If you went to the trouble of locating me, why didn’t you contact me?”

“Not that I’m avoiding it, but do you suppose we can table this conversation until next time? I’m not feeling up for it right now.”

“Okay,” she shrugs slightly and grins happily at him. “I feel agreeable tonight—for some strange reason.”

“Do you? I wonder why, Ms. Strong. Could it be the gentle waves lapping at the houseboat that are lulling you into a good mood?”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Definitely. Okay, so
Little Britain
it is.”

Inching closer to her on the sofa, Ian flicks on the show with the remote and then angles his body so he could look at Ella.

“So now that you’ve had time to process it, what do you think about what you saw in the club?”

She shakes her head. “Still horrified. I just don’t understand why people put themselves through such humiliation and pain. The whole public aspect of it probably bothers me the most. Some things should be private—always.”

“Hmm, for some people, yes. Not for others.”

“Why did that girl let them hurt her like that? That’s just plain crazy.”

“When a person joins the club, he or she agrees to certain conditions. Discipline is one of them.”

“Doms
, too?”

“To a lesser extent, but yes. Everyone needs to respect the rules of the club. They’re there to keep it safe and enjoyable for all.”

“If it’s such a serious transgression to ignore a safe word, why’d they let that Dom continue?”

“It was a complicated situation but normally a person doing that would automatically be kicked out. To ignore a safe word… well, it amounts to a criminal assault and the sub could have reported it to the police and brought the house down on the club. But he chose not to.”

“He? The sub was a he?”

“M
mmhmm. From what I gather, the Dom in question had a long-time sub—his girlfriend—to whom he was very much attached. The male sub somehow connived to get the girl to leave her Dom—I don’t know the exact details. Needless to say, the Dom was pissed off, to say the least. He ran into the male sub one evening at the club, told him he deserved a whipping, and the male sub agreed to take one. I suppose it began as more of a negotiated scene than an assault. When it started getting rough, the sub used his safe word and instead of stopping everything, the Dom gagged him and kept going. It took a while for someone to hear him using the safe-word signal for a gagged sub.

“What the m
ale sub did, getting between a Dom and his sub, was rather inexcusable and since the male sub didn’t care to pursue it, the club owners gave Jared—that’s the Dom’s name—the choice. He opted for the whipping.”

“Must have been horrible. Was it done at the club?”

“Oh, yes. They scheduled it for a Thursday, so the club wouldn’t be full but when the news went out, everyone and his brother showed up for the spectacle. It was packed to capacity, so I hear. Not only that, my friend told me it was the first time in his experience that all other play stopped so everyone could watch the whipping. Had to be intense.”

“Why would they all want to watch it? Does everyone dislike Jared?”

“Not at all. He’s popular at the club.” He pauses. “To answer your question, it probably drew a crowd because it was a Dom getting whipped, as opposed to a sub. It’s unusual enough to make a stir. Plus, whippings never happen without a safe word so that made it highly unusual.”

“Were there any rules?”

“Probably just the common sense ones that there should be no permanent scarring and obviously it had to stop short of the mark of requiring a hospital visit or medical intervention of any kind.”

Ella shudders. “I thought the pony was disgusting. What diseased mind thought that one up?”

“Actually that one, with variations, has been around since the Roman Empire—of course the one they used ended up being fatal, with limbs being dislocated and that sort of thing. Our Roman friends were a bloodthirsty bunch—lead in the water will do that. Then a similar device was popular during the Inquisition. There was one used doing the Colonial War. They called it riding the rail. Another one used in the Civil War was employed in conjunction with weights to increase the fun. The one in the club is fairly mild in that the sharp edge is just the narrow part of the wood, rather than an actual point, the way the torture was originally intended.” He glances at her. “Still must be rather unpleasant, no doubt.”

Ella smiles impishly. “How do you happen to know so much about it, Ian?”

“I was probably as disturbed as you when I first saw it—prompted me to do some research on the device. Luckily, it’s not often used at the club.”

