DINNER AND A SCENE
“The fact that we’re out in public changes nothing. You’re mine to control, and you will do as I direct without question. I will take you beyond your comfort zone tonight, Isabella; you’re going to need to put your faith and trust in me.”
Isabella is the most nervous I’ve seen her, and I watch her closely as she fingers her bracelet under the cuff of her blouse.
“Any questions before we go inside?”
That won’t do.
“Once we get inside, you will address me as ‘honey’.”
She nods and her mini-grin gives away the fact that she’s recalling our mini-scene in Montauk with the same rule.
We stick to ice water at dinner. It’s not fair to add liquor to the equation on her side when she’s expected to follow commands without error, and I need to stay sharp tonight as well. The hostess has left us our menus. After making my selection, I inform Isabella that she’ll be ordering the salmon tonight and garnering my approval before any subsequent choices are made. She looks surprised for a moment but sets down her menu.
I slide my feet across the floor under our booth, prying her feet apart with mine. Her eyes widen but she complies. “Hands on the table, palms up, and stay that way unless you have permission to move. Is that the best posture you can muster?”
“No…sorry, Mas—Honey.” Her mouth can’t help starting the familiar title as she lengthens her spine, but she self-corrects just before making a larger gaffe. I give her a warning glance.
I won’t go easy on her tonight; it won’t benefit either of us.
This may be her toughest transition yet, only a brief taxi ride separating us from the demands of jobs and coworkers, during which we donned our symbolic jewelry. On the tails of our easy banter at lunch as boyfriend and girlfriend, here we sit in a formal restaurant, surrounded by seemingly “normal” people on “normal” dates.
I reach across for her right sleeve, unclasp the delicate fabric-covered button at the cuff, roll the gauzy material away from her wrist, and refasten it securely halfway up her forearm. She watches without comment as I pull away, leaving her bracelet asymmetrically exposed on the one side.
“That should help remind you of your place while I educate you tonight.” Her eyes flash up at mine before she immediately lowers them to the charger plate between her upturned hands.
The waitress happens by to take our order, and her attention is captured by the glistening stones. “What a beautiful bracelet,” she says admiringly. Isabella almost lifts her wrist reflexively with the compliment but remembering herself, she holds her hands still against the table. Well done. I praise her with an approving head nod.
“Thank you,” she answers the server tentatively, every word and action passing through a filter of what will be acceptable to her Master.
“Do you know what you’d like to order?”
“Yes, I’ll have the salmon please.”
“Baked potato or fries?”
“Honey…” Shit, how do I do this without appearing like a total dork? “I can’t decide…baked or fries?”
“Hmmm,” he ponders, “I’d go with baked.”
I nod to the server. “What kind of dressing do you like on your garden salad?”
I raise my brows to Master but he’s silent again. “Honey?”
“Honey….mustard,” he supplies with a grin.
“Honey mustard,” I repeat, the waitress starting to become flummoxed at our display. She dutifully writes down my order and reaches a hand for the menu, which any normal ordinary diner would pick up and hand her in this moment. But a girl who’s been ordered to keep her hands on the table can’t perform such a simple task. She regards me quizzically, and I stare back dumbly. Sorry, I can’t move. I’ve been ordered by my Master to stay just like this.
Finally, she reaches between my useless hands and retrieves the menu. With a distrustful look, she shifts to Master and takes his order. She scurries off quickly, away from the loony tunes at Table 26.
“You did well.” Master seems impressed. “So, how’d your meeting go?”
Really? I’m supposed to talk about normal things… like this? My legs spread wide under the table and unable to move my hands?
“Fine,” I answer stiffly, ever vigilant of my words and actions lest I break a rule.
“No thanks, Honey.” I can’t help but smile. The word feels so unnatural in my mouth.
“You may use your left hand to get water whenever you like.”
Just the mere suggestion makes me feel parched. Or perhaps I’m not thirsty for water so much as the miniscule freedom he’s allowed. Either way, I take the goblet greedily.
After a few minutes, our salads arrive. “Fresh pepper?” she asks.
“No thanks,” I answer automatically, then immediately feel Master’s eyes on me. “I mean…” Fuck. I’ve screwed up. “Should I have some pepper, Honey?”
I don’t even have time to worry about how silly I might look asking my boyfriend if I need pepper on my salad, and I realize in that moment that I don’t even care what this outside person thinks. It’s about serving my Master.
