One
“No… No! Wait!” The muffled sound of my voice pulled me from sleep and I sat up with a heavy groan. Sucking a sharp breath through my teeth, I winced and clutched the back of my neck. A twinge in the muscle shot lava-like pain down my shoulder. I squeezed the throbbing spot, kneading my thumb into the rigid flesh until I felt a little relief. As I exhaled the tension from my lungs, I cursed internally.
This was becoming a horribly unwanted habit. It didn’t matter, day or night; I always woke up like this. First, I’d wake up from a stress nightmare, usually about unfinished high school classes, the loss or destruction of my family photos, or—the kind I’d just awoken from—the vague left behind dream. The dream varied and took on different scenery and tones from night to night, but the concept was always the same. I was being left behind. I was being forgotten. I was suddenly but seemingly forevermore, alone.
Next came the blinding pain, forcing me to pinch and rub the kinks out of my neck, back, or shoulder. It’d been going on for weeks, ever since I saw the news…
Rolling out of bed and clearing my mind, I slipped into the robe I’d thrown on the floor this afternoon when I pathetically crawled into bed for a midday nap. I made the effort to shower, shave, even throw on some perfume before my clothes only because I had dinner plans with my sister and I figured I wouldn’t make it back to my apartment before I had to meet her.
I grabbed a cardigan and walked the few blocks from my place to Calloway Books—the little old book shop that’d become my home away from home. It was unlike any other bookstore I’d ever set foot in and from the moment I found it, it’d become my favorite place. I shopped there, read there, wrote there—sometimes I just went in to look around and breathe in the heady mixture of freshly brewed coffee and books, new and old. Stress didn’t leave my body too often these days, but something about the atmosphere there brought me momentary relief.
I’d been foolishly trying to write a novel for the last six months and shortly after I wrote the first sentence, I stumbled upon the store. By now, the owner, Oliver, and I were more than acquaintances. I suppose we we’re friends. If I arrived early in the morning, I helped him open the store, starting the ever-flowing pot of coffee for the day and raising the blinds. If I stayed until close, I helped him clean and lock up. I’d even hopped behind the counter once or twice to ring up a customer when he’d been short staffed. Oliver never seemed to mind me setting up shop with either my laptop or my notebook, drinking the free coffee and enjoying the quiet of the reading nooks tucked in the back or the little room on the second floor where he kept most of the leather bound antique classics only collectors looked for and some overstock inventory. I’d claimed that room as my own at some point. Oliver was even kind enough to put a table and chairs inside for me.
The words of my novel had never poured out of me as easily as I wished they had, but throwing myself into the project was my way of trying to get over the past. To get over Warren and what I’d left behind. But over the past few weeks, the words stopped altogether. I kept going, I kept trying. I needed to. At this point, the bookstore and my non-existent novel were all I had. I knew one day I’d break through the wall blocking my mind—something would release me—and I’d be able to tell the story or at least let go.
The bell above the door rang when I walked in and I headed straight to my spot. I didn’t see Oliver, but that wasn’t uncommon. He was always on the move through the store. The sound of hushed voices around the stacks didn’t stop me as I grabbed a coffee and climbed the rusted metal stairs for the second floor.
With my laptop on and a paper cup of coffee steaming on the old oak table, I drew in a breath. I smelled the familiar scent of musty books, leather, and coffee grounds. Staring at the screen, I tried to think of Warren and the story. Our story. It hurt every time I pulled it to the surface, heavy and covered in splinters of shame and regret. My heart ached as I attempted to fling myself back in time to relive it all over again.
While the book I was writing was fiction, the truth marbled its way through the words. Moments we shared wove into the storyline and the emotions that consumed me—from the butterflies of the beginning to the agony of the bitter end—drove the plot. I hadn’t decided if I could give it a happy ending yet or not. I was still trying to keep from killing him off in chapter two.
