The Willing, page 8
I wondered, would he have started or sobbed? Would he have begged for more?
Sighing, I rolled over onto my back. There was a damp stain on the ceiling right over the bed and it spoke of the derelict apartment I'd made my home—of self-sabotage after an evening that had cranked up my engine like nothing short of all-out porn in a long time. I couldn't close my eyes and not see Oliver on his knees, waiting for me to dish out my worst, my toughest torture. Ready to take it. I could hear his breath catch even now; it was a soft, tremulous sound, like he didn't want me to know the effect I was having on him. Did he know how sexy he looked like that?
I pressed a hand between my legs, squeezed my thighs snug around it. My cunt throbbed with heat; it was so tempting to touch myself. I was sure it wouldn't take more than a few strokes to put me over the edge.
The thought of Oliver—oh, but that was such a slippery slope. There was nothing worse than getting the hots for a guy who paid for sex, however sanitized and tame his proclivities. You're in so much trouble already, I told myself, do you really want to add fantasizing about your client—your boss—to that list?
The taboo only made it sweeter.
My head thumped back into the pillows, lungs emptying of breath with a dejected huff. I wasn't the kind of girl who mixed business with pleasure: my deal with Oliver was firmly in the former category. It had to remain there if I wanted to keep my newly-bought apartment. Guiltily, I removed my hand.
I needed to get to sleep. It was coming up on two AM, which was still earlier than I usually got home but still late enough for me to feel just a little on the sluggish side. If only I had any faith that I wouldn't dream about Oliver when I finally fell into the arms of Morpheus, I would've succumbed much quicker, without teasing my body to arousal first.
It took a while, but I did eventually get to sleep. Physical exhaustion took care of that even if my mind seemed determined to keep on wandering into forbidden territory. I woke up to a gloomy, leaden sky and low clouds. A migraine the size of Manhattan was pounding cymbals against my temples, so I helped myself to a glass of juice long past its sell-by date and a couple of painkillers. I figured the good with the bad was the only way to do it.
There were no new messages on my phone, but as I fired up the laptop—and dimmed the backlight so the screen was reduced to glyphs on a grey-black background—I was startled to discover two emails from Oliver. Paranoia was alive and well this morning and it jostled to the forefront of my mind just as quickly: my first concern was whether I'd given him my email address or if he'd had my ISP produce it for him on the sly. It took me a second to remember the contract and the subsequent money transfer—for which, incidentally, a confirmation notice was waiting neat and tidy in my inbox. It was my bad, then; I told him how to reach me.
With heavy heart, I clicked to open this morning's messages.
Surprisingly, Oliver's email wasn't a request for restitution of the cash. Nor was he offering a performance review for last night. (I suppose he was too tech-savvy to put any mention of our arrangement in an email. How else could he have avoided scandal until now?)
As I read the email, I discovered Oliver wanted us to meet. Today. Our next appointment had been settled for early next week and though in my heart I knew I shouldn't, I was looking forward to it more than a little bit.
The night had done nothing to cleanse my thoughts of Oliver's harsh-bitten moans.
His second email amended the first with a suggested time and place. I didn't get it; why would he want to be seen with me at all? I was toxic at best and potentially lethal to his career at worst. If anyone who saw us together knew what I did for a living, I'd be the stone around his neck.
I wrote back saying I thought we should meet at the penthouse. I even promised to bring croissants and coffee.
It took Oliver all of twelve minutes to write back.
You may not realize it for the weather, he said, but it's actually ten AM. He did not insist to meet outside, though, so I could only assume he was okay with the change of locale. It was for his sake, anyway. I didn't have a reputation worth defending.
I yawned in the general direction of the laptop screen. Typed back: so that's a no to the croissants & coffee? And with that, I hopped reluctantly into the shower.
The heater was still broken, so it turned out to be a remarkably brief jaunt, just long enough for me to shampoo and rinse my short-cropped hair and step, shivering, back out onto the bathmat. My reflection in the mirror did me no favors; my eyes were red, my make-up smeared since I'd failed to take it off last night. I looked a lot like a painted hooker on CSI—except I was alive.
