Dark Notes(71)
Three lots away from Ivory’s house, I idle the GTO on the street while she feeds the cat. The orange motorcycle isn’t here, but I don’t know if anyone else is home.
If I had a legal explanation for arriving with her at six-thirty in the morning, I’d be in that house with her right now. Instead, I’m forced to monitor her from afar, through the connection between our phones, ready to do whatever is needed to be her anchor point of protection.
The first light of dawn illuminates the patchy shingles on the surrounding homes. I hold my phone in a tight grip, hating that I can’t see her moving around inside. But I hear her through the speaker. Every rasp of her breath through the ear piece draws my own.
Before we left my house, I gave her the phone I bought for her weeks ago. She cradled it in her hands as if it were the priceless Vieuxtemps violin, her pale expression suffused with reluctant acceptance. I look forward to her reaction when I give her a car.
“Is your mom or brother there?” I ask though the phone.
“Both,” she whispers. “Asleep.”
If I hear a gasp or a single troubling sound, I’ll be on that doorstep in under ten seconds.
I flex my hand on the steering wheel, the bruised knuckles peering out from beneath the overlong sleeve. Ivory probably knows the real reason I’m wearing the jacket is to hide the cuts. I don’t want her worrying about what people assume or don’t assume. That’s my job.
As I focus on the rustle of her movements through the phone, my mind wanders back to the bedroom this morning and the erotic way her neck felt in the collar of my grip. She trusts me, yet she panicked, fighting with her body and begging me with her eyes, just as she would with any other man. That’s unacceptable.
Asphyxiation, whipping, deriving pleasure from any kind of pain and humiliation isn’t for the faint of heart. If I had any doubt about what arouses her, my approach would be different. If she were too timid to hold my gaze, she probably wouldn’t have caught my eye in the first place.
If she was anyone else, I wouldn’t be sitting here, one-hundred-percent invested and risking my neck to be with her.
Ivory Westbrook isn’t fragile. She’s built for my brand of protection and appetite for dominance. Treating her with kid gloves would do a great disservice to her.
Her emotional strength is one of the many reasons I’m so wildly attracted to her. Yes, she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, but I’m spellbound by the entire package. She stands up to me when she thinks I’m wrong, yet grows wet beneath the force of my voice and the heat of my belt. I bet my grandfather’s Fazioli that normal monotonous sex with an unassertive man would stifle her.
Whether those qualities stem from her submissive nature or her abusive past, it’s my responsibility as her first real sexual partner to make her aware of the many facets of pleasure. Sex doesn’t have to conform to society’s standards to be sane. It doesn’t have to be slow and tender to be safe. And it doesn’t have to be free of leather cuffs to be consensual.
She’s learning, but how aware is aware enough? This is the hard part.
I want her, and that need is an endless throbbing beat inside me, like an unwritten song banging against my ribcage to get out. Moving her into my home and sleeping beside her while not f*cking her is pure torture. But I know she’s aware of my restraint, and I also know how much she appreciates and respects it.
The fact that I ache to truss her up, sink my teeth into her tits, and strangle her gasps isn’t the issue. The very circumstance of her abuse combined with my role as her teacher makes even the gentlest intimacy with her tricky. I could coax her legs open with eloquent words, f*ck her sweetly, and she’d let it happen because it’s the only way she knows how to respond to a man.
Well, f*ck that. Before I enter her body, she’ll be with me mentally and emotionally, on her terms, making a conscious choice between stopping me or surrendering to me. Unlike this morning when my hand was around her throat. She neither yielded nor used her safe word. Because she doesn’t yet understand what it really means to be willing.
A few minutes later, she returns to the car and latches the seat belt.
I hit the gas, taking in her relaxed posture in the edge of my periphery. “They didn’t wake up?”
“Nope.” A soft smile touches her lips. “Schubert misses me.” She turns in the seat to face me. “Emeric, we need to talk—”
“If this is about moving in, it’s non-negotiable.”
“I have a say in where I live.”
“Not when it comes to your safety.” I veer onto Rampart Street and head toward Le Moyne. “With Shane and Lorenzo in that house, I don’t need to tell you how un-f*cking-safe it is to live there.”
She purses her lips into a frown.
I rest my hand on her thigh. “Stop fighting this.”
“I’m your student. If someone figures out I’m living with—”
“I will be arrested, and you will be free and clear of any consequences.”
“Exactly. I don’t want that!”
“The risk is mine.” I infuse my voice with authority, a tone that reminds her I’m the solution for her situation simply because I’m in charge, in control, and it is my purpose, above all else, to keep her safe. “This is my decision, and you will not question me about it again.”