Page 13 of Hard Discipline

But that night with Mr. Fairfax had changed me. He injected color into all that gray, gave me the briefest taste of something that frightened the shit out of me, and turned me on so intensely I could hardly stand it before sending me off into a wild rage. He’d ripped all those cotton balls away. He’d stripped me of a protective shell I hadn’t even known I’d developed, then dumped me, naked and vulnerable, right in the middle of something so raw and intense I’d been overwhelmed.

I’m awake now. I feel strange and new and weirdly alive, and I want more.

I’d truly thought, before that night, that I’d go back to Lucas armed with my newfound knowledge about myself. That I’d tell him what I wanted, and he’d give it to me, and our relationship would be great.

Except, after that encounter with Mr. Fairfax, I knew I’d been lying to myself. That it wasn’t Lucas I wanted. That the reasonour relationship was bad wasn’t about the sex, it was that we were tired of each other. He was only with me because of the attack and I was only with him because…. Well, he was familiar and he was nice to me. Which was a great start to a relationship, but it can’t be the whole of it. So I had to let him go, set him free, because it was his father I wanted.

Once I’d done that, it took me another day to muster up the courage to message Mr. Fairfax on the app. I spent all morning checking out all the other Masters at The Club, just so I could say that I had, but even as I scrolled through their bios, I knew I wasn’t going message them. It would always be Master Six for me. I wasn’t sure what to say in my message or what would change his mind about me, but in the end I went with a nude, because my body was all I had to offer him.

So now I’m staring at his message, half of me ecstatic that he replied so quickly and half of me terrified of what I’ve gotten myself into. This message clearly is about a meeting, especially with themore instructions to followthing.

I swallow as the words on the screen blur and then spring into focus again. He wants to do this, with me, but why did he change his mind? Is it because he must know by now that I’ve dumped Lucas? Or was it the pic?

My thoughts spiral around and around, adrenaline coursing through me. Do I respond? Is he expecting me to? He must, surely, because he’ll want to know that the dates and times are good for me. Shall I check my diary? That date is a week away, but I know there’s no need to cheek my stupid diary, because there’s nothing in there.

Still feeling as if I’m having a weird, out-of-body experience, I typeOkayas a reply and then hit send before the second-thoughts can get to me.

The week passes both incredibly fast and with aching slowness, and I can’t concentrate on anything. Lucas texts meto say he’s dropping out of Yale and going overseas and I feel happy for him. He probably needs that. But of course my mind goes immediately to Mr. Fairfax and what he thinks about that, because I know Lucas said his father wanted him finish his degree before he did anything else. Maybe I can ask him about that when I see him?

To fill my time, I do endless internet searches about BDSM, familiarizing myself with terms and equipment and toys. It scares me, not going to lie, but it also makes me squirm in my chair at the thought of Mr. Fairfax using some of those toys and equipment on me. I don’t understand why I’m petrified, yet also turned on at the same time. It makes no sense.

To give myself a break from that, I also do searches on Mr. Gideon Fairfax and his billion-dollar company, scrolling through photos of him at various high-society galas and fundraisers, as well as reading all the gossip column inches I can find.

I knew he lost his wife ten years ago and the rumors are that he mourns her still. Lucas didn’t mention much about his parents’ relationship, only that when his mom died, things with his father began to fall apart— so maybe it’s true that Mr. Fairfax is grieving. Grieving so much he lost touch with his son.

It makes my heart ache for him, which is strange because it’s not as if I know him that well or anything. In fact, given how hard he was with me that night we had our encounter, I shouldn’t feel anything for him but rage. And that’s there, sure, but also…something more. The news articles give a tantalizing glimpse of the man behind that hard blue stare, a man who felt deeply enough about someone that he hasn’t had a girlfriend since — at least if those gossip columns are true.

The morning of our date finally comes and true to his word, he sends me some instructions that I’m to follow to the letter. A car will arrive to pick me up at 5pm sharp. I can wearanything I like, but not underwear. Red lipstick and high heels are mandatory. My hair is to be loose. He doesn’t mention showering or shaving, but I do both anyway, just in case.

