“Ana, believe me. After I punished you and you left me, my worldview changed. I wasn’t joking when I said I would avoid ever feeling like that again.” He gazes at me with pained entreaty. “When you said you loved me, it was a revelation. No one’s ever said it to me before, and it was as if I’d laid something to rest—or maybe you’d laid it to rest, I don’t know. Dr. Flynn and I are still in deep discussion about it.”
“It means I don’t need it. Not now.”
“I just know. The thought of hurting you . . . in any real way . . . it’s abhorrent to me.”
“I don’t understand. What about rulers and spanking and all that kinky fuckery?” He runs a hand through his hair and almost smiles but instead sighs ruefully. “I’m talking about the heavy shit, Anastasia. You should see what I can do with a cane or a cat.” My mouth drops open, stunned. “I’d rather not.”
“I know. If you wanted to do that, then fine . . . but you don’t and I get it. I can’t do all that shit with you if you don’t want to. I told you once before, you have all the power. And now, since you came back, I don’t feel that compulsion, at all.” I gape at him for a moment trying to take this all in. “When we met, that’s what you wanted, though?”
“Yes, undoubtedly.”
“How can your compulsion just go, Christian? Like I’m some kind of panacea, and you’re—for want of a better word—cured? I don’t get it.” He sighs once more. “I wouldn’t say
“I just find it—unbelievable. Which is different.”
“If you’d never left me, then I probably wouldn’t feel this way. You walking out on me was the best thing you ever did . . . for us. It made me realize how much I want you, just you, and I mean it when I say I’ll take you any way I can have you.” I gaze at him. Can I believe this? My head hurts just trying to think this all through, and deep down I feel . . . numb.
“You’re still here. I thought you would be out of the door by now,” he whispers.
“Why? Because I might think you’re a sicko for whipping and fucking women who look like your mother? Whatever would give you that impression?” I hiss at him, lashing out.He blanches at my harsh words.
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but yes,” he says, his eyes wide and hurt.
His expression is sobering and I regret my outburst. I frown, feeling a pang of guilt.
Oh, what am I going to do? I gaze at him and he looks contrite, sincere . . . he looks like my Fifty.
And unbidden I recall the photograph in his childhood bedroom, and in that moment realize why the woman in it looked so familiar. She looked like him. She must have been his biological mother.
His easy dismissal of her comes to mind:
He stares at me, eyes raw, and I know he’s waiting for my next move. He seems genuine. He’s said he loves me, but I’m really confused.
This is all so fucked-up. He’s reassured me about Leila, but now I know with more certainty than ever how she was able to give him his kicks. The thought is wearying and unpalatable. I am so tired of all this.
“Christian, I’m exhausted. Can we discuss this tomorrow? I want to go to bed.” He blinks at me in surprise. “You’re not going?”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No! I thought you would leave once you knew.”
All the times he’s alluded to me leaving once I knew his darkest secrets flash through my mind . . . and now I know. Shit. Master
Should I leave? I gaze at him, this crazy man that I love, yes love.
Can I leave him? I left him once before, and it nearly broke me . . . and him. I love him.
I know that in spite of this revelation.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers.
“Oh, for crying out loud—
“Really?” His eyes widen.
“What can I do to make you understand I will not run? What can I say?” He gazes at me, revealing his fear and anguish again. He swallows. “There is one thing you can do.”
“What?” I snap.
“Marry me,” he whispers.
For the second time in less than half an hour my world stops.
