All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)

All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)

Lisa Renee Jones




July 20th . . .

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m planning a night home alone. He’ll probably be at the club with someone else. Not that I have a say in such matters; I chose to walk away and find myself again. To be alone. I’ve come to hate that word, though I’d once reveled in how strong it made me. It’s funny, how letting someone into your life makes you forget how to just be . . . you. You become us, hoping that you both see it that way. The problem is, he never seemed to see “us” beyond Master and Submissive. Now, I’m trying to find me again. My brilliant plan includes a large cheese pizza and a Snickers bar. Probably not the best way to feel good about myself tomorrow, but I’m certain it will work tonight. Hey—one night at a time. That’s my motto and I’m sticking with it. At least tonight.





Midnight, a new day that feels like the same endless, lonely night . . .

Six episodes of Sex in the City has me wondering if my former Master is my Mr. Big. Will he eventually prove to be the soul mate I thought him to be? I’m not sure how I feel about that. I always wanted Carrie to end up with Mr. Big, but after watching the show again, I wonder if Mr. Big simply got old and settled for Carrie, and convinced her otherwise? I don’t want anyone to settle for me. I want someone who would do anything for me, like Leonardo DiCaprio did for Kate Winslet in Titanic—except die. I want someone who’ll save me, and me them. Someone who will be on the raft with me.

I don’t want to be alone anymore, but I don’t want to settle for Mr. Big. I guess I’m a romantic. I want real love. The kind that reaches inside your soul and awakens it and you. The kind that makes every bad thing a little smaller and every great thing a little more great. And that’s why I walked away from my Master. He’s my Mr. Big, and I want all of him. Only then will he get all of me.

Rebecca Mason





      Part One



   Mine





Paris, six weeks ago

It’s only twenty-four hours after Chris and I have arrived in Paris, and we’re facing the demons of his past. He pulls his silver Porsche 911 up to the front of The Script, the tattoo parlor he’d financed for Amber and her boyfriend Tristan.

Seeing the dimmed lights and Closed sign, he curses. “It’s ten minutes until eight. They aren’t supposed to close until eight.”

“He might have finished early,” I suggest, trying to soothe the darkness that has been his mood ever since we arrived yesterday. And I know why. He’s fighting the whip, that deep, evil need to punish himself and have the leather rip into his skin and muscle.

“Or,” Chris replies, “he’s avoiding me, the way he has my calls. I can see the reflection of a light in the back room, so I’m pulling around back.” He rolls forward.

I hug myself, curling my fingers beneath my arms. “Won’t the back door be locked? What if he won’t let you in?”

He cuts down the back alley. “I have to try, Sara. You know I do.”

“I know,” I whisper. I know he thinks he has to see Tristan, driven to make things right with a man he feels he somehow wronged. But deep down, I fear he craves someone who will blame Amber’s death on him, since I refuse to do so.

We round the corner and pull into the empty parking lot. “Maybe he just forgot to turn out the light?” I suggest.

Chris kills the engine. “If the light’s on, he’s here.”

Even in the shadows, I can see how stiff he is, how his wrist rests tensely on the steering wheel, his gaze locked on the place that’s more connected to Amber than it is to Tristan. Coming here reopens wounds that still ooze years of blame and guilt.

I itch to reach over and trace the blond hair teasing his neck, but I resist. He’s too edgy, buzzing like a live wire, and he doesn’t like to be touched when he’s like this. Not even by me.

“Let our lawyer drop off the ownership paperwork,” I suggest.

He turns to me, the shadows hiding his green eyes from my view. “It’s about more than the paperwork.” His voice is soft, raw in a way only acid emotion can create. “I need to know that in the end, she was taken care of. Her will didn’t allow me that right.”

“And you think Tristan will tell you?”

“I have to try.” He opens his door and steps out.

My gut knots as I shove open my own door, leaving my coat behind as I step out into the chilly November night, the wind gusting my brown hair around my face. My Chris Merit–designed Louvre Museum T-shirt does little to keep me warm, though my knee-high black boots were a smart choice.

Chris goes to the front of the car and I quickly move to his side. The starless night is dark, the mood even darker. He pulls me under his arm, his big body protecting mine, telling me that no matter what he has on his mind, I’m still with him. He’s not shutting me out. He needs to do this, and so we’ll do it—just like we’ll ride out the storm that is sure to follow.

I know the moment he makes the decision to push forward, and, in unison, we start walking. That’s how in tune I am with this man. We can read each other’s minds, and it’s like nothing I ever believed to be possible with another human being. It’s also why I know that just stepping inside the tattoo parlor is going to gut him, but he’s made his decision. I won’t stop him from doing it.