Thrill Seeker by Kristina Lloyd Read Free Book Online

Enough to sink a digital ship.
    In return for all this effort, apart from my disastrous success with Baxter, I’d met only two guys I liked. One, pre-Baxter,had stopped returning my calls after we’d been seeing each other for two months, no further explanation. The second, post-Baxter, had wanted exclusivity from the get-go, and I think that’s a big ask in the early stages of a relationship. Besides, after Baxter’s betrayal, I was in no hurry to commit or fall in love. I knew I’d be quick to bruise so I swore off men for a while, determined to heal before going in for another bout. When I eventually returned to internet dating, I wasn’t looking for love. I just wanted some fun and the chance to keep exploring my sexual self, to seek my Northern Lights.
    With Baxter, submission was more than I’d dreamed it could be. In the thick of it, when he pushed me towards my limit, I could go under and reach a place of beautiful, bombed-out absence, a strange sensation of being saturated in an ongoing miracle. Just held there, floating and far off. Untouchable. I learned the name for this: subspace; the word so ugly and inadequate for the experience it described. In that zone where I was lost to myself, dissolving and drifting, I felt more at peace than at any point I’d known before. So far, only Baxter had been able to show me that clearing. After him, nothing else could get me as high, but the compulsion to yield still clawed at me.
    I didn’t want that to be the case. I wanted to be able to submit on a casual basis but feared I might not be cut out for darkness with lightness, might not be able to surrender myself to someone I didn’t adore and fully believe in. Tonight’s date had described himself as an aspiring dominant. He was handsome and friendly, so I figured he was worth a shot.
    It was a Monday evening and Old Town was quiet. A late evening sun cast skinny shadows across stone and sparkled on the gilt embellishments of Saltbourne’s pink, domed turrets. Once, this fishing village had been fashionable. Thenit fell out of favour, its genteel Regency visitors deterred by two destructive storms and the whims of the in-crowd. Those incongruous, Persian domes remain, adding a touch of Arabian Nights and misplaced frivolity to this rugged, sloping, half-derelict town.
    After a day at work, the weekend’s events seemed unreal and distant. Sat at my desk and typing up minutes, the break-in was a dream. Alone, the reality lodged most keenly. I hadn’t slept much the previous night, all the creaks in the house coming out to torment me. Now, with my footsteps ringing on old stone, I grew uneasy again. Could Den see me? Was he on my tail? Should I confide in Liam?
    My phone honked as I descended a steep passageway of steps scooped to thinness by centuries of feet. I waited till I was at the bottom before retrieving the phone from my bag. Still wary, I checked around me before checking the screen.
    Another text from my date: ‘ Really looking forward to meeting you, Natalie! If I get to the pub first, I’ll text you so you know where I’m sitting. See you soon. Paul. xx ’
    I locked my phone. Minor doubts I’d had about this guy were turning into significant reservations. Too keen, too needy, too anxious. I was already feeling suffocated and while I don’t expect a dominant to be all grrr and roar in regular interactions, an air of confidence doesn’t go amiss.
    I had another concern. He’d said, due to cheese, red wine and the gym, he was slightly heavier than in his profile pictures. Well, that could be OK, I thought. I like big blokes. Besides, cheese, red wine and the gym was a sexy combination. In his pictures, he was extraordinarily good-looking, a tall, slender guy with piercing green eyes and bone structure as fine as china. I couldn’t see a slight heaviness detracting from that.
    In The Smugglers Arms, a soulless, mock Tudor pubthat’s useful for first dates because I don’t know anyone who drinks