Page 28 of Ward

“Take the day to think on it,” he says, then closes the door.

Disappointment sits like a brick in my chest. It weighs down my steps as I make my way to the main-floor sitting room. Too distracted to work, I rest my arms on the table, and my head on my arms, as I gaze out the window.

I thought I gave up my control the night I offered myself to Aidan. I’ve done everything he’s asked me to do. I eat a balanced breakfast and show up on time with my work and keep busy until lunch. Then I practice my pointe work in the gym until dinner. I make sure I’m in bed by ten o’clock, even if I’m not tired.

I’ve adhered to his schedule, completed his list of simple tasks. He has to want more from me than punctuality and good grades.

There are so many things I could do for him that don’t involve touching. I could kneel at his feet all day, or cuff my own ankles to the chair at dinner. I could dance around the house in nothing but my pointe shoes after everyone else has gone home.

When I caught Aidan staring at my legs, I thought, finally, I know what he wants me to do. I tried to give him more of something he didn’t explicitly ask for, by showing him parts of my body I thought he’d like to see. Rather than take him at his word, I forced his hand, and he responded by throwing me out.

Shame eats at my insides. Aidan is right; I haven’t given up control. I begged him to put me in a position where I could serve, and as soon as I felt the slightest bit bored, I attempted to change the menu.

I wrap my arms around myself and rest my brow on the cold wooden desk. Yesterday, all I could think about was how tired I was of our routine. I’d give anything to be back on the floor of his office with my laptop and schoolbooks now.

That night, at dinner, I set my fork down in the middle of my meal.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” I tell him.

Aidan takes his time twirling Paolo’s handmade pasta around his fork.

“Sorry for what, little one?”

“I’m sorry for—” Heat rushes up my neck. “—wearing short skirts in your office and trying to...”

“Trying to what?” He lifts his tumbler of whiskey but doesn’t drink.

Of course he’s going to make me say it. He’s a sadist, after all.

“Trying to tease you with my short skirt.” My cheeks feel like they could burst into flames. “It was immature and manipulative. That’s not the kind of sub I want to be.”

I spent all afternoon thinking about how I could’ve let myself disrespect him. I need Aidan to understand that my reasoning doesn’t only stem from impatience.

“My father was unpredictable,” I say. “I tried to train myself to anticipate the things he wanted, to recognize the shifts in his moods. I'm trying to do the same with you, but you're even harder to read.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just ask me?”

“It would, but I want to be able to anticipate your needs.”

“Intuitive understanding comes with time. Besides, I thought I made myself clear that those specific needs aren’t part of our arrangement.”

I gaze down at my half-finished plate of pasta. “I know.”

“But?” he says.

My shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. “I need to know that you want this, too. That you’re not just doing me a favor.”

“If I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

“Then why does it feel like you're tricking me? Like you're not actually Dominating me. You're just stringing me along, making me study, and calling it kink.”

He pinches his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How would you have me Dominate you, little one?"

My chest tightens. I love his pet name for me so much.

"I don't know,” I say, which isn’t true. I've spent countless hours imagining all the ways I wish he’d take control of me. I’m pretty sure he knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t call me on it. "Boss me around, I guess. Make me do stuff."

“I have been making you do stuff,” he says. “You just don’t like the stuff I’ve been making you do.”

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