As the driver pulled into traffic, Rowan stared straight ahead, a determined look on her face. Her hands were bunched into fists on her thighs. On an impulse, Eric placed his hand lightly over the hand closest to him.
To his pleased surprise, she turned her hand beneath his, unfurling her fingers so their palms touched. Without turning her head, she laced her fingers with his. The fit was perfect.
Chapter 13
The driver double parked in front of a red brick apartment building on East 6th street not far from Washington Square Park. With thanks, they left the car and made their way to a building’s entrance. Eric punched in some numbers on the keypad beside the door and ushered Rowan into a small, unattended front lobby with mailboxes flanking one wall and a bank of elevators on the other.
As they rode up to the seventh floor, the full impact of what she’d done hit Rowan with such force she felt suddenly dizzy.
What was amazing wasn’t so much that she’d gotten out, but that it had taken her so long to get to this point. Rowan had never considered herself weak or vulnerable. She’d been taking care of herself as long as she could remember.
How had she allowed herself to get into this position, where she had to flee a relationship with only the clothes on her back? How had her love for BDSM turned into a nightmare scenario with such a controlling man? How had she so badly lost her way?
Master John had certainly discovered her defection by now. What would he do? How would he react? Would he come after her?
Had she made a mistake? Should she have stayed with him and tried to reason with him? Maybe, if he’d understood it really wasn’t working for her, they could have worked things out.
Even as this thought played in her mind, she rejected it. The cage had been the last straw, the final act that had torn the blinders from her eyes. The man she had thought she loved had abused her trust. While she was angry at herself for letting that happen, the lovestruck, eager slave girl she’d tried so hard to be was lost. There was no going back.
What about her portfolio? Those canvases in John’s house were her life’s work to date. What if he refused to return them to her? And what about the show he’d arranged for her?
The elevator slid open, pulling Rowan from her reverie.
“I’m just down the hall here on the right,” Eric said as they walked along the narrow hallway. He unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. Based on the unprepossessing front lobby and her own limited experience as a student and starving artist living on a shoestring budget, Rowan had expected the usual cramped dive with secondhand furniture and a roommate or two lurking in the background.
Instead, she was pleasantly surprised by a spacious room tastefully furnished in the clean lines and gentle curves of the mid-century modern style. A large Rothko print in lush greens and blues hung over a pale blue Bauhaus sofa flanked by matching leather saddle chairs. There was a small dining area with an oval table set on an angular intersecting base, with matching wooden chairs with padded leather seats.
“Wow,” she exclaimed, taking it all in. “I love your stuff. This piece especially is absolutely stunning.”
She moved toward a restored wooden two-toned diamond inlay sideboard buffet with brass legs. “Whoever refinished this really knew what they were doing,” she enthused, unable to resist running her finger along the silky wood.
Eric flashed an infectious grin that crinkled the corners of his green eyes. He really was rather good looking, in his own way. “That would be me. When I’m not training submissives in BDSM dungeons, I restore old furniture. Every piece you see here was rescued from a junk shop or an estate sale.”
“I’m very impressed,” Rowan said sincerely. She hadn’t really thought about what Eric might do outside the confines of the Masters Club. She’d just assumed he lived and breathed BDSM to the exclusion of all else. Clearly, there was a lot more to this guy than she’d imagined.
“Thanks. That means a lot, coming from an artist,” Eric replied. “Now, what can I get you? You must be hungry and thirsty, not to mention exhausted. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer,” he added with a wry smile. “The tradeoff for this gorgeous living space is the basically nonexistent kitchen. It’s more of a closet with a sink, an ancient Frigidaire and a stovetop set into the single counter. There’s no oven, so I don’t do much cooking. I do have some really good grapes I got from a fruit vendor yesterday, and I have some cheese and crackers. Why don’t you sit down and relax while I fix us a snack plate?”