Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

LAYLA

My entire weekend has been spent reading both books Tristan stopped by with. While they did answer a bunch of questions I had, they also raised about a thousand more. I thought my questions would all be about him, but I'm damned if I haven't spent most of this weekend self-reflecting.

Until that hotel room, I never would've pegged myself as a submissive kind of woman, but I'm so fucking intrigued. Enough to think I might actually want to try something like this

I almost texted Tristan a handful of times, but considering I already wasted one of my questions, I've been trying to answer them myself with more reading and the help of the internet.

Which has only been mildly terrifying a couple of times.

There are so many types of submissives. Littles, masochists, service subs—I am quite certain that I am definitely not interested in any of those. Pretending to be childlike or being domesticated doesn't exactly do it for me. As for pain, great for those who like it and all, but I enjoy being able to sit without flinching.

A bratty princess, on the other hand, that seems to fit. I love pushing buttons and the rise it gets out of people—especially Tristan. Being worshipped, doted on, and made to feel special and important—the way he treated me—yeah, that does it for me.

I've read up on a ton of dominants, too, and I am practically dumbfounded at how many different methods there are of being a Dominant. Sadists – no thank you – Daddies, soft Doms, Masters, riggers, feeders, financial Doms. All of them are so vastly different on how they choose to lead their submissives.

All I got from Tristan is that he likes submission. Full and complete control and obedience. But what exactly does that mean? There's so much out there about Doms who want 24/7 control, access when and where they please, or even sharing their submissives with their friends.

And is that a length I'm willing to go to?

Am I even brave enough to give myself over to someone like that?

The amount of trust involved in letting someone else have full control over me is terrifying. But the way women talk about submission is the complete opposite. They rave about the adoration they receive and the bond they have with their dominants.

And fuck, if I don't want that.

I've dated and slept with a bunch of men, none of whom have ever truly cared about me—or me about them. There have been enough of them that until the other night, I thought I knew what I liked when it came to sex. Yet, after one night with Tristan, I feel like an inexperienced virgin who hasn't ever actually done anything.

TRISTAN

You've been awfully quiet, darling.

Some guy dropped off a few books I've been reading.

Good girl.

I read his response with his Irish accent, and I'm pretty sure if he says anything else, I will need new panties.

You can't just walk around throwing out a phrase like that.

You earned it.

The next time you hear it from these lips though, I intend for you to be breathless and it to be well deserved.

Fuck. There go my panties.

I was expecting questions, and was surprised to have not heard from you.

Trust me, I have questions.

Way more than the two you were giving me.

Come to the club now.

Now?

I'll send a car.

I wasn't planning to leave for a few hours. I'm not ready.

Then get ready.

Or don't.

That towel you were wearing yesterday was too much anyway.

What a salacious fucking flirt he is.

You are determined to get what you want.

Always!

You have 30 minutes.

The car will be out front.

Looking down, I take in my current attire. My black—or used to be black—leggings have a small hole in the knee where I snagged them on the fire escape. The oversized Hofstra hoodie is so worn the cuffs are frayed, and I can no longer even count the number of stains riddling the front of it.

Thirty minutes . "Fuck!"

Hastily making my way to the bathroom, I glance in the mirror and suddenly regret that it's been days since I washed my hair.

And it's about to be another one.

Given a choice between washing my hair and shaving, I'm opting for a pussy that doesn't look like I've decided to start growing 70s bush .

My shower is fast, with most of my time and attention to ensuring all my nooks and crannies are hairless. It isn't until I'm stepping from the shower that I make the realization as to why.

I care what he's going to think of me.

"You don't even know if he likes a shaved pussy" I huff at myself in the mirror and check the time. Dry shampoo, a slick high ponytail, a little eyeliner, and a maxi dress are really all I have time for.

TRISTAN

The car is waiting.

Fuck, he's punctual.

I'm heading down now.

Good…

You listen so well.

Stepping onto the street, I'm met with a big, black SUV in the loading zone where Tristan parked the other night.

"Layla?" the man beside the SUV questions. He bears a resemblance to Tristan but is younger. Nodding as I close the distance between us, he extends his hand as I approach. Gripping my hand lightly, he gives my knuckles a soft kiss before introducing himself, "I'm Liam. It's nice to meet the woman my brother can't stop talking about."

Heat creeps over my cheeks from learning he's been talking about me, and I lightly squeeze Liam's hand. "Thank God. I thought that was pretty fucking forward for an Uber driver. "

He helps me into the backseat with a smile. As he slides behind the wheel, I ask, "Do you chauffeur your brother's dates often?"

"You're actually the first, sweetheart." His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "Tris doesn't really date."

"What?" I'm truly shocked at his admission.

"Fuck." He spins in his seat, "Don't tell him I said that."

"My lips are sealed," I chuckle.

This man is more fucking intriguing by the minute.