17. Christian

17

CHRISTIAN

W hen Gibson comes back to Gramercy, he’s carrying a bag of groceries, which is my first hint that we won’t be going out for dinner. But since I’ve never seen him carrying groceries before, I get caught up thinking about how I would feel if we were strangers, and I ran into him wandering the aisles at Whole Foods. If he happened to give me that smirk. The thought has my cheeks burning.

He texts me as I’m handing over the building to Teddy.

Gibson

Meet me on the roof at seven if that works for you.

Seven works.

He likes my response with a thumbs up. Once I’ve given my comprehensive report, I head down to my apartment to let my anxiety have its way with me. With any luck, by seven, it’ll work its way out, and I’ll be too exhausted to worry anymore. I do some push-ups, squats and a few biceps curls. I take a shower. I jerk off in the shower. I have two shots of tequila, then brush my teeth.

I go through about six different outfits before I settle on the first thing I tried on—a slim fitting blue button down and charcoal slacks. The roof doesn’t require formal attire, but since this is a business meeting, I figure I should look the part of someone befitting the job I’m planning to accept.

Once my hair is thick with product and pushed off my face, I’m no less anxious than I was to begin with, although, thanks to the tequila, it feels more like excitement than fear.

The only other time I’ve been to the Gramercy rooftop was when I was hired, and Gibson gave me the tour. It’s for general use, so no one has private access to it. The penthouse terraces offer a roof-like experience, so the rest of the residents get to enjoy this smaller area as they like. Since it’s late May and the weather is great, a group of about a dozen people are grilling on one end, taking up some of the tables and chairs. One older woman is face down with her bikini top undone on a flattened lounger. She’s sound asleep.

Gibson is in the other corner at a table set for two. A bottle of champagne is chilling on ice, and there are two heaping plates of Greek salad topped with grilled chicken.

He rises as I approach the table and pulls out my chair for me. “Before you get too impressed,” he says, “I didn’t make any of this, but I did buy it. That counts, right?”

“Do you cook?”

“Minimally,” he says as I take my seat, and he returns to his. “My mother never taught me, and Marianne used to take care of all of it.”

“And now?” I ask.

“Now, we have a chef who comes every evening and makes all our meals. Except on Sundays where we have to fend for ourselves.”

“The chef didn’t make this? ”

“Whole Foods made this. Our chef doesn’t arrive until six, and I didn’t want to rush her.”

“So, what you’re saying is you’re a good boss to everyone you employ,” I say while he pours me a flute of champagne.

“I do my best.”

“Hours are flexible?”

“For you?” he says. “Absolutely.”

I fold my hands on the table. “Tell me your expectations.”

“Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Friday evenings. Eight to five, but four to nine on Fridays.”

“Why evenings Fridays?” I ask.

“Weekly wrap up and Monday planning,” he says.

“Wouldn’t that be better accomplished on Sunday afternoon?”

Gibson narrows his gaze. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about working weekends.”

“How do you feel about it?” I ask.

“Sunday afternoon is fine,” he says easily. “One to five?”

“Perfect.”

He holds out his hand, and we shake on it. But when neither of us lets go right away, my heart trips over itself with a rough stumble. This hand was on my cock three days ago.

We glance at each other, and the expression on Gibson’s face gives me no reason to believe he’s not thinking the same thing. We let each other go in a hurry.

“I suppose we have more to discuss if you’re up for it,” he says.

“It has been on my mind.”

Our eyes meet again. “Mine, too.”

The way he says it has me tensing all over. “In a bad way?”

“No. Why would it be a bad way?”

I shrug like his opinion of me matters less than it does. As much as I’d wanted to share what happened with at least one of my friends Sunday night while we were out, the opportunity never came up.

“I’ll be completely honest,” Gibson says, leaning away from the table. “I’m not sure whether to apologize or expect a thank you note.”

A laugh bursts out of me. It’s born of embarrassment and a combination of those exact sentiments. I’ve been more than confused about how to process what I let him do to me, and how I reacted after it was over, that it’s a relief to have it on the table along with the salads neither one of us has touched.

A slow smile bends his mouth, showing the deep indentations of his dimples, which throw me off balance every time I notice them. “The thank you note is a work in progress,” I say, knowing how red my face is and wishing I weren’t so fucking transparent. “As is my letter of apology.”

“Why an apology?”

“I feel like—” Jesus, my face is on fire, and he’s the one with the sun shining on him, making him look both carefree and devastating. “Like I might have taken advantage of the situation…afterwards.”

“Oh. I, um…well I wasn’t expecting it, but it’s certainly nothing to apologize for. As long as you were doing it for you.”

“I felt like…” Ugh. I rub my cheeks, but that probably only makes them redder. “Yeah. I needed more than a hug, but I should have…asked.”

He bites the corner of his lower lip in the subtlest of moves, and his chest expands with a deep breath. “I liked that you didn’t feel like you needed to,” he finally says. “You surprised me. In a good way.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, and look down at the salad. I pick up my fork and contemplate whether I could swallow a bite if I tried. My stomach is a mess of nerves and desires and doubts. My mind is a flood of filthy thoughts.

I put the fork down and pick up the champagne, taking a long sip.

“Was it what you needed?” he asks after a few moments of silence between us .

Was it? I wonder. It wasn’t overly painful, but I felt a shadow of suffering—from humiliation mostly. I’d begged and sobbed, then I came so violently I nearly blacked out bent over in front of a man I respect and have always wanted to impress. He’d called me boy .

