“Therapists?” I roared. “Plural?”
Another beat of silence. What else did he do over the years to keep track of me? I knew he’d stalked me. Murdered men who’d touched me. Accessed my medical records. Was anything in my life my own? Untouched by his destructive hand?
“Wow,” I exhaled, a humorless laugh escaping me. “All this monitoring and you couldn’t even buy me a carton of milk every time I ran out. Rude.”
“You don’t drink milk,” he said softly. “It upsets your stomach. You drink that almond shit that looks like spunk.”
Was it normal that one moment I wanted to strangle him, and the next, I wanted to hug him? I didn’t think so. But there was something extremely vulnerable about this man only I seemed to be privy to.
“I’ll ask for permission from now on before I do…”—he cleared his throat—“anything.”
“You thought I didn’t want to come?” I narrowed my eyes.
He stared at his slides. “Yeah.”
“Well, no. I like to come. A lot. I like to be bossed around and spanked, but I have some hard limits.” I took a deep breath. Might as well tell him, as I was stuck banging him for the entire weekend. “No spitting, no calling me a whore, no edging.” The first two items reminded me of the gulag. The third was a product of it. I did not like being deprived of food, shelter, or pleasure.
“You always have to make sure I come.”
“Okay.”
“But…you can hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” I knew he was studying me intently, working something in that genius mind of his.
“Hurt you how?”
“You can…” I licked my lips. “Hit me.”
Silence stretched between us for a moment before he spoke.
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you ca?—”
“I can’t,” he said, cutting me off. “Hurt you. Not like that.” Pause. “And you don’t need that either to enjoy yourself. I watched you. You nearly came both times we were together.”
He was right. I hadn’t thought of that. I wondered what that meant. But then again, a part of me didn’t want to know. Sex was an exchange of orgasms, nothing more, nothing less. No emotion attached to it. Not even with my high school sweetheart.
“And I want us to have a safe word,” I said.
He nodded. “We’ll choose a safe word. I won’t do?—”
“And don’t ever call me a whore again.” I cut into his words breathlessly. “Every single sex worker I’ve met is eons more respectable and worthy than your sorry ass.”
Something dangerous rippled behind the helmet. No one talked to this man like I did. Probably how I got myself into this mess in the first place.
“Look, hop on the bike. I’ll tone my shit down.”
“No. Good sex is the bare minimum. I’m still pissed off.”
He groaned, tossing his head back, shaking his helmeted head. “Tell me what I need to do to get your ass in gear because there’s no guarantee Sangue Blu isn’t on his way here with an army of soldiers and enough firearms to conquer Rome.”
This was the closest I’d ever gotten to negotiate a more bearable weekend with him. We both knew I was mounting that bike. For better or worse, my imprisoner was my only ticket to freedom.
“I want to shop till I drop while I’m here. On your dime. You’re not keeping me stuck in the hotel while you tend to your business.” I folded my arms. “And I want you to stop being mean to me. Stop mentioning our past. And stop denying me orgasms.”
“Done, done, and done,” he said. “What’s our safe word?”
