I get back to my work, and a short while later, another article appears: ‘Why More Women Identify as Sexually Fluid Than Men’.I sigh and roll my eyes. That one can wait.
***
Along with making sure I’m clued up on his sexual preferences, Dain has taken it upon himself to interpret my dreams since they’re so vivid lately. He’s even bought a dream symbol book at a local store with a black cover and silver swirls. So when I casually mention the one I had about falling into the open grave, his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. ‘Fantastic,’ he breathes. ‘That’s a good omen.’
‘Really? It seems kind of ominous.’
‘Uh-uh. Dreams of death don’t usually mean dying in real life.’ He practically runs to grab his dream symbol book from the parlour bookshelf and flicks through the pages excitedly. ‘Aha, just as I thought. It represents rebirth. Your soul is recovering from mental trauma, and you’re breaking old habits and behaviours that hurt you. It also signifies a new beginning and a spiritual transformation.’
‘Interesting,’ I say, knowing exactly what he’s getting at. ‘So that means ...?’
He taps a finger on the page impatiently. ‘It means your toxic relationship with Klint is over, and you’re embarking on a brand new and much healthier one with me, of course.’
‘Ah, right. What about falling into the grave?’
‘Well, it’s unfortunate,’ he says in a serious tone. ‘But sometimes you have to fall into darkness before you can step into the light.’
‘So Klint was the darkness?’
‘I hate to say it, but to borrow your phrase, “if the capfits”,’ says Dain sagely and returns to his book.
I know that’s all I’ll get out of him on the subject of my ex-boyfriend. He keeps his opinions to himself as he’s never one to talk ill of people. But I know he despises Klint; his face scrunches up in distaste whenever his name is mentioned, like he’s being forced to eat Brussels sprouts.
***
Dain’s also being very careful with me as we navigate through the aftermath of our ‘false break-up’, as he calls it, and all the revelations about our pasts. I tell him about how my mother struggled with depression for years, trying different medications, but nothing worked. In the end, it was easier for her to stop trying. My thesis is as much for her as it is for the Brontës.
Dain cradles me in his warm arms as I cry, and his loving words and soft kisses to my forehead give me the emotional healing I crave; he’s like Tiger Balm to my soul.
Around this time, Emily’s poetry is replaced by a slim volume of Anne’s on his nightstand, and he enjoys reading her poems aloud to me by lamplight. There’s a particularly lovely one that transports me to the moors and makes me think of my blustery walk to Top Withens. I’m aching to be outside and striding around in the fresh air, but winter has us in her icy grip, and the countryside is covered in snow. Dain promises that he’ll take me for a hike ‘as soon as the weather improves’. For now, I’m content to snuggle up with him in the four-poster, listening to his resonant voice as restless high winds keen round the house.
But, reader, a red-blooded woman can’t live on poetry alone, no matter how beautiful it is. My physical need for him grows stronger with every passing day that we’re officially together, and I know that when I catch Dain looking at me longingly, he’s remembering our hot night of sexy fun before it all turned to custard.
Even though he’s been wearing his vicar outfit lately, it’s a ruse. He’s testing me, seeing if he can get me to crack, but I’m determined to hold out and make him crack first. However, the thought of Dain on his knees, begging me to pleasure him, is definitely a daydream that’s causing my resolve to crumble.
One cold, wet, grey afternoon, we’re in the parlour, sitting at opposite ends of the couch with our legs stretched out in front of a blazing fire. I’m reading through the latest chapter of my thesis when Dain says, ‘Would you mind having a look at this?’
Glancing up, I see he’s proffering a book with a midnight-blue cover, and I smile upon reading the swirling gold title:Forbidden Love on the Moors.
It’s book 1 of his Azalea’s Awakening series.
‘Oh my god, finally!’ Carefully, I take it from him and check out the cover. It’s the lower face and torso of a woman with pouting red lips and long wavy chestnut hair in a strapless blue corset. She has her hands on her hips. A dark-haired man is behind her, but you can see only his bent head kissing her shoulder, his fingers interlacing with hers.
‘Wow, it’s amazing. Your cover designer did a great job.’
Dain nods, looking pleased. ‘Yes, she did.’
‘Eeek, I’m going to start reading now!’ I place my laptop on the floor and flip to the first page excitedly.
‘OK, enjoy, my love,’ he says and goes back to his own book with a small smile playing across his lips.
A few pages in, I realise it’s a set-up. After Nathaniel removes Azalea’s corset, the book getsverysteamy. But Dain is watching me, so I can’t react. I blink, cough, and turn the page.
‘Are you all right, my love?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say in a strangled tone. Dain’s thigh muscle flexes next to my shin, and he undoes the top button of his round-collared shirt. Then another. But I ignore him and keep reading. Nathaniel has now affixed clamps to Azalea’s nipples and is busy licking and nibbling her clit with gusto while tugging lightly on the nipple chain, causing her to moan in pleasure. Phew-weee! I lower the book, feeling hot and bothered as a steady throb starts up between my legs.
‘Did they evenhavenipple clamps in the 1800s?’
