Clark, Rachel - Alicia's Awakening (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (2 page)

Chapter Two

I’m not sure what I was expecting Doug’s apartment to look like, but I’m a little surprised by how warm and welcoming it seems. Far from the sterile, chrome-and-leather, professionally decorated bachelor pad that many men of his age and income bracket seem to prefer, Doug’s apartment is a pleasant mismatch of older—but well-maintained—pieces of true craftsmanship.

“My great-grandfather made the rocking chair for his wife when she was pregnant with my grandfather,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me through his apartment. “The dining table and chairs were my grandfather’s work.” We step into the kitchen, and he helps me onto a stool at the bench. It’s a rather unusual shape—wooden but sort of resembling a saddle. I can almost sit with my legs closed—
almost
—but it’s far more comfortable not to try. I do, however, valiantly attempt to keep my skirt in the right place
and
keep up with the conversation. His next words catch my attention again and I’m no longer thinking about the strange seat. “My father made the bed, but I’ll show you that another time.”

Surprisingly, despite my doubts about coming home with him—and the fact that I am irrevocably in love with my best friend—I’m a little disappointed that Doug doesn’t want to sleep with me. I don’t even want to think about what that might mean about me. It is our first and last date after all.

How could I continue to see such a great guy when my heart belongs to another? That’s assuming that Doug even wants another date. I mean, I haven’t exactly been stellar company. Oh, hell, he probably thinks I’m nuts already. But if he doesn’t want to sleep with me tonight, and a second date is unlikely, then why did he even bring me here? Why not just let me get a lift home with Lachlan?

Unless he was trying to clear the way for Lachlan to have hot, sweaty sex with that unsuitable bi—

The quick slap of a wooden spoon on my thigh derails every thought.

“Ouch?” I sort of ask again. I should be really annoyed at what, by the strict definition of law, amounts to assault, but instead I find myself hoping he’ll do it again. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Better?” he asks as he puts the spoon on the bench and moves to rub gently over the small red spot on my skin.

“Why?” I ask, because I seriously don’t understand what’s happening between us. Since meeting him he’s flicked my finger, squeezed my knuckles painfully, and whacked my leg with a wooden spoon. I should be seriously pissed. Should be…

“Because you need it,” he says as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest. Somehow, even surrounded by his hard muscles, I feel safe with him. Maybe I’ve finally had one too many panic attacks and the increased chemical activity in my brain actually fried my synapses. I mean, really, if he wasn’t a friend of Lachlan’s, I’d be all kinds of stupid not to be trying to leave right about now.

“I don’t understand,” I say quietly. To be honest I think maybe I do understand just a little. Every time I’ve been on the verge of another panic attack, the small pain he inflicted has brought me back to reality. “Why pain? Why not just kiss me?”

He laughs quietly, the deep sound vibrating against my face as I cuddle closer into him. “In a public place? On a first date?” he asks with humor in his voice.

“Point taken,” I say with a genuine laugh when I imagine some of my possible reactions to being kissed by a man I’d only just met. And truly the flick on the fingertip and the squeeze of my knuckles had been but a momentary hurt, and not truly painful. “But what about here and now?”

He is still rubbing his hand lightly over the spot on my thigh. The wooden spoon had stung sharply and my skin still feels a little raw. He moves back, releasing me from his hold. Too late do I realize it’s so he can see my face.

“This one was for both of us.”

“Huh.” Color me
seriously
confused, now.

He’s still rubbing over the tiny sore spot. “I like seeing my mark on your skin.”

“Your mark?” I ask inanely. I would have called it the spoon’s mark, but hey if he wants to lay claim to it.

“Have you ever heard of BDSM?” he asks, still rubbing over the little red welt. It’s no longer sore, but the tingles shooting from there straight to my pussy are more than a little disconcerting.

“BDSM as in bondage and spanking and stuff?”

“Sort of,” he says as he finally takes his hand away from my thigh. He moves into the kitchen and goes back to what he was doing before the spoon thing. “I think you’re a submissive.”

Huh? I’m not exactly sure what “a submissive” is, but I know the dictionary meaning of “submit.” I shake my head even though he’s not actually looking at me. I don’t surrender to anyone. Hell, I won’t even surrender to my panic attacks. No way in hell am I submitting to him.

