Page 14 of Right Next Door (Stone Family #3)

Nicole

I t took hours to come down from the panic and exhilaration of being trapped in a walk-in refrigerator with Ian.

At first, I couldn’t feel anything but straight-up fear.

I couldn’t stop the flashbacks of being locked in that steamer trunk as a child, that cramped, tiny space.

My fingers had started tingling, my legs like jelly, but then Ian took my hands and sat me down, quickly and efficiently pulling me out of the spiral of panic until all I could see and think about was him.

He calmed me. Comforted me. Told me he is a Dominant.

And suddenly, my world expanded to three times its size. No wonder why he was able to talk to me about ENM and was so open about…everything. The man is experienced .

More than I ever could have imagined.

After I got home last night and had an awkward conversation with Bryce about our day—because, no, it’s still not “normal”—I opened my laptop to do more research about what exactly a Dom/sub relationship entailed.

Of course, I had the stereotype in my head, and there was almost too much information out there for me to input, but still… I want to try it.

I want to learn anything and everything I can about Ian. Do anything and everything that might bring me to that same place he took me to in his shop, where he gave me a whole universe of pleasure.

After a night’s sleep, I know I want it all.

While Bryce finishes packing up for his annual summer trip, I type out a text to Ian. It takes me multiple tries to get the wording exactly right. I don’t want to come off immature or flippant, so I settle on something casual and to the point. I hope.

I’ve thought about it, and my answer is still yes.

Plucking up every ounce of courage I have in my entire body, I lay it all out there.

I want you.

“What are you doing?”

I jolt, nearly flinging my cell phone across the room at my husband’s voice, his backpack looped over his shoulders and his suitcase at his side. I press my hand to my chest. “You scared me.”

He leans his elbows on the kitchen table next to where I’m drinking my coffee, trying to see my cell phone screen. “Who are you talking to?”

“A friend.”

When he tries to snatch my phone out of my hand, I hold it against my chest. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “You’re so engrossed. Got me curious.”

Curious? Yeah, right. We agreed we didn’t need to tell each other anything about what we were doing. “You weren’t ever interested in who I texted before. You can’t start now.”

It doesn’t take a PhD in human behavior to see he’s jealous, but that’s too damn bad. He asked for this.

“Nicole, come on. Don’t be like that.”

Previously, I would have left this alone, let the ripples settle, but not anymore.

I scoot away from the table and dump the dregs of my coffee down the drain before putting the cup in the dishwasher and turning to him.

“I’m not the one upset. You are. Because you suddenly want to see who I’m texting.

I’m not asking you who you’re texting or what you’re doing, and it seems to be the only thing that has changed is the definition of our relationship.

When it was closed, you didn’t care who I talked to, but now it’s open and you suddenly want to know.

Why? This is what you asked for. It’s what you wanted. ”

“Yeah, but…” He huffs and combs his fingers through his hair. “I’m about to leave, and I guess I’m… I don’t know. I’m going to miss you, but you’re acting like you aren’t going to miss me. So, yeah, I guess I am a little jealous.”

I fold my arms over my chest, not sure if I believe him. “You’re going to miss me?”

“Of course.” He curves his hands over my shoulders, thumbs stroking over the slope of my neck. “I always miss you.”

I close my eyes, shaking my head, unable to understand what he wants. For a long time, I thought I knew him, but I don’t anymore. I don’t get him. I don’t get what he wants. “You confuse me.”

“What’s so confusing?”

I duck out of his hold. “Everything. If you miss me, then how can you say you want to experiment and allow other people into our relationship?”

“Because what I feel for you hasn’t changed.”

That’s funny, because in the last few weeks, I feel like everything has changed, especially what I feel for him. It’s amazing how much you can pull away from a person in such a short amount of time.

He must read it on my face because he plants his hand on the counter like he suddenly can’t hold himself up. “Have your feelings for me changed?”

I lift my shoulder and tell him the truth. “Yes, Bryce, and that’s what I don’t understand. How you can say you’re interested in seeing other women but still feel the same about me, because I’m not able to separate physical and emotional relationships like that.”

