New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

April 11

It’s time for everyone’s favorite blog post! That’s right—it’s time for DILFs!

Sometimes “DILF” stands for “Dudes I’d Like to Flip Off.”

Sometimes “DILF” stands for “Dogs I’d Like to Fix” (I think everyone remembers the prodigious leg-humping incident of 2014).

And sometimes, “DILF” stands for “Donalds I’d Like to Fire” (spoiler alert, it’s always Donald Trump).

But I think everyone’s favorite kind of DILF post is when it stands for “Dads I’d Like to Fuck”☺

It may be crass. It may lower me in your eyes. You may object to the fact that I’m looking at these dads with lustful intentions and licentious lewdness. But—come on—if our society has MILFs, then we need to have some DILFs for the ladies.

Amiright, ladies?

So, feast your eyes on the pictures below, my sisters in avariciousness. Today I’ve included a record-setting 36 desirable, drool-worthy dads.

You’re welcome.

<3 The Socialmedialite

 

 

*Annie*

I didn’t say it.

Not in the car on the drive back.

Not when we made love again that night in the shower…although I almost said it then. I said a lot of things in the shower—like telling Ronan he was a sex god, and that I needed him, and begging him to make me dirty so we could take showers and baths together eight times a day—these things made me blush scarlet every time I thought about them once the sex haze had cleared.

I didn’t say it when he woke me up the next morning by blindfolding me and trailing ice cubes over my bare skin, promising me pleasure only if I could lie still and silent.

Nor did I say it over the next two weeks as we went from event to event or when we came back to the hotel every night.

He didn’t say it again, either.

However, regardless of where we were—a charity garden party fundraiser, a visit to a public school for a photo-op, a youth rugby match—he always found a way to show me how he felt. He made sure that I was served special peppermint tea at the garden party. He introduced me to the kids at the school as his fairy princess. He gave me his coat at the youth rugby game and rubbed my arms to keep me warm.

At night he showed me by tying me up, taking me how and when he liked, always being in control, initiating lovemaking that was both terrifyingly tender and tenderly terrifying.

I loved it. I loved how he surrounded me. I loved how ceding control made me feel safe and protected. I loved begging him, following his rules. I loved the freedom I found in complete capitulation.

And yet…I didn’t tell him that I loved him, even though I did.

He must know, I thought, staring blankly at my computer screen. I was reading through the latest comments on my DILF post. People’s reactions ran the gamut of appreciative to shocked to Hey! That’s my husband!! Woot!!

I noticed that WriteALoveSong responded with a photo comment of a very, very nicely built male member of the military dressed in a bluish camouflage uniform holding the hand of an adorable little boy. The boy had brown curls and rosy cheeks and couldn’t have been older than four. She’d added beneath the picture, Add this to your next DILF post (and you’re welcome).

The charity I was highlighting along with the post was for veterans who were also parents. It helped them train and find work after discharge from the military. I’d tried to include as many dads in uniform as I could, but of the thirty-six, only fifteen were service members.

I was also avoiding my phone. Ronan’s sister, Lucy, had called and left a message; she wanted to go shopping and out to lunch. I didn’t know what to do. Since the rugby match, I’d gone out for coffee with a few of the team member’s wives and girlfriends. It was like a club, and I had automatic membership as long as Ronan and I were together. There was camaraderie, but it also felt like a no-pressure group. They were happy to let me be the quiet one.

But with Lucy…Ronan loved Lucy. And I wouldn’t be able to blend in when it was just the two of us. I wanted her to like me; I wanted us to be friends—really, really good friends—but I had no experience with real-life friendship.

I didn’t want to fuck it up.

I was startled by the sound of the suite door slamming shut, followed by Ronan’s loud footsteps approaching. Just his footfalls alerted me to the fact that he was upset, and this flustered me; so I quickly shut my laptop just as he stormed into the bedroom. My attention snapped to his as he entered.

“Annie….” he said, like he intended to add something more but didn’t quite know what to say. Though he looked angry, he also looked aggravated about his anger.

I stood, watched him with wide eyes, and then prompted, “Is there something wrong?”

“No! Of course not! Everything is just cunting wonderful!” he thundered and then turned away and stomped out of the room.

I stared at the spot he’d just vacated for a few seconds, wracking my brain for what I might have done to upset him. I wondered if the source of his fury was my lack of verbal reciprocation of his feelings. My heart tugged painfully at the thought because I did love him.

Bracing myself, I hurried out of the room, found him splashing Scotch into a glass at the wet bar. It was only 10:00 a.m.

“Hey…so, I think I know why you’re upset.” I twisted my fingers in front of me, stopping just four feet from where he gulped his drink.

He set the empty glass back on the bar, his eyes cutting to mine as he refilled the glass.

“I doubt that,” he said, shaking his head once.

