S H A D E S

Layers

My bathroom wasn’t as grand or large as the one at Tristan’s. White subway tile ran along the walls, slate for the floors. This was the last room I’d renovated, busting into an adjoining room to steal a precious three feet so I could squeeze in a large soaker tub and separate shower.

Tristan turned on the lights, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’d come straight from the office, I realized, taking in the white silk sleeves he cuffed to the elbows, the black slacks and blue tie. 

“I’m fine, really,” I argued. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, Tristan pressed a dry cloth he found to my face.

“Don’t argue with me. I know something about…this,” he said, dabbing at my bleeding lip, concern shadowing his voice.

“I bet you do.” I watched the expressions of his face, all hard, serious lines. “Have you ever hit a woman?”

Those silver eyes met mine. Held. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she asked me to.”

“And because you’re in to that sort of thing. Right?” I sat a little straighter as Tristan turned on the bathroom faucet, running the dry cloth under the cool, flowing water, washing away the blood.

“There are complexities to this lifestyle…layers. I won’t rush things with you.”

Wringing out the cloth, he returned, wiping along the sides of my face very, very gently.

“Do you really enjoy pain?” I asked, a whisper of uncertainty flickering beneath the question. His stroking stilled.

“We all do.” I wrinkled my nose at that and he pursed his lips. “Tell me,” he lowered to the side of the tub, our thighs brushing together. “When you were a child I’m sure you scrapped your knees, skinned an elbow once or twice from frolicking outdoors.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “Being a tomboy I had more then my fair share of bruises. What’s your point?”

“My point,” he said, taking my wrist he turned it upwards revealing the faint smear of blue tinged beneath my skin. “How many times did you pick at those healing scabs even though your mother warned you not to? How many times did your little fingers press against those bruises so you could savour that delicious ache, over and over again?” 

More often then I’d ever stopped to realize, or pay much attention to, and I thought back to a few scattered incidents that I could recall doing just that.

“And when you’re in passionate throes with a lover, do you never have the natural inclination to bite? Scratch? Pull hair or even clamp a hand around someone’s throat with force?” His thumb pressed against that sweet and sore spot, a fading reminder of a particularly intense night. And I quivered at the rush of thrill to accompany that little twinge of memory; it didn’t hurt so much as it excited.

And that, I now understood, was the point all along.

I lifted my eyes from my wrist and looked at him, his expression watchful and patient and verged on satisfied.

“Clever bastard.” Smiling, I shook my head and muttered, “Ow,” when my lip split again. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“Front desk security.” Back on his feet, Tristan searched through my medicine cabinet for Polysporin. “They called the police the moment Anthony went up to your place, after calling me.”

“You?” Returning to me, he dabbed a smear of clear antibiotic over my wound, soothing the sting with his finger. “Can’t believe that son of a bitch actually hit me.”