Page 33 of The Crimson Lily

I t’s the smell of coffee and orange juice that makes me open my eyes.

Here I am, in my bed, greeted by Maksim beside me, who brought me coffee in bed.

Man, he’s just the perfect one. I blink a few times, just to make sure I’m not dreaming.

He sits next to me, fully clothed, his curly hair combed to the back of his head.

He looks at me. I wonder how long he’s been sitting here, observing me.

He’s placed one of my small bamboo trays on my nightstand.

“Good morning,” I murmur, stretching my paws like a cat.

I sit up straight and seize the warm cup.

I keep on looking at him, smiling, still making sure I’m not in some beautiful dream.

While I sip from the cup, he comes closer and crawls behind me to lie by my side.

Only then do I realize that the cup is made of Styrofoam, and this coffee is an Indian-style soymilk latte.

“You got this from Mumbai Chai?” I ask, surprised he went to my favorite diner.

Our eyes meet, but his betray no emotion. “I made sure it was how you liked it.”

Oh, he remembered Mumbai Chai. He remembered how I once told him I like Indian-style coffee.

And he remembered I don’t drink milk. I wonder for a moment what Priya must have thought when she saw Maksim.

If she made the connection to me. There’s only one kind of person who orders Indian-style soymilk lattes.

I blush a little, imagining what sorts of questions I’ll get next time I see her.

At the same time, I just feel happy. Happy he went down the street to get me coffee.

Me. I now know for sure this is more than just casual.

Our relationship is more than casual. We are more.

Maksim doesn’t need to say words to prove he cares about me.

I lay the cup back on the nightstand and roll to him, plunging my face in the crook of his chest, smelling his delicious cologne. He strokes my hair a few times before I take his lips.

There is a second question I meant to ask him though, should he have answered yes to the first one.

After Paris, I went to my favorite place to look for information about other women who…

?like what I like in bed. The internet. Some people like these things , Béatrice’s words spun round and round in my head.

I went on a soul-searching quest and ended up on a BDSM forum, specifically on the informative topic of The Art of Punishment .

Just the title made me shiver a little. It mentioned terms like power play and discipline , and even rewards .

The description of the ideal dominant persona for the lady who authored the topic instantly reminded me of Maksim.

One of the main requirements: Trust with a capital T.

I trust Maksim, literally with my life, because as much as he likes to hurt me, he always asks for my consent, and I always give it to him.

We have our acts and little plays where he forces himself on me—feels weird just thinking about it—but we both know it’s an act, and I just have to say one word in one specific way and he’ll stop.

We have a safe word , which is another term I saw pop up on the page.

Well, it’s more of a safe…?sound. A squeal in a specific pitch. A safe squeal.

That piece of text taught me a lot, and especially reassured me that I’m not insane and there’s nothing wrong with me.

Many other women like the idea of being punished by a man who controls them—not in a bad, abusive way, but they like the idea of a man who’s earned a woman’s submission and cares for and cherishes them. Exactly like Maksim does me.

I roll back to the nightstand and grab my phone. I open the topic I bookmarked and look to Maksim, analyzing him to see if he’s ready to hear me out.

“Maksim, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I begin. I hesitate, check his body language, then I go on. “I’ll just start with one basic question: Have you heard of BDSM?”

He chuckles a little, then rolls to his back and passes a hand through his thick black curls. “Yes,” he says and swallows.

“Have you…” I’m not particularly eager to hear what he’ll answer next, but I have to know. “Have you ever done it before?”

“I just do what I feel like,” he declares.

A sudden thought crosses my mind, one that pinches me in the stomach.

Many other women like what I like. How many has Maksim encountered before?

That pinch morphs into a cut. If there are so many other women like me, how many of them does Maksim have in his life?

I mean, we never defined what we are. We never agreed on anything regarding exclusivity.

The insecurities are back. That ache is back, the anxiety from the actual question I wanted to ask in the first place.

I thought the answer was clear. Now, I’m just troubled and scared.

I bite my lip nervously, too afraid to say anything.

He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His muscles glow like they want to scratch their way out of his white shirt. “What do you want to ask me, zaya ?”

