Addicted (26 page)

‘I kind of enjoy being … tormented.’

At which point, I’ll admit: I’m a little disappointed. It’s sort of an anticlimax. I’m really not sure what I was imagining, but I’m equally sure it wasn’t nearly as untroublesome as that. I was thinking
illegal throughout most of Europe, banned in twenty countries as a war crime, so bad I can never look at his face again
levels of disturbing.

I was thinking I’d start spontaneously crying.

Instead I sort of deflate – which in hindsight is just as bad. They probably look like similar reactions: abject horror and mild disappointment. And of course the moment he sees it all over my face, he puts his hands in his hair.

‘See, I knew you’d react like this.’

‘No, Dillon –’

‘You’re appalled. You want a Master … a big, masculine, tough, bastard of a Master, and I’ve just confessed to you that I like to be slapped around.’

I can’t help it then. It makes things worse, but I really can’t help it. When he put it the other way, it was sort of like something I already knew. He’d confessed to liking certain aspects of torment, after all – the holding off, for example. But now that he’s put it like this, it’s all fresh and new and wild.

‘You like to be slapped around?’ I say, but I swear I only do it because of the great gust of God knows what that goes through me, once he’s laid that idea out on the table. I’ve never experienced incredulity that feels arousing before, but, by Christ, does he ever achieve it.
He likes to be slapped around.
As in … maybe me smacking that gorgeous ass and those amazing biceps and oh … oh … what if he wanted me to crack a hand across his face?

Oh, my God. What would that be like?

I can’t even think about it in a reasonable and rational manner. I’m too busy remembering how his flesh had felt under my hand when I gave him that playful slap. He reacted to that too – I can see it now. I can picture it in my head, suddenly clear and bright.

And then he goes and takes it away.

‘Well, maybe not exactly that.’

‘Dillon –’

‘And even though I occasionally fantasise about stuff of that nature, I’m a fan of everything else too. In fact, I love everything else. I love being all masterful, and can totally be that way for you if –’

‘Dillon!’

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t
care
. I wouldn’t care if you were into bonking goats! I’m not the least bit bothered by your masterfulness, whether it’s there or not. You know why I like you? Why you drive me crazy? Because of that word you just said: ‘everything’. You’re everything, all at once. You’ve shown me things that I would never have imagined, and been willing to go to places I was too afraid to venture. In fact, you’ve done more than that. You’ve removed that fear in me.’ I take a moment to swallow my own heart, which is trying to make its way up my throat. It’s always trying to make its way up my throat around him now. It almost succeeds, in fact, as I squeeze these words out: ‘So I’ve got to ask: do you really think I’d back out now?’

‘I –’

‘Do you really think I’d
want
to back out? My book lacked something because
I
lacked something. I lacked the ability to see things differently, to be different; to enjoy the whole of life and not just the bits I felt safe in claiming. You really think I want to stay within the confines of something I wrote before I felt any of this?’

He’s not quite ready to say no yet. But I can see him wavering on the brink of it. I can see it because it looks the same way I did, when I first started this crazy journey with him. It looks like acceptance, and giving in, and most of all …

Relief.

‘It’s OK to be you,’ I say, and when I do I think of that tattoo on his back. The one that I still haven’t asked him about, but which now seems much closer – was this what it was about? Did he wonder if he was OK, because of desires he couldn’t reconcile with his outer self? I don’t know, I don’t know. But I’m not going to let him continue, if that’s so. ‘Because I like you. I more than like you,’ I say.

And then the rest spills out, twice as brave as anything I’ve ever done, and so exhilarating for it.

‘I love you.’

He’s very quiet for a long time after that. But I’m used to this happening by now. We’ve pretty much lamped each other with the truth for the last five hours, so recognising shock when it happens is not exactly hard.

It’s just that it’s
worrying
here. It’s very worrying. I didn’t really mean to reveal that much, and yet somehow I’ve done it. I’ve given away more than he has, even though he looks like he’s gradually handing out bits of his immortal soul. He’s told me how unsure he is, underneath the bluster – unsure enough to believe that I’ll only stay if he makes himself into someone he thinks I want.