I decided to blame it on the neon lighting and scrubbed my face clean of any trace chemicals. At least I hadn't worn fake lashes; going to bed without peeling those off was pretty hilarious. I'd nearly given myself a heart attack one morning thinking my eyelids were coming loose.
No such shock this morning, only the dismal realization that everything that was pretty in the dark turned pathetic in the light and day. Case in point: my clothes, which I'd called quirky yesterday before heading off to meet Hunter and then Oliver, now look cheap and unwashed. Even my purple hair had the allure of a carnival costume.
Last night's wig really was in a dreadful state, so I took it with me into the living room to comb and untangle. One good look at it in the light of day told me my normal carelessness wouldn't do, so I stoppered the sink and let it fill with water. For all that I wore wigs almost daily, washing them was one of my least favorite activities. I couldn't explain why, maybe it was the texture—all that synthetic hair all soggy in my hands—or the smell of the conditioner the hairdresser had told me to wash it with. In any event, by the time I'd finished, my fingers were pruny and aching from the ice-cold water.
I knew I'd have to take better care of my things now that official, legit employment was absent from my life. Sure, Oliver paid well, but as soon as our three-month contract ended, I would have to find something else.
When I fired up the browser on my laptop next, I pretended it wasn't to check my email. For good measure, I even launched a job ad website, and pretended to peruse the entries while I waited for my inbox countdown to update.
It did. No new emails.
My heart sank a little.
I probably shouldn't have been pinning my hopes on Oliver; he was a busy man with a company to run and a life that didn't involve me. It wasn't like we were together, whatever rumors might take seed if we were ever seen in public. This whole schoolgirl crush thing I was developing for him had no future. I was losing perspective, to say nothing of endangering my finances every time I let my thoughts run wild.
There was a lesson in that. I was allowing myself to get swept up in what had been a good, not-so-humiliating evening with a man—a rarity these days—but that didn't mean I had any chance of being more than what I was as long as I stayed on his payroll.
Hunter had told me once that the things we liked to do—the kinks we shared, sometimes publicly—were best enjoyed with a loving partner. It occurred to me that I wanted that someday. I could be more than someone's employee, or the flavor of the week at some high roller's birthday party. Getting paid for company or sex or smiling and nodding—or wielding a whip, for that matter—wasn't exactly a lifelong dream of mine.
With heavy heart, I opened the browser page I'd just loaded and clicked the flashy, red sign up button. I needed to think of my future after Oliver and Madam Madrigal.
Oliver wanted me to meet him at six PM, so naturally I showed up at five-thirty, completely anxious. I told myself I wasn't, but the pep-talk did no good. There was a hollow in the pit of my stomach, like someone had reached in and scooped up my insides, leaving me with nothing but air and a racing heart.
"I know I'm early," I told Oliver cheerily on the phone, "but I'm busy later, so..."
"Another man? Careful, Jo, I could get jealous."
"I seriously doubt that." I had boxes to pack and a move to organize, but if he wanted to think I had a date, I wasn't going to contradict. Truthfully, going out and getting picked up was not on my to-do list. I was more concerned about paying both rent and a mortgage at the same time—and how unbelievably stupid that was. Of course, if I was bound to lose the apartment, then surrendering my small, troublesome lease was probably just as dumb. I couldn't afford to think that way.
"I'm not home," Oliver told me crisply. "You'll have to wait."
"Sure. Any good magazines in your lobby?"
Silence trickled down the line for a long moment, the miles of empty space between us crackling with the static of white noise. Then Oliver said, "Ask George to let you into the apartment."
"George?" I asked, because that was easier than wondering if Oliver was worried I'd be spotted in the lobby. Granted, yesterday's get-up had been pretty obvious, but now I was wearing a sensible skirt and an even more sensible pair of flats—the only one I owned. With my curly red wig on, I didn't exactly look like I belonged in this part of town, but maybe no one would do a double take at the sight of me.
