Checklist J, K, L

She was already regretting this. It had been a snap decision to meet Grif in person. Seeing him, and being with him, at Las Palmas was part of the structure of her life. That structure had fallen apart when she’d left the club last night/early this morning. At loose ends on an unexpectedly free Saturday she’d gotten up early, gone for a run, then done something she rarely did. She’d taken a nap.

After waking up from a mid-morning slumber she’d felt disconnected and confused, as if she was Rip Van Winkle sleeping for 100 years instead of only an hour.

She’d just finished showering and getting dressed in preparation to go out and maybe do some retail therapy, followed by lunch with any friends she could find who didn’t already have plans, when Grif had texted.

And now here she was, standing in the travertine courtyard of the Getty Center. Clumps of tourists walked around wearing headphones or following guides. Los Angelenos were easy to identify because many of them had blankets, picnic baskets, or even laptop bags, and were planning to make use of the museum grounds to while away the afternoon or people-watch while writing their screenplay.

She adjusted her bag on the crook of her arm and resisted the urge to brush at her dress. Because she’d planned on maybe going out to lunch, instead of an expensive yet casual look—a staple in LA—of jeans and a $500 designer t-shirt, she’d put on a sheath dress with an asymmetrical collar and T-strap heels.

What would Grif think of her, dressed like this?

What did it matter? That man had seen her naked—more than naked, he’d been inside her—so why was she nervous about how she looked?

Damn it, this was the same thing that had happened at the club, and one of the reasons she’d safe worded out.

“Davina.”

She froze at the sound of her name, a momentary stillness she forced herself to break by turning just her head to look in the direction the voice had come from.

Grif looked much the same as he did at the club—handsome and almost wholesome, if not for the way one corner of his mouth curled up in a little devilish half smile. Sunlight kissed his hair, bringing out hints of red and bronze. He wore jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

His forearms were lightly tanned but still freckled, and roped with muscle. His dress shirt clung to the muscles of his upper arms just enough to let the viewer know that there would be an impressive anatomical display when he stripped, but not so tight as to look cheap or vulgar.

The man had very sexy arms.

He was walking a bit faster than was casual—a purposeful, determined stride. Some insane part of her wanted to do something fun or dramatic—turn on her heel, cock a hip to the side and wink, or hike up her skirt and jump into his arms when he was close enough.

She forced herself to remain still, moving only her head to track his movement as he approached her, finally stopping before her, only a few feet of space separating them.

Grif’s gaze stayed focused on her face, and the fact that he didn’t look her up and down, assessing her outfit and making assumptions because of it, made her feel better.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said softly.

She’d been the one to issue the invitation, but she nodded in agreement with his statement.

Now he looked away from her, around the courtyard. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but I remember there being some good places to talk. Balconies and stuff, or the restaurant.”

“Let’s walk.” She started for the South Pavilion, realizing a moment too late that she hadn’t asked, but commanded, and that she’d then started moving before waiting to see if he agreed. This was real Davina—a woman who had learned to be aggressive, dictatorial, and “bitchy”, though if she’d been a man, she would have simply been called a good leader.

Grif’s long legs closed the distance her brief head start had created in a matter of strides. “Lead the way,” he said amiably.

Davina’s shoulders relaxed.

The architectural marvel of the Getty Center complex was as much a piece of art as the works housed in its galleries. Multiple terraces took advantage of the location atop the hills of Westwood, looking over the city of angels. Part of the upper level of the South Pavilion was closed while they installed a new exhibit, but there was a small terrace off of it that would most likely be deserted since no one would have a reason to go there.

They walked in companionable silence, weaving around clumps of people as they navigated the courtyard and then followed the rush of people headed into the plaza level exhibit of the building. Whenever they came to a doorway, Grif would pull ahead and hold it open for her.

As they walked, the crowds around them thinned. They exited a staircase onto the large upper-level terrace. There were fewer than a dozen people out here, and all of them leaning on the railings, looking at the view.

No one stopped to look at them. No one watched as they took a set of exterior stairs back down to the plaza level terrace opposite the courtyard entrance.

As she’d suspected, it was deserted.

The tension that had released earlier had slowly returned, until she was fighting the urge to roll her shoulders to try to loosen the tight muscles.

Grif walked to the rail-topped terrace wall and leaned against it. They were at the outer edge of the Getty Center, overlooking the urban sprawl of Los Angeles, so though they were on the first floor of the building, they were high above the city, the hill falling away from the base of the building.

Grif’s jeans molded to his ass in all the right ways.

Davina took a moment to appreciate the view—well, both views—then walked up beside him. She set her purse on the ground at her feet—somewhere her personal shopper Jade was screaming at the way she was treating a $34,000 bag—and placed her hands on the rail.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Grif turn his head to look at her. “This is new territory for us.”

“It is.”

“We’ve been doing a lot of new things.” The words were careful, almost hesitant.

Davina made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Enough of this. Let’s speak plainly.”

“Okay.” Grif pushed up and turned to face her, one hip on the rail, his arms crossed over his chest. “What the hell, Davina?”

She stayed as she was, looking out over the golden brown and green hills. “That kind of play, it pushes some old buttons for me.”

“Two things. First, why didn’t you tell me? Second, what buttons?”