“Screw this,” I mumbled, pushing back from the table. I scanned the shelf behind me for something to flip through to quiet my mind. A dark laugh crept from my lungs when my eyes fell on a fitting tale—the kind of story to really stir up my self-loathing. I sat down once more with the classic in hand and sighed, set on escaping into someone else’s ill-fated story instead of my own.
***
“Wait—” My voice jolted me out of the captivity of a dream and as I sat up, my arm flailed in front of me, colliding with something as it moved through the air.
“Shit!”
Warm liquid trickled onto my lap and my eyes flew open to see my paper cup once full of black coffee spilling over not only my favorite pair of jeans but also the leather bound edition of The Scarlet Letter I’d read three chapters of before dozing. Keeping my eyes open lately was a challenge. All I wanted to do was sleep—depression gripping me twenty-four hours a day.
Thanking God I hadn’t doused my laptop in dark roast, I snatched my cardigan off the chair next to me and tried to sop up the coffee before it seeped into the pages of the book. I tossed the drenched sweater to the side and glanced at my phone.
“Fuck! Motherfucking fuck fuck!” I snarled at the ceiling.
It was nine forty. I had sixteen text messages from my sister, Ellie, and nine phone calls. It was the second time I’d stood her up in three weeks. The heels of my palms knocked into my forehead as I growled again. My stomach pitched wildly as everything sunk in. It was like a snapshot of the current state of my life right now—messy, infuriating, out of control, and completely my fault. The book was the most urgent situation, though, and I decided to take care of it first before I called and begged for Ellie’s forgiveness.
Grabbing the book, I held it open as I hustled down the staircase to the sales counter. They’d be closing in twenty minutes and as far as I could see, I was the only person there who didn’t get a paycheck. Expecting to find Oliver, my feet froze when I saw a man I didn’t recognize crouched down beside the checkout desk, rifling through a cart full of books.
He rose and turned to me, his eyes narrowing. “Yes?”
Blue, nearly deep violet, eyes drilled through me—unsettling me for reasons unknown. His face was familiar, but I knew I’d never met him. I shook my head, knowing the book was more important than introductions, and jutted it out toward him.
“I spilled my coffee. I didn’t know what to do. I’ll pay for it, I just…”
He frowned and took the book from me carefully, tearing his gaze away from my face. I felt my skin chill at the loss of his eyes on me. He examined the pages quickly then ducked under the counter. The slight movement wafted a tempting scent my way and I breathed it in shamelessly. Was that cologne or the lingering trace of clove cigarettes? He popped up with a stack of paper towels and placed one gently in between each coffee soaked page. Watching his fingers care so delicately for the book mesmerized me. With each damaged page padded by a paper towel, he slammed the book shut and stared at it for a moment before eyeing me.
He pushed a hand through his espresso hair and raised his brows. “You must be Sloane.”
I squinted, still studying him, filing his image away in my mind for some reason. “How do you know my name?”
“Oliver had to leave early. He told me you’d be upstairs. I’m Leo.”
Staring at him blankly, I tried to think of anything other than the shape of his lips when he’d spoken my name.
“Calloway,” he clipped. “Oliver’s brother.”
“Oh!” I felt like an asshole. “Right.” Oliver had been talking about his brother for days. He was thrilled to have him back in town and even happier to have his help at the shop.
“You just moved here,” I said foolishly. I couldn’t remember the details of where he’d been or why he was home—something about a girl maybe.
One corner of his mouth ticked up in a subtle smile for an instant before he nodded slowly. “Just moved back, actually.”
His smoky voice made me gulp a breath, but his penetrative stare riveted me. He held my gaze firmly, a mixture of awkwardness and fascination melding within me. I nodded, pulling my lips tight, then turned on my heels, ready to gather my things from upstairs. After an apologetic call to my sister, I’d need to crawl back into my bed for more stress-induced nightmares.
Spinning back to him, I let a pained smile touch my mouth as I tapped two fingers beside the book on the desk between us. “Seriously, I feel awful. So whatever the price, Oliver knows I’m good for it.”