“Yes,” he answers without looking up.
“Yes, please,” I nod. Though confused and slightly worried, she complies, twisting the mill several times. I’m paralyzed with the inability to ask her to stop.
“That’s enough,” Master states off-handedly, taking a forkful of his own salad. By now, the server is coming to expect Master’s instructions and stops cranking pepper into my salad on his command.
Another one bites the dust.
Master continues eating while the server shuffles off as fast as her sensible shoes can carry her.
After several helpings of food, he halts his fork, mid-air, and looks at me. “Have something to say?”
“May I please use my utensils now, Honey?”
He sets down his fork and a look of disbelief mars his perfect features. “I know you have better manners than that.”
I scramble to understand what I’ve messed up, how I might’ve disappointed him.
The damn pepper.
“I’m sorry I spoke out of turn about the pepper.”
Master nods. “That’s one.”
“You may use your non-dominant hand to eat. I want that bracelet right there on the table, in plain view.”
I struggle through the awkwardness of using my left hand, not to mention the extra pepper in my salad. I get about halfway through before setting down my fork.
“Take one more,” Master commands, knowing I’m nowhere near full but definitely not enjoying my appetizer. I load up my fork with enough pieces of lettuce, cucumber, and tomato that he won’t question my sincerity.
Our server is back, with an assistant, and they place the food down in carefully orchestrated movements. Isabella waits patiently for instructions.
“You’re welcome to eat anything on your plate with whatever utensils you can hold in your left hand.”
She attacks the salmon first, that being the easiest to accomplish with one hand. The potato is trickier; she chops at the flesh with the tines like a farmer tilling his spring soil. Pleased to have freed enough of the soft insides, she scoops a dollop of sour cream from the metal tin on her plate and spreads it thinly across the surface. Setting down her fork, she reaches for the salt.
The moment her fingers touch the glass container, she realizes her mistake and draws her hand back as if burned. Without delay, she returns her hand to the table, palm up, and says, “I’m sorry, Honey.”
“That’s two. For…?” Let’s hear it, princess.
Her lips twist into a grimace. “I’m sorry for taking something without your permission, Honey. I won’t do it again.”
Slicing through my Delmonico, I shake my head. “Three. Not good enough.”
She takes her lower lip between her teeth while she works out what I need to hear. Meanwhile, the sentry stops by to check on us. Seeing Isabella in that strange pose, not touching her freshly delivered dinner, she asks, “Is everything okay with your meal?”
“Yes, thank you. It’s delicious,” Isabella answers semi-convincingly.
She looks to me for confirmation that we’re both okay, and I wave the piece of steak on my fork in a half-salute in her direction before sliding it cheerfully into my mouth. Off she goes.
Isabella remains silent, well aware that another wrong move will earn her additional something she doesn’t want. But neither is abstention an option. “Try again,” I demand firmly.
“I’m sorry for using a part of my body in a way you didn’t allow, Honey…?”
“That’s four. But you’re getting closer, so I’ll give you a hint. You made your mistake before your hand moved.”
Before my hand moved? What did I do? I replay the scene in my head. I spread the sour cream, then just like every other time I’ve ever eaten a baked potato, I went for the salt shaker. Without a thought. Or so it seemed. Ahhh, conscious or not, I made a choice and acted upon it. A choice I wasn’t entitled to make right now.
Not eager to risk earning myself another demerit, which will translate into Master-knows-what later, I hesitate to put it out there. But somehow I have the feeling that stalling will earn me even more severe consequences.
“I’m sorry for making a choice for myself, Honey. It wasn’t mine to decide. I promise I won’t do it again.”
Without missing a beat, he dips three fries into his tin of ketchup and answers, “There ya go.”
When he sees that I’m afraid to take up my fork again, he pushes the pepper my direction with two fingers until it clinks against my plate. “Here. Take as much as you want.”
I totally hate pepper tonight, salt too, for that matter, and I don’t want any. Seasonings are the least of my worries right now. I’ve earned myself three more black marks on Master’s score card. He continues to eat as if nothing is awry. Why should he worry? It’s not his ass on the line…or under the crop! A shudder rips through me.
He cuts a tip of asparagus off with his steak knife and slides it between his lips. “So what’s the earliest submissive fantasy that you can remember?”
