Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 4: My Master, Page 3

  Midnight

  L

  ast thought of the night. No more contracts. No more being shoved into a box of his design. I’m still willing to go where we’ve been, and be submissive during erotic play, but not at other times. Not on his terms only.

  Tomorrow, when I see him, we will be different. I will be different. I’ll be me again, the woman he wanted when all of this started.

  Okay, a second last thought that seems unrelated—or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just an indicator of how much of a wreck I am right now, but that weird foreboding I had for weeks last year is back. I hate the feeling, the sense that something terrible is going to happen. I just keep telling myself nothing terrible happened last year. And nothing terrible is going to happen now.

  Sunday, May 6, 2012

  8:00 a.m.

  I

  ’m sitting in the coffee shop next to the gallery, at the same corner table that I once sat at when my Master charged in, took me into the bathroom, and spanked me. That memory is why I’m here—to remind myself that I drew a line in the sand that day. It’s part, though not all, of the reason I rarely come here anymore.

  Ava is the other part, and not just because she saw us come out of that bathroom together. Ava is . . . I think I’ll save her for another entry. I have enough to fret about as it is.

  Back to that day here in the coffee shop. When my Master, who wasn’t my Master yet, had spanked me in the bathroom, it had aroused me and confused me. Just thinking about that moment when he’d yanked my skirt up and made me agree to let him spank me, and the moment his hand had touched my backside, the erotic charge that had followed, sent a sizzle down my spine. And when it was over, the easy way his fingers slid inside me had shattered me into orgasm. I’m wet just thinking about it, when I should be angry. Exactly what I felt then.

  Regardless of liking what he’d done to me, I hadn’t liked where he’d done it. I’d set a hard limit of nothing between us ever happening at a place that was frequented by those involved with the gallery.

  It was the only hard limit I’ve ever set, though there were other limits I’d liked to have set. The only one—and yet he crossed that line yesterday. He knew how I felt about this when he sent Master Two to me yesterday. I need to remember that, in order to stay strong.

  I am not just a way for him to feel powerful. I won’t be that anymore.

  11:00 p.m.

  T

  he event was spectacular. The desserts a little piece of heaven. I passed on the crème brûlée; I couldn’t get myself to eat his favorite sweet. The artist, a kindred spirit with the name of Rebecca Knight, sold several paintings and was beyond ecstatic. And now I’m at home, about to take a hot bath, alone.

  “He” didn’t call. He hasn’t called again. And he won’t. That would give me the power. And lord only knows, that would be a sin. I’m just glad I’m off tomorrow. I plan to organize my apartment and do a little decorating.

  Monday, May 7, 2012

  7:00 p.m.

  L

  ast night, or I guess technically early this Monday morning, around twoish, there was a knock on my door. I sat up with my heart thundering, flashing back of the night Josh had gotten drunk and threatened me, then showed up at my apartment. I still can’t believe a guy I dated a few times went quite so crazy, and I still can’t shake the feeling he’s still around. Maybe that’s the foreboding feeling?

  I’d wrapped myself in a robe to cover my skimpy “PINK” sleep shirt and stood at my door. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Rebecca.”

  His voice slid through me like hot buttered rum, warm, rich, and enticing. The weakness I’d feared he would evoke in me was instantaneous, and I hadn’t even opened the door. I pressed my hand to the wood separating us. “You aren’t supposed to be back yet.”

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  I thought of saying “no,” but it wasn’t a real consideration. I had to see him. I had to feel him close. I turned the lock and pulled open the door.

  He stood there, so damn devastatingly handsome, his hair and clothes rumpled like he’d had a rough night of travel. And the look on his face did me in. His eyes were dark, tormented, his expression stark, worried, expressive. He thought I might turn him away, and it was eating him alive.

  At that moment, I didn’t care why he worried or what his motivation might be. I didn’t think about the impact of a Master as powerful as him losing control of his submissive, and how it might make him react. All I knew right then was that he was afraid of losing me. And me him . . .

  We moved at the same time. I backed into the apartment and he stepped inside, kicking the door shut. I was in his arms in a flash, him lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist. His mouth came down on mine and he tasted like more of that hot buttered rum I’d heard in his voice, but better, spicier. Sweeter, because I’d feared I’d never taste him again, or feel him, or touch him.

  He laid me down on my bed, coming down on top of me, and our lips parted, breaking the drugging kiss. He stared down at me, his eyes intense, stormy.

  “How are you here?” I whispered, daring to touch his cheek without permission, reveling in the way he let me.

  “I had to see you.” His mouth came down on mine again, his tongue stroking deeply, possessively. And yes, there was a command in the kiss, a command that I submit, but there was more, too. There was passion, so much passion. The kind of passion he holds in check and denies me.

  He wasn’t in check then. He wasn’t in control. But neither was I. Not with his big, wonderful body on top of mine, the weight of him arousing me, teasing me with the moment he would be inside me. I wanted that so badly, it hurt.

