Émilee, what would a man like him want with you?
He chose me; he must have seen something he liked.
He sees someone weak. Someone he can hurt.
I like being hurt. My mother didn’t understand that. She cried on my wedding day, not out of happiness, but because she saw the scars on my thighs where I’d cut myself in high school. She cried when I brought my first Dom home after leaving Ash, because she couldn’t understand why I’d want to be with a scary, leather-clad biker rather than my smooth-talking, marketing-executive, soon-to-be-ex-husband. She didn’t understand me, and now that she’s slipped into the perpetual grey haze of dementia, she never will. But her voice still lives in my head, questioning me, undermining me, making me doubt every choice.
Émilee, you stupid girl, don’t you dare go into the bathroom with him. He could rape you, hurt you.
But I went, and he hurt me, and I loved it. I climaxed for him, when I was sure I couldn’t. He pulled me through the embarrassment and weirdness of doing what I was doing in front of a stranger to a wonderful, warm place. And afterwards, until I got in the car with the taste of him still on my mouth and my face stinging from his stubble, her hateful voice was silent. I could think and feel without doubting every breath. It was during that blissful silence that I agreed to everything he wanted, without asking for anything of my own. I’ve negotiated my own publication deals for years. I’ve represented myself on the purchase of three houses. But I didn’t impose a single condition. Just agreed to everything he wanted, then drove home, emailed him the way he told me to, and began packing. Even when he sent me a contract, all I did was add a few things like urethral dilation and ass-to-mouth to the hard limits he’d taken from my sign before I signed it and sent it back to him.
“Hon, you can’t just spring this on me. We’ve got a blog tour starting Saturday.” My P.A.’s voice in my ear is almost as shrill as the one in my head.
I switch the phone to my other ear, sandwiching it between my shoulder and cheek so I can keep packing. “I’m sorry, Mitchy.”
I’m not sorry. I mean, I’m sorry for inconveniencing her, but I’m not at all sorry I said “yes” to Logan. It keeps surprising me, how much I want to go. A cruise? I’ve never even been on a boat except the ferry. Two weeks with an almost-complete stranger? I must be out of my mind. And yet, even the hint that I might not get to go—like when he suggested that I have to pass another audition—sent my pulse racing with anxiety.
“These cruises are invitation only,” I tell her. “I don’t know anyone who’s been on one. I couldn’t say no.”
“But such short notice? Does the boat even have wifi?”
“I’m sure it does. Just think, this might be a new line for me. Cruise romances.”
“It’s been done,” Mitchy sighs.
“Kinky cruise-romance? Really?”
I haven’t read any, but I tend to stick to historical, and a cruise romance would definitely be contemporary.
“I think so.”
“Would you do some research for me? See if there’s any market? What I’m working on right now is feeling pretty tired.”
Another highlander historical. It’ll be my eleventh, and although they’re good, consistent sellers, I’m having a hard time finding inspiration for this one.
Maybe I could add a bathroom scene. I have plenty of fresh inspiration for that. Except there was a notable lack of indoor bathrooms in seventeenth century Scotland.
“Sure, hon. Call me when you get back, okay? I know this guy’s the answer to your prayers and all, but for all you know, he could be a serial killer. I want to hear that you’re home safe.”
I don’t know what Logan is yet. He could be God’s gift to baby girls, or he could be just another loser who wants pictures of me peeing. What I do know is nothing’s going to stop me from finding out. Not my P.A., not a blog tour, not the Hateful Internal Monologue.
“I’ll call,” I tell her. “Thanks, Mitchy.”
I drop the phone on my bed next to my three open suitcases. There’s the overnight bag I need for the trip into the City tonight, which is mostly packed and just needs my toiletries. It sits between my two big suitcases, which are not at all packed. I’ve started with swimsuits and pool-wear, because I barely have any, so that shouldn’t take long. What I do have is wholly uninspiring: two black tanks I wear for swimming laps, and a white two-piece with boy-short bottoms. Why don’t I own any cute bathing suits?
Émilee, you wear the one-piece. No one wants to see you in a bikini. No titties and your ribs sticking out. Keep your legs and scars covered.
Logan didn’t mind my breasts, or my ribs, or my legs, or my scars. He seemed to like everything he saw. Really, really like.
I toss one black tank into the suitcase, so I can do laps if there’s a pool, and the white two-piece. Surely there’s a pool on a cruise ship? Then I go to find my laptop so I can order some cute swimwear.
* * *
Logan’s waiting for me just beyond the security gate. He smiles when he sees me and pushes off the wall he’s leaning against. My breath catches. God, he’s big. Broad chest stretching a black T-shirt. Worn jeans outlining his thighs. His biceps bulge as he reaches out and takes my overnight bag from me. He slides the bag’s strap over his shoulder and offers me his hand.
I take it. He threads his fingers through mine. I smile up into those dark, deep-set eyes. I love it when my Dom holds my hand. It’s such a little thing,