I feel the heat wash over my face with my shameful memories, fantasies I’ve never spoken or even written about. I’ve already paused too long, causing him to stop his fork midway to his mouth and look up at me in curiosity.
“Don’t edit. Just tell me.”
I make a show of chewing and swallowing what was in my mouth.
“It’s pretty vanilla, as far as submissive fantasies go…”
“No judging, just play it for me.”
“I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but somehow I end up in this room with bright lights and lots of men…”
That gets his attention. “How many men?”
“It varies. At least two, sometimes three or four.”
“What are they doing?” He continues eating while demanding the details of me, as if there’s one right way to tell the story I changed up every night as I lay in my childhood bed, a confused adolescent girl playing at something she couldn’t quite understand, trying to attain something that was always just outside of her grasp.
“They want to study me. My body.”
“Why? Who are they?”
“I don’t know. They’re scientists or something.”
“Guys in white lab coats?”
“Yes. Very professional.”
“Are they hurting you?”
“No.” This much I remember confidently. “They’re definitely not hurting me. And they don’t want me to be scared.” Master actually seems relieved, as if he wants to reach back retroactively into my earliest sexual fantasy and keep me safe.
“What’s in this room?”
“Not very much. It’s really sterile and cold. Just the table I’m lying on and a lot of bright lights.”
“Are you strapped down?” He can’t cloak his enthusiasm for the story now.
Isabella’s imagination is my very favorite kink playground. The problem is, I’m getting as worked up as she is. And this is not the kind of dining establishment where one drags a girl to the men’s room stall for a quick, rough fuck.
I set down my sharp implements and slide my knees forward, between hers, and force them open even further. The wool of my trousers rubs against the thin layer of her nylons.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Fuck. Strapped down.
“How?” Details, give me details. I’m not ready to hear what they do to her until I can picture the scene vividly.
“My hands are cuffed above my head and my feet are cuffed to the table.
“Just about a foot.”
Interesting. “How old were you when you first started having this fantasy?”
“I want to say around fourteen?”
“Go on. What are you wearing?” Please let me hear something more interesting than just being naked.
She blinks her eyes away from me and blushes deeper. Isabella’s tell. She gathers herself before meeting my eyes again. I’m sure she feels those bright examination lights bearing down and exposing her.
“I’m wearing my pajamas.” I nod, encouraging her. “Long flannel pants and a matching button down long-sleeve shirt. White with light blue stripes. My favorite set.”
The cozy innocence of her favorite pj’s juxtaposed with the stark, clinical fantasy creates an enticing contrast. The modest elbow-length gloves in my Master-takes-naked-Isabella-to-the-opera fantasy.
She’s long since stopped eating and her hands are in their palm-up position. She’s slouched against the back of the bench, as far away from me as she can manage.
“Five, princess. Sit up tall. I can’t see if your nipples are still hard. Next time that counts for two.”
“Sorry, Honey. You won’t have to remind me again.”
Oh yes, her nipples are rock hard. “The nice men let you keep your pajamas on?”
“Not exactly,” she starts. “Not after they start…”
Her voice catches, “Examining me.”
This is almost more than I can take. My tortured dick needs some modicum of relief. I drop my hand into my lap and find the poor guy some wiggle room.
“Tell me about it,” I demand simply.
“The guy in charge comes over and he pulls my shirt up. He kind of wads it up under my neck.”
Christ, I can absolutely picture her tight rosy nipples pointing straight up to the ceiling just below the bunched up fabric as she lies there helpless.
“Then what?” asks the junkie desperate for his next fix of Early Isabella Erotica.
“Then they look. And they talk in some language I don’t understand. They point and talk, but nobody touches my body.”
Hmmm… denial? Or just delayed gratification?
“And then?” I brush my clasped hands along my straining cock.
Her voice is very soft, “Then the head guy slides down my pants, but not all the way. Just to my knees.”
I rub harder. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was doing this on purpose to tease the fuck out of me. But she’d be foolish to play me, especially when she’s already in a spot of trouble.
“What do they do next?”
“They’re looking at my underwear.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s plain. Just white cotton panties with a tiny little satin bow. That’s pretty much all I had back then,” she adds the last with an apologetic tone, seemingly oblivious to how much hotter that makes the whole scenario.
“They all gather around and they’re just all looking at my underwear.”
Gulp. “You have to be feeling pretty vulnerable.” The word is thick on my tongue.
