Letting Go (Letting Go Series #1) (5 page)

I start with a nice jog, three
and a half miles winding through a lovely county park just a short distance from my home. It’s a beautiful day: blue sky dotted with cotton ball clouds, temperature hovering around seventy degrees, just the barest hint of a breeze. Plenty of people are out enjoying the park. Like me, some are exercising, walking or running along the gently sloping trails. Others are lounging about on the grassy fields, reading, listening to music, or just soaking up some sun. A few have picnics spread out on colorful blankets.

I pass a few regulars
I recognize, and we exchange nods or quick hellos. My route takes me about thirty minutes to complete, give or take a few, and then I head for home, walking the last three blocks to cool down. The run was wonderful. Running almost always puts me into a “zone” of peaceful oblivion, and today was no exception. It’s not until I’m less than a block from my apartment that I realize I have not thought about Sir even once for over half an hour.

Finally, I feel like I’ve regained some control. But now I find myself wondering if any insights might have percolated up from my subconscious during
my visit to the zone. I hope so.

Inside my apartment, I grab a bottle of water
and a container of strawberry yogurt from the fridge and sit down at the kitchen table. I chug three or four gulps of water to take the edge off my thirst, then lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Breathing slow, deep breaths, I let my mind wander back to this morning’s conversation. I can recall pretty much all of it now, maybe not word for word, but where I can’t remember the exact words I can still recall the gist. Unfortunately, no new insights seem to have come along with my improved memory.

I’m not done, though. I have one more weapon in my arsenal.

Usually after my run I take a long shower, basking in the streams of hot water rushing down my body, but not today. Today, it’s going to be a bath—a nice, long, relaxing bubble bath.

Taking my yogurt with me, I head for the bathroom and start the tub filling, adding my favorite lavender scented bubbl
e bath when the tub is about a third full. Bubbles immediately begin piling up where the water is pouring down into the tub, releasing their relaxing scent. I draw in a deep breath.

While I wait for the tub to fill, I finish my yogurt and then grab my bag of
tealight candles from under the sink. I spread five or six atop each edge of the tub and three more at the end where my feet will be. When the water is almost deep enough, I light the candles on the far side and at the foot of the tub, then climb in. The temperature of the water is just about perfect, so I turn off the water, light the remaining candles, and settle down into the warm, welcoming pool of bubbles.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head back onto a small rubber pillow at the end of the tub and allow my mind to begin to drift. The combination of warm, bubbly water, soft flickering light behind my eyelids and fresh lavender scent filling my nostrils quickly relaxes me.
For the third time today, my mind leaves my conscious control.

How long I remain that way, I’m not sure—no clocks or cell phones are allowed in the bathroom during bubble bath time—but when my brain returns to earth the water has cooled and most of the bubbles have burst or evaporated. I grab a
loufa and quickly scrub my body, then stand up and rinse off under the shower.

I feel great, but I’m no closer to any decision about whether to call Sir tomorrow. That’s okay, though. I still ha
ve plenty of time to decide. At least my run and my bath provided plenty of distraction. The afternoon is half over, and I’m having dinner with Amanda tonight, which leaves me only a couple of hours to kill. Some cleaning and a good book should take care of that. If not, I can always go shopping. I have a feeling I just may need some sexy new underwear soon.

CHAPTER 8

Amanda and I decide to meet at Pompeii’s, an Italian place we both like. It’s nothing fancy, but the food is terrific and the prices are more than reasonable.
As I walk through the double glass doors, I find Amanda sitting on a bench in the tiny waiting area. She bounds to her feet as soon as she sees me and greets me with a warm hug.

Amanda and I have been best buds since freshman year of high school and I love her like a sister. She’s a couple inches shorter than me, with shoulder length
blond hair she’s always highlighting with different colors. Tonight, two thick streaks of bright pink frame the right side of her face. The color matches her pink and gray checked sweater almost exactly. She’s wearing black stretch pants and ankle high black leather boots which have a pink square on the outside of each ankle. Her fashion sense has always been more hip than mine—and sexier, too, I have to admit.

I’m wearing a long-sleeve teal shirt with two buttons at the neck and a pair of nice jeans. My hair is pulled back in a
simple ponytail. I know I look nice, but nothing overly special. I’ve always been comfortable letting Amanda grab most of the attention.

It’s just me and her tonight, because our other single friends are all
out with their boyfriends. I’m lucky to have Amanda on a Saturday night, because her boyfriend Brandon is out of town.

Amanda ha
s always been more adventurous than me and has been a good influence in “stretching” me into trying new things. Even so, I haven’t decided if I’m going to confide in her about my craigslist adventure. I’m just going to play it by ear.

The hostess guides us to a table
near the back. We sit across from each other, taking the menus the hostess hands us even though we both know what we’re probably going to order. I glance down at the menu just to make sure there’s been nothing new added. There isn’t, so I’m going to stick with my favorite, chicken marsala.

I close the menu and look up. Amanda has already put her menu down in front of her. I bet she’s going with her old standby, spinach lasagna.

The waitress arrives to take our drink order. I ask for a glass of white wine, Amanda orders red. We tell her we’re ready to order our food, too, so she takes out her pad and looks at me first. I go with the chicken marsala, and as I guessed, Amanda chooses the lasagna. The waitress finishes scribbling and scurries away.

Amanda and I exchange
small talk, catching each other up on our week. I don’t mention anything about this morning.