“Is it because of… When you said—when you told me—”

“Nope. And I don’t regret telling you, either, so you can stop fretting I’m going to take it back.”

I shifted on my feet, feeling a little unsteady. “Is it because I haven’t…I haven’t said—”

“Nope. I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” He studied the liquid in the cut-crystal tumbler then took another swig.

“Oh,” I breathed, feeling equal parts relief and confusion. “Then what did I do? Because you’re obviously upset with me about something.”

Ronan set the tumbler back on the bar and shut his eyes, exhaling a laugh that wasn’t completely devoid of humor. We stood there for several moments, so long I thought he might not respond.

Then he said in a rush, “I’m the jealous sort. I know that, and I think you do, too. I don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

I frowned at his words, not understanding and saying the only thing that made any semblance of sense, “Ronan, I would never cheat on you.”

His brown eyes opened, but they remained on his empty glass. “I know that. But I don’t even like you looking at other guys.”

This statement only served to deepen my frown. “I honestly don’t understand where this is coming from. Of course I’m not going to ogle other guys in front of you. That would be completely disrespectful. Just like I wouldn’t want you to do that in front of me with other women. But….”

“But,” he echoed, a small smile tugging his lips to the side.

“Yes, there is a ‘but.’ But of course I’m not blind, and neither are you. Of course we’re both going to continue to notice other people, even if we don’t act on it.”

He sighed then laughed again; this time it sounded self-deprecating.

Ronan said to himself, “Ah, I am so screwed,” as he turned toward me, abandoning his glass on the bar and wrapping me in his arms. “You’re going to force me to grow up, aren’t you, Annie? I’m going to have to stop picking fights with all the boys who give you a second look. You’re going to make me mature.”

I smiled against his neck, snuggled closer as I returned his embrace. “I hope not too much. I kind of like your dirty mind.”

“I’m beginning to think I’m not the one with the dirty mind,” he mumbled, somewhat cryptically.

Before I could question this remark, he bent forward and captured my mouth. Soon all thought—or ability to think coherently—was driven from my aforementioned mind and replaced with a delightful series of completely dirty thoughts.

***

I was waiting for Joan. We were set to have a call about the progress of my projects, not just Ronan’s.

If Ronan were my only project, then I would deserve five stars, a big bonus, and a standing ovation. He had entirely ingratiated himself to the public. Not quite a reformed bad boy, he continued to be something edgier, more elusive.

Really, he was the ideal image sketch I’d drafted plus something entirely his own, something I never could have designed or defined, and people loved him. They loved that he was a blue blood with white-collar mannerisms. They loved how unrepentantly ambivalent he was about fame yet how much he obviously loved his sport. They loved his raw talent and his dedication to excellence.

He did nothing by halves.

I thought about the latest letter he’d written to The Socialmedialite, about how he loved me, and it made my silly heart do a happy jig and then cry in the corner of despair.

I felt guilt. Ronan had written to The Socialmedialite thinking of her as an impartial third party, asking for advice, baring his soul. I’d read his private thoughts, I’d been lying to him, and I hadn’t yet responded. His words were so beautiful, so moving, so exactly what I’d needed to push me over the edge. Every time I read the letter, I became lost to my feelings—of swelling love and anxious despondency—and my mind blanked. I didn’t know how to respond.

I had to tell him the truth—both about who I was and how I loved him—but I feared losing him. I knew it was partially the fear that kept me silent on both accounts. The other part was giving up my anonymity. Being The Socialmedialite was my outlet. Until Ronan, it was the only avenue where I could truly be myself. If I told Ronan, if he knew, then he would have power over me, and I would never be anonymous again.

The sound of my computer notifying me of a call pulled me from my thoughts. I blinked at the screen and saw Joan’s avatar—which was just a picture of her giant leather office chair—flashing insistently. I took a deep breath and accepted the video call, straightening in my seat and hoping my attention would follow.

As soon as she came into focus, she started to talk. “Annie, we need your help with The Starlet. She’s tossed out our summer plan and wants us to start from scratch. Beth sent her an email, and Dara responded that she’s not used to having to read actual words. I blame your infographics. You spoil the clients.”

“Hi, Joan.” I gave her a half smile, feeling strangely nostalgic for my comfortable life in New York.

“Have you opened the file I sent? Let’s modify it while I have you on the line. I can call Beth in here if needed….”

We settled into our client discussions, no pleasantries, just like old times, and I actually found myself relaxing as we went through the details and proposals. This felt like solid ground. This was my area of expertise, not falling in love with an infamous bad-boy sex symbol on the precipice of dominating the world stage while deceiving him about my secret identity.

All was well—relatively speaking—until the hotel phone started to ring. I ignored it. It stopped, and then it rang again. After the fourth call back, I glanced at my cell phone and found no messages. Whoever was calling via the hotel phone didn’t have my cell number. Joan could tell my attention was split.

