Chapter Three
I don’t know why, but the next morning when I thumb through the college brochures under my mother’s watchful eye I feel none of the anxiety and pressure I thought I’d feel.
I look up at her when I’m done, then smile. “They all look wonderful. But I think I’m going to give the theater a proper go of it, then look at where I am in a year’s time.”
“Oh—okay,” she says, taking the brochures back, her expression puzzled.
I take the earlier train to work in case there’s a delay and trip lightly up Charing Cross Road toward the Palais Theater. The sight of it always lifts my spirits, but today it makes my heart pound and brings an excited flush to my cheeks.
The performance goes off without a hitch. I don’t see Mr. Kingsolver but his presence is everywhere, as if he’s permeated the very air I breathe.
When I arrive at the theater on Wednesday morning for the matinee, Gregory wants the chorus to alter a number to suit a new set, and we rehearse it quickly before the show. Mr. Kingsolver is standing in the wings, arms folded, watching us. I’m the last one to file off past him, a smile glimmering around my lips. When I glance up at him, his expression doesn’t change, but he winks at me. My blood sings.
Half an hour before we go on, Gregory comes into our dressing room and tells us that one of the stars is leaving. She’s not a lead but she has a big part, a good part, as a dancing fairy, and everyone in the chorus is invited to audition for the role in front of him and Mr. Kingsolver after the matinee.
“There’s a sign-up sheet outside. Go and put your name on it if you want to audition.”
I hurry out and find that most of the rest of the chorus is clustered round the list, too. I suppose it makes sense—no one wants to be stuck in the chorus forever. I’ve got a good chance of getting the part, as Gregory made me the lead woodcutter a few months back and told me how much I deserved it.
But as I stand there, waiting to reach the front of the queue, doubts begin to needle me. I have to audition in front of both Gregory and Mr. Kingsolver. None of the other girls have made mistakes and been reprimanded. What if they think I’m not trustworthy enough for the part?
Mr. Kingsolver comes past and a few of the girls ask him questions about the role. I watch how attentive he is as he answers them. He’s taking them so seriously. I remember how flinty he can become when he’s displeased. What if I walk out onstage to audition and he gives me that look? Or worse, laughs at me?
I turn on my heel and go back into the dressing room. It’s not worth the stress, I tell myself. You stood up to your mother and you’re doing what you love. Don’t push your luck.
I spend the time between the matinee and the evening show ducking in and out of the dance supply stores in Soho, trailing my fingers over jars of sequins and the satiny ballet shoes. I can’t get enough of all the delicate, unspoiled prettiness. I buy some fabric flowers to sew into a flower crown, and then head back to the theater to get ready for the next performance.
I have on my makeup and costume and I am about to duck into the wings when Mr. Kingsolver appears out of the darkness and takes hold of my wrist. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and says, “My office, after the show.” And then he’s gone.
Have I done something wrong? Was I late? No, I wasn’t late. All the same, a tingle starts between my legs and I almost hope I have broken a rule, even though I’ve been doing my best to please him.
At a quarter past ten, I’m standing outside his office door. With a forefinger I trace the gold lettering of his name, mouthing each letter with silent lips. Then I take a deep breath and knock.
“Come.”
He looks up when I come in and lays down his pen. “Abby. Thank you for coming.”
He’s businesslike, brisk. I feel a twist of disappointment.
“I wanted to ask why you didn’t audition to be Cara’s replacement.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
His eyes narrow. “Uh, pardon, Mr. Kingsolver?”
“You’re a good dancer, Abby. I expected you to be there today. Do you not want the part?”
“Of course I do.”
He waits, one eyebrow raised.
“I—I just didn’t think I should. The other girls haven’t made any mistakes lately. Not like me.”
Getting up suddenly, he gestures for the door. “Come on. You can try out now. Gregory’s gone home but I can give him notes on your audition.”
I try to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that one of the other girls will be perfect for the part, but he doesn’t listen. He takes me down onto the stage and turns on the spots, then waits in the stalls while I change into my warm-up gear in the wings. When I come back onto the stage the lights are so bright I can’t see him.
“Do you know Cara’s part?” calls a disembodied voice.
“Yes,” I say, hoping that I do remember it all.
“Can you dance without music?”
Oh, god. I’m going to make such a fool of myself. “Uh—yes, I think so.”