  He tugged my robe loose and his hand slid over my ribs and caressed my breast, fingers teasing my nipple. A moan slid from my lips, and he swallowed it with another long, sultry stroke of his tongue. I was sinking into the oblivion Master Two had promised me in my office but had never have come close to providing. Only “he” could really take me there.

  I tugged at his shirt, needing to feel skin against skin. He pulled it over his head and tossed it aside, displaying rippling muscle from the waist up. “Take your shirt off,” he ordered, standing up to finish undressing.

  Yes, get it off and get him back on top of me, where he belonged! I’d barely tossed it away when he was back on top of me, his hands on my breasts, mouth on my neck. I arched into him, trembling with my need for him, this man who has called to me in a way no other human being ever has or perhaps ever will again.

  He was thick between my slick thighs and my fingers dug into his shoulders, but I couldn’t pull him closer. I wanted him closer. I wanted him inside me. His mouth was traveling down my neck, over my shoulders, back up again. These are the moments that I revel in, when he doesn’t hold back, when he doesn’t restrain me or himself. We are just . . . us. We are just lost and alive and passionate. They are few and far between, and this was one of those times—and more. We kissed each other like we were breathing life into our bodies, like we couldn’t survive without each other. I’d never felt this with him, never felt as if he needed me as much as I needed him.

  Finally he parted my legs and slid between them, hovering above me, his eyes connecting with mine, and I felt him everywhere, clear to my soul. I know. I know. That sounds a little crazy and like I’m romanticizing the moment, but I’m not. I felt him everywhere.

  He pressed inside me, stretched me, and sank deep, until we were one, joined together, and I had this sudden moment of fear it might be the last time. Something flickered in his eyes and I almost thought he felt it, too, and that it shredded him as much as it did me.

  With a low guttural sound, his mouth came down on mine harder, his kiss darker, more commanding, as if he could stop whatever might follow this if he claimed me then. He dragged his cock backward along my sensitive flesh, and then he thrust hard. I gaspe
d as sensations rocked from my sex through my body.

  It was a wild frenzy of us trying to get closer, to get him deeper, to get more, more, more, and more. More what? I don’t know. Just more. It’s the only way I can describe how it felt, and I loved how NOT controlled it was, how not in control he was.

  LOVED. IT.

  When it was over, we collapsed together in a hot, sweaty wonderful moment of satisfaction that became several minutes. Slowly, our breathing became less labored, our muscles relaxing, bodies melting into each other’s. Neither of us spoke. It was as if we both thought words would destroy what our bodies had communicated.

  At some point, he grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and gave it to me. When I would have gotten up to go to the bathroom, he pulled me back against him, wrapping his leg over mine and burying his head in my neck. I had the impression he thought that if I left the bed, I wouldn’t come back.

  Looking back now, he might have been right. My mind would have started running as wildly as my body had just responded to him, telling me all the reasons why what I’d just done had been a mistake.

  “Let’s sleep,” he said softly.

  No command. No demand that we go to his place.

  “You’re going to stay here?”

  “Yes. I’m staying here.”

  Stunned, I lay there a moment before a smile curved my lips and my lashes lowered. He was here. And he was willing to do things he wouldn’t normally do.

  It was enough for the moment.

  • • •

  A

  nd then the nightmare came . . .

  • • •

  I

  was floating in the icy bay facedown again, alone. So cold and so alone. Everything went black and icy and then black again . . . and then I was above my body, watching it float.

  In a heavy gasp for air, I sat up, shaking from the impact of the dream.

  He was there, sitting up with me, his strong arms wrapping around me from behind. “Easy, baby. You’re okay. It was a bad dream.”

  I sucked in a hard-earned breath and tried to bring the room into focus, the tension in my body slowly easing. He stroked my hair, reminding me he had gentleness in him and that it had been a long time since he’d let me see it.

  “You haven’t had a nightmare in months,” he murmured.

  “They’ve come back,” I whispered and let him pull me back down so that we were on our sides facing each other. He grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and pulled it over us. I rested my head on my pillow and he did the same on the spare beside me. Had we ever lain face to face like this in bed before?

  “What time is it?” I asked, since the clock was behind me.

  “Five.”

  “No wonder I’m still tired.”

  “You’re off today. You can sleep. Tell me about the nightmare.”

  “I can’t.” How did I tell him what I didn’t understand? And I didn’t want to, anyway. The nightmares are like my journals. Sacred and for my knowledge and viewing only. “If I do I won’t get any rest.”

  He didn’t push me, like he usually does. He simply took my hand, pulled it between us, and covered it. “Then sleep,” he said again, and this time I heard the familiar command in his voice.

  I went to sleep. I suspect maybe we both thought it was because he ordered me to, but later, we both realized the truth. He’d already lost his control over me.

  The next time I woke up, sunlight pierced my sleep-heavy eyes, and the bed was empty where he’d been. I was alone, just like I had been in the water. Any distress I felt over “his” absence faded into a replay of the nightmare, the sensation of floating facedown in icy water making me shiver.

  An overwhelming urge to go to my mother’s grave washed over me. I had to go. Today. This morning. My chest tightened painfully and my guilt twisted in my gut. I hadn’t been to see my mother in a year. I just . . . I don’t like to think about her betrayal.

