Page 15 of Salt in the Wound
“Yes,” he said, although the word was weighted with hesitation. Like there was more he wanted to add but was holding back for now. “For our purposes tonight, that’s close enough.”
The diligent student in me, eternally craving recognition and praise, cast around for more that I could say. Because I wasn’t completely ignorant of BDSM—or kink, as Mark called it. There were movies, jokes. What Bryn had said during our run.
“And there are people dressing up,” I said, making sure to paraphrase her comment about puppies more nicely. “And playing pretend.”
“Roleplaying is certainly on the menu for those who want it.”
“Is it…” I hesitated. “Is it onyourmenu?”
There was a graceful lift of his shoulder. “Let’s say it’s an aperitif worth having occasionally. Kink is expansive; it is so much more than any one thing. But if you’re asking about my tastes, then I can tell you that they typically distill into two things—power and sensation. One I like to have. The other I like to give.”
I thought about this. “So when you say that there shouldn’t be a gap between us…”
“If people are to believe that I’ve claimed you as my bride, then they will need to believe that you are currently my submissive.”
Submissive?
My reaction to the word must have shown on my face, because one of his eyebrows quirked. “It is more complicated than what I believe you are thinking right now, but the most important piece of this is that I do not expect you to be my submissive in truth.”
“You don’t?”
“I like my play partners willing,” Mark said. “A future bride I would want infinitely more so.”
“I see,” I said calmly, as if my heart weren’t hammering against my ribs. “So what are you proposing then? To present this illusion?”
“That youpretendto be my submissive leading up to the wedding,” he explained, as if it should have been obvious. “I think we can be strategic with how often we display our relationship at Lyonesse. If we choose our opportunities wisely, we can be very sparing indeed, especially with you attending Columbia.”
There went my hopes of not seeing him until the wedding. Despair yanked at my stomach.
My cage was closing too fast.
“How would I pretend to be your submissive?” Howcouldone pretend such a thing? “I don’t even really know what one is.”
“A submissive is a person who likes to be on the receiving end of things like power and sensation, nothing more.” He paused, as if deciding what to say next. “I like pleasure and pain, Isolde. It’s easy enough to make a facsimile of both.”
I tried to settle my pulse. I didn’t even know why it was racing now. Mark didn’t expect anything real from me…surely that was a relief. Surely I was satisfied by that. “Truly?”
“Much like sparring is to a real fight, we can present a convincing performance with a minimum of contact. Regretfully, however, I must tell you that there will almost certainly have to besomecontact.”
My fiancé didn’t look regretful, though. His posture had straightened infinitesimally, and his eyes were even darker now, darker than they’d been all night.
I asked for you.
I wanted you.
“So you will pretend to give me pain?” I asked quietly.
“And pleasure.”
“And pleasure?”
His fingers curled around his glass, almost unconsciously, but he didn’t take a drink. “Some of it will have to be real, you understand. Performing submission will be very close to actually doing it. We will have to take the same precautions. You will have to learn the same rules.”
I looked out at the city. There was still an endless buzzing under my skin. “Will we have sex?”
“Do you want to?”
I gave him a sharp look. “I wanted to be a nun before this.”