Our wine arrives pretty quickly and we clink our glasses. Amanda makes a brief toast.

“To us. May we fucking fly forever.”

Amanda likes alliteration when she can get away with it.
“Fucking” is her favorite adjective—she tosses it around easily. “Fucking fly” is one of her catchphrases for describing the carefree way she likes to live her life. I use “fucking” a lot in my thinking, but I don’t say out loud very often. Amanda says it’s because I’m too buttoned up—if she only knew what I was up to this morning! She’d be shocked, for sure. I still don’t know if I’m going to tell her.

“Cheers,” I say
in response. I told you I’m way more reserved than Amanda.

We each sip our wine. Mine is very tasty—slightly fruity with a bit of a bite in the aftertaste. This
drink is much needed, so I take a second sip before putting my glass down.

We return to our easy conversation until our food arrives. We still talk a little bit while we eat, but mostly we concentrate on our food. My
marsala is delicious. The chicken is so tender it almost melts in my mouth, the mushrooms taste delightful, and the sauce is simply to die for. As usual, I slice a small piece off for Amanda to enjoy, and she gives me a bit of her lasagna. It’s good, but not as good as mine.

I clean every bite from my plate
, soaking up the last of the yummy marsala sauce with a piece of dinner roll. Amanda has done an equally thorough job on her food.

We make eye contact and smile at each other. There’s nothing like a good meal and good wine with a best friend.

“There’s something different about you, tonight,” Amanda says. “I can’t put my finger on it, though.”

“Huh?”

I’m surprised…and a bit dismayed. The only thing different is the thing with Sir, and that’s barely begun. What could Amanda be seeing? And if I’m giving off signals already, how on earth am I ever going to go further with this, if I decide to?

“Have you been getting laid?” she asks.
“Without telling me?”

I feel myself beginning to blush. I hope it’s not visible in the dim light.
This is my chance to open up and come clean. But I don’t.

“I wish,” I reply, making a joke out it. “It’s been way too long. Do you think I could borrow Brandon for an hour or two when he gets back?
You keep bragging about how good he is.”

Amanda grins. “
That he is.” Her grin widens. “You can borrow him, but only if I get to watch.”

“Deal,” I say, getting into the game. “You can serve us drinks between rounds, too.
If he’s as good as you say he is, I’m sure I’ll want it more than once.”

“Maybe I’ll even join in,” Amanda says. “Give you a lesson or two
on how to make a guy feel
really
good.”

There it is—another chance for me to tell Amanda about my morning. Once again, I don’t. I realize I’m not ready to share
my secret. Not yet. For now, my possible interest in traveling down the path Sir has introduced me to is going to remain private.

CHAPTER
9

I wake up entirely too early for a Sunday morning, groggy with sleep. I try to go back to sleep, but my brain seems to be much more awake than my body. And guess what it’s thinking about? Sir, of course.

After ten or fifteen minutes of restless tossing and turning, I give up and climb out of bed. I’ve got two hours to decide whether to call him.
Plenty of time.

I throw on a sweat suit and shuffle into the kitchen, wher
e I begin chopping up some ham, peppers, tomatoes and mushrooms for the omelet I denied myself yesterday. Once my ingredients of choice are ready, I break three eggs—discarding one of the yolks—and whip it all together, then pour it into a preheated frying pan. While it’s beginning to cook, I drop a slice of bread into the toaster and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I wish I had some champagne on hand—a mimosa or two might help me through what lies ahead.

Breakfast is delicious, and I savor it like a convict enjoying his last meal. That image alone should give me a clue about what I’m considering doing. Add that to the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to tell my best friend anything about it, and I should have a pretty good idea that this is a road I don’t really want to be going down.

So why am I looking at the clock to see how much time I have left before I’m supposed to call?

After washing the frying pan and putting my dishes into the dishwasher, I head for the computer to check my email. As usual this early in the day, it’
s almost all spam, but it’s good to clear it all out before it piles up too much. I wasn’t expecting anything from Sir, but I still find myself a bit disappointed to see there’s nothing from him.

Glancing at the time at the bottom of my monitor, I’m glad to see I have time for a quick shower before I have to make my decision.

Freshly fed and showered and back in my sweats, I stretch out atop my bed. I’ve got five minutes—five minutes to decide whether to “boldly go” or to retreat back into the safety of my shell. Each
choice has its plusses and minuses. I break the logjam in my head with a compromise—calling him doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I would still just be exploring my options. That sounds safe enough for now.

I pick up my cell and punch in his number before I can c
hange my mind. I’m certain he’ll appreciate my punctuality.

Sir answers on the second ring. “Hello, Jennifer.
Right on time. Good girl.”

And just like that, the tingling between my legs begins anew. He’s used dual treats already—my name and “good girl.” I’m certain it was no accident. At
any rate, I was right about him appreciating my punctuality—it feels good to be a little bit inside of
his
head.

“Thank you, Sir,” I reply
automatically.

“Did you spend at least a few minutes thinking about yesterday morning?” he asks.

He’s playing with me of course. He knows I spent way more than a few minutes. And he knows that I know he knows.

“I did manage to find a few spare minutes,” I reply.
“May I ask you some questions?”

“Yes, you may.
I told you that you would probably have a few. Ask away.”

I want to make certain I’m not crossing any boundaries, so I clarify my request.

“Questions about you, I mean.”

“Like I said, ask away.”

I decide to start simple. Besides, it would be nice to have some kind of picture of him in my mind.

“How tall are you?”