She puts her plate on the coffee table. “Well,” she says, snuggling up to him, “Thank God for small favors. Now, let’s talk about something infinitely more pleasant, such as how it’s possible for a man to be as beautiful as you are, Mr. Blackmon?”

I hear his sharp intake of breath when I ask why he is so beautiful. Did he really expect the same shy girl of last year? So much life has happened to me in the last twelve months—that girl is no more, not that she really ever was.

Will he like the new me? In truth, I was never really that shy, easily flustered girl he thought me—it was just that he completely intimidated me. Still does. His is a very commanding presence. In addition, he’s rich, handsome, powerful, and smart. Oh, and tall. How could someone not be intimidated? In addition to all of his other overwhelming attributes, his dominant tendencies tend to cower me. It’s up to me now to ensure he doesn’t know the effect he has on me—he may try to use it against me. But all alone with my private thoughts, I can admit how much his dominance turns me on. And I sort of hate that it does.

I don’t want to be submissive. Even the word pisses me off. Centuries of subjugation will do that to a girl: women are kind of sensitive about any show of weakness, or any masculine show of force. Well, most of us anyway, but certainly not all those women in scanty clothes at the club.

Okay, I don’t get that at all. Maybe it’s because I’m sexually naïve? Or maybe I’m just built differently… but I just don’t find pain erotic and I don’t understand anyone who does. But damn: that club was sure jam-packed Friday night with people who do.

I must accordingly concede one point to him: sexually, I like his being in control—at least my body likes it, responding instantly to his commands. Matter of fact, it’s damn irritating how my body betrays my mind—he’ll do something and I’ll tell him I don’t like it and then he touches me—you know where—and instantly knows otherwise. So unfair.

So here we sit, in his beautiful new living room on his beautiful new houseboat, watching a silly British comedy, of all things. So not Ian Blackmon. He’s laughing at the show—a sketch about an overweight support group. He must feel my eyes on him because he swivels his attention from the television and looks over, catching me staring.

For a long minute he just looks into my eyes and I try like hell not to break first. But I do. Of course.

He suddenly stands and holds out his hand. “Come.”

“Where are we going?”

“I thought a steam shower would be nice.”

“First give me the unabbreviated house tour.” I place my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. Smiling, he leads me first to the kitchen.

His new houseboat is charming and relatively simple, though luxurious. The floors are a dark gleaming wood throughout. The walls are all done in Venetian plaster, with bronze old-world style fixtures. The kitchen is state of the art, naturally, since he does so much cooking—not.

Upstairs, each bedroom—and there are three—has its own en suite bath. The guest rooms are not large but comfortable, however, the master is sumptuous, and leads to the balcony I spied from outside. Inside the room, across from the sleigh bed, are a wood-burning fireplace and a magnificent Persian rug gracing the wood floor. The bath is done in Carrera marble subway tile from floor to ceiling and the furnishings are all dark wood with brushed nickel fixtures. There’s a huge double steam shower and a big, rectangular whirlpool tub. Very masculine but the height of luxury as far as baths go.

“Bath or shower?” he asks.

“I’d prefer a shower, if you don’t mind.”

“A shower it is then.” He reaches in and turns on multiple sets of showerheads that protrude all the way down each wall. “After you, Madame.”

I slip off the robe and step into the shower. The water is steaming hot, too hot for me, and as I move to retreat a step, I run into a wall. Of man.

“Not so fast.”

I can feel his enormous erection pressing into my back and it stops me dead in my tracks. “It’s too hot, Ian.”

“Give it a moment. You’ll get used to it.”

Reaching for the shower gel, he soaps up his hands and begins to wash my back… and everything else.

The water is still hot enough to scald but I am getting used to it. Why do men like such hot water? My father is like that, too. The thought of my father right now where I am is disturbing so I banish him from my brain. It’s my turn to wash Ian and as I do, I once again marvel at his physique. “How many hours a week do you spend working out?” I finally ask.

