The Willing, page 14
"Sure." It must have been years since I'd had any. I knew how to make them in theory, but my meals were usually had in the late afternoon or somewhere around four in the morning, when I needed something quick and effortless and filling. I had never been much of a foodie, so I didn't really mind the lack of variety in my diet. Of course, it would've been fun to eat something other than ramen and sandwiches, but I had a limited budget and too many expenses, what with the new apartment and a beauty regimen on which my so-called career depended. Sacrifices had to be made and I chose wigs and nail polish over extravagant dining experiences.
"You probably want your shoes," Oliver remarked casually, anchoring me back into the present when I felt my thoughts begin to run away from me.
"Yes. Please."
He was behaving so casually, so artlessly, as though nothing at all was the matter. I really didn't know what to make of his newfound good cheer.
I stuffed my wig into my purse as best I could and followed Oliver back into the playroom. It was barely even worthy of the name. "You've been a busy boy this morning," I noted.
"I'm an early riser," he said, shrugging. "Needed to keep busy."
The sun was definitely out, easily visible through the tall windows. Oliver's vertigo hadn't stopped him pulling back the curtains in here. "What time is it?" I asked aloud. I could have fished out my phone, but I didn't want to see all the missed calls I must have had from Madam Madrigal.
"Seven fifteen?" Oliver grinned. "Why, did you need to be somewhere this morning?"
I could tell he was teasing, but I needed coffee before I'd be able to match him quip for quip. "You were saying something about breakfast..."
We went downstairs together, his loafers click-clacking against the tile, my bare feet soundless, and I resisted the urge to go straight into the living room and lunge onto the couch. It would've been easier if I had the fortitude to rip the Band-Aid right off; ask Oliver to call me a taxi so I could put last night behind me. I had a futon I could sleep on at home and breakfast in bed was still worthy of the name if it was microwaved pizza. Someday, I kept telling myself, I would grow up and learn to cook. It was not today.
Today, I was gutless.
Oliver's dining room turned out to be a whole separate venue, previously unknown to me, with a wide mahogany table and twelve high-backed chairs. Paintings hung on the walls of what I imagined to be stern-faced ancestors and country homes on the other side of the Atlantic. Oliver's pedigree couldn't have been more obvious if he'd told me he was a distant relative of the Queen of England.
"Shit," I said before I could stop myself. "It's like being invited to dine with the Rothschilds…" Worse, actually, because this offer I couldn't turn down.
He chuckled. "Nothing so fogyish, I promise."
I half expected him to come around to my side of the table and pull back a chair, all forced chivalry and old world manners. I blamed the weird sense of anticipation on still being half asleep, but he didn't and I breathed a little easier to be able to flop gracelessly into my seat unaided. Our food arrived a few minutes later by the same route that Oliver had once procured a Coke for me just because I'd asked.
"Don't you ever cook?" I asked for the sake of conversation, watching as two servers wheeled in a tray and started setting placemats and cutlery before us. It felt like something out of a dream—or a Disney cartoon. I wondered when we were breaking out into song.
Oliver didn't mirror my surprise. "Sometimes," he said vaguely, "but I haven't had a reason to bother for some time."
"No kidding." If a simple phone call got him whatever his heart desired, what was the point of slaving away in the kitchen? A plate of eggs drenched in Hollandaise sauce was laid before me with a flourish and another before Oliver. There were little glass bowls with three kinds muesli, a pitcher of milk and on top of everything six different types of jam. Toast and croissants had been arranged in a small basket at the center of the table, right next to the orange and grapefruit pitchers. All that was lacking was the room service bill.
"I'm sorry, is this all for us or should we leave some for the rest of the folks in the building?" It wasn't going to stop me, but even my generally healthy metabolism could balk at processing this much food in one sitting.
Oliver thanked our servers and they left without too much gawking, seemingly unimpressed at my presence. For all I knew, Oliver routinely had breakfast with strange women.