“All right, then, whenever you’re ready. Don’t be nervous. You’re only dancing for me.”
I realize I’m twisting my fingers together and I drop my hands. Okay. Cara’s part. I decide on her first dance, a lively little piece in a simple four-four time. I count off a beat in my head and then begin.
But something’s not right. I can see the way Cara moves in my head and it’s not the way I’m moving. I keep dancing, telling myself that my body will relax into it, but I can’t seem to concentrate.
Mr. Kingsolver comes forward and leans his forearms on the stage. One of the spots catches him. “Is something wrong, Abby?”
I shake my head. The first chance I get at a big role and I’ve screwed it up. “It doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m any good for this part.”
He considers me a moment. “Wait there.”
Two minutes pass. Then five. What is he doing? I hear footsteps behind me and Mr. Kingsolver comes out onto the stage carrying Cara’s silver fairy wings. I see from the way he’s holding them out that he intends me to put them on.
“No, I can’t. We’re not supposed to touch anyone else’s costumes. Cara will kill me.”
He gives me a severe look. “Cara’s not here. This is my theater, and I want you to wear the wings.”
I bite my lip. Technically they’re his wings because it’s his theater. I notice he’s got a funny expression on his face as he watches me bite my lip. “All right.”
He helps me into them, tightening the straps across my shoulders and asking if they feel comfortable.
“Yes, they’re perfect.” Over my shoulder I admire how they flutter, and then do a twirl. “They’re so pretty.”
He smiles, and my stomach flutters as much as the wings. Instead of going back to the stalls he walks to the side of the stage and waits for me to begin.
This time when I dance, it all clicks into place. I can hear the music as if it’s playing, and it’s not Cara that I see in my head, but me. That’s why it wasn’t working before. I can’t dance like her. I can only dance like myself, and now, in the silver wings, I am the fairy.
When I finish I turn to him, and he nods and says, “Very nice.”
Again, I feel a twist of disappointment. I want him to say, “Excellent,” or “The part is yours.” But perhaps he has to talk to Gregory first.
His fingers are gentle and practiced as he helps me out of the wings, and he tells me to change into my street clothes and wait for him while he takes the wings down to the dressing rooms.
When he comes back he looks at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll drive you home. My car is behind the theater.”
I start to protest that it’s too far and the trains are still running, but he’s switching off the stage lights and not listening. He guides me through the darkened theater, his large hand warm on my lower back.
We get into his car, which is sleek and black. The interior smells like leather and him. I give him my address and we glide out onto the rain-slicked streets. Neither of us speaks. I want to ask him about my audition but I have the feeling that if he’s not talking about it, he doesn’t want to. Instead, I sneak looks at his large hands on the steering wheel.
When we pull up outside my house he gets out of the car, as well. “You don’t need to walk me anywhere,” I say.
But he just gives me a look, then goes up to the front door and pushes the doorbell. The lights in the front room are on. My parents are up. What are they going to think, me being driven home by my not-quite boss?
I reach the front door just as it opens. My mother’s mouth parts in surprise when she sees me standing next to tall, handsome Mr. Kingsolver.
“Um, I—” I begin.
“Mrs. Williams. I’m Rufus Kingsolver, the owner of the Palais Theater. I kept Abby late tonight for an audition, so I wanted to be sure she got home safely.”
“Oh. Thank you. That’s very kind.”
My father has heard voices and has come to the door, as well. They shake hands, and then we all sort of just stand awkwardly, not saying anything. I see Mr. Kingsolver’s expression grow a shade chillier.
“She did well, by the way. Your daughter is an excellent performer. But of course, you know that.”
Prompted, my parents scramble to agree, that yes, of course I am, and they know it well.
Mr. Kingsolver turns and looks down at me. I know what he’s doing, and I want to tell him how grateful I am. He remembers my confession from the other night, that my parents think what I do is silly. He’s showing them I’m a valued cast member, by the owner of the theater, no less.
“Well, good night then,” he murmurs, looking only at me. And then he’s heading down the steps to his car without a backward look.
* * *
When I arrive at the theater the next day Gregory hails me in the corridor. “Mr. Kingsolver tells me you auditioned for the part of the dancing fairy yesterday, and he recommended that I see you, too.” He glances at his watch. “Can you warm up quickly and meet me onstage in fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, thank you, Gregory!” I hurry into the dressing room to change into my warm-up gear. Mr. Kingsolver recommended that Gregory see my audition. That must mean he thought I was good enough for the part. I clamp down on my excitement, though, remembering how many other girls auditioned.