"The concierge," Oliver clarified. "I can always call him myself..."
"No, it's fine. I'll ask. I think he likes me, anyway."
George turned out to be receptive to the claim that Mr. Shepherd had invited me to go up to his apartment, but he still called Oliver to check. I tried not to feel offended. It was probably just procedure.
I climbed into the elevator feeling anxious and exited into the penthouse with similar discomfort for no discernible reason. The lights were down on the upper floor. Even downstairs, everything but the foyer was in shadow. I ventured into the sitting room feeling a bit like an intruder. None of my previous visits had given me a whole lot of time to explore the place. Gerry's energetic company had transformed last night into a game of verbal tennis that I was still reeling from some eighteen hours later. I hoped she wasn't coming by again tonight; I needed time to recover.
It took me a few minutes to gather the nerve to pour myself a drink. I didn't go for the hard liquor, only a bit of ice and tonic water with a slice of lemon. Oliver's sideboard had everything from fruit to very, very sharp knives. Rifling through it curbed my desire to search the rest of his cupboards. For now.
Truth be told, I couldn't get used to being surrounded by so much luxury. A part of me still worried I'd touch a Ming vase or something and end up having to sell what was left of my soul to pay for it. I was more of a plastic plates kind of gal, here only for a short-lived interlude in better homes and gardens; Oliver could keep his crystal champagne flutes.
I started when the elevator doors slid open with a hiss. I had all but forgotten I was supposed to be waiting for him.
"Honey," I drawled as soon as I saw him step into the foyer, all cream corduroy pants and a brown leather jacket. Add a pair of aviator sunglasses and he might have passed for a movie star. I was a much poorer imitation, by comparison, but that didn't stop me cocking my hip as I leaned against the doorframe. "Welcome home, darling. How was work?"
His expression shuttered. I thought he might have been smiling before he came in, but something I said put an end to that quick and certain.
"I see you've helped yourself to the juice," Oliver said in lieu of greeting. There was something cutting in his voice, his gaze suddenly flinty. The man I'd had at my feet last night was gone, vanished into the ether.
I held out my glass. "Have a sip. Maybe it'll help you lose the attitude."
There was no pretending last night hadn't happened. I knew what he looked like when he came now. I knew how to get him there. He could drop the tough guy act. Whatever power he had over me, the thought of it didn't paralyze me anymore.
Oliver huffed a breath but took the glass obediently enough. "Have a seat, won't you?"
I did. I could be magnanimous in my posturing. "Good day at the office?
"Wasn't at the office," Oliver said and offered no further detail. He kept both shoes and jacket on, as if we weren't meeting on his territory but somewhere cold and foreign—a dentist's waiting room, perhaps. He looked appropriately tense. "I'll get straight to it: I had no idea Geraldine would be here last night. I had no intention of putting you in an—uncomfortable position."
It was not what I expected him to say, but I tried not to let that show. Playing my cards close to the vest left options open I might otherwise have closed. "I appreciate that," I said. "Your sister was cool." Loud and exhausting, but cool.
I watched Oliver's brows dash upwards on a crinkling forehead, almost as if he couldn't believe I wasn't pulling his leg.
"She doesn't seem much older than you."
"She is," he said and took a sip of my non-alcoholic not-really-a-cocktail. When he licked his lips, I definitely didn't imagine kissing them. "Though," he added, "she's only older than me by about a minute and a half."
"You're twins?" Definitely hadn't caught that.
Oliver nodded. The corner of his lips twitched into an almost-smile. I wished he did that more. It was a good look on him.
"Fraternal?" I guessed. "You don't look all that alike." There were facial features that marked them as siblings, but they were so different in temperament and looks that it wouldn't have occurred to me they were twins. "Any other siblings I should know about? You know, in case they burst in while we're, uh, busy?"
"No," Oliver said, sharp like the swat of my riding crop. "About last night..."