“Just, would you get that? They’re obviously not going to stop.”

Relieved, I reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ms. Catrel, this is O’Hare, the concierge. You have a visitor.”

“Uh, well, I’m in the middle of a work call. Perhaps my visitor could leave a message?”

“Ms. Catrel, your visitor is Ms. Brona O’Shea, and she is quite insistent that you’ll be very interested in an envelope currently in her possession.”

My face must’ve betrayed my confusion and surprise because Joan’s voice was shrewd and her glare sharp as she demanded, “What? What is it? Who is that?”

My gaze flickered to the computer screen, where Joan was leaning forward in her chair, and I said into the phone, “Please send her up.”

“Right away, Ms. Catrel. Patricia will escort her to your apartments and will be happy to serve tea while the two of you have a…visit.”

“Thank you, O’Hare.”

I held the receiver to my ear for a full five seconds after the concierge had clicked off, my eyes on the glass top of the desk, going through the likely scenarios of what Brona had brought with her in the envelope. Obviously, the most likely answer was that Brona had been bluffing to gain admittance to our rooms and start trouble.

But if she weren’t bluffing and the envelope actually contained something damaging to Ronan, I would need to separate myself from my feelings for him. Whatever it was she’d brought, Ronan was my client. Regardless of what he’d done in his past and how that might influence my rage levels as his girlfriend, I needed to converse with his ex-girlfriend as though I were merely part of Ronan’s publicity team, as his advocate.

“Annie, who was on the phone?” Joan’s impatient question pulled me from my internal pep talk.

I replaced the phone on the charger and lifted my eyes to my boss. “That was the concierge. Brona O’Shea is downstairs and wants to speak to me.”

“I bet she does,” Joan scoffed.

“She has an envelope with her and informed the concierge that it contains something that I will find very interesting.”

“What’s in it?”

“I guess I’ll find out when she gets here.”

“No. We will find out. Keep me plugged in and angle your screen toward the door. It’s a shame I can’t be there in person to negotiate this…Let her know as soon as she walks in that you’re in the middle of a work call with Ronan’s publicity team. She’ll see it as an opportunity. Also….”

I nodded, mostly listening to Joan’s strategy, clicking through my open tabs on my laptop and closing several windows. If Brona would be talking to Joan via my laptop, I didn’t need her to see my Socialmedialite email account or the blog post draft I’d been writing.

Joan detailed her plan while I prepared to face Ronan’s ex with as little outward emotion as possible. However, just as the knock sounded on the suite door, Joan surprised me by saying, “…and of course you might need to play the role of jealous current girlfriend—good cop, bad cop—then I’ll make her think I’m on her side.”

I’m sure I looked a little startled and a lot confused as I squinted at Joan. “Wait, you want me to be the bad cop?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“But I’m not bad cop. You are bad cop.”

“No, you’re confusing reality with fiction. In real life, I’m always the bad cop, and you’re always the good cop—which is why we switch roles when we’re playing our parts. The good cop is always pretending to be the good cop, and vice versa.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the knock sounded from the door again, firmer this time, followed by Patricia’s voice saying, “Ms. Catrel, I have your tea.”

Resigned to the oddness of this situation and anxious about its outcome, I angled my laptop toward the room as instructed and crossed to the entrance. After inhaling a steadying breath, I opened the door.

Patricia was standing in the doorway. Behind her was a cart with tea and lovely sandwiches and petit fours. And behind the cart, with two serious-looking hotel security guards on either side, was sour-faced Brona O’Shea.

I opened the door wider but stepped to block Patricia from entering. “Thank you, Patricia. I can bring the tea in. Ms. O’Shea and I would like some privacy.”

“See, Patty. I told you, you’re not needed.” This came from Brona. From the way she spoke to Patricia, I surmised the two women were more than acquainted.

Patricia’s gaze was laced with worry, and she shifted a half step forward so as to whisper, “Ms. Catrel, I am very discreet. Send security away if you must, but please reconsider. I’ve…had the distinction of acting as Ms. O’Shea’s liaison while she stayed with us in the past. I must advise you against—”

“She said leave, Patty. Now take your goons away, but leave the fancy tea. I’m parched.” Brona said this as she elbowed her way past the guards and to the suite entrance. She gave me a pinched look as she brushed past, lifting her chin in the air like I was beneath her notice. I did see that she had a manila envelope tucked under one arm. It was bulky, and I guessed it contained something more than papers.

I allowed her to enter and turned a calm smile to Patricia. “All will be well. I’ll call when we’re done with the tea service. Thank you.”

Patricia looked like she wanted to protest again but instead handed the tea cart over to me and then closed the door. I wheeled it into the sitting area.

But before I was quite finished relocating the tea, Brona said, “I like my tea with lemon, milk, and sugar.”

“How nice for you.”

