Three and a Half Weeks(8)

I tried picturing myself in the role. I couldn’t. How could I be around this handsome, thrilling man and have no rights of claim to him? He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, didn’t want one. He was seeking a sexual partner, the latest one in a long line of them. I wanted a lover, a confidant—if I got lucky, maybe even a soulmate.

I was forced to make a painful decision. Even though I barely knew him, it was truly difficult to make and it hurt my heart, knowing I was shutting the door to ever seeing that glorious man again: his endearing grin, his beguiling eyes, the way his ass looked so bitable in well-fitting suit trousers.

The next day handmade chocolates arrived in a sterling silver box with an invitation to again join him for dinner.

Instead of accepting, I forced myself to send him a text message, begging off. Even if he weren’t so mesmerizing, it would be dangerous. I have a bad habit of being able to be talked into just about anything by just about anyone. I always expected to one day find myself on the six o’clock news as the stupid friend who leaped off a bridge, sat on a train track, bungee jumped into a cliff, or whatever, because her friends told her to do it. I could just see myself, in traction in the hospital, both eyes black and blue, the television news camera right in my purple, pulpy face, whining, “My friends told me it would be fun!”

I knew I needed to walk away from Ian Blackmon. He didn’t want what I wanted and he never would. I wanted a mate, someone with whom to grow intimate, share secrets, and enjoy simple things together, like good music or wine or a fat, cuddly puppy. Someone with whom to laugh and cry, have important discussions about current events, curl up and spoon in the cold, dark night. A boyfriend to introduce to my friends and family, to be seen out in public with, and to have the right to drape my arm around his waist whenever the urge took me.

He wanted a sex slave, an unequal partner to submit to him in every way possible, a woman who wanted nothing more out of her life than to please him.

I wouldn’t mind pleasing him; in fact, I would damn well love to please him, in every way possible. I’d gladly give myself to him, body and soul. But I wanted him to love to please me, too. And therein lies the rub.

Ian Blackmon was dangerous—to me, my tender heart, my mental wellbeing, especially. I’d known him for ten minutes and I already felt attached to him. What would happen to me in a month? A year? He could destroy me, break me into a million little pieces, kill me with a thousand cuts.

Saying goodbye by text was shitty, I concede, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it in person. Simply stated, staring into those penetrating eyes of his would preclude me from saying no to anything he suggested and, really, that wasn’t good for my health.

The message itself was short and simple:



Ian,

Thanks for a great time. I enjoyed getting to know you further (much further) and the tour of your lovely home as well as the exhilarating evening sail. I enjoyed other aspects of our time together, too.

I don’t think we’ll be seeing one another again but I do want you to know that I very much appreciated all the attention you showed me. I’d wish you good luck in your life but it seems you already have plenty of it. I don’t know what else to say.

Ella



I cried when I wrote it, knowing I was doing something irrevocable when I hit send. When would I ever meet another powerful, enigmatic man like Ian? Probably never. I drew my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me in a sorry facsimile of affection, and waited for his response.

When he didn’t reply to my text, I thought a.) he wasn’t near his phone and he’d see it later, or b.) he readily accepted my farewell and was moving on, casting his eye about for the next sex slave candidate. What did I expect anyway? I couldn’t be important to him, not this early in the game. If ever.

Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang. There he was standing at the door to my apartment, looking as delectable as ever, his hair windblown, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, with his tie in his hand. He smelled like fresh laundry.

“Come for a drive with me,” he said, his deep voice like endorphins to my brain, but his pretty eyes held uncertainty.

“Um, I’m not dressed,” I looked down at the yoga pants and ripped tee I was wearing. “I wasn’t planning on going out again today.”

“May I come in, then?”

“Sure.” I backed up a few feet to allow him entrance. It was strange having the larger-than-life Ian Blackmon, a man recognized in public, in our small, humble apartment. Now I felt happy that Mariah had replaced the old laminate countertops with a beautiful slab of black granite only two months ago. Gesturing to the stools at the kitchen counter, I said, “Have a seat: I’ll go throw some clothes on and we could go for that drive.” I then scurried out of the room, padding barefoot down the hall, in a rush to get to my bedroom. I wanted to hurry him out of the condo before he could work his magic on me again.