There was no session with him. I’d barely spoken to him at all, in fact, and yet he was foremost on my mind as I went to sleep that night. He fascinated and intrigued me, and as much as I still hated him, I also didn’t. There was chemistry between us that I couldn’t deny, and I wanted him, and it wasn’t just Stockholm Syndrome or the common situation of falling for my therapist, though it was definitely those too. But it was more than that. It was that unique feeling of being known in a way that no one else knew me. It was the sense of being cared for, actually cared for rather than just groomed. It was the interest of someone in me for something other than my body, someone I hadn’t manipulated into giving me his attention.
I’d never had a relationship like that with a man. I’d never had that sort of relationship with anyone. I yearned for it to be real and not just one-sided, but like everything with Edward, I knew there was nothing I could do to influence what happened between us. He would feel what he felt, and if I was ever to be privy to what that was or what went on his head, it would only be when he determined to share it.
Of course, I also couldn’t forget that I was his prisoner, that he’d told me he’d kill me if I didn’t comply to his whims and fancies. Even though he hadn’t done anything particularly terrible to me, hadn’t hurt me physically or starved me, he had still taken power over me, and I battled with myself over how to feel about that. Could I ever forgive him? Why should I?
And the biggest question, the one that consumed me, made me toss and turn, made me sigh with longing—did he even want my forgiveness?
That answer alone might change everything between us, if I could just figure it out.
The next few days repeated in the same way—the looks from Edward, the writing in my journal, the massage from Marge, the evening gathering. His stare was always on me, always heated, but there was a dark undercurrent of hesitation that I couldn’t understand. At times I’d find him near me, reaching out to brush a hair off my face, then dropping his hand, stepping away. Something was holding him back, and the more he pulled away, the more he drew me in. I had to force my own restraint, knowing I was to take my cues from him.
I hated having to give him that, having to hand over my power so completely.
But maybe I didn’t hate it that much. Instead of having to stay ahead of the game, constantly scheming and planning, I got to sit back and relax. There was freedom in his control that I never knew could exist. Never knew I could like. Love, even, maybe?
Maybe.
Monday, I was surprised to find he was still around. I was half afraid to ask, sure he’d leave as soon as I voiced any interest in how long he’d stay. The other half of me tried to embrace the anxiety of not knowing. I meditated on it during yoga, opening myself to his whims, letting his power soothe me instead of rattle me. He’d taken care of me so far, hadn’t he? Giving me massages and space and yoga and chess games. He’d tell me when he needed me to know, not a minute sooner.
That night was Joette’s birthday. Dinner was moved out to the beach. Tents were set up, and tables brought out. The entire family had joined us, even the children and Azariah, and that might have been an excuse for Edward to act more husbandly, to put on the happily married show, but I’d seen that show before and it was different. He’d stand next to me then, touch me a lot to prove his ownership of me.
This wasn’t that at all. He sat away from me all night, rarely getting closer than a foot or two, but always, always, his eyes were on me. Every time I glanced at him, there was his gaze. It was so hot and fierce, I could feel it, even when I wasn’t looking in his direction. It made me squirm. Made my thighs tense and my pussy clench. Made my dress feel too hot in the cool night air.
After dinner, champagne was opened and a bonfire was lit. Tom made a Bahamian rum cake that was a family favorite, and Joette wore a paper crown that one of her grandkids had made. Louvens lit fireworks, which dazzled the night sky, but scared Marge’s nine-month-old baby, Liam. Erris was too busy with their older son who was delighted by the noise and lights, and Marge had spent the entire evening with the baby, so, somehow, I found him snuggled up in my arms.
It was strange holding a child, and such a young child as that. I’d never been around children. I’d never babysat, never had friends with kids. The closest I’d been to a baby was feeling the tiny feather movements of my own before it had bled out of me.
Now, here I was, days after opening myself up to that loss, and a tiny creature was clutching onto the strap of my dress, trying to snuggle in tighter at each loud boom. He was heavy in my arms, heavier than his twenty pounds should have felt. But the smell of him was sweet and precious, and the brush of his tiny fingers against my skin sent warmth down my limbs.
“See how pretty,” I cooed to him, turning my body so he could see the spray of colors in the sky. “It’s okay to be scared. Just don’t be so scared you miss out on the good stuff.”
When Marge came a little while later to retrieve her son, my body missed the weight of him, oppressive as it had been only minutes before. I was empty now. Too empty. And alone.
Except, not alone.
As soon as I turned to scan the crowd, Edward’s gaze caught mine. The way he looked at me, I could tell he’d been looking for some time. He held me like that, several feet across the sand, just with his eyes.
He broke the connection first. At my husband’s bidding, Mateo had brought out a box of cigars. Nice cigars. The kind people spent real money on. I watched as Edward lit one for the birthday girl then stowed two more in his pocket along with a lighter. Next, he grabbed an unopened bottle of champagne, and he walked over to me.
For the first time all night, he touched me, lacing his fingers through mine.
“My wife and I are going to call it a night,” he announced. “Please, everyone, continue celebrating as long as you’d like.”
My pulse sped up as he led me toward the house. As emotionally draining as sessions were with him, I was curiously keen to have another. I hoped that was where we were headed.
“Do I need to change?” I asked, eagerly, when he took the path around the house instead of going into it.
“No.” Reading my surprise, he added, “Just keeping you on your toes, little bird.”
At the cabana, he surprised me again, leading me out to the deck overlooking the ocean rather than having us take our usual seats in the main room. He gestured for me to sit on one of the lounge chairs then turned on the gas firepit before sitting on the chair next to me.
“Want one?” he asked, holding up a cigar.
I hesitated. “I’ve never had one before. But sure.”
He bit off the end, puffed on it until it was lit, and handed it over. “Have you ever smoked a cigarette?” he asked as he watched me delicately put it between my lips.
“No. I’ve smoked a joint, though.”
“You don’t need to inhale this. Draw it in like you’re sucking a straw. Puff every minute or so.”
I did as he instructed, coughing a bit until I got the hang of it. When I realized he’d frozen in place, his own cigar hanging loosely from his lips, I became self-conscious. “What?”
“That’s extraordinarily sexy.” His voice was deep, vibrating in his chest.
My skin felt hot, everywhere. “That’s...surprising.”