Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Did you have a submissive?”
“No. Never. I cannot stress this enough. Until you, I didn’t do commitment, and that is a commitment. But I liked the games, and it was fucking without complication. Bondage. Check. Ménages. Check. Voyeurism. Check. No couple play, though. I was never a couple, and I don’t need another man comparing dicks with me.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“I didn’t want you to find out from someone else. And I didn’t want you to think that I want to be there, not here. The past doesn’t define me or you or who we are apart or together. It simply represents the paths that we each took to get here. To each other.”
I digest every word he has spoken with the realization that I am not shaken by Nick’s confession, which is not so unlike my own. How can I be? He has been boldly forthright, brutally honest about his interests. And he’s just told me that while Macom needed the club despite having me, Nick only needs me. And I choose to believe him. I choose to believe that he is right. All paths have led us here, to a place where I have a paintbrush in my hand and this man in my life.
Chapter Fourteen
Nick
I once told Faith that I don’t do guilt. I make decisions. I own them. I move on. But as I leave her in her studio to paint, just beyond our talk about sex clubs and that bastard Macom, guilt is gutting me. It’s like I’m in a horror movie with some slasher sicko slicing and dicing me, then coming back for more. I fast-step down the stairs toward the living room, reminding myself that I told Faith all that I dared. I cannot risk sending her running for the hills and pushing me into the doghouse. Not when it appears that someone wants the winery, or something connected to the winery, and that they most likely killed her mother and my father to get it. And Faith is the only person standing in their way.
Clearing the last step, I cross the living room, grab my briefcase in the kitchen, and then make my way to my office. Once inside, I shut the door under the pretense of the client conference call I told Faith I’d scheduled. A lie to hide lies. Jaw clenching at that idea, I drop my briefcase on my heavy mahogany desk, then walk toward the bookshelf-enclosed sitting area at the far end of the room. Claiming a spot in the center of the brown leather couch facing the door, I mentally prioritize the gaggle of fucked-up shit in my head right now. My focus is on Faith’s safety, which means keeping her close. Which means containing any threat that could push or pull her away from me. That means dealing with Sara Merit.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans, and since I don’t have Sara’s number, I dial Chris. He answers on the first ring. “You’re afraid Sara is going to tell Faith about the club. And I can tell you right now. She would not do that.”
“You certainly know how to get right to the point.”
“Then let me do it again. You have to tell her.”
“I told her I was a member, with graphic detail,” I say, and, aware Chris has a bit of a history himself, I add, “She knows the world. It’s not been kind to her.”
“And living the lifestyle versus owning a club that says you can’t live without the lifestyle are two different things.”
“Exactly. And I never really wanted the damn thing. Mark owned it. Mark was a client and a friend, and I picked it up.”
“You’re known. Someone could tell her you owned it, and even if that never happens, you really don’t want that unspoken truth between you.”
“I’ll tell her at the same time that I tell her I dumped the damn thing.”
“Smart move in my book,” he says. “Do you have a buyer?”
“You interested?”
“Not a chance in hell, my man. But we both know money isn’t an issue to you. Kurt Seaver runs that place from sunup to sundown. Give it to him.”
“You read my mind. That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“Good move. Good move.” There’s a voice in the background. “I’m actually walking into a meeting with a donor for my charity. Sara’s with me. I’ll fill in the holes she missed.” He ends the call.
I pull up my texts and Kurt Seaver’s contact information, shooting him a message: Ten o’clock in my office tomorrow.
I move on to the next situation. I remove the money clip from my pocket, set it on the dark wood of the rectangular coffee table, and shoot a photo I then text to Beck. My superhero PI, who had better start acting like a superhero. I punch his autodial, and he answers on the first ring. “How’s the black widow?”