Page 46 of The Secret Life of a Stepford Wife

“I would very much like to discuss that as well. What did you have in mind?” His face and tone were both completely even, giving me no clues as to his feelings on the matter and leaving me to my own insecure devices.

“This isn’t easy for me. You know that Jamie and I are poly, but I’ve never taken that step. Not really. Not fully.”

“But you have other submissives.” His brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes, but that is all they are. I am not romantically involved with them.”

“Really?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“In a way. With Bex, I guess I just assumed.”

“Most people do. She and I are close, but there is no romantic connection with us. It’s not a line I’ve ever crossed.” I felt the tinges of anxiety creeping along just under the surface of my skin as I spoke. I didn’t talk about this. Not with anyone. Not ever. But Jamie was right. There was no viable reason for me not to take this step. Not to try.

“Why haven’t you?” His genuine interest was so abundantly apparent, simultaneously making me feel so seen and so vulnerable.

“I have my reasons. Reasons that predate my relationship with even my husband. Opening myself up to someone in that way was only easy for me at one time in my life, and — well, it didn’t end well. I learned a valuable lesson.”

“Some lessons aren’t meant to become laws, Sadie.” Thatcher’s words struck me like lightning, leaving my mind reeling.

“Excuse me?” I asked, trying to process.

“There are lessons in life that we are meant to learn from, but when we take that lesson and turn it into a law that we must follow for life, it can sometimes cement us into a state of stagnation. It restricts our ability to grow and change. We are meant to be in a constant state of growth, a living organism that responds to our environment as we move and change through life.”

“I thought you were an artist, not a therapist,” I said, laughing derisively as his words shook the very core of my being.

“I am an artist, just one who uses his own pain to create. So I have learned a thing or two about letting go of my previous conceptions of life. Learning to let go is never easy. It’s often as painful and devastating as it is vital and beautiful.”

“Perhaps therapist wasn’t right either. You sound more like a poet.”

“Well, thank you. But, please continue. Tell me what it is you want.”

“I want you.” I blurted the words out before my prime composure could hold them back, surprising me so much that my hand flew to cover my mouth just as I spoke them. Blood rushed to my cheeks as I blushed in utter mortification. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“You absolutely should have. Don’t crawl back behind that wall, Sadie. I want to hear your thoughts.”

“I want to try. I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know how to go about it exactly but…”

“But something is here.” My eyes looked up at his words, finding their vibrant, nearly electric blue searing past the surface of me, past the mask I held firmly in place at all times, and clear into the ugly, gritty depths of who I was underneath it all. He saw me. Not Lady Luxe, the Domme. Not Sadie Day, the housewife. He saw past the colorful hats I wore, the personas I played like an actor on the stage. He saw me. Just me. And nothing had ever been more frightening. Like a car crash impending, I could not look away.

“Something is here.”

“What do you need?”

“I need grace. I am new to this. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I admitted my truth with more pain than I wanted, but that’s what truth was: gritty, painful, and real.

“Granted. I can do that.”

“Do you even want this? With me? Outside of Haven? Do you want Sadie?” I searched his eyes for any hint, any brief inkling of hesitation or uncertainty, but found none. What I found was honesty, acceptance, and underneath it all, a blazing fire of desire. I gasped quietly, that heat calling to my own. Heat that I had worked so desperately to hold at bay.

“Do I want this?” he asked, his tone low and dark with desire. “That is your question?”

It was rhetorical, and I knew it. He stood from his chair, eyes never leaving mine as he sauntered his way around the table to where I sat.

“Thatcher,” I said in warning.

“You think I wouldn’t want this? That wouldn’t want you? Sadie, I ache for you. I crave you in a way that I fear I may never be satiated.” He leaned over me, his entire presence looming over me and threatening to pull me in like a person lost to a siren’s call.

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