Page 13 of Hard Ride
Katherine
I’m sitting on the couch, my mouth dry. I’d just gotten myself together after Tate went off to let me think about things, and I was looking in his direction, only to meet Lucas’sgaze staring back. And like a witness under an excellent cross-examination, all my poise crumbled away beneath the weight of that gaze. It was knowing, authoritative, and crackling with an electricity that made static crawl all over my skin.
I couldn’t look away, and neither did he, memories of how he kissed me the night before I left filling the space between us.
I’d had a confrontation with Tate that night. He’d accused me of being distant with him and how it felt as if I was pulling away, and he wanted me to tell him what the issue was. But I didn’t want to talk about it, because I didn’t want to get into having to explain the assault with him. Anyway, in the end, Tate had banged out of the house, disappearing into the night, and after waiting for hours for him to come home, I’d gone to Lucas’s to see if he was there. He wasn’t, but I’d ended up weeping on Lucas, which had then ended up with him kissing me, and that was my final straw.
I had to leave. I had to get away from the growing distance between Tate and me, and my confusing feelings for Lucas, too, so I did.
I look down at my hands, trying yet again to get myself together, thinking about what Tate said, about who he is now, and what he wants. I bet he’s a terrifying Dom, but thank God I’m not submissive, no matter what he says about me obeying him. Bringing up our sex life was unfair, though, the bastard. Especially the times when he restrained me, though I’d rather forget that.
Still, he’s not wrong. Sex was at the root of our issues. I was emotionally distant with him because I wanted to forget the whole assault thing, but he demanded total honesty, and I couldn’t give it.
And itwasan assault. I know that intellectually. He gave me no choice about it, and I know that my mother calling me a little slut afterwards was toxic. But my feelings of shame then got alltangled up with Tate and his need for control in the bedroom, and it was impossible for me back then to untangle them.
Now, though, it’s different. I left that confused little girl behind me when I got my law degree and moved from California to New York, and now sex isn’t the big deal that it used to be. I mean, I have it, and it’s fine. I’m in control of it, and that’s how I like it to be. It’s not confusing. It’s straightforward and easy and uncomplicated, and I prefer it that way.
However, I can’t stop thinking about Tate and what he said about how submitting to him is a gift. How he’ll keep my trust safe, and that it’s a power exchange. That he’ll do all the work, and what I receive in return is pleasure beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.
Regardless of how confused my feelings about him were back then, one thing was for sure. Tate O’Rourke was one hell of a thrill ride. He was passionate, ferociously intelligent, intensely exciting, and he made me feel as if I were the only woman in the world worth looking at, or talking to. Everything seemed more interesting and exciting when he was around, and he was just as ambitious for me as he was for himself. He never thought my dreams of being a lawyer were stupid, and he wanted me to go for them.
So now those old feelings I used to have for him are churning away inside me. They haven’t gone. And he’s probably counting on them to make me stay, and part of me wants to do that to prove Idon’tstill feel the same way, that he means nothing and whatever kink he wants to show me means nothing, either.
You’re curious, though. Don’t deny it.
Of course, I deny it. I’m not curious in the least, and definitely not about submission.
The air around me shifts, like a change in pressure, and I look up to find Tate standing there, his gaze on mine. A jolt goes through me, hot and electric, and I’m acutely aware of our heightdifference, with me sitting while he’s standing, towering over me like a giant redwood.
I’m not afraid, though, and that other feeling inside me isnotexcitement. It can’t be. I’m over him.
“I haven’t made any dec—” I begin.
“I want to show you something,” he interrupts before I can finish my sentence. “I’ve organized a scene for you, so that you can watch and see how it’s done.”
Another electric jolt goes through me. I haven’t been watching what’s happening on the stage, but from the one or two glimpses I’ve had, it looks like a live sex show. Which there would be given that this is a sex club, as Tate so eloquently pointed out. That’s what you do in clubs like these, right? You watch sex happening in front of you, and while it’s not for me, it’s no big deal.
“You want me to watch people have sex?” I ask, mainly for extra clarification, since that’s indeed what it sounds like.
His green gaze flicks over my face, studying me. “Yes. I want you to see the interaction, see how good it feels for the sub and the Dom, too.”
My pussy, the traitorous bitch, throbs, while my heartbeat accelerates. I ignore both of them, trying to remain cool. The way Tate watches me makes heat start to burn deep inside, my skin pulling tight. He used to do that when we were together, watching me like a hawk with a rabbit, and it made me breathless, made me want him. It’s aggravating that it still does.
I should get up and leave, that’s what I should do, not sit here letting him dictate everything, but even if I had an excuse ready, he’d take that as an acknowledgement that he’s getting to me, and I don’t want that.
“I don’t know,” I say, prevaricating. “I’m not really into voyeurism.”
“You won’t be in the room,” Tate says. “You’ll be watching through a window. They won’t see you.”
“They? You mean, you’re not going to do…uh…the scene?” The word ‘scene’ feels awkward on my tongue, like a different language.
He smiles, as if I’ve said something endearing. “No. I’m not taking part.”
Something trips inside me, and I can’t work out whether it’s relief or disappointment.
Yet before I have a chance to sort through that or even speak, he’s holding out a peremptory hand to me. “Come, Katherine,” he orders, his voice deep and authoritative. “I don’t want to waste yet more of the night with indecision.”
And once again, like I found myself sitting when he told me to, I find myself rising to my feet and putting my hand in his, before my brain even engages. His long fingers close around mine, the warmth of his skin sending prickles of heat through me.
