Page 40 of Point of Contention

I groaned.

“But I was referring to the stuff Len told you yesterday… about Cabot?”

Oh.I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about that either.

“I’ve done some digging.”

I closed my eyes on a long blink, then shook my head. “Mom, come on.”

“I’m… concerned.”

Shoving a spoonful of soup into my mouth, I tried to ignore that it had the texture of preschool paste.

Not that I was one ofthosekids or anything.

“I couldn’t find anything about the young woman he… hurt.”

My chest squeezed and the food turned to cement in my mouth.

“Len was right, his family’s money made the whole thing disappear.”

“Or maybe he was wrong and doesn’t know the whole story.”

The look of pity in her eyes made my teeth clench. “Okay, if you don’t want to talk about Cabot’s past, I think we should talk about what you did with him,” she continued, clearly ignoring the obvious discomfort on my face.

Itwasobvious, wasn’t it?

Maybe I needed to try harder.

“I know, I know, no one wants to talk to their mom about sex stuff.”

I groaned again, then swallowed the lump of clay in my mouth. “Mom. I’m twenty-four years old. I’ve been on my own for five years. I can talk aboutsex stuffwith anyone.” I tilted my head. “But this is personal. My relationship with Cabot was personal.”

“He tied you up,” she whispered.

“I liked it,” I whispered back, sighing when her eyes widened. “It’s not something I can explain,” I went on. “What he introduced me to, the lifestyle… it’s like…” I bit my lip and focused on the ceiling, trying to find the right words to describe how I’d felt in the Rabbit Hole with Cabot. “It was like I’d always wanted that; I just hadn’t known.”

When I brought my eyes back to hers, she was frowning.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

“So help me understand.” She tapped the plate with her mauve-painted fingernail to remind me to take another bite. “When you say you always wantedthat, what do you mean? You wanted to be tied up? Controlled?”

“No. Yes.” I shook my head and took another bite of toast, then spoke around it because if I didn’t, this conversation—and this meal—would take far more time than I had to waste. I needed to get ready for work soon. “Look, it’s not like control in the sense you’re thinking of. He’s not like Dad.” She winced, but I couldn’t let that derail my explanation. Truth hurts. “He doesn’t want to tell me how much I can spend on groceries or where I can work, who I can be friends with…”

Mom’s brow furrowed.

I paused, then said, “Didn’t. Hedidn’twant those things. Obviously, it’s in the past now.” Couldn’t speak in present tense when there was no present tense to speak of. “It’s more like…” I titled my head and held her gaze. “You sure you want to hear this?”

She nodded and her shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath as she braced herself.

“It’s more like he wanted control of my body. My pleasure. He wanted togiveit to me. And, sometimes, he wanted to withhold it.”

“Withhold it? You mean pleasure?” She shook her head. “Honey, that doesn’t sound healthy.”

“But itwas.” I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “Because then it wasso muchbetter.”

Mom frowned again, searching my gaze. Bless her heart, she was certainlytryingto understand.

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