Brona whipped her head toward where my laptop sat on the desk and the sound of Joan’s voice, laden with sarcasm and disdain. Brona turned her attention to me, then the laptop, and then to me. Her big blue eyes gave the impression they might pop from her head.

“What…what’s this? Are you recording me?”

“No,” I said softly.

“Maybe,” Joan teased at the same time. “Ms. O’Shea, allow me to introduce myself. I am Joan Davidson from Davidson and Croft, the firm responsible for Mr. Fitzpatrick’s public image and general well-being.”

Brona stepped closer to the desk and opened her mouth to speak, but Joan cut her off.

“No need for chitchat. Here is how we’re going to do this: you are going to tell me what you want, and I am going to do everything in my power to give it to you, assuming it’s within reason and assuming that whatever you’ve brought in that envelope is worth the price. Now, what do you want?”

“I don’t—I mean—I want—”

“Please, dear. Hurry up. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, and I won’t be made late.”

Brona lifted her chin, her eyes flashing fire. “Fine. I want money, a million euros—no! I want five million euros. And I want a recording contract with one of the big labels.”

Joan gave her a sideways look. “Ooookay—”

“And I want to record a song with Beyoncé.”

Joan smiled then suppressed it, clearing her throat. “Sure. That’s all very doable. Now, what am I buying?”

Brona curled her lip, gave me a smug, hateful glare, pulled the envelope from under her arm, and began to spread the contents on the nearest table. “It’s photos, see? And a tape of Ronan…and me…having sex.”

My stomach twisted uncomfortably as Brona used her pregnant pauses to show Joan and me several eight-by-ten photos and then a mini-DV tape.

It wasn’t precisely jealousy that I was feeling, more like an echo of jealousy that Ronan had ever been with someone else. It was irrational and silly. And yet it made some fierce, shadowy part of me roar with outrage. I wanted to burn the tape. I wanted to slash the photos. I wanted to claw her eyes out.

Instead, I gritted my teeth and returned my attention to Joan.

“Come closer to the monitor. I need to see the pictures.”

Brona did so happily, showing each of the pictures to Joan one at a time and pausing significantly between each.

Then I heard Joan say, “Meh.”

“‘Meh’? What do you mean, ‘meh’?” Brona huffed.

“I mean meh. So what? Who cares?”

I saw Brona’s back stiffen as she straightened with surprise. “He’s got a spreader bar on me! I’m gagged and tied up, and there’s a collar and leash, and—”

“Yes. My eyes work quite well. I can see all that. I just don’t see why these pictures would be worth five million euros to anyone, least of all Mr. Fitzpatrick. I assume the tape is more of the same?”

I tried to school my expression, but my heart was thundering in my chest. As nonchalantly as possible, I crossed to the couch and sat on its arm. A spreader bar? A leash? What the hell? Is that what he likes?

“But—but…uh….” Brona stuttered.

Joan’s voice lifted. “The fact of the matter, my dear, is that a sex tape and dirty photos like those will only help Mr. Fitzpatrick’s sex appeal and our overall campaign. You see, he’s in the dominant position. He’s holding your leash, not the other way around. Meanwhile, they’ll make you look weak and pathetic. They’ll kill any aspirations you might have of becoming a pop princess because parents don’t want their little girls to grow up to be submissives in dog collars. You see, you can sell those photos and that tape to some filthy tabloid, and they’ll fetch you about five hundred thousand euros; but that would be the end of your singing career, wouldn’t it?”

Brona turned slightly away, giving me her profile. I saw that her face had drained of color and her hands were balled into fists.

Joan tsked. “Poor dear. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. How about I give you two hundred thousand euros, and you give us the photos and the tape? But really, that’s my only offer.”

Brona’s bottom lip quivered, so she flattened her mouth into a stiff line. “What assurances do I have that you won’t just release it?”

“We have our plan. It’s been working quite well so far. I see no need to throw a sex tape into the mix. So, you have my word that we won’t make it public for…oh, let’s say two years. Tick tock, tick tock. I’ve got that meeting, and I really must dash.”

“Fine!” Brona shrieked, turning back to Joan and using the back of her hand to wipe away two tears. “Fine. When do I get my money?”

“Are there any other copies?”

“No. It’s all here. I’ve got media arseholes breaking into my apartment all the time looking for shite. They’ve taken my computer twice. So I kept this in a security deposit box. There are no other copies.”

“Well, good. Just leave those with Ms. Catrel, and she’ll have the money transferred into your account.”

“Today?”

“Actually, she can do it right now. Write your account number down, and have some tea. You’ll have the money in less than twenty minutes.”

Brona was losing steam; her shoulders slumped. Her gaze flickered to mine, and I saw her eyes were rimmed red with unhappiness and exhaustion. I almost felt sorry for her.

“Fine.” She pushed the envelope and pictures away from her, sending several photos to the floor.

“Good. Well!” Joan clapped her hands together, her smile very shark-like as she added, “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. O’Shea, but I really must be going.”

