Debauched (Undone Book 3) (30 page)

“It means I don’t want to pretend the power dynamic between us doesn’t exist. It means I want you to acknowledge that you’re submissive and I’m dominant. That I have control over you.”

My chin starts to tremble. Somehow it seems unfair to me. I’ve always been upfront about my feelings on that subject. “You’ve known since the beginning how I feel about that. I don’t like it. I don’t want that kind of relationship.”

“I’ve known from the beginning what you’ve told yourself, but that’s not the truth.”

“Because you don’t want it to be.” A tear slips down my cheek and I swipe it away. “That’s not the same thing.”

He laughs, and it’s dry and filled with sadness. “What exactly do you think is going on between us, Ruby?”

“We’re in a relationship. But you don’t control me.” He doesn’t. He just pushes me a little. And not even hard.

He raises a brow. “Don’t I?”

“No!”

“What do you call it?”

Everything inside me wants to back away from this conversation but I force myself to continue even though I want to run away. “You don’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.”

“So when we started seeing each other you wanted to get fucked in the ass, is that it?”

I frown. “Don’t twist that around.” I point at him. “You made me like that.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “And how exactly did you think I went about that?”

“Not by dominating me.”

“You don’t even know what the word means.”

“I do too. I’ve seen it with Layla and Jillian and I’m not going to ask you permission to go to the bathroom.”

He rolls his eyes. “You see what you want to see because you don’t want to admit you get off on it.”

“I don’t get off on it.” I don’t. “I don’t want some guy telling me what to do. Why is that so hard to understand? Just because you like it and all of you think it’s so awesome doesn’t make me wrong.”

“You’re absolutely right. But here’s the problem with that, Ruby. You love me telling you what to do.”

I gasp and straighten in my seat. “I do not!”

He taps his temple. “Really think about it. Think back and ask yourself this—when was the last time you had an orgasm that wasn’t directed by me? Even from that first night at the engagement party? I told you to come for me and you did. The night of dinner, I told you to call me and you did. From the beginning I have controlled every single aspect of your sexuality and you have loved it. You just won’t admit it because you think that domination and submission is about being a 1950s housewife.”

Our relationship rushes over me and everything twists and tangles, his words force me to see it in a whole new light. The knowledge overwhelms me.

In a soft voice, he says, “Ruby, the stuff you like, the stuff that gets you off like nothing else, those are the kinds of things submissive girls like. How do you think I’ve managed to tap into all your hidden twists and kinks so well? Why do you think I’m so good at working you up?”

I start to tremble all over. Is it true? I think of that first night. How I liked when he slapped my breasts and pussy. How I came at work because he called me and told me to. How he’s been making me crave for him to take me in the most forbidden way possible. The way he plays with me while talking to people. How I’d come in the cab. How he’s made me go from practically anorgasmic to needy and hungry.

Does that make me submissive? But I don’t want to be submissive. I want to be empowered and independent.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence I’m the one guy you came with?” His voice is soft now.

“So you’re saying anyone could have done that?”

He shakes his head. “No, not anyone. Maybe not even most guys or most dominants. But because I have intimate knowledge on how a submissive’s brain works I had a head start on knowing what would work with you and what wouldn’t.”

I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. “I don’t… I can’t… I need to think.”

He’s silent for a very long time before he nods. “I understand.”

My head snaps up. “What, you’re not going to push me? Make demands?”

Please say yes, please say yes.
A chant. A plea. And yes, I know how fucked up I’m being.

He narrows his eyes and his lips twist sardonically. “Try not to think too much about how much you want me to push you right now and maybe you’ll be able to keep deluding yourself.”

I bolt up and start grabbing belongings, stuffing them into a bag of mine that had been tossed into the corner of the room previously. I shake my head. “I need space.”

“Understood.”

Don’t you even care?
I want to scream the words at him, even knowing how unfair they are. Tears blur my vision and I brush them away. When I’ve filled my bag and given him plenty of time to stop me, I straighten, and without looking at him, say, “I don’t think you should come with me to the reunion this weekend.”

“Okay.”

He’s not going to try and talk me out of it. He’s not going to stop me. I stare at the door. I’m going to leave and he’s going to let it happen.

“You know,” he says, his tone soft. “You don’t have to leave.”

My throat closes tight. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No, I’m not. Those choices always have and always will be yours to make.”

I suck in a strangled breath and will myself not to cry. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope so.”

And, with that, I flee.

After hours of volatile, twisted thoughts I’d broken down and called Layla. She’s sitting on my couch, handing me tissues as I cry uncontrollably, and she rubs my back.

I have no idea how long I’ve been at it but every time I think I’m done, a new batch of tears crop up and I start all over again. I hiccup, my chest heaving in uncontrollable, gasping sobs.

Layla hasn’t asked me what happened, she’s just let me have it out and the words tumble from my lips. “I-I… L-love… Him.”

She runs a slow circle over my back. “I know you do. Kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”

I half laugh, half wail, “Yes! H-h-help me.”

More soothing sounds. “Do you want to start by telling me what happened?”