She’d asked him to be direct, and he was. Good. This is what they needed.

No matter how painful it might be for her.

“I will answer the second question first. I…have trouble…with that sort of delicate submission.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She sighed, resisted the urge to fidget. “The jewelry, the…chains… They aren’t real bondage. They aren’t strong enough to actually hold a person.”

“Yes, that was kind of the point.”

“That means I needed to hold still, stay focused on being submissive.”

The words hung there. His gaze was like a physical pressure on her left side.

“I guess the simplest way to say it is that, with ropes and impact play, it’s physical. What we did last night was more mental.”

I

She gathered her courage and turned to face him. “The answer to that

concentration

before I joined

submissive, went Domme, and then went

lifestyle sub. Maybe even…maybe even so dedicated I could be called a slave, though we

then winced. “Sorry, sorry. You just

“Don’t apologize. Your reaction actually makes me

to have to explain that.” Grif smiled a little. “Actually you’re going to have to just keep explaining until

being open—I sort of viewed them as potential business partnership opportunities—and, most of the time, I

Grif nodded encouragingly.

a relationship, I just couldn’t figure out how to get one, and if I did, would I drive him away. My therapist suggest finding a venue for meeting people where I would be put in a role that required me to be open. She suggested something like a surfing or cooking class, since being a student means being open to learning. Maybe I’d meet someone there, who would see me trying and failing at something as I learned rather than me

slid down her body, then back up. “That dress is

felt good to have him banter with

ensemble. If you need one,

laughed it came from her belly,

make your meetings

“I’m sure it would.”

felt so good to be normal

aftercare. He’d hold out his arm, and she’d fit herself against him, his strong arm pulling her tight against his side in a half hug. Then he’d kiss her forehead, murmur something

feeling in an unfamiliar place, and on a day

she closed her eyes—and ignored the thin fabric of his shirt separating her cheek from his shoulder—she could imagine they were

said lowly. “You were going to take a class to try and

should do.

know about

fiction books. But I did my research, read guides and books about real life BDSM. I went

like a dick,” Grif

haven’t said anything

“His name is dick-ish.”

That makes perfect

to interrupt. I just already hate this

like smiling and crying

knew I needed some sort of outlet, since I’m such a controlled person the rest of the time, but actually

kind of scenes were you doing? What was his theory

know where this

I want to hear it

was easier to talk about this when she couldn’t see his face, when she was resting against the solid strength of

Dom. We used high protocol, and I ended every sentence with ‘Sir’ or ‘Master.’” She closed

We would rent hotel rooms, so there wasn’t equipment besides portable things. Lots of spankings, and punishment was being made to stand in the corner with nipple weights, or a plug with chili oil on it. If I moved or cried, time would be added to my punishment. It meant that I

because he kissed her head, keeping his lips pressed against

was with him.

it was a good relationship,”

The first few months being with Vance made me more focused when I wasn’t with him. I was incredibly professionally successful during that

“What happened?”

relationship as it was, it would have

like something bad is about to happen in this story, but I’m

and she had to take a moment to swallow past

exactly twenty-four seven, since we weren’t living together, but every morning he would text me to tell me if I was allowed to wear

He smelled so good—warm and familiar,

live it. I had twenty minutes to respond to a text. It didn’t matter if I was in a meeting or asleep. I had twenty

“What do you mean?”

it bad, but how I felt. Instead of compartmentalizing, and focusing 100% on the D/s when

hard,” Grif

stop subbing was how

“D/s play should make you feel more secure, more centered and

like if I looked good, was he happy with me. Every word I said was more about being submissive and pleasing him than it was about

“And he didn’t notice.”

never romantically involved, we had no relationship outside D/s, so we had no friendship or non-sexual

“So you didn’t talk.”

wouldn’t say more than 10 words. But I’d be in subspace the whole time. That’s how I did it. I had gotten so

Grif let out a breath. “I have to

really much more to tell. I broke off the relationship when I realized I had become so passive in my own life that my work was suffering. Colleagues

off? I mean what

I would eat hardly anything when I was with Vance, and even when I wasn’t, I wouldn’t go out to the grocery store, or to get food, in case I missed a call from him. I was only eating once a day, at lunch, and only then because my assistant would go get the food and put it

mean you wouldn’t eat when you were with him? He

I’m not sure if it was a power move—to see if I was submissive enough to stay quiet, even if I was hungry and thirsty—or if

you were in subspace when he

Well, mostly. How I was then, that is what I call subspace. That’s why I made up the

out of that relationship you, understandably,

part directly. Davina straightened away from him, then positioned herself in front of him. Grif reached out for her, placing

it healed me in a lot of ways. I never thought I’d want to submit again, but watching how you

was soft and warm.

a loaded statement if she’d ever heard one. Davina raised one eyebrow. Grif shrugged

said, “that the scene last night with just the chains and jewelry was too reminiscent of

“Vance.”

sticking with dumb

we did was a repetition of what I did with him, but more that I felt myself slipping into that deep subspace, and

paused to let that sink in, for both

about stupid things like if I had stomach rolls when I was sitting on

“Oh. Oh shit.”

“Precisely,” she agreed.

“Now is probably the right time for me to confess. And by right time, I mean

waved one