"I think they forgot the coffee," I groused, trying and failing to put on a brave face. Caffeine wasn't something I could pass up, unfortunately, and the thought of having to make conversation while still half asleep didn't exactly thrill me.
The smile on Oliver's lips only grew wider, cockier. "Come with me," he invited and held out his hand.
"Do I have to?" The dining chairs were surprisingly comfortable and I wasn't sure I remembered how to walk straight without my first cup of coffee. Oliver remained unrelenting. I think he would've waited me out if it took a minute or an hour. Stubborn asshole. Eventually, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet.
The kitchen wasn't far, but it felt like a trial to make it all the way through the swinging doors. And then I heard the gurgling, droning hum of a coffee maker and I forgot to groan at the unpleasant chill of tile beneath my bare feet.
Right there on the counter, Oliver had fired up an industrial-sized machine that not only processed the beans but also filled the room with the sweetest scent of freshly ground coffee.
"I've died and gone to heaven," I proclaimed, staggering a little against Oliver's side. Had I been more awake, I might have realized I was holding his hand in mine. Instead, my attention was altogether focused on the coffee maker and the steaming cups filling slowly from the trickle of two separate spouts. "I'm not making any threats, but you're aware there's a good chance you'll wake up one morning and that little piece of paradise will be gone, right?"
"It weighs about ninety pounds," Oliver said. "Give or take. You're welcome to try to abscond with it."
I had the distinct impression he was mocking me, but I couldn't be bothered to care. "You know, I have few vices, but this? Oh man..." I padded over to the machine and waited more or less patiently as it finished filling my cup. The first sip all but scalded my upper lip. I didn't mind. "Yeah, I'm definitely lifting this."
Oliver brushed my elbow as he retrieved his own cup. "Give it your best shot," he said, his voice reduced to a soft, treacherous rumble. I tried to remember if he'd said that to me during a session or if I was making it up out of my many fantasies. All the same, I shivered with a flash of pent-up longing.
We went back to the dining room, this time armed with coffee and, in my case, a proportional increase in self-control. I tucked into my breakfast hungrily before I realized it might be sexier if I played with my food or feigned a lack of appetite. The eggs were delicious, the bacon crisp and crackling on my tongue; I reasoned that this was likely my first and last time at Casa di Shepherd, so I might as well make the most of it.
"So last night," I started to say.
I chose my timing so well because it was precisely at the moment Oliver had opened his mouth to tell me: "I'm really grateful--"
Just as we'd started together, so too did we stop, looking at each other across the width of the table with tight, nervous smiles. "I was going to say last night was good," I explained quickly. One of us should bite the bullet, I figured. "What are you grateful for?"
It was a little late for either one of us to be saying Grace, our plates already half finished. Oliver swallowed past a sip of coffee. "I'm glad you stayed." The subtle change was all the proof I needed to know that he was back on the defensive. He seemed most comfortable there.
"No problem. I haven't slept so well in ages." It was a little scary to realize I was telling the truth, that being with Oliver really did put me at ease. I looked away, stabbing an errant piece of sausage with my fork. I intended to have some of that muesli, too, if only to taste. "I don't even know when you got up..."
"I know," Oliver said, smiling crookedly. "I was trying to be quiet."
"Is it a matter of habit?"
"What?"
My shoulders rolled into a shrug. "You know, to avoid the walk of shame? Not that we did anything shameful..." I didn't believe we had. I also didn't want him believing I believed that we had.
"We didn't do anything period," Oliver pointed out and I watched him set his cup down with a deft hand, as if careful not to make any noise.
He was selling himself short and I thought of telling him as much, but whatever he'd expected to have happen last night, I had doubts even Oliver thought it possible. Our dynamic didn't allow for spontaneity. "Just following orders," I said. "Although given all you'd laid out for me last night, seems like you were hoping for mutiny..."
Oliver drew a deep, long breath through the nose. "I didn't think you were coming."