Shoulders shaking, I shred the tissue.

She hands me another.

I take it, twist it in my fingers, and manage to gulp out through forced puffs of air. “He…wants…” I wave my hand. “You know.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Her voice is soft.

It’s a few more minutes before I can speak. “He wants what you and Michael have.”

She tilts her head. “You mean it hasn’t been?”

I shake my head.

“Really?” Her brow furrows. “Because I was sure.”

“No!” I shake my head again more vehemently. “You know I don’t like that.”

She stares at me, her expression scrutinizing, before realization dawns. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

She sighs. “I couldn’t figure out why you weren’t talking to me about what you were going through emotionally, but now I see.”

“See what?”

She bites her lip. “Remember, that first date you had with Chad… I told you how he was. And, well, guys like that don’t want to hide it.”

“I told you it wasn’t like that.” I sniff.

“But it is.” Layla looks away and then looks back again. “It’s exactly like that.”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know!”

“I know because it’s obvious.”

“How can it be when we’ve never spoken about it?”

A smile curves the corners of her lips. “Let me ask you this, when’s the last time you wore panties out?”

My cheeks instantly heat and I look down at the floor.

“My point is made.”

And suddenly, just like that, I stop fighting it. Stop fighting myself. Stop fighting the truth of my relationship with Chad. Stop pretending all of this isn’t me. I close my eyes and give up the ghost as my momma used to say. All the questions and confusion bubbles to the surface, but instead of denying it, instead of avoiding, I accept.

The tightness in my chest eases, my lashes flutter open, and I peer at Layla. “So…is that like a thing?”

“Yes, that’s a thing. In my experience no panties is both pathological and universal among dominants.” She laughs, soft and tinkling. “It’s like they are offended by their very existence. Unless, of course, they can be used against you.”

My mind fills with last night…the only reason I wore panties. When exactly had I stopped questioning him on the state of my underwear?

I find I can’t remember. It seemed gradual. I gulp. Natural.

I clear my throat. “What else is a thing?”

She relaxes into the futon and tucks her feet under her. Even wearing yoga pants and a gray T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail, the furniture looks wrong on her. Something belonging in our past. My past.

I blink as it dawns on me. I want a new couch. I want a proper bed.

I want a life. Not a dorm room. The realizations coming so quickly they are threatening to overwhelm me. I blow out a deep breath.

She shrugs her shoulder. “Orgasms are definitely a thing.”

“How?” Curious at how closely her reality mimics my own.

“I suppose only the degree depends. I only have observational experience, my experience and Jillian’s to go by. Jillian’s the only person I’ve ever talked to in any depth. John wanted control of them, but only during sex. Michael basically wants me to ask permission. Leo is the most hardcore. Jillian has to ask before she can even touch.” She laughs, and her expression is radiant and flushed with pleasure. “And you can be sure he makes it hard for her to resist asking.”

I shift, and cross my legs, letting all the questions I’ve been dying to ask come to the surface. “I don’t really understand the difference between Michael and Leo.”

A little pink stains her cheeks. “I can touch myself whenever I want to. I can work myself into a frenzy, but at the end of the day, if I want an orgasm, I need to ask for it. Jillian doesn’t have that luxury. Anything to do with sex requires Leo’s permission.”

My brow furrows. Have I been asking permission without realizing it? I didn’t think so, but to Chad’s point, I didn’t remember the last time I’d had an orgasm that didn’t involve his direction. I’d merely chosen not to think about it that way. “And you want that?”

“God yes.” There’s no conflict in her voice, no resentment or anger.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because it’s a privilege.” She picks a piece of lint off her black pants. “It means he cares about you. He gives a shit. That he thinks you’re worth the effort.”

I shake my head, the confusion still not lifting. “But aren’t you the one putting in all the effort?”

Layla laughs. “No, silly! You don’t think being dominant is hard work? It requires patience, understanding, self-discipline, and delayed gratification. And, because we’re little brats, consistency.”

I think of all the weeks Chad spent on me—kissing me, touching me, understanding me, talking to me. How steady he’d been in the face of all my fears. His unrelenting patience as he listened to me insist I’d never orgasm. His understanding as I talked about my childhood, the pressure, the rebellion and the wrath of God. Selfishly, I’d been so wrapped up in my own head, fighting my own emotions so hard I hadn’t thought about the work he had to put into that. Into me.

He’d been an anchor in my tumultuous storm.

She smiles. “I can see you thinking.”

I bite my lower lip. “I never thought of it like that.”

“It takes a while to figure it all out.” She touches my arm. “But you have me and you have Jillian to walk you through it.”

“And you really don’t mind asking Michael if you can dance?”

Her expression goes completely blank. “What are you talking about?”

“On Valentine’s, you and Jillian asked if you could dance.”

She giggles. “Oh that…that was just for a special occasion. When you go to parties like that you become a bit more of an exaggerated version of yourself. Yes, there are some rules, but not tons—just enough to establish that he’s the boss and I’m not. Just enough to remind me of his control and why it’s so hot and why I want it.”