“I can train you,” he says helpfully, still not looking in my direction. My mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no words are coming out. How dare he? Who the fuck does he think he is? Train me? Like fuck, he’ll train me! I’m liable to kick his ass just for suggesting it. I’m halfway off the stool, ready to confront him, ready to make him turn around, but two calm words freeze me in place. “Sit down.”

I want to do as he says, and suddenly I’m finding a ridiculous pleasure in the idea of making him happy. Where the hell is my self-confident, kick-ass personality?

Doug turns to me, indicates with his eyes what he wants, and then gives me a warm smile when I finally do it. Sheesh. I’m leaning back toward that chemical-overload-fried-brain theory. This is
so
not me.

“Alicia, I can help you,” he says as he comes back to stand in front of me. There is a whole bench between us, but for some reason I feel like he’s caressing me all over.

“How?” I ask suspiciously.

“I can give you ways to cope with the panic attacks. In some ways submitting to your Dom is like meditation. It gives you a chance to let go of the pressures of the world and just be free to relax.”

“What do you get out of it?” I’m assuming when he says the word Dom he’s referring to himself.

“I have certain kinks that I like to indulge. Turning a submissive’s backside a pretty shade of pink is something I quite enjoy.”

“So you want to spank me?” Even as I try to dismiss the idea in my head, my body throbs at the imagined pain. When did I start thinking like that? I’ve had my fair share of minor injuries from the sports I’ve played over the years, but I can’t really say I enjoyed the pain from them, can I? My heart starts to race a little faster. Hell, I probably can say I enjoyed the pain. Why did I
really
refuse painkillers the last time I twisted my ankle playing hockey? I was in agony for days. The doctor damn near insisted, but I just smiled through the pain and went back to work.

The touch on my thigh stills my panicked thoughts for a moment.

“I think you need to be spanked right now,” he says confidently. Fuck, I almost nod in agreement. “How many panic attacks do you have a day?”

I shake my head, hopefully quickly dispelling his interpretation. “Today”—I drag in a deep breath—“isn’t typical.” I know the evidence suggests otherwise, but it’s been a particularly stressful week. I certainly could have done without the worry of the blind double “date” Lachlan had asked me to arrange.

“Would you like to try a spanking? I promise to stop if you find it’s not working for you. All you have to do is say ‘stop’ and I’ll stop immediately.”

At this point I’m really tempted to give it a go. It’s been hell trying to hide the panic attacks all these years. If I could find a way to stop them before they really begin, it might make the rest of my life less stressful. Finally, still not convinced it would work, but willing to at least give it a try, I nod my agreement.

He smiles, leans over to press a kiss to my lips, and then helps me off the stool. He leads me into the living room, sits on a large padded wooden chair that seems to have been created exactly for this purpose, and pats his knees. I’m not sure how one goes about lying over someone’s lap, so I’m almost relieved when he grabs my wrist and tugs me off-balance. It feels very strange to be lying here like this, but then he starts caressing the globes of my ass through my skirt and panties, and I stop worrying about the strange sight I probably make.

“I’m going to spank you as hard as I think you need,” he says, still rubbing my ass. He can’t miss the shudder that works its way down my spine. I’ve just given this man permission to hurt me. This may well be the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. “Ordinarily I would give you a safe word—a word that you wouldn’t often use when you’re in pain or upset—but with you being so new to this I will cease spanking you if you say the word ‘stop.’ But only the word ‘stop.’ I will ignore anything else you say.”

“Ignore?” I ask in a small, frightened voice.

“That’s right,” Doug says, running his warm hand up my thigh and under the loose material of my skirt. “You can scream the word ‘no’ all you like. Only the word ‘stop’ will call a halt.”

“Okay,” I say, gasping as he lifts my skirt up and exposes my black panties to his gaze. Thank God I thought to wear my nicest pair. They’re quite demure as lingerie goes, but at least they’re not the cotton flower-covered granny panties I usually wear.

His fingers caress over the silky material for a few moments before he slips his whole hand inside and pushes them down to my knees. I shiver in reaction, the word “stop” trembling on my lips. I hadn’t realized he meant a bare-assed spanking. Fuck, I should have though. He said he liked turning a submissive’s bottom pink. Crap. Instead of listening to my own internal panicky dialogue I should have been listening more closely to what the man was saying.

The first slap stings, but is actually quite pleasant. He follows with five or six more just like it, the sharp whacks all landing in different places. When he rubs his calloused hand over my skin, the heat from the slaps intensifies.

“Are you still with me, Alicia?”