And yet somehow I’ve just bested him.

‘Well … what I meant by that is –’ I start, but he stops me.

‘No, don’t take it back,’ he says. ‘Don’t ever take it back.’

‘OK.’

‘Do you want to take it back?’

‘Not really.’

‘And you feel it, even though I’ve just … told you all of this weird stuff about me? About my need to please and my disposable feelings and the tormenting thing?’

‘You’d already told me about the tormenting thing. I just didn’t listen hard enough.’

‘I didn’t
want
you to listen hard enough. Especially after reading your book. I mean, I’ve had girlfriends who didn’t write a book about wanting a Master who were kind of put off when I really started to share about myself.’

For the second time in my life, I’m sort of ashamed of what I wrote. Though at least it’s for good, honourable reasons in this instance. And they’re not feelings he’s forcing me to have, either – they’re just kind of there, admonishing me for not letting him know sooner that I don’t care if he re-enacts page seventy-seven or not.

‘So that’s what all of this comes back to. Stuff that you think I want because it was there on the page? You don’t think I can be anything else?’

‘I didn’t think you could say, “I love you.”’

‘And now that I have?’

‘Now that you have, my heart is trying to escape out of my chest,’ he says, while mine does that exact same thing. I think it actually makes it to Bristol, before it remembers that I’ll die without it.

‘Is that good or bad?’ I ask, tentatively, and then watch as he rolls his eyes at himself. He slaps his own forehead, like he’s a complete bonehead for not realising one rather important fact – though I’m imagining it’s
I’ve left the gas on
, rather than what it actually turns out to be.

‘Oh, fuck. I haven’t said it back! Oh, man, I totally forgot to say it back. See what I mean? I’m such a moron when it comes to this stuff, seriously. And your book was absolutely no help on that score, I gotta tell you. All that emotionally stunted bullshit and
oh I can’t possibly reveal my feelings because I’m so cool and manly
… gimme a break.’

I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to hear a bit of literary criticism in all my days. I actually giggle when he’s done, despite the heart that’s still in Bristol. He just makes this withering sort of expression, and amusement bursts out of me.

And then he straightens, and makes his face all serious, and something else bursts out of me. I think it’s my soul, which sort of tries to hug him before he’s even said the words.

‘I love you,’ he says, though once he’s done it I can see he isn’t happy with it. He shakes his head and clicks his fingers, then puts his hand on his chest as he makes the declaration. ‘
I love you
.’

‘The second one,’ I tell him, mainly because the second one gave me goose bumps. ‘Definitely.’

‘Or I could do it on one knee? Maybe add a bit of poetry? My love is a rare rose that blooms at the sight of you …’ he offers, but of course we’re both trying not to laugh now. Something as terrifying as love, and somehow I’m relaxed enough to laugh. ‘But that’s not really me, right? If I was going to go with the honest version, it’d be more like this: my love is like a giant rampaging mutant from another dimension, intent on actually ingesting you in case you had any ideas about running away.’

‘Bingo.’

‘Yeah. You like that one, huh?’ he asks, as he stalks towards me across the bed. This time, however, I don’t mind him doing it. I don’t even mind when he bites at my left thigh, because now it’s tied to something so awesome I can hardly comprehend it.

He loves me. He loves me enough to turn himself into a monster who chases me across dimensions. What could possibly be more perfect?

‘I’m more than happy to be ingested by you.’

‘I thought you might be. You do seem to love being eaten.’

‘It’s true. I do,’ I tell him, but I make sure I give his shoulder a nip, directly afterwards. Just to … you know. Keep things on track. ‘But it’s not about
me
any more, remember?’

I pinch him again – harder, this time. And lower down, too, in a way that feels a little like testing the waters. Is this the kind of tormenting he’s kind of into? Or is it something a little more subtle and insidious, like his predilection for teasing? If his answering expression is anything to go by I’d say he’s definitely not averse to the former, at the very least.

He actually bites his lip when I do it, and his hand jerks out as though he wants to restrain me. To stop me before I go too far and he gives away too much. But then he seems to realise that it’s a little too late for denials – he’s already told me everything there is to tell.