And without a goodbye or another word, Joan clicked off.

***

Brona didn’t stay more than a half hour, just long enough to confirm that the money had been transferred. Nor did we talk…at first. After I placed the call for the bank transfer, I poured myself tea. She sat quietly on the desk chair, holding her face in her hands, and not looking at me.

All her earlier pomp and venom was gone. She looked tired.

This was not the first time I’d had to pay someone off on short notice. The Starlet—Dara—had assaulted a woman and her children at a florist just two blocks from my apartment. I had to run down to the scene and negotiate a payout before the woman took the story to the press.

But this felt very different.

I hadn’t yet studied the photos. I’d only overheard the conversation between Joan and Brona. In my mind, I was imagining the worst-case scenario—Ronan hitting Brona with a whip or chain or riding crop while he held her down, her legs spread by a spreader bar, her mouth gagged so she couldn’t scream, a tight collar around her neck.

I shivered, and my stomach churned. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want someone hitting me and getting off on it. I might love Ronan, but I wouldn’t love that. I’d narrowly escaped abuse my entire life; there was no way I would succumb to it willingly now that I was an adult.

Frustrated, I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, tried to sit very still.

I was psyching myself out.

I needed to look at those pictures, but I couldn’t, not yet. Not while Brona was in the room.

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

Her voice was watery but firm, like she was trying valiantly not to cry. I opened my eyes and gave her my attention, keeping my face passive, patient.

“I’m not stupid. I had a plan.” She was sitting upright in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest. She was inspecting me as though trying to determine what my plan might be.

“A plan?”

“Yeah, and it was good; it was working. But Ronan, he’s just so fucking stubborn. I finally, finally figured out a way to get that ring on my finger and that fucker, he wouldn’t set a date. He kept putting me off.”

“He asked you to marry him and then wouldn’t set a date?”

“Nah. I just bought one and started wearing it, let the press make up the rest. And it worked. Except…it didn’t. Because he flat out refused. Said he’d always take care of me but that we weren’t getting married. He gave me an allowance, like I was a child, like I was his responsibility or something. Fuck that. I was good enough to tie up, but I wasn’t good enough to have my name on his bank account.”

I considered her for a moment. Her frustration was a tangible thing, giving her an aura of electric instability. I decided silence was probably my best recourse.

But she continued unprompted, “So what was I supposed to do? Huh? That money is as much mine as it is his; I earned it! I supported him through everything, let him use me for his sick fantasies, put up with his bitch mother and annoying sister.”

“You never loved him,” I said, more to myself than to her. Despite my decision to stay quiet, the words slipped out, my heart hurting a little on Ronan’s behalf.

“What? Love him? Love Ronan? He doesn’t want love. He wants a fuck toy. He’s messed up. All he wants, all he’s ever wanted, is just someone to play with, to control, boss around. He said he wanted to take care of me, but what he wanted was to control me. Of course I didn’t love him.”

My phone chose that moment to chime. I held her gaze for a beat, her words distressing me for so many reasons. I didn’t even know where to start. So I turned my attention to the screen.

“You can check your bank balance. The funds have been transferred.” I was impressed with how composed I sounded.

She stood abruptly, pulled a glittery pink thing from her glittery pink purse and began tapping away at the screen. She also continued speaking—mumbling to herself, really—though I wished she wouldn’t.

“You know this already. I don’t have to tell you how sick he is, how he won’t touch you unless you can’t touch him. But maybe you like it, maybe you’re just as messed up as he is….”

Mercifully, she was finally quiet. I saw the exact moment she read her bank balance because her eyes brightened. She sniffed, wiped her hand across her nose, and then actually smiled.

“Well, screw all of you. I’m about to be a star, and you can all go to hell.”

Without even a backward glance, she strolled to the door and left, slamming it on her way out.

I waited maybe three seconds then bolted for the pictures, sending a few skidding toward the wall in my haste. I forced myself to calm down, again gritting my teeth, and then flipped the first one toward me. Every muscle in my body was tense as I consumed the image.

Then I frowned at it, confused, because for all of Brona’s ranting about how sick Ronan was, I didn’t see anything all that objectionable. If this was her Hail Mary pass, if this was what she’d been threatening Ronan with and ranting about for months, then it won the award for most anticlimactic blackmail moment in the history of the world.

Yes, she had a collar on, but it looked like one of those fashion collars. There was a leash or a strap attached to it, but Ronan held it almost absentmindedly around his wrist. It wasn’t tight. She wasn’t being choked.

She was bent over the arm of a chair, wearing a black leather bustier with feathers, and her hands were tied with what looked like the same material as the leash, likely a leather strap, and her legs were cuffed to a spreader bar, holding them open. She wore nothing else. Ronan was behind her. His eyes were closed, his hands were on her hips, and he was taking her from behind.

