“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks softly, as if she knows where my mind has gone.
I level a look at her. “Would I really be sitting here with you if I was with someone?”
She gives a shy half-shrug. “A girl just likes to be sure.”
I settle my arms around her. “You can be sure, käraste.”
“You could see other people, though. I mean, that’s what people do, right? It’s casual until decided otherwise.”
I study her, feeling puzzled, wondering if there’s something she’s not telling me. “Is there anyone I should know about?”
“Oh, god no.” She chews her lip, looking stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t like you or that I’m seeing other people. I remember what you said, about not saving things for other men. I’m not. I’m just, um, inexperienced at this sort of thing. Whatever this is.”
“This is very serious to me. If I expect things of you, you can be damn sure I expect them of myself. I’m not saving anything for anyone else. There’s only you. Bara du.”
I’m so sick of drama for the sake of drama. Lacey might struggle, but I can tell she enjoys peace as much as I do. She just has to fight for it, and I want to fight with her.
“Thank you,” she says softly, twining her fingers through mine again. “That makes me very happy to hear.”
“Good. Because I meant what I said. I always want everything.”
Shy pleasure shines in her eyes, and a possessive thrum goes through me. Soon.
She puts her hand up and strokes a finger down my cheekbone and along my jaw. “You would have made an excellent Viking warrior, you know,” she tells me. “Do you ever regret that you were born now and not 900 AD, when you could have set forth across the seas in a longship with all your raider comrades, and demanded tributes of gold on pain of death?”
“Who, me? I’m far too soft and bookish. I would have been a scribe.” Her fingers trail across my lips, and I nip playfully at them with my teeth.
“Do you want me to start calling you runemaster?” she asks with a giggle.
“No. Daddy is just fine. What about you, ever wish you were a Vestal virgin in Rome or the spoiled daughter of an olive oil merchant in Ancient Greece?”
“Always,” she answers quickly. Far too quickly for my liking.
I catch her chin and guide her face gently up until she’s looking at me. “Hey. I think you’re wonderful just as you are. When you’re happy, I’m happy. Do you believe me?”
Lacey takes a deep breath and lets it out heavily, as if she’s struggling beneath the weight of the world. “I believe you, daddy. I’m trying to be happy, but I have to do something I’m dreading.”
Chapter Twelve
Lacey
Wednesday. It’s fast become my most hated day of the week. Two Wednesdays have gone by since I’ve started being submissive to Mr. Blomqvist and I’ve not mentioned it to Doctor Loftin. It’s been difficult because I’m leaving out the thing that’s taking up a huge, happy space in my head. Doctor Loftin can tell that my mood has improved, and I know she’s suspicious as to why. Beyond saying, Is there anything else you’d like to add? though, she hasn’t outright asked me what’s up.
The morning after Mr. Blomqvist puts clamps and weights on my nipples, I fidget my way through most of my session with Doctor Loftin.
She prods me here and there about my routine and whether anything has changed, and I pretend to think carefully and tell her about the various work assignments I’ve been given.
Finally, where there are just five minutes left, I run my thumbnail along the seam of the armrest and say, “I’ve become intimate with Mr. Blomqvist.”
I was going to say my boss, but the point isn’t that he’s my boss. It’s that we’re sleeping together. Well, not sleeping together. We’re doing things together. Wonderful, crazy things.
Annoyance flits over Doctor Loftin’s face, and she glances at the clock. “Is that what you call him? Mr. Blomqvist?”
The question sits heavy in the air, and I know she’s wondering why I don’t call him Stian if we’re intimate. Actually, I call him daddy. “Sometimes.”
Doctor Loftin closes her notebook with a suppressed sigh. “All right. We’ll pick this up next week.”
I leave her office knowing she’s irritated and disappointed in me, but I did it, didn’t I? I told her, and she’s got a whole hour to look forward to next week in which she can ask open-ended and judgy questions about whether I think it’s a good idea to sleep with my boss.
“Something for her to look forward to,” I mutter darkly, pushing through the glass doors into the fresh air. The bigger part of me knows that she doesn’t ask me hard questions because she enjoys watching me squirm, but right now I feel malicious pleasure in imagining that she does.