Free Making a Scene by Amy Valenti

sight of the red welts and
purplish stripes on my rear made me grin. They would be a reminder
of the night for a few days to come—physical manifestations of what
Marc and I had shared—and I loved them despite my mental turmoil
about the man.
    As I towelled
myself dry, used the comb on the bathroom counter to get rid of the
snags in my hair and brushed my teeth, I wondered how I should act
when I emerged from the bathroom. How would he act? Would he
still want me around when I was such a mess? Maybe he’d even drive
me home instead of letting me stay over.
    I left the
towel in the bathroom, wrapping the fluffy black robe around me
securely before taking a deep breath and heading for the
bedroom.
    Marc had used
another bathroom to freshen up, it seemed—he was wearing a pair of
sweatpants and nothing else, his hair slightly damp. He put aside a
book and got up from the bed, smiling the way he did when he wasn’t
wearing his Dom persona. “How are the bruises looking?”
    Relaxing—it
seemed as if nothing was awkward between us—I turned my back and
took off the robe. Marc ran his hand lightly over my skin, and I
shivered with pleasure. God, how could I want more after everything
that had already happened?
    “Need more
ointment on these, beautiful?” he asked softly.
    I shook my
head, smiling, and tried to reposition the robe. Marc took it from
me and pulled me into his arms instead.
    I tried to
gather normality around me. “Is there a dryer anywhere in this
crazy-expensive house, or do I go for a walk to let my hair dry
before I even think about letting my head touch a pillow?”
    Marc’s eyes
gleamed with an almost sadistic mischief. “Depends. What were you
planning to wear on this theoretical walk? I’m wondering if we
should just put the collar back on you and take you for a moonlight
stroll like this. Let your bruises get some fresh air. What do you
think?”
    “I think
getting arrested doesn’t seem like a fun way to end the night,” I
said, though I couldn’t deny the mental image would make a hot
fantasy. The reality, though… That would be more potential
humiliation than I could stomach.
    Marc laughed,
opening the bedroom door. “There’s a dryer in the guest bathroom.
Three doors along to the right.”
    After
retrieving the robe again, despite his reassurances that I wouldn’t
run into any of his housemates in the hallway at this hour of the
night, I went to the guest bathroom and blow-dried my hair in
record time, the warm air comforting me even more.
    On my return
to Marc’s room, I found him already under the covers, hands behind
his head, gazing up at the ceiling with a slight frown on his face.
I paused in the doorway and watched him, wondering what was on his
mind. I could tell he wasn’t the aloof, borderline-dismissive Dom
he could be at that moment. No, it was the guy who’d relaxed and
confessed his love for cooking and horror movies there right
now.
    When he
noticed me standing there, he beckoned. I shut the door behind me
and crossed the room to him, shrugging out of the robe before
slipping into bed beside him.
    Marc folded
his arms around me and pulled me closer, and I registered
immediately that he was still wearing his sweatpants, whereas I was
naked. Was he trying to dissuade me from any more sexual activity?
Maybe my crying had been a huge turn-off.
    “Stop
thinking,” he said softly, and I realised I’d tensed up in his
arms.
    Swallowing
back the urge to cry again, I tried to do as he’d asked, but it
wasn’t happening. Marc sighed and began to stroke my hair. “You’ve
never dropped this badly before, Nell. Did I push you too
hard?”
    Unable to
speak without my voice cracking, I just shrugged.
    “We need to
talk about this so we can try to avoid it happening again. Please
answer me, Nell.”
    When he’d
asked so nicely, with so much concern in his voice, how could I
refuse?
    “You didn’t
push me too hard. It was intense, but it didn’t feel bad at