And so was Zack Lassiter.
“You look flushed, Imogen. Again. Is it too warm in here?” He was strolling idly around her precious kitchen, exploring, touching, looking at her things. Looking at her. At last he stopped, chose a kitchen chair and pulled it out from her table. He turned it around and straddled it, watching her closely as he made himself totally at home in her private place.
His deep-blue irises hardened as he watched. And waited. Eventually, “Answer me, please.” It was there. The Dom tone, that thread of steel permeating every syllable.
God, where do they learn that?
“What? Answer what? What are you doing here? I’ll call you when it’s ready.” Imogen knew she was babbling, but couldn’t help it. He had her on the back foot. Somehow, all he had to do was come into her room and sit down, fix her with
that
look, and she babbled. Like a bloody teenager.
“I said, are you hot? Over-dressed perhaps?” His voice was low, calm, unruffled. And he knew what he wanted.
So did she. Too experienced to misunderstand his meaning, even if she was out of practice, Imogen stiffened, straightened. Sought to steady herself. She was not doing this. Not here, not now, not ever. And not with anyone but Sean.
“He’s dead. You’re not.” Intuitively, he was right on it, knew exactly what she was thinking. Christ, he was even better at that telepathy thing than Sean, and he was a Master. Her Master.
“He’s still… I don’t want anyone else. Couldn’t. Not ever.”
“Not ever? That’s a long time to be alone. How long
has
it been, Imogen?”
“Six years.” Her voice was a whisper. Unconsciously she reached for the tea towel, wiped her hands. But she made no move towards him, or to sit down. And it no longer occurred to her to hesitate before answering his questions. He asked, she answered. Simple. That’s how it was, now.
“What happened?”
“Sailing accident. He…fell overboard in a freak storm off Lindisfarne. His body was never recovered, although the search and rescue teams were out for days. I kept waiting for him, expecting him to turn up. To just…come home. But he didn’t. He…won’t.” Tears were flowing, her cheeks wet. She made no move to stem them or wipe her face.
Neither did he. Relentless, ignoring her apparent distress, he continued, “That’s hard. But six years is a long time. What was his name?”
“Sean.” It was the first time in years that she’d said his name out loud. She glanced around herself, half expecting her Master to materialise, angry and vengeful, ready to discipline her for her disobedience and disloyalty. For allowing this arrogant young Dom to even imagine he might replace him.
“He’s not here, love. There’s just me. And you. And this.” Zack’s voice had softened now, and she heard compassion there. Tenderness perhaps. And wondered why. For her? Why would this young man, this stranger, care about her?
He dropped his hands to his belt buckle, started to draw the leather through the metal. Imogen watched, transfixed.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m about to remind you of all you’ve been missing.”
“No…”
“Yes, Imogen. It’s time. Long overdue, in fact. You’ve been out of the lifestyle too long.”
“I…”
“This discussion’s over. Now, you have two choices. One”—he tapped his left index finger with the fingers of his right hand—“you can follow me, now, into your rather classy dining room. Unless I’m mistaken that table in there is mahogany. Yes?”
Imogen nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.
“You’ll look beautiful draped over it. Naked. The stripes left by my belt will be stunning too, laid across your gorgeous bottom. And that’s just the start. We could have a lot of fun together, just you and I, Imogen. And no ghosts of dead sailors.”
Imogen shuddered, would have edged backwards, away from him, but for the sink behind her. As it was, she stood rooted to the spot, staring at him. Her thoughts could best be described as a confused tangle of astonishment, terror and longing. She chewed her lower lip, the vision he painted both mesmerising and utterly out of reach. Decadent. And so very, very seductive. She wanted it. Yearned for it.
“Or, two”—his middle finger joined the first one—“you can stay in here. Carry on making that delicious lamb casserole you promised me. We’ll eat it, enjoy it. I’ll be polite, you’ll be…loyal. To your dead sailor. And on Monday, I’ll be gone and you can go back to pretending everything’s fine in your world of one. But remember this, Imogen. A Dom/sub relationship takes two. This lifestyle of ours is not a solo enterprise. Whatever you decide to do now, your Sean’s gone.”
He stopped, watched her carefully, and she may have detected a hint of compassion in his expression, but couldn’t be sure. Slowly, he got to his feet. He carefully replaced the chair, tucking it neatly under the table.
