Page 6 of His Turn

Many have tried.

He won’t succeed.

Classes end at four, so by the time I finish up everything at the school and walk through my apartment door, it’s almost five-thirty. I throw my keys down on a side table and I’m just walking over to the comfy chair I like so I can relax for a few minutes when I spy the present on the coffee table and stop in my tracks.

It’s a pretty box. Light pink with a white chiffon ribbon. There’s a single pink rose lying on top next to a card.

I allow myself a smirk as I walk over, drop my purse on the table, pick up the card, and open it.

Nadia,

Sorry about the shoes today.

Jordan

The ribbon falls off the present like water when I untie it, and then I lift off the lid.

Brand new pair of black ballet slippers.

See, this is the thing about this relationship I have going with Jordan. He’s a dick, but it’s an act. He’s actually a nice guy. I never said a word about having to walk out into the snow in my slippers. I never even looked down at my feet, so he didn’t pick up some subliminal clue from my expression.

He just knows. He knows because he cares enough to pay attention to me. This is a great quality in a dominant/submissive relationship. Like, number one on the list kind of quality.

But it’s going to be his downfall.

I pick up the rose and walk over to my big chair, sinking down into the cushions as I lift it to my nose and take in the sweet scent. My phone buzzes in my purse, so I lean over, fish it out, and tab accept. “Hello?”

“Can you be ready by six?”

“No,” I tell him. “I just got home. And I’m enjoying my rose at the moment. So no. Not by six.”

I can feel Jordan smile on the other side of the phone. “I’ll be there at six. And you will be ready.”

The call drops and now it’s my turn to smile. I like this game. A lot. I like the power play we’re doing. The push and the pull. The give and the take. Most men like Jordan like to take. Taking is easy. But giving in is a lot harder.

We both have trouble with that.

So it goes on like this. I’ve only been in this relationship a few weeks, but I’ve got him all figured out. He’s not the mystery he thinks he is. He’s a player, for sure. Not an amateur, but certainly not at a professional level yet.

I might not be at the top of my game either, but I’m farther along than he is.

Thirty seconds have gone by now and I’m on a timer. So I run to the bedroom, taking off my ballet skirt as I go, and when I get to the bathroom, I slip out of my shoes, my tights, and run the water for the shower.

I’m washed, dressed in a robe, hair still piled up on my head in a bun, two minutes after that. Make-up takes five minutes. Way too long. Then I unpin my hair, let it fall over my shoulders, and brush it out so the long waves are shiny and brilliant.

Five more minutes go by.

I choose a dress from the closet. It doesn’t matter which one I put on. Jordan purchased all of them, so he’ll like whatever I wear. I choose black because it feels like a dark night coming.

It’s low-cut, so I skip the bra and then decide to skip the panties as well because… what’s the point?

At five minutes to six I’m fastening the diamond necklace around my neck—yet another gift from Jordan—and slipping my aching feet into a pair of black five-inch heels.

When he walks into the apartment at exactly six o’clock, I’m sitting on the couch, legs crossed, leaning towards the door, holding a glass of wine.

He smiles at me because he knows what we’re doing too.

It’s a game. A very fun game.