by Maren Smith
“Eli Humboldt?” she said, almost dropping her laptop bag. “The Eli Humboldt? With CNN?”
“I met him overseas a few years back.” Reeve shrugged. “He still has a head because of me, so give me twenty-four hours before you call that number. I’ll call in a favor.”
Shoulders sagging all over again, Sandy stared up at him.
“Think of me while you’re filling up your scrapbook.”
It was the closest to an actual goodbye that either came to saying. Sandy was still trying to process the opportunity she’d just been handed when he bent and, ever so chastely, kissed her on the cheek.
That his cheek rested against hers for just a second too long might have been a figment of her imagination. Eyes closed, he rolled his lips together, but it probably wasn’t because he was savoring her taste or trying to commit it to memory. Because he let her go after that and got back in his car. If he checked on her once in the rearview mirror as he drove away… well, she didn’t see it. And she stood on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, lips tingling, her heart in her throat, watching to see if he would until his BMW turned the far corner and she just couldn’t see it anymore.
* * *
Three months later…
* * *
A security officer was waiting to escort Sandy directly to Master Marshall’s office from the moment she stepped off the bus. In all three phone conversations that she’d had with him prior to making this trip, he’d assured her no legal action would be taken, and yet, she still had that moment of trepidation when she saw Jackson in his black t-shirt with the bold white ‘Security’ letters blazoned across the front. He smiled at her, but it was the kind of smile she thought might have been pasted on for the sake of politeness.
“I promise, no running amok,” she said as she stepped down. She was the only person on the bus, which they had quite kindly sent to the end of their very long driveway to collect her. Cars weren’t allowed on Castle property, Marshall had said. The only exceptions made were for those who lived here and no one else. Not even her. She’d left her vehicle parked on the side of the road and hoped she didn’t have a tow warning taped to her windshield by the time she got back to it.
“It’s a promise I’m sure I’ll have no trouble guaranteeing you keep,” the massive chief of security replied. “Right this way.”
Shouldering her laptop bag, the only luggage she’d brought with her since she wouldn’t be staying, Sandy followed him back across the drawbridge towards the Castle proper. She never really thought she’d return here. She’d argued with herself for more than a week before sending Marshall her request for a personal visit. She’d continued that argument every minute of every mile she’d driven out of town, until she parked her car and climbed aboard the waiting bus. She hadn’t known the driver, but he’d obviously known her.
“Mm hm,” was all he’d said in response to her greeting. He hadn’t returned her tentative smile, either. And now, as she followed in Jackson’s burly shadow, through the main doors and up the grand staircase, she couldn’t help but try to pick out which of those she passed were guests and which in this sea of frowning faces and speculative glances were costumed employees. It was all but certain at least some of them knew of her disgrace.
And Reeve wasn’t here.
As they made their way to Marshall’s office, her wandering eyes kept looking for him. He wasn’t anywhere that she could see, lurking in some darkened shadow, watching from a distance. She didn’t know if that was a relief or if it depressed her all over again. It was hard to admit, even in the privacy of her own grim thoughts, but he had been the number one reason behind her reluctance to do this.
Still, she needed to be here. She needed to make amends, somehow, for the mistakes she had made and the damage she’d caused. For three months now, this need had been growing inside her. She couldn’t shake loose of it. She couldn’t shake loose of the guilt. She couldn’t shake loose of the dreams, all of them governed over by Reeve’s stern frown and rough, hard hands. One would think, after three months, she wouldn’t still be dreaming about him, but from the moment she closed her eyes, she did. Or that she’d be able to sit down without feeling again the ghost of old pressure on her knees when she’d been made to kneel. Or take a shower without the streams of water turning into his fingertips, running down her body. Or crawl into bed without being gripped again and again by that insane urge to bend herself over the foot of it, hoping that if she could just close her eyes and wish hard enough, he’d magically appear behind her, and finally just hurt her so at last she could shrug out of this persistent, haunting sadness and move on with her life.
Without Reeve.
It hurt to think that, though she knew it shouldn’t. She’d only known him for two days, for heaven’s sake. She’d also done this to herself. So really, she had no one else to blame for the tightness squeezing down on her chest. Still, she wished she could see him one more time. Talk to him. Tell him… what? That she was sorry. Words were so inadequate for how this felt.
Maybe it was a good thing Reeve wasn’t here. She wasn’t sure she could look at him and get through the kind of heartfelt apology he deserved without falling apart.
And still, when they reached Marshall’s closed office door, her heart skipped a beat. And again, when Jackson knocked, and yet again when Marshall bade them enter. But it wasn’t Reeve sitting in the chair opposite of the Master of the Masters. It was Eric, and his was the first genuine smile aimed at her since her arrival.
“Come on in,” he greeted, and patted the waiting chair beside him.
Just like the last time she was here, Jackson took up a guard’s position at the door, feet braced apart, hands clasped behind his back. At least she had all her clothes on this time.
“Welcome,” Marshall greeted, cool but polite. She hadn’t exactly earned anything warmer.