I checked the rest of photos, and they were basically time-elapsed images of the same thing. I then searched the photos for other things like whips or implements of pain. I found none. I noted in one of the pictures you could see clearly that Brona had a scarf or silk tie over her mouth, but it looked loose. She’d hardly been gagged.

Feeling both relieved and oddly excited, I was struck by the anomalous irony of the situation. I was looking at photos of Ronan having sex with another woman, and rather than jealousy I was picturing myself in her position, with my legs held apart and my hands bound as Ronan used my body for pleasure.

“I saw Brona on my way out.”

I stiffened, straightened, sucked in a sharp breath, and my eyes flew to the door.

Ronan stood just at the entrance, his eyes wary but intent as they searched my face then dropped to the pictures in my hands. He stepped all the way in and shut the door with a soft click.

“She said you were sick, just like me.” His words were teasing, though they carried an edge of something that sounded a lot like hope. He stalked toward me, looking painfully delicious in a charcoal grey suit.

I gathered a deep breath then let the pictures fall to the desk, arranging the images so he could see them as he approached.

“Joan convinced her to sell them plus a tape of the two of you.”

He nodded absentmindedly, glancing at the pictures. “Have you watched the tape?”

“No. I don’t have a mini-DV player.”

He turned his gaze to mine, ensnared it. He looked cautious; his stare was probing. “But you would have? If you had a player for it?”

I met his stare and gave him honesty. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. The pictures paint a pretty clear picture on their own. Ronan, do you think…?” I paused, trying to figure out how to ask my next question. At length I blurted, “Do you think there is anything else? Do you think Brona might blackmail you with something else? Or is this it?”

“This is it.” He indicated the photos with a tilt of his head. “As far as I know, this is the worst of it.”

“The worst of it….” I echoed, scanning the pictures.

“And what do you think? Of the pictures.”

“I think….” I swallowed with effort, tilted my chin up to fight my instinctive urge to look away. “I think I don’t like seeing pictures of you with someone else.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward, and he took the top picture and turned it face down. “Don’t look at the pictures then.”

I pressed on before I lost my nerve. “I also think that we should maybe talk about how you—I mean—what it is that you….” I licked my lips nervously. Again, I didn’t know how to ask the question.

Just how kinky was Ronan?

Just how kinky was I?

“Go on,” he said, the beginnings of a smile now melting some of his caution, his gaze turning warm and curious. He reached for my hand and then began pulling me while he walked backward toward the bedroom.

“What I mean is, do you like the collar? Do you want to…leash me, too?” My voice broke on the last word, making me cringe. I wasn’t good at communicating about sex because I’d never done it. Everything I’d done prior to being with Ronan was vanilla to the extreme and hadn’t required any discussion.

He shook his head as we crossed over the threshold into the bedroom. The curtains were open, and sunlight served as the only light source.

“No. The collar was Brona’s idea, as was the leash, and we used them only once. I think now, now that I’ve seen the pictures, she must’ve done it only for the sake of the camera.”

“And the spreader bar?”

“Oh, now I’d like you in that very, very much. And maybe later, once you’ve grown used to the bar, we could use a sling.” His gaze darkened as he led me to the bed. Ronan guided me to a sitting position at the edge of it, but instead of sitting next to me, he backed away until he was standing at the wall, next to the dresser, putting at least five feet of distance between us.

“So….” I stared at him, feeling dichotomously aroused and worried by the idea of a spreader bar or a sex sling. What we’d done so far, what we’d been doing with restraints and ice cubes, that felt entirely normal to me—frisky but well within the confines of normal.

Ronan was the first guy who’d ever wanted to tie me up during sex. Even though we hadn’t actually discussed it beforehand—or after—it felt… right. It was good.

But toys? A collar and leash? Leather and feathers? Full-on kink?

His left eyebrow lifted, very slowly, as he watched me struggle for words, his lips twisting a bit to the side.

Finally he prompted, “Annie, what do you think we’ve been doing so far?”

“I guess—I guess I thought we were—” I sighed, blinking at a spot over his shoulder. “I thought you just liked things to be intense during…and I like it, too. But I wouldn’t call tying me up or blindfolding me BDSM.”

“It is and it isn’t. What we’ve been doing is what I like—restraint, dominance, and submission. I’m not keen on sadomasochism. I don’t get off on hurting people, but I do like to be in control.”

“Dominance and submission?” My voice cracked again, and I felt a little breathless, excited by the labels.

“Yes.” He inclined his head, studying me thoughtfully. I watched him with wide eyes as he nonchalantly plucked my scarf from the dresser and strolled back over to where I sat perched on the edge of the bed. He hovered above me for a long moment, his dark eyes hot as they unapologetically stared down the front of my shirt. My insides did a somersault and heated, rearranging themselves, burning beneath his suggestive stare.

