Rowan bit back a nasty retort. She was not going to engage with this man in a he said/she said tit for tat. There was no way she could reach him or make him understand.
“This isn’t productive,” she said instead. “I’m going to go now.”
He fixed her with a confused, wounded look that was almost comical. When she stared back impassively, his expression segued into something uglier. “Not for nothing, but that was a pretty shitty thing to do—saying another man’s name at such an intimate moment. To add insult to injury, to say that man’s name while your Master’s cock was inside you—”
“That’s enough.” Rowan pushed back from the table with such force her chair nearly toppled over.
John shut his mouth abruptly. Rowan had never dared interrupt him when they were together. He stared up at her as if she’d lost her mind.
What had she been thinking? She should have known he’d take things in this direction, assigning blame so he could then mete out punishment. Before long, he’d be trying to haul her back into the cage if she wasn’t careful.
Not that she’d let that happen.
Not this time.
Placing her hands flat on the table, she fixed John with a hard look. “Yeah, it must have felt pretty shitty to have your lover say someone else’s name during climax. I get that, and I’m sorry for that. But you know what feels even shittier, John? Being told over and over that you don’t really know what you want. Being informed that someone else knows your heart and mind better than you do. It feels really shitty, John, to feel like you’re stuck in a relationship with an abuser, and to wonder how the fuck things got that bad. It feels downright fucking terrifying to have to escape from a man who had promised to cherish and protect you in exchange for your submission.”
He looked dumbstruck, as if all of this was somehow a revelation to him. “Rowan, you’re confused. You—”
“I’m not done talking,” she snapped.
She was grimly pleased when he shut his mouth midsentence.
“I’m a submissive, John,” she continued, determined to speak her mind. “That was never in question. But when we got involved, you decided for me that I was ‘slave material’”—she used air quotes around the words—“and that we should sign a Master/slave contract. You drew up that contract, John, with very little input or understanding from me. You abused my trust. You held me hostage. What you did, John, is way beyond shitty. It’s unforgivable.”
“How dare—”
She raised her voice, talking over him until he sputtered to a halt. “I understand now—you’re not a Master. You never were. You’re just a bully. I’d suggest you take a long, hard look at yourself, and get some serious D/s training before you ever try to engage in the scene again.”
John had paled, save for two spots of pink high on his perfect cheekbones. She could feel both his fury and his shock as he glared at her.
She stared back at him, silently daring him to refute anything she’d said.
Finally, he knitted his brows, looking genuinely perplexed. “Are you saying you no longer love me?”
Rowan huffed a startled laugh. This man’s conceit and willful obtuseness apparently knew no bounds. “Is that what you got from what I said?” She shook her head in amazement. Why had she expected anything else? It was hopeless trying to reach this guy. Turning away in disgust, she headed for the door.
She moved quickly to the front hall, half afraid he might follow her and tackle her to the floor. She opened the front door and waved to Eric, who was still waiting in the van. He waved back and opened his door.
“Fuck, no, John,” she muttered as she dragged her things out the door. “I no longer love you.”
Hell. She didn’t even like him.
Chapter 22
The small gallery was filled with people, plastic flutes of champagne in hand as they moved from painting to painting. Most of the crowd was in the main room, where the featured artist was holding court, surrounded by a cluster of art enthusiasts.
While Eric appreciated Sanchez’s work, he had fallen in love with Rowan’s paintings. They were dark and tumultuous, full of color and emotion in a way that held him captive.
She was working on a portrait of him, though she wouldn’t let him see it yet. He’d set her up in his workshop as soon as they’d picked up her things from Scarsdale the weekend before. He’d cleared away a space for her near the windows that gave the best light.
When she painted, she wore an oversized man’s shirt as a smock, streaks of paint daubing her forearms where the sleeves were pushed up. She piled her lustrous dark hair in a messy bun, long, curling tendrils escaping as she lost herself in her process.