The stagehands are busy with the props when I go upstairs, and Gregory is talking to the stage manager, their heads bent over his clipboard. He looks up and smiles when I approach, and then jumps down into the stalls.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I dance the part, and I don’t need the wings this time. I feel as if they’re there, and I become the fairy once more. It’s such a joyous, openhearted dance, so different to that of the woodcutters’. When I’m finished Gregory calls me down to the front row.
“Well, Mr. Kingsolver was right,” he murmurs, leafing through his notes. “You did dance it very well, and you have been with us longer than most of the other dancers who auditioned.” He smiles and looks up from his clipboard. “Would you like the part?”
“Yes, please,” I say, still breathless from the dancing.
“Well done, it’s yours.” He gives me a puzzled frown. “What I don’t understand, though, is why you didn’t audition in the first place. You need more ambition, Abby.”
I tell him that I will try, but mostly I squeal into my cupped hands and hop about.
I don’t see Mr. Kingsolver that day but he leaves a handwritten note tucked inside my sneakers that I find when I came offstage. Unsigned, but I know it is from him.
Congratulations, kitten. Well deserved.
The writing is strong and fluid. I smile and slip the piece of paper into my pocket.
The other dancers are happy for me, though one or two do think it’s odd that they didn’t see me at the auditions. I just mutter something about doing it after the second show.
My parents are in bed when I get home that night, but I hurry down to breakfast the next morning to tell them the good news.
“We’ve got some news of our own,” my dad says, after he hugs me and tells me how happy he is for me. “Your mother and I have been talking about this for some time, and we’ve decided we want to move to the countryside.”
“But that’s silly,” I say. “What will you do with the house?”
“We’re going to sell it of course,” my mother says. “It’s come at such a good time, your promotion, because the extra money will come in handy for your living expenses. Rents are expensive right now but I’m sure you’ll be able to find somewhere comfortable with flatmates your own age. Perhaps other dancers. Won’t that be nice?”
I hear a buzzing in my ears. Living expenses. Flatmates. I didn’t think about my new role as a promotion, or that I might get more money because of it. I should have asked Gregory. Why didn’t it occur to me to ask? How will I know what I will be able to afford if I don’t know how much I earn? What if I don’t have enough money for food and travel after I’ve paid my rent? Where will I even live?
The questions pile on top of each other until I don’t know where I should start. It’s not that I don’t think I’m capable of living away from home and taking care of myself. But the amount of energy and time I need to put into practical things sometimes makes me unable to focus on anything else. I wish I could just do the things that I am good at, like dancing.
I realize my parents are looking at me with strained expressions, and I swallow and force a smile for them. “That’s great, guys. I’m so happy for you.”
* * *
The next day I head to the theater early to start rehearsing for Cara’s part that I’ll take over in a week and a half. I can feel the memory of the fairy wings and the steps are easy, like breathing.
Smiling, though, or pretending that I’m happy and excited, isn’t. By the end of the day I’m worn-out by everyone’s expectations of me. They need to keep their noses out of my business. If they want smiles they should smile themselves, not stare at me waiting for me to give them what they want.
By Sunday I’m exhausted, and all I can think about are the things I am going to do on my day off tomorrow. I’ve told my parents I’m going to browse the rental listings on our high street to “get a feel for the market.” It’s such a throwaway phrase, but it impresses them. Really I’m going to head to Westfield and watch the newest animated film, eat soft-serve with lots of sprinkles and browse every coloring book I can get my hands on. I won’t have to worry. I won’t have to think. Bliss.
Mr. Kingsolver passes me in the corridor when I leave the dressing room in my woodcutter costume. He wordlessly takes my hand and looks at my nails.
“Abby.” He sighs, but I pull my hand from his and hide it behind my back. Why does he need to sound like that, like he’s disappointed in me? The audience won’t be able to see my nails.
He folds his arms and looks at me. “I haven’t seen you smile all week. Are you all right?”
I will be tomorrow. Once I’ve had a day without thinking I can start to sort my life out. I can take care of myself. I’m going to have to learn how sooner or later. “I’m fine. I’m on in a minute.”
