The Dom Project (6 page)

“She’s...” John struggled for words a moment, then settled on the truth. “She’s a good friend of mine. I didn’t know she was a sub until the other day, actually. I guess she does the online thing more than the in-person thing and that’s why.”

“Just a friend, really?” Therese let out a low whistle. “Well, call me over if you ever want an audience.”

He’d remember her offer. Robin had proven she had an exhibitionist streak. God, he was already constructing a list, putting together the puzzle pieces of her sexual persona. But in the meantime, he wanted to fuck
tonight
. Therese was lovely in her own right, and quite compatible with him sexually. And bonus, with her dark black curls and midbrown Egyptian skin, she was the farthest thing from Robin appearances-wise.

“You can call
me
over tonight, if you’d like,” he said. “Those boots really need some more work, and to be honest, I need a little rubdown too.”

“Do you now?” she replied, practically purring into the phone. Just like that, her normal chatty phone-voice had changed into something that would make the best phone sex operator green with envy. “I’m ready to take on the job.”

“I’ll be over in half an hour,” he said, keeping his voice slow, so that his anticipation came across more as cool amusement. “Choose the whip you want me to use on you, and have it ready along with the boot polish.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

Therese didn’t like to be watched, apparently, but she liked choices. And pain. He was happy to oblige.

* * *

Blame it on the adrenaline, or the sugar rush, or the shock waves as the last foundation of her old life fell apart—oh
John
—but she couldn’t even think about going to sleep yet. She paced through the small space of her apartment, back and forth, trailing her fingers along the bookshelf spines as if one of them held the answer.

There weren’t very many books. She wasn’t a collector. She’d always loved beautiful things that came attached with stories, but only to touch, not to grab and lock away. Even when it came to shoes, she sold them or donated them regularly to make way for any carefully budgeted new purchase. Her studio was neat and spare, and that was the way she liked it.

Tonight, though, she was afraid of losing herself. She needed anchors. Reminders. She passed over a family photo album—that wasn’t the kind of comfort she needed, because as much as she loved her parents, she’d never live in a small town again—and selected the other album filled with her college pictures.

She’d come from small-town Saskatchewan, desperate to get away from the cold, windblown prairie. Those first years in Los Angeles, in a new country, the city had terrified her, then won her heart. She leafed through photos of friends and roommates, wishing she could have kept more of them in her life. She had
acquaintances
and
colleagues
instead now, but the switch seemed fundamentally deceitful, time’s sleight of hand.

Of course Damon was in some of the pictures. Seeing him still made her throat tighten with sadness. So was Shiloh—Robin used to tell her everything, stay up all night arguing and laughing with her—and then after college Shiloh had married into a confusing religion that didn’t let her do much of anything. They hadn’t talked in six years.

And John. Always John. From before he had the tattoo, and during, and after. There was a touch of teenage gawkiness in the first pictures, but it vanished quickly. He’d represented exciting concepts to her younger self: worldliness, street smarts, swagger, sex appeal. She’d even asked him out in third year, only to be rebuffed:
We’re just friends
,
Robby.
I
don’t see you that way.
His tattoo hadn’t been more than an outline then, unshaded black lines carved across the smooth surface of his skin.

They would have made a disastrous couple. She’d been fixated on changing people, pushing them to be their best selves whether they wanted to be or not, and that most definitely included the men in her life, especially the compulsively lazy John, who skipped almost as many classes as he attended and always left his assignments to the eleventh hour. She barely accepted those traits in him as a friend; there was no way she’d have put up with them in a boyfriend.

Nowadays she was more pragmatic. She did weekly volunteer mentoring, which actually accomplished something, as opposed to wasting her time on hopeless projects like John.

John didn’t need her help. And did she really need his?

Her shoulders ached as if she’d carried rocks all day. She’d been hugging herself and tensing her arms. She couldn’t remember being this miserable since she’d left Damon. Not even the thought of updating her blog helped. No, she wouldn’t do that until she’d made her decision.

She put the photo album back and slipped into bed, then lay there stiff as a board, staring at the dark plain of the ceiling. The city noises that usually lulled her to sleep were discordant and jarring tonight.

Her phone beeped with a text, but when she rolled over to check it, it was from John. She put it back on her nightstand without reading what it said.

God, she needed to put all this aside. All this new confusion and possibility and bloodcurdling terror. Go back to a more straightforward time.

They’d had a rent party one night at the old house. Robin remembered stumbling into John’s room to get his help with the music selection. The lights were low, and he was shirtless and on top of someone. He hadn’t turned to look at her, completely intent on the woman underneath him, who was letting out soft little moans at whatever John was doing. Robin, stupid stupid Robin, could have ducked out then, like she’d never been there at all, but instead she’d shouted and said something like, “Oh God, I’m so sorry, oh God, oh God,” and “Oh my God, I’m sorry I’ll just go, I’ll go right now,” before finally making her way out again.

This time, though, the memory shifted, because at her outburst, John sat up, his powerful arms pinning the other woman to the bed. “Don’t go,” John said, and rose from the bed. The woman underneath him lifted her head, brushing the dark curls of her hair back from her eyes. She was wearing a deep purple velvet corset, her breasts barely constrained as she panted. The space around her full lips was bitten red.

“Stay,” she pleaded, with a cautious, curious smile.

Yes.
Stay.

Robin didn’t need to say a word. A nod of her head was all that was necessary. The motion was the pivot where reality and fantasy merged. The touch of her hand against her thigh. John gliding toward her.

The liquid heat that coursed through her body, swirling between her tightly clenched thighs.

John reached her. His eyes were dark pools and his face was unreadable in the gloom. She didn’t need to read his intentions, didn’t need to think anymore, just feel, because he took her, pressed her hard into the wall, one arm barring her across the chest to keep her still while the other reached
down
.