I released more than an orgasm during the scene, but in the kissing afterwards, I lost my way again. The tight coil inside me is still very much alive. I should have just let him pat my back and pour some water down my throat, then slept on it. But I complicated everything by mixing it up with desire when I don’t think wanting him was the point.

But wanting is one of the many wounds I bear that doesn’t want to heal.

“I thought it was, but maybe not. I don’t mean the submission part. I felt like that worked, but it could have been…”

“What, Christian?” He narrows his eyes when I cut myself off. “Better?” he asks. “More?”

“More,” I say. “Yes.”

His head ticks back and forth in a slow shake. “I’m not sure about that.”

I finish my champagne and immediately take the liberty of pouring myself more. “Look, I appreciated the fact that you were checking in since it was more or less my first time, but you knew what you were doing—like—you didn’t need my input.”

“The questions distracted you?” he asks.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“But you understand why I needed to ask them.”

I nod, wishing I could down the whole glass I’m trying to politely sip just so I can work up the nerve to ask him for another chance. Because that’s what all these nerves are about, right? I want to do it again. I want to take another ride on the powerful wave of adrenaline and find the blinding release that waits on the other side of the pain and humiliation of letting someone use and abuse my body. I want to learn to associate my mental suffering with the buzzing hum of physical bliss. It feels like the only way to reverse the tide.

I want to sweat out all my guilt, regret, and self-loathing and find the peace I hope she found as I watched her die a death so quiet, I didn’t even notice she was gone until it was far too late.

I rub at my neck, ducking my head, not understanding where these thoughts are coming from. Why would I think being flogged to orgasm somehow absolves me of my own grave mistakes?

“You don’t seem interested in eating,” Gibson notes.

“Neither do you.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?” Because please get me out of my fucking head.

“I want to tell you,” he says softly, like this also surprises him.

I glance up at him, my head still bent, my hand still gripping my nape. “So tell me.”

He shakes his head. “We need to figure out this relationship first.”

I frown, confused and frustrated. With my nails digging into my skin, I try to puzzle out what he means.

“Would you consider grief counseling?” he asks. “If money weren’t an object.”

“Sure,” I say without thinking too much about it. My friend Drew came out of therapy a completely different person, but he was also falling in love at the time, so it’s hard to say what initiated the big change in him. He also takes meds. So, who knows? Maybe I need all those things, too. But in which order? Because I think love came first for Drew, which gave him a reason to want to do better. What do I have but a new job for a man I’ve enjoyed kissing—a married, more or less straight, older man I should not be thinking of that way.

“When can you start?” he asks.

“Whenever you want me to, Mr. Hayes. ”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t call me boss, don’t call me sir when you have clothes on, and please never Mr. Hayes.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Sorry. I’ll have to see when I have some free time with my new schedule.”

“I’d consider counseling a priority.”

I sigh and lean back in my chair, spreading my thighs and dropping my head back for a second. “What does this have to do with you answering a question or me working for you?”

“If it’s not obvious, I care about you. Your well-being is important to me.”

“You gonna offer free mental health services to all the doormen you employ?”

“If I feel like they’d benefit from it, why wouldn’t I? And I do provide health insurance.”

“Yeah, you’re great. I’ll give it a try. What else do we need to figure out?”

Gibson glances around the rooftop like he’s clocking each person’s location. “Getting to know each other better.”

“Oh.”

“Unless that’s not something you’re interested in.”

“No, I am,” I say, probably too quickly.

His responding smile is almost shy, and he averts his gaze. “Good. So am I. On that note, I have a question.”

“Okay.”

“Are you looking to be dominated again?” The words come out slow and measured like he carefully considered the placement and pronunciation of each one. “Or was that a When in Rome kind of thing?”

That’s funny, but the question is too jarring for me to appreciate the joke. “I’ve been thinking about it.” I say. “A lot.”

He props his elbow on the arm of his chair and rests his cheek on his fist, squinting in the sunlight. He’s got that corner of his lip between his teeth again, but he’s waiting for me to go on .

“I guess I feel like it’s probably not a one and done kind of thing. It’s either something you do or something you don’t right?”

“Everyone’s different,” he says.

I shift slightly, trying to put my head between him and the sun. In my shadow, his eyes relax, and I see the anxiety behind them that’s becoming familiar to me. I used to think he was so impenetrable, but he swept aside the curtain on our flight to Rome, and now it feels like there’s not a single emotion he tries to hide from me. There’s an entire essay in the look he’s giving me—one that’s been written with a shaky hand and zero confidence in his own thesis.

“I’d be interested in trying again,” I tell him.

“Practice doesn’t make perfect, you know?”

I’m getting even more frustrated. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just saying there’s not necessarily an end to it. There’s not a point where your Dom hands you a certificate for completion of sub school. It’s not a process either or something you get better or worse at.”

“Okay. What is it like?”

“More like meditation, I guess. Every scene is different. Your reaction and your focus could vary wildly from one day to the next.”

“I don’t know whether you’re aware of this or not, but people do practice meditation.”

“Such a smart ass.”

“How would you like me to think about it, Gibson?”

“Not as therapy,” he says shortly.

I glare at him for that. Feels like a low blow.

“Have you asked your pet why she likes to be your kitten?” I ask in what I hope is just as cutting a retort.

“I suppose I haven’t,” he says, unbothered. “But that’s because I don’t care to know.”

This flatters me, whether it’s meant to or not. “So, if I’m following the right breadcrumbs here, you want to make sure I don’t use BDSM as a replacement for actual therapy.”

“Yes,” he says.

“Because you care about me.”

“Correct.”

“So, I guess asking you to tie me down again would be out of the question.”