by Lund, S. E.
I sighed heavily and glanced around my apartment. It was tiny but I was lucky to get a sublet in a rent controlled building. I insisted on using my scholarship money and work as a teaching assistant to pay for everything, not wanting any of my father's money, although he insisted in setting aside my allowance in a trust fund for when I 'came to my senses'. It meant I lived like a pauper, but it also meant I was independent. I wanted to show my father that I was as good as Heath.
My father always favored my older brother over me. Heath had always been the responsible one – the one who always said and did the right thing. Heath would never do something stupid like this… He married the right woman, had beautiful children and a respectable six-figure job in corporate finance.
Just when my father was starting to believe I had more to me, I had the breakdown, then fly-boy, and now this?
Crap. Just. Crap.
Drake Morgan called or texted five more times during the afternoon and evening, but I ignored each one and refused to listen to his voice messages.
Lara must have given him my email.
I deleted the bookmark of the website where that Dom's letters to his sub were posted. I didn’t need any more reminders of this. Instead, I read over an article I was writing on social media, determined to put Dr. Drake Morgan out of my mind. I watched stupid videos on YouTube. When that became boring, I watched reruns of Big Bang Theory. Those were the kind of men I belonged with.
Not beautiful Dominant Drake Morgan, MD.
Then, I busied myself with cleaning. It was therapeutic. I cleaned out the pantry, throwing out anything past its due date, and then I rearranged my tiny cupboard so that the pots and pans were all in logical order and tidy the way I kept them when I worked in a kitchen during my undergrad years.
Finally, I washed the dishes in the sink, all the while listening to something calming – Faure. Sicilienne. I needed something soft and dreamy to make me forget what happened.
It was then someone knocked at my door. He wasn’t actually at my door, was he? I peered through the peephole.
Crap… Yes. Dr. Morgan himself, his blue eye close to the hole.
Of all the nerve.
I pulled back and grimaced, but of course, he couldn’t see me. Some idiot must have propped the front door open again.
"I don't want to talk to you, Dr. Morgan," I said, my hands still in yellow rubber gloves, soap suds dripping onto the parquet floor. I tried to sop up the puddle up with my foot, but all I ended up with was a wet foot, my pantyhose not thick enough to do anything.
"Kate, please, considering everything, call me Drake. And trust me. I have no interest in revealing anything about this to anyone. You, Lara and I are the only people who will ever know anything about this."
"Good," I said, relief flooding through me that he understood. "Thank you. Let's just forget this ever happened. All of it."
"No, no…" he said, and I heard a hint of protest in his voice. "No need for that. We can still do the interviews. You want to research the lifestyle and I'm happy to help in any way I can."
"No way," I said, shaking my head vigorously even though he couldn’t see me. "I can't. Just forget about it."
"Seriously, Kate," he said, his voice light. I peered out through the peephole and watched him. "There's no need to call this off. I'm quite happy to teach you anything you want to know about," he said and leaned closer to the door as if trying to be private. "About submission. I'll even take you to a fetish night. Lara said you wanted to go. You could wear a mask, and no one would know who you are. I teach at Columbia in the department of medicine. I love teaching…"
"No," I said, slicing my hand sideways to cut him off, my hands looking ridiculous in rubber gloves. "It's completely out of the question. It's totally embarrassing."
"Kate…" he said, his voice trailing off. "I understand your interest in this completely. I have a lot of experience. You don't have to be embarrassed with me."
"You're kidding, right?" I said, shaking my head, leaning my shoulder against the door. "You don't think this is mortifying?"
"For me, yes. For you, no. I'm the one who should be mortified, not you. Here I was, hoping to impress you enough that you'd go out with me for a drink some night and you discover I'm a Dom. You're just doing this for a research paper, after all…"
Was that a hint of humor in his voice? He didn’t believe this was just research. Lara must have said something.
"I'm changing topics," I said weakly, coming up with the excuse on the spot.