  “Coffee?”

  His voice startled me and I sat up, the blanket falling to my waist. He was in my doorway, shirtless, in only his boxers, and rippling with sculpted muscles. His gaze swept over my breasts and I tugged the blanket up to cover myself. That drew an arched brow from him.

  I’m sure it did. It’s not like modesty has been at the forefront our relationship. Scratch that, and correction: our agreement. But he was in my home, and what I wanted from him had changed.

  Okay, scratch that again. What I wanted hadn’t changed; I’d wanted more than a contract from the beginning. I just wasn’t willing to settle for less anymore.

  I arched a brow back at him. “You made coffee?”

  “I make coffee at my place.”

  He did, but something about his doing it at mine didn’t fit his Master image, though I can’t say why.

  He sauntered forward, muscles flexing, and he was the most delicious breakfast a girl could ask for. The mattress shifted as he joined me and offered me the cup. “I added your favorite creamer.”

  He did those things for me. Bought the creamer I liked. Stocked my favorite bubble bath. But then, Masters cared for their subs’ needs, often in a quite sexy, sensational way. For us, though, I felt more like a child and he was the parent.

  I sipped the hot beverage without taking my eyes off him. “Thank you,” I murmured, wondering about the way he was silently studying me. He was giving off a weird vibe. Uneasiness? Was he nervous? No. Surely not. Not him.

  We stared at each other and neither of us spoke, an indicator that we both knew we were at a crossroads. We frequently talked politics, art, and whatever else came to mind, but we didn’t talk about us. About what we were, or could be, or would never be—and that was what was in the air. That was the crossroads.

  “Come home,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “You mean go with you to your home.”

  “We live there together.”

  But he didn’t call it my home. “This is my home. Your home is where I stay when our contract indicates I do so.”

  “This apartment is merely a backup—”

  “No. This is my home and it’s going to stay that way.” I suddenly wanted to get away from him, but the hot coffee made a fast departure impossible. It also made covering my naked body impossible. And I wanted to be covered. “I’m going to go shower. Can you please let me have some privacy?”

  A flicker of hard steel flashed in his eyes before he took the cup from me and set it on the table. Before I could blink, he’d stalked to my side of the bed, scooped me up, and was carrying me to the bathroom. He set me down, turned on the water, and then wrapped me in his strong arms. “You want to shower, you can shower with me.”

  He didn’t give me time to think, dragging me behind the curtain. And, damn it, I was weak. I did a whole lot more than shower with him. That man had me pressed against the tile wall and his cock buried deep inside me before the water was even hot. The sex had been hot.

  • • •

  A

  n hour later, dressed in jeans and a gallery T-shirt, with tall black boots, my dark hair brushed to a shiny mass, I was determined to be stronger. I walked into the living room to find him facing away from me on the couch, watching the news. He was so determined to stay with me that he’d grabbed his suitcase from his car and changed into clean clothes. I knew he was determined to do whatever he had to do to get me back to his proverbial castle where I’d be his submissive.

  He twisted around, clearly sensing my presence.

  “I need to run out for a while,” I told him before he could speak.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, pushing to his feet to face me.

  My lips parted in surprise at how far he was taking this. “It’s nothing you’ll enjoy.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is it important to you?”

  “Yes.”

 
“Then it’s important to me.”

  I didn’t take these as encouraging words to indicate he wanted more depth to our relationship. A Master made his submissive’s needs top priority—some of them, anyway, I had learned. He was simply trying to figure out where he gained control again.

  For an instant I considered telling him “no,” but the need to go to my mother’s grave was growing more insistent. If I let myself get into a confrontation with him, my time to visit her could slip away from me. “Okay.”

  His eyes lit with victory. “I’ll drive.”

  Of course he would. He hated the practical used car I’d insisted on buying myself, when he’d wanted to buy me something fancy. Besides, even if I had a fancy car, the passenger seat just wasn’t the place for a Master.

  • • •

  T

  he drive to the town of Colma on the northern end of the peninsula is a short ten miles. It’s a quaint little place with only two thousand residents, and I’d like it, if not for the fact that it has seventeen cemeteries and about five million dead people. Even though I’m not superstitious, it bothers me. There is nothing that steals your control more than death, and death loves Colma.

  “He” knew where Colma was when I told him our destination, and I was thankful that he didn’t ask questions. It fit our pattern. We don’t talk about our families, aside from the basics like who was alive and who was dead. So he knew I was visiting my mother. Or her grave. My mother was no longer anywhere I could visit her.

  He parked near the grave and I didn’t wait on him to get out of the car. I tugged my jacket around me and started walking through the cold, breezy cemetery, feeling as if there was a concrete block strapped to each of my lungs, crushing them inside my chest cavity. He fell into step with me, and right then, seeing him as my Master and protector didn’t seem all that bad.

  When I got to the tombstone, a simple white square with my mother’s name on it, I stood there, unable to stop the memories from playing in my head.

  “How could you not tell me?”