"So I gathered." But he had taken his clothes off and waited for me in the foyer when I called, intent on showing me what he'd been hiding over the course of six sessions. There was no getting around the fact that it made it harder for me to think of him as the arrogant bastard who'd fucked up my life. Part of me resented him for that. "I should go," I heard myself say. "You probably need to get ready for work..."
"I have the morning off." Was that an invitation to linger?
"Doesn't Evangeline need you to hold down the fort?" I asked, inexplicably trying to point out he didn't really have any time for me. Apparently self-sabotage never really went out of style.
Oliver shrugged, smiling blithely at me. "It's a little easier to organize my schedule when I own half the company. If I say I'm free, then I'm free."
"Must be nice."
He nodded. "It's also nice when I get to dictate if my employees are free or not." For some bizarre reason, I felt my stomach clench and my mouth go dry. Was he talking about me or did I just imagine him making eyes at me across the table? "You still owe me a session," Oliver pointed out, something a little guarded in his eyes.
"Now?" Wow, my voice just got ridiculously high-pitched with surprise. How could I not be? I hadn't entertained the possibility that he'd want me around at all, much less now, after the many rules we'd broken last night.
Oliver sat up slowly and slid back his chair. "I'm going upstairs. If you'd like to leave, George will call you a taxi. But if you prefer to join me instead..." He trailed off and I wondered what it was he needed from me.
He was already in the doorway when I stood to follow.
Our contract being what it was, a hefty part of my decision was irreversibly mired in duty and self-interest. I wished it wasn't, but I couldn't pretend that money wasn't a factor. The rest was too preoccupied with rejoicing at the thought that Oliver still wanted to be with me to quibble at the fine print.
I knew the way to the play room by heart, now, and yet that didn't give me an overabundance of confidence in climbing the steps. I couldn't shake the feeling that last night had upped the stakes between us in ways we probably should've discussed in better depth; Oliver wasn't the most communicative guy and if he wanted me, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity.
He was still dressed when I slipped into the room. "Everything okay?" It was my turn to asked, watching warily as he turned to face me.
"Yeah... I was just thinking." Oliver shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't think I've ever asked what you wanted from our time together." I couldn't tell if he was kidding.
"That's not why we're here," I reminded. I didn't want to bring up the contract we'd signed, but the way he was looking at me now was too soft, too inviting for me to think clearly. "Are you going to bring out the flogger?" I couldn't do it myself; I had no idea where he kept his toys when we weren't using them.
Oliver hesitated. "What if this time we do it your way?"
"You don't know what 'my way' means. You're okay with that?"
He held my gaze and nodded solemnly.
"Stupid," I chided and strode forward, into his personal space. "Don't ever give anyone a blank check—not even the people you think you've got in your pocket. Lovers disappoint you, strangers fuck you up with the best intentions—"
Two things became immediately obvious to me. First, no one knew better the human potential for betrayal than Oliver, who had been mutilated so intimately, so cruelly. Second: Oliver's wasn't backing away from me. I took another step closer, putting myself in his space, and watched his lips tilt up at the corners.
"What's with the grin?" I wanted to sound authoritative, but I could hear my voice tremble. Was this some kind of test?
Oliver shook his head absently and before I could question him again, his fingers cupped my cheek and he bent forward, bridging the distance between us with a soft, chaste kiss.
It wasn't just the first time I felt his lips on mine, but also the very first time he touched me of his own volition. My useless heart leapt into my throat. I froze, not quite knowing what to do, afraid that if I moved he'd come to his senses and stop.
My right hand darted up to fist in his shirt before I could think the better of it. Oliver huffed a breath against my cheek, but it wasn't even close to stop, let go, so I let my fingers slide across his flank to the small of his back. I'd watched him writhe and whimper at the height of pleasure and I had seen him when he was holding back tears. I knew what he sounded like when he was angry, how his voice went all sharp and jagged, like a serrated knife.
