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Authors: Wendy Leigh
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inner Georgiana I really have, and whether, in fact, Robert fell in love with the Georgiana in me as well. After all, like her, Iâm a deceiver on a grand scale, arenât I?
Stop it, Miranda, stop it, you are going to let Georgiana drive you crazy. I hear Robertâs voice in my mind, and I listen, grateful that despite the wrong Iâve done him, I can still summon up his voice to hearten me.
The ferry docks, and I join the lines of people and disembark. Once in the waiting room, I weigh my options. Another ride to Staten Island, then back again?
But if not, where to next? And, more to the point, what next?
On reflection, I come to the realization that writing my autobiography in order to win Robert back and filling it with excuses and explanations for what I did is out of the question. Apart from the fact that I really donât want to follow in Georgianaâs footsteps yet again, I know that he would hate for me to abase myself to him in that way. Fine to undergo humiliation during a BDSM scene, but not in real life. Particularly not in real life. For while a submissive groveling in front of him in a scene might work wonders for a dominantâs libido, if she grovels to him outside of BDSM, he could easily lose respect for her and view her as a doormat, not a potential partner.
Besides, if I dropped my pride and sent him a letter explaining why I did what I did, and then begged for forgiveness, that might remind him of the letter Georgiana forced me to write to him, confessing that I was a charlatan, a trickster, a fraud.
A plain and simple letter probably wonât work with Robert. Nor will a phone call, as he hardly ever has his phone on, and even if he does, the second he hears my voice heâs bound to slam it down.
I flash back to the mausoleum again, and my SOS to Robert, a text, and nothing else. But not now, not this time. Too short, too bald, too unemotional. Maybe an e-mail, because even if he takes forever to answer it, I donât care. Because if I donât have Robert in my life anymore, Iâve got forever to mourn, forever to suffer.
Iâm not going to give up yet. I need to do something, anything, make an opening gambit to let him know that I love him beyond all reason, that Iâll die if he doesnât take me back into his life and heart, and that I yearn to see him and to explain why I did what I did, and beg him to give me one more chance.
Then the image of the man who came into my life a few short months ago suddenly rises up before my eyes: Robert Hartwell, the man I fell in love with and whom I pride myself on knowing almost as well as I know myself, and the most dominant man Iâve ever met.
Even a saint would be furious with me right now, never mind a man for whom getting his own way is virtually a religion. And any manâor woman, for that matterâwould need ample time to cool down, to get over the initial anger and start to think rationally. And sending Robert a mea culpa via e-mail wonât give him either the time or the space to do that.
My next step is eminently clear. Donât write a formal apology to Robert yet. Give him time to cool down first.
Meanwhile, Iâll take a leaf out of the book I wrote for a superstar athlete some years agoâwhenever anyone wished him good luck before a contest, he would turn on the person and declare, âGood luck? Why do I need any luck when Iâve already won!â And then he invariably did.
In that spirit, I know exactly what Iâm going to do next; act as if Iâve already won Robert back and all is right with us once more. And my erotic writing won me him the first time around, so as soon as I get home, Iâm going to write some erotica just for him. Then Iâll send it to him and hope that Iâll win him back once more, this time for real and forever.
Chapter Six
Miranda, the Present
I stare at my blank computer screen and tell myself to stop brooding about
Stop it, Miranda, stop it, you are going to let Georgiana drive you crazy. I hear Robertâs voice in my mind, and I listen, grateful that despite the wrong Iâve done him, I can still summon up his voice to hearten me.
The ferry docks, and I join the lines of people and disembark. Once in the waiting room, I weigh my options. Another ride to Staten Island, then back again?
But if not, where to next? And, more to the point, what next?
On reflection, I come to the realization that writing my autobiography in order to win Robert back and filling it with excuses and explanations for what I did is out of the question. Apart from the fact that I really donât want to follow in Georgianaâs footsteps yet again, I know that he would hate for me to abase myself to him in that way. Fine to undergo humiliation during a BDSM scene, but not in real life. Particularly not in real life. For while a submissive groveling in front of him in a scene might work wonders for a dominantâs libido, if she grovels to him outside of BDSM, he could easily lose respect for her and view her as a doormat, not a potential partner.
Besides, if I dropped my pride and sent him a letter explaining why I did what I did, and then begged for forgiveness, that might remind him of the letter Georgiana forced me to write to him, confessing that I was a charlatan, a trickster, a fraud.
A plain and simple letter probably wonât work with Robert. Nor will a phone call, as he hardly ever has his phone on, and even if he does, the second he hears my voice heâs bound to slam it down.
I flash back to the mausoleum again, and my SOS to Robert, a text, and nothing else. But not now, not this time. Too short, too bald, too unemotional. Maybe an e-mail, because even if he takes forever to answer it, I donât care. Because if I donât have Robert in my life anymore, Iâve got forever to mourn, forever to suffer.
Iâm not going to give up yet. I need to do something, anything, make an opening gambit to let him know that I love him beyond all reason, that Iâll die if he doesnât take me back into his life and heart, and that I yearn to see him and to explain why I did what I did, and beg him to give me one more chance.
Then the image of the man who came into my life a few short months ago suddenly rises up before my eyes: Robert Hartwell, the man I fell in love with and whom I pride myself on knowing almost as well as I know myself, and the most dominant man Iâve ever met.
Even a saint would be furious with me right now, never mind a man for whom getting his own way is virtually a religion. And any manâor woman, for that matterâwould need ample time to cool down, to get over the initial anger and start to think rationally. And sending Robert a mea culpa via e-mail wonât give him either the time or the space to do that.
My next step is eminently clear. Donât write a formal apology to Robert yet. Give him time to cool down first.
Meanwhile, Iâll take a leaf out of the book I wrote for a superstar athlete some years agoâwhenever anyone wished him good luck before a contest, he would turn on the person and declare, âGood luck? Why do I need any luck when Iâve already won!â And then he invariably did.
In that spirit, I know exactly what Iâm going to do next; act as if Iâve already won Robert back and all is right with us once more. And my erotic writing won me him the first time around, so as soon as I get home, Iâm going to write some erotica just for him. Then Iâll send it to him and hope that Iâll win him back once more, this time for real and forever.
Chapter Six
Miranda, the Present
I stare at my blank computer screen and tell myself to stop brooding about
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