Page 30 of The Good Girl Effect
I expect the results to be explicit and pornographic. And while some of them are, the majority of the results are more aesthetically stunning than I thought they’d be. I scroll through site after site after site, proclaimingbeginner’s guidesandwhat you should know about rope bondage.
Some of it is mainly about sex, being tied up during sex, and being restrained to things like beds, bars, walls, and chairs. But that doesn’t feel like it applies to what Jack had upstairs.
I click on a site that looks promising.The Art of Shibari, it says. And the images that greet me the moment I click the button are beautiful. The first is of a woman with her hands fastened near her shoulders in an intricate web of knots and ropes.
For something that looks like it should be excruciating, her face shows a solemn expression of peace. For what feels like hours, I read and scroll and read and scroll some more,absorbing every ounce of information I can on this unique practice.
But even after all my research, I struggle to find the purpose. What is the point? Why do people do this? Is it all about the intricate knots and ties? Is it in some way meant to turn the participants on? Is it for sex? Is it for show? The websites all claim that being tied or beinga rope bunnyis a form of submission meant to put the person being tied into something called asubspace, which I still struggle to understand.
Does Jack really have an entire room upstairs devoted to this? Who is he tying up and why? Was this something he and Emmaline once did together?
Then I remember holding the ropes in my fingers as Jack stood behind me. There was a moment in which I could almost feel them tied around my arms. And that image alone sparked such arousal inside me. And not just an arousal for sex but an arousal for something so much more potent. Something that aroused more than just my body but my mind too.
The clock in the top corner of my laptop says that it’s already past midnight. I’ve completely lost track of time and spent far too long doing this research. I close my browser, shut my laptop, and try to stow away this curiosity.
Even as I climb into bed, I know that I won’t be able to put this new information away so easily. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like. And how I swear there was a moment today, particularly the growling noise Jack made, that made me believe he might want this too.
Like me, he was imagining me bound and tied for him. And he liked it. Hell,Iliked it. It’s not like I want him to hurt me or degrade me. And so what if I did? What’s wrong with that? At least it’s whatIwant.
Is that what I want?
I can’t help that I’m so curious by nature. For all I know, after five minutes of trying something like this, I’d realize that I hate it, and I’d never want to do it again. But how will I ever know if I don’t try?
And who on earth would I ever try it with if not him? I picture myself going back to that club to find another partner, perhaps the cute bartender, to introduce me to something like this.
I’m sure it could be exciting. But then what?
Sleep evades me as I toss and turn in my bed. Deep down, I know that the reason I can’t fall asleep is because I’m still listening for the door, wondering if Jack will find his way to my hallway again. Maybe he’ll go a bit further this time.
How has Jack St. Claire infiltrated my psyche so much in such a short time? Why can’t I stop thinking about him? I’d like to believe that I’d find peace if I could just let him go and focus on my job, on Bea, the house, and my new life in Paris. But all that only feels like one half of my life now, as if he’s somehow taken up so much space in my mind that I’ll never be able to truly move on until I’ve unwrapped the mystery around the man.
But how can I when he won’t even let me speak? The moment I open my mouth around him, he silences me.
I wish I understood why. Why does he shut me out? Why won’t he give me a chance? And why on earth do I care?
I don’t know what time it is when I finally decide to throw back the covers and climb out of my bed. It’s mostly stubborn tenacity, or maybe it’s a need to feel closer to him that has me pulling the letter out of the desk drawer.
Even after all this time, I’ve never fully read it. Only skimmed a few lines. But there’s a burning interest inside me that won’t let me let it go. It’s not about knowing their relationship anymore. It’s about understandinghim.
Sitting at the desk with my legs folded in front of me, I read his letter to his late wife.
Dear Emmaline,
I know what you’re going to say. No one writes letters anymore. You’ll call me cheesy or an old romantic, but I don’t care. You deserve so much more than a text message or an email. You should know that a man who adores you sat down at his desk and wrote you a letter by hand to tell you just how much he loves you.
And you know that I do. I love you.
I never meant for this to happen. In only one year, I fell head over heels for you. Did you think I really went to all those ballet performances because I suddenly loved ballet? I was there for you. Every time.
You brought so much joy to my life, Em. I was a miserable, boring man before you came along. My heart is telling me that you feel the same. And I know if we really gave this a shot, we’d be happy together.
I miss you so much, and you’ve only been gone two weeks.
Paris doesn’t shine the same without you.
Please come back.
Yours,
