The Dominant

Page 45

For once, silence wasn’t my enemy. It was a friend—allowing me time to reflect and think. I smelled my hand once more, certain I could catch her scent and letting myself ponder Paul’s optimism.
When I arrived home, Apollo rushed to me and sniffed me all over as soon as I entered the foyer. I squatted down and he licked my face, whining. Occasionally, he looked back to the door as if expecting Abby to enter.
“I know. I know you miss her.”
He whined again and pawed at me.
“Soon maybe,” I said, hoping for both of us that I was right.
She didn’t call on Monday. I spent the day in my office with my cell phone on my desk, waiting for it to ring, and I gave Sara explicit instructions to let me know the second Abby called.
It was okay, I told myself. She needed time. She had to think.
Kyle called and invited me to attend the high school play he was in the coming weekend. I agreed to go and ran over and over in my mind whether or not I should ask Abby to go.
Yes. No. Maybe.
I slept restlessly that night.
Tuesday wasn’t any better. I went home that afternoon feeling a bit dejected, knowing every day that passed meant either she wouldn’t call or else she’d tell me she didn’t want me around when she did call.
My phone rang right after I’d eaten a quick dinner and was getting ready to take Apollo out for the night.
Abby King, the caller ID said.
My heart thumped madly, and I hit the connect button with a trembling finger.
“Hello,” I said.
“Nathaniel,” she said, voice crisp and no-nonsense. “It’s me.”
I know, I wanted to yell. I know, trust me.
“Abby,” I said instead. Tuesday night was good, right? It was a good sign. Tuesday would be much better than Thursday or even Wednesday.
“There’s a sushi bar down the street from the library,” she said. “Will you meet me there for lunch tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I said. She wanted to meet, talk, and have lunch. That had to be good. “What time?”
“Noon.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
That settled it—Tuesday was my most favorite day of the week.
I arrived at the restaurant at five to twelve and looked around for an empty table. Then I found the most wonderful surprise—Abby was already there, had a table, and was waiting for me.
Waiting for me.
I straightened my tie and walked directly to her. Her eyes followed me the entire time, and my heart leaped when she smiled at me.
Fucking lucky-ass bastard.
“Abby,” I said, sitting across from her.
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Nathaniel.”
I smiled even brighter. So far, so good.
The waiter walked up to our table and took our orders. Abby knew exactly what she wanted and ordered her rolls with an air of authority.
I took a deep breath after handing the waiter my menu and looked at her. “It’s going to be a beautiful spring.”
“I can’t wait for the cherry trees to start blooming. They’re my favorite.”
See? I told myself. You can do small talk.
“I have a few at the house. Apollo loves to roll around in the blossoms once they fall.”
She laughed. “I can see him doing that.”
“It’s a sight to behold,” I said, but I wasn’t talking about Apollo. I was talking about her. Her sitting across from me, chatting easily, laughing. Looking beautiful.
“Apollo’s one of a kind.”
“That he is.”
“How’s work?”
“Just me doing my part to save the global economy. How’s the library? Anything exciting happening?”
She sat up straighter. “I’m organizing a poetry reading. Classics—Dickinson, Cummings, Frost. You know, all those boring things no one ever reads?”
She was teasing me.
I loved it.
“Then you do the people of New York a great service by ensuring the poetry greats are kept alive.”
“I don’t know about that, but it’s really fun.”
“Do you read them all at the same session?” I asked, having never been to a poetry reading.
“Sometimes,” she said. “But I’ve decided to split this one up. We’ll give each poet their own reading, taking place over the next few weeks. Dickinson’s up first—next Wednesday. I might even be able to drag Felicia along this time.”
“Felicia,” I said. “Jackson talks of nothing else. How is she?”
“Fine. I decided to let her live, even though she embarrassed me by playing that song at the party.”
“Very cordial of you.”
“After all”—her eyes sparkled with amusement—“she wasn’t the one who called my name in front of hundreds of people.”
She was still teasing me.
“In that case,” I said, “I commend you once more on your cordiality. This time for allowing me to escape with my life.”
“It was nothing. I’m rather glad you did it. Now, that is.”
The teasing tone had all but left her voice, and I knew it was time to talk about more serious matters.
“Before we talk about anything else,” I said, “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay,” she said warily.
“I need you to understand that I am in therapy to work on my intimacy issues and my emotional well-being. Not my sexual needs.”
My doctor, along with Paul, and to a certain extent, Todd, had helped me see my lifestyle was completely acceptable. Why I needed that assurance, I didn’t know, but I felt better having it.
“I am a dominant,” I told her. “And I will always be a dominant. I cannot and will not give up that part of me. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy other . . . flavors. On the contrary, other flavors make for good variety.” I wanted that variety with her. “Does that make sense?”