Or at least I
think
he’s told me everything.

Until he tells me more.

‘So you really want to go there, huh?’ he asks, as though there’s actually a chance that I might not. As though the mark I’ve already created just below his ribcage isn’t making me flush all over, before that look on his face finishes the job.

The blue of his eyes has darkened almost to navy, made worse by those heavy lids. And as I drink every inch of him in, he just lets his tongue sort of … slide over his lower lip. Too quick to allow me to linger long, too slow to be anything but deliberate.

Then, to top it off, he takes hold of the hand he almost restrained.

And presses it to his throat.

‘Because if you do, you’re gonna have to be a lot meaner than that.’

‘How mean?’

‘So mean I barely know it’s you.’

‘I don’t think I can choke you.’

‘No? Then what can you do?’ he asks, in this dreamy, creamy voice that almost makes me melt right off the bed. ‘Show me. Show me what you can do.’

I confess: I was sort of hoping he’d carry on giving me hints. Little nudges in the right direction, just in case I’m wandering down the wrong path. Though the thing is … once I’ve moved a little closer to him – once my mouth is almost on his mouth, and his breath is ghosting warm and rapid against my skin – it’s actually much easier than I thought.

Or at least it’s easier to go with my instincts. Because my instincts immediately tell me to move away, when he goes to close the kiss. And they also urge me to carry on, once he’s made a slight sound of frustration. The slight sound of frustration is a good sign, I think. It’s a sign that I’m getting this right.

And so is the move he makes, the moment I go lower.

He sort of sprawls onto his back in this excessive sort of manner, like he’s luxuriating in whatever I’m doing. Even though I’m not really doing anything at all. I’m just nearly pressing kisses to various parts of his body, before dancing away at the last second. Occasionally, I’ll let him feel the heat from between my lips, or maybe the slightest slick promise of something more.

And then I’ll move on to another bit. The mark I made on his side, maybe, or the slant of muscle just above his groin. That last one in particular gets a good long groan out of him – though I think the noise has more to do with the obvious bypass I make around his rigid cock than with anything else. I don’t even let him feel my breath in that particular place. There’s no hint of a kiss for that long, delicious curve.

Despite the overwhelming urge to do just that. Oh, God, the urge is so strong. I think my mouth actually starts watering the second I manoeuvre my way back up his body, but I resist. I keep true to my course, even though my course is sort of starting to make me tremble now. He just smells so good, and his body is so tempting … from the flat, many-muscled planes of his stomach, all the way up to that amazing chest of his.

I want to lick him there, I realise – but I’m not allowed to yet.

Because apparently I’m teasing myself as much as I’m teasing him. The air between us is like a living thing, and every time I move it brushes against my body. It makes promises I don’t want to cash, such as
he’ll feel so good when you slide down onto him. Just do it, right now. No one would blame you, if you did
.

And while that’s true, it’s still too early. It’s too early for anything but these little tormenting nearly-kisses that are now making his body roll like the ocean. The movement starts at his feet and goes all the way up through his hips and thighs, until our bodies almost touch by accident.

Though I know it wouldn’t really be an accident at all. He’s progressed from muffled noises to outright grunts of indignation, and he’s definitely trying to get me to do stuff by default now. He’s trying, but the point is – he’s not trying hard
enough
.

He’s not doing the things he could do if he really wanted to. He could throw me over onto my back with a flick of his wrist. He’d hardly need to exert any strength to force our bodies together. So the fact that he doesn’t …

It definitely suggests I’m on the right track. It’s almost as though we’re in opposite land, in fact. When he complains, it means I’m doing well. And if his hand comes up to grab me, but stops short by several inches … well.

I should take it as a pat on the back.

And I do. Oh, I definitely do. I’m almost glowing by the time I get to anything substantial. I’m stuffed full of victory – of the sort I never thought I’d get to feel – and it only gets stronger, the longer I hold out. I honestly don’t know what’s more intoxicating: the sense of actually doing something sexual in a half-decent manner, or the waves of arousal that keep hitting me every time I ratchet this thing up a notch.