He looks at me a moment longer, like he wants to say more, and then he stands aside and lets me pass. As usual, dancing helps me forget my worries and I’m smiling during the curtain call, but the glow fades as soon as I come offstage.
There’s another note in my shoes.
My office after the show.
My first thought is that he’s going to put me over his knee again, and my heart races. But he wouldn’t do that just for not smiling, so maybe he’s going to scold me for not being happy enough that I got the part. I’m trying as hard as I can, and it’s exhausting. It will be worse for me if I ignore his note, though, so after I’ve changed into my oversize pink sweater and a denim mini, I climb the stairs.
The door opens as soon as I knock, but he doesn’t let me in. His eyes are smoldering and I can tell he’s furious. Because of me?
“Kneel,” he commands. “Go on,” he says, impatient when I don’t immediately comply. I follow his instructions, sitting back on my heels, and then he slams the door in my face.
What am I supposed to do now? Leave? But he didn’t say leave, he said kneel, so I guess I’ll kneel. I should feel annoyed that he’s being so demanding without any explanation, and when I’m so tired, but I don’t feel annoyed. I feel a pulsing between my legs, and suddenly I’m more than happy to wait and see what happens next.
Ten minutes later he opens the door and I look up at him, my mouth twitching.
He folds his arms. “Do you think this is funny?”
I shake my head. Well, maybe a little.
He reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair, dragging me into his office where he bends me, face-first, over his desk. I’m not laughing now. His thighs press against my behind and he keeps hold of my hair so I can’t move.
“You lied to me today,” he snarls.
“I didn’t.” My head is turned to the left, cheek pressed against his papers. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, leaning over me. He wasn’t even this angry with me when I was late to the theater.
“Don’t argue with me. You lied. You said you were fine and you’re not. You also broke your promise about coming to me when you were worried or upset about something. Did you lie when you promised, too?”
“But it’s silly stuff,” I wail. “It’s not important. I didn’t think you would care.”
He leans down close to my ear. I can feel his hot breath on my cheek. “Does this seem like I don’t care?”
He’s going to discipline me again. The thought both frightens and arouses me, because he’s going to realize again that I’m getting wet when I’m supposed to be being punished.
“Abby,” he growls, his hand tightening in my hair. “I asked you a question.”
“No,” I say.
“No what?”
I moisten my lips, thinking, my breath coming hard already. “No, Mr. Kingsolver.” I make myself relax against the desk. A hand lands on my behind and squeezes, and I try not to think about how he’s going to be touching my bare skin in a moment.
Mr. Kingsolver makes an approving noise and lets go of my hair. I watch, my cheek hot against the desk and his papers, as he takes a length of rope from his top drawer. What is that doing in there?
“Put your hands behind your back,” he orders. “Hold onto your elbows.”
“I promise I won’t move, there’s no need to—”
But Mr. Kingsolver isn’t interested in what I have to say. He grasps my wrists, pinions them behind my back and starts to tie them. It takes several minutes and the knots are precise. I get the feeling he’s enjoying every slide and pull of the rope.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. All right. So the rope is new, and I’m over the desk instead of his lap, but I can still do this.
Mr. Kingsolver’s hands slide over my hips until he finds my skirt zip, then he undoes it and pulls it off me. What underwear am I wearing? Are they wet yet, and can he tell? I squirm against the rope, wishing I knew.
He forces my underwear up between my cheeks and plants a heavy hand on the small of my back. The soothed feeling is stealing over my again, clearing my mind of everything but him and what he’s doing.
“Do you know why I’m disciplining you?” he asks, and I hear a clink of metal and the unmistakable wrrrp of a belt being pulled out of his trousers.
His belt? He’s going to use his belt? Surprise pierces my calm. “I thought you were going to just use your hand. This wasn’t part of the deal.”
The belt appears before my face. I look at the leather gripped in his large hand. “Deal? What made you think there was any deal? I’m in charge and you do as I say. Does the fact that you’re tied up and bent over my desk not make this clear to you?”
“But it will hurt!”
“Yes,” he says with relish, “it will.” And I can hear the cold smile in his voice.
Rope, desk and belt. This is worse in every way from last time. What would he do if I make him angry for a third time? String me up naked by the wrists and flog me? I feel a shudder of horror—followed swiftly by a pang of something far more carnal as my mind presents me with an image of Mr. Kingsolver, shirtless, wielding a black leather flogger.