There was a pause.
"What are you going to write about instead?" he said, his voice slightly disbelieving.
"I don't know," I said, stalling for time. "Maybe the Administration's failure to act on climate change."
I heard him chuckle. "Sounds pretty boring in comparison to exploring why women are so excited by the prospect of submitting to a dominant man who knows how to release their inhibitions…"
Oh, crap. Why did that sound so – so erotic – when he said it? I couldn’t help but conjure images of him naked, controlling someone sexually…
Me, for example.
"I should never have even considered it."
"It's topical. It's controversial."
"My father would kill me. I don't know what I was thinking."
There was another pause and I heard him sigh heavily. "Listen," he said, his voice conspiratorial. "We could stand here all night and talk through the door but I'm getting really hot standing here in my coat. Besides, it would be far more private if you just invited me in. Then your neighbor across the hall wouldn't keep peeking through the crack in her door and try to find out what we're talking about."
"That's Mrs. Kropotkin. I think her son's with the Russian Mafia."
I watch through the peephole as he waved to Mrs. Kropotkin.
"Zdrastvooyte," he said in what sounded like perfect Russian.
Mrs. Kropotkin closed her door, but not completely.
He turned right and then left, scoping the hallway out, his hands on his hips, his coat and suit jacket open, tie loosened. Even through the fisheye, he looked handsome.
"Why do you live in a place like this?" he said. "You come from a wealthy family."
"I don't want my father's money."
"Oh, yes, that's right," Drake said, and I could see a grin on his face. "Your father said something about you being a socialist…"
"I'm not a socialist. I studied political theory. There is a difference. I'm a liberal."
"Of course."
I made a face at that. He didn't believe me.
"My father would totally disown me if I joined the Socialist Party. As it is, I'm already a thorn in his side for my political positions and the fact I vote Democrat."
"My father was a socialist," Drake said, rubbing his jaw, which was covered by thick stubble, making him look all the more attractive. "A Trotskyite. I vote Republican. My father loved the Anonymous Group. He ate up WikiLeaks stuff. Probably would have stayed in Tent City if he was alive."
"I thought he – that you – are really rich."
"I am. He was. His company made a lot of money, but he started it for purely scientific purposes. He was what he called 'an accidental capitalist'. He saw the future in robotic surgery and wanted to help develop it. He was never in it for money. He drove one of those old Soviet cars. A really crappy, shit-brown Lada, but he liked the thought it was made in the Soviet Union. One of my favorite memories is of him tinkering with the engine, which was always breaking down. He spent so much trying to keep that piece of crap running."
I laughed at that and watched him through the peephole.
He smiled. "He was a wild man, full of life. Really gregarious." Drake said nothing for a moment. "I miss him."
My throat constricted at the sound of his voice – soft, sad. I missed my mother. I leaned my back against the door.
"What about your mother?" I said, wanting to keep him talking for some reason, remembering what he'd said abo
ut his mother leaving.
"She left us when I was ten."
"I'm sorry…"
"No, it's all right. I'm over it."
"How do you get over a mother leaving? Did your father remarry?"
"No," Drake said. "He never did. He travelled so much, he just kept the proverbial woman in every port. I had a succession of nannies and housekeepers to look after me."
I sighed. This was really stupid. Even I had to admit that I should let him in. We were having a nice conversation, even if now and then, I got the sense he was amused by me.
"You shouldn't have come here," I said. "It's very forward."
"I didn’t want any misunderstanding between us, Kate, and I don't want your father to find out about me. I admire your father and value his friendship. He's like a second father to me. I admire you. I," he said, hesitating. "I heard so much about you from your father and others. I'd like to get to know you better."
I ignored that. "You think I would ever tell my father about you? I'd have to tell him how I found out about your, you know. Kink. No way."
"Kate, why don't you let me in and we can talk? I'm sweltering out here and need some water."
