Page 21 of Resist

Yet somehow, all I know about her is that her mom died when she was a teenager, she hates pickles, and she’s a Domme. Is there something else I could say to help draw her out of herself?

It’s not that she’s quiet, or a poor conversationalist, it’sthat she’s a friggin’ pro at pivoting the conversation away from herself and back to me. Do other people not notice when she does it? Or are they so self-involved that they simply don’t care?

She’s friends with Phoenix, I know she cares.

And I care. I hate one sided conversations. But as much as I want to know more about this woman, I also don’t want to spook her. I know I need to meet her where she’s at and on her own terms.

She seems comfortable, relaxed, her enormous heels kicked off next to the couch and her foot tucked up underneath her as she sits, elbow leaning against the back of the couch as she faces me.

She’s truly stunning. It’s not exactly bright in here, but there’s more light than we had downstairs, and I can’t stop myself from staring. Her high cheekbones and delicate jaw draw my attention, her plump lips are almost perfect but not entirely symmetrical, and try as she might to guard herself, her eyes are way more expressive than she seems to notice.

“Do you like to read?” I’m not giving up on getting to know this woman any more than I was ready to stop playing with her because she took a while to come.

“I do.”

“Do you have a favorite book?”

Her bashful smile takes me by surprise. “Of course I do. I don’t get how people can say they don’t have a favorite book, or author, or song. I have a favorite everything.”

When she looks away, I hook a finger under her chin and turn her back to me. “What’s your favorite book, Cece?”

A brief shake makes her gloriously thick locks jiggle. “You won’t have heard of it.”

I snort. “That’s rather arrogant of you, don’t you think? I’m a well-read man, Cecelia. Try me.”

“The Master and Margarita.” She’s kidding, right?

“Bulgakov?”

She can’t hide the unmistakable flicker of surprise. “Yes. I love it.”

“Are you a closet romantic, Cecelia? Margarita will do anything to save the imprisoned writer she loves...” I let my sentence land on a dreamy sigh. “The enduring power of love.”

“It’s fast paced and funny,” she counters.

“You mean demonstratively complex and confusing.”

She waves a hand. “Potato, po-tah-to. Shouldn’t you get back downstairs?” She stares into her bubbling drink as though it holds a secret it might tell her.

I shrug, and sip my own. “My team knows I’m on site, Jagger’s got them for now. I’ll take a shift for him to make up for the fact that I spent some time with you. But I have full faith in my team down there, and for the most part the people who come here understand the requirements of doing so.”

The corner of her mouth quirks. “Fuck around and find out.”

I raise my glass to her. “Damn straight.”

“You speak very fondly of your team you know.” There’s a hint of humor in her voice but mostly awe, and perhaps a sprinkle of envy laced into her words.

“I do, because I’m very fond of them. They’re good people. I’m proud of the team we’ve put together and the work we do here.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment. “I always figured you’d want a team of burly big dudes to protect people.”

“Our team of dungeon monitors is as diverse as our clientele. Non-Binary people, queer women, submissive men. The point of dungeon monitors is not just to protect the physical safety of people—though with guys like Thor and Jagger in the house, that side’s covered as well. It’s also our job to foster an emotionally safe environment as well, and a bunch of big,straight, white dudes in the queer community doesn’t always facilitate safety. You know?”

She nods. “Makes sense.”

“Mostly they’re all the same role. Three or four on at a time so all corners of the space are covered and someone who is the head of the team.”

She points her glass at me. “In this case, Jagger.”

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