Sex Retreat(34)

“And make it about you?” She balked at that. “It is about you, Brock. What you need and want is about your wants and needs. Not mine.”

“Ror—”

“Don’t you dare put this on Rory,” she snapped, shaking her index finger at him. “Rory made his position known early in our relationship. No, he didn’t want hard-core Dom-sub practices commencing under his nose. He didn’t like the idea of his wife wearing a collar with decorative locks, but he wasn’t opposed to role play.

“Let me remind you of something else. Rory has been present several times when we’ve played our parts and had a little fun with some light bondage stuff.”

“Damn it, Trixie! I’m not talking about a little tap on the ass here. We aren’t discussing frilly handcuffs under lock and key!” Brock grabbed hold of her shoulders and jerked her forward.

The force he used left her panting, almost drooling. She was turned on and realized why. It didn’t take a psychologist to put it all out there in black and white.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. They stared at one another and she remembered their exciting first night together. While she wouldn’t describe Brock as a forceful or powerful Dom, she’d always known what existed beneath the surface. She’d understood where his interests were and she’d accepted the fact that he had been deeply embedded in the lifestyle prior to meeting her.

Mitch was another card altogether. He existed in an entirely different deck. He was a powerful Dom with a reputation in the BDSM community. He’d frequented so many clubs in his early twenties that even her parents knew of his near-legendary reputation, a scary thought when she gave the fact much consideration.

“So this is about Mitch?”

“Yes.” He yanked his fingers through his short hair. “No.” He lifted his chin and looked out over the water. A faraway gaze marked its place in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Brock Sheldon, you know what you want. You know how to get it. If you’re afraid to ask, what kind of Dom are you? A retired Dom who is ready to come out of hiding or a wannabe who never really knew how to play alongside the big boys in the first place?”

He snarled. “Is that what you believe?”

“Prove me wrong.”





Chapter Fifteen




Brock had been out of the scene for years. His reasons for stepping away from Domination and submission didn’t carry any weight now. What mattered was that regardless of his timing, he realized what he needed in order to lead a fulfilling life.

He wanted the lifestyle. He needed Trixie to willingly submit and respect him as her Dominant.

Averting his gaze, he studied the private island where he’d taken Trixie’s virginity. They’d spent a romantic evening under the stars. Her first time, she later told him, was as close to perfect as perfect could’ve been, and while he had fond memories about their first lovemaking experience, he also remembered his share of challenges, too.

He’d longed to train her for submission, right from the start. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t made a detrimental error. Would there have been a Mitch again if Trixie had been schooled for submission and eager to please her Dom?

Probably not.

Brock wondered if Mitch felt the same and his mind returned to years past, that summer when everything came together then fell apart. Prior to Trixie’s abduction, Mitch had taken Trixie to a nearby kink club. He had already started the preliminary training, working his way toward the ultimate goal. He wanted Trixie to eagerly accept her role as a passionate submissive woman.

No one knew with absolute certainty why she ran away from him that night, but she ran. Then, the unthinkable happened. Trixie was abducted and no one knew exactly how much abuse she’d endured. She had no recollection of her early hours with Stephen Pratchert.

“To this day, something haunts me,” Brock finally said.

“What?” Trixie returned her toes to the water.

“You have always stood by the fact that you don’t remember what happened between you and Stephen. You refuse to talk about it. Why?” Brock clenched his fists and prepared for the worst. “I’ve asked you a dozen times and you always avoid the question.”

“Because I don’t remember, Brock.”

He shook his head. “You don’t want to remember.”

“Maybe that’s right,” she replied. “But I was checked out and even the physician’s assistant who saw me told you, I wasn’t sexually assaulted.”

“Something happened when you were alone with him,” Brock said. “I understood Mitch better than anyone. He might have had the forethought to bring along a syringe of Ketamine, but he wouldn’t have used it. He wouldn’t have killed Stephen if Stephen hadn’t told him something that made him a believer.”