His To Have

by Devon Birchley

  I take another sip of my drink. Each mouthful traces a warm path down to my stomach, and I can literally feel all those taut little muscles unfurling.

  “So now you know everything about me. How about you even up the balance?” I say.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Everything. I suddenly want to know everything about him. “Are you a vintage car dealer?”

  He flashes two rows of perfect white teeth. “I give you a free shot, and you want to know what I do for a living? Really?”

  I clench my jaw. He has a way of making me feel naïve, and I don’t appreciate it.

  “It’s a passion of mine. I fix them up mostly, and sometimes I sell them, or rent them out to movie sets. I only ride around in my Cadillac, though. Do you want to see it?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s right around the corner.” As my lips purse, he pulls out his phone. “I’m kidding. Here’s a photo.” The screen fills with an image of a long powder-blue and white car on a sidewalk with a lot of palm trees in the background. It’s obviously vintage, but it looks pristine. The top’s down and Adler’s sitting inside in a pair of aviators, faded jeans, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, displaying tattooed biceps. His legs are wide apart, and one hand rests on the steering wheel while the other is draped on the empty seat. His smile is open, inviting, and I find myself yearning to know who’s behind the camera.

  “Nice,” I say. “I love cars like this.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what she was like when I found her. A poor, broken heap of rust. But with a little love and direction, she’s come a long way.”

  I swallow hard. There’s something intimate about his words. And he’s only talking about a car. “California?” I ask to distract myself.

  “Santa Monica. She was due to be in a movie set, so I had her delivered to Sacramento, then I drove her the rest of the way down the coast. One of the best rides of my life.”

  I see the passion in his face, hear the wistfulness in his voice, and I’m there. The sky’s a perfect blue, the sun’s beating down, and the wind’s in my hair. Ocean on the right and desert on the left. For a fleeting moment, I wish I was that girl, whoever she is. “Sounds amazing.”

  “What were you really doing at the Sexpo?”

  I jolt back to the present.

  “I told you—I was helping Dominique out for the night. She needed someone to flyer for her.”

  “Nothing better to do on a Saturday night? I find that hard to believe.” His eyes have changed now; they’re darker, harder. More like I remember from Saturday.

  “I guess I like to prioritize helping my friends out. What were you doing there?”

  “Same. Helping a friend with their performance.”

  “Were you tying that girl up in knots?”

  “It’s my question now.” He’s edged closer, barely perceptibly, but now his face is inches from mine. His skin is flawless, lightly tanned. He doesn’t have the winter pallor of everyone else in this town. His nearness is exciting and unnerving at the same time, and before I can stop myself, I lean back a fraction.

  “Are we trading questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. What’s your question?”

  “Why were you so strung out when we met?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Answer the question.”

  “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to any of this.” Deliberating, I take a long sip of my drink. “I just ran into one of the bosses from my company, and I was afraid he’d freak out that I’d seen him.”

  “Did he?”

  “I think I’m in the clear.”

  He nods. “I’m sure Koln & Mathers would be very reluctant to let you go.”

  I throw him a sardonic half-smile to cover my embarrassment. “Don’t be so sure. I’m a first-year exec. They’re practically looking for excuses to get rid of us.”

  “It’s cutthroat?”

  “Very.”

  “That doesn’t suit you.”

  A filament of annoyance lights up in my brain. “You don’t know what suits me.”

  “I know you’re creative and ambitious. And that you chose advertising because you didn’t want to be a starving artist. But now you’re worried that you’re selling out.”

  “Nothing but conjecture.”

  “Really?” He looks annoyingly sexy when he cocks his eyebrow like that.

  As my mouth opens and closes again, he passes me the drinks menu.

  “I should go,” I say, but part of me doesn’t want to at all. I’m kind of enjoying sitting with this captivating stranger, engaging in a verbal sparring match.

  “It’s your turn to ask the question, and you’re about to leave?” He’s watching me like a big cat watches some small prey, weighing up whether it’s worth the effort of hunting it down. “Ask me anything. Anything at all. But choose your drink first.”

  I’ve gotten a taste for the hot rum, and I want the same again, but I pretend to read the menu while I’m thinking about my next question. “What’s your deal?”

  His eyes narrow. “My deal?”

  “So you’re into S-and-M. But you’re such a normal guy. I mean, you look like a hipster. Like you ought to be riding your fixie to a farmer’s market while drinking artisan coffee out of a biodegradable cup. Not whipping someone mercilessly while dressed in a gimp suit.”

  “Hipster?” he echoes with a laugh. “No one’s ever called me that before. I guess I just have my own style. I don’t try to fit in with particular groups.” His tone has become serious again, his gaze unwavering. “I’m into domination, yes. But maybe you’ve already forgotten what I told you on Saturday.”

