Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive (Inside Out #1.3)(5)

I took a cab home at the gallery’s expense. The entire staff did since Mark won’t let anyone drive after a gallery event that includes alcohol, and this one had. I’d barely walked in the door when my would-be Master texted me.

You decide when the next lesson is. Call me when you’re ready.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready. Part of me says now. Part of me says I might never be. Yet I’d been downright excited to sign the contract this morning. Now I’m not sure of anything.





Wednesday, March 16, 2011

H

ot bath. Pajamas. My own bed. What more could I want? Ah, but I know: him. I want to call him. I want to hear his voice and I want . . . so much. But it’s the wrong choice. I know this. I’ve been singing this song to myself all day, reminding myself of the need to think things through and make rational choices. Right now I need to figure out who I am, because somehow I’ve lost myself along the way. I should be upset that he spanked me. Instead, I’m upset that he thinks I need more lessons.

I’m trying to process this. I keep replaying the situation, and my way of thinking, and demanding I look beyond the surface of what I feel. Logic. I need logic. He’s trying to make sure I’m ready for the next step between us and that I won’t regret my decision. Why does this upset me?

Okay. This is where I need to be honest with myself. As much as I’ve sworn I do not want a relationship, or the strings and heartache that go with one, this man is under my skin. I feel myself falling hard for him and looking for signs that he’s falling for me, too. It’s insanity. I’m a contract, a responsibility. A possession to him. He should be nothing but pleasure and the escape he has promised me he will be. And that is all he has promised.

It should be enough. It has to be enough before I allow myself back under his control, even for another encounter.

That means I need to take a few days and decide if I really can do this. I need to find myself again, the me that doesn’t need anyone. The me that understands I’m the only one I have to count on in this world. The me that will allow him to pleasure me and expect nothing else in return, because expecting more from people just means heartache.





Thursday, March 17, 2011

Lunchtime . . .

I

walked into the gallery this morning determined to make it about art. If anything can bring me back to me, that’s it. Once I arrived at work, though, I discovered Mark was dealing with off-site business and probably wouldn’t be in all day. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I know the rest of the staff is relieved when he’s gone, too. He always creates a subtle tension in the air, but he also creates a raw energy that excites the entire building and the people inside, even if they don’t realize it. I need that energy today.

In his absence I turned to caffeine. I was just leaving the kitchen with a full cup of coffee when Mary, my fellow sales rep, and “frenemy” as Ralph has called her, knocked into me. The contents of the cup splattered everywhere, including down the front of my—fortunately black—dress. She apologized profusely and swore it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I’d thought things had improved after she’d had a meeting with Mark last week and become friendlier, but apparently her friendliness was short-lived. She simply hates me for existing and I can’t control that. There is a lot I can’t seem to control lately.





3:00 p.m.

T

he gallery was sealed off to customers about an hour ago to allow the removal of the art from our personal office walls, because apparently it’s part of Mark’s personal collection. He must be even richer than I realized to own as impressive a collection as this one. I’d thought the pieces belonged to the gallery since his family also owns Riptide, one of the largest auction houses on the planet. Anyway, it turns out that once a year, Mark replaces the art and invites elite customers in for exclusive showings. The event is highly anticipated.

With the gallery shut for the art removal, I decided to head to the coffee shop for a caramel macchiato and was surprised to find Chris, Ava, and Georgia standing at the counter deep in conversation. Chris’s longish blond hair was rumpled, as if he’d been running his hands through it while working, and there was this devastatingly sexy energy about him that, based on how enthralled they looked as he spoke, clearly had Ava and Georgia spellbound. I waited in line to order, and my attention went to Georgia. Her beauty, next to Ava’s, had me feeling very ordinary. All my fears that Georgia had inspired the ring came back to me.

Chris’s gaze lifted, and his brows dipped. I knew he’d seen something on my face, and thankfully it was my turn to order, which gave me an escape from his scrutiny. I have no idea what he saw in my expression—but too much, for sure. He and Mark both saw too much. But then, Chris is an artist, a man who studies details. What did I expect?

Once I placed my order and turned back to the group, I found that Chris had disappeared back to his table and Ava was attending to a customer. Georgia greeted me with such a friendly smile that it was hard to remember why I’d felt uncomfortable a few minutes before. Apparently she’d stopped in for coffee on her way to a meeting with Ralph to go over the prior night’s sales and receipts.

We chatted on the short walk back and I asked her about the famous artist Georgia O’Keefe and the similarities in their work and their names. Turns out O’Keefe was her idol. Georgia had learned about their names both being Georgia (not an overly common name, she pointed out) when she’d taken an elective art class just to get the easy credit. The deeper she’d gotten into the semester, the more certain she’d been that their names were no coincidence but a sign she was meant to be an artist. Georgia’s story inspired me and, for the first time in days when I walked into the gallery, I felt a sense of rightness in being there. This was where I belonged. The art, this place, was me. Is me.