"There's no reason to talk," I said and took in a breath. "I'm not writing about BDSM any longer and so we have nothing to talk about."
"I'd like to hear about Mangaize," he said. "I was in Africa last year but never went to the camps. I was in several field hospitals in the Congo."
"In case you forgot, you warned me off you."
There was a pause. "Oh, damn. I did, didn’t I?" He said nothing for a moment. "Can I take it back?"
"Nope. My father always said that if a man tells you he's not good for you, you should believe him."
"Your father is a very smart man."
I heard him sigh heavily. It made me want to invite him in. Someone who sighed like that had regrets for the bad things they'd done. They want to be good.
"Why did you warn me off?"
I watched out the peephole as he shook his head, rubbed his forehead.
"Isn't it obvious? You seemed so innocent, so young, so pure. I was sure you'd be horrified about my," he said, his voice low. "My lifestyle. I actually wanted to ask you out but didn't want to with Dave there, and then after the interview, I wanted to once again but I talked myself out of it. You were Katherine. Ethan's beloved daughter."
I said nothing. I wasn't horrified by the thought he was a Dominant. I was totally aroused by it but he could never know that. I could tell I'd be like putty in his hands if it ever came to that.
I didn’t know what to think. He did good and that's really what counted. His father's foundation did many really great things in third world countries. Maybe he did like to tie women up and fuck them senseless, but those women wanted it.
Right then, I wanted it.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I was truly sorry. "I just can't."
He sighed again. "Well, I should go, then. I don't want Mrs. Kropotkin to learn all my secrets." He had a playful tone but when he next spoke, his voice fell a register so that it was low and deep. As I peered out the peephole, he leaned up against the door, his face next to the fish eye lens. "I'm sorry about all this," he said, his voice soft. Sexy. "If you want to talk – about the article, about me, or the lifestyle – anything – you just have to call. Text me."
"I don't think I should," I said, grimacing, regret filling me.
"Okay," he said and sighed once more. "Your call. But if you change your mind and want me, I'm willing. Very willing."
Oh, damn… That was loaded with meaning.
"Goodbye, Dr. Morgan."
"Good night, Ms. Bennet."
I closed my eyes and bit back a smile at the reference to Pride and Prejudice. Ms. Bennet. Was he likening us to Darcy and Elizabeth?
I watched out the peephole as he walked down the hallway to the stairs and out of my life.
Mrs. Kropotkin closed her door.
CHAPTER FIVE
A few days passed and I hadn't heard anything more from Drake Morgan. I had to admit I was a bit upset. I thought he'd at least make contact with me, text me, but nothing. Right about then I was starting to regret I'd turned down his request to come in, or go on a date.
Then, I mentally knocked myself in the head. What a silly woman I was… He was no good for me. I'd get into some kind of trouble if I let myself become involved with him. My father would hear about it somehow and I'd have one more big strike against me in his mind.
The following Thursday, I was sitting in my father's apartment, wearing a new cocktail dress he insisted buying for me because this was his first campaign fundraising dinner and he wanted me and Heath to be in attendance. I wore something his campaign stylist brought in for me, chosen from a selection of a dozen expensive dresses, shoes, and jewelry. We had to look perfect as a family. My father's new wife, Elaine, who was only a decade older than me, Heath's wife, Christie, and I made our choices. After the dresses were altered to fit us to perfection, I went to my father's apartment to be 'styled' by the makeup artist and hair stylist he hired to make sure we looked perfect. I wore a silky black dress with a plunging neckline and understated jewelry, my hair down.
She actually spray-painted makeup and eye shadow on my face. I couldn’t believe it. My father whistled when he saw me, making me blush.
The dinner was catered, of course, and there was a bustle in the apartment as the servers and chef busied themselves setting the table and preparing the food. There was even a bar set up in the large dining room, fresh flower arrangements everywhere and hot appetizers – even Russian caviar flown in from St. Petersburg and fresh Alaskan salmon. An ice sculpture…
Father spared no expense for the event.
