Page 30 of Her Dom's Secret Past

My God, it burned, big time!

Time for the other side. I held my breath, bit down on my lip, and held onto the sides of the table with a grip that hurt as well. If I thought that was bad, then she did that little point right above my clit. I was one hundred percent certain she had to scrape me off the ceiling. Blithely, she rubbed on some sort of gel and told me I was all done for a few weeks. So when she left the room, I wiped my tears of pain then pulled up my panties—they stuck to the gel. Still, I managed to walk outside. I hobbled down to the boutique like some weird cowboy, my legs apart.

I imagined it appeared as if I’d had a serious bowel accident. Somehow, I waddled in with my pussy stinging painfully as if it had been irreparably burned. Sucking in my breath, and the horrid ache, I tried to walk as normally as possible through the salon and back to my office. I gingerly sat on the edge of my chair and wondered why the hell I’d been so stupid to think this would bring back John. Instead, all it had done was cause me more agony. But the pain slowly subsided and I made it through the day. By that night it was only a little tender but rather bright red from all the punishment my region had been put through.

At least for a few hours, my thoughts of John had lessened. Still, it was as if I were hollow inside. Obviously I still had a heart but it was in so many pieces I was amazed it still worked. Thank goodness I had the boutique. I immersed myself so deep in work that only the top of my hair was visible. My staff must have noticed because one day Charlie came into the office with a cup of tea for me and sat down opposite.

“What’s wrong, Anabelle?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since you’ve come back from your holiday you’ve been a different person. You’re so sad. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that, this is Charlie. I can smell a lie a mile away.” He regarded me seriously then put a hand over his mouth. “Oh no, you’re sick! Justin said that must be the reason.”

“What?” I looked at him, completely baffled.

“What is it? Cancer? Heart?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Charlie, I’m fine,” I answered gruffly.

“Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly. I’m as healthy as any other fifty-five year old.”

“In that case, I’ll yell at Justin for even suggesting it. Okay, well then it must be a man.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Because you have never been like this in all the years I’ve worked for you. Now you go away and when you come back, you’re all sad and mopey. Ergo, you met a man and now it’s over.”

I stared at him, my eyes filling with tears, and I gestured for him to leave. I was thankful he only gave me a look of pity and walked out.

Bugger.

I thought I’d been excellent the last two days and hadn’t thought about John every waking moment, only every half-hour, which was a vast improvement. Stupid me. I kept staring at his pictures and rereading the note he left me. I’d even taken to sniffing it, convinced I could smell his aroma, that spicy, oriental scent of his aftershave, the musky male smell when we made out. The note was now so heavily crumpled I worried it would fall to pieces. I literally had it bad. Time to move on—really this time. I pushed the note into my desk drawer, determined never to read it again. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the bin yet. Maybe another day.

I hoped I was turning a corner and getting back into living. I wasn’t able to get the strength to delete the photos I had of him. Instead, I transferred them to my personal laptop at home and scrubbed them off the phone. At least it meant I couldn’t spend my time mooning over them at work. I’d had a couple more laser appointments and was now all smooth like a baby’s bum. But sadly nothing had helped me find John. The days passed and turned into weeks, which in turn became months.

Next Saturday, it would be two months since my world came crashing down.

****

The weather had been miserable since I’d come home almost eight weeks ago, but today, the sun actually shone. Today was Saturday. I had a couple of appointments for fittings and one for a design. On Wednesday, I had an appointment in the morning with an importer who was promising me a very good deal on Chantilly,Alençon, and Guipure laces. Then in the afternoon, one with a prospective client who wanted to talk about designs and fabrics.

I pulled out the designs I’d drawn for the afternoon meeting and then went downstairs to wait on the two fitting appointments. Carina had everything organized as I made another cup of tea. By lunchtime, both fittings had gone perfectly. Both women expressed delight. One gown needed a couple of minor alterations while the other was ready to go. She paid the final amount and left happily.

My design meeting on Saturday seemed to drag on. I showed the prospective bride all the designs with suggested fabric swatches. She wanted fabrics from one design put onto another, then decided she didn’t want the sleeves that she’d insisted on all along. I slapped a smile on my face and nodded. Finally, close to four, we’d come to some sort of agreement. I’d draw up this new idea and she could inspect it next week. When she left, I wanted to scream in frustration with her. The final staff had already left as Charlie and I locked up. I reminded him of my meeting the Wednesday morning.

“I should be in around eleven, Charlie, and I only have that meeting at midday. You enjoy the break. Say hi to Justin for me.”

We air-kissed and went our separate ways. Despite my promise to myself to move on and get back into life, when I was at home I would dissolved into despair. Today was no different.

When I got home, I stood at the open fridge, trying to decide what to eat. What I’d truly love to do was binge, but sadly, that wasn’t going to happen. I’d run out of chocolate from my last binge two days ago. There was no ice-cream in the freezer and no biscuits left in the pantry. I didn’t have the energy to go out. I ended up cutting up some cheese and a Nashi pear and then added some dried apricots to a plate. I took my unexciting feast into the family room and spent a boring night watching something mindless on the television.

Tomorrow was another day. I’d put one foot in front of the other and get through it.

I honestly knew that somehow I had to move past my blue funk and get back to normal, but I had no idea how. I missed John that much, it was visceral. I actually was crushed with grief. At times, I couldn’t breathe properly. I was on the verge of tears all the time. I tried to act normal around everyone when in fact all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and scream and howl.

If only I’d given him my address or let him drive me back to the salon. If only when he’d told me his name I remembered it. And why the hell didn’t I ask where Marlow was? Everything was “if only”, and I kept thinking of “might havebeens”—we could have been together these past eight weeks instead of me living in deepest sorrow and pain. I wondered how he was. Did he miss me like I missed him? Or had he written it off as a holiday fling and moved on to someone new?

I’d never thought anyone could fall in love at first sight, but that was what had happened. Maybe it was because it was a holiday romance. Maybe it was something I needed, but whatever the reason I’d fallen hook, line, and sinker. John was my soul mate and I’d lost him. His touch had ignited a flame that could never be quenched. My heart had shattered into a million pieces, never to be put back together.

Somehow, I made it through the next three days. They were always the hardest without the salon to take my mind off my misery. Wednesday morning, after showering, I dressed in the salon uniform of a black dress, grabbed a warm jacket, and headed out.

I pushed aside my melancholy, slapped my usual fake smile on my face, and went to my meeting with the importer. We drank coffee, discussed prices, and reached a mutually acceptable agreement on costs. After shaking hands and signing on the deal, I headed back to the salon. This arrangement on the lace would save me thousands. Some of the laces I used cost close to three thousand dollars a meter. By importing direct from the manufacturer through the importer, rather than through a wholesale outlet, that figure could drop by as much as five or six hundred dollars a meter. It was worth the commission I’d be paying the importer.

There was no doubt, after my sadness of the past few months, I was pretty upbeat as I entered the salon. Charlie greeted me at the door, with a rather strange look on his face, and I wondered what had happened now.

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