“Yesss,” she hisses, momentarily closing her eyes, placing herself in that room.
“Go on,” I urge.
“When they’re ready, the main guy…the head scientist or whatever… hooks his fingers into the side seams, slowly pulling them down until they’re around my knees. Another one pulls the lights closer and they all lean in and they’re looking…”
“And that’s about it!”
Talk about a massive cock block!!
She looks up at me and shrugs. “I told you it was boring!”
“Uh…boring? No. So what were you doing while you were having this fantasy, while they were all just looking?”
He looks a bit frustrated. “Nothing.”
“Well, I mean, I did…what they did…to my pajamas and my underwear.”
He blinks slowly. He swallows. He swipes his tongue across his lower lip. In a low, steady voice, Master says, “That…is not….nothing.”
His eyelids open about halfway and his dark green eyes bore into mine, waiting, but not patiently.
“I would pull off all the covers…” He takes in each word hungrily. “I’d slide my shirt up all the way to my neck…just like those men were doing. And then I would pull down my pants, just to my knees. And then, I would slide my underpants down and keep my legs open as far as I could like that. Trapped in my bottoms.”
His mouth has fallen open and his eyes are definitely glazed over.
“And then, I’d stretch my arms high over my head, and hold very, very still. So they could look.”
“And you never touched yourself?”
“No. I didn’t know anything about that at the time.”
“You stayed like that all night?”
“As long as I could. I don’t really remember freeing myself, but I’d wake up with my pants all twisted around my ankles and the shirt choking my neck!”
“You said you were about fourteen, so you would have had a full crop of brown hair down below?”
“Yes. They were fascinated by my pubic hair,” I tell him.
“Hunh.” He seems to reach some kind of decision. “Pay the bill and keep those legs open for me, princess.”
Master slides out of the booth, watching me intently. Leaning close to my ear and cupping my cheek in one hand, he informs me, “I am going into the bathroom to let off some steam before I implode from that sweet little story you just told. Think about that while I’m gone.”
His finger slides casually down my neck, making me tingle with the contact I’ve been craving.
While I wait for the server to return with the credit card slip, my thoughts return to my primal fantasy. Of course, I had no idea back then how to begin to go about resolving the uncomfortable yet somehow pleasant tingling in my blossoming teenage body. It wasn’t until senior year of high school that I ventured to touch myself, the raw energy of my fantasies barreling over any shame that might have held me back.
Master returns several minutes later, a broad grin gracing his face and the bulge at the front of his trousers back to normal. “Where’s your bladder, one to ten?”
“Four,” I tell him.
Isabella’s story has thwarted my plans. I’d had in mind a private fashion show starring the additions to her lingerie collection as well as at least two newly unpacked pairs of spiky high heels that caught my eye last night. But that will have to wait for another day, because all I crave now is cotton and innocence.
And there’s the matter of her punishment.
Wasting no time upon our arrival home, I command, “Go into your room, take off all your clothes, including your jewelry, and come back out here wearing the plainest pair of cotton panties you own. You have five minutes.”
I take great pleasure in watching her scurry out of the room and glance at the time as I walk briskly to my room. I return my jacket to its hanger and hurriedly gather my supplies for both her punishment and the remainder of the scene.
Dropping the props onto the coffee table, I rehearse the scene in my head, focusing the last remaining thoughts on locating my submissive’s mindset. Desperately needy, without a doubt. Curious, for sure. But her overwhelming emotion will be anxiety for her correction.
My princess appears before me in a pair of light pink panties and takes her standard stance, legs spread hip-width apart, hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes flick to the table, taking in her fate.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re ready, because we’re already in the scene,” I inform her, clipping her collar closed around her neck.
I grab the paddle and sink into the couch. “It’s time, princess.”
“Please, Master, may I have my…correction?”
I smile, letting her know she’s done well. “Yes, you may. I want you across my lap, face down. Put that naughty bottom right here,” I command, tapping my knee.
She takes a deep breath and arranges herself as I’ve instructed. I slip one hand up the back of her thigh and pull her legs apart, just enough to prevent her from achieving any friction. She shivers at my touch. Poor Isabella, she’s worked herself into quite a state. Her fresh panties are already soaked.
Without warning, I bring the paddle down over her panties. The impact is somewhat dulled by the fabric, and there’s not much of a jiggle, but my sacrifice is worth it to keep her in her earlier head space.
