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Isabella

My toes curl on the cold balcony floor, my long fingernails digging into the palms of my hands. I'm anxious; this hasn't happened in years—not with my medication, not with my new therapist. Before I let the walls close in on me and the fear take over, I suck in a few steadying breaths as my eyes start to water, tears burning and threatening to spill over the edges.

I bite my bottom lip. The skin is dry, my teeth digging in, and I wince when I taste blood. I want to lick it away when Ginger puts his fingers around my chin, thumb caressing my lip. His thumb is slightly bloody when he pulls back, and I groan, pussy fluttering when he sucks the digit between plump lips and hollows his cheeks. Mhmm… my thoughts leave, venture off to dirtier places, and I wonder if Ginger likes cock—likes sucking them. He'd look so pretty doing so.

"Stop that, and fucking talk to me." His voice is more gentle, more caring in a way. "Let's go back inside?"

I nod and he steps aside to let me through. Sitting down on the loveseat, I watch the reflection of the lighting in Ginger's shoes before he walks to the marble coffee table right in front of me and takes a seat there. He's sitting lower than I am, so he tilts his head slightly to look up at me. It's a move he may not even be realizing, but I appreciate it nonetheless. It's oozing respect and dignity, even though he still has this dominant aura around himself.

"You really want to hear this story?" I wonder, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear.

"If you want this to go anywhere at all, yeah." He smiles, eyes crinkling slightly as he cocks his head.

Where the fuck would this go, anyway? Two Doms fighting over power?

"Before you give me any shit about it not working out, think again, pr—Havoc. You liked what happened. Even though it wasn't a scene, even though you weren't always in control."

He's right. I know he is. I haven't been this wet—or desperate for a cock—in forever. I clear my throat, avert my eyes, and stuff my hands into the pockets of the hotel robe.

"I liked it, yeah. But I can't give up control knowingly… I can't do it on purpose; it's too much for me."

"What happened?" he asks. His brow is furrowed, and I notice the freckles that are scattered around his sharp cheekbones. They match the color of his scruff—dirty blond meets rust; perfect.

"An accident." I chuckle humorlessly. His jewel eyes flit over my skin, over my collarbones, and over the thick collar of the robe. He felt what happened—on the surface, at least.

"I'm gonna need more than that, Isabella." Hearing my full name tumble from his full lips makes me cast my eyes down and fold my hands into my lap. I realize what I'm doing and snap out of it quickly before he gets any ideas.

"I was a sub, five years ago, living with my Dom full-time under contract," I start. As the wounds open, I feel the scowl on my face and ache to brush off the subject—move on. "We were at a convention; Master was performing…" I trail off.

"So, he did something?" Ginger seems desperate to know what happened, just as desperate to make me submit. It's not that I don't want to… it's that I can't. I literally can't. It hurts too much to go back into that headspace, no matter how much I used to love it. There's an angry look swimming inside his eyes—but for once, it's not aimed at me. His leg bounces as he tugs the ends of his hair.

"In a way." I huff. "Master Jared had many friends… and one day, day two at the convention, his friend's sub got sick." I take a deep breath and clutch my thigh, nails digging into the skin.

"You're no—" He breathes. "Are you talking about Jared Mosley? XCite Expo 2016?" Ginger's got a horrified expression on his face, and I don't know where to look.

"Yes," I say, no life to my voice.

Ginger stands, one hand in the front pocket of dark denim that slides down his narrow hips when he moves. He walks over to the spot where I left the bottle of liquor and grabs it, throwing the twist cap to the floor and taking a sip.

"Fucking hell, Havoc…" He grunts. "You've got to be kidding me…" Another swig, pouty lips around the bottle before he hands it over. I eye him, but he arches his brow, urging me on.

The alcohol stings but disinfects my gaping wounds on the inside. I don't even know why I'm telling him this.

"The Marcus Burkley incident?" His eyes narrow.

I nod quietly. Ginger knows what I'm talking about.

Dun, dun, dunnnnn