You don't want to know. '"
Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. He saw something else in her expression to please him, just a glimpse. "Now that was almost a smile. Fifteen minutes, Marguerite. That's a command. I'll help you get started. Tell me about the doll and the children's tea set. "
She went still. "It was a gift. "
"When?"
"When I was a teenager. "
"Seems the type of gift you'd give a younger child. " He studied her face, the closed expression. "Fifteen minutes, Marguerite. Give me honesty and you'll be able to put one check mark on your little paper. "
She sat back in the chair, her expression frosty. When her gaze shifted to the expanse of air over his shoulder, he noted it but let it pass. For the moment.
"My mother died when I was fourteen. I went into foster care. I had difficulty adapting, and a social worker brought me the tea set and the doll. "
"Keep going. "
"That's all. "
"No, it's not. " He put down the spoon. "The tea set was new when she got it for you, perhaps picked up at a drugstore. It isn't chipped, not even stained by the teas that might have been in it, remarkable care for a teenager to take with a cheap tea set. On the other hand, when she gave you the doll, it wasn't new. It was something that had belonged to her. I'll bet you brushed that brittle golden hair with a comb, just enough to remove tangles, carefully curled and parted it, tied it back with a ribbon. You removed as much of the scuffs as you could from the once peaches-and-cream cheeks, the bow-shaped mouth. The blue eyes were intact but the lashes were already stubby and sparse.
You could have found a new dress for her, glued new eyelashes on, had new hair implanted by someone who restored such precious toys. But you've kept her in the condition she was given to you, just like the tea set. Because it was important for you to always have her be the same. Because people take exceptional care of the things that matter to them. "
Her eyes had transitioned from frost to outright arctic snow and he made a mental note of where the sharp implements on the table were. Of course if she decided to dump the tea on his groin he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop that, based on the open position of his body to her, a calculated risk he hoped he wouldn't regret.
"Are you finished playing psychotherapist? Can you just get to the part where you prescribe me some mind-numbing drugs to keep me from having to listen to your bullshit?"
"I believe you're supposed to ask for permission before you speak. "
"May I speak, then?"
"You may. "
"Go to hell. "
"Hmmm. . . " He considered her, his eyes drifting downward. "Is your bra front-closing or behind? Answer me and I'll change the subject. " She swallowed, a muscle in her jaw twitching. "Behind. " He touched the front of the starched stiff fabric of the dress shirt she wore and slipped a button, then another. She began to tremble again.
"You're shaking, angel. "
"I can't stop. " Her voice wobbled, even as her body got more defensively rigid.
"I know. It's normal. You haven't handled many first-time subs. They tend to get shaky. "
"Even when they're just pretending?"
He glanced at her. Spreading open the fabric, he worked it off the point of her shoulders but no farther, intending to increase the sense of constriction on her upper body. "Arch for me, sweetheart. "
She did, stiffly. His hands slid into the shirt and to the back, spanning her rib cage.
It brought her into his light embrace, his chest close to her breasts.
Her cheek brushed his shoulder and the side of his neck, suggesting that it might be comfortable to lay her head there, relax in his embrace, see what that felt like.
Marguerite felt torn between rage and lust and something softer, far m
ore difficult for her to manage.
"You know - " his fingers were on the hooked clasp, "sometimes holding on to someone for just a moment can make you feel more connected. "