I spent an uneventful Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day dividing my time between my dad's house and my mom's, and of course, spent quite a bit of time over the holiday by myself in my apartment. My dad invited me over to spend some time at his place on Christmas Day in the afternoon, which was nice. I briefly saw my younger brother, Andrew, and his girlfriend, Melanie.

It was pleasant, but really nothing to rave over. My dad had put up one of those faux DIY Christmas trees in the corner with a string of lights, a few ornaments, and a few presents under the tree. I bought him a box of various tobaccos. An avid pipe smoker, he’s somewhat of an aficionado, so I figured he would appreciate that. He bought me a sweater. I didn't get anything for Andrew or Melanie, nor did they get anything for me, which was just fine. Since he started dating Melanie, Andrew and I don't talk as often. Understandable really, and I don't mind.

I usually keep so busy with work and fiddling with my writing that the days and weeks often speed by, so much so that weeks sometimes pass before I speak to any family members. But it isn't my manuscript or any work I am currently editing that has my thoughts occupied this Christmas. It’s the memory of Daniel and I in the hotel room.

Every time I think of his gorgeous body, those gifted fingers, and his skill at provoking passion from my body leaves me rather stunned. I’ve never, never felt that way with a guy before. In fact, comparing my other experiences with that I’ve shared with Daniel, I realize that my sex life is incredibly bland and boring. And I wasn't even allowed to touch him!

Without admitting to myself that I’m actually desperate for Daniel's phone call or text message, or an email, as he promised, I try to bide my time. Still, every time I think about what he did to me; the feelings he evoked, the excitement I experienced, and the tingles of pleasure, I get hot and wet. So much so that while showering, I have to relieve myself, leaning into the corner of the shower, the water pounding down onto my breasts, my eyes closed and imagining that it’s Daniel's fingers, his tongue, evoking those feelings and briefly releasing my passion.

After enduring two days where my thoughts are consumed with nothing but Daniel, and at times even forgetting that it’s Christmas and my mind should be elsewhere, I start the day after Christmas with a resolution that I will take care of chores, maybe work on my manuscript a little, and practice patience.

Stewart left text messages several times, and called once on Christmas Eve, then once more on Christmas Day, hinting that we get together. I begged off, claiming that I wanted to spend some alone time with my family. He believed it, and while I felt a little guilty for lying to him, I saw no other polite way to avoid him. The thought of kissing Stewart now, or even sleeping with him left me feeling…

I’m not quite sure how to explain it, even to myself. He has the right equipment, but comparing him to Daniel… I shouldn't do that. Some people are just more experienced. It’s obvious that Daniel is more than experienced in the sex department, but it’s more than that. He’s a Master. A Dom. And I desperately want to be his slave.

I try to distract myself yet again, gathering up a load of laundry and taking it downstairs to the laundry room. While waiting for the laundry to finish, I run the vacuum, do a little bit of dusting, and then open my refrigerator, thinking it’s about time for a good clean out. I stare at the leftovers, the takeout containers, and the quart of milk already turning an odd tinge of yellow, and wrinkle my nose. I close the refrigerator door. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s time to transfer the clothes to the dryer.

I head downstairs to do just that. Halfway down the stairwell, the phone in my pocket vibrates. I pull it out, my heart leaping with excitement, but dulling when I don't recognize the number. Not Daniel. I’ve been getting barraged by telemarketers lately, and at that instant, annoyed that Daniel is keeping me waiting, a relatively rare but ferocious streak of misguided revenge burgeons. While I usually ignore any call I don't recognize, I decide to answer this one. I'll remain silent, which often serves to annoy the hell out of the telemarketer after they go through their spiel.

I answer this call, ready to give the silent treatment, prepared for the instant rapid-fire promotion on the other end. I get nothing. Silence. I frown, glance down at the screen, and see that the call is still connected. Finally, a male voice speaks.

"Hello? Ashley?"

Oh my God, it’s Daniel. I cringe. "Hi, Daniel," I say innocently, as if nothing happened. "How are you?"

There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he speaks. "Can you meet me at the hotel today?"

I pause, halfway down the steps, my heart leaping with excitement, anticipation, and a surge of desire. "Sure, I'd love to. When?"

"Now."

I freeze. I took a shower this morning but didn’t shave. Crap. I have laundry to deal with, and then changing clothes… all of which will take about an hour. I don't want to keep him waiting. Still…

"Have you changed your mind?"

