Page 81 of The Dark Before Light

I make a sluggish connection. “You got that article pulled, didn’t you? The one from my former client?”

“Would you be angry if I said yes?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Then yes, though it took longer than I hoped. Viral media is like a fast-spreading rot. Hard to contain. They’re still working?—”

“It’s okay,” I interject. “Really. I appreciate the effort, but I’m sure your tech wizards have more important things to do. There’s no point, anyway, not after the feature in the Times this morning.”

Another thoughtful sound. “Just finished reading it before I called. It was great, Talia. You should feel proud.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Do you miss it?” His voice has a new edge. “Dominating men?”

A fantasy flashes, technicolor in my mind. His muscles straining against rope. I shift on the bed to relieve the ache between my legs, but it doesn’t help.

“Sometimes.” My voice scrapes; I clear my throat. “Not the work side of it. I enjoyed fulfilling the needs of my clients, but it wasn’t personal.”

“You mention that in the article,” he muses. “I think you blew a lot of minds when you said you’ve never engaged sexually with a client. That kink isn’t even strictly about sex.”

“Did I blow your mind?” I ask recklessly.

His swiftly drawn breath makes goose bumps waterfall down my body.

“You did. You do. All day, every day.”

There are five long, tense seconds of silence wherein all we do is breathe. He recovers first.

“What do you miss about it?”

Another mental flash of him hits. This time he’s bound and blindfolded on his knees, his face upturned to me in perfect trust.

“The connection,” I say hoarsely. “Knowing my partner feels safe and trusts that I’ll take care of them physically and emotionally.”

His soft groan cuts off sharply, like he tried to stop it from emerging but couldn’t. I bite the inside of my cheek, my pulse pounding hard and low.

“The blond with the microphone. He was your sub, wasn’t he?”

I blink at the abrupt transition. “Nate, yes. We ended things two years ago.”

“For good? When was the last time?”

There’s something raw in his voice, but I’m too muddled to analyze it beyond how it makes me feel: like if I touched myself right now, I’d explode.

“I saw him last month. After our session at the rage room.”

He laughs, the sound strangled. Pained.

I can’t handle it.

“I went to him because I wanted you. It was the last time.”

The following silence is so thick I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Then he asks with soft wonder, “You wanted me then?”

I’ve always wanted you.

“Yes. From the first time I saw you.”

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