Page 72 of Possessive Ink

“Then talk to her. Consider this from her perspective. Make sure she’s with you, and that you’re not racing forward and just dragging her behind.”

Exhaling, I nod to myself. “I will. She wants this. Me. I’m sure of it. She calls me Sir. She kneels for me.”

“Then you won’t be risking anything by laying things out for her. It sounds like she’s already there. She might just need the dynamic explained to her.”

“I don’t know that I want or need a dynamic with her. I just want her. I’m a pleasure Dom, Gaelle. I want to make her come, and that’s not usually something that I have to negotiate into my sexual encounters. Everyone wants to come, unless they’re a sadist who enjoys withholding pleasure to torture themselves. Lemon isn’t a sadist, and she’s a big fan of me making her come…a lot. If she decides she doesn’t enjoy calling me Sir and won’t kneel for me, I can live without those things, but I already know I can’t live without her.”

Gaelle sighs, but it doesn’t sound like it’s a sigh of frustration. It sounds like a sigh of understanding.

“I’ll speak to Holly, and hopefully, we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thanks, Gaelle. Hopefully, see you in the morning.”

After we’ve ended the call, I pause in the doorway, leaning against the frame as I watch Lemon sleep. She looks peaceful, her hand curled beneath her cheek. When she wakes up, I’ll talk to her about the collar and what it means. I refuse to let this be a deal breaker for us, but Gaelle is right. I need to explain what the collar means to me, even if she won’t really understand.

Crawling back into bed, I drag her into my arms and close my eyes.

TWELVE

LEMON

Waking up in Atticus’s arms is my new favorite thing ever. Everything between us is moving too quickly, and I think there’s a very real chance Atticus has lost his mind. But a part of me doesn’t care. Maybe his brand of crazy matches mine. Or maybe it really is some cosmic force that put me in his path with the sole purpose of helping us find each other to live our happily ever after.

But right now, the only thing that feels important is this moment—being in his arms and feeling the most protected and safe that I have since my mom died.

“How was your nap, Princess?” he asks, his words vibrating through my back.

“So good,” I say, stretching and accidentally rubbing my ass against his hard dick.

“Princess,” he growls, although it’s all amusement, not annoyance in his tone.

“What time is it?”

“After five. We need to get up so I can start dinner.”

“I need a shower. I’m sticky.”

“Do you want to shower with me, or would you rather have some space?” he asks.

Blinking, I furrow my brow, then roll to face him. “You want to know if I want space?” I question.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you, and I know I’m…a lot. We should talk once we’re both wearing clothes.”

Panic seizes my stomach, instantly twisting it into a tight knot. But instead of asking him what we need to talk about, I simply nod, then tell him I’ll shower alone, regretting it the moment I close the bathroom door behind me.

Once I’m clean, I wrap a towel around myself and step back into the bedroom, finding him waiting outside the door, his expression tight and cold. As our eyes meet, his jaw clenches, but instead of speaking, he presses a kiss to my head, then storms into the bathroom, leaving me alone and thoroughly confused.

Tiptoeing cautiously into the closet, I look at my dresses hanging beside his suits and swallow thickly. He’s been so full-on since the moment we met that his talking about giving me space now fills me with trepidation.

Is this it? Is this desire for space heralding the beginning of the end for us? Did his version of forever finish so soon?

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I slip on some clothes, wishing that I knew where he’d hidden my underwear. Once I’m covered, I feel marginally less exposed, but if this is it, I refuse to leave my things behind or to have him watch while I shamefully pack the belongings that he insisted I bring with me. Opening his closet, I start to pull my dresses down from the hangers.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarls, his voice bouncing around the cavernous closet.

“Packing,” I say without turning my head to look at him.

“The hell you are,” he hisses, the sound of his heavy footsteps alerting me to his closeness before the dress in my hands is plucked away and thrown across the room.