If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(14)

And if Chris has skeletons, could Rebecca have discovered them and become a liability? It sounds so much like a fictional novel that laughter bubbles from my lips. Besides, with further reading, I realize Chris lives in Paris. Chris must be here for a visit. He is probably gone already.

Unbidden, disappointment fills me. Chris is the first man to interest me in well over two years, since Michael Knight, the CEO of a large computer company, whom I’d met at a charity event. I’d soon realized he was the kind of man I found alluring for all the wrong reasons. The kind that dominates and controls, and makes you feel all feminine and protected. That is, until he shreds everything you know of yourself to pieces. I’m still not sure I understand why he appealed to me, or why men like Mark, who ooze that kind of power, still appeal to me. I only know that dating men who are sensitive and caring, like I had in the past, doesn’t seem to be working for me. Chris, well, he doesn’t seem to be one of those power control freaks like Mark, but then I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

I reach for one of the journals and begin to read.

I told him I wouldn’t see him again. He told me he’d decide when I see him and when I don’t. I should have known I couldn’t simply walk away. I should have known he’d come for me, and that I, weak as I am, would not be able to resist him. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the storeroom in the middle of the day, with others nearby.

He shoved me against the wall and then tore down my panties. His lips pressed close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck, as he said, ’you know the rules, you know I have to punish you.’ I squeezed my eyes shut because I do know. I know and not only do I know but I want him, too. That’s what I’ve become, what he’s made me. I was wet and aching and all but ready to beg for the very thing I craved…punishment.

The first smack of his hand on my ass was pure pain, no pleasure like in the past, but I didn’t scream. I couldn’t scream. Not when I could be heard. Somehow, as it always does, the pain turned to pleasure. The need for him was intense, complete. He entered me and it was then I barely contained my cry, my need. He couldn’t f*ck me hard enough to suit me. I was, as always, powerless to the pleasure that is him.

When it was over, he turned me around, tugged my dress and bra down and clamped my nipples, ordering me to endure the pain for fifteen minutes. Assuring me he will know if I take them off sooner. And then he was gone, and I stare after him, my sex spasming from the orgasm he shouldn’t have been able to give me. Every nerve ending I own is aware of the sting of my bottom and ache of clamps biting down on my nipples. I am unable to stop the pain, unable to fight my desire for him. I am helpless. I am frighteningly aroused.

***

I stand in my bathroom, with my second cup of coffee on the counter next to me, brushing my long brown hair to a silken mass. It is eight in the morning and I will soon leave for the gallery. ‘You can start tomorrow’ should have been a lead into me asking ‘what time?’. Since I had not had enough sense to do so, I’d decided before bed to wake early enough to arrive thirty minutes before opening.

With a brush of powder, I finish up my makeup and step into the emerald green sheath dress, a black jacket, and black heels, which is my ‘go-to’ special occasion outfit. The same outfit that I’d worn to my teaching interview years before when, like today, looking professional was the goal. I am, after all, attending to adult needs today, rather than that of high school kids wearing jeans and t-shirts. Not that I ever opted for jeans myself, as some of the faculty did. My youthful appearance seems to be far more intimidating in high heels and skirts than in casual wear. With high school students, respect can go a long way. I inspect my appearance in the full length mirror behind the door with approval. It’s not Chanel or Dior, like many of the gallery customers will favor, but on my budget, it will have to do.

After finishing my coffee, I make my way to the car, and I’m officially as nervous as my students normally are on their first day of school. I can’t believe I’m really taking this job and I feel both terrified and excited. “Right,“ I say to myself. “Like there was any doubt you would?”

Guilt twists in my stomach at the idea of Rebecca’s potential misfortune being my good fortune. I am not sure I can live with that idea. No one has met with misfortune, I promise myself. I’m going to find out that Rebecca is perfectly fine and happy, and be able to embrace this world I love, if only for a while.

By the time I arrive at the gallery fifteen minutes later, I am having doubts about Rebecca’s safety again. I wonder why, if Rebecca is perfectly fine and happy, and I am to believe she has been whisked off to some exotic haven in a way permanent enough to let her things go, would the gallery say she is returning?

I have forever longed to spend my days surrounded by fine art, and I know that the day I leave this world behind for mine, it will be painful. But I am on this path now, and in my gut, it feels as if I am doing what I am meant to do. Even as I park in the back of the gallery and get out of my car, my heart feels like it might explode from my chest.

I cross the small employee parking lot, and after testing the door, finding it, not surprisingly, locked, I knock several times.

The young girl I’d wanted to hug the night before appears and smiles a warm welcome, before opening the glass door. “You must be Sara.”

“That’s me,” I say and return her smile. “I guess you heard I was coming?”