Forced to Yield

by Tasha Fawkes

  "Answer me, Karen," I say, striving for calm. "How much did you take that night?"

  She doesn't say anything for several moments, and I know it. My heart pounds in disbelief. "You faked the suicide attempt?" My voice rises. "You faked it?"

  That's all it takes. I can't believe the change that comes over her. So calm one moment, face flushed with guilt or anger and eyes glaring the next. She stiffens in her chair and then leans back, pointing a finger at me.

  "You made a promise to me! You made a promise to my family! Do you think I was going to let you get away with making me—making them—look foolish?"

  I stand, stunned.

  "You think you're so smart, Daniel. But you know what? I know about your supposedly secret house. I know you bring women there. I know about your perverted…" She pauses with a grimace of distaste. "In fact, I know you took a woman there just couple of days before I ended up in the hospital. I also know it's going to stop. You hear me? It's going to stop. You and that skanky brunette girlfriend of yours… so pathetic."

  I take a step back away, not because I’m afraid of her but because I want to slap her. I’ve never struck a woman in my life, and I don't want to. But I’m shocked. And pissed off. I don't particularly care if she knows about my secret life, but what angers me is the fact that she obviously had me followed. I can't decide whether I’m more disgusted, annoyed, or… this is the last straw. She faked a suicide attempt to get her own way.

  I take another step back before I speak. "You did that to my mother? Your so-called suicide attempt? Don't you realize that my mother really cares for you? And your parents? You did that to the people who love you?" I shake my head. "I can't forgive you for that."

  She merely stares back up at me, emotionless. I take a deep breath, realizing I don't want to waste one more bit of emotion on her. I shake my head, my eyes never leaving hers.

  "We're done, Karen. For good this time. And I swear, if you pull another stunt like you did last week, not only will your parents find out, but I'll press charges. You hear me?"

  She snorts. "You can't press charges on someone who tries to kill themselves."

  "Don't push me," I threaten, and I mean every word. "At the very least, I can insist that you get put on a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold."

  "You son of a bitch, you can't do this to me! You can't do this to my family—"

  "Watch me," I say. I turn my back on her and leave her apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. I hear something crash against the door—shattering glass, and imagine she's probably thrown the bowl of soup at it. Crazy bitch.

  I quickly head downstairs to my car, pulling my phone from my pocket. I press speed dial as I step from the building into the parking garage.

  "Hi, Daniel, how are you doing?"

  "Mom, I've had it with her. We're done."

  "Daniel?"

  "She faked her suicide attempt, Mom. She faked it!" My mother says nothing, and I can just imagine the look on her face. "I've always tried to do what you wanted me to do, and until recently, I've been accepting of your wishes. I've compromised on things I never should have compromised on. I wanted to make you happy by marrying Karen, but I can't do it."

  Nothing comes over the phone and for a second I wonder if the call dropped. Then I hear her voice, soft with dismay.

  "Are you sure, Daniel? She faked her suicide attempt?"

  "I'm sure, Mom. I just wanted to let you know in case she tries to call and give you another sob story. I have a feeling she might call you."

  "I don't understand…"

  "I'm trying to understand it all as well. Are you at home?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm on my way. We'll talk."

  I disconnect the call and continue toward my car. One thing is certain. I’m not marrying Karen. I don't care what kind of histrionics she produces. I’ve found someone that I want to be with, and I just hope it isn't too late to fix the mess I’ve made out of things.

  Twenty-Four

  Ashley

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. Four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. Just like old times, sitting in my apartment in frumpy sweats and a T-shirt, working on my laptop. Well, trying to anyway.

  It's been a week since Daniel rushed out of my apartment to go rescue Karen. I shouldn't feel so resentful, but I can't help it. What did she have that I didn't? Money? Good looks? A fancy lineage? Big deal. It’s funny though; I’m angrier at Karen, a woman I’ve never met, let alone seen, than I am with Daniel.

  He can’t help it if his fiancée, ex-fiancée, was weak-minded, or so desperate to hang onto him that she resorted to a suicide attempt to keep him by her side. Sad, really. I know Daniel was trying to do the right thing even though I didn't want to feel that way. His traditional values and loyalty seem at odds with his underground life. The Master, the Dom, and his playroom, as opposed to the professional and solid business owner, fiancée, and future husband.