“Yes. I would never expect you to give up that part of yourself. It would be like denying who you are.”
She understood. She got it.
“Right,” I said.
“Just like I can’t deny my submissive nature.”
She really got it.
I smiled. “Exactly.”
The waiter interrupted us briefly to deliver our teas. I felt better getting that part out, knowing we were both on the same page, that if we ever did get back together, she knew what to expect.
Yet there was still one puzzle piece missing . . .
“I’ve always wondered, and you don’t have to tell me,” I said, “but how did you find out about me in the first place?”
She glanced down at her tea.
What? It was a reasonable question, wasn’t it?
At once, she looked up and waved her hand. “Oh, please. Everyone knows about Nathaniel West.”
She didn’t want to tell me something. That called for drastic measures. “Maybe,” I said. “But not everyone knows he shackles women to his bed and works them over with a riding crop.”
She choked on her tea.
“You asked for it,” I said.
“I did.” She wiped her mouth. “Completely.”
My swift response relieved the tension somewhat, but the question remained.
“Will you answer?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. “I first took real notice of you when you saved my mother’s house.”
So my actions had not gone unnoticed. I felt positively delighted.
“Until then, you were only a man I read about in the society pages,” she continued, “a celebrity. But then you became more real.”
The waiter brought our food and I felt annoyed at his interruption. Abby had just admitted that she had known of me and followed me in the papers for years. I needed more from her, had to know the details. The information shocked me. Was it possible she’d been waiting for me nearly as long as I’d been waiting for her?
She prepared her soy sauce as she talked. “Your picture was in the paper for something not long after that—I can’t remember what for now.”
Who cared what my picture was in the paper for? My picture was always in the paper. How had she found out about me? About my lifestyle?
“Anyway,” she said. “My friend Samantha stopped by while I was reading the paper. I made some comment about how nice you looked and wondered what you were really like.”
She had? From a picture in the paper?
“She got all edgy and shifty,” she said.
“Samantha?” I asked. I thought back quickly, but couldn’t remember a Samantha in the community.
“An old friend of mine. I haven’t talked to her in years.”
I ran through my memories again, but still couldn’t place a Samantha. How had she heard of me?
“She went with her boyfriend to a party or a gathering or something, I’m not sure of the proper name, for dominants and submissives. They were dabblers.”
Of course—a play party.
“Ah,” I said. “And I was there.”
If this Samantha knew who I was, I must have been a participant or instructor. Apparently she had not wanted Abby to get involved with the likes of me and felt so strongly about it that she’d broken confidentiality. Ordinarily this news would have made me furious, but under the circumstances, I suppose now I should probably have thanked her for the introduction.
“Yes,” she confirmed, “and she told me you were a dominant. She said she shouldn’t tell me and swore me to absolute secrecy, and I haven’t told anyone—well, except for Felicia, when I had to. But Samantha didn’t want me to get some romantic Prince Charming fantasy going with me as your Cinderella.”
All those wasted years. All those years I’d longed for Abby and, miracle of miracles, she’d been longing for me.
How was it possible?
“Did you?” I asked, needing to know exactly what she thought of me.
“No,” she said offhandedly. “But I did fantasize about being shackled to your bed while you worked me over with a riding crop.”
Holy f**king hell.
Now I was the one choking on my tea.
She looked at me with innocent eyes. “You asked for it.”
I laughed. Abby wanted me. Had wanted me for years.
And she was teasing me about it.
“I did,” I said. “Completely.”
Completely and one hundred percent asked for it.
“I didn’t do anything but fantasize for a long time,” she said.
Fuck. She’d fantasized about me. For years. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.
Her eyes dropped to her plate.
“Then I asked around. Several of Samantha’s friends still live in the area, so it didn’t take long to find Mr. Godwin. I held on to his name for months before I did anything.”
The timing had been perfect. Had she talked to Godwin earlier, I would have been with Melanie and her application would have been ignored. I sucked in a breath at the realization of how close we’d come to never meeting.
She shrugged. “I eventually knew I had to call him, though—anything was better than . . .”
“Unfulfilled sex,” I said, still thinking about Melanie.
“Or just plain unfulfilled in my case.” She looked up as if needing reassurance. “I couldn’t have a normal relationship with a guy. I just . . . couldn’t.”
Of course, I knew exactly what she meant. Thankfully, due to my talks with Paul, I could help.
“I believe there are varying degrees of normal, Abby,” I said. “Who really gets to define what normal looks like anyway?”
Because never again would I let anyone else define me. Not even myself. I refused to allow Abby to have the same doubts I’d struggled with for so long.
“Frankly,” she said, “I’ve done what’s normal in the eyes of everyone else and it’s boring as hell.”