And now I knew how he kissed. My insides quivered. If there had been a chance, however slim, that I'd emerge from this with heart intact, I knew I'd missed it.
Oliver drew back, licking his lips.
"Oh hell, we can do better than that," I said, not because I minded his polite little peck but because I couldn't stand him looking all smug like that, thinking he'd managed to one-up me.
I took him by the nape and pulled him to me hard, his body flush against mine, a surprised little moan trapped between us. He steadied himself with both hands at my waist and I couldn't help think of those long fingers on other parts of my body. I'd fantasized about this, wondered what it might be like to be wanted as well as to want: now I had the chance to find out.
Oliver's tongue dueled against mine, his breaths short as he finally submitted and let me kiss him as I pleased. He only put up a little token resistance after that, hissing as I nipped at his lip and ran my teeth over his unshaven jaw.
He tasted of coffee and mint and something darker. I liked it.
His eyes were wild and liquid, but he was too tall for me and I knew I was giving him a back ache. "Get on the bed," I urged, all semblance of reluctance lost.
Oliver grinned, anticipation shinning giddy on his face. He obeyed quickly, not even stopping to kick off his shoes. I seized his shoulders as I straddled his thighs. Better. So much better. Oliver gripped my waist in his broad, delicate hands as if to help hold me steady. I felt my heart clench in my chest. He could be so careful with me. Not tentative, just mindful to touch me gently. I knew he liked to be roughed up in bed, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted to return the favor.
I was more than okay with that. I'd always preferred being in the driver's seat.
"I'm going to fuck you," I whispered sweetly against his ear, then suckled the lobe into my mouth. He shivered with a gasp. I could tell he liked that, so I bit a little harder, worrying the soft, sensitive nub between my teeth. The thought of having him at my mercy in bed was as heady as a drug. I couldn’t get enough.
I shoved hard with both hands, pressing him down to the mattress but leaving his legs to dangle over the edge. I didn't think I could wait for props and foreplay; I needed him now.
If Oliver was surprised by my fingers busily undoing his belt, he gave nothing away. I watched him draw in a ragged breath as I sunk a hand into his pants and seized his dick, but other than that, he kept quiet. Watchful. I wondered if he, too, had lain awake in bed at night after our sessions and wondered what it might be like to go all the way. And despite committing never to invade his privacy, I couldn't help wonder if he touched himself while thinking of me as he stroked himself.
Had I not known they were there, the soft, whitish welts on his cock wouldn't have crossed my mind. I could barely even feel them under my hand, but something in Oliver's expression flickered as I touched him. His furrowed brows told me he was fretting. "That feel good, baby?" I asked, licking my lips. "You're so hard for me already..."
He moaned, low and damn near growling in his throat, and I felt the sound ripple across my skin like a clap of thunder.
"Tell me you've got condoms lying around." I worried I was going to come too quickly, worried I was close enough already, just teetering on the edge. Every session we'd had together over the past two weeks had been a sort of foreplay and I was trembling with pent-up need for him.
"Lying around?" Oliver quipped, voice a little choked. "No, not so much, but there's some in the dresser..."
I could tell he was trying to be helpful, but honestly I was too far gone to be magnanimous. "Too far," I groaned and started rifling through the pockets of my leather jacket. I'd never been a girl scout, but my job had taught me the value of preparedness. Hand to God, I never left the house without lube and condoms on me anymore, just in case Madam called and asked me to take a shift.
Even if my clients never got past third base, Michelle sometimes went all the way; I liked being able to help her out.
Propped on his elbows, Oliver laughed as I tore the wrapper with my teeth. "I thought they only did that in movies," he said and I wondered how someone could be both so charming and so unnerving at the same time.
"Are you going to make jokes," I asked, "or be a good boy for me?"
Oliver's grin trembled a little. "I wish I could touch you." He sounded so wistful I nearly came right there.
"What's stopping you?" My hands were busy rolling the condom down his dick and copping a feel at the same time; I wasn't holding him down.
