Page 60 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Damon was looking forward to seeing you,” she says. “Maybe you should?—”
“And he will see me,” I say, inwardly rolling my eyes. “At The Met. When I arrive…alone.”
“But—”
“He’s a big boy, Josephine,” I say. “I’m sure he’s more than capable of navigating the city without a passenger.” Josephine doesn’t budge. I tilt my head. “Thank you again.”
“Of course,” Josephine says, her tone sour as she waddles out of my bedroom.
I don’t think she likes me very much right now. She’d prefer it if I were tripping over my feet to please him, to make him happy. But that’s not my job. Not only am I unqualified for such a demanding position, but I don’t want it. Especially not after the vibrator stunt he pulled earlier this week. I know I deserved it, and I suppose I eventually got what I wanted, but the path to pleasure is often littered with resentment.
I’m trying. I’m trying to accept his rules, to grow accustomed to the way he operates both inside and outside the bedroom. Unfortunately, trying doesn’t always result in success.
Not two minutes after Josephine leaves my apartment, the phone rings. “Yes?”
“You’llmeet me there?” Damon asks, tone baffled and cold.
Sitting down on the bed, I pull the puzzle box on my lap. “Is that a problem?”
“I got us a limo,” he grumbles. “It’s out front.”
“That’s good,” I hum, sliding the wooden pieces of the box side to side, frustration growing as the puzzle remains a mystery. “It’ll be nice for you to be in a vehicle large enough to contain your ego.”
“Emery.” His heavy breath crackles over the receiver. “Are you upset with me?”
“I’m always upset with you,” I admit, frowning at the carved design on the wooden panels, attempting to make out a pattern. God, this thing is old and worn. I push a piece too hard and a splinter slides into my finger. I wince. “Shit.”
Damon sighs. “I do not wish for you to be upset, Emery. I?—”
“Wishing seldom changes reality, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I hum, wrapping my finger in a tissue as I stand up, deciding to give up on solving it the proper way. “Just go to the gala. I’ll meet you there.”
“What can I do?” he asks, tone low and weak. “Tell me what I can do to make you happy.”
Striding to the utility closet, I rummage through the shelves looking for a hammer. Fuck it. Desperate times, desperate measures.
“I never said I was unhappy, Damon,” I say, reaching for the toolbox. “I said I was upset,” I pause, removing the hammer, “with you.”
“You could’ve used your safe word,” Damon notes, swallowing. “I would’ve stopped immediately if I knewit would affect you this much. Why…” He clears his throat. “Why didn’t you?”
With a hammer in hand, I head back to the bedroom, lips twisted up in thought as I process his question.
He’s right. Why didn’t I say it? Why did I stand up at that podium for twenty minutes and suffer?Because you liked it, you fucking masochist.I wince. But I shouldn’t. Should I?Who doesn’t like a good hate fuck, right?Hmm… Interesting.
“That’s a valid point,” I concede. “I suppose I have no right to be upset, do I?”
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you want, Emery,” Damon says. “But be honest with how you’re feeling in the moment. I… I will always respect your boundaries.”
I snort. “Yeah, now that you’ve crossed all the ones that mattered.”
He stays silent for a couple of charged beats. “I know I didn’t approach our…relationshipin the most conventional of ways. I know I?—”
“It’s fine,” I sigh, catching my reflection in the vanity.
Despite the over the top attire and the professionally done makeup and hair, I recognize myself. More so than I have in years. It’s the version of me that’s always been screaming to be set free. That’s still screaming. The screams are quieter now, less desperate, less depressed.
I suppose I have Damon to thank for that.
“I need fifteen minutes. Will you wait?”