Leo’s expression remained rigid, but his eyes lit up with some unknown emotion when his deep voice crept out, “I’m sure there’s a suitable punishment for you, Sloane.”
My heart seized in my chest as his lips twitched, never forming the smile they fought. His words sent a shiver down my spine. My ears pulsed with heat and the rich sound of my blood pumping to my brain, helping me form thoughts—visions of punishment. My mind propelled me to a foreign plane where I pictured this stranger darkening my world with the most forbidden of fantasies.
“Good night,” he added before stooping down to the book cart once more.
I swallowed hard and took a step toward the staircase, noticing only how my legs trembled as the sound of his voice echoed in my mind.
***
Though I hadn’t thought about it in ages, my sudden salacious desires brought on by Leo’s choice of words weren’t new. During my freshman year of college, a guy I’d been casually fooling around with wanted to watch porn with me. I think I surprised him when I said yes and I think he might’ve proposed marriage when I suggested we smoke a little pot first. We got high and he showed me some of his go-to video clips on his laptop as we lay barely dressed in his dorm room twin-sized bed.
“Wanna watch some kinky shit?” he’d asked, peering down to where I rested against his side. I remember mumbling a yes, not caring what he put on the screen because porn had never really thrilled me.
But then he pulled up a video of a naked woman with her hands tied behind her back, bent over a leather bench, blindfolded, and the sight of her made me sit up a little straighter and open my heavy eyelids a little wider. A man wearing a leather mask over his eyes walked out and without a word, he picked up some kind of whip. It looked like a long-handled black cheerleading pom-pom only with thicker strips of material. She squeaked each time he lashed her with it and I felt my pulse begin to race. When the camera closed in on her creamy white skin, every flick of his wrist turning her flesh redder from the soft-looking weapon he wielded, my core throbbed.
He clicked the mouse suddenly, advancing the video to the end. I would’ve smacked him had my eyes not been glued to the sight of her bare ass turned deep maroon from the lashing. I licked my lips and squirmed a little in the bed beside him.
“Well that one wasn’t good,” he said. “I thought he was gonna fuck her.”
I pulled in a ragged breath, told him I was tired, and started shrugging into my clothes. I had never been so thankful that my roommate was out late as I spent the rest of the night watching every video like that I could find. At first, I just watched, wide-eyed and curious, fidgeting in my bed with my laptop on my thighs. But eventually I set the computer to my side so my fingers could find their way to my clit.
I’d never told anyone about that night and I only occasionally sought out those kinds of videos again. But the moment Leo had said the word punishment, with his brooding eyes staring me down after I’d doused myself and The Scarlet Letter in coffee, flashes of those videos lit up in my mind. I’d wanted to be disciplined in that way for a long time but I’d never had the guts to admit it.
After an excruciatingly guilt-laden hour-long conversation with Ellie where she made sure to tell me how worried she was about me and remind me that she just didn’t understand why I’d felt the need to move two towns away, I slipped into bed, knowing my addled mind needed rest. I tried to doze—I hadn’t needed to try to sleep in weeks—but my racing thoughts made me resort to the one thing I knew would help. The scent of him, that word on his tongue, the unspoken proposal…everything about Leo and our quick interaction had made me wet. With my head still swimming with thoughts of him, it didn’t take much to work myself into a frenzy then sigh as I fell into darkness.
The next evening, when I pushed through the front door of the bookstore, a little flutter filled my abdomen remembering the private dreams I’d conjured.
“Hey,” Oliver’s voice pulled me into the present and caused me to turn. I smiled when I saw him. “I missed you yesterday.”
“Hey. Yeah, I uh…” I gulped, cataloguing the similarities of the brothers’ appearances and remembering just how filthy my fantasies of Leo had been alone in my bed. “I met your brother.”
Oliver’s face fell. “Was he a dick? He can be kind of a dick.”
“What? No. Not at all. But about the book—”
His brow knit together. “Which book?”
