If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(32)

We are almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my stomach at the prospect of an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a small enclave of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully grasp what is happening, I am against the wall, hidden from the street and he is in front of me, enclosing me in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning stare and I think I might combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all around me, but he is not touching me. I want him to touch me.
He presses his hand to the concrete wall above my head when I want it on my body. “You don’t belong here, Sara.”
The words are unexpected, a hard punch in the chest. “What? I don’t understand.”
“This job is wrong for you.”
I shake my head. I don’t belong? Coming from Chris, an established artist, I feel inferior, rejected. “You asked me why I wasn’t following my heart. Why I wasn’t pursuing what I love. I am. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I didn’t think you’d do it in this place.”
This place. I don’t know what he’s telling me. Does he mean this gallery? This city? Has he judged me not worthy of his inner circle?
“Look, Sara.” He hesitates, and lifts his head to the sky, seeming to struggle for words before fixing me with a turbulent look. “I’m trying to protect you here. This world you’ve strayed into is filled with dark, messed up, arrogant *s who will play with your mind and use you until there is nothing else left for you to recognize in yourself.”
“Are you one of those dark, messed up, arrogant *s?”
He stares down at me, and I barely recognize the hard lines of his face, the glint in his eyes, as belonging to the man I’ve just had lunch with. His gaze sweeps my lips, lingers, and the swell of response and longing in me is instant, overwhelming. He reaches up and strokes his thumb over my bottom lip. Every nerve ending in my body responds and it’s all I can do not to touch him, to grab his hand, but something holds me back. I am lost in this man, in his stare, in some spellbinding, dark whirlwind of…what? Lust, desire, torment? Seconds tick eternally and so does the silence. I want to hold him, to stop whatever I sense is coming but I cannot.
“I’m worse.” He pushes off the wall, and is gone. He is gone. I am alone against the wall, aching with a fire that has nothing to do with the meal we shared. My lashes flutter, my fingers touch my lip where he touched me. He has warned me away from Mark, from the gallery, from him, and he has failed. I cannot turn away. I am here and I am going nowhere.




Chapter Twelve

Description: butterfly

January 12, 2012

There are roses everywhere in my room, and I feel like a princess who’s found her Prince Charming. Okay, so maybe he’s not exactly my childhood version of Prince Charming, but life changes how you look at things. I just finished counting the vases again because I can’t help myself. There are twelve of them, each holding a dozen beautiful, sweet-smelling buds. New buds soon to blossom. And the card. Imagine me sighing right now. The card is so perfect. I can’t stop staring at the words ‘they are delicate and ready to bloom like you are, little one’. Like me. I do feel the roses are like me. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. He’s hard sometimes, demanding, but he makes me feel protected. He makes me feel special. I think I’m ready to put aside my fear of the things he wants me to do with him, and to take the next step. The idea of him being my ‘Master’ is incredibly arousing. He is so…powerful.
I know I’ve let fear hold me back. I’m not really sure what I’m afraid of. Unfamiliar feelings? What he will do to me if I grant him full control? He has kinky desires and it’s scary to think about taking part in those things. What if he binds me and does something to me I don’t like? And why does the idea of being that submissive to him turn me on? That I could want that is a part of me I don’t understand, but I know I can no longer run from me, any more than I can run from him. I need him. I need him so badly that the pain of potentially losing him is far worse than the pain he might inflict during our games. I can-

“I take it you’re ready for our event tonight, Ms. McMillan?”
My heart lurches and my gaze jerks from one of the first journal entries Rebecca ever penned — at least, that I have in my possession, to the doorway where Mark stands. Dressed in a pinstriped black suit, his sculpted body and broad shoulders consume the archway, just as he consumes the air around me. It is Friday evening and the first time I’ve seen him since he’d left town. I suspect my reaction to seeing him is vastly more potent for a variety of reasons. Chris’s silence.  Ella’s continued lack of communication. Even Ava from the coffee shop, who teased me with gallery gossip, has been MIA. I’m swimming with sharks alone, which brings me back to my reaction to Mark’s sudden appearance, the ultimate shark.
I’m more certain than ever that Mark is the man in the journals. The evidence is overwhelming. The roses, and their connection to Mark’s art collection. His dominant personality, and the money Rebecca infers her lover possesses in many of her writings. ‘Master’ has to be Mark and it is all I can do not to blush as I remember the intimate acts I’ve read with him as her Master.
No. It’s not knowing this man is ‘Master’ that rattles me. It’s how well I relate to what Rebecca responded to in him. Her need to hand over everything to someone else, including her pleasure, and yes, her pain. To trust that much.