It’s not fair. How am I supposed to be certain not to make any mistakes in the future when the idea of him disciplining me is so exciting?
“Answer my question, Abby.”
I take a gulping breath, trying to remember what it was. That’s right—why he’s disciplining me. “Because I lied to you.”
“And?”
“For breaking my promise. But I didn’t think that—”
“Do you think lying and breaking a promise are worse than being ten minutes late, or not as bad?”
I screw my eyes shut. “Worse.”
“Got it in one, babygirl.” And the belt cracks across my behind with a stinging thwack. I yelp, tensing against the wood. The belt is about ten times as vicious as his hand and after three strikes I’m crying out, begging for him to stop. I’m as loud as I can possibly be, but he doesn’t try to silence me. Even if there was someone in the theater they wouldn’t be able to hear me from up here. I’m entirely at his mercy, and for a second time, that knowledge, and the pain, causes heat and slipperiness between my legs.
He hits me twice more, and then stops and pinches the stinging flesh of my behind. “Have you had enough?”
“Yes, yes I have, please,” I cry.
“It’s Yes, Mr. Kingsolver. And do you think you can tell me when you’ve had enough?”
I struggle, panicked. “No, of course not, I mean—”
Thwack. He hits me another five times until my ass is burning. My tears are making the sheets of paper on the desk stick to my face. All the worries I’ve had about moving and responsibility are evaporating and I’m slipping into a place where I have only to give myself over to what Mr. Kingsolver wants from me.
“Have you had enough?”
I take a deep breath. “I have if you say so, Mr. Kingsolver.”
“Good girl.” And I hear the satisfaction in his voice. I’ve stayed so still that he hasn’t needed to hold me in place. If he just unties me and lets me adjust my own underwear, I’ll get out of here before he knows what his disciplining has done to me. But then his hand traces over my behind, as if admiring his work, and brushes over the place where my underwear is wedged between my cheeks. It’s soaked. His fingers rub up and down.
“Does it turn you on when I discipline you, babygirl?”
I want to tell him no, but he expects the truth from me, no matter what. “Yes,” I whisper.
I wait for him to tell me off, to say that I’m not taking these punishments seriously enough. He puts the belt down on the desk where I can see it, and to my surprise he continues to stroke me. I blink to clear my eyes, straining to see the expression on his face, but I can’t. His fingers delve down, and he begins to rub circles on my clit through the fabric. I tense and cry out. It feels so good, his fingers against me.
“Want me to take care of you, kitten?”
I don’t understand why there’s no anger in his voice. If anything he sounds pleased, almost indulgent. “Aren’t—aren’t you mad at me for, um...” I can’t finish the sentence. He’s being so gentle now, caressing me as if I were the most delicate thing in the world.
“Mad?” he murmurs, all mildness now. “No, I’m not mad. You took your punishment so well. Would you like your reward now?”
My teeth sink into my lower lip, my eyes closing. There’s a strong throbbing between my thighs, an ache that begs to be touched. As inexperienced as I am, I know that what Mr. Kingsolver is offering will turn that ache into something wonderful.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Please.”
He pulls his chair around behind me and sits down, and then eases my underwear aside, spreading me open, his fingers firm but gentle. What is he seeing, what does he think? I want to see the look on his face and I try to move, but the ropes pull against my arms. I’m still tied securely. I’m not supposed to move now, and I relax a little against the desk again.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, and then he licks long strokes on my most sensitive parts, languid and unhurried. I groan, and tuck my face against the desk. His tongue is firm, and a little rough, and so strange that I want to squirm away and push against it at the same time.
He traces slow circles on my clit with his tongue and I cry out with each breath. My mind is so clear and my body so relaxed. If this is his reward, then I’m in danger of making mistakes all the time.
He concentrates his attention right where it feels the best and I sob, pressing myself against the desk as I come. Hot waves of sensation pound through me.
A few minutes later I’m distantly aware that he’s untying me, and then pulling me back off the desk and onto his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face into his throat, my heart racing. He’s whispering to me, things like good girl and you’re so brave, and wiping the drying tears from my face and the sweat from my brow.
