"I don't know!" It bursts out of me like a confession I've been holding in for years. "I've never actually... my ex was controlling but not in a good way. Not caring. He made me feel weak and stupid, not treasured or protected. These books, they're about choosing to submit to someone you trust, not being forced or manipulated. There's a difference. A huge difference."
"There is." He steps back slightly, gives me space to breathe again. "Massive difference between abuse and dominance. One tears you down piece by piece until there's nothing left, the other builds you up and makes you stronger."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Had a buddy in the service who was into the BDSM scene. Explained a lot to me once when we were deployed and bored out of our minds. Never thought it was for me until..." He stops himself mid-sentence.
"Until what?"
"Until I met a librarian who apologizes for things that aren't her fault and needs someone to tell her she's doing a good job just existing."
My breath catches in my throat. "I don't—"
"You've apologized six times since I walked in. For the squeaky shelf, for your voice being too loud, for the way you organized the books, for reading too slowly, for interrupting me, for breathing too heavily. None of those things require an apology. None of those things are your fault."
Have I? I try to remember. Oh god, I have.
"I'm sorry—" I catch myself mid-word.
"That's seven." He shakes his head. "New rule for tonight. No apologizing unless you've actually done something wrong that requires an apology."
"You can't just make rules for me like that!"
"I just did. Try it for tonight. See how it feels."
I feel something click into place inside my chest, something settling and relaxing that's been tense for months. Years, maybe.
"Fine. Just for tonight. Book club rules only."
We settle into the comfortable chairs, reading our respective books in companionable silence. Every time I start to apologize for things like the squeaky chair, for my stomach growling embarrassingly loud, for turning pages too noisily, he stops me with a single look, one raised eyebrow that says he heard me almost break the rule.
"Good girl," he says after I catch myself the fifth time, biting back the automatic apology.
The words shoot straight through me like electricity, making everything clench low in my belly. I squeeze my thighs together, hoping desperately he doesn't notice the effect his words have on me.
He notices. Those observant eyes don't miss anything.
"Like that, do you? Like being called a good girl?"
"It's getting late," I squeak, my voice way higher than normal. "I should probably start closing up procedures."
"It's 8:30. You don't close until nine."
"I should... organize things. Reshelf some returns. Update the catalog. Something productive."
"Charlie." He stands, walks over to my chair with slow, deliberate steps. "I'm going to give you homework."
"Homework? We're not in school."
"Write down what you want. What you need from a dominant partner. Be specific. Be honest. Bring it tomorrow night, same time."
"Tomorrow? You want to do this again tomorrow?"
"Same time, same place. And Charlie? Wear a skirt."
He leaves before I can respond, and I sit there for ten minutes, throbbing and confused and already mentally writing that list in my head, organizing it by category because that's what I do.
three
