He stepped over to the wall and selected an implement. He knew it should be the flogger—Ella was far from ready for the heavy stuff. Even a flogger might be pushing it. But despite knowing it was a very bad idea, his hand reached for the single tail—his favorite whip and the one he used to use on Kira.
The first lash caught her unaware and she shrieked loudly. “No screaming, Ella. Just counting. I expect you to take it with grace. If you cannot do so, then use your safe word. Those are your two options.” He struck her again.
She never counted but she attempted to take more than she should have. Well before he got to ten, her knees gave out and she would have fallen to the ground if she weren’t tied to the crossbars. She managed to spit out her safe word, from a throat parched and running on shallow respiration, both caused by panting. The shock of hearing her safe word catapulted him back into his right mind and he threw down the whip, rushing to untie her from the cross.
Even as he carried her to the bedroom, he knew it was all over: she’d leave him for certain. His initial reaction was a quiet acceptance; he believed it was probably a good thing in the long term. No emotional attachments, he reminded himself… and Ella was starting to wiggle her way under his skin—with her alabaster complexion, her perfectly curvy ass, and her sharp wit, she was invading his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night.
But as he gazed down at her china-doll perfection, he felt crushed at the mere thought of never seeing her again… and he felt like weeping. He was overcome with grief—grief at Kira’s premature death and grief at how he’d just killed a young, tender relationship that was increasingly important to him.
Did it ever matter what kind? Grief was grief. And it hurt like fucking hell.
He gently laid her on the bed, soothed the red welts on her skin with a numbing salve, cooed to her, and brought her a shot of brandy and some ibuprofen.
“Ella, I’m sorry,” he whispered into her neck, wet from her tears. He could hear the anguish in his own voice.
She ignored him, turning away from him.
“Please don’t hate me; I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t. You may need this lifestyle, Ian… but I don’t. I can’t.”
Despite everything, she still allowed him to touch her. He made love to her very gently, trying to show her how deeply his feelings for her ran. Afterward, well...
She got up with obvious difficulty, hissing when the movement pulled on her back. His whip had left one stripe across her shoulder blades and several on her backside and upper thighs. Seeing his whip marks on his women usually made him hard; now, they just made him sick.
“I’d like you to avoid making any decisions until you’ve had time to calm down. Please, Ella?”
“I’m oh so calm, Ian.” She was standing with her back to the floor-length mirror, head turned to survey the damage. “Will these leave scars?”
“Of course not! I would never mark you like that.” He was truly affronted.
“Oh, silly me. Are these small signs of affection then?”
He stopped talking at that point. Her snide remarks told him he would get nowhere with her tonight. The shy salesgirl who entranced him was gone; in her place was a strong, pissed-off woman.
Her wits about her again, she grabbed for her clothes and dressed hurriedly, occasionally grimacing when it hurt. She had to go, she told him; she had an early morning tomorrow. He was adamant about driving her home. She was vehement in her refusal. They ultimately compromised: his driver would take her home. When Ian said goodnight to Ella, he knew in his gut it was really goodbye. She merely nodded grimly, turned on her heel, and walked out of his life.
He nearly cried himself to sleep that night, like a child. His emotions were all over the place and he didn’t know what to do about it. He began to feel her absence the moment she strode out the door, taking with her his happiness, his contentment, even his pride.
For three days he forced himself not to call her, not to show up on her doorstep. He allowed himself to send flowers once and that was all. Giving her time to think—and hopefully miss him as he missed her—was his intention. He never expected her to disappear.
On the fourth day, he called her cell phone and received his first shock: it was disconnected. A half hour later, he stood on the steps of her condo’s front entrance. When he knocked on the apartment door, he had an awful premonition but he refused to allow it into the light of day. It forced itself through anyway: something told him he wouldn’t see Ella again.
Mariah answered the door. “Yes?”
Relief. He cleared his throat. “Hello. I’m Ian Blackmon. I’m here to see Ella?”