It’s so much better than being caught in limbo, between life and death.
My head falls back as James returns to working my muscles. Part of me wants him to leave them tight and painful; the ache will last a long time. The longer the better. But his touch on my skin is like nothing else.
He starts walking backward toward the tub, and I follow robotically, powered by his working fingers. “There,” he says, flipping the faucet off and feeling the water. He takes me under my arms, lifts me from my feet, and places me in the water. “Take as much time as you need.”
And then he turns and walks out, leaving me alone in the bathroom. I look at my naked body. At my scars. At the welts on my wrists.
Need. Take as much time as you need. I don’t need anything.
Especially not time. Especially not to think. And I definitely don’t want to lose the intense ache I’m feeling on every part of my body. It’s masking things I’ve struggled so hard to mask for too long.
I wash quickly, leaving my hair, and get out to dry myself with one of the crisp white Egyptian cotton towels. I go to the bedroom to find my clothes, snatching them up from the floor and tugging them on. I approach the mirror hanging on the wall. The whole of my front is exposed, my tattered shirt gaping open. I can’t go out in public like this. I glance around the room, not holding out much hope of finding anything to wear. This isn’t even his bedroom. It’s his kink room. The room he brings many people to and fucks them wildly with an audience.
Of their own volition, my teeth clench, and I hate myself for letting foolish resentment cloud the serenity. I spot a closet across the room, and, desperate, I go to it, pulling the doors open. I’m presented with another room. A walk-in closet. Floor-to-ceiling rails and various width drawer units span the circumference, and an enormous snuggle chair sits on an angle in the center. His closet. This is his bedroom?
I look back over my shoulder to the various contraptions attached to the walls, the cabinet full of toys, the leather chaise in the window.
Clothes.
I work my way through the rails trying to find something suitable, an old T-shirt or something. All I can see are suits, dress shirts, and jeans. I can’t go waltzing down in any of those. “Shit,” I mutter, starting on the drawers. I yank the first open. Boxers. The second. Socks. The third. “Watches?” I murmur, casting my eye across dozens of timepieces resting in cushions. I slam it shut. Where does he keep his plain old T-shirts?
I turn, seeing another unit of drawers. Wider drawers. I hurry over and pull the first open, being presented with a perfect pile of perfectly folded, crisp black T-shirts. There must be a dozen, all the same style. I grab one, discard my shirt, and pull it over my head as I make my way downstairs.
As my feet hit the staircase, I hear voices and see a couple sitting at the island with James. He’s leaning on the glass counter, supported by his forearms, and he’s now dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt to match the one I’ve just taken from his stash. They’re talking quietly, and my steps falter, my hand taking the metal rail. A couple. A man and a woman.
I pull myself together just in time for them all to turn and find me hovering on the stairs. Uncomfortable doesn’t cover it. James pushes himself up slowly, his laser stare holding me in place where I stand.
I look away. “Sorry to interrupt.” Convincing my legs to move is a task, and I take the steps slowly, feeling terribly unstable, as I’m watched by all three of them. I glance at my work tools by the door, torn. I can’t carry it all, so I gather what I can manage—I’ll come back for the rest—and hit the elevator call button.
“Beau,” James says softly, and my shoulders rise, like tensing can protect me. The doors open, and I lift a foot to step inside. I don’t make it over the threshold. He takes my arm, keeping me where I am, and I look at his long, capable fingers wrapped around my scarred flesh.
“Let go of me,” I whisper, not wanting to make a scene in front of these people.
“Leave your things here.”
I swing a stunned look up at him. He thinks I can come back? “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He takes everything from my hands and places them back where they were. “Why?”
I look to the people in James’s kitchen instinctively, while James keeps a firm hold of my arm. They’re not watching now. They’re looking at something together. A laptop.
“That’s Pierce and Michelle,” James says, pulling my attention back to him. He’s showing no expression. No emotion. Giving me nothing to tell me what he’s thinking or how he’s feeling. Why does that irritate me? “They track my private stocks.”
“Oh.” I immediately feel like a fool. He knew what I was thinking and that my thoughts were bothering me. “You’re obviously busy.” I gently try to tug my arm free, and his grip slides down to my wrist, catching one of the welts. I flinch. He’s doesn’t miss it.
“You didn’t spend very long in the bath.” He steps back, giving me space, and tucks his hands into his back pockets. “You should have soaked a while; it would have eased the discomfort.”
I reach for the call button again, the doors, at some point during the past few moments, having closed. “It’s fine. I’ll soak in the tub at home.”
“I’d rather you did here.”
The doors slide open again as I show him my absolute confusion. “Why?”
“So I know you’ve taken the necessary measures to ensure the fastest recovery time.”
“You fucked me, you didn’t beat me,” I say, louder than I planned, my frustration getting the better of me. He regards me quietly, still with nothing to read on his face. He looks over his shoulder to his people, and I follow his direction, nearly dying on the spot when I see they’ve stopped what they’re doing and are looking this way. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, humiliation engulfing me. “I’ll be going now.” The doors have closed again, and I bite down on my teeth, smacking the button.
“I want you to get back in the bath,” James says, moving in closer.
“I do not need to get in the damn bath.”
“Beau, let’s not fall out over this,” he whispers. “My request is simple and for your own benef—”
“I don’t want a bath, James,” I hiss, anger replacing the frustration. I take backward steps into the elevator when the doors open, and James follows me, backing me into the corner with his imposing frame.
“Why?” he asks, his chest pushing into mine. “Why don’t you want a bath, Beau?”
My eyes climb his torso to his stoic face. His beautiful, stoic face. “Because I like the pain,” I say through my clenched jaw. It’s a pain I can deal with. A comforting pain. A pain that reminds me that I can escape. A pain that didn’t suggest I was fragile, that I needed to be treated with care. Flogging. Paddling. Hammering. Intense, welcome pain. Everywhere.
His eyes remain clear, his face straight, and he rests a hand on the wall behind my head, moving in until our noses are touching. My shakes are violent. “Take a bath,” he whispers. “Soak off the ache.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, and I close my eyes, breathing in deeply. “Because we’re doing it all again tomorrow.” He takes my hand and places something in it. A small box. He’s breathing in my ear, and it racks my body. “Goodnight, Beau.” He pushes away from the wall, backing out, eyes on my useless form. “Sleep well.”