Page 62 of Whimper Wonderland
His beard prickled my cheek as he sighed into my ear.
But it was his moan—a deep, uncontrolled sound that escaped him—that I loved the most.
I knew those hips.That beard. Those low moans.
“It’s you,” I say.
His eyebrows knit. “Sorry?”
“You. You’re Poe. You’re the guy in this book who sleeps with his brother’s wife.”
His eyes widen briefly. Then he turns away from me. He lets out a sound which is half a laugh, half a bitter sigh. “Two million copies sold,” he says, “and you’re the first one to crack the case. Well done, Nancy Drew.”
I can’t wrap my head around it.
The book boyfriend who wore out my vibrator…
The dominant of my dreams…
…Is my real life submissive.
“I’m…you…how…?”
“Take a breath, Dove,” he reminds me.
I try. I breathe. In, out.
He leans against his desk. He grips the wood, muscles in his arms flexing as they tense. But his eyes remain trained on me. Observing my mini-melt down. Finally, he relents.
“Alright,” he says. He pulls out his phone, pulls up his timer app, and sets it on the desk beside him. “Should we play our game? You have five minutes to ask me anything, and then we put this subject to bed for the night. How does that sound?”
It sounds like a start, I want to say. But I’ll take it. For now. I nod.
He clicks thestartbutton, and the timer starts ticking down.
“You’re Poe,” I repeat. I just need this confirmed. About twenty times.
He nods, slowly, and gives me the truth. “Poe was my scene name. Mark is my brother. Quinn is my…” He looks off, losing eye contact. “Well. My mistake. The worst mistake I ever made in my life. And now, thanks to her retelling, that mistake is memorialized forever.” His gaze finds me again. “But. You know. She sends me signed copies to sell. Quite generous.”
The acid in his tone is dark, venomous, and laced with repressed rage.
I can’t stop staring at him. He’s a puzzle and I’m trying to put the two pieces together: could Poe and Dorian really be the same person?
More than the reveal, I’m surprised by my response. I’m shocked, but…not as shocked as Ishould be.
There’s some part of it thatmakes sense. It fits. The way he knew how to negotiate our play sessions as soon as we started talking. The way he could hold my gaze unflinchingly. The way he trained me to give him whathewanted, howhewanted it. The way he coached me to be his perfect domme.
Even in his brattiest moments, or when he was at his most desperate, somehow I always knew…this is a man in control who wants to be controlled.
“Was it true?” I ask. “What she wrote.”
Those blue eyes lift, meeting my gaze. “A lot of it,” he admits. “Not all of it.”
“Which parts?”
The edges of his eyes crinkle. A bitter, wry amusement. But his jaw flexes, a ripple of anger underneath. “You want Poe’s version of the story?”
I shake my head. “I want Dorian’s version.”