I have to reply with something concrete that won’t make me sound like a paranoid, hopeless romantic. I swallow the lump in my throat, ready to read some of the words in the forum post. That’s easier than saying anything else.

“The Dominant must establish a line of trust with the Submissive through clear communication. The Submissive’s confidence must be earned.

Hearing that the Dominant values and appreciates the Submissive helps her relax.

It incites her to please him, and when she pleases him, the Dominant must reward her.

The Submissive must trust that her Dominant will always be there to protect her. ”

I check for a reaction from Maksim. Nothing—he just stares at the ceiling. I doubt for a minute if he even listened. I have to keep reading so I won’t get those toxic ideas of Maksim with other women spinning round and round in my head.

“One form of punishment is the use of reflective listening. The Submissive must repeat a rule that was broken. Hey!” I exclaim.

“You did that in Paris, remember? When I slept next to you…” No reaction.

I shrug as best as I can while lying down and keep on reading.

“Any form of corporal punishment must be succeeded by a session of aftercare, which is crucial for the well-being of the Submissive. This is a way to remind her that she is…?” I hesitate right there.

“…?loved by the Dominant, and that she is worth everything he has to give.” My voice has disappeared.

He doesn’t respond to anything I say. Is he even listening? I let the silence settle in. I want him to say something before I get that insecure panic attack again. I’m already feeling my heart race. But then, it hits me. I remember Maksim responds almost solely to direct questions.

I ask the first one that stands in line. “Are there other women?”

I immediately regret asking that.

“No,” he replies, stern and emotionless, as usual.

Stupid Liliana. Of course there aren’t! He always comes back with presents and always gives you the night of your life. How can there be anyone else?

I grow more and more curious though, eager to find out what Maksim’s experiences have been in the world of dominance and bondage. The idea intrigues me, and to be honest, just thinking about it right now arouses me. I really have to ask.

“So…?what were your experiences like before?”

I’m pursing my lips when his eyes meet mine. I can recognize that silver spark from miles away by now.

He sighs, ending his exhale in a little growl. “It wasn’t for me.”

Wait, what? I thought…?All I read on that wonderful forum, the testimonies from both dominant men and submissive women, it all sounded exactly like what Maksim does to me.

“But you like it!” I retort.

He shakes his head. He really is sincere. BDSM isn’t his thing.

“When you hurt me, it’s like you possess me.” I have to explain where my assumption came from. “I feel a connection with you I’ve never felt before. It makes me want to submit to you and?—”

I can’t say more. I’ve said enough. Maksim has already caged me in his arms and taken my lips. He plunges his blue gaze deep into mine and steals another kiss before speaking again.

“BDSM is not just about pain,” he schools. He’s been listening to my speech, after all. “It’s not just about hurting you and you enjoying it. It’s not just about you surrendering to me. It’s primarily about setting boundaries that are not to be crossed, and that’s my problem with it.”

I raise an eyebrow, a little confused. Hearing these words in his husky voice does arouse me even more, but I’m still puzzled. I never felt like Maksim crossed any boundaries with me.

“I do what I feel like, so I’m not good with boundaries,” he states, more than convinced of his words.

I sink a little deeper into the bed, beneath his embrace. My eyes soften, and I lower the blanket over me so he can peek into my cleavage. I notice how hard he tries not to look. It seems as if he wants to have his attention focused on our conversation.

“Are you afraid to lose control?” I challenge with a sly murmur, letting go of the blanket and brushing my fingers against my breast, still covered by the thin cotton of my oversized T-shirt. I want him to look. I want him to lose control. This entire conversation has ignited a craving spark in me.

He doesn’t do what I want him to do. Instead, he pulls back and comes to sit beside me. He looks a little…?concerned, with his mouth half-open and a tiny frown.

“How much do you think I hurt you, Liliana?” he queries.

I’m not sure what kind of tone that is. What kind of answer he expects.

I curl my eyebrows to match his frown. “Well,” I begin, “you do hurt me, but it’s not that bad. I mean…?I can take it!”

His shoulders relax, and so do his features. “You should really look in the mirror.”