I frowned. That sounded a lot like a complicated way of saying he was into pain.
“Can I take your order?” The server asked, a young man that looked barely out of puberty. He seemed so normal, standing there holding his notepad and smiling at me expectantly, that I wanted to hug him.
I hadn’t had a chance to look at the menu, but Dallon stepped in, ordering for both of us. “We’ll start with the clam chowder and then the lobster tails.”
“They have amazing chowder here,” he then said to me.
I pursed my lips as the server walked away. We had more important issues.
Dallon made a gesture to smooth his non-existent tie, a habit from days of wearing suits, and cleared his throat. “Though you have some sexual experience, Amy, I can say with certainty that you are still very innocent.”
Okay, so he was annoyed I’d accused him of being a sadist. I sat back and crossed my arms. “Then enlighten me.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Right now. In a restaurant full of people.”
I nodded, arms still crossed.
“Oh, Amy—a lesson like this can only truly be learned in the privacy of one’s own home. It requires a demonstration.”
I glared at him. “You don’t need to demonstrate anything. I saw the pictures.”
Dallon’s eyes flicked to my full glass of wine. “You’re getting braver.”
I ignored him. “You claim you don’t enjoy inflicting pain, yet you enjoyed spanking me.”
He smirked. “In that case, I enjoyed proving to you that I was right. The opposite could be said about you: that you’re a masochist because you enjoyed a spanking. I don’t believe that.”
“I guess that’s true,” I relented.
“For the most part, I enjoy delivering a spanking when it feels like it is deserved. It serves a purpose in that it gives me a feeling of power. It is not intended to be cruel.”
“Okay, so you’re not into whipping people,” I said to clarify.
“No. As I said, I’m not into pain. Spanking is as far as I’ll go.”
I took a sip of my wine while I considered this. “And what about tying up those women?”
Dallon sighed again. “I dislike labels, but if you must label me as something, I suppose you could call me a Dominant. As you know, I enjoy being in control. Bondage is a means of helping me achieve it.”
“Because the girl can’t do anything to stop you,” I said, trying to make him uncomfortable.
He studied me for a moment. “I think you’re trying to convince yourself that I’m a bad guy, Miss Clair. And here I thought we’d come so far.”
“Two chowders,” the server announced, interrupting our stare down. He placed the steaming bowls in front of us before asking if we wanted any ground pepper. Dallon allowed me to decline before accepting. When the server had left us alone again, I tried a spoonful of soup. It was delicious.
“See?” Dallon smiled. “You should trust me. Relationships are built on trust.”
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I’d stated eating. I supposed I’d worked up an appetite at the gym. I continued to eat my soup, aware of Dallon’s eyes on me. I glanced up and our eyes met, and I saw him focus on my lips as I slowly pulled the spoon from my mouth.
“I could watch you eat and feel fully satiated,” he said softly, his own soup untouched.
I flushed, embarrassed by both his words and his meaning. Memories of the night before flashed through my mind.
“While we’re on this subject, though, have you ever considered that the women I photographed actually enjoyed themselves?”
I almost snorted. “I doubt that.”
He picked up his glass of wine, rotating it slowly while he studied me. “Do you still deny that you enjoyed being spanked?”
I paused with my spoon halfway to my mouth.
“Well?”
“No,” I said, placing my full spoon back into my soup. “But I think that some of them might have self-esteem issues.”
Dallon groaned. “See this is what I hate: people being afraid to admit what they like because it means there must be something wrong with them.”
“I meant some of them could have pretended for your benefit.”
Dallon cocked his head to the side. “I don’t think I’m worth that.”
“You might be,” I said to my soup.
He leaned forward and touched my arm. “And you’re worth more than that. Amy, tell me what you’re thinking. Enough dancing around it; you know what you want to know.”
I took a deep breath, held it. What I really wanted to know was why he was the way he was. I could only imagine what my feministic mother would say about him. Misogynist would be on the list.
“I want you to explain what exactly it is that you want. You said you know what you want with me and you’re afraid I’ll run. Why? You said you want me to submit to you. How? You said I’m different than the other women, yet you want the same things from me.”
Dallon made a low whistle. “Okay, there are a few things to touch on there, but I’ll start with the last one. I want something very different from you. I was involved with those women for short periods of time. We didn’t have time to develop any kind of relationship. As I told you, it was unfulfilling. As for submitting to me, I do not receive sexual gratification from a woman’s pain, but when she surrenders control to me. In turn, I aim to satisfy all her desires.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, eating our soup. When he was finished, he carefully placed his spoon on the plate under his bowl and placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers again.
“The benefit of an arrangement like this for someone like me is that it fulfills my greatest need: the control I so desperately crave. The benefit for you would be the relief you’ll feel when you give yourself to me. Do you remember how it felt to be a child and know that you are protected and safe?”
I nodded.
“In the same way, you would trust me to make decisions and would no longer have to worry. That’s why people enjoy the flip role—it’s a huge weight off their shoulders.”
That did sound tempting, especially since it felt like all I’d been doing since graduation was worry.
He pushed my glass of wine toward me with long fingers.
“Trying to get me drunk again?” I was only half-teasing. I took a sip.
He sighed. “You tend to over- analyze everything, Amy. Life isn’t something you can categorize and easily fit into a box. Like I said, I dislike labels immensely, and your sexual desires can’t be explained. They are what they are.”
“And you think that you know mine.”
“I know that I know yours. I’ve known since the day we met.”
I took another sip of my wine and closed my eyes. I was suddenly tired—tired of trying to deny my feelings for him and the way he made me feel. He was right. We’d both known it since the photo session. It was what drew us to each other.
The server returned to clear our plates and gave us each a warm cup of butter, heated with a tea light candle. Another server, a petite female, appeared carrying our lobster tails and placed them in front of us with a flourish before asking if we’d like more wine.
“Please,” Dallon responded with a wink.
I frowned as I picked up my cutlery, digging into my meal. Again, Dallon was correct; it was amazing. Everything about the restaurant was amazing, from the view of the water to the flickering candles on white tablecloths.
“So what made you interested in that… lifestyle?” I asked carefully.
He smiled before placing a small piece of lobster into his mouth. “Back on the subject, I see.”
I took a gulp of my wine. “I know what you want—I just want to know why it’s what you want.”
Dallon cut a piece of broccoli in half, his arms against his sides in a sophisticated display of table manners.
“I don’t think there is any reason for it, Amy. If there was, then we could naturally assume t
here is a cure, like therapy. I’m not angry or hateful of women, far from it—I just like the feeling that someone might need me.”
Worded like that, it didn’t sound all that bad. “Your need for control might have come from somewhere,” I pointed out, stopping myself from going one step further and citing my Introduction to Psychology class.
“You are a tenacious one, Miss Clair, and I can see how you might have once considered law,” he smiled, but it was his sad smile. “If you are correct and there is some underlying reason, for my need for control, perhaps it is as simple as the fact that my mother left my father and me.”
He took a sip of his wine and glanced away for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue.
“She didn’t just leave us once. The first time was a few months after I was born. She’d never wanted a child and I was holding her back from doing the things she wanted to do, like travel. I can’t even remember all the places my father said she went—mostly Europe. He was left with a baby and a job. She’d come back, claiming to miss him, but in the end she’d always leave again.” He laughed bitterly. “When I was young, I wondered if it was me that made her leave. She came back for him and left because of me.”
My throat constricted at this words and I reached out to put a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t you, it was her. She was…”