Page 83 of The Fire We Crave

“How the fuck am I using you? You’re the stranger inmyhouse. You’re not being used.”

“I believe you can be better. I didn’t before. I do now. You don’t just get to fuck me because it makesyoufeel better, then dismiss me like it meant nothing. In that moment, I was exactly what you needed. And it’s cruel of you to pretend it was anything but, and that what we did was wrong. I tried to tell you that last night, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Smoke goes to say something, then stops himself, grabbing his mug of coffee. He looks out to the fields and takes a deep breath, then another.

“I don’t do relationships. I don’t want kids. I fuck women, lots of them, and I enjoy it. That’s why we have club girls, to get us off whenever the fuck we want.”

“Well, if we’re setting our romantic and sexual wish list, I would love a relationship with a man who thought I walked on water, who wanted to care for me and love me, and one willing to rip me wide open and help me findme. And I don’t want kids either. My childhood was miserable. I’ve lived a life of responsibility to Melody and my parents, becoming who they all needed me to be to cope. I’m hoping there’ll be a time in my life when I can break out of the straight-jacket I feel like I’m zipped into, and kids are no part of that. And if your damn club girls are so important, why don’t you go there instead of reaching for me?”

I might as well have punched Smoke for the way he’s looking at me right now. “You’re right, I should have just gone to the clubhouse last night.”

But there’s a hint of a dare in the way he speaks, in the way he narrows his eyes and takes a step closer to me.

“A good Dom would realize when his communication isn’t honest.”

He huffs at that. “And what do you know about a good Dom?”

I shrug. “Honestly? Not a lot. Because I’ve never met one. But I had high hopes over the last couple of days that you might be. Yet, if you can’t be honest with me when we’re clothed, standing on your porch, how on earth can I trust you to be honest with me when I’m naked and vulnerable?”

I’m sure I must look a hot mess. My chest tends to flush when I’m angry, and I know my breath is coming fast, like I just ran a race. I’m pretty sure I didn’t brush my hair when I snuck beneath Smoke’s arm and rolled out of bed with the plan to let him sleep in undisturbed and recover from his dreams.

But Smoke surprises me. “You’re right, sugar.”

My mouth opens, then closes like a goldfish twice, as I struggle to find the appropriate response. “I am?” I ask, then realize I shouldn’t be doubting myself. “I am.” The second time sounds more like a statement.

Smoke smiles ruefully before reaching out to touch my cheek. “You are. I’m acting like a coward. And you’re also right that a good dominant and submissive relationship is based on honest communication and a boatload of trust. I’m not doing the former or building the latter. So, yeah, you’re right.”

I nod and reach for my coffee cup, desperate to put some moisture back in my dry mouth and parched throat.

“I’m gonna need you to give me ten or fifteen minutes to get my thoughts straight. I came out here ready to send you home. To help you pack and get out. But that isn’t how I felt when I went to sleep last night. And it’s those thoughts I’m trying to escape now.”

His words sting, even though his earlier behavior would have suggested as much. “Oh.”

He cups my neck, rubs it softly with his thumb. “It wouldn’t have made me happy for you to leave, just because I’m scared of opening up to you. Go shower, then wrap yourself in a towel, and come back out here with the bottle of oil that’s under the sink in my bathroom. I’ll still be here. I promise.”

“Can I ask one question before I go?”

Smoke nods.

“Do you have a safe word?”

“Interesting question.” He touches a thumb to my cheek. “It’s anchor. Why?”

“I want you to promise me you’ll use it.”

He nods again. “I will. Thank you for asking.”

I’m in the shower before I realize I just stood up to Smoke. Like, properly called out his behavior. And I feel relieved and perhaps a touch smug.

For some reason, I believe him when he says he’ll still be there.

I take about fifteen minutes to shower, wash my hair, and then dry off. My body lotion smells of orange and verbena. I don’t even know what verbena looks like beyond being a flower, but it smells good.

I grab a clean, dry towel from the cupboard. Before I moved in, they all had the softness of concrete. Now, I hang them to dry outside but fluff them in the tumble drier after, so they become soft.

When I step out onto the porch with the bottle of oil, I see Smoke has brought out a soft fluffy blanket onto the porch swing, along with a couple of cushions from the sofa. There’s also a fresh, steaming cup of coffee on the wooden porch railing.

“Sit,” Smoke says.

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