17. Talia

Chapter 17

Talia

S aturday evening, I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse, checking that it’s tucked seamlessly into my pencil skirt, then resume pacing the same five feet of carpet before the desk in Charlie’s office at Crossroads. I’m anxious about tonight, but at least I’m not spiraling anymore. I’m focused. Ready.

I owe my sanity to Leo, who reminded me Thursday morning of the Stop Sign Method. I’ve spent the bulk of the last three days practicing the simple but effective exercise. When thoughts of Kieran intruded, I visualized a stop sign. The first day was the hardest, the red octagon virtually living in my head. By this morning, though, I felt back in control.

“Nervous?”

Charlie’s dark eyes track me from the red velvet couch where she sits nibbling on strawberries, looking like Aphrodite in a white dress, her dark hair loose around her tanned shoulders.

“A little,” I admit.

“Why are you wound so tight? You’ve done this a hundred times.”

I glance at her. “Not helping.”

Her smile is vulpine. “If you wanted your ego or clit stroked, you should have gone to Nate’s office.”

I grimace. “Really not helping.”

“Talia.” She waits until I stop and look at her. “When was the last time you were properly fucked?”

I sigh. “It’s been a while.”

Longer than a while, actually, but if I tell her how long it’s really been, she’ll lose her mind. As it is, I already know she’s going to lecture me.

She doesn’t disappoint.

“For God’s sake, let me find you a Dom. One who’s known you a long time and will be sensitive to your needs.” She pauses. “Speaking of, Adam asked about you after your visit a few weeks ago. He’s always had a thing for you, even before you started leaking Switch vibes and ran away from us like your ass was on fire.”

For a few seconds, I think about it. The night of the playroom fiasco, Adam appeared as I talked the distraught Dom into unblocking the door. He took control of the man so I could attend to the sobbing woman. When all was resolved, he invited me to get a drink at the bar and catch up. I was momentarily tempted—I’d always liked him—but a warning look from Nate made me reevaluate. It was then I realized that despite the mantle of the Professor on my shoulders, Adam wasn’t looking at me like I was a Domme but a potential submissive. The change was weirdly off-putting. Like being a predator for years and suddenly waking up in the body of a rabbit.

“Besides,” Charlie continues, “I’ve seen him fuck. It’s glorious. He’ll fix you right up.”

He won’t, though. As talented as Adam is—I’ve seen him fuck, too—he won’t fix anything. He’s not who I want, and no substitute will do. Until Kieran and I go our separate ways, I’m resigned to self-pleasure only. I have to believe that someday I’ll meet someone who makes me feel as wild and alive as he does. The alternative is too depressing to consider.

“Thanks for the offer,” I tell Charlie, “but no.”

She sniffs. “Your pussy’s loss.”

There’s a knock on the door. I hurry to open it and find Nate on the other side. He looks me over and smiles, big and genuine, and relief loosens the tension in my shoulders. I was worried he’d want a repeat of the last time I was here, but all I see in his eyes is uncomplicated affection and the comfort of our shared history.

I hope it means he’s found what he’s looking for.

“You look hot as fuck, Talia.”

I grin. “Thanks. So do you.”

Charlie grumbles, “Sometimes I really miss the old Nathan. ”

“No, you don’t,” he says lightly, then offers us his arms. “Come, ladies. The Epicenter of Sin awaits.”

The Epicenter, a recessed, circular stage where live scenes take place at midnight, dominates the back third of the club. Right now, it’s occupied by me and a slim podium. My rapt audience stands three-deep behind the waist-high railings above me, their faces shadowed due to the spotlight over my head and the club’s dimmed background lighting.

My nerves faded within the first few minutes, overtaken by my passion for the topic. Before I know it, I’m wrapping up the lecture, an updated version of one I gave years ago about the intersectionality of psychology, gender, and kink. While the crowd has been responsive, laughing or murmuring at appropriate moments, I’m still shocked by the thunderous applause when I finish.

A grinning Nate descends into the pit and hands me a water bottle, then lifts my free hand into the air.

“The Professor, everyone! Let’s hear how glad you are to have her back!”

His voice is amplified by the small microphone on my blouse. I turn it off, glaring at him as the audience roars anew. He laughs and tugs me into his arms for a hug. More whistles pierce the air.

At my ear, he says, “Ignore that. You’re amazing. You were always impressive, Talia, but that was next level. ”

My ire melts, and I kiss his cheek. “Thank you, lovely.”

We break apart as Dominic Cross walks down the steps, his powerful aura dampening the crowd’s cries. Dark eyes crinkled with warmth, he offers me his hand. I shake it, surprised by a sudden surge of emotion. Stern, protective, and honest, Dominic is as much responsible for who I am today as Charlie is. I’ve always thought of him as a giant, grumpy big brother and his wife, London, a quirky big sister.

“Good to see you, Talia,” he says, his handsome face open in a rare smile. “That was exceptional.”

“You, too, and thank you. I’m so flattered you came.”

“London and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He glances up at where she must be, but all the faces blend together outside the spotlight. “She’ll hunt you down after, I’m sure. Are you ready for the Q&A?”

I nod, aware of the simmering excitement from the crowd. “It’s always been my favorite part, actually.”

“Mine, too.” He looks at Nate, and my heart warms at the respect in his eyes. “You good?”

Nate nods serenely and pulls a microphone from his pocket, switching it on.

“Testing, testing, motherfuckers.”

His voice bounces around the club. Laughter sounds. Even Dominic chuckles before he climbs the stairs and disappears into the shadows. After confirming that my mic is back on, Nate follows him.

For the next forty-five minutes, Nate moves through the audience. There are questions that fill the air with more laughter, others that demand silence and a careful response. Most aren’t even questions about kink. A woman asks what to do if she and her partner have different love languages, and a man asks for advice because his husband is resistant to couples counseling. Some voices are nervous or desperate. Others witty or dry. All are honest and vulnerable, and together they abolish the last of my doubts about coming back.

My conviction grows that this is what I’m meant to be doing. Small groups, large scale, it doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing that feels as profound and meaningful to me as a community coming together. Learning about themselves and each other.

Eventually, Nate announces that the next question will be the last.

There’s a moment of silence, then:

“How would you counsel someone who’s falling for their therapist?”

As the deep, musical voice fills the club, the blood drains from my head. I reach for the nearby podium, my fingernails digging into the wood so hard it splinters. A sliver pierces the skin beneath my thumbnail—a lightning strike to my senses that focuses me and clears the ringing from my ears.

In the absence of shock, rage floods every inch of my body and mind. This can’t be happening. He can’t be here.

It’s too much.

“We’re ending here today,” I say tightly. “Thank you, everyone. ”

I rip off my microphone and stalk up the stairs into the crowd. The look on my face works better than a flamethrower, clearing an immediate path from the Epicenter to my target: a tall man wearing fake glasses and a baseball hat.

Ignoring Nate’s shocked face and Sven’s grimace, I grab Kieran’s arm.

“Come on, Clark Kent,” I snarl, then drag him across the club through the archway leading to the playrooms.