“Generally, two to three hours about four times a week.”

“That’s a lot. When do you find time?”

He shrugs dismissively. “My trainer comes to me at the office during the week and we get together one weekend day every other week.”

“Hmmm. What kind of work-out?”

“Kickboxing, running, some weight training. I don’t want to bulk up too much—just keep my stamina high and the fat off.” He grins. “So far, so good.”

“Not bad,” I say with a smirk, as my hands travel from his throat down, washing him slowly and thoroughly and seeing evidence of his enjoyment grow bigger before my eyes.

We make love twice more before we fall asleep. Ian has mostly kept the kink out of the bedroom tonight—I suppose the whipping is ever-present in both of our minds. Still, with his overpowering personality, he yet
manages to exert control over me in some measure and I find I don’t mind it. The last time we were together I felt I was tolerating the whole thing. Now, for whatever reason, I actively like it. The idea of submitting to him turns me on, makes everything seem hotter. This night has been one of the best of my life and I don’t want it to end.

But despite how happy I feel right at the moment, I realize that nothing’s actually changed between us. If he wants me long-term at all, it’s as a submissive, which is no commitment at all—I mean, what do I get out of it but a broken heart at the end of a rutted road?

When I open my eyes the next morning, I glance over and see that I’m alone in the bed. The sun is high enough to stream in through the windows, reminding me that I never let Mariah know where I was. I’m not worried though, for Mariah surely can figure out where I ended up. My immediate need is a shower but my toiletries are in my bag downstairs. Hopefully I can get it before Ian sees me since I look terrible right now. Quickly, I wrap a sheet around my body and go in search of my bag. On the stairs, I hear Ian’s voice in a one-sided conversation: he must be on the phone. He sounds angry.

“I don’t give a damn, Jonas. It’s not going to happen. Get on the phone with Keppler now
and make sure he understands our position. We are not going down with this one, no fucking way. What else?

“Who? You’ve got to be kidding me? How the hell did she
get your number? No. Do nothing; say nothing. Just ignore it and let’s hope it goes away by itself. I’m going to try to enjoy my weekend now, if that’s okay with you? Fine. Till Monday then.”

Timidly, I step downstai
rs, hoping I could get the bag and get back up before he spots me.

“Ariel. Good morning.”

I stop short, feeling sneaky. It also doesn’t escape me that he called me Ariel again. Last night I was Ella. “Good morning. Is everything okay?”

“It will be. Sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. I just want to take a quick shower.”

“Ah. Are we still on for the car ride today?”

I nod my assent, feeling very shy all of a sudden. Last night I did every imaginable thing with this man and yet I have the nerve to stand here this morning with blushing cheeks? Gives new meaning to the term cheeky.

He nods
too, smiling. “Good. I’ll take you home to get changed. In the meantime, I’ve left a tee-shirt on the chair in the bedroom for you to wear over that sexy bra. Come down when you’re ready for breakfast.”

I stand there stupefied. “You made breakfast?”

He raises his left brow. “I take exception to your implication, Ariel. It’s extremely sexist of you to automatically assume that I can’t cook because I’m a man.”

“Not because you’re a man,” I say, shaking my head. “Just because you’re you and you always have staff doing everything for you. This is a new side of Ian Blackmon that I’ve not seen before.”

“I’m glad you can see I’m multifaceted. If you must get technical, perhaps
cook
is not the most appropriate verb to use in terms of what I did for breakfast.”

I cock my head. “Is
heat
more appropriate?”

His lips twitch. “I think
bought
would probably suit best.”

“Aha. I knew it!” I giggle, strolling over to my bag and snatch it up. “I’ll be down in five.”

Before I can leave the room, he makes a sudden lunge for me, catching my arm and yanking me close to his body. “When you giggle it does things to me and, besides, you look too delectable not to manhandle this morning, Ella.”

