“I’m going to give you more. Thirty this time. Count.”
The pain is back. It’s dull.
“One.”
More spanking.
“Ten.”
The pain is above the surface.
“Eighteen.”
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
“Twenty-five.”
I’m crying. I’m sad. Not because he’s hitting me, but because I’m sick.
“Twenty-eight.”
There is no darkness. I can see in color. I’m crying hard—screaming, but I don’t ask him to stop. I need everything he promised me. I’m no longer drowning. The reprieve is overwhelming. I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
“Thirty,” I manage through a sob. I don’t want him to hit me anymore. I don’t want to be alone either. I want him. And he’s here.
“Talk to me, Love.” The tone of his voice is soothing, nurturing and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard as he unties my hands.
“I’m sorry!” I wail, unsure of what I’m particularly apologizing for. I guess for it all—my weakness, vulnerability, lack of control…the list is endless. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” For some reason, the thought of him hating me for dragging him into the cesspool that is my life is worse than the darkness and the pain.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he assures me, curling me in his arms. My hands fist around his T-shirt—clinging for dear life. I bury my face in his chest and sob, just letting him hold me. He’s the only man that’s ever done it. I can’t imagine anyone’s arms feeling as good as his.
“Calm down, Love. I’m not going anywhere.” His words break through my panic and I loosen my grip. He’s here. I’m here. It’s just the two of us. There’s no darkness…no pain…no nothing.
Time passes, and he holds me. I don’t know how long it’s been, but at some point my sobs die and my tears stop. I’ve kept my mind free of any thoughts that aren’t centered around the way he smells—masculine and clean like he’s freshly showered. Or the way he feels—strong, warm and protective.
“I’m not always like this,” I whisper to his chest. His arms tighten around me. “For years, I’ve found a way to cope. I’ve let people take advantage of me … hurt me. Then for days my focus was on healing. I found things to occupy my mind until I needed it again. But sometimes, I lose it. Sundays are always the worst.”
“Today’s not Sunday, Love.” My brow furrows at his words, but I remain silent. I was sure today was Sunday. But Bryce has no reason to lie to me. I guess the past several days I’ve been alone, time had somehow fused with the darkness—preventing me from distinguishing the difference between reality and imagination.
“Who helps you when you get like this?” I almost find humor in his question. It helps to soften the blow of the truth. But I feel so raw and open with him. There’s no point in sugarcoating the truth—not with Bryce.
“Nobody. It’s just me.” I feel him tense at my admission. “I try not to let it get this bad. It’s harder to bounce back.” It wasn’t very hard this time…
“You’re a strong woman. A helluva lot stronger than me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m weak.” Raising my head from his chest, I look him in the eye. “What kind of person lets people beat them? And not just allows it, but craves it. I feel like I can’t breathe without the pain. Do you know how damaged I am?”
Pushing my hair back from my face, he looks at me so appreciatively. Reverently. As if I’m something special. “We all need something, Love. For you it’s pain. For me it’s the club. You just have to find a way to manage it so it doesn’t control who you are. I can help you do that.”
“How?”
“Do you trust me?” The question is genuine, and I can see the apprehension on his face. He’s nervous about my answer. He shouldn’t be. He’s asked me twice, and both times I’ve given him the same response.
“Yes. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”
“Then let me help you.”
“You keep saying that, but how? I can’t be fixed, Bryce. I’ve tried everything.”
“Not everything.” He gives me a sideways, confident smile. “You don’t need to be fixed, babe. Because you’re not broken. You just need someone to teach you how to embrace who you are.”
I’ve never been good at riddles. He’s jumping around the “how” and straight to the “say yes.” I can’t lie though--telling me I’m not broken is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. It’s a lie, true. But that line alone is enough to have me agree to whatever he wants.
“Okay.” I shrug, as if we’re talking about something as simple as what’s for dinner rather than my life. “But I’m not calling you master.” I yawn loudly, ready to close my eyes and put an end to this nightmare that has taken a surprising turn to a wet dream.
Smirking, he plants a kiss on my forehead that warms me in places I didn’t know I could feel, before giving me a wink. “Good. Like I said, I’m not a dominant.”
Sure he’s not.
CHAPTER 18
There’s this constant buzzing in my ear. It’s annoying. I don’t have an alarm clock, so that can’t be it. But then I remember, I’m not home. I’m here—wherever in the hell “here” is—with him. Bryce.
Stretching, I hit the alarm with my hand, silencing it. I look around the small room that consists of four white walls, a bed and a dresser. It’s…efficient at best. The door is open, allowing me to see into the living room that’s just as boring as the bedroom. I notice a couch and a coffee table, but there is no décor, lamps, rugs or even a TV. The entire house is quiet and I wonder if Bryce is even here.
In search of a bathroom, I slide out of bed, feeling slightly sore as I do. My hands slide to my backside. The flesh is tender, warm and coated in some type of moisturizer. The spanking cream… I flush and my stomach flips at the thought of him taking care of me even as I slept.
I pull the sheet from the bed—wrapping it around me before slowly making my way to the living room. My ass isn’t the only thing that’s sore—my entire body feels sluggish. I feel like I’ve been drugged. Oh yeah… I guess a handful of Xanax will do that to you…
I find the bathroom situated right next to it. Inside, I discover every kind of toiletry item I could hope for—all brand new. What the hell is this place? Oh shit… What if I’m not the first woman he’s brought here to “help?”
“Good morning.” I nearly trip over my own feet at the sound of his voice. Then my knees turn to Jell-O when I look at him. He’s standing in the door—stretching his arms over his head as he grips the frame. He’s shirtless, big, sexy, barefoot…powerful.
“Morning.” I grip the sheet tighter to my chest—suddenly self-conscious now that he’s so close.
“I made coffee. Kitchen’s that way when you’re finished.” He juts his thumb in the direction of the kitchen, then smirks and disappears.
By the time I’ve used the bathroom, brushed my teeth and splashed freezing water on my face, I’ve asked myself at least a hundred times what in the hell I’m even doing here.
Still wearing a sheet, I make my way to the kitchen that is just as boring and standard as the rest of the house. The only thing that makes it interesting is him standing in it—shirtless, big, sexy, barefoot…powerful. I know, I’ve already said that.
On the small wooden table is a steaming cup of coffee, and a pack of cigarettes. I don’t even think about how weird it is, I just fire up and sip.
“You’re going to stay here with me a few days.”
I look at him over the top of my cup. “I have to work.”
“You’re taking a few days off.” Judging by his tone, there’s no point in arguing, so I don’t. And anyway, I did agree to this. After the hell I went through yesterday, I’m willing to try anything.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around the place once again. It doesn’t look very lived in.
“It used to be a safe house. Back in the eighties, the club had their hands in some shit that put a lot of people at risk. Club’s different now, so we just use it when we need it.”
“Like when you need to tie women up and spank them?”
He gives me a wicked grin. “Sometimes.”
I drop my eyes, contemplating on lighting another cigarette. “Have you done this before?”
“Yes.” His immediate answer comes as a surprise to me. I wasn’t expecting him to be so…honest.
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter. All you need to do is trust that I know what I’m doing. That’s the key here. Trust.” Was it his wife? Girlfriend? Another clubwhore? “Delilah? You listening to me?”
“You know…I am, but I really want to know who else you’ve done this for.” There’s no point in putting it off. My curiosity generally gets the better of me.
He shakes his head, smiling. “Will it make you feel better?”