Page 61 of The Southern Submission

He pulls me in and I can't resist the appeal of being held by him. I drop my forehead to his chest, breathe in his wet scent—pool water mixed with his cologne—and want to live here where nothing else matters.

“I know you mean well, but this is one of the few things you can’t fix, and it’s not a reflection of your skills but the nature of the issue. It’s okay. I just need to freak out a bit right now. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I have to convince myself of that more than him at this point because my brain is fifty steps ahead on the anxiety spiral I’ve taken and everything looks bad.

Payton lets me go and walks over to the bookshelf flanking the giant fireplace in the living room. He pulls a book off a shelf and walks back to me, holding it out. It’sPride and Prejudiceby Jane Austen, one of my favorite books, something I told him early on. His favorite book isThe Great Gatsby.

I take it and look up at him, trying to hold back a huffy response that now isn’t the time for a reading break, but I realize the pages are interrupted toward the back of the novel and flip to that location. The book opens to reveal a dainty rose gold chain. I hold it up to the light and notice the chain lengths lead to a small ring in the center. I look over at Payton, catching his smile. It’s insanely sexy and mischievous at once.It’s his Daddy smile.

“Is this…”

“A discreet day collar. You can wear it daily without anyone being the wiser of its meaning, all while we know it symbolizes our commitment,” he finishes. He takes the necklace from my hand and puts it around my neck, fastening it so it sits at the base of my neck, nearly in the hollow of my collarbones.

I read the pages where the necklace was tucked, realizing he chose the scene in which Darcy proposes to Elizabeth the second time. I love this part. When I look up, Payton is staring at me, his fingers brushing along the skin of my neck under the necklace. Bringing my fingers to his, he guides them over the chain and ring.

“Does it look nice?”

His eyes meet mine, full of fire and hunger. “It looks beautiful, just like you. It makes you look like mine.”

I can’t stop the stupid smile that tugs at my lips at that, rising on my tiptoes to kiss him. He hauls me up his body, my legs wrapping around his waist as he kisses me deeper, and I realize his swim shorts are getting me wet. I pull away from his mouth, laughing.

“Thank you. I love it. But you have to put me down so I can get ready for work or I’ll be late.”

“Just remember, that collar means I take care of you and if I want to fix something, you’re going to let me,” he says, growing serious as he sets me down.

I bite my lip, knowing this is one problem I can’t ask him to fix, no matter what he says. “I’ll remember.”

My day is getting marginally better. At least my human interest story about Payton and Olympus is coming along great. This feels like one of my best pieces of writing, and I’m excited to see what I can do with it. He's read what I have so far and likes it. I just have to tie up some pieces and edit before I begin querying it to potential papers. The door to the office opening barely registers until I feel a presence looming over my desk. I scowl, ready to snap at Reid because he’s the only one brave enough to interrupt my writing flow after I’ve scared off all my coworkers. I raise my face, lips set in a snarl already.

My throat goes dry and fear streaks through me when I see Archer leaning against my desk.

“You shouldn't be here,” I tell him, quickly standing so there’s less of a height disparity.

“Oh, this is worth it and will be the end of my Olsen issue. I told you both you’d regret fucking with me.”

This motherfucker doesn't know what's good for him. If Payton finds out he’s here…but before I can finish my thought, he irrevocably turns my world upside down.

“I know your dirty little secret.”

Thirty-five

Payton

Ainsley seems off and I know something isn't right. She was frustrated this morning, but it’s ten times worse when she gets home from work and she brushes off my attempts to figure out what the issue is. I keep reminding her that I can handle anything and to let me do this for her, but she says it’s nothing and she’s fine. She's not fucking fine and if we had time, I’d paddle the information out of her. Instead, we have to attend the wrap party for Harlowe’s new cooking show at some pretentious restaurant downtown, which forces us to change and leave soon after arriving home.

“Baby, let me help you with whatever is causing this.”

She looks up at me, her face a mask of emotions I can’t begin to unravel before her cheeks turn pink and she looks away. “You can’t help with this. No one can. It’d make you hate me if you knew,” she says quietly, anxiously smoothing her hands down her dress.

When she looks up again, her hazel eyes are tortured, and I want to pull her into my lap and kiss away the tears that are pooling at the corners, telling her whatever it is can’t possibly be as bad as she thinks it is. Nothing could make me hate her. Her bratty attitude, her mean words, nothing she can do has pushed me away, and nothing will.

She’s quiet and fidgety on the way to the restaurant, not letting me play with her or make her happy. She’s barely listening to me when I tell her about my day. Fuck, what’s wrong, and why is she icing me out after all we’ve worked through to get to a place of open communication and understanding? I just want to take care of her, but she’s closed herself back inside her citadel, throwing up walls and hiding from me. This won't fucking stand. Not anymore.

I look over and brush the gold ring shining prettily at her throat while stopped at a light. It’s a silent reminder to her that our relationship has taken on a deeper meaning now, and she’s supposed to be on the same page. She glances over and smiles, but it doesn't meet her eyes and she quickly looks out the window again. Too soon, we’re at the restaurant and forced to perform and pretend there isn't something hanging over us that I need to make right.

“Fashionably late, but at least you brought Ainsley,” Harlowe says, greeting us when we walk into the restaurant. “I loved that berry flag cake you made for the Fourth of July. It was delicious. Hana did, too. Now I have mad cravings for it. I need you to send me the recipe so I can make it this week,” she says to Ainsley.

“Of course. I can email it over, but it’s just Ina Garten’s flagcake recipe. I’m not really a baker, so I keep things simple.” Ainsley shifts on her tall, strappy black heels that make her legs look insane. She’s wearing a hot pink minidress that’s structured through the bodice to look like bondage with black straps that crisscross around her chest exactly how I’d tie her up if I were showing her the ropes of Shibari. It gives me ideas of what I'll do when we get home to make her talk.

---