What stung the most was that he described me to a T. I dreamed big, but what did I have to show for it? Nothing.
“You’re not dragging my baby into that,” Harlan continued, disgust dripping from his every word. “I’ll tell you what you’re gonna to do. You’re gonna pack up and leave. Now.”
I looked at the floor. I had no one to blame but myself for getting sucker-punched like this. This was my own damn fault. This was how dreams died, not with a bang but with downcast eyes and a quick nod of acceptance.
“One hour. You’re gone.”
Harlan left the building, door open for my swift exit.
I packed my things into a big, old duffel bag. It took me all of 15 minutes. Flipping down the light switch, I left.
I didn’t think about Kara. I couldn’t. I hated this, hated Harlan, hated who I was. But I knew leaving was the best thing for her. It was the right thing to do. I was doing her a favor in the long run. Even if it hurt like hell.
What was I going to do, drag her along for a dark, nasty ride? I’d snuff the light right out of her eyes. I knew myself. I wasn’t good at this boyfriend shit. I didn’t have the beginning of a clue how to do it. I wouldn’t fuck up Kara by trying and failing with her. I’d break her heart in the end anyway, better to do it now before she got in too deep. It wasn’t like she was in love with me. She was getting her kicks, her walk on the wild side like Harlan said. Better to end things now before they had a chance to get real messy.
No note, no good-bye, I started up my truck. Like the dog I knew I was deep down, I snuck out in the middle of the night.
Now
Smashing fist after fist into the bag, my body dripped with sweat. I’d run on the treadmill, lifted weights, but nothing satisfied like a good punching bag. I pounded again and again, relentless.
I’d lost control earlier that night. For the third time over the past 24 hours I found myself rutting into Kara like a desperate, worked-up kid. Like if I didn’t plunge into her, claiming her deep and hard, I’d die.
Where was the dom? The Master of Discipline? Kara made me lose my cool. She brought me to my knees. I wasn’t myself and I didn’t like it
I pummeled the bag, losing myself in the exertion. The discipline of working out suited me well. Life required constant vigilance in all aspects. Mentally, I was always prepared for a fight. Physically, I honed my body, keeping it hard and ready to attack. I loved that surge of going at it full-throttle, all the howling, clawing demons inside of me finally given their shot to grind myself into sweat and exhaustion. I needed that tonight. Back at my apartment, I’d been going out of my skull. Two workouts in one day, same as Friday. What the fuck was Kara doing to me?
Playing a game with a sub had never been so difficult, so challenging. I always knew how to get close without going over the brink. I never had difficulty with losing control of myself. But with Kara I’d been overcome. I’d grabbed onto her hips, dug my hands into her flesh and plunged my huge, hard cock deep into her dripping wet pussy over and over. Even as I’d stuffed her, she’d screamed for more. It made me hard again just thinking about it.
I hadn’t even been doing any hardcore BDSM with Kara. I’d gone with the oldest cliché in the book, dressing her up as a French maid. I’d had her use a feather duster while I’d spanked her a little. No nipple clamps making her pant and squirm. No vibrating eggs shoved up her pussy while I played and forced her to stay quiet. No big butt plugs worked into her tight, virginal ass. The type of scene we’d acted out, it was plain vanilla. It should have been boring, a little starter play to get her used to the idea of serving me, show her how turned on she could get by giving over control.
Instead, I’d been so fucking turned on that I’d lost it. I’d rutted into her like an animal. Me, who never had a hard time keeping myself restrained. And afterwards, while she took a nice, long bath in my master suite, I’d needed to leave my own apartment. While she relaxed in the Jacuzzi tub, I beat my tortured body into a pulp.
“Fuck,” I exhaled. A pleasure game of power had never been so challenging. I’d never had to exercise so much restraint. Being in control always turned me on. I liked having the upper hand. But a woman’s submission had never had so much power over me, never made me lose my own control.
This was dangerous. More dangerous than I’d thought. I’d spent a long time torturing her, stroking her, bringing her close enough to drive her crazy. In the process, I’d driven myself completely crazy.