I’m a nervous wreck by the time 5pm comes and when I leave my apartment building, I find a fucking limo waiting at the curb. The driver leaps out, asks me for my name, and when I give it he opens the door and ushers me inside like I’m the Queen of England. I sit dry-mouthed on the soft leather seats, my heart doing somersaults in my chest, my stomaching knotting with anxiety.

The driver is quiet as we glide along the streets of Manhattan, and I have to quell the urge to chatter nervously to fill the silence. I have no idea where we’re going, having promptly forgotten the address he gave me, and I can’t sit still. I’m shifting constantly on the seat, hideously aware that I’m not wearing any underwear. The dress I’m wearing is a plain blue one I got on sale from H&M. It’s not particularly sexy, but I think it makes my eyes look a little less colorless. I’m very conscious of the soft brush of cotton against my bare skin, especially over my nipples, which have gone all hard and pointy. Embarrassing. I hope the driver doesn’t notice.

Eventually, we stop outside one of the newer, towering skyscrapers downtown. The driver lets me out at the front of the building and again I’m feeling self-conscious as the doorman — clearly expecting me — gives me and my nipples an impersonal smile and pulls open the door.

It’s definitely not a hotel, which I was expecting, so I don’t know quite what to think as I walk into a very nice, surprisingly old school kind of lobby with a beautifully carved wooden reception desk. The man behind the desk indicates an elevator nearby with its doors open. I step inside, look at the buttons, and realize that this elevator is a private one.

Butterflies flutter madly in my stomach as the elevator rises and my palms are sweaty while my brain is chasing itself around in circles. What is this place? Do I want to be here? And do Ireallywant to try this with him again? Or is this all just a terrible mistake?

That night in the hotel with him replays endlessly in my head and how the reality of it was like a slap in the face. How his hand in my hair was rough and it hurt, and how I cried. And also — I couldn’t forget this if I tried — how fast the pleasure had me in its grip.

My second-thoughts constrict around me. I’m not doing this with just anyone, buthim.Hard, implacable, ruthless. Taller, stronger, older, more experienced. Just…so muchmorethan I am. It’s a frightening thought, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the power differential, or perhaps not. Perhaps I’m more of a coward than I think I am.

The elevator finally stops and I take a breath. It’s feels a bit likedeja vufrom the previous week, me coming up in an elevator to his hotel suite— except this isn’t a hotel. The lobby made it seem as if this is an apartment building, which is weird, because surely he can’t be inviting me into his own home?

The doors open and I realize they open directly into an apartment, because right in front of me is a short hallway and through an open double doorway I can see a massive open space. Huge windows, high ceilings, thick charcoal carpet. There are soft-looking modular couches in a dark, dusty purple, clearly taking center stage because everything else is shades of black and gray.

Holy shit.Isthis his place?

I walk into the room and then stand there, staring around open-mouthed. The decor is the kind of luxury that doesn’t need to shout, with lots of textures and different materials. Dark wood, charcoal wool, a kind of pewter color on the walls. It’s gota cozy atmosphere like it’s a place to curl up in. A place to sit on that ridiculously comfortable looking couch with a mug of hot chocolate and book while rain strikes against the glass.

“Good,” a deep voice says from behind me. “You wore the heels.”

I turn, and my mouth dries, and all of a sudden I remember why I’m doing this. Why I couldn’t be with anyone else. And why he makes me so nervous. I’m afraid of him, yet I’m also not afraid him, which doesn’t make sense, yet it’s true all the same.

Gideon Fairfax is standing there with his arms folded across his broad chest. He’s wearing similar clothes to those he wore last week, perfectly tailored pants of dark gray wool, though this time his shirt is blue. It’s the same color as his eyes. Those eyes are enigmatic, the expression on his brutally handsome face giving nothing away. But that will of his, that aura of forceful command, fills the room like a storm front, almost suffocating me.

“A-a-and the lipstick,” I force out, stuttering like an idiot, my nervous smile more a grimace than anything else.

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