She just stared at him. When he put it that way, it sounded so simple. So uncomplicated. And maybe for him it was.
“What did your dad do, to get himself booted?”
Mark swallowed his last bite of toast. “He didn’t cheat or anything, not that I know of. But he used to work a lot. He hated his job but needed it to pay the bills. And I know, on some level, he resented my mom getting pregnant and forcing him to settle down. That’s how he saw it, anyway. So he’d come home from work and take his anger out on her.”
He stared into his mug, swishing the coffee around. “He was never physically abusive or anything. He’d just come home pissed. If my mom didn’t have dinner on the table, he’d be pissed. If I was playing rock instead of jazz, he’d be pissed. He was pretty much just pissed all the time. So, one day he came home and Mom had packed up his shit.”
“Wow. Mark, I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. Dad went to counseling with her, moved back in. And then a few years later it happened again. And he came back again. It kind of became this five-year pattern.”
“Your mom must be very tolerant.”
He stared into the depths of his mug. “She is. But I know she feels guilty for making my dad quit his music to get a real job. Anyway, no marriage is perfect, that’s for sure.”
Ruby thought of all the “perfect” marriages she knew, and wondered if there actually was such a thing. Her benchmark couple, Meg and Emmett, seemed to be having issues. And Mark’s textbook family was anything but her ideal family. But they were all still together. Hell, even her own fucked-up parents were still together.
“I always wanted the perfect marriage,” she murmured.
He grinned. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Shut up,” she said jokingly. “I’m just now beginning to see there may be no such thing.” She drained her coffee and set her empty mug on the table.
“I know some lifestylers, total master/slave people. They live that way twenty-four seven. To most outsiders, these people would seem like complete freaks. But guess what? They are some of the happiest people I know.”
She scoffed. “Are you saying only BDSM people are truly happy?”
“Not at all. I’m saying people who are true to themselves have a better chance.”
“Does that mean if someone outed you as a dom, you’d roll with it? Let the tabloids have a field day?”
He shrugged. “It’s not exactly a secret. I don’t have any problem with those people who want to keep it in the closet, but I don’t put any of my own energy into doing so. It’s who I am.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so happy about people finding out about what I do with you, I’ll tell you that.” The thought of Claire knowing what her sister did behind closed doors made Ruby cringe.
“Because you haven’t accepted who you are yet. When you do that, you can make the right choice.”
“This,” she said, waving at the box in the corner, “is not who I am.”
“Right. Because the perfect woman would never want to be tied up, spanked, paddled.”
“Stop it.”
“Flogged, bound, whipped.” He put his coffee cup down.
“Mark…” She squirmed, the seat suddenly uncomfortable beneath her ass.
“Restrained.”
She slapped her hands flat on the Formica. “I don’t think that.”
He leaned over the table, his elbows sliding sideways as he came forward. “Tell me something, baby. When was the last time you actually felt perfect?”
Her skin burned hot with nerves. She knew the answer; it slammed into her with the force newfound truth always does, like a bag of rocks. Heavy and bruising.
The only time she’d even glimpsed that feeling of perfection was during her times with Mark. When she gave him her power, when they exchanged that energy. And it wasn’t perfection, necessarily, but fulfillment. Satisfaction. Completion. So many emotions, all rolled up into one.
She wondered if June Cleaver was secretly a domme behind closed doors. Maybe that explained why she was always so fucking happy.
The tinny strumming guitar music woke her. She glanced at the clock; it was past two in the morning and Mark wasn’t sleeping next to her. Pushing the covers aside, she got out of bed.
She’d fallen asleep naked in his arms, and she grabbed a silk robe off a hook as she walked into the hallway. She followed the low hum of not just the guitar, but also a melodic voice. Mark’s voice. He had a deep, husky tone that sent shivers straight up her spine.
She found him on the sofa, playing the old guitar her dad had left behind. He wore flannel pajama bottoms and glasses. The muscles in his long, strong arms flexed as he changed chords and strummed.