“You don’t love me?” he asks with these huge puppy-dog eyes, and I almost laugh. Like he is the victim in all of this. He is the one who asked for exactly what he’s getting, and yet he can somehow still make me feel guilty. Like it’s all my fault.

I swipe my hand over my face. “I don’t know, Bryce. I love you as a person. I don’t want to hurt you. I want what’s best for you, but I have to be honest that it hurt to hear I’m not fulfilling what you need. It made a pretty big dent in my self-esteem.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s only trying to smooth the waters. There is no real conviction behind the sentiment.

And quite frankly, I am ready for him to leave. I motion toward the time on the microwave. “You’ve got to go, or you’ll be late.”

He checks his own watch then brings his eyes back to mine. “I guess…I’ll see you later?” When I nod, he leans forward to place a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll text you when I land.”

“Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, tossing one more glance toward my cell phone. Then he’s off, out the door, gone for a month. To do who knows what.

By the time I have a handle on my frustration and clean out the coffeepot, I receive a response to my texts.

Ian

Then it seems we have to have some conversations. When are you available?

Tonight after I close up. Or tomorrow morning. Whenever is good for you.

Ian

First things first, there will be times when what we do will be good for me and what I want, but if I ask you, I want an answer. Not deference back to me.

I smile to myself at the irony. A man who is supposed to be dominant, my Dominant, is telling me that I need to speak up for myself. I need to take charge. What a revelation.

I would prefer tonight. I’m feeling a bit anxious about everything, and I think the sooner, the better.

Ian

Okay. Tonight.

But it can’t be around here. I don’t want people to know or see us together.

Ian

We can go somewhere private.

Not your place and not mine either.

Ian

I like that you’re setting boundaries. Good for you.

Warmth infuses me.

Thank you.

Ian

I’ll drop you a pin later. Meet me at 9?

Sounds good.

To say the day was a slog would be an understatement.

I was so busy, fielding calls from a publishing house about working with a debut author—fantastic—and the university about putting up a table at their volunteer fair—great but more work for me—and listening to one of the high school workers have a breakdown over a fight with her boyfriend, I almost forgot about my meeting with Ian.

Almost .

Around six, I received a text with a pin to a bar about thirty minutes away, off Route 3, and from that point on, I had trouble concentrating on anything other than him and our forthcoming conversation.

I barely ate half of the turkey sandwich I’d packed for myself as I ordered more stock then tried to take my mind off everything by reorganizing some shelves, making room for my July Fourth display, where I plan to highlight nonfiction about the American Revolution and the battle of Gettysburg.

My workers always tease me about finding a hobby so I don’t work so much, but my hobby is reading.

My passion is books. This shop has been my home for the better part of my life, and I don’t mind ten- and twelve-hour days.

In fact, I think I prefer them, especially now.

In the last few years since I’d taken over from my aunt, I’d started staying from open to close.

Bryce never complained about it or asked me to come home early, which, looking back, might have been a sign that maybe we were a little too comfortable with the status quo.

Now that he’s gone for a month and I have time to discover what I want for myself and my life, what is the point of being at home?

So, I stay until closing and flip the sign, lock up, then check myself out in the bathroom.

I tie my hair up in a ponytail because the wet-noodle look that’s going on from the humidity isn’t cutting it, and I swipe on some lip gloss.

I don’t generally wear a lot of makeup because I never had much interest, but also, the older I get, the less I care.

Yet, here I am, caring about what I look like.

I pinch my cheeks to bring some color to them and attempt to pull out a wayward eyebrow hair before smoothing my shirt. I chose a loose skirt and top this morning, but they’re both creased from all the sitting I did today, and I can only hope Ian doesn’t notice.

Then I roll my eyes at myself because he isn’t the type to care about wrinkled clothes.

The guy wears jeans and T-shirts every single day.

But my nerves have gotten the better of me—my imagination and worry spinning out of control—and I shake my hands out as I exit the back, reminding myself to relax. Stay calm.

I’m simply meeting my friend.

My friend Ian, whom I’ve agreed to enter into a kink relationship with.

Who is the other man in my marriage.

Oh my god.

What am I doing?