Steadying herself with a deep breath, she accepted the seat beside Eric. No one offered any explanations for Reeve’s conspicuous absence, and she didn’t invite the hurtful answer that particular question would bring. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Thank you for the file cabinets,” Marshall replied. “They were delivered yesterday.”
“I got the confirmation,” Sandy said, trying to relax as she settled in. Or at least to look like she was relaxed. Opening her laptop bag, she withdrew the contract he had sent her and handed it over. “It’s all signed and notarized.”
“Ah.” Marshall took a moment to thumb through the pages, double-checking each initialization and signature. “Thank you, but you could have mailed this.”
“True, but then I would not have been able to tell you…” Sandy braced herself with another deep sigh. And still her voice shook as she said, “…to tell you how very sorry I am for what I did the last time I was here. I was so blinded by what I wanted that I did things I never should have and which, in any other circumstance, I never would have.” Bowing her head, she dug down into her bag for the short handful of envelopes that she then handed to him. “I was hoping you would maybe give these to the people whose privacy I violated when I tried to steal their files.”
The top envelope was addressed to Amanda. Marshall looked at it for a long moment before raising his gaze back to hers.
She cleared her throat. She’d had plenty of time to dread this moment. More than once she had envisioned him handing the envelopes back to her. “I left them unsealed.” She gripped the strap of her bag to keep from fidgeting but her right foot was already jiggling uncontrollably. She couldn’t seem to make it stop. “You can read them, if you want. So you can, um… verify the appropriateness of what I wrote.” And then, to make sure she was clear, she hastened to add, “They’re apologies.”
“Hand written,” Marshall acknowledged, peeking into one envelope long enough to notice. Her worst fears were not realized. He did not hand the envelopes back. He kept them, setting them aside to distribute later. “That was very thoughtful.”
“An
d overdue,” she acknowledged. “It’s been three months. You could have sent me to jail and you didn’t, and I just want you to know I appreciate that. So, I-I brought this too.” Back into her bag she went, this time withdrawing a larger manila envelope, which she passed to him.
“Addressed to me,” Marshall noticed.
“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she assured him. Now that it was out of her hands, she was having second thoughts.
“What is it?” Eric asked.
Opening the envelope, Marshall withdrew a single page. “Ah.” A corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he read what was typed on it. “It’s a review.” He looked at her over the top of the page. “It’s even positive.”
“For my stay here.” She twisted the strap of her bag between her hands. “I will one hundred percent abide by the terms of the contract I signed, but I…” Her courage faltered and her hands shook. “I-I was hoping you could do one thing for me.”
Setting the review aside now as well, Marshall came around to her side of his desk. He seated himself on the edge, arms folded across his chest. “I’m listening.”
The last envelope in her bag was larger than the others, square and bulky because of the bubble wrap inside. She practically thrust it at Marshall. “Would you please give this to him?”
God, she couldn’t even say his name. How pathetic was that? Oh, great. Here came the tears.
Oh, and even worse now, Marshall was handing it back to her. She really couldn’t look at him now. It was all she could do not to let those first tears fall as he leaned down, physically taking her shaking hand and pressing her package for Reeve back into it.
Squeezing her arm, he said, “Give it to him yourself. I think it would mean more.”
Sandy didn’t jump when a hand reached over her shoulder to gently take the package from her hands.
She knew that hand and all the scars that peppered it. She knew its strengths, its fury, and its gentleness, and she knew the man it was attached to.
It was Reeve.
Chapter 15
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. What if he was frowning? What if he was holding a grudge? She deserved that, but oh God, it would kill her. How long had he been standing behind her? Why hadn’t she heard him come in? She looked to Jackson and the door he was still guarding. Arms folded, a slight smile on his face, he pointed to Marshall’s private bathroom, the door of which she thought had been closed when she’d first entered, but which now stood wide open.
Clearing his throat, Marshall pushed off the desk. “I think we should all try to find someplace else to be for the next—” He checked his watch, then glanced to Reeve. “—ten or so minutes?”
Sandy still couldn’t look at him, but Reeve must have nodded because Jackson exited the office with the Master of the Masters close behind him.
Sandy jumped when Eric touched her leg, lowering himself to squat at her knee.
“I know you’re not a Little, but don’t be offended.” Giving her plenty of time to anticipate what he was about to do and even object if she wanted to, Eric leaned in to wrap his arms around her. It was like that first day at the Castle all over again, sitting on his knee with her head on his chest, tears pouring from her eyes and her butt on fire. Except her butt wasn’t on fire right now. It was crawling, though, as if it knew it ought to be, and what he whispered in her ear wasn’t a gentle scolding for how he expected her to take her future spankings or a rundown of the Daddy Dom-little girl rules. As unexpected as it was shattering, Eric whispered instead, “Good girl, Sandy. Daddy is so proud of you.”
No, she wasn’t a Little. Sandy melted anyway, sinking for just a moment into the comfort of his embrace. All too quickly, though, his arms withdrew. With a final pat on her back, he tipped a salute to his friend, and then he too left them alone.
That might not have been a good thing. Some of their worst moments had happened when they were alone together. Of course, some of their best moments had too. Still, he was here and now that he was, Sandy had no idea what to say.
