He has the last word on anything mission-related, but with the day-to-day stuff there’s negotiation and real compromise. In the bedroom, he’s always in control of the play, whether it’s vanilla-ish or kink, and I always have the power to end it with a safe word. I’ve never once worried that he might not stop if I used it.
Although the sex is mostly kink and always intense, it’s without the kind of torment masochists and sadists normally revel in. Gray stays clear of the bruising physical pain. He prefers to raise the intensity by toying with my mind.
Once or twice, there have been moments of internal panic when I’ve been sure that I’m being groomed again. But they turned out to be just remnants of my relationship with Kyle—it had nothing to do with Gray.
The man is a beast. But not the kind of monster Kyle turned out to be.
Kyle was an abuser and a cheat. Although I don’t have any solid evidence of the last part, just innuendo and speculation from the congressional hearings. But I don’t doubt it’s true. I could investigate his past, and I have thought about it over the years. But why bother? I’ve already given my relationship with Kyle too much time and effort.
I was young and naïve when we first met, living off ramen noodles and boxed mac and cheese, but mostly I was alone. My mother had taken up with yet another man of her dreams, and they went off together the summer before I started college. She didn’t bother to tell me that she’d sold the place until two men in a pickup truck showed up one morning to clean out the trailer a week before I left for school. When I finally reached my mother, she swore up and down she had told me about the sale, and chastised me for being an airhead. I’m quite sure I would have remembered her telling me a small thing like I sold the house and you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.
The Marshalls, who lived across the street, let me stay with them until I left for college. They gave me a wonderful send-off with a hummingbird cake and a silver charm in the shape of a key. It’s to remind you that you, and nobody else, hold the key to your future.
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me, and the Marshalls had done plenty. Even then, the small charm seemed weighty.
Richie Marshall gave me a teddy bear that he’d picked out himself so I wouldn’t be too lonely at school. We’re so proud of you, Lilah, they gushed, when they hugged me at the bus station. Don’t forget us.
I never have.
The hole in my heart hasn’t gotten any smaller. Even stealing the archbishop’s last breath didn’t help close that gap. But their deaths have been avenged. Although it turned out to be small comfort.
I check the temperature on the oil, and turn it up a drop. I expect to hear from Gray any minute. He’s good about following through—if he’s says he’ll call or text, he will. Unlike Kyle.
Kyle and I met at a symposium on careers with the government. He gave the presentation on the FBI. He approached me while I was waiting in line to talk to the CIA recruiter, and teased me endlessly about choosing the CIA over the FBI. Kyle was handsome and charming, and I was a not-quite-eighteen-year-old freshman. It didn’t take much effort to convince me to have supper so he could change my mind about joining the Bureau.
He never did change my mind. My heart was long-set on being a spy. But he did convince me to go out with him again, and again. He eventually confessed he was a Dominant, and introduced me to the BDSM lifestyle.
It wasn’t until after he died, when I screwed up the courage to dip my toes into the local BDSM community, that I learned Kyle was a poser. There are a lot of them out there. Men who pretend to be Dominants to get sex, or to abuse in a socially acceptable way. Kyle was good-looking, and he had no trouble finding sex, but a willing partner to play his sadistic games was harder to come by. No family, new to the area, and broken inside, I was perfect.
At a community get-together, I met Tony, who was significantly older than me, and an experienced Dom. A real Dom. We spent at least forty-five minutes talking, and I agreed to meet him for coffee the next day.
Over a frothy beverage, he gave me an education. He asked me questions and patiently explained the exchange of power, and so many other things I didn’t know about the lifestyle. He recommended books, websites, and informative articles to read. He would have answered my questions too, but I was too overwhelmed to come up with any.
There was no sex, and there would be no sex with Tony, ever. Dominants like Tony don’t play with big messes like me. He never said that, and honestly, sex was the last thing on my mind once he started talking. Tony was a good guy, who did me a huge service without making me feel any stupider than I already felt.
I never showed my face at another community gathering, and I never saw Tony again either. But I read and researched everything he recommended, and the more I learned, the more I realized my relationship with Kyle was fucked up.
Kyle gaslighted me into believing I was a pain slut—created just for him. It didn’t happen overnight. He was patient, carefully grooming me, step by step, until in the end, I couldn’t have an orgasm even with a Hitachi held to my clit, unless he’d beaten the shit out of me first.
I should have talked to a therapist, but I spoke to no one about that part of my life. I was too ashamed of having allowed the abuse. As it turns out, being abused is a lot like being widowed at a young age. It has no place in polite conversation—it makes people too uncomfortable. That’s fine. The victim tag isn’t one I’ve ever been willing to wear anyway.
My phone buzzes, but it’s Gabby returning a text from earlier. I should set the table. I don’t need to even think about which glasses to take out. Gray likes water without ice, and he drinks red wine, never white, but prefers a beer or bourbon. We’re comfortable, not the married-twenty-years-with-four-kids kind of comfortable, but the crown prince won’t expect that level of familiarity from us.
Sometimes, I worry I’m getting too comfortable. Fancy clothes. A driver. I look around the well-appointed kitchen. They’re all empty trappings, I remind myself. Nothing more than window dressing. Things my mother would have longed for. Not me.
I set out small dishes of baking soda and sliced lemons to absorb the odors. As I dredge the catfish, I can’t help but think about Mrs. Marshall. It’s her recipe. Her lemon and baking soda trick. “I hope I do you proud,” I whisper out loud, just in case she’s near. “I miss you. Send my love to Mr. Marshall, and give Richie a big hug for me.”
The phone vibrates again.
GRAY: 30 minutes.
I put the biscuits in the oven and add the catfish to the hot oil. It splatters, and I jump back to avoid a nasty burn. After a few minutes, I turn the sizzling fillet over. It’s brown and gorgeous when I pull it out of the oil bath and lay it on a rack in the warming tray under the stove. I repeat the entire process, until—the smell. Fuck. It’s so pungent it’s starting to overwhelm the kitchen.
Gray’s going to kill me. Oh my God.
I run around like a crazy woman, shutting all the doors in the apartment to contain the odor while I call Lally. She was the cook at the Wilder house while Gray was growing up, and now she works for Gabby and JD. She’s also a good soul and my friend. If anyone has a solution to this, it’s her.
I open the balcony door and turn the fan on full speed, while I wait for Lally to answer. I don’t even pause for her to say hello. “I ain’t got no time for pleasantries. I’m in trouble.”