She slipped a finger between her legs, into the delicious wetness that had built up under the lace of her panties. Her clit ached for more pressure—she thrust her hips up against her hand and clenched her teeth. Back in the shadowy room, John’s fingers—so much longer, rougher—cupped her mound through the same panties, teasing her, not touching her where she most needed to be touched. The lightest pressure from the heel of his hand made her whimper, a shameful little sound that seemed to please him, because he pressed even closer, resting his chin on the top of her head, forcing her hard enough against the wall to hurt, to make her feel every fucking inch of his body.

She couldn’t hold back much longer.
Please
, she begged—John, herself, she didn’t know anymore. Maybe the woman, the other woman who was still watching, jealous, wanting what John was giving Robin.

And then, at last, she let herself feel the pressure. The merciful release of his stiff fingers filling her cunt, then thrusting in and out, faster and faster as she fell apart around him, dissolving into formless ecstasy.

She came back to herself in her own bed, half-numb and half-burning, fingers sore and slick and
oh God
she was close to crying, it was that good.

No question anymore. She had to do this. Walling off these disturbingly intense feelings just wasn’t working anymore. Letting the feelings out, trusting John to see them and then putting them away again—yes. It would be like a safety valve. They were both adults. There’d be rules. Boundaries.

She reached for the phone. And then she stopped herself, laughed shakily and got up to wash her hands first.

This is insane
.

She texted
draw up the contract
to John, then turned off the phone before she changed her mind.

Chapter Four

John woke up to his phone ringing.

“Oh my God, would you just
answer
it, you asshole?” Therese mumbled through her tangled hair, then pulled her pillow around her ears.

Not an exhibitionist, and very much not a morning person. Neither was he. When he finally scooped up the phone from the bedroom floor, he groaned at the time. Seven-thirty on Saturday morning? Who the fuck was—oh.
Robin
. He hit the talk button and edged quietly out the bedroom door.

Someone screamed.

“Sorry!” he said, and beat a quick retreat back into the bedroom. Maybe he should have put some clothes on first.

“John, where are you? What’s going on?” asked Robin.

“It’s kind of hard for me to talk right now,” he whispered as he felt around for his clothes. “If this is about last night—”

“Actually, it’s not. I really need your help. I was all set to track down leads on Alfred Henderson, you know, Irina Mareau’s nephew. And Julio chickened out on me. He says he just can’t handle knocking on strange doors, it gives him panic attacks. I have to get this done
today
because other people might know about the appraisal and the clock is ticking. I know this is a lot to ask.”

“What, exactly, are you asking?” He stepped into one leg of his jeans commando.

“
Shhh
!” Therese hissed.

“Can you drive me? Some of these places are in rough neighborhoods. I’ll buy you lunch afterward, alphabetize your books, whatever.”

Hot
. “All right. I’ll meet you at my place by eight.” He hung up before she could ask him why he wasn’t there already.

And then he saw her text message.

“This is perfect,” he said to himself as he walked out the door, fully clothed this time.

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Therese’s roommate yelled at him, but John just flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up sign and kept walking, out into the glorious, glorious morning.

* * *

When he answered the door, John was so fresh from the shower that drops of water meandered down his neck. His hair was spiky wet and inky black. She wanted to reach up and ruffle it dry, but the dynamics of touching him were so confusing that she just leaned against her car door and smiled at him more shyly than she would have liked. Funny, two days ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about ruffling his hair.

“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you.”

“Hell yeah you do,” he said as he locked his front door behind him and followed her out to the sidewalk. “I’m expecting some sushi out of this. And that’s just how you’ll repay me in public.”

What does that mean?
What do I want it to mean?

He must have noticed her confusion. He reached out, almost touching her, but leaned against the car instead, right next to her. Her little hatchback creaked and wobbled under his weight. “I saw your text,” he said. “We’re in kind of a gray area now, but once we talk it over and get that written out, I promise you, it’ll be easier. Clearer. And I’m not going to spend the morning coming on strong just to fuck with you.”

Robin had been holding her breath. She let it go. “Okay then, that’s settled. Let’s get some breakfast. I am
not
going to hunt down porn on an empty stomach.”

They discussed strategy over three dollar plates of greasy sunny-side up eggs and bacon.

There was an A. Henderson in East L.A. they could start with, a cluster in Inglewood, some more scattered seaside and two in West Hollywood.

Robin had spent a couple of hours mentally rehearsing the door-to-door proselytizing angle, but without Julio to identify the right man on sight, she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d have to be honest, she supposed. Maybe start discreetly, saying something vague about whether he was the A. Henderson who had had some photos and letters appraised recently...

By the time they left, they had a map and a plan, and she felt a lot more at ease. Something about the way John inhaled breakfast food was inherently reassuring.

He was a great social lubricant, as well. The situation was automatically less precarious just by virtue of him being there, grinning like an idiot. Maybe he’d seal the deal for her right then and there.

“I’d better stay outside, by the car,” he warned her. “Sometimes old white guys don’t respond well to me. They might think I’m there to sell opium or stab someone. I’d have dressed up a bit more if this wasn’t so last-minute.”

Robin winced. She hadn’t thought of that, but of course he was right. She was the immigrant and foreigner, of course, not John—but no one seemed to have irrational prejudices against pale, petite Canadians.

At their first stop, no one answered the door, and a yellowed collection of flyers suggested whoever lived there was months absent. The second Henderson came to the door, but he was an Alfredo from Guatemala and thought she wanted to sell him on a house appraisal.

The next was an Alf, who at her question, tried to sell her some of
his
photos—
wink wink
,
nudge nudge
,
if you know what I mean
,
young lady
.

Yuck.

She left her business card at two houses where whoever lived there either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering his door.