  I stare at my computer screen, dissatisfied and frustrated. I quit trying to revise my first manuscript, the one based on Daniel and me as its main characters. Looking back, I realize now how obvious I was in describing not only appearance, but character and personality. Now I’m working on a second novel; nothing that hints at my life or his. Nothing about the characters based on me, Daniel, or anyone else I knew. The problem is that they seem flat and two-dimensional. I know I can write. I just need some inspiration. Unfortunately, my inspiration flew out the window at about the same pace that Daniel left my apartment last week.

  It’s a book about a couple venturing into the world of bondage, so it’s the same niche, and this time I can write from actual experience. The location of my new story is far from my own, set in a nondescript, one-bedroom community in suburban Los Angeles. The female character of my new book doesn't work in a publishing house, but rather as a realtor in swanky Beverly Hills. My main male character is nothing like Daniel, but one that I’ve developed as a rather introverted mechanic. You don't have to be rich to delve into bondage, and I want to stay away from any similarities in my character or the slowly developing plot line from my first book.

  During the past week, I’ve had to force myself to go to work and act as if nothing is wrong. Act like the past few months of my life haven't been an out-of-control roller coaster ride—first admiring and crushing on Daniel from afar, then indulging in a torrid underground affair with him. Tory told me that word floating around the pub house was that Daniel was called away for some kind of family emergency. I pretended disinterest, other than the initial oh I'm sorry to hear about that offer of sympathy. Inside, my curiosity was killing me. What happened with Karen?

  Things returned to normal, at least at work. After the third day, I found myself glancing down the hallway toward Daniel's office less frequently. By the fifth night, I could lay in bed and try to go to sleep without imagining a bondage scene with Daniel standing behind me, his cock pressed up against my ass, my pussy wet with desire and anticipation.

  By yesterday, I was beginning to grow disgruntled with myself. Let him go! He doesn't want you! So, here I am, forcing myself to concentrate on new beginnings; a new story, a new attitude, and… well, if not exactly a new life, then a new outlook.

  I admit that I miss Daniel, but focusing on creating a new manuscript is keeping me occupied and in a way, does make me feel better. This time, when describing bondage scenes, I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m writing what I know, one of the foundations of authorship.

  I do wish that someday, I’ll be able to finish my first book, but I’m not so sure how to do it without thinking of Daniel. That character is Daniel. Putting it away for a time seems like a good idea, even though I hate to do it. At the same time, I know that if I don't, I’ll end up wallowing, and I don't want to do that either.

  Daniel taught me plenty, and I appreciate that. I told myself that when he returns to work, more than likely a married man, I’ll treat him with the same courtesy and respect with which I’ve always
treated him. I won’t hold a grudge, fuss or internally whine. After all, we had an agreement. It isn't his fault that I ended up falling for him, wishing…

  A knock on my door startles me. I jolt upright in my chair, staring at the door. I hear nothing from the other side. I rise from my chair and walk toward the door, thinking how wonderful it would be if this was a moment of déjà vu and I would open it to find Daniel standing on the other side. I’m not really surprised when I open the door and find a UPS delivery man wearing his brown uniform, a package in one hand, his digital boxlike gadget in the other.

  He shoves the contraption toward me. "Sign here, please."

  I almost laugh at my foolish wishful thinking as I grab the stylus hanging from the device, scribble my name on the screen, then hand it back to him while he hands me a large, white plastic envelope. He turns and walks down the hallway as I step back into my apartment. I close and lock the door before turning the envelope in my hand. It has the typical mailing stickers on it, but in the shadowed light of my small foyer, I can't see the return address.

