Page 54 of Bronson

As he spoke, all I kept thinking was, makes sense to me.

Is there something wrong with me?

Wouldn’t most women run for their lives when the man they’re with declares himself a criminal? Hightail it out of there at the first sign of a secret black gate?

Well, I guess not every woman… there are the Mrs. Bachmans.

Badly behaved women put on display.

But these women agreed to this lifestyle. They want it.

And deep down, I know I do too.

Or at least I want to want to.

But my God, the commitment of it all.

I can’t even stick to a lipstick color, much less a man.

And to agree to his… correction, his discipline, even when I didn’t want to?

It sounds impossible.

But I want him.

There is no denying that.

I want him in that deep way that you want a tall glass of water after walking ten city blocks in Jimmy Choos on a sweltering New York summer day. (Not all of us get the pleasure of disappearing to the Hamptons when the thermometer reaches the hundreds.)

It’s a yearning that starts in the center of my core and rises up in my chest. My pulse feels weak at the idea of not having him.

I’ve become a different person, just knowing Bronson.

I want to grab his hand, pull him up to that third-floor master bedroom and make love to him all night long.

There’s only one problem.

A little bomb he dropped on me just moments ago.

He won’t fuck me unless I agree to be his.

And he is only giving me to the end of the night to make my decision.

Now that I’ve seen this place, that I know of the Bachman Village, I have to commit, or cut ties. All ties. And never see him again.

He isn’t trying to be cruel, he says. That’s just the way it is.

It’s not a marriage proposal, but he’s asking for a hell of a lot more commitment than any other boyfriend of mine has ever asked for. (Okay, so I’ve only had one boyfriend, for six months, but still.) I have some idea of how romantic relationships normally work.

And this is not it.

It is so much more… intense.

I would have to be exclusive. No texts, phone calls, or dates with other guys. In fact, I couldn’t even be alone with a man who isn’t a Bachman or a patient.

I am too embarrassed to tell him that shouldn’t be a problem—I’ve been running a little dry in the dating department, like, for years.

I’ll have to keep this place a secret, never tell anyone about it, never show them the Village.