I open the drawer of my desk and pull the delicate necklace free. I run my thumb over the sapphire pendant slowly, watching the light catch and bounce from the seemingly endless edges of the stone. Touching it re-ignites the icy pit in my stomach. It’s an old ache, and I never let it grow numb. I keep the pain fresh because I deserve the fucking pain, every ounce of it.

The old question rises up. The familiar, maddening question. What if I hadn’t left her? Maybe none of it would have happened to her. Maybe she would’ve been okay. Maybe. But I’ll never know now, because I was a selfish asshole, and I put my needs before hers, like so many before her.

I take one look at the pile of manuscripts stacked on my desk and sigh. Only the upper crust makes it to my desk, that, and the occasional pile of garbage I agree to look at for Barlow. My editors know not to waste my time with shit, so by the time it reaches me, it had better be worth my time, or there will be hell to pay.

I skim the first few lines of the top manuscript, still grasping the necklace in my hand, idly rubbing the stone with my thumb and savoring the way touching it burns right through me like black ice.

I grimace. I’m not in the mood for this. I drag my forearm across my desk and push all the manuscripts into the wastebasket. Fuck them. My publishing company is the biggest in the United States. We contract tens of thousands of authors, and while other publishing companies are hemorrhaging money during the rise of e-books, we’re flourishing because we don’t use the same, tired old approach to publishing. We’re primarily an electronic publisher. That cuts the costs of printing and distribution to nearly nothing, which dramatically increases our profit margins. The author sells a book for four dollars, they get a buck, we get three, end of story.

So if I don’t feel like reading the latest pile of shit that lands on my desk, I can afford the luxury. I place the necklace back in the drawer and sigh, massaging my temples to push back some of the headache that has been growing behind my eyes all day.

I get up to draw the blinds to my office so I have complete privacy.

In the past, when I would get stressed, it was easy to release the tension through domination--my less-than-secret guilty pleasure. I pull up DomsList.com on my computer and look through the most recent postings. Even though I’ve been absent from the scene since Karen, I find a small amount of comfort in checking the listings. I used to use the site to find willing submissives whenever I needed them. I found the site through a connection I had at a BDSM club I used to go to.

The club scene wasn’t really for me, though. I prefer a more private relationship, and DomsList offered the opportunity to get exactly that. At first glance, the site looks like a dating service. It’s not though. The submissives on the site put themselves up for auction. A meeting is arranged, and if the submissive agrees to the dominant’s terms, he pays an initial sum, and then when the contract has been fulfilled makes the final payment finishing the transaction.

I haven’t done more than browse the listings since I broke things off with Karen nearly a year ago. I still have needs. My body craves the power of taking complete control over a woman, of bringing her to the absolute brink of her limits and letting her ride the wave back down with me. But I’ve fought back the urge. I don’t feel like I deserve the release, so I’ve forced myself to abstain all this time.

Karen was like all the women before her, but that was exactly why her death struck me so powerfully. I had tossed aside women countless times before, as if they were used up playthings. Once my interest faded, I removed them from my life and never looked back. I won’t do that again. Not ever again. I swore I wouldn’t step back into the scene until I thought I could be better. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to rise above my old habits, but I know the old hunger is getting so strong I can barely hold it back any longer.

I don’t know why I put myself through the misery of looking at the site anymore. It just lights up the fire and makes me crave things I don’t trust myself to give in to. I read the listings, look at the profile pictures, and remind myself why it’s still too soon to place a bid and get back into the life.

After a few minutes, I sigh, turning off the computer and standing. I need to get out of this office. It feels like I’m being suffocated by memories, desires, and old ghosts.

I open the door to my office and find Dina waiting for me. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun and she’s eyeing me from behind thick rimmed glasses. “Mr. Pierce, do you have a moment?”

“No, actually,” I say, moving to pass her.

“It’s just that I wanted to know what you thought of the piece by Jerry-Anne Lee. It was one of the most incredible submissions I’ve ever seen. I wanted to--”

“I threw it in the trash. Really, Dina. I have to go.”

She stops short, a look of shock on her face as I leave her standing outside my office. I don’t enjoy being a prick, but I have too much on my mind right now to sugar coat anything. Maybe throwing the manuscripts away was a rash move, but it’s my fucking business. If she wants to question how I run it, she’s barking up the wrong tree.

“Mr. Pierce!” says Taylor, my assistant. “I have the report you wanted.”

I snatch the papers from Taylor, not slowing my pace and forcing him to nearly jog to keep up as I head for the elevator. “Thanks,” I say dryly before tossing the papers onto a nearby desk.

Taylor slows as I step into the elevator and hit the button for the garage.

Once the doors close and I’m alone I rake a hand through my hair. “Fuck,” I growl. This isn’t me. Yeah, maybe I can be a little bit of an ass when provoked, but I’m not the kind of guy who treats his employees like this. I just can’t get my fucking mind right lately. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve had a woman the way I need. Too long since I’ve let the force of my will shape and mold a woman’s desires, since I’ve brought them to their knees with the slightest touch. Since I’ve dominated.

I clench my fist, slamming it against the metal of the elevator as the conviction strikes me.

I’m tired of running from who I am. I’m not a coward. I’m finally be ready to try again. It will be different this time, though. That’s for damn sure.

I’ll never forgive myself for Karen. Never. But I can’t let what happened seep into my business too. I’ve spent long enough punishing myself for what happened. And the only way I can begin to move past it is to get back into the life. I’m going to place a bid. Soon. I’ll find myself a submissive, and I’ll work out the frustration and sexual tension I’ve been letting grow for close to a year now.

I lick my lips in anticipation. It has been so long. Maybe what I need is a first-timer. A BDSM virgin to train and mold into my perfect submissive. The thought makes me grin with predatory excitement.

Fuck. I’ve needed this so badly.

I’m about to leave the building when a man in a dark coat bumps into me, hard. I’ve always been solid though, and his attempt to knock me aside only sends him bouncing off me and into the wall.

“What the fuck?” I growl, advancing on him. I’m about to grip him by the coat when I see him casually flash a pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.

I freeze, suddenly aware that this part of the lobby is largely deserted. But I’m not getting shot today. Fuck that.

I charge him and he moves to pull the gun free but I’m on him before he can, pinning his arms to his side against the wall.

“Who are you?” I yell into his face, squeezing his arms until his face contorts with pain.

“Fuck you,” he spits in a thick accent.

I punch him hard across the face, nearly breaking his neck with the force of the blow. He crumples to the ground, and I strip the pistol from his pants and kick it across the lobby.

“Hey, Steve,” I shout toward the security desk. “Get the cops down here to take this fucker in.”

I step out into the cold evening air, replaying the sound of the man’s voice again and again. Why the hell did it sound so familiar? And what was he planning?