Page 11 of Submit

“Oh, we talked about that. He has a friend who works at some place called The Ring.”

“I’ve been there. Loved it. But somehow I don’t think it’s quite for you.”

“No. I don’t think the club scene is going to be for me at all.”

“Do what works for you, Skye. And you don’t have to do this in a vacuum. You know I’m here if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Esme, I appreciate it. I appreciate you talking to me about all of this. It’s not necessarily the ‘normal’ conversation one has with a family member.”

“I’m not the ‘normal’ family member, am I?”

“Thank God for that! You know I adore you.”

“And I adore you. Even more since I found out we really are birds of a kinky feather.”

That made her smile. “I’m just trying it out.”

“We’ll see.” A phone rang in the background. “Ooh, sorry, Skye, but I must get that. You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Send me his info!”

“Of course.”

They hung up, leaving Skye felling a little reassured, if not much less confused about the intensity of her response to Adam. But she was going to see him again—there was no question about it. In private this time, where all of the dark, depraved things they’d discussed, the things that had only ever lived in the most shadowed corners of her fantasies, were going to happen.

She shivered as goose bumps crept over her skin, as her nipples peaked.

There was only so much she was going to understand until she got there, just as Esme had said. She may as well walk in with a blindfold already in place. Come to think of it, Adam would probably like that.

Come to think of it, she’d probably like it.

She blew out a long breath and stood, deciding to take a long, leisurely bath. She needed desperately to relax. And while she was in there, she could allow herself to take the edge off with her underwater vibrator.

No.

She could. But she wouldn’t. Because some part of her was enjoying this tortuous desire.

God, she was in trouble.

Skye spent the rest of the day preparing, allowing herself to think of him in teasing tidbits, only a few moments at a time. It was all she could take.

By the evening her entire body was throbbing as she laid out her clothes on her old iron bed, the outfit he had requested: a short, black skirt, a white button-down blouse, sheer, black, thigh-high stockings, high black pumps. Very Story of O. She was to wear nothing underneath, making her feel sexy, a little vulnerable, a lot wicked. And something else she wasn’t quite ready to admit that was all about being submissive, following his orders. Pain and pleasure? That she’d recognized a long time ago as something she craved, but submission was another matter, one that had been on her mind all day.

She’d skipped the bath after her conversation with her cousin and waited until evening to shower, careful not to give in to the need to slide her fingers over her aching sex, her swollen nipples as she leaned against the cool, white tiles in the shower. The contrast of the hot water and the tiles at her back was a surprisingly erotic sensation, something she’d never really thought about before tonight. Before Adam. He’d made her aware of these things, somehow, more aware of every sensation. She got out and dried herself, then rubbed a lightly-scented lotion into her skin, every touch of her own hands an unexpectedly sensual experience.

How much better would it be when she stood before him?

She understood with a new depth that ‘sexual’ and ‘sensual’ were two different things, different sides of the same coins, perhaps. But nothing in her fairly vast sexual experience, not her forays into threesomes, not her impressive collection of sex toys, had prepared her for the minute details of sensation Adam had somehow caused her to be acutely aware of.

Finally, it was time to go, and she remembered just in time to forward all of Adam’s information to Esme before she called for a cab. The ride over to his house in the Noe Valley area of San Francisco seemed to take forever. When she arrived at his address, she found it was one of the classic 1920’s stucco homes that were so popular in the better parts of the city: three stories, with the garage on the ground floor and a small iron-railed balcony at each graceful window. The place must have cost him a small fortune. Not that she was overly impressed by money—she was simply making a mental note about him, filling in the blanks. He’d never mentioned that he was well-off, perhaps even wealthy. Not that she’d asked, of course.

Alright, maybe a part of her was impressed. The house seemed an extension of that aura of power he wore. She should almost have expected it.

She got out of the cab and walked up the narrow stairs on one side of the garage to the front door. It stood silent sentry, daring her to knock.

Why did she feel as though her life was about to change forever?

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