Ronan took a deep breath then knelt, situating himself between my legs. His hands slipped under my skirt, inching upward and spreading my thighs, still holding the scrap of fabric. He tickled me with it. The silky softness sent a shock of goosebumps along my skin, spreading heat up my chest and neck and searing arousal between my legs.

“I like,” he whispered, his gaze holding mine. “I like deciding what happens and when. I like having control and being responsible for your loss of control. I like taking care of you, all of you. I like your trusting me, implicitly and explicitly.”

Ronan’s thumbs were rubbing light circles on the skin of my thighs just below my apex. Instinctively, I inched closer, my legs opening wider. I reached for his shoulders and tried to pull him toward me. I needed his touch a few inches higher, but he retreated. He withdrew his hands, his fingertips skimming my bare skin, sending a shiver to my center.

“Do you trust me, Annie?” He leaned back, his eyes still holding mine as he unbuttoned my shirt and meticulously pushed it down my shoulders, all the while holding my scarf.

“You know I do.”

“What if I tied you up?” Ronan discarded my shirt and then unclasped my bra. His question was soft, curious.

“You’ve done that.” I helped him by withdrawing my hands from the bra straps. “You know I-I like that.”

“But what if I tied your legs, too, spread them, and you were face down on the bed? What if I blindfolded you? What if I used toys?”

I blinked at that, instinctively covering my chest with my arms. “T-toys? What kind of toys?”

“Only toys that would make you feel good.” Ronan took one of my hands, then the other, from where I crossed them over my chest; he looped the now-twisted scarf around my wrists and tied a secure knot, his thumb and gaze lingering on the vulnerable skin.

“Would it hurt?” I managed to whisper.

His eyes darted back to mine, and he answered immediately, “No. Like I said, I crave submission, control. I’m not a sadist. I don’t like hurting people, and I would never want to hurt you. I want your surrender.”

I exhaled an unsteady breath as Ronan pulled off his tie, his fingers moving to the underside of my knee, the barest touch; but it initiated spikes of heady, aching longing between my thighs. He slid them down the back of my calf to my ankle and gently, reverently slid my foot out of my terrycloth slipper. I thought he was going to wrap the tie around my ankle, but instead he brought my foot to his mouth and ran his tongue along the base of my toes, making my leg jerk and spasm.

It was ticklish, but it was more than that. It was carnal. Sinful. Overwhelming. My sex pulsed, and my bound hands balled into fists.

I cried out, “Ah, Ronan!”

His grin was devilish, pleased, as he lowered my leg and knotted his fancy tie around my ankle.

“Will you submit to me, my darling? Hmm?”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

“You say yes and you say please and you beg me for more.”

I blushed a little as I pointed out, “I already do that.”

“So you do.” Ronan nodded, looking dangerously pleased, and added, “But if we’re going to really do this, if you’re really going to give up control, you’ll need a safe word.”

My mouth parted in alarm and surprise; I stared at him for a moment. “A safe word?”

“Yes. How about ‘peppermint’?”

“To make you stop? If I say ‘peppermint,’ then you’ll stop?”

“That’s right. I can’t take control you’re not willing to give.” Ronan unbuckled his belt, slid the leather strap from his waist.

“But….” I struggled to form a coherent thought now that I was faced with a belt. “What are you going to do with that?”

He took my hands and looped the belt through the knot made by the scarf. “Get on your stomach, face down on the bed, and lift your arms over your head. I’m going to secure the belt to the headboard so you can’t move.”

I licked my lips, thinking this over, then asked, “How are you going to restrain my other leg?”

His eyes moved between mine, and his mouth widened in a slow smile. “If you must know, I have another tie”—he nodded to the closet—“in there.”

“And you’re going to tie me to the end of the bed? So I can’t close my legs?”

“Yes. So you’re open to me. So I can touch you however I like, for as long as I like, wherever I like.”

I stared at him, my heart racing, but I knew I was going to do this. If I enjoyed it half as much as I loved the idea of it, then I was pretty sure Ronan Fitzpatrick was going to ruin me for all other men.

Ronan stood smoothly, his mouth twisted to the side in a faint smile, and offered me a hand. I placed both of mine in his, and he helped me stand. I hesitated for a fraction of a second and then turned and walked on my knees to the middle of the bed. I lay down and did as he instructed, my arms over my head, reaching for the headboard.

“Such a good darling,” he praised me. I felt the bed depress behind me and realized he was straddling me. He looped the belt into the headboard and tugged, making sure it was reasonably sturdy. Then I felt him move behind me and tie my ankle to the footboard.

He bent over me, his hot breath against my neck. “Don’t move.”

I nodded, blinking at the drapes and the comforter and wall filling my vision.

He left, but then I heard him return at once. I closed my eyes, and he secured my right ankle as he’d done my left. I felt my skirt hike up the back of my thighs as he opened my legs to tie me to the bed.