Oh, good, we’re back to Ella. He nuzzles my neck, holding me tightly. “It’s incredibly nice to see you wake up in this house—you’ve christened it for me, baby.”

I lean into him and inhale that delicious Ian Blackmon scent. Mmm. Just as I’m burrowing in and getting comfortable, he smacks me on the butt—hard. “Okay, off with you now before I forget about breakfast and eat you instead.”

I gasp, unsure if I’m gasping at the hard smack or his dirty words. I sling my bag over my shoulder and with a haughty look thrown back at him, make my way upstairs to
shower and get dressed. I hear him laughing in my wake and my heart feels happy and full to listen to such wonderful music.

I end up spending the whole weekend with Ian and can only use superlatives to describe it. By Sunday night, I’m feeling depressed, knowing that it’s time to say goodbye. We can’t make any future plans—for one thing, I no longer live in Portland and have no idea whatsoever where I’ll be living. For another, Ian never gives me any direction in terms of where this thing between us may be heading.

But he also seems a bit out of sorts when the weekend rolls to its close. He drives me back to Mariah’s, both of us brooding and silent, only the music softly playing. Beck is the only one vocalizing his feelings in the tiny car.

When he pulls in front, he reaches over and presses the ignition off. “So,” he angles his body toward me, “do you have any idea as to when you’ll know where you’ll be landing?”

I shake my head. “No idea. Right now I’m looking for either a doctoral program or an internship of some sort—whichever one grabs my attention first.”

“What kind of internship?”

We’d avoided discussing anything of this nature all weekend, possibly for this reason. “Not sure yet. I was thinking maybe of trying to work with an historian researching a book. Or maybe a television show, perhaps something associated with PBS. The other alternative is to go the academic route. Maybe teach as an adjunct professor while I scout out the right doctoral program. I’m just not sure.”

“Why were you in L.A.?”

“Honestly? I didn’t know where else to go. The unexpected windfall from the book provided me with a lot of options… but in giving me all those choices, it makes decisions considerably more difficult. And I’m indecisive by nature.”

“Could have fooled me, Ella. You seem exceedingly directed to me.” He reaches over and caresses my chin, his fingers butterfly soft. “I’d like to see you again soon. Is that a possibility?”

“Yes. I’m not going anywhere for the next two weeks, at least.”

“Next weekend? Can you stay with me again?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice so faint and breathless I’m surprised he hears me. But he does and smiles in response, kisses me softly.

“Good night, Ella. Thank you for a wonderful weekend. Come, I’ll walk you to the door.”

So now I have a week to think, to mull, to obsess—before I see him again. First things first: it’s time to face certain truths and the biggest one is that, for better or for worse, I’m in love with Ian and I have been probably since the day he strode into Archipelago all those months ago.

I also need to contemplate all the drastic changes I’ve seen in him in the past few weeks. The radically important question for me is whether or not these changes are real and going to last? Has he truly evolved or is he playing at something? With Ian, I never can tell.

When I met him, he was so… distant; perhaps inaccessible is the right word. He held himself apart from others, locking himself away in that ivory tower of his, the glass bubble set high up in the clouds, looking down on everyone else, both literally and metaphorically. He had staff to do everything for him—to keep him at a remove from everyone else in the world and provide a protective buffer zone between him and daily, messy life: grocery shopping, car parking, errands—all these activities wherein one might actually have to interact with other human beings. I snort, thinking it’s surprising he bathed and dressed himself. Wonder why he didn’t have a personal valet to do it for him, a Mr. Bates-type staff member?

Even the most intimate of encounters—sexual relationships—he’d conduct within the strict confines of BDSM. One doesn’t need to be a psychologist to see why he found that lifestyle attractive, perhaps even necessary. Let’s face it—he’s a young, healthy male who wants sex. But he doesn’t want emotional entanglement. What better way to get one without the other than by restraining your partner—both literally and figuratively—from getting too close?