Page 24 of Tormented Dreams

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Xavier lay alone in his bed and pondered on the new turn his new relationship with Grace.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside cabinet and checked the time. He wanted to ring her. To hear her voice, but that wasn’t the kind of relationship they had. Wasn’t what they’d agreed to. And it was late. She’d be asleep by now. Worn out after a busy day. A day he knew nothing about.

Why did that chafe?

They’d agreed every aspect of the contract. Okay, so they hadn’t had the opportunity to actually talk it through, face to face, so it had gone back and forth via email a few times. But the end result had been something they both agreed on.

So why did it feel so hollow?

Everything was simple and straightforward. The contract was far from complicated or convoluted. They would meet a minimum of once a week to scene at the club. Twice if circumstances allowed.

Xavier would visit Grace at her home every evening to choose her clothing for the following day, check she’d eaten the healthy diet he’d insisted on, and dole out any punishments if she told him she hadn’t adhered to his rules.

Their contact in between would be limited to the essential, only. That had been at his own insistence. Xavier didn’t want to upset Grace if he wasn’t able to respond if she called or messaged, because his schedule didn’t allow it. They both led busy lives.

She hadn’t been so happy with that, but had been mollified by his insistence that he’d see her every day, so it wouldn’t be necessary.

And yet it was him who lay here now, phone in hand, yearning to hear her voice. To chat about the little things, unimportant things, like what had happened during their day.

Placing the handset back down with a sigh, Xavier turned his head away from the temptation. It didn’t help. Seeing the pillow next to him, all he could remember was her head nestled there. Her body close to his as she slept next to him. It wasn’t anything Xavier ever thought he wanted, but right here, right now, he wished Grace was next to him. Even if only to sleep.

What the heck was that about?

They’d agreed to respect each other's space. No sleep overs, no clothing left at each others houses. Grace didn’t even come here. It wasn’t necessary, since he always went to her, since it was his schedule that was the most difficult to predict. So he went to her.

It would be nice though, wouldn't it? If he could come home at the end of a long day to find Grace here, maybe with a meal ready for him?

Xavier shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? Grace wasn’t a housewife. It wasn’t her job to cook for him, to wait on him, and he belittled her role by imagining such a thing. Her job was every bit as high powered and stressful as his, and he’d always tried his best to avoid the typical gender role stereotyping. Perhaps more so than most people since he was such a sadist, and he knew just how strong a woman needed to be to fulfil such a role.

Just because he wanted a slave, it didn't mean he wanted a doormat.

Not at all.

That was simply a popular misconception.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, trying his best to get to sleep, but his brain refused to shut down. It was early days. That’s what he told himself, anyway. The two of then were still just settling into their roles. It would improve, he was sure of it.

This was what he’d always wanted, after all.

Wasn’t it?

So why did it feel so damn unsatisfying? That was the first thing that popped into his mind the following day when he arrived at Grace’s house for their usual evening role.

She’d changed out of her work clothes, but he noticed the blouse in the laundry basket, so he was certain she’d worn what he’d set out for her the previous day. Except for the short tan skirt he’d specified. That was on a hanger.

“Did you wear this today?” he asked, fingering the fabric.

He could almost feel her eye roll, even though he didn’t actually see it.

“Yes, I did.” Her answer was short and verging on exasperated and he cut his gaze, noting her irritated expression.

He narrowed his eyes. “Then why is it still hanging here instead of in the laundry?”

Grace glared at him, hands fisted on her hips. “Because it needs to be dry-cleaned,” she told him, her tone almost daring him to argue. Short of calling her a liar, that wasn’t something he could do, since he didn’t know one way or another.

“Perhaps you should start sending me a photo when you’re dressed in the morning,” he suggested, trying to keep his own tone light. He didn’t want them to fight.

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