“Oh, wait, my skirt. Shouldn’t I—?”

“Shh….” He cut me off with a soft hush, the tip of a single finger sliding from my heel, along the back of my leg, to just under the hemline. “From this point forward, you are only allowed to say four things: ‘yes,’ ‘please,’ my name, and ‘peppermint’ unless I instruct you otherwise. Do you understand?”

I nodded and acquiesced quietly. “Yes…Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

He stilled, like I’d surprised him. But then I heard him chuckle, his finger drawing my skirt higher up my legs. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

He used just his mouth at first, biting me, tasting me, licking and devouring the bare skin of my neck, shoulders, back, and legs. It felt divine, and I was melted, became rubber. He was still fully dressed, yet somehow that made it even hotter.

Then I heard a buzzing sound, and I stiffened, my eyes opening wide with alarm. His hands moved beneath my skirt, lifted it slowly until my white lace panties and bottom were exposed. The buzzing became louder; and I tried to press my knees together, but I couldn’t because my ankles were tied. A spike of fear, but also anticipation, pulsed through me.

He bent over me, tongued my ear, and then whispered in a fall of hot breath, “This will be one of your favorite toys.”

The next thing I knew, he’d lifted my hips slightly from the bed so my bottom was in the air, and he pressed a vibrating something to my center. He moved it back and forth over the lace panties with aching slowness, from my clitoris to my opening, and I cursed the scrap of fabric separating my body from his mystery device.

“Oh….” I rocked my hips, arching my back, straining, loving the exquisite torture.

He moved the delicious vibration away. “Ah, now. Say ‘please.’”

“Please….”

“Say my name.”

“Please, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

I heard him give a short growl of appreciation, and then the toy was back. This time he moved my panties to one side and entered me with his fingers while he pressed the vibrator to my clit.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my hips bucking and pressing backward, needing him to be harder, needing the vibration higher. But he continued to tease me. He bit my bottom then licked the spot, tracing his tongue from my left butt cheek to my lower back.

“You’re so wet for me, Annie. You want me to fuck you, don’t you? You want my big cock inside you. You want me to surround you and fill you up.” He removed his fingers and his toy, and I cried out, my sex clenching with no purchase.

“Yes, please, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” My breath hitched; my body was on fire and fighting the bonds. I needed him, his bare skin. I needed the contact and his silky heat. I was so empty.

“Then you’ll be mine. Say you’re mine, Annie.” I heard his zipper and then the soft sound of his pants falling to his knees. The bed depressed behind me, between my spread legs.

“I’m yours; please, I’m yours.”

I felt him grip the waistband of my panties just before I heard the distinct sound of his tearing them in two. I felt the head of his erection against my entrance, and I tried to push backward. He chuckled, though it sounded strained.

“Tell me I’m yours.”

“I—I’m yours.”

“No….” He moved himself so that his thick head drew a circle around my clit, spreading my arousal over both of us.

I groaned, arching my back until it was almost painful.

“No, say, Ronan, you are mine. Say it.”

“Ronan, you are mine; you are mine.” I swallowed the last word then bit my arm, needed to feel something. This limbo between sensual teasing and full-on fucking was making me crazy.

He pushed into me then, and I whimpered. He felt amazing, necessary. Ronan leaned forward, and I felt his chest—still clothed in his suit—against my back. For some reason, the fact that was I bare to him except for the skirt around my waist and he was still mostly dressed made me even hotter.

I could barely move except for tilting my hips back to meet his thrusts. He surrounded me, pinning me down, hovering over me, filling me. I didn’t last long, and I came with a strangled cry, saying his name, saying please and oh, God and yes.

“Perfect, my perfect girl. I love the way you come on my cock.”

I felt him lean away before I was quite finished, fitting one of his hands between my stomach and the mattress and lifting my hips. He fit the vibrator between my legs, dancing and tapping it against my clitoris, as he pumped in and out.

Then I came again, and it hurt so very, very good. It rocked me—it was an explosion of white heat and stars under my skin, streams of ecstasy and pleasure and pain rushing through my veins. It felt wild, blazing hot, and uncontrolled; and I had no choice but to abandon myself to it, my bound hands gripping fistfuls of the comforter, turning my face into the mattress to stifle my loud cries as tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.

I hadn’t recovered, tremors still wracking my body, as Ronan collapsed on top of me with a strangled groan of his own, my name on his lips.

Our heavy breathing mingled. I felt the thudding of his heart against my back. It matched mine.

I loved him.

I loved what we’d just done.

I wanted to do it every day. I wanted to wake up with him every day, see him, touch him, hear him laugh, listen to his stories, be shocked by his dirty mouth every single day.

He was worth losing my anonymity. I wanted to share everything with him.

I had to tell him the truth.

I was going to tell him the truth.

I just didn’t know how to tell him the truth because I didn’t want to lose him.