Bound to Accept (7 page)

Good. Went to lunch with Lyd, Kay, &
Amy.

He's online, but doesn't
respond back right away. He must be doing something. About five
minutes later, he sends a response.
Where
did you go?

Thai place. Maybe you've heard of it. All
Thai'd Up.

He sends me an emoji of a
winking devil.
Never have.

Maybe you should go. Seems like your kind of
place.

There's a brief
pause.
Are you sure you'll all
right?

What is that supposed to
mean?
I said I was, didn't I?

You're joking about rope bondage. Laughing
it off. Are you feeling defensive?

I stare at the screen
incredulously.
No. I'm fine.

I bet it was hard, letting me blindfold you.
And then having to hold your hands so far out of the way. Did you
feel very vulnerable, Kelly, opening yourself up to me? Were you
afraid that I'd take advantage of you?

My mouth goes dry. I don't respond. But
apparently he's not finished typing, because the computer beeps
again.

What if I tied you up? What would you feel
then?

“
Oh God,” I say aloud,
startling Garfield, who's creeping on his way to his cat
dish.

I can't believe we're discussing this on
Facebook! AHH

Why? Nobody else has access to your account,
right?

No, but that's not the point!

Part of me wants to close the chat window.
But I don't quite dare. And I'm curious to see what he says
next.

You said you wanted to submit to me. That
means you submit to me not just physically, but also with regard to
my judgment. Why does bondage make you so uncomfortable?

It's different.

And?

I'm afraid.

Yes, I know. Of what?

I don't want to get hurt.

There's another pause, longer this time.

I'd be a shit Master if I let my sub get
hurt.

There's more than one way to hurt someone,
tho.

How do you think I'm going to hurt you,
Kelly?

I think he's going to break my heart.

Kelly?

I g2g.

I sign out, change out of the clothes I wore
out with the girls and into my jammies. Then I open the XXX.doc and
stare at it for a few minutes. It seems a bit silly now; I can't
think of anything new to add.

With a sigh, I close the document and crawl
into bed. Garfield hops in after me, and I hold up the sheet,
making room for him to curl up beside me. Then I fall asleep.

I wake up to a pounding on my door and my
phone ringing. I answer with a bleary, “Hello?”

“
Open the
door.”

What is he doing here? “What are you doing
here?” I look at the clock. “God, it's, like, 8 P.M.”

“
Open the door and let me
in.”

Should I?

As I peer through the
peep-hole, I wonder if this is one of those situations where I
ought to call the police. Boyfriend goes on murderous rampage.
Kills idiotic twenty-five-year-old. But he doesn't
look
angry. He looks
worried.

That sounds exactly like what an idiotic
twenty-five-year-old's last thoughts would be.

Hoping I'm not making a big mistake, I open
the door and he bursts in without waiting for permission—although I
guess opening it in the first place signified implied consent.

“
Don't
ever
do that to me again,” he says.
“When I ask you questions like that, I expect an answer. You are
not allowed to shut me out and ignore me. If you do that, we cannot
have a relationship together. Do you understand?”

I look down at the phone and realize I have
about five text messages and three missed calls. All from him. I
look back up at him, and start to understand.

“
I was asleep.”

“
And I was
worried
,” he growls at
me. “You're telling me how nervous you are, how
frightened
, and that you're afraid
I'm going to hurt you. Then you disappear and I can't get a hold of
you—what the hell am I supposed to think?”

My back hits the wall. “I…I'm sorry.”

“
Are you?” Tristan walks
forward, boxing me in, but he doesn't touch me. He can be plenty
dominating with his presence alone. “I don't think you
are.”

I go back to feeling scared again. He towers
over me, and he's very strong. When he pinned down my wrists, I
couldn't move them at all. It occurs to me that, if he really
wanted to hurt me, he could. Easily.

I don't want to think about him like this, I
really don't, but it's hard not to, when I'm wearing my thin ribbed
tank top and boxers, and he's standing there looking so scary.

Maybe I shouldn't have let him in.

“
I
am
sorry. Really.” I wet my lips. “I
could…show you,” I venture hesitantly, reaching for his
pants.

Tristan grabs my wrist and holds it against
the wall, and I start to veer towards terrified. “This isn't a
scene,” he says. “This is me, trying to figure out what you
want.”

Not a scene. Not assault. He's just trying
to keep me from touching his cock. “You're scaring me,” I
whisper.

“
I'm sorry.” His eyes find
me in the dark, and he relaxes his grip on my wrist, although he
does not let go. “I did not mean to do that. But I need to know
what you want.”

“
I want—” what do I want?
“I want a relationship with you.” I gulp. “I want to be exclusive.
I don't…I don't want to be just another notch in your
bedpost.”

“
Jesus fucking Christ,” he
says, when I start crying.

Tristan releases my arm, and pulls me
against him. He embraces me tightly, then steers me to the table,
where I sit blotting my eyes with a paper towel while he brews some
tea. He puts the steaming Grumpy Cat mug in front of me and stands
there with his arms folded.

“
Take a sip.”

“
It's too hot.”

“
Then blow on
it.”

I blow on the tea and take a tiny sip.

“
First of all, the women I
choose to sleep with are
not
notches in my bedpost. Just because I choose not
to fuck and tell doesn't mean I don't respect them. I do. Just like
I respect you. And you will respect that.”

“
I'm sorry.”

“
Second of all, if you get
this upset, I want you to let me know immediately instead of
freaking out about it and doing all this passive-aggressive
avoidance bullshit.”

I take another sip of tea. He chose the
chamomile and it's starting to make me feel pleasantly warm and
sleepy.

“
No passive-aggressive
avoidance bullshit,” I mumble.