I drew in a deep breath through the nose, bracing myself for the gentle let down. He wouldn't have summoned me here just for an apology—particularly considering it wasn't really all that necessary. He had done nothing wrong. Gerry's visit was Gerry's problem. Sure, it was awkward as hell to try and pretend I hadn't been beating the shit out of her brother mere minutes earlier. I still wasn't convinced she hadn't heard us go at it, but Oliver had no part of blame in that.
"What about last night?" I repeated.
He stalled, like a turntable record spinning without sound. His gaze found mine, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I'm not going to explain myself to you," he bit out eventually. It seemed to take a lot of effort to even get that far. "I thought I was clear the first time."
"Clear? I'm sorry, you're going to have to be a bit more specific. I'm a little rusty at mind reading."
My days of taking a verbal lashing lying down had come to an abrupt end when he thought manhandling me was okay. I didn't want him thinking that just because I worked for him he could treat me like dirt again. Pride was a fickle thing: all the more so when buoyed by a schoolgirl crush.
"I told you I want no sexual contact between us," Oliver clarified, cheeks flushing.
He had. I remembered that part of our conversation pretty well. I couldn't help think it was a shame, but my reasons were largely selfish and I wasn't in the business of persuading Oliver to step outside his comfort zone.
"You're the one who pulled out the nipple clamps," I pointed out instead. They had been vicious-looking things, too, none of that padded, plastic stuff I'd used back in the day. Oliver could pretend all he wanted, but he wanted pain with sex.
His choice of props betrayed him.
"I noticed that you failed to use them," he said, trying to sound accusing.
"Failed? No," I lied, "I was taking into account the no-sex clause. Or are you going to tell me nipple-play is something other than sexual?"
I watched affront flash across his face, twisting his lips downward. Last night had been enjoyable, in my opinion. And I knew he'd enjoyed it, too; the wet spot on his boxers had been pretty illuminating. "Don't be embarrassed," I added quickly. "Honestly, I'm pretty flattered. Any girl would be, but when it's a dom/sub thing, these things can be tricky. I thought you did great—"
"That will never happen again," Oliver said, interrupting me with an icy glare. He wasn't amused or embarrassed; if anything, he looked livid.
My throat felt tight. "Okay… Can I ask—"
"You may not."
Shit. Well, that ended that conversation pretty quickly. I told myself my job here was to make sure he got whatever he needed out of our sessions, that my enjoyment was secondary and largely irrelevant.
I should have realized a guy like Oliver would be majorly screwed up; he'd closed down a sex club because he had a problem with the owners. He'd hired me to beat on him because—and this was just a guess—he was too scared to find himself a partner he didn't have to strong-arm into giving him what he needed.
As I left the penthouse, I couldn't shake the odd, unpleasant feeling that the guy I'd built a guy up in my head obviously didn't exist in the real world. I had lost sight of who Oliver Shepherd really was. I was either lonely or stupid, and since I didn't have time for the first one, I decided to remedy the latter.
This was just business and I needed the money.
I was barely out of Oliver's tower when I drew out my smartphone and scrolled down to Madam's private number. She answered on the third ring with a warm and cuddly "what do you want?"
"Need any reinforcements tonight?"
I could hear Bach in the background and guessed that Madam was at another one of her daughter's recitals. We weren't supposed to know about the kid, but rumors traveled fast in our tiny world of women. Dealing in petty secrets kept us from talking about the skeletons in the closet. "What makes you think I have an event tonight?" Madam Madrigal purred into the phone.
"Wild guess." It wasn't. Michelle had mentioned she might be working tonight. I figured if she was invited, I could carve a place for myself, maybe earn a little extra for being such a team player.
Madam Madrigal was quiet for a long moment. "Nine, at the Sheraton. Bring a bikini." I hoped that meant there would be a pool involved; one time our clients were so into food fetishes, I'd had to throw out my favorite blond wig because the blueberry sauce wouldn't come out.
"Thank you," I breathed, trying to sound appropriately grateful. "I'll be there." Any distraction that could get my mind off Oliver Shepherd was totally welcome.
Chapter seven
