The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (49 page)

The whole thing read more like a satire than a contemporary thriller.
 
It had dazzling prose, deep character study and rich, detailed descriptions centered on the sadomasochistic relationship between Madeleine and S.
 
It was vaguely similar to
The Story of O
, only more sinister.
 
Seton used lots of metaphors and symbolism to describe the heroine’s quick shift from aloofness to obsession.
 
It even served as an ironic cautionary tale for women everywhere.
 
And Madeleine—or, more precisely, I—was depicted as a cynical, coldhearted, narcissistic, immature, idiotic sex fiend who treated men like they were nothing more than sexual objects.
 
She was also characterized as being shallow, frivolous and farcical.
 
A caricature.
 
The second-person narrator, whose identity was unknown, but whom I suspected was S., used a tone dripping with contempt, at times sneering at the woman and her callous behavior.
 
He especially hated the fact that she had accepted S.’s scandalous proposal with nothing more than a feeble protest.
 
He loathed the fact that she was so easily persuaded, and all for his signature—or rather, for the
possibility
of obtaining his signature, for he made no guarantees—lowering his opinion of her all the more.
 
But about halfway through the story, his tone became less harsh, less judgmental, and turned to one of benevolence and pity.
 
The subtext remained sinister and ironic throughout the book though, and the ending was one of those twisted, ambiguous ones that left you guessing and thinking long after you had read it.

If the novel was intended to be dark, compelling and thought provoking, then Seton had succeeded admirably.
 
Madeleine
was Seton’s most magnificent literary offering, outdoing
Married
and the others by leaps and bounds.
 
It was a story of obsession, a masterpiece of suspense, and its powerful erotic undertow would pull the reader in until its final page.
 
It was also a clever satire—one that encouraged the reader to snort with derision at the unsympathetic heroine.
 

A sob escaped, sweeping its way up to my throat.
 
I clutched the desk with a grip so hard it almost hurt.
 
The Chinese food sat before me, completely forgotten.
 
Anger surged, causing a lifetime’s worth of bitterness and insecurities to come spewing out once again.
 
This is what happens, I thought, tears trickling down my cheeks,
this
is what happens when you love someone.
 
This is what happens when you give your heart, your soul and your trust to another person.
 
They tear you apart.
 
They break your heart, and your spirit, they push you away, and then they move on.
 

Seton, my love, the one I gave my heart to, had played me for a fool.
 
He’d been with me—fucking me, controlling me, making me love him—just to develop the female character in his story.
 
Mind control was the main theme in the novel.
 
He had wanted me to develop an obsession for him so that he could put my reaction down on paper.
 
He had devised everything, and I fell for it—lock, stock and barrel.
 
All the time he’d been with me—kissing me, holding me, touching me—he’d been friggin’ lying to me!
 

And how dare he judge me!
 
How dare he describe me in such a disgusting, unflattering light!
 

I skimmed through the manuscript again, and my anger was replaced by hurt.
 
I couldn’t believe he felt this way about me.
 
I knew he thought that I was pathetic, and that he’d decided to help Jeremy’s “sad old bag” friend just to amuse himself, but I never imagined that he had such a low opinion of me.
 
He didn’t know me.
 
If that was what he truly thought of me, then he clearly didn’t know what lay inside of me.

And on and on I went, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions coursing within me like a thunderstorm.
 
One thing was painfully clear though: Seton didn’t love me.
 
He had never loved me, and he never would.
 
My body trembled with agony, my chest heaving with the pain that twisted through my heart like a knife.

Seton, how could you do this to me?

I did nothing for a long time, just sat there, a lone, sullen figure in a dimly-lit room.
 
Muffled sounds came from the TV, which was still on.
 
I tuned it out.
 
There was nothing left to do but wait.
 
I no longer cared if he caught me in front of his fucking computer.
 
Let’s see if he would have the audacity to be angry with me.

Footsteps came from the room above me.
 
“Marjorie?” a velvety-smooth voice, thick with sleep, called out from upstairs.
 
“Are you down there?”

I jumped and gasped at the sound of his wonderful English accent.
 

That voice.
 
That rich, mesmerizing voice.

I turned my gaze to Seton as he padded down the stairs, a sexy, drowsy little smile glinting in his emerald eyes.
 
“Why didn’t you wake me, my pet?
 
I would’ve—”

He froze on the landing, his gaze shifting from me to the laptop and back again.
 
Understanding dawned in his face, followed swiftly by a shuttering expression.
 

“You’ve read it,” he stated flatly.

Fresh tears fell.
 
I had been expecting him, but now that he was here, gazing at me with that carefully blank look on his handsome face, I was no longer certain that I wanted to face him.
 
All I wished for at that moment was to wake up from this horrible nightmare.
 
Because it had to be a nightmare.
 
This couldn’t be real.