“I’ll be in the dining room. You’ve got five minutes.”
Imogen turned away, back to her potatoes, her tears now blinding her. She heard the click as the door closed, and moments later she was crouching on the floor, sobbing.
Outside, in the hallway, Zack heard Imogen’s sobs. He stopped, closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, exhaled. He turned, knowing he really should go back. To comfort, to reassure. Shit, he’d been brutal. Too brutal? No, probably not. Hopefully not. He’d said what had needed to be said, and he thought he’d got through to her. In those final moments, as she’d stared at him, he’d watched every emotion from joy to despair flit across her expressive face. Still a relative newcomer to this lifestyle, Zack found submissive nonverbals easy to read. And he’d not so far come across a sub more in need of being told what to do than Imogen Jakes. So he’d obliged. Still, by the sound of it she’d need more than five minutes…
In fact, she needed seven.
Exactly seven minutes later, Imogen slipped into her cosy little guest dining room. Zack was still there, lounging in one of her carver chairs at the head of the polished mahogany table which dominated the space. His lip quirked in welcome as she closed the door behind her and leant back against it.
“It’s good to see you, Imogen. Are we done with tears now?”
“I don’t know. Really…”
He got to his feet, walked slowly to her and reached up to place his palms along her cheeks. He lifted her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. He gently wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Well, we’ll see. I don’t mind tears if you don’t…” He lowered his face, placed his lips, soft and gentle, against hers. Hardly a kiss, more a caress. He trailed his lips across her still-damp cheek to nibble the lobe of her left ear. His voice was soft now, a murmur, gentling, calming.
“Here? I promised you my belt. It’s yours if you want that. Or would you prefer somewhere else? Upstairs, perhaps?”
He waited, giving her plenty of time to think, to sift through the tangle of wants, needs and fears now ricocheting around her head, to back out even now if she wanted to. But he was silently praying that she wouldn’t. For her sake, and his. His cock was thick and hard and already threatening to find freedom by busting right out of his jeans.
“Here. Here’s fine. And your belt, please. I’d like that.” Her voice was thready, her breath catching in her throat. But her words were clear, distinct. And firm.
Zack dropped a soft kiss onto her neck and stepped back from her. “Excellent. But first, we talk. Sit down, please.” He gestured to the carver chair he’d just vacated, courteously held it out for Imogen to be seated. He then took the chair immediately to her right, noting her puzzled expression. It was clear to him that it had been some considerable time since she had last had
this
conversation with a Dom.
“So, first things first. What are your safe words?”
“I… I can’t remember.” She glanced up at him, startled. “I should know, shouldn’t I?”
“Not necessarily. I get the impression it’s been a while…”
She nodded, her eyes dropping to study her fingers, clenching and unclenching nervously in her lap. “Yes. A while…”
“So, a new safe word then?”
Again, she nodded before glancing up at him. “Can we just use traffic lights? That’s easy.”
He hoped his smile was reassuring. “Yes, fine with me. So, red for stop, amber for be careful, slow down, not happy?”
“Yes. Red and amber. And green means okay.”
“I’ll know if you’re okay, probably. But yes, if we need to check.”
Again, that puzzled look. “How will you know?”
He shrugged. “If you’re in distress, really struggling, I’ll see it. In your eyes, your body language. It’ll be in your voice. Safe words are a safety net, and your reassurance that you can get out of any situation. But I
will
know, believe me. And I’ll stop, check out what’s happening, maybe change things a little. You know the sort of thing, you’ve been topped before.”
Imogen shook her head, the gesture quick, nervous. “Sean never knew. Not unless I safe worded. It was ‘rainbow’ by the way, my safe word, back then. I remembered.”
“Rainbow? Well then, traffic lights is sort of appropriate for us now. And do you tend to safe word a lot, Imogen?”
“Yes. I’m not that good at this. I tend to get a bit panicky…”
He leaned in, reached for her hands. Unresisting, she let him lift both her hands from her lap and cradle them in his. “But even so, you’re not panicking now, are you? You
do
want this? Now?” He had to check. But shit…
Resolute, she nodded. “Yes. I do. I
need
to do this, to prove to myself I’m still, still…”
“Alive?” His voice was gentle, low. But his meaning firm and clear and affirming.
