Call Me Killer (47 page)

"But you couldn’t be faithful to a woman whose erotic range wasn’t similarly broad?"

"I’m trying to be honest. You did want a straight answer from me, right?"

She swallowed. "Yes. Thank you. It’s what I suspected anyway. The bottom line is that it
is
a requirement."

He tried to regain some ground. "In an exclusive, long-term relationship, I guess that would be true. But, in fairness, you and I haven't even had the 'is this a relationship' discussion, much less the 'should we make this relationship exclusive?' one."

She blushed deeply. "You're right. Of course we haven't."

Shit. That hadn't come out quite the way he'd intended. Now she was going to think he wasn’t serious about her. But this was only their second weekend together. He didn’t have to be serious yet, did he?

I am so fucking this up.

The thing was, he knew one thing for certain—Viola liked being teased, tormented and hurt. She liked being spanked, having her hair pulled and her body handled roughly. She liked being ordered about and dominated. A woman didn't have orgasm after orgasm if her erotic responses weren't being intensely stimulated.

She had liked it the summer after she'd graduated high school and she still liked it now, despite what her creep of a husband had done to her.

Deciding he probably couldn’t make things worse, he said, "Can I remind you of something? When you were a virgin with no experience, I took a piece of rough rope in my hands and you, with no prompting, held out your wrists to be bound."

"With no prompting? You looked at me with that, that
look
—and I knew you what you wanted. You had been teaching me stuff all afternoon; it was one more thing I’d never done."

He felt himself beginning to smile. "You told me that I'd given you your first orgasm. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"I had a first that day, too. I had never dared act out my fantasy of tying a girl up for sex. I was a BDSM virgin until I met you. We did our first scene with each other, babe. And unless I'm very much mistaken, you enjoyed it."

She didn't meet his eyes, but she nodded, unable to deny it.

"So when you tell me nearly a decade later that you don’t want to have kinky sex, I can't help being a bit skeptical."

"I just asked what would happen if I didn’t….if I couldn’t…." She stopped. "You're not going to want a partner who freaks out every time you take her to your dungeon."

"That's not going to happen. You didn't panic over kink. You panicked over something specific. Something I said that caused you to flash back to your fucking husband's abuse."

She thought about this for a while. But when she spoke, she said, "That day in the boathouse was really the first time you did anything kinky?"

"It was. You made me feel comfortable enough to take that risk. You were so sweet, so passionate, and so accepting and non-judgmental. When I came at you in that dark little shed with that twist of rope, awkward and nervous and uncertain about what I was doing, you trusted me not to hurt you. I hope you’ll be able to trust me again now."

"I would like to, Stephen." There was a catch in her voice. "It never even occurred to me that you might hurt me. No one ever had. But you did hurt me. I waited for you. I was certain you'd be back for me. I fell crazy in love with you that day, but you disappeared."

Okay, it seemed he could make it worse, after all. "I’m so sorry," he said, really floundering now.

"I gave you my body and my trust, but you never even answered my emails. Now you’re back, with all your years of experience set against my years of marital wretchedness and abuse. I’m not the same sunny, carefree girl I was that summer, so I can’t blame you if you’re disinclined to call this, this, whatever it is, a ‘relationship.’"

She fled into the living room, to one of the large windows, where she stood staring out to sea. He moved in behind her and slid his arms around her waist, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. He loved the fragrance of her beautiful hair, the silky softness of her skin.

When she remained resistant, he murmured, "I'm sorry, love. Of course it’s a relationship. I hope it will be a long, happy one, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure of that."

He felt the tension drain from her body—she went from being rigid and stiff to supple and soft, and he felt once again the sharp, driving pulse in his dick that she always inspired in him. She turned to settle into his arms, and raised her lips in a peace offering. He kissed her gently and drew her closer, while she nuzzled his neck and ran her fingers over his shoulders in a tender way that made him want to shelter and protect her always.

"I’m sorry I’m such a mess. The last thing I want is to turn into Psycho Damaged Chick. I want to get my old self back—that happy, adventurous girl I was when we met. But I seem to have lost her somewhere along the way."

"I’ve dated one or two Psycho Damaged Chicks, and trust me, you’re a long way from winning that title." He stroked her cheek, and touched her bottom lip with his thumb. "As for that old self of yours, she’s still in there. I can see her, laughing, shining. Come on—smile for me."

She drew a couple of deep breaths, then tilted back her head and grinned. Mischief lit up her blue eyes. "Relationship, relationship, relationship," she teased him.

He made an elaborate show of wincing, as if the word had sent him into a tailspin, and she laughed. "Deer in the headlights, Silkwood? Who’s panicking now?" She punched him lightly in the bicep. "Relax. You’re such a male."

He felt an almost breathtaking relief. Just like that, she put an end to the uncomfortable discussion. A moment later, she made an innocuous comment about the Celtics game that was on that evening, and soon they were laughing and joking about their favorite professional sports teams.

Wow. I
am
serious about her, he thought.

Viola was having a rough week. The end of semester rush was on at the college, with students panicking about work that was due but unfinished. And she was hard-pressed to get her final exams prepared and the various assignments and term papers graded. She seemed to catch the students' anxiety. Or was it her own that was tormenting her?

Her nights were restless, too. In the middle of the week, she woke from a darkly sexual and threatening dream in which Derek had changed back and forth into Stephen in a manner that freaked her out.