  I take it into the living room and sit down on the couch, pulling the plastic mailer open. I peek inside and see a stack of paper about an inch thick. A manuscript? I reach inside and pull it out, realizing that it’s a printed copy of my manuscript. I frown, thumbing through it. I know that Daniel had to be the sender, and a surge of emotion sweeps upward. Unexpected and powerful. Is this his way of saying goodbye? Sending me my manuscript as if to say he wants nothing more to do with me? Oh, how I wish everything worked out. Maybe—

  Wait a minute. As I thumb through the pages, I remember that I ended my draft on Chapter Twenty. As I flip toward the end of the manuscript, I see a Chapter Twenty-One, and another after that. My manuscript ended on the Saturday evening before Christmas. The last chapter heading here is the second week in January. I frown and lean back. Today is January fifteenth. Curious, I begin to read the last two chapters. My eyes widen as I realize that Daniel must have written the additional chapters, adding several scenes to my story that tell how the hero met someone; someone who understood him, didn't expect anything from him, and wanted only to please him, not only in the bedroom, or his playroom basement, but as a partner.

  I choke back a lump in my throat when I read the last few pages. The hero broke up with his fiancée after she faked a suicide attempt in a desperate ploy to keep him despite knowing that he was interested in, and falling in love with, someone else. My heartbeat begins to accelerate as I read further. The hero called off his engagement a second time, swearing to the fiancée that he was going to try to win the heroine back.

  I turn the page, anxious to see how Daniel ended the story, but to my intense frustration, it’s blank.

  "What the hell!"

  Another knock on the door startles me. Did the delivery man forget something? Placing the manuscript on the coffee table, I stand and hurry to the door. When I open it, my heart leaps into my throat. Daniel. I blink, so surprised I can't say anything for several moments. He stands there, looking at me, not saying a word.

  "You wrote those two chapters, didn't you?" I barely get the words out. I want to leap into his arms on the one hand and guard myself and my heart on the other.

  "Yes, I did." He nods.

  I can't help it. Once again, my heart burgeons with hope. "Is it true? What you wrote?"

  He nods again. "Very much so."

  I step back, allowing him entry. He brushes past me, and I inhale a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. I shut the door and turn to find him standing close, so close that I feel his heat, intoxicated by his nearness.

  "Why isn't there an ending?" I ask. He smiles at me; a tender, smile that literally has my nipples tingling.

  "Because the ending will be up to you."

  Is this for real? I resist the urge to pinch myself, all the while staring up into his grass-green eyes, gazing somberly, yet with affection down at me. Life is filled with ups and downs, risks and challenges, and I know that the only way to find out for sure is to take that step.

  "I've always been a sucker for a happily ever after ending," I say.

  "And how would the ending go?"

  I step closer, place my hands against his chest, then trail them downward. Brazenly, I sweep one hand down further along his hip, then along the inside of his thigh to cup his manhood. "I'd end it with a bang." I grin.

  He laughs and wraps his arms around me, hugging me close. I revel in his embrace. I have no idea where things will go from here, but I’m willing to take a chance.

  "I have to admit that I'm relieved, and more than happy to hear that's what you want," he says.

  I feel his hand lifting my chin and his lips lower toward mine. We kiss; not a desperate kiss, but a gentle, tender, and heartfelt caress that has my knees going weak. Finally, with my pulse throbbing in my neck and my breath hitching in my throat, he leans back.

  "I still want to publish your book, Ashley, but we still have to figure some things out."

  "We can talk about all that later," I say. "Right now, I just want my happy-ending."

  And a happy-ending I got.

  We hope you enjoyed Craving My Boss.

  Other books from Safira Publishing

  By Tasha Fawkes

  Please visit Tasha’s website for a complete list of her books.

  tashafawkes.com

  About Tasha Fawkes

  I’m originally from a small southern town where everyone knew everyone and their business. I was so happy to leave and move to California for college where I was originally going to be a veterinarian.

  Well, I met a guy – yeah, it’s that kind of story – and dropped out of school to have my oldest daughter. We soon divorced, and as a kind of therapy, I started to write books. I loved the fantasy world of fiction and never did go back to college, and have been writing ever since.

  I write about sexy guys and girls. Anything but missionary –unless the heroine is tied up tight. My southern upbringing sure brings the kinkiness out of me. Don’t be shy to stay in touch. I’d love to hear your kinky stories. Maybe we can turn them into a book. :)

  XXX, Tasha

  Please visit me at and get a free ebook!

  https://tashafawkes.com/