Imogen smiled, he thought perhaps for the first time since his arrival, and he knew this was going to go well. Dammit, it had to go well. He was competing with a ghost.
Zack let that lie, let her consider his comment and steady herself. Eventually she raised her chin, looked him in the eye. “Can we start, please? Would you like me to get undressed?”
“I would, yes. Looking forward to it. First though, we need to discuss fucking.”
Imogen flushed slightly. Zack noticed, thought it was interesting given the nature of their current discussion that some vestige of modesty might remain. Still, he’d soon put an end to that. Sure enough, her response was one that hedged, skirted around. He would require—demand—plain speaking and clarity as their time together progressed.
“I thought, well, won’t we just get on and do it? That’d work.” Imogen’s tone was sharp, her nervousness obvious.
“Probably. But call me a purist if you must, I’ve got this thing about consent. So, let me put this to you in not much code at all. Once we get into our little scene, you’ll want me to fuck you. Beg me to do it, probably. And I’d be delighted to oblige you, you can be assured of that. But would you still respect me in the morning? In the cold light of day, is that what you want? So, I’m asking you now, while you still have your wits about you, what you want. If, when, you beg me to fuck you, do you want me to do it? Or not? Your choice, Imogen. Whatever you say to me now, I’ll honour later.”
Imogen’s gaze was steady, just the slight frown and hitch of breath betraying her amazement at Zack’s question as the depth of its meaning, its significance, sank in. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
She frowned at him, seemed confused, as if she wasn’t sure how to react. It occurred to him that just possibly she had no frame of reference for this. Ethics, courtesy, old-fashioned gallantry. Not that he thought of himself as a knight in shining armour exactly, but he did try to treat subs with unfailing respect and consideration. It was possible that these values had not featured prominently in her relationship with Sean. From the little he’d gleaned so far, it seemed that Sean had been her Master, and she his pet. In that role, he knew that some Doms totally took the lead. It may have been that her previous Master knew what she wanted, needed, and he provided exactly that. Or thought he did. Privately, Zack had his doubts, but kept them to himself. And Imogen may have simply accepted, never questioned, never demanded or even requested. If that was what she was used to, she may feel it worked absolutely fine. It certainly seemed to be what she wanted from Zack now.
“It’s not my call, surely…”
“Yes, Imogen. It is. Absolutely your call.” Whatever she was used to, this had to be done his way now.
Exasperated suddenly, she tried to drag her hands from his. He tightened his grip. She snapped at him, clearly irritated by his persistence, “I don’t understand what you want from me. Why are you asking me about this? I’ve agreed. Already, I’ve agreed to be here, with you. I know what’s to happen, it’s what I want. All of it.”
He locked his gaze onto hers, implacable. He would have his answer. Ignoring her brief flare of anger, he dismissed it as merely evidence of her nervousness. And perhaps a reaction to being forced to acknowledge her own needs and desires.
“Imogen, when we get to that point, do you want me to fuck you? Yes or no?” His voice was calm, formidable, his tone all Dom.
“Yes. Of course, yes.” Her tone was entirely submissive.
He liked that, normally. Not now. “Why ‘of course’? Don’t you think I can satisfy your needs any other way?”
“I’m not sure. I have no idea. Can you?”
“Ah, you’d be amazed. I reckon I could, I’d rather not, though. Fucking’s good with me, as part of the menu, if you’re up for it. Are you?”
Imogen waited, her gaze captured by his, her breathing erratic as she appeared to war with herself over her answer. Eventually though, and to his eternal relief, it seemed that desire won out. “Yes. I am. Please, fuck me. If that’s what you want, obviously…”
His mouth quirked, his grin genuine. “Obviously. And, one last thing, though I’m getting the feeling you may not believe this. You can change your mind. At any time. Just use your safe word. Or say ‘no’ and mean it.”
“You’re not—not as I expected. Not like Sean.”
Knew it!
He smiled at her, and opted to keep any comment to a minimum. Eventually, hopefully, she’d draw her own conclusions. “Good. No need to compare us then. This is now. You and me. And right now, you’re overdressed. Enough talking. Get naked.”