When she jerked into full consciousness, her heart was running hurdles in her chest. It seemed to flop back into place as she sat up, only to race off at top speed as if it were trying to out-pump all the other hearts in the neighborhood. Sweat broke out and her intestines cramped. A feeling of doom descended and once again, she thought, "Fuck. I'm having another goddamn false heart attack."

Without Stephen’s warm body and comforting voice to calm her, the attack persisted for what seemed like forever. This sucked. Nobody would even know if she lost consciousness and died. She had her cell phone in her slippery palm, wondering if she should dial 911 and declare a medical emergency. But then she thought how embarrassing it would be if she summoned an ambulance when there was nothing wrong with her.

She finally remembered to breathe from deep in her belly and exhale slowly. She began to shiver, and she had to pee. When she got up to go to the bathroom, her legs felt so weak she was afraid she might fall. It was two in the morning and pitch-dark, which didn’t help. She didn’t want to call and wake one of her friends at this time of night just because she was feeling panicky.

She went into the kitchen to make herself a soothing cup of hot chocolate, and then curled up on her living room sofa to drink it. She wished she could stop stressing. She'd never thought of herself as a worrier, but Derek and the damn divorce must have changed her.

Stephen wasn't helping, either, she decided. She kept hearing his Bad Boy voice urging her to "scream now for me."

Stephen and his damned Bartholomew Giles.

She knew it made no sense to equate the two, but he had that weird-ass medieval dungeon.

Was she really safe in there with him? What if he assaulted her? What if he raped her? What if he put her in the hospital as Derek had done?

Her brain hurt. None of those things, she told herself irritably, were ever going to happen. Stephen was warm, sweet, and affectionate. He made her laugh. He was a genuinely nice man, who had comforted her when she’d been freaking out. He'd handled her panic attack with patience and understanding. He'd given her tender and reassuring aftercare.

The thing was, Derek had seemed trustworthy, too, until he’d beaten her unconscious. As far as she'd known, her ex had never harbored any violent fantasies. He hadn’t been into chains or floggers or mock-torture devices. He hadn’t created any fictional psychopaths who specialized in brutal inquisitions.

If Derek could do what he had done, what was to stop Stephen, with his dark imagination, from doing something even worse?

Even as she tormented herself with these thoughts, she was aware how damaging they were. She and Stephen were good together. This could be the beginning of something awesome.

Despite the suggestion she'd floated about sticking with vanilla sex, she didn't think that was really what she wanted. She'd been excited by the kinky stuff. She had let him tie her up nine years ago; how could she possibly fear it now?

She was pacing in her lonely living room, her thoughts going round and round, when she noticed car lights outside. She lived on a quiet street without a lot of traffic, especially at this hour. She wouldn't have thought much about it except that the lights seemed to be coming from right in front of her house.

The lights went out. But there was no sound of a car moving away. Was someone out there? Maybe it was Stephen? Had he driven up from the Cape to see her? She felt a surge of excitement and listened for the sound of a car door closing, footsteps coming to her door.

But she heard nothing.

She approached the window. Moving the shade aside just a bit, she peered out. There was a car parked in the street just to the side of her house. In between her place and the next house. Because it was under a tree, which cast an even deeper shadow in the dim night, she couldn't see what kind of car it was.

It was unusual for someone to park on her street. People had driveways, garages.

Someone was in the car. It was quiet, engine turned off, but there was a faint glow coming from within, from the dashboard, perhaps.

Someone was watching her house.

Derek
.

She snapped the curtain closed as panic gripped her again. It couldn't be Derek. He was in Australia, on the other side of the globe.

Hullo. Heard about airplanes? They're these things that take people from one side of the world to the other.

He can't come back.

Why not? It's not as if he was deported.  He left of his own accord.

Her heart was pounding again. Her palms were sweating. Last night, just as she'd been falling asleep, her phone had rung. Thinking it was Stephen, she'd answered, but whoever was on the other end hung up.

Wrong number, she'd figured. Or maybe one of those super-annoying marketing calls.

But what if it hadn't been a wrong number? What if Derek was calling her the way he'd done before leaving the country? What if he was back and obsessed with her again?

Fuck. What should she do? Call the police?

And tell them what? It wasn't illegal to drive down her street. Or even to stop. Maybe it had just been someone who was lost. Maybe they'd stopped to pull out a map. The cops would laugh at her. One hang-up and a strange car on her street didn't prove a thing.

With trembling fingers, she lifted the edge of the curtain just enough to peek out.

The mysterious car was gone.

Her breath rushed out in relief. She pulled the curtain back for a better look. No car. For a crazy moment she wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing. But no. Down at the end of the street, she saw the red glow of brake lights, then a turn signal. The car made a right turn and disappeared from her neighborhood. It had been there, but now it was gone.

She was getting paranoid. It had probably been a driver taking a cell phone call or sending a text. She'd pulled over herself to do that many times.

Stop acting crazy. Derek is thousands of miles away in Australia.

The next day at the college, she was a wreck. She couldn't concentrate on her work, and she had a really bad day of teaching. Usually she felt energized by her interaction with the students. But this time she barely had their attention. Her lecture came out sounding dull and her attempts to get a group discussion going fell flat. She was relieved when the hour crawled to a close and she could dismiss them.

When she began sneezing and feeling unwell, she was almost glad. No wonder she was having such a terrible day. She must be coming down with the flu.

Late that afternoon when she got home, she made some hot tea, took some aspirin and wrapped herself up in a blanket on the sofa. Then she called Stephen to tell him that they should probably cancel their plans for her to go down again to the Cape when the weekend started. She didn't want him to catch her cold.