The Commitment(10)

"I don't control you so well, in case you didn't notice. With you, I'm a terrible Dom. I'd be laughed out of a dungeon if other Doms saw how much I'm wrapped around your little finger."

"What?" I said, laughing. "You're not wrapped around my finger. The other way around, Master."

"Ha," he said, shaking his head. "I'm convinced you call me Master to keep me happy. Kate, I'm usually much more firm with my subs than I have been with you. Other Doms would punish you far more than I have. They'd demand absolute obedience by now. No questions. No hesitation." He smiled sheepishly and turned to look me in the eye. "I'm a lousy Dom."

My heart squeezed a bit at that. "You're not happy with how things are between us?"

"Yes, of course I'm happy. Remember? Meat and potatoes all smothered in gravy?"

"I think you control me quite well."

He chuckled. "I can control you sexually fairly well, so far. But you made me break all my rules, Ms. Bennet, despite all my efforts to keep the parts of my life safely separate. You totally fazed me. I never thought I'd say it, but I enjoy you too much, especially when you resist me, question me. I'd do anything to keep you." He turned to me and smiled. "Love does that to you."

That sent a thrill through me. I fazed THE Drake Morgan, MD. Dr. Delish. Dr. D.

Master D loved me.

Master D, who went to dungeon parties, demonstrated the fine art of bondage and dominance to other aficionados. Who had sex with and dominated up to fourteen submissives in the past five years.

The thought of him tying up other women and having kinky sex with them made me jealous. I squashed the image down and took in a deep breath. Drake never let himself get close to his submissives. He did everything he could to ensure they remained merely responsive bodies for his pleasure. I was different. We had too much history.

To me, Drake had become this mix of love and sex. Intense pleasure. Intense emotion. Drake wanted submission from me – it was his kink, but he would have taken me any way he could get me. Now, sex and love were totally mixed up and would stay that way because we were going to Africa together and would be living together.

I was still catching my breath from the suddenness and surprise of it all. So much had changed in so little time…



The roads at that time of night were fairly clear and soon we arrived at his apartment building on 10th Avenue and West 23rd Street, a few blocks from the Hudson. A renovated building, his apartment was worth a couple million. From what I'd read when doing research for the story I wrote on philanthropy, it was one of the oldest residential buildings in Manhattan.

Drake parked the car in his parking spot and we walked to the gray stone building. The concierge greeted Drake, holding the door open for us. The elevator took us to the top floor and before we entered, he stopped.

"Here," he said and slipped an arm under one of mine, picking me up.

"What are you doing?"

He smiled as my arms went around his neck. "You should be carried the first time you enter my apartment."

"Drake!" I smiled into his neck as he carried me into the luxuriously appointed entry. As I expected, the apartment had rich dark woods throughout and had been decorated in grays with Persian carpets on wood floors. Every exterior wall had huge floor to ceiling windows.

We stood in the entryway that had doors leading off to other rooms. He turned to examine me.

"So," he said, his eyes hooded. "What's your first impression?"

"Are you going to put me down?"

He nestled his face in the crook of my neck.

"I don't know…" he murmured in my ear. "I kind of enjoy holding you like this. It brings out the Dom in me."

"But I want to see it!"

"You can see it anytime you want, Ms. Bennet. All you have to do is ask."

I glanced at his face and he was grinning. Finally, reluctantly, he let me slide out of his arms to a standing position. He threw his keys onto a plate on a circular table in the center of the room. I walked into the living room, which looked out onto the red-brick building across the street.

I took in a deep breath. The apartment even smelled of Drake's cologne. "It looks just like you," I said, turning in a circle. "Sleek, high end, rich, dark, cultured."

There was a formal dining room that had been converted into a music room, with a baby grand piano, several guitars, and a wall-to-wall bank of bookshelves. Framed black and white photographs of famous musicians lined one wall – Jimmy Page, Peter Frampton, Miles Davis, a very young and pouting Mick Jagger.

"Are these your father's?"

He nodded, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, watching as I walked around and examined his things.