“Yes, I’ve read it,” I answered with a flat tone that mimicked his.
 
“And I think it is your best work.
 
Congratulations, Seton.
 
I’m sure that the people at Leather Binding Press will be very pleased.”

Seton’s gaze slipped to the floor as he took the last few steps down the stairs.
 
He moved toward me with slow, cautious steps, as if afraid that I might suddenly pull out a knife or something.
 
I gazed up at him, eyes swimming with tears.
 
He looked beautiful with no clothes on.
 
His nakedness did not discomfort him.
 
In fact, it made him look, if possible, more imposing and confident.
 

“You know about Leather Binding Press?”

I looked away, suddenly finding it hard to keep my eyes on his.
 
“Yes,” I croaked, fresh tears coursing down my cheeks.
 
“I know everything.
 
I know you researched me for your new novel.
 
I know that you had planned to use me, turn down Bookends AtoZ, and then move on to an NY publisher, just like Jeremy predicted.”

He didn’t answer right away, just groaned.
 
I felt him take a few steps closer.
 
“Marjorie, I—”

“Just answer me a couple of things,” I interrupted icily, eyes staring at nothing.
 
“Was Jeremy involved in this little scheme too?”

He hesitated for a few seconds, then, “No.
 
He’s going to kill me when he finds out.”

I smiled bitterly at his statement.
 
Well, at least there was that.
 
“And did you go to Mitch to gather extra information about me, to fill in the blanks that Jeremy left?
 
After I mentioned his name in that e-mail I sent to you, did you get his number, called him up and arranged an interview?”

Another pause.
 
Then, “Yes.”

A dry sob rose in my throat, followed by more tears falling down my face.
 
“So
that’s
what he was trying to tell me at his place just moments before you made your presence known!
 
He was feeling guilty and wanted to tell me the truth, but you interrupted him.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

Silence fell between us.
 
A silence that was tense and pensive.
 
But I wasn’t unhappy about it, because it afforded me the opportunity to let all of the scattered pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
 
Everything was so clear now.
 
The mystery surrounding David J. Seton had finally been resolved.
 
Now I knew why he seemed so fickle and contradictory, why he behaved a certain way one minute and did something completely different the next.
 
He was playing a part—he was the main male character in his fucking story.
 
The question that remained was, who was the real Seton?
 
Was he really sexually dominant, or had that been an act too?
 

Swamped with shock, pain and anger, I shifted in my seat, moaning softly from all the post-coital soreness, and pushed to my feet.
 
Our gazes met.
 
Seton took a few tentative steps forward until he was right in front of me.
 
His handsome face was expressionless, but his eyes were dark with sorrow.
 
Strong arms touched me, pulled me closer.
 
Slowly, cautiously, Seton took my hand in his and held it to his chest, just over his heart.
 
The steady, rhythmic beat echoed through my palm.
 
I closed my eyes and took a shuddery breath.
 

“Look at me, Marjorie,” Seton commanded.

I snorted softly at the imperious tone in his silky-smooth voice.
 
Even at a time like this, he was still the one in control.
 
I glanced up at him.
 
His jaw was clenched, but his eyes were somber, his expression so brooding, yet so austere, that I had to suppress a gasp.
 
He was no less formidable in his current vulnerable state.
 
In fact, it made him seem more impressive and, in turn, more appealing.
 
Any lingering doubt that his sexual dominance had been an act quickly dissolved.
 

“Marjorie,” Seton said, voice hoarse.
 
“I’m going to change the story.
 
I had every intention of rewriting it.
 
I haven’t felt right about it for a very long time.
 
I got a queasy feeling in my gut every time I sat down to write it.
 
That’s the reason why I flew to London and had a meeting with my publisher.
 
I wanted an extension so that I could fix it.
 
I wish you hadn’t read the story before I had a chance to change it.”

Tears touched my eyes, and I blinked them away.
 
“You shouldn’t change the story.
 
It’s perfect the way it is.”
 
I paused.
 
“No, actually, you should make a few changes, starting with making Madeleine seem a little less like me.
 
I do want to show my face at work again.”

Anger coiled within me.
 
I tried to calm down, tried to breathe slowly, to maintain a semblance of control.
 
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said, sighing.
 
“You can’t take back what you did to me.”
 
I linked my fingers with his, then moved our twined hands from his chest to mine.
 
“You have no idea how much you’ve hurt me, Seton.
 
No idea.”

His face fell, a pained expression covering his features.
 
“I shall fix it,” he said desperately.
 
“I’ll make it all better again, Marjorie.
 
I love you.”

His words came out in one breath.
 
Fresh pain stabbed at me.
 
Why did he have to utter those words?
 
Why now?
 

I pulled back a little, and met his brooding gaze.
 
“You don’t love me,” I said, voice remote, silently trying to calm my speeding heart.