I opened my mouth to speak as a young brunette touched Oliver’s elbow. “Excuse me, do you have any German cookbooks?”
“I’ll come find you later, okay?” he whispered and shot me a quick apologetic smile as he turned to lead the young woman to the cooking section.
I nodded and headed up to my quiet room and wondered why he’d seemed confused about the ruined copy of The Scarlet Letter, but didn’t let it keep me from putting pen to paper to outline the book. I forced the words down on the page, struggling to keep my concentration on the story while thoughts of Leo’s voice swam through my mind.
An hour passed and when I’d drained my cup of coffee—with a lid tightly secured on the top—I decided it was time for a break. I stood and stretched the kinks from my neck and took my hair out of its ponytail for a minute to relieve the tension at my scalp. I was just about to head down to refuel and have a quick glance at the new releases when I heard the doorknob turn.
I wet my lips at the sight of him, but he didn’t meet my eyes at first. Leo pulled his gaze slowly up my body from my flat gray boots and black leggings to the heather gray sweater that hugged the curves of my breasts and waist before finally finding my face, a faint smile on his mouth. His brow rose in a silent greeting and I watched as he carried in a stack of leather bound books. I studied him as he searched for the places they belonged on the shelf. He wore dark jeans and a gray tweed blazer over a crisp white button up shirt. One side of my mouth kicked up in an amused grin, surprised by such an impeccable fashion sense from a young man.
“Hello again,” he said, still facing the shelves.
“Hi.” My voice was a pitiful scratch and I pressed my lips together the moment the syllable emerged.
Staring at his hands gently maneuvering the soft leather bindings, I couldn’t help but imagine him gently maneuvering parts of my body. It was only once I watched him inhale that I noticed he’d finished shelving the books while my thoughts had strayed. He was simply standing, not facing me, just breathing the same air. I found it oddly comforting.
“You didn’t tell Oliver about the book I ruined, did you?” I blurted.
I saw him stiffen before he slowly turned to face me. The same ghost of a smile touched his full lips before he spoke. “You looked like you were having a rough night; figured you could use a little mercy.”
My lips parted and I expelled a gentle sigh. “Thanks.” I took a seat again, turning the chair to see him. A light, shattered breath escaped me unexpectedly before words tumbled out. “Mercy’s good. I thought maybe you’d come to dole out my punishment.”
In a split second, with my idiotic jest hanging in the air, my chest tightened and my stomach plummeted.
Leo blinked once then tilted his head a bit. “Would you like that?”
The trembling in my gut raged with new strength and my mind blanked out. His voice, his eyes, his posture—he was completely serious. Last night, I’d tried like hell to convince myself he was joking, but I knew he wasn’t. I was glad. The response running around my head was yes. I would like him to punish me.
He must’ve seen it in my face or read my thoughts because he stepped toward me. “Stand up,” Leo commanded.
I did without hesitation.
Another quick smile pulled at the corner of his mouth but he willed it away as he reached into the inside pocket of his blazer. He took out a pair of black leather gloves and my eyes widened as he pulled them on. My heart raced, the kind of energy coursing through my veins new but certainly welcomed. I was utterly spellbound. Completely aware and complacent—fuck, I was eager—to allow Leo to do whatever he was about to do to me. Without question.
My last few months and every moment leading to this one, I’d been depressed, hopeless and even catatonic at times, but I’d never been reckless like this. And I’d never felt so alive.
“Turn around and put your forearms flat on the table.”
The quiet, peaceful place I’d claimed as my writing domain rarely had visitors but I wondered if today would be the day someone would come looking for something from one of the shelves surrounding us. The idea of getting caught sprung a whole new twist of excitement through my body. The sound of my ragged breathing pulled me from my thoughts as I turned and with surprisingly steady hands, bent over the table, doing exactly as Leo instructed. My sweater rode up to my waist with the move and I felt very aware that my ass was presented to him, my thong leaving my leggings as my only protection. Just one thin layer of cotton.