I’d forgotten completely about how earlier that day I’d told her I wanted her to model the clothes she bought. I’d planned to sit and watch her strut around, show me everything, then strip. Now I knew I’d never have the patience to sit through that kind of torture. Even though not long ago I’d come in her so hard I’d seen stars, it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
And now she was in my bathtub. Naked and wet, her breasts rising out of the suds, her skin rosy and pink. I’d had no choice but to leave. I couldn’t start following her around like a lost puppy, getting into the bath with her because I couldn’t stand not to.
This was supposed to be torturing her, not me. I was supposed to be the master, the experienced one, the one pulling all the strings. Not the one pawing at the door ready to beg.
“Time to pack it in, champ,” a guy called out, pointing to the clock. Usually they turned out the lights around nine o’clock on a Sunday. It was going on 11. They’d kept the place open for me, but quitting time had to come at some point.
I grabbed my bag and nodded my thanks. Then I headed out sweaty into the night air. Back in the penthouse, I showered in the guest bathroom, avoiding Kara. Then I fixed myself a drink.
I didn’t like this feeling, like I needed a drink to settle me down. I watched it around alcohol. I enjoyed it, drank it, but I didn’t like relying on it. I didn’t think much of people who needed substances to help them function. It came too close for comfort, brought up too many memories from when I was a kid. I’d made a promise to myself early on, I’d never be like my mother. To this day, I kept it clean, never did drugs, only drank coffee on the odd day I woke up groggy. I enjoyed a drink as much as the next guy, but I always capped it at two or three. I mastered what went into my body, not the other way around.
I took a sip and paced over to the windows. Every surface in my penthouse screamed of Kara. Flowers burst out from cold granite countertops. Homey pillows corrupted the hard lines and planes of my expensive leather furniture. Give her another day or two here and she’d probably add posters of kittens and a bunch figurines. I could picture an angel holding a sign “Home is Where the Heart Is.” Maybe she’d needlepoint a square she could frame and hang in the entryway announcing “Home Sweet Home.”
I’d seen a needlepoint yesterday, in my property manager Brett’s house in Bozeman. With a baby on the way, his wife had clearly started nesting, filling their home with cozy touches. She even had a few frames lying on the table, set up and ready to go to display baby photos after the big arrival.
Kara was just like her. That was the kind of life she belonged in. Six years later, she hadn’t changed at all. Sweet, kind, thoughtful, she’d been a virgin for God’s sake. She should be with someone like her, eager to build exactly the kind of happy home she wanted.
I pictured the cabin I owned in Bozeman. It was nothing like Brett and his wife’s. It was an investment, a place I typically lent out to various business partners. I found that staying at my houses gave people a sense that they knew me. As if my properties reflected who I really was. But my cabin had the same ‘homey yet rugged’ effect of all of the property’s main buildings, with a Native American print blanket here, a couple of antique snow shoes there. I had an army of interior designers and decorators on my payroll and they did their jobs well.
But my houses didn’t feel like homes to me. A frown tugged at my mouth. I didn’t like the feeling that my impeccably-designed properties were somehow lacking. Leave it to Kara to make me aware of what was missing. She woke me
up to the ache, the emptiness, the part of me left unfulfilled.
I swore and sipped my drink. Thoughts like that were bullshit. There was nothing in life money couldn’t buy. Look, it had bought me Kara Brooks.
But then why did I feel like the closer I got to her, the less I had her? The tighter I grasped my fingers, the more it felt like she slipped through. And the more I craved clutching her to me.
Running my hand through my hair, I exhaled in frustration. It was only one o’clock in the morning and sleep sure didn’t seem like an option. It was going to be a long night. How could I fall asleep with Kara lying next door in my bed? Maybe she’d have a leg kicked out of the covers, exposing a hint of her impossibly soft, smooth skin. I could head in there, begin at her toes and slowly travel up, caressing, massaging, making her body respond to me before she fully awoke, her eyes fluttering, her lips parted. She’d look at me glazed with lust, awakening aroused and needy, just how I wanted her.
Striding over to my bedroom, I threw open the door. She lay there on my bed like some sort of storybook princess, sleeping so pink and perfect. She gave a slight sigh with her next exhale, the gentle play of a smile flickering across her full, generous mouth. Her eyelids stayed closed in slumber, her long, dark lashes forming perfect arches against her pale skin.
I looked down on her, hard as a goddamned pistol, the demon hovering over the angel. I could feel her lush curves draped all over my body, her pussy squeezed tight around my shaft. I brought a hand down to my steel length and cursed.