“Sorry,” Reeve eventually offered. He sat down on the edge of Marshall’s desk, although Eric’s chair would have allowed them to be closer. More intimate. Maybe that was why he chose to avoid it. “I thought I had a little more time before you got here.”
“It’s fine,” she said, waving it off and trying to laugh. It quavered and fell flat. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No.” He looked at the bulky package. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
Turning the envelope over in his hands, he brushed two fingers across her careful printing of his name and then set it aside. “You look good,” he said awkwardly.
He was always so much better when he was yelling at her. Thinking that made her laugh again. It wasn’t quite so flat or faltering this time. Brushing at her eyes so they’d at least be dry, she made herself smile. “I feel like a mess.”
“It’s a beautiful mess,” he replied, the set of his shoulders somewhat relaxing.
“Says the man who likes it when I cry.”
“Only when you’re on your knees,” he gently corrected, then thought about it. “Or when you’re head down on the bed with my cock up your ass. That’s a turn-on, too.”
Oh, for the love of—Sandy laughed again. A ghost of a smile gentled his mouth, then his eyes. Picking up the package again, he flipped it over. Her stomach did an amazing echo of that flip as he opened it.
Pulling her scrapbook out of the envelope, Reeve removed the bubble wrap. He didn’t ask what it was. “You got your article,” he guessed, and opened it. But it wasn’t a news article taped to the first page, memorializing her first step in her new career.
His smile faded as he read it. “What is this?”
“A copy of my resignation letter to Eli Humboldt,” she confessed, rubbing her nervous hands against her lap. She drew a shaky breath. “I wanted to thank you for the opportunity, but I wasn’t in that job three weeks before I realized I, um… I actually hated every minute of it.” She shrugged when he looked up. His brow furrowed. No trace of his earlier smile remained. “It’s true. I wanted to be Lois Lane. I wanted an exciting life. I wanted to travel, and do fantastic things, and meet exciting new people and tell them they’re wrong, and make a difference to someone. It didn’t have to be a grand difference. Just a difference.” She shrugged again, at a loss for how to explain something she had always felt but never tried to put into words before now. “I wasn’t going to find that with CNN.”
“You don’t think three weeks is a little soon to make that kind of snap assumption?”
“No,” she said with all the certainty she’d felt the night she’d drafted that resignation letter. “I was a journalist here for years and I had the same exact sense of frustration going to work every day for Eli Humboldt as I did writing about cats stuck in trees. It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was writing, it was that I didn’t like what I was doing. It was long hours and long days and long weekends, and lots of filing and phone calls, and sitting at a cramped little desk in my own personal office, nursing cup after cup of my newly-acquired caffeine addiction, and…” Shaking her head helplessly, Sandy shrugged again. Her hands flopped to her knees. “I hated it. I hated every minute of it. So, I quit. I decided to do something different.”
A tiny seed of nervous excitement began to sprout through the tension quivering in the pit of her stomach. Staring at her book in his hands, she resisted the urge to turn the page for him because he was taking so long getting to it. It wasn’t until he noticed the direction of her stare that Reeve finally turned the leaf.
“What is this?” Reeve grinned as he took in the book-sized cover art for an erotic novel that had been carefully glued to the next page.
“Those,” Sandy said with quiet pride, “are the covers of the first five novels that I copy-edited for the publishing house where I now work.”
“Fantastic tits,” he said, turning the scrapbook sideways. “Does it fold out?”
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She smacked him on the knee. “No, it doesn’t. Don’t make fun of me. I’m proud of myself. I work from home, setting my own hours. I travel to exotic times and locations in every new story I accept. I meet new and exciting authors just about every week, and in the nicest possible way, of course, I get to tell them where they’re wrong. It’s not the paycheck I’m used to, but it’s not bad, and I don’t hate myself for doing it. In fact, I really like it.”
Dark eyes smoldering, he looked at her.
Her stomach flip-flopped, but the seeds inside her were growing. Like Jack’s magic beanstalk, they were soon all the way up in the back of her throat. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
Setting her book aside, Reeve folded his arms across his chest. The longer he went without saying something, the more strangling her beanstalk became. The skin across her bottom and the backs of her thighs, everywhere she came in contact with the chair on which she sat, began to tingle and then to crawl.
She tried to laugh it off, but it came out breathless. “What?”
“Do you remember what I told you the last time you hit me?” he asked. His tone was both playful and threatening. Heat burned her face, her breasts and even her bottom. But on the tails of that heat came a washing wave of guilt. It stole her smile.
“I am so very sorry,” she tried to say, but he shook his head.
“Don’t say that.”
“But I am,” she insisted. “I’ve felt nothing but horrible for three months and I don’t know how to tell you—”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do!” She bounced to the very edge of her seat. “You don’t understand what the last few months have been like. I have never felt so guilty in my life. I screwed up! I know I did. I can’t ask you to forgive me. I can’t do anything to make it better, and I know we can’t start over again. But if you could just give me some hope, then maybe I can leave here today and for the first time be able to close my eyes tonight without first reliving every mistake I’ve made and absolutely hating myself for it! Is that—” She was almost afraid to know the answer. “Is that asking too much?”
