When I faced him, he had this look like he could read my mind. Like he knew I was already seeing the world through new eyes.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“That bad, huh?” I quipped, bypassing the sectional for an armchair. My attempt at a joke fell flat. His perfect mouth was twisted with displeasure. He agreed to talk, but I could tell we had a ways to go before we were back to joking. “Water would be great.”
He gave me a crisp nod and disappeared into the kitchen. I took the few moments alone to dash to the nearest reflective surface. There was no help for my burned skin, but I pulled my hair free from the messy bun on top of my head, shaking out the long locks. It looked more wild than wild and sexy, but it was better than the gym bun I was rocking. I gave myself a silent high five for switching into my heather gray V-neck t-shirt that made my boobs sexy as sin. I was even proud of my strategic fashion faux pas. I knew leggings weren't pants, but these leggings fit like they had been created for me and me alone. They hugged my curves and elongated my legs.
I turned back, ready to strategically drape myself in the armchair. Logan was standing in the doorway, holding my glass of water and a beer for himself, an amused expression on his face.
Even though I was embarrassed, I smiled anyway. Amused was better than angry. I dug deep and strode toward him, taking my glass and bringing it to my lips. When I brought the rim down and licked my lips before smacking them, his eyes followed the path of my tongue. He was amused and still very attracted to me beneath the cold as ice reception he'd given me. As if that 'lover' comment wasn't proof enough that he still wanted me.
He stepped around me and even though we were still in the same room, I felt the distance in my heart. I hated that he put up a wall between us, but I understood why. If he had his defenses up, my next jab wouldn't hurt so bad.
“I'm sorry,” I blurted out. I meant it. Yes, he was forward and presumptuous, but it wasn't like he bent me over and started whaling on me.
“I know.”
He took a swallow of his beer and I watched his mouth with a throbbing in the warm place between my legs. We were quite the pair, staring at each other longingly, drawn to each other's mouths like moths to a flame.
He lowered himself on the sectional, turning lounging into foreplay. The way his hair, longish in the front and cropped short on the sides and back, fell across his forehead teased. It danced in his eyes before he pushed it back, pulling my gaze to the green and passionate opals. By the time I worked my way down the sharp line of his jaw and lingered on his lips, I was practically panting.
From the slight tilt of his lips, he knew his effect on me and was loving it.
“So you had some questions?” He gestured for me to proceed. “Ask away.”
I went to the armchair, glad it put a little distance between us, but it was close enough that I could still read his expression. See how he really felt if he tried to censor himself. It didn't seem fair that I expected the whole truth from him while I shied away from it myself, but I needed it. I needed all of him.
I carefully placed my tumbler on a coaster and got on with it. “So how long have you been a Dominant?”
He shrugged casually. “Always. It's as big a part of my identity as the fact that I can't function without coffee and I don't settle for anything less than perfection when it comes to my business dealings. It's just who I am.” I must have been making a face because he paused, making one of his own. “Wrong answer?”
I looked down at my hands. I'd offended him again, and just like the first time, I didn't mean to. “No, it's not that.” I picked at my nails. “The way you talk about it, so sure in who you are and what you want--” I glanced up. “It's amazing.”
My answer must have caught him off guard because his mouth hung open, like he was at a loss for words. He recovered, taking a swig of his beer and turning the tables on me. “How about you?”
“What about me?”
“How long have you known you weren't vanilla?”
I dropped my eyes, fiddling with my hair. I knew it was too late to play coy, but I couldn't help it. I was raised by a father who turned pale every time I approached him with questions about the changes happening to my body. There was no sex talk, just an awkward 'wait until you're married' decree. I hadn't of course, but that wasn't exactly a freeing sexual experience either.
I knew my answer would be lame, but I said it anyway. “I guess ever since the first time Jason--” I cut off when Logan's face darkened. The look of jealousy ravaging his handsome face made me swoon. “That's my ex,” I explained. “Whenever he touched me, I always felt like I was standing on the edge. Sometimes I'd even teeter, but he always pulled me back.” Be honest. “I guess he held me back. He probably would still be holding me back if he hadn't gotten bored with me and ended things.”
The dark look on Logan’s face turned savage. “Any man that denied you is a complete and utter idiot.”
I smiled weakly. “You sound so sure. You didn't even know I existed two days ago.”
“Maybe not, but I knew from the moment I turned and saw you tasting me with your eyes that you were different,” he said smoothly. “A normal vanilla girl would have apologized profusely--”
I remembered, finishing the thought. “But I didn't. I was mad at you for tempting me in the first place.” It seemed so natural, the sight of him so visceral and my body's reaction so powerful that I covered it with indignation. Could he be right about me?
I shook my head. “Just because I want to spice things up in the bedroom doesn't mean I want the whole spice cabinet. I don't want to be spanked or strapped to something or branded--”
“Branded?” he scoffed. “What bowels of Google gave you that gem?” He didn't wait for me to answer. “This lifestyle isn't one size fits all, Melissa. I don’t do cuddling, but I don’t do dungeons either. Personally, I have no interest in branding you or causing you intense pain. For me, domination is about control. It's about knowing someone inside and out, to the point that you know what they want, what they need without them even saying a word.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine. “A-and submission?”
“I'm not a submissive, so I can't speak to that.”
“Well, what did your other submissives want?”
“A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell,” he winked.
My lips split into a grin. There he was, peeking out from the clouds.
“As I said before, mileage varies. Submission means different things to different people.” He slid to the edge of his chair, staring at me intently. “Humor me. If you were a submissive, what would that mean for you? What are you looking for?”