-Sunday, 7pm-
Little brat: What the fuck?
Reuben: What?
Little brat: See, I knew it. All men are the same. Fuck you, Reuben.
Reuben: Hold on a damn minute. Are we doing this again? Already? We talked about this.
Little brat: Don’t message me again. And don’t come and see me. I don’t like to be led on. I’ve had enough of it in my lifetime. I’m blocking you. Fuck off.
I read through the messages multiple times, my jaw on the floor. Reuben hadn’t abandoned me or ignored me all week; he had been texting someone, thinking it was me. All the frustration and the anger I had towards him evaporated as the truth settled on me.
He had tried. He wanted me. He had reached out, negotiated a scene, gotten a safeword, and executed exactly as discussed.
It just wasn’t me who got the messages. How many people had a friend named Jake? Not once had he used my name, and not once had she given hers. I clicked on the number.
“You transposed two numbers, dumbass,” I laughed and put my real number in his phone, naming myself “perfect princess,” laughing as I did so. “Oh my god, this poor girl thinks she was led on by Reuben Weston. Probably googled you and everything.” I looked up from the phone and caught his expression. He looked horrified. “You didn’t think I was coming over tonight, did you?”
“I thought more than that, Alice.” He groaned and ran a hand through his hair, his face distressed. “I… shit. And Sunday, we… and you didn’t… oh my God.”
“Hey, calm down, it’s okay,” I shrugged.
His voice was practically a whisper. “It is absolutely not okay! You didn’t consent to a single thing I did on Sunday. I…” he paced, covering his mouth with his hand, his face looking slightly pale. “I’m so sorry.”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it, really. He looked so scared, so horrified at his own actions. This scary man who had growled at me, spat in my face, and beat me with a belt so hard that I could barely sit today at work, and now he looked so embarrassed and horrified that he would ever hurt me.
“Reuben, seriously… okay. Listen. It’s not a big deal! I loved it!”
“I knew I shouldn’t have done that scene with you,” he murmured, pacing again, still holding his hand against his mouth. “Shit. I know better than this. Fucking frenzy, Alice. I know better than this. I should have just–”
“Mister Weston. Please stop pacing, you’re making me dizzy.”
He stood still and stared at me awkwardly, dropping his hands by his side.
“Can I have some water?” I didn’t really want any, but I figured if I gave him something to do, he’d calm down. It was a trick I used to use on Daddy all the time.
He jumped to grab a glass and fill it for me, handing it to me with both hands and stepping back as I took it. Concern and trepidation was still covering his face.
I took a few sips, watching him. He was genuinely freaked out. To be fair, I could probably scream rape and assault at this point considering the bruising on my ass.
Maybe seeing his handiwork would be enough to snap him out of it. And also, maybe I could use this to my advantage.
“Want to see?” I asked softly.
“See… see what?”
I bit my lip and turned slightly, pulling the edge of my skirt up over my butt. I looked over my shoulder at him and watched his face as I rocked my weight from leg to leg, letting my ass move sensually. The bruising hadn’t blossomed yet, but the welts were a dark red.
There was a war going on inside his mind and I wanted to know what he was thinking. “Penny for your thoughts, chef?”
Reuben stared at my ass for a long time, and then licked his lips. His expression slowly changed, melting from discomfort into something more sinister and dark. He finally looked away from my ass and met my gaze.
“Fucking beautiful.”
“So…” I wiggled my butt a few times and then pulled my skirt back down. “Are you still going to cook me dinner?”
His eyes widened and he ran back through the hallway to the kitchen. I scrambled after him only to catch him grimacing as he pulled a smoking pan off a burner. He shoved his shoulder into the window nearby and opened it with his elbow, letting the smoke escape.
“Well,” he sighed, “I’m not making you sauteed mushrooms and chicken.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” I said, fanning some of the smoke towards the window, though I was so short I doubt it did any good. “I hate mushrooms.”
He looked at me over his shoulder as he scraped the burnt food into the trash. “How do you not like mushrooms?”
“Well first,” I said, counting on my fingers. “They taste like dirt.”
“They do not. They taste like mushrooms, plus whatever you cook them in.”
“Yeah. So, garlicky buttery dirt. Second, they’re rubbery.”
“They really aren’t.”
“It’s like biting into a tire.”
“It is not.”
“Or an ear lobe.”
He dropped the pan in the sink and put his hands on his hips. “An ear lobe?”
“That’s what I said, big guy. You should use your listening ears. Third, mushrooms are mold. I don’t eat mold.”
“Mushrooms aren’t mold. They’re fungus.”
“Fungus is mold.”
“No… mold is mold. Fungus is a fungus, it’s a plant.”
“I have a degree in biology. Fungus is mold. And fourth…” I paused for dramatic effect, but also because I hadn’t thought of a fourth one yet. He stared at me, still mostly expressionless but a little less afraid I was going to call the police on him. “They’re currently in the trash so I’m not eating them now.”
It was all I could come up with on short notice, okay?
His lips twitched and his eyes relaxed some. Crisis averted.
“We could order a pizza,” I offered.
He flipped on the water in the sink, making the pan sizzle and pop under the cold water. “No,” he said. “I said I was going to make you dinner. I’m making you dinner.”
“Good because I was browsing your instagram and you look like you actually know what you’re doing.”
He peeked up at me through the corner of his eye. “Was that a compliment, miss Benson?”
“Depends. Are you as good in the kitchen as you are in the dungeon?”
“No. I’m better.”
***
Reuben opened a bottle of white wine and poured us both a glass while he restarted dinner. At some point he poured a splash of the wine into the pan as well, making the whole kitchen smell sweet and delicious. I had no clue what he was making, but when he finally plated it and led me to the dining room, my mouth was watering. I stood by and watched him cook, somehow managing to miss what ingredients he was putting in the pan because I was too distracted actually watching him move.
Just like I’d seen in the old video demos he’d done, he moved with confidence, grace, and authority in the kitchen, chopping and mixing, tasting things as he went. He looked focused and relaxed. And sexy as hell.
The thing was, Reuben wasn’t conventionally attractive. He had the body of a bear and his hair was a weird wiry texture that looked rough to the touch. His face was intimidating because of his large forehead, square face, and slightly crooked nose. The skin on his face was a little pockmarked, too, which I hadn’t noticed right away. Maybe he’d had really bad acne as a teenager? It was mostly covered up by the beard he’d recently grown, and his mustache and beard was dark and full, and had some grey in it. And of course, he wore his ever present button-down shirt and black slacks, even though he was alone in his house. He looked like he ran an underground mob or something.