“One, thank you, Master.”
“Don’t forget, princess, this is not an erotic paddling. This is discipline.” Whack!
“TWO! Thank you, Master.”
“Lift your bottom higher for me,” I command, just before landing the third strike, this time catching the bottom half of her firm cheeks.
“Ow! Three…thank you, Master.”
“Higher, Isabella. Give me that ass!” Stricter voice, firmer stroke. Whack!
“Nnnnf!... Four…thank you, Master.”
“Here comes the last one. You remember what earned you this one, princess?”
“Yes, Master. My bad posture.”
“Hmmm,” I pinch at her behind, deciding how much of an asshole dom to be. Semantics have already earned her two bonus strokes tonight. I’ll give her one chance. “Why is bad posture so offensive?”
She squirms under my rough pinches, sending heat on a straight line from my thighs to my cock. “I didn’t let you know…how dedicated I am to pleasing you, Master.”
“Solid answer, princess. You just saved yourself a whole lot of extra pain.”
WHACK! The last one is the hardest, but she knows it’s over now.
“Oww! Fffiiiiive. Thank you, Master.”
“You’re welcome, sweet girl,” I answer, setting down the paddle and running my hand over her underwear in small circles. “All is forgiven.”
I tap her one last time and say, “Up.”
She lifts from the sofa and watches with wonder while I pull on my white lab coat. Understanding dawns as she realizes I’m bringing her fantasy to life.
Taking all four cuffs from the table, I loop my arm behind her back and lead her over to the kitchen counter. Pulling out a stool, I find my kindly alien scientist voice and command, “Climb up onto the examining table.”
Her flesh responds instantly. Goose bumps rise along her arms and legs, and her nipples tighten before my eyes. Stepping on the rung, she climbs, twists, and drops her bottom onto the hard granite slab. Surprised by the cold, she hisses and pulls her knees to her chest.
“Lie back,” I instruct firmly, yet not harshly, evoking the tone of the authoritative men who “didn’t want her to be scared.” She holds her arms modestly at her sides until I shake my head.
In a hesitant, jerky motion, she stretches her long, lean legs straight out along the stone and lifts her arms up and over her head, shaking with nerves, excitement, and the discomfort of the cool, unforgiving surface.
Before I can fully process my punishment and reconcile that this is really happening, Master has my ankles cuffs clicked together and my wrists cuffed high over my head. Pushing my hands firmly against the counter, he communicates that I’m not to move, then slides a small throw pillow from the sofa under my head.
And just like that, I’m in my fantasy.
Master turns the dimmer switch, and the normally mellow halogen lights grow brighter and harsher. I’m breathing too quickly, my skin is pebbled with tiny raised bumps, and I’m so aroused I can barely lie still. Master returns to my head and draws the back of his knuckles down the edge of my cheek. With a reassuring smile, he assures me, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
It’s eerie how well he plays the part, as if he’s actually seen the lab men in my head. His smile is not unkind, but it’s clinical, lacking Master’s usual warmth, or at least the warmth that I know he possesses.
He moves his eyes to my neck and chest, and slowly, carefully, he studies me as if cataloguing my every feature for my imaginary database. As he watches dispassionately, my breasts rise and fall with each stuttering breath. Minutes tick away. His hands are clasped behind his back, offering no hope for physical contact, let alone relief. Occasionally, he glances at my face, adding to his mental lab report whatever data my wild eyes and gaping mouth might be transmitting.
Ever so slowly, with the meticulous plodding of a skilled scientist, he moves down my body, taking in every quivering breath I draw. He stops at my hip, bends forward, and studies my Hanes hipsters. If I’d had my way, neither Edward nor Master would ever have laid eyes on this utilitarian underwear I bought to wear under my running shorts. But hell if he doesn’t seem fascinated by every last stitch tying up the edges. Even clipped together at the feet and modestly covered, I feel exposed and vulnerable.
But that turns out to be nothing compared to how it feels when he starts those panties on the slowest downward slide I’ve ever experienced. It’s not just the maddening whisper of the elastic dragging down my skin, one horizontal stripe of almost-pleasure following the next. It’s those intense, glinty emeralds painstakingly studying every last freckle.
