“It’s a good one,” he said. “And does something start to go wrong then?”
She lifted her head just long enough for him to see her anguish, the struggle in her features, before she ducked her head down again. “That is the wrong. The bad.”
“What?”
She bit her lip. “It’s wrong for me to react that way. Once, when I felt that way while my uncle was touching me, something happened I couldn’t stop. It just kind of took over, and made me stiffen up. It felt good, in an overwhelming, shocking way. It was short, just a few seconds, but intense. I got really wet…between my legs. My uncle was so angry. He told me I was really bad. When I misbehaved, they punished me by putting me in the cellar without food or light, usually for a few hours or overnight. The punishment for that was a lot worse. Three days, I think. I lost track.”
It took indescribable effort to keep stroking her the same way, not to haul her into his lap and hold her tight while emitting a stream of vile curses. Jesus fucking Christ.
He’d been right about something being off about her reaction. Sex didn’t frighten her. Pleasure did. They’d taught her it was wrong for her to feel it, embedding the lesson so deeply that, when she’d started to get aroused by Rory’s touch, she’d thought she was doing something bad. Something that would disappoint him.
As often as they’d used her, it was inevitable, especially during puberty, that an orgasm would sometimes happen. Inescapable biology, no shame.
“My uncle said…I was his brother’s daughter.” Her voice was a whisper. “That was one reason it was wrong for me to react that way to him touching me. But he also said a man is weak, and a woman is supposed to not encourage his weakness. She remains chaste in thought and deed, even when he’s rutting upon her. Otherwise, she’s encouraging his uncleanness.”
She was reciting, and the hair rose on his neck as he heard the child behind the words, behind the woman at his feet. As he imagined a big-eyed adolescent, her too-thin arm held in a human monster’s bruising grip as she was berated, the universe wasn’t big enough to contain his rage. If Burton Moorfield had been where Rory could reach him, he’d have blown the bastard’s brains out with his hunting rifle.
He also now knew that cellar door had been left in place for reasons other than preserving food.
There’d be shrinks who’d have lengthy discourses on whatever disorder her father and uncle suffered from, blah blah blah. Crazy was just crazy, and when it resulted in the abuse of a child, that kind of crazy needed to be put down, end of story for him.
He wasn’t controlling his rage well enough. She looked a little pale. “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “Not even slightly.”
She started to get up, but he tightened his grip on her wrist.
"Stay here. I want you to stay here." When he reframed it, he felt that surge Marcus had talked about. He was doing this on his own terms. Following his gut. "Put your head back down on my leg. Be easy.”
As she complied, he started to stroke her hair and between her shoulder blades again, light caresses that made her shiver and unconsciously press closer to him. While he did that, he calmed himself and thought about what he wanted. What she might want.
“I need to tell you something, Daralyn. I need you to believe me, even if everything in your life has told you different.
“Okay.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Your uncle, what he told you? It’s the exact opposite of what a man wants from the woman he desires. He wants to see her pleasure. When I see you're getting worked up by what I'm doing, nothing makes me happier. Because your pleasure is what increases mine. The more you're enjoying yourself, the better it feels to me.”
As he watched her struggle with it, he drove down his anger, his impatience. Not with her, never with her, but with his aching wish that she didn’t have to deal with this pain, this conflict within her, fifteen years of conditioning by soulless family members.
“Do you still brush your hair before you go to sleep?” he asked. “Like Les taught you?”
Surprise flitted across her face. “Usually, yes.”
“Good. I’m going to do it tonight. I’m going to brush your hair, tuck you into bed, give you a good night kiss. A kiss that might go on about a half hour or so, but that’s all I’m going to be after.”
Pain fractured her features. “Because I’m too messed up to do what a woman could do for you,” she said dully. “Like Amanda.”
In a mere few words, she reminded him how much she noticed, as well as how complicated she was. Just like any other woman. Her face was filled with so many conflicting emotions it tore things apart inside him.
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, did it slow, and she tipped her head into it, her lips resting against them. He ran his thumb over the dip of her chin. “One of your smiles does more for me than anything any other woman has. You make me want to give you the world. Don’t say something like that to me again, or I’ll give you another spanking. I may do it anyway, send you to bed with a smarting backside to help you remember.”
The quick flick of her eyes up to his, her parted lips, said he’d distracted her. And that she wasn’t exactly averse to his threat. It changed the direction of his reaction as well, but that direction was no less volatile than his fury.
“So,” he persisted in a calm voice—with effort. “Go get ready for bed, except for the hair brushing part.”
She rose, but at the bathroom door she stopped, fingered the jamb, her eyes on it. “Is there something you’d like me to wear, other than what I usually wear?”
Was it normal for new Doms and subs to have a whole other language happening underneath the spoken words? In the carefully posed question, he heard exactly what she was really asking.
What does my Master want me to wear?
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m really glad you asked.” Translation: You pleased me. You please your Master, with every fucking thing you do and say.
“A robe. Nothing else.”
She bit her lip. “If…I get wet like that again, I won’t be able to hide it.”
“I don’t want you to hide it.” He sent her a direct look, and at her uncertainty, he spoke to her gently, but with firmness. “Go do what I’ve asked.”
She nodded.
What he wanted to say was, I hope you’ll be so wet you can’t hide it. Because I want to see it. Taste it. Smell it. Watch it bathe my cock, feel it on my tongue, have you rub it against my body.
None of that would happen tonight. But he hoped he’d be able to get them closer to the moment and day it would.
As he shed his suit jacket and pulled off the tie, opened up the top couple buttons of his shirt, he was in an optimal position to watch her preparations, all the tempting views. Because though she now knew the appropriate times to close the bathroom door for privacy, she’d recognized, blissfully, that this was not one of those times.
She removed her bra. Hooked her underwear, took it down over her backside. A heart shape he wanted to cradle in both hands, knead that softness. She was killing him.
She put away the bra, rolled the panties into a neat ball and dropped them into a clothes hamper. She was standing in her bathroom naked. He noted a slight tension to her, but other than that, she didn’t seem self-conscious. Les and Elaine had taught her what was socially appropriate, and that was what guided her when it came to nudity.