The Training

“I don’t want to mess up,” I admitted. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“I think it’s highly doubtful you would overstep.” He gave a small laugh. “You may have difficulties in other areas, but I don’t think showing respect in the library or at the kitchen table will ever be a problem for you.”

“You say that because this”—I pointed from him to me and back again—“is easy for you. This you’re used to.”

“I would argue that this”—he indicated the space between us—“is new to me.” He looked up at the ceiling and frowned. “But, on second thought, perhaps you’re right in other regards.”

I know I am.

“The fact remains,” he continued, “that we can’t talk honestly about the scene if you’re not open and relaxed with me.”

I sighed deeply.

“Now, just what—” He pushed the plate of food out of the way, took my wineglass and set it aside. “Just what are we going to do about that?”

My heart started to thump faster. “Beats me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Beating you wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

My head shot up. “Sign?” I asked, using my old way to determine if he was joking.

“Yes,” he said. “It was a joke, and not a very good one. I’m just trying to lighten the mood a bit.” His voice dropped to a low whisper and his eyes darkened. “Come here.”

I scooted closer, and he took my face in his hands.

“How am I ever going to get you to relax?” He kissed my cheek. “To talk openly?” He kissed the other. “To tell me how you feel?”

His touch was the connection I craved, what I unknowingly needed, and I felt myself melt under his hands. His lips traveled from my cheek to my ear. “Yes,” he said, feeling my body react.

I turned my face toward his, and our lips brushed softly. I unconsciously moved closer to him, and his arms came around my shoulders. He held me close to his chest and leaned us back so we reclined against the pillows.

“Better?” he asked in a whisper.

“Much,” I said, closing my eyes. “Thank you.”

He stroked my hair for a few minutes, and I listened to the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it this way—you tell me what you liked.”

We’d talked about our checklists for hours. About what we enjoyed and wanted to try. Why did talking about something we’d done make me embarrassed? I told myself it was crazy. Nathaniel had seen all of me. Touched all of me. There was nothing to be embarrassed about.

“Not being able to vocalize was very intense,” I said.

“Very intense meaning, I loved it; let’s do it again?” he asked. “Or very intense meaning, I hated it; never try that again?”

I took a deep breath and inhaled the deep woodsy scent of him. Someone else had taken a shower recently. “Mmmmm. I loved it; let’s do it again,” I said.

“I think you can handle more,” he said. “Next time we’ll see if you can go a bit longer.”

My body tingled with anticipation. Longer next time. I could only imagine what he meant. I was glad he thought I could handle more. Frankly, I thought I had reached the end of my control there at the end.

“I liked the flogger,” I said, wanting to switch subjects. “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

His hand ran down my side. “I’ve decided to use only the rabbit fur this weekend.” The press of his fingers grew rough against my backside. “But I meant what I said about the clamps. I’ll use them tomorrow.” He leaned down and spoke softly in my ear. “And it’s a good thing you’ve been using your plug.”

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. The tingle in my body became stronger and moved lower, coming to rest right between my legs.

Gah.

“The eight strokes?” he asked.

“Hurt like the devil,” I finished.

“They were meant to.”

“I know,” I said. “I completely understand that part.” I lifted my head. “You didn’t seem surprised. Did you know I’d mess up so soon?”

“I thought you might,” he said. “It made sense to me you would. I didn’t want to say anything before it happened, though. How would that have sounded?”

I laid my head back on his chest. “I probably wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”

“Probably not,” he said.

“What hurt most was knowing I’d disappointed you,” I said.

“That was my least favorite part of the night,” he said. “Having to punish you. But you learned. You didn’t make the same mistake twice.”

I didn’t want to dwell on my failure. “Your turn,” I said. “What was your favorite part?”

“Look at me,” he said, and I tilted my head to catch his gaze. “My favorite part was you. The trust you have in me. Your obedience. The joy you find in pleasing me.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant—”

“Shhhhh,” he hushed. “I’m not finished.”

I pursed my lips together.

“You are,” he said slowly, “exquisite in your service to me. And that, my lovely, was my favorite part. Is my favorite part.”

I found I couldn’t help myself. I brought my head up and kissed him, our lips merely grazing.

I love you, I wanted to say, but wasn’t sure it was allowed. Didn’t know if it would be wise. Perhaps some things were best left unsaid during the weekends. At least for now, anyway. We had plenty of other days to murmur our love.

He didn’t often tell me he loved me. Mentioning it, perhaps, only a handful of times. It didn’t bother me that he wasn’t very vocal with his feelings. Somehow, the rarity of his words made them all the more special.

He didn’t attempt to deepen the kiss, and neither did I. Both of us feeling that, for right then, the simple touch of our lips spoke loud enough. We fell into a comfortable silence while I listened to the steady beat of his heart again and enjoyed the security of his arms.

“Anything you didn’t like?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Nothing I’d change.” I knew in time the talking would become easier. I wondered how the conversation would go if or when he did something I didn’t like. “You?”

“Nothing.”

I’m not sure how long we stayed in the library. It wasn’t until the mantel clock chimed midnight that he spoke again. “You should go on to bed if you’re finished eating.”

“I know,” I said. As I extracted myself from his arms, I felt the absence of his touch immediately.

He stood with me and touched my shoulder as I turned to leave. “Breakfast in the dining room at eight. We’ll head into the playroom shortly thereafter. I don’t mind if you do it tonight or tomorrow morning, but I want the playroom cleaned before breakfast.”

A fresh wave of desire washed over me at the way he commanded me so unobtrusively. “Yes, Master.”

He gave me a light kiss. “Good night, Abigail.”

I tossed and turned for a long time, the reason why escaping me. I’d slept in the small bed plenty of nights before. Slept in it more times than I’d slept in his bed, truth be told. Why would I have trouble sleeping? He was right down the hall. We’d decided together to sleep separately on weekends. It was the arrangement I wanted. The one he wanted. The one we wanted.

I wondered if sleep shunned him as well.

Right when I decided to give up and walk to the library to pour myself some brandy, I heard it: the soft, haunting sounds of a piano. The melody both delicate and comforting in its simplicity.

I sighed in pleasure and closed my eyes.