Page 6 of Toy Shop

The women, our scenes, they just don’t cut it for me anymore.

In the last weeks with Donna, no amount of pain I inflicted, no sadistic methods I applied—those veering from causing permanent damage—nothing fed my needs. All the girls I encountered were savvy in the BDSM scene, knew how to role-play, how the scenes worked. They signed an NDA. They were safe.

And they weren’t helping my predicament.

Not that I blamed them. I searched for a certain type, designed the scenes, handled the contracts. I micromanaged it to the smallest detail, leaving no room for mistakes in the path to getting what I wanted.

It’s the predictability of it that was my undoing.

My brain is too cunning for its own good, though. It analyzed the situation to what it really was, instead of what I coerced it to be in my head. I never possessed true strength over them. It was all a game.

Nola, though, isn’t from the scene. Didn’t sound like the girl’s been in any dungeon lately, and if I take her word for it, which I do, hasn’t played with toys, either. She sounded nice purely for the sake of being nice, harboring genuine innocence.

When we talked about her coming over, she didn’t ask for gratification, nor had she hung up on my intrusive questions. Her kindness roused something in me. She made me wonder.

I have to have a taste of her, have to see how she fits into my sadistic palm. Only this once, and I’ll set her free.

Because even if she’s different, even if I find a true connection with her, I can’t have her. No one would want me, a man so thoroughly incapable and unworthy of love for a partner.

My mistakes will haunt me to the day I die. As such, I doomed myself to a future where no happiness awaits me, and I’m incapable of ruining another human’s life.

So, after Nola, I might—and should—heed my sister Jolene’s advice to schedule that long-awaited appointment with a therapist. Meditation isn’t a farfetched idea either, to head to a retreat and deal with my shit in peace.

There are lots of other means other than sex to stop being mad at the cosmos. Or hating myself.

Ones I’ll try once I’m done with Nola.

Matteo’s head peeks in the room, tearing through my thoughts. “Pink tote’s here.”

A smile crawls up my lips, a twinge of excitement zapping my lungs. I get up, pull out a chair, waiting for Nola to be escorted inside.

And into the room she walks.

I’ve encountered beautiful women in my lifetime, gorgeous women. I hung in the circles of supermodels, actresses, socialites. They were all naturally stunning and those who were less than had the wherewithal to be pampered by the most sought-after hairstylists and makeup artists. The closest thing to perfection.

Yet, they have nothing on her.

Even though, and in all fairness, it’s cruel of me to compare any of them to Nola Vickers. She’s not in their league or anyone else’s. Mine, included.

“Hi.” She stands straight to her full five foot seven, give or take, in a mint-colored minidress.

Her lush and thick brown waves reach almost to her waist, framing exquisite, flawless features of thick dark eyebrows, impossibly big caramel eyes, and a full pair of lips.

“I’m not staying.” The flare in attitude isn’t what I remembered from the phone. To my utter and complete surprise, I’m drawn to her resistance as well.

Nola outstretches her hand, willing me to relieve her of the bag. “Here, these are yours. The upgraded items.”

A moment passes. I take a closer look at her eyes, picking up on another thing I like about her: she has no clue who I am.

Even when people don’t come outright and say Hey! You’re that Alistair Cromwell, you were in Forbes magazine! They have this look that they know. There’s the flicker in their eyes, the recognition settling, while calculations ensue.

They can’t help it, it’s just how human nature works. I’m not the slightest bit mad about it, either. Want a picture? Sure. A job interview? Absolutely. Donations to a cause you believe in? Call my office, we’ll make it happen.

Nola has none of it in her eyes or body language. She’s the sweet girl who called to ensure my safety, the young woman who, despite her previous hesitancy, demonstrates fierceness I admire. No recognition whatsoever.

I take a step closer, eying her questioningly. “You sure about that?”

“I’m not interested in the classes.” She steels her voice, but her hand shivers.

---