Twenty of 'his people' as he called them would be in attendance to discuss his candidacy. They would all be expected to make big donations. They would retire to the study after dinner and talk strategy.
I was given the itinerary. I would stand around with him and Elaine, with Heath and Christie, and have a drink. We'd mix and mingle before dinner. We'd have our meal. Then, the serious business would happen and I'd be excused. My only consolation was that Nigel would be in attendance.
Thank God.
I grew up in this old apartment and it held a lot of memories. It had been in my father's family for several generations – since the turn of the 20th century. One day, it would be Heath's. But tonight, it was the setting for my father's campaign event. All I really wanted to do was go home and work on my article on the IPCC's next round of climate talks, but this was family business.
Judge McDermott requested your attendance. You didn't turn Judge McDermott down.
The invitations went out two weeks earlier, and cocktails were set to start at 6:30 with dinner at 7:30. It was now 6:05 and I sat in the living room and checked my iPhone for messages from Dawn. I wanted to invite her but father said no, it was just family and his people tonight.
Someone arrived early and I wondered who it was? It was so not appropriate for guests to arrive before the allotted time. Must be a buffoon who was rich but not used to the usual protocol for these kinds of events.
The event planner answered the door and in walked Dr. Drake Morgan looking like a hundred-million-odd bucks.
What?
I froze. Was he invited? I saw the guest list and never saw his name. Maybe he was just popping in? He did know my father…
He looked… devastating. While the organizer took his coat, I saw he was wearing a very expensive black suit with a deep royal blue shirt and black tie. His hair was sexy, black and shiny and just a bit wild from the wind outside, falling just below his collar in the back, and there was a fashionably-stylish amount of whiskers on his face. He scanned the entryway and then he saw me sitting in the living area in front of the fireplace. A surge of adrenaline went through me when our eyes met. He slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled, that quirk of a half-smile, his eyes twinkling.
Crap…
&
nbsp; I wanted to go to my old bedroom and hide the way I used to when I was a kid, but I was almost twenty-five. I had to stay there and entertain our guests.
Drake just stared at me, as if he was waiting for me to invite him in. I sighed, then I went to him, my hands held behind my back because I just knew that he'd want to kiss my hand the way he had before.
"Doctor Morgan," I said, my voice a bit shaky.
"Ms. Bennet," he said softly, low enough so that no one could overhear. "You look… breathtaking."
I made a face at that, hiding my smile behind a hand. The dress I wore was very feminine. Black velvet with a square neckline that happened to show off my cleavage a bit too much for my tastes but the stylist assured me it was all the fashion.
Of course, Drake extended his hand and it was just then that my father breezed into the entryway.
"Oh, Drake, there you are."
I had to shake Drake's hand. My father would expect it. I held out my hand and Drake took it and he kissed my knuckles briefly, his eyes never leaving mine. I knew that if my father hadn't been there, he wouldn’t have let go. I just knew. He was that kind of man – the kind who didn't let you forget that he was male and you were female.
Drake turned to my father. "Judge McDermott," he said, extending his hand. "Thanks once again for inviting me tonight."
My dad shook his hand, his other hand on Drake's shoulder. That meant my father really really liked Drake. He only did that with his closest friends or people he wanted to be.
"Drake, please, I insist you call me Ethan," he said in his gravelly voice that made him sound like George C. Scott in Patton. "I see you've already spoken to Katherine. Come in and make yourself comfortable." My father turned to me. "I invited Drake here a bit earlier than our other guests so you could give him the tour and show him your photographs from Africa." He turned to Drake. "They're really good and intimate, telling the story of her trip. You want to understand what makes my daughter tick? You see those photos. Very artistic. She has real talent. I have to take a call or I'd join you myself."
I was struck speechless. My father purposely invited Drake early so I could spend time with him – alone?
