Believe: Not Until You, Part 7. Roni Loren

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      ***

      Later that night, as I sat on my living room floor unpacking boxes and eating a microwaved potpie, I was still ruminating over my conversation with Mike when I came across a little silver piece of jewelry that I’d tossed into one of the boxes. I pulled the anklet out of the pile of stuff, the sound of the Big Bang Theory rerun on the TV fading into the background, as I held it along my palm. Such a small thing—a little length of silver. But it’d been the lynchpin that had blown everything up between me and Foster. That day in the office, I’d dropped it in my purse in my haste to get out of there as soon as possible. But now it was here, opening up the wound that I was working so hard to close.

      He’d wanted to protect me. That’s what he had said. And to mark me as his.

      The memory made tears knot my throat. His.

      I’d been so ready to start something with him, so open to the possibilities, but that simple word had scared the hell out of me. He’d looked so serious, so sincere. And I hadn’t wanted to promise him something I wasn’t sure I could give. And I definitely couldn’t imagine wearing something that could be tracked. Visions of my teen years had flashed before me—trapped, monitored, ruled over. It would’ve been the wrong move. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it long term. And it would’ve hurt us both more in the long run.

      I couldn’t be his submissive. It wasn’t me.

      But the thought wrenched something sideways inside me, making me press my forehead to my knees. Who was I kidding? I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t have a freaking clue. During the day, I fought constantly to make my own path at the clinic, do things my own way. I’d stood up more for myself since being back home than I ever had in my life. But at night, when the place got quiet and my mind drifted to memories of Foster, I couldn’t help but let myself fall back into the fantasies we’d shared, times where I had no control at all. I replayed them in my mind like some addict needing a hit—just one more time, one more time … And when that wasn’t enough, I’d create new ones, weave even dirtier, more sordid scenes for us to star in.

      I didn’t know how to reconcile that girl with the other. How could I be both?

      I stared down at the anklet, running my thumb along the metal, which was now warming from the heat of my hand. The latch was some type of screw design, and I found my fingers slowly turning it. The anklet fell open, and without knowing why, I reached down and fastened it around my ankle. The silver pressed against my skin, sliding over the delicate bones there. And the sight of it—his mark—locked around me sent burning tears to my eyes.

      I could imagine Foster there, kneeling down and looping the jewelry around my ankle, pleasure in his eyes. The word mine on his lips. His mouth kissing up along my calf, my thigh, his eyes going hot with intent as he whispered all those dirty, tempting things he was so good at saying. The image warmed me from the inside out, making a flush creep over my skin.

      Unconsciously, I pushed up from the floor and clicked off the TV. I lowered myself onto the couch, closing my eyes and letting the fantasy run, sinking into it. Foster always had such a slow, deliberate way of kissing every part of me, his mouth leaving trails of heat on my skin. Without thinking too hard about what I was doing, I let my body and the images take over. My hands slid up my stomach beneath my shirt, and I cupped my breasts, imagining it was his big hands instead of mine. The feel wasn’t quite right, my touch too soft, too feminine to be his. So I pinched and plucked at my nipples like he would’ve, making sure to do it hard enough to cause a snap of pain. Yes, that was better. I sighed softly, opening my eyes briefly to see the silver glinting against my ankle.

      Moisture and heat gathered between my thighs, the sight of jewelry pushing some lever inside me. I let my eyes drift shut again and trailed my hand down my stomach. Foster liked to tease me, to move his fingers along my folds but not quite stroke my clit yet. And his touch was always so sure, like he knew exactly how to bring me right to the edge and hold me there, hanging by my fingernails. I imagined him lowering his head between my legs, my arms tied above me, and the feel of that five-o’clock stubble moving against the tender skin of my thighs—the abrasive, scritch-scritch sound that made.

      In my mind’s eye, he was there with me, calling me angel and whispering lovely, filthy things to me. My fingers moved inside me, my hips rocking against the stimulation. I moaned in the silent house, lost to the fantasy and to the man who I’d never touch again, and came hard.

      Slowly, my breath returned to me, and I blinked out of the haze of the dreamland—my heart still pounding but my body cooling. My living room came back into view. The boxes. The ugly walls. The emptiness. Despair rolled through me.

      I pushed myself off the couch and dragged myself into the shower, sitting on the floor of the tub and just letting the hot water pound against me.

      Afterward, when I caught a view of myself in the bathroom mirror, I barely even recognized the person staring back at me. I’d changed out of scrubs into pajamas, but other than that, I didn’t look much different than when I’d woken up this morning. No makeup. Hair hanging limp around my cheeks. It was the face of a girl who had totally given up on being presentable.

      I stared at my reflection, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. Was this what my life was going to be? Sitting around in my half-unpacked, That ’70s Show house, fantasizing about some guy who I hadn’t talked to in over a month? I’d become a goddamn cliche. All those times I’d rolled my eyes at movie heroines who ended up on their couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, watching Lifetime network, and now here I was. The only thing different was that I’d chosen Hungry-Man potpie instead of Ben & Jerry tonight. Pathetic.

      I flicked the light off, getting rid of that girl in the mirror, and strode into my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the charger. Enough of this shit. I scrolled through the numbers, looking for the one I needed, then hit Call.

      “Cela?”

      He was clearly surprised to be hearing from me. But before I lost my nerve, I let the question fall from my lips. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

      “Why do I have the feeling you’re going to tell me?”

      “I’m saying yes, Michael.”

      I could hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all night. Pick you up at seven.”

      “I’ll be ready.”

      And hopefully, I would be.

       Chapter 34

      Sixty-seven, sixty-eight …

      Foster counted in his head as he lowered back down to the floor for another push-up. Sweat slid down his neck and bare back as he repeated the motion again and again. The numbers ticked off in his head as he breathed through the count. A flash of Cela tied up in the garden came to him. Fuck.

      Seventy-three.

      That night she had counted aloud for him, her tawny skin glistening with the exertion of receiving the stings of his crop. But she’d been counting down. Not up. Not like he was doing. This had nothing to do with that day. His cock stirred. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

      Eighty.

      He lifted one foot off the ground, trying to increase the difficulty of the push-ups and СКАЧАТЬ