  My throat tightens. I haven’t. His hand reaches behind me and closes around my hair—not pulling, just holding. As I watch him like an animal poised for flight, he tilts his jaw toward me, his eyes narrow, and suddenly his lips are meeting mine. God, they’re soft. His beard scratches a little, excitingly, and I pick up the scent of whisky and tobacco. When he kisses me hard, my mouth opens to him instinctively, and at the first touch of his tongue against mine, my pussy begins to throb. This shouldn’t feel so good.

  Too soon, he pulls away, leaving me feeling like he’s just sucked all the air out of my body, and then he regards me, as if surveying his handiwork.

  “I prefer the simple things,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. He lifts his glass, sips his drink, and leans back on the banquette. All I can do is stare at him, lips parted, wishing the ache between my thighs would let up. Wishing he’d kiss me like that again.

  “My question,” he says. “What was your moment?”

  I mentally shake myself out. “What moment?”

  “The moment when something deep inside you shifted, and the path of your entire future sexual desires and yearnings was set.”

  “There was no moment. I told you I’m not into S-and-M or kink. Any of that. I had a normal life. Nothing freaky happened to me. I grew up, I started liking boys, having boyfriends. That was it.”

  “Reagan, I know that’s not true.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “But I do. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “You said my eyes were innocent. Therefore, they reveal nothing.”

  “I didn’t say innocent. I said vulnerable. That’s something different entirely. But the fact you remembered it as innocent speaks volumes.”

  “What are you, a psychologist?”

  “Maybe. I know a little about human nature anyway.” He sips his Old Fashioned, observes me casually. “I didn’t expect an answer from you. It’s likely something you’re totally unaware of. But think about it. Reach back into your past and see if you can figure out what created such a powerful desire in you to submit.”

  “Why would I do that?” My tone is bordering on belligerent, but he’s struck close to home, and my cheeks heat in tandem with my pussy.

  “Because you have a need in you, an
d it’s important you understand it. If you don’t, you’ll never be fulfilled. Take your time. It might be the opposite of what you expect it to be.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “So, what’s your moment?”

  “I need to know you a little better before I share that with you.” He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on the table. He’s unbelievable. My annoyance flaring up again, I call for the check and begin to put my coat on.

  “I have a tab here,” he says. “And here’s my number.” He slides a business-card-sized slip of paper across the table, but it contains only his first name and number. “When you’re ready to meet again, call me. Better than emailing. Nothing I have to say to you is safe for work.” He draws close again, and as riled up as I feel, I’m powerless to do anything other than anticipate his kiss. But he doesn’t kiss me on the mouth. His lips land on my cheek, the stubble tickling.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Reagan.”

  I hesitate over his number, but eventually slide it into my purse. And because I have no idea what else to say, I say a bland “bye” and walk out of the bar, leaving him sitting on the bench.

  Back on street level, I start walking in the direction of the metro. It’s bone-chillingly cold, but for once I’m grateful for it. It takes the heat out of my mood. No one in my entire life has made me feel as angry and irritated and turned on at the same time as this man.

  “Who the hell does he think he is?” I mutter to myself like a crazy person. I can’t stand the type of people who make a judgment about you, based on nothing at all, then can’t wait to share it with you. It’s one of my pet hates. I reach the entrance to the metro and cling to the handrail, accustomed to the slippery mush at the top of the stairs.

  “Reagan!” comes a deep, sexy voice from behind me. Adler’s striding toward me in an expensive-looking navy wool coat. He looks commanding, purposeful, and against my will, my body responds again. The world slows down as he comes up to me, puts his hands on my waist, and crushes his lips against mine. They’re so warm, his tongue so velvety and agile as it slides into my mouth. It’s a passionate, passionate kiss that leaves me dizzy.

  “I shouldn’t have left without kissing you,” he says, keeping his face close to mine. And then he turns and carries right on, striding along the sidewalk. People are staring at me, girls in their twenties with naked envy plastered across their faces.

  I watch him go, my lips still tingling, my thoughts confused. Every girl wants to be kissed like that— like the famous black-and-white photo of the couple kissing on a Parisian street that I used to have stuck up on my bedroom wall. The couple are walking along a busy street, and the guy is so caught up with his feelings for the woman that he wraps his arm around her shoulders and draws her into a passionate kiss. Like nothing else in the world exists. It’s delicious, and so romantic. I used to daydream about it while practicing my kissing technique on the back of my hand.

  I smile to myself as I stumble down the stairs, the odorous warmth of the metro rushing up to meet me. That was hot, Lockhart, admit it. Adler might be cocky as all hell, and an S&M freak, but he kissed me like he meant it. There was something real about it. In his words, in the tone of his voice, in the heat in his eyes. I glimpsed something different from the man he was in the bar.