Tristan sighs and kneels down next to me.
“For the last time,” he says, very firmly, “is this really what you
want?”

“
Yes.”

“
Stop saying 'yes.' I want
to hear you say it.”

“
I want to be your
submissive. I want to submit to you in all ways, and not just
physically or sexually. I want you to—to fuck me.” I stare at my
tea. “It's just so much.”

He cups my face in his hands. “It's okay to
be afraid.”

And then he kisses me, chastely, on the
mouth.

“
Next time,” he says,
“we'll set some boundaries. I thought starting slow might be best
in your case, but maybe if I start treating you like an actual
submissive you'll find yourself slipping into the role more
easily.”

“
I think you're a good
Dom,” I say sleepily.

Tristan chucks me under the chin. “You
wouldn't know.”

“
Soon, though.”

“
Yes,” he agrees. “But not
now.” He kisses me again, but this time it is far less innocent.
Both of us are breathing harder when he pulls away. “Finish your
tea,” he says. “And don't forget to lock your front
door.”

And then, with a click of the latch, he is
gone.

Chapter Six

Last night seems so
surreal—Tristan blowing into my apartment like a whirlwind—Tristan
wrapping me in his arms like he was afraid to let go—Tristan
kissing
me.

I was so afraid when he burst in like that,
because I didn't know what he'd do, but his words were so gentle
and concerned that they put me immediately at ease. It's hard to
rectify the two images: Dominant Tristan and best friend Tristan.
The line between them has become so blurred.

My phone buzzes, and this
time I check it immediately. It's from Tristan.
Want to have lunch?

As soon as I read his
words, I realize that I
do
want to see him, in spite of my misgivings. I
want to make sure he's okay with everything that happened. That
will mean that everything is okay with me, too.

I'd love to.

Good. Where?

I come up blank.
You pick.

Be ready in 15.

Fifteen minutes isn't a lot of time to get
ready.

I pace back and forth in front of my closet,
selecting items and then discarding them. What should I wear?
Something sexy? Something casual? Something fancy?

I can almost imagine
what
he'd
say.
“Just be yourself.”

Easier said than done. I spend so much time
and effort manufacturing my identity, sometimes I don't even know
who I really am anymore.

I decide to go with one of my MLP shirts.
Because I wore one on the day that I told him how I really felt,
which makes it feel lucky, and because this one—the purple one—has
a low-cut sweetheart neckline. When I wear it with my Victoria's
Secret push-up bra, it makes my breasts look a full cup-size
bigger. I tug on a pair of jeans with worn-out knees and quickly
put on a dusting of light makeup.

I look pretty good, I think.

Tristan rings my bell exactly fifteen
minutes later. I know, because I keep compulsively checking my
phone. I peer through the peephole while I tug my hair into a
ponytail. He's wearing a gray rugby shirt with cobalt khakis. One
of his hands is shoved into his pocket as he looks at something on
his phone. He's wearing his glasses; they make him look almost
deceptively innocent, more like a graduate student than a Dom.

I open the door and smile up at him.
“Hello.”

“
Hey.” He shoves his phone
back into his pocket. He looks tired, like he didn't sleep very
well last night, which makes me feel guilty. Because I know at
least part of his sleeplessness is my fault.

“
I'm just gonna grab my
shoes, okay?” I say, as I slip on my flats, looking around
nervously for Garfield. He has a thing about the door—namely that
if it's open, he'll make a beeline for it, and I'll have to chase
him around the complex. He appears to be hiding, though. Thank
God.

“
Kelly.”

I glance at him over my shoulder. “Yes?”

“
Wear your hair down when
we go out.”

“
Like this?” I pull out
the scrunchie, letting the dark strands fall around my face. My
hair is frizzy, because of the humidity, and I comb my fingers
through it to tame it.

“
Just like that.” He steps
back to let me lock the door. “I was thinking Japanese.”

“
That sounds great. I love
sushi.”

“
I know you
do.”

Is that why he picked it?

When we get to his car, he
opens my door for me. I laugh and slide in, and say, “Well,
thank you
,
sir.”

“
'Sir' is one of the most
common names subs use for their Masters,” he says, when he gets
into the driver's seat. He glances at me. “Did you know that,
Kelly?”

“
No.” I buckle my
seatbelt. “No, I did
not
.”

“
I should make you call me
Sir,” he says to himself.

A sexy, upbeat dance song
starts playing when he turns on the engine, like something you'd
expect to hear in a club.
Or during a sex
scene in a movie
.

“
Who is this? I don't
think I've ever heard of them.”

“
Probably not, they're
from Norway.” He turns up the stereo. “They're called
Donkeyboy.”

“
Is that anything like a
pony girl?”

“
I don't know,” he says.
“Maybe you should ask them.”

I pick up his iPod and start scrolling
through the songs while he drives. Tristan makes playlists
obsessively, for pretty much everything. There's even one on there
called “Kelly,” which he made specifically because I was always
commandeering his music whenever we carpooled.

“
What's St. Andrew's
Cross?” I ask.

Some asshole in a Mercedes almost hits us
and Tristan lays on the horn. “I deejayed at a BDSM dungeon for a
while. That's my playlist. Fucker,” he says of the other car.

I scroll through the list of bands. There's
a lot of Britney Spears, Depeche Mode, and Enigma, and hard rock
songs from the seventies and eighties. I play “Infinity” by The XX.
The moody downtempo song fits in perfectly with the foggy San
Francisco backdrop.

Tristan parks in a parking garage and the
two of us start walking. I'm surprised and pleased when he laces
his fingers through mine. His touch sends sparks shooting up my
fingertips and straight into my heart.