He pauses briefly once my panties reach the spot just below the curve of my lower lips, then resumes the downward slide of the panties until they are finally settled around my knees. Moving his face impossibly closer, he tortures me with tiny warm exhales on my damp skin. His gaze snaps to my face again and again, forcing my participation in this moment with him. I now recognize the pillow for what it really is; not a gesture of kindness so much as a prop that enables me—no, requires me—to follow his movements.
Now what? This is where my fantasy faded to black. If he leaves me like this…I don’t know how I’ll stand it.
Master moves back up to my head and cups my chin gently. “You are a beautiful specimen,” he states.
“Thank you, Master,” I answer, wary of the proper response.
He shakes his head and says, in a softer voice, “Drop the ‘Master.’”
Back into character, he continues, “Does it arouse you when I examine your body?”
I can’t deny the truth. “Yes.”
“Is that why your nipples are pointy and hard?” He stares hard at my nipples, then glances back at my face.
“And this moisture on your genitalia,” he points to the area in question, “this is another manifestation of sexual stimulation?”
“Yes,” I answer, my voice weakening.
“So…if I were to touch you…that would intensify your arousal?”
“And possibly lead to an orgasm?”
Gaahhhh! “Possibly,” I answer, as deadpan as possible.
“Hmmm,” he says, “I have a bit of a moral dilemma.”
No! What can I do to help?
“We’re not supposed to touch our subjects. I mean…” he looks furtively over his shoulder, “if anyone were to find out…I would be…” He simply shakes his head sadly.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise most earnestly. Our little secret.
“Welllll,” he rubs his chin with his long tantalizing fingers, while looking around one more time, “I have been wanting to expand my research into this area for quite some time.”
OH PLEASE, MR. MAD SCIENTIST, EXPAND YOUR RESEARCH INTO MY AREA!!!!
He finally decides. “Okay, but…there’s just one thing.”
Oh. Crap. “Yes?”
“You’ll have to lie perfectly still.”
I nod earnestly.
He pulls a pair of latex examination gloves from the pocket of his coat and stretches them over his fingers and palms, watching me for my response. And, holy hell, I give him one—arousal.
Moving to my “moist genitalia” he spreads my lips with two fingers. I moan loudly and practically fly off the counter. Even with the barrier, his touch drives me wild.
Master lifts his hand abruptly and shoots me a scolding glare. “This is too dangerous…”
Noooo! “No, please,” I implore him. “I’ll hold still. I promise.”
Touching her only where absolutely necessary, I open her again with the tips of my gloved fingers and set the pad of my index finger right on top of her clit. She is soaked in her own lust, and my finger glides easily along the little bud. My movements are light, but they’re quick and they’re relentless. Within seconds, she’s whimpering and writhing and straining against her panties to open wider to me. Naughty, naughty lab rat.
I offer her no relief, no time to catch her breath. Her voice rises and morphs into a full-on wail and I keep the pressure right there, strumming that tiny nub, while she crests and shudders and falls apart beneath my fingers.
Clicking apart all four cuffs and tossing the panties and latex gloves aside, I draw Isabella off the counter gently but swiftly, draping her top half over the granite and planting her feet on the floor. I fumble with my belt and pants, and I don’t have a moment’s peace until I enter her from behind.
The lab coat tickles my sides as I run one arm beneath her face on the counter and bury my lips in her neck. The other arm snakes in front of her belly and keeps her from slamming into the counter with my rough thrusting. The paddling replays in my head, dainty pink panties and squirmy ass dancing across my brain.
Isabella gasps underneath me with each new plunge, our bodies sweaty and demanding and needy. I grasp a handful of her hair and let myself go with a powerful release that nearly knocks us both off balance.
I’m a complete jumble, pants and boxers trapped at my ankles, hair a sweaty mess, tie so twisted around my neck it’s a wonder I didn’t cut off my air supply. But for the fact that I’m smothering her right now in my arms, it might be hard to decipher which of us is the abductee. I’m not exactly my most macho right at the moment, but I won’t leave her here alone just to buy myself a bit of dignity.
I unclip her collar and set it down gently to the side of us on the counter. Wrapping my arms around her tightly and kissing up the column of her neck, I sway her gently. Without even thinking, the words slide out, and I know instantly, I’ll never break a scene with her any other way.
“I love you, Isabella,” I whisper gently into her ear.
She closes her arms over mine and holds me tight against her back.
“I love you, too, Edward.”