My mind is trying to catch up with what’s just happened. Mr. Kingsolver disciplining me, and then Mr. Kingsolver giving me the first proper experience I’ve had with a man. I’ve touched myself before and been kissed at parties, but nothing has ever felt as wonderful as what he just did to me. It’s not just the orgasm, either. Why is it, I wonder, that being at his mercy and suffering such a painful, humiliating experience should be so enjoyable? I can’t find a reason, but I do know that I don’t want him to stop. That thing he did with his tongue makes me want to rip the buttons off his shirt.
He looks down at my underwear and runs a finger under the elastic. “These,” he says, mock stern, “are very silly.”
I giggle. “Do you like them?”
He presses his forehead against mine. “You have no idea.” He watches me for a moment. “Are you a virgin, babygirl?”
I suck my lip over my bottom teeth and nod, watching his face as he considers this. He must think I’m hopelessly naive and childish not to have had sex before.
“I thought you might be. Good to know. Now, what has upset you these last few days?”
I tell him, my finger hooked over the top button of his shirt, rubbing his chest hair. I tell him about my parents selling the house and moving far away, about not knowing what I can afford and where I should live, and how much the idea of sharing with strangers makes me afraid. He listens without interrupting.
When I’m finished, he says, “No wonder you were upset. Why didn’t you tell me?”
It’s a little easier, now, after what we just did, to tell him how I feel, but even so I’m not able to meet his eyes as I say, “You’ve got so much else to worry about, running this place. I didn’t want to worry you with it.”
He puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up so he can look in my eyes. “That’s my job. I like to worry about things. How am I supposed to take your worries away from you if you won’t tell me what they are?”
“You really want to do that? Anything I’m worried about? Anything at all?”
He strokes my cheek and his fingers are gentle. “How do you feel when you know you’ve done something that pleases me?”
I smile, sinking into him. “Like nothing else. Like nothing can touch me. Like there isn’t anything I can’t do.”
“That’s how I feel when I know you’re taken care of, kitten.”
I put my head down on his chest, thinking. He seems sincere, and while he’s demanding and quite ferocious, he doesn’t frighten me anymore. On the contrary, he’s made me feel calmer than I have in a long time, despite my burning behind. It’s so strange, what we’re doing, but I hope that it won’t stop.
“What are you going to do on your day off?” he asks.
I tell him my plan, blushing, wondering if he’s going to think it’s silly and too little-girly, but he just smiles.
“That sounds like an excellent idea. You’ve been working so hard.”
“I did lie to my parents, though,” I confess. “I told them I was going to the high street to look at rental properties.”
He frowns. “Why did you lie to them?”
“Because they’re becoming so frustrated with me, and I wanted to make them happy.”
“Do you think they’ll be happy when they figure out you lied to them? They will figure it out, you know.”
“No, they won’t be happy.”
“I won’t be happy, either. I don’t want you to lie.”
I screw up my face. “I’m going to have to go to the high street, aren’t I?”
“Don’t pout,” he scolds. “Not necessarily. They have listings online, you know. Why don’t you spend an hour looking at rental listings after breakfast, and then the rest of the day will be all yours for fun things.”
I nod. “That is a good idea.”
He hears the note of doubt in my voice. “But?”
“Ugh, I just have so many other questions.”
“Well?” He shakes me a little. “Like what?”
“Like, how much can I even afford to pay on rent and still be able to live?”
“The rule of thumb is thirty percent of your income.” He tells me how much I make after my promotion, and what thirty percent of that is.
“Oh. That’s actually really useful. Wow, how did you know that?”
He tucks my hair behind my ears. “That doesn’t matter. Now you do, too. It should be enough for a room around Clapham or Willesden or Shepherd’s Bush, depending on where you want to live. Why don’t you ask some of the other girls where they live?”
I nod. “I will do that, thank you.” My face is close to his and I look into his eyes. I want him to kiss me. Shouldn’t he kiss me? He’s done so much more to me that kissing shouldn’t be a big deal. But I want it so badly that it must be.
He strokes his thumb over my lower lip, which makes me shiver, but he doesn’t kiss me. “You’re not to worry about anything, all right? If you have any more questions on Tuesday, come to me and we will figure them out.” He grabs my hand, glaring at my fingers. “And you’re not to bite your damn nails.”
I’m even more at peace than I was the first time he disciplined me in his office. The world seems simpler now—easier to face—and I am calm. I smile. “Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”