Was he about to fuck me? Hit me? Maneuver me in random ways, making me his puppet? I didn’t know and while I cared, I didn’t have a preference. My heart rebounded under my breasts at the realization that I’d placed absolute trust in a man I’d spoken with once and been aroused by twice.
Looking down at the table, I saw the plot notes I’d scribbled earlier, but I didn’t recognize my own handwriting. His presence had changed me. I wanted to laugh, thinking about my novel as I was bent over, anxiously awaiting the repercussions of my actions. The fact and the fiction of it suddenly seemed trivial. This…whatever was about to happen…felt critical. Pivotal.
I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling him lean over me. The hard wall of his chest pressed into my back as he put his gloved hands on either side of mine and exhaled against my ear. “You’ve disappointed me, Sloane,” Leo whispered.
Every tiny, fine hair running along my spine flicked up, standing at attention, then bowed down again, surrendering to what was coming. “I’m sorry,” I murmured.
Leo straightened and I stared at the wood grain of the table, waiting. The sound of something slicing through the air rang out quickly and then I simultaneously heard and felt a thick crack as his black leather palm spanked my ass.
I gasped at the sting I felt through my leggings. Another strike came and I thrust forward from the force. With his hand gone, I felt my skin burn and buzz, trying to comprehend the damage, but another quick blow came down on my ass and I cried out something between pleasure and pain. With that, he struck me again and again, and each time his hand landed on me, I tried to catch my breath—desperate for air.
And each time he reared back, I missed his touch—desperate for more.
One final slap choked out of me the kind of groan I’d only ever heard myself expel during sex. I snapped my lips closed the moment I heard it. Quiet filled my ears, my skin flushed and stung, then I straightened to turn toward Leo, leaning my weight against the table behind me even though the edge pressed into the tender flesh of my buttocks.
When our eyes met, I shuddered. The silence only served to make it feel all the more surreal. His expression softened into something affectionate as he closed the gap between us. He lifted his hand to my cheek carefully. His palm cupped my face and as his thumb swiped under my eye, I registered the feeling of moisture on my skin. I hadn’t even known I’d cried until his gloved fingers wiped my tears away.
He pulled away to reach into another jacket pocket and presented a handkerchief which he blotted across my cheeks, drying my tears and removing the black residue of my mascara. My eyes danced across his face as he tended to me, wondering who he was and why I’d just allowed him to lay his hands on me that way—and why I’d enjoyed it.
His fingers slipped through my hair to the back of my neck and he coaxed me forward, pressing a kiss to my cheekbone. My eyes closed at the sensation of strange lips on me and I finally felt the burning of the salty tears I’d already shed. The silent exchange made my heart ache. A thousand questions bombarded my mind though I didn’t have the strength to ask a single one aloud.
Leo let go of me and took one step back, preparing to leave without a word. But my greedy hands reached out to him, gripping his lapels to pull him to my lips, not caring but also not understanding why I needed him so badly. His mouth crushed mine and our tongues tangled without subtle sweetness or build up. I felt the kiss in my tailbone where the muscles below it still hummed. With his hands in my hair, moving me the way he wanted me, attacking my mouth with no romantic fanfare, just pure carnal greed, I felt the kiss tingling between my legs as I grew wetter by the second.
I reached my hands to link behind his neck and those thick leather gloves snagged both of my wrists, our lips never unlocking. He lowered my hands to my sides and easily laced his fingers back into my hair. When the kiss ended, he panted against my mouth for a moment. I feared he’d leave at any moment.
“Leo…I—”
His firm posture returned and he removed the leather gloves, returning them to his breast pocket before he gently touched his bare index finger against my lips.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” I breathed.
His eyes traced the curve of my face then he smiled sweetly. I didn’t know the man at all, but I instantly knew that the smile was genuine and possibly one he didn’t often share.
“Thank you,” he said, pressing his lips to my forehead before opening the door and disappearing from sight.