I hear the change in his tone. Quiet. Firm. His "boss" voice.

"No, no I haven't," I say. "I just have to change real quick, but I can be there in about… twenty minutes?" I cringe again. What am I thinking?

"I'll meet you in the bar downstairs."

The call disconnects. I stare down at the screen, cursing myself, and then bolt down the stairs and into the laundry room. The wash cycle is complete, but I don't have time to wait for the clothes to dry. Yanking the damp clothes out of the washing machine, I smash them into the laundry basket, turn around, and race back upstairs. No help for that. I’ll just have to wash them again later.

I quickly disrobe and rush into the bathroom, grabbing my can of raspberry-scented shaving cream from the edge of the bathtub. I quickly shave my legs, trim up my pussy hair, and quickly swipe the blade under my arms. I complete my ablutions in about three minutes. Dashing back into the bedroom, I open my closet door, nibbling on a fingernail as I try to decide what to wear. I finally groan, realizing it doesn't matter what I wear. Chances are I’m not going to be wearing those clothes very long anyway.

My breasts tingling with excitement, and my pussy offering throbs of anticipation, I quickly throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. No bra, no panties. Simple. This is me.

In less than ten minutes I’m out of the apartment, my heart pounding. Downstairs I push open the door of the lobby and step outside onto the sidewalk, wincing at the bitterly cold air that threatens to suck the air out of my chest. Thank goodness it isn't very busy. Being the day after Christmas with most businesses still closed for the holidays, I manage to hail a taxi in under a minute. I climb in, give the driver the address of the hotel and sit back, hands clasped in my lap to still my trembling.

By the time I enter the bar located on the west side of the hotel lobby of the Westin, I’m ready for just about anything. I think. I can't deny my nervous apprehension, coupled with expectation. It’s kind of like opening a very special present on your birthday; not exactly sure what you’re going to get but knowing that it’s going to be good.

As I walk into the bar, I see Daniel sitting at the bar. It looks like he’s nursing scotch. He isn't smiling. My heart skips a beat. Did I keep him waiting too long? Did he change his mind?

He turns and looks at me for several moments, gazing from my hair, which I pulled into a ponytail, to my sweatshirt, down to my jeans, and then my tennis shoes, sans socks. I stare back, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me to get lost, something, but after several moments, he merely grins. I allow myself a mental sigh of relief.

"You want a drink?”

He probably thinks I need to calm my nerves, but I don't need liquid courage. I need, want, to experience what he has to offer. I’m ready to open the door and experience the world that I’ve only read about. Do I need a drink for that?

"No thank you, I'm good."

He grins and downs the rest of his drink. "You ready?" He glances down at a small gym bag at the base of his stool.

I follow his gaze, briefly wondering what he has in there. In a matter of moments, I’ll probably find out. In spite of my anxiety, I’m also more than turned on. This kind of attention, not to mention his charisma and his good looks, and the memory of his hard body, has my heart trip-hammering. I’ve only experienced a minute portion of his sexual prowess, I’m sure.

"Well?"

"I'm ready," I nod.

He abruptly places his glass on the bar, reaches into his shirt pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill and places it on the bar. Without a word, he leaves the stool, reaches down to pick up the gym bag, and with his other, grasps my hand.

We walk out of the bar and into the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators. Once inside, the door dings shut and the car begins its upward journey. I imagine we’re heading to the penthouse suite, where we enjoyed our previous liaison. What if—

"Today, we're going to focus on one of the scenes in your book. It has a few inaccuracies."

I glance up at him. "It does? Where?"

"The foundation of a beneficial relationship between a Dom and a sub is not just about control of the submissive," he begins.

His eyes lock on to mine, and I feel trapped there. Not literally, but inside, I feel like I’m melting. Those eyes of his are so damn captivating, I want to stare at them all day.

"It's also about control of the Dom. Respect goes both ways in this kind of a relationship. It's not about fear, nor fear of punishment. Punishment should never be done in anger."

I think back to the multiple scenes riddling my book, but can't remember where I made such a mistake.

"Just remember, Ashley. Punishment doesn't equate to pain."

I don't know exactly what he’s implying, nor the specific incident in my book to which he refers, but I’m grasping one concept. I want to learn. I want to learn from him. No matter what, I’m willing to try just about anything. I want to please him, not just sexually, but as his sub. As his partner, as his lover…