  4

  Knowing my propensity to lose things, I put Adler’s number in my phone right away. But by the following morning, the dreaminess of that moment at the metro entrance has faded, and instead, I keep thinking about being in the bar with him. How he didn’t treat me as his equal, but toyed with me, like a cat playing with its prey before it kills it. The recollection of how I wanted him to pull my hair a little, crush me beneath his muscular bulk so I couldn’t escape, brings a flush of shame to my cheeks. This is never what I’ve been about. Boyfriends have always been friends as well as lovers. Sure, they might have been better than me at lugging around heavy objects, but in everything else, we’ve always been equal. I’ve never had fantasies about a dude throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me off to his cave. The thought of what a terrible, controlling boyfriend Adler would be makes me a little angry. And then I get even angrier that I’m considering what he would be like as a boyfriend.

  I resolve to ban him from my thoughts. It’s not all that difficult because, luckily, I’m working practically every waking moment. All week, I work on the new brief with Jeremy. He seems to be happy with me, giving me more and more things to do, and even takes me to meet clients. The more I see of him, the more impressed I am. He’s very calm and good at getting people to do what he wants, and he has the clients eating out of his hands. I learn from Jenny that he’s the “difficult client guy.” Any time the agency starts to freak that a client is thinking of dropping them, he gets sent in to sweet-talk them. I observe him when he’s not looking, wondering what he’s into, what he does to that good-looking boy of his when they’re alone together.

  There is something very seductive about power, I muse one Thursday morning as I watch him deliver our pitch to the potential clients. It’s a health drink company, and the executive board is made up of cool young guys and girls, slouching in baggy T-shirts and pants. But little by little, they straighten in their seats, and lean forward. No one’s fiddling with their phone or gazing around the room. They’re completely focused on what he’s saying. He’s very suave in his charcoal-gray suit and bird’s egg-blue silk tie, his short gray hair styled with a hint of jauntiness to show that he’s a creative. When he delivers his closing line, they’re all smiling broadly, and one girl even starts clapping before her face turns beet red and she pretends to be picking at her nails instead. I scan their faces. Their pupils are dilated, and there’s a kind of hunger there, as if they want what he’s got.

  And then it’s my turn to speak. It wasn’t part of the initial plan, but yesterday Jeremy asked me to say a few words. I get to my feet and address the group. I’m nervous, of course. In fact, I only slept about four hours last night. If I screw this up, I’ll undo all of Jeremy’s good work. But I’ve practiced the speech seven times, and I’m lucky that nerves never show in my voice. It goes well, and I ride on the wave of fascination that Jeremy created. By the time I finish, they’re still smiling.

  As we pass through the doors of the building, Jeremy claps me on the back. “Good job, Reagan. We don’t usually put our first years out front, but I knew I was right about you. If they don’t take us on after this, they’re not worth having as clients.”

  I glow with pride, and the tension of the past days eases away.

  I don’t know how, but by mid-afternoon the other execs know that I spoke at a client pitch, and they’re buzzing with the news.

  “Nice work getting so close to Jeremy,” Suzannah says, sidling up to me in the cafeteria, her eyes as cold as a cat’s as she looks me up and down. I haven’t changed out of my power suit, which comprises a black fitted jacket and pencil skirt. She thinks he’s got the hots for me. She has no idea he’s gay. Why would she? He looks like the classic alpha male of every chick-lit reader’s fantasies.

  “Yeah, I was lucky,” I say with a shrug. But as I collect my coffee, my stomach tightens. It is kind of odd he picked me to work with him in the first place.

  At the end of the day, there’s nothing I want more than a hot bath and an early night, but when I get home, Dominique is in full-on burlesque mode again, prancing around the apartment in a pair of green, sequined hot pants and two red, sequined nipple pasties in the shape of cherries. The small-town prude in me presses her lips together in disapproval, but at the same time, I can’t help admiring her perfectly toned, golden brown body.

  “Hey, girl! You look beat,” she chirps as I come into the kitchen.

  “Long day.” I slump onto a chair.

  “How was the pitch?”

  I grin, touched by how she always shows an interest in my life. “It went well. My boss was happy with me.”

  She claps her hands together. “That’s great, Rea! You deserv
e it after all that work you’ve been doing. Now, what are you doing tonight?”

  I sigh. “I’ve got a hot date with my bed.”

  “Nooo!” She bends forward, pressing her hands against her knees, and peers at me, her huge black eyes full of concern. “You’ve got to celebrate when you do something good. That’s how life works. Come to my show tonight. It’s the one that you were flyering for.”

  “But I’m soo tired,” I say in a moaning voice.

  “You haven’t been out all week. I’m getting worried about you.”

  It’s true. I worked all weekend too, not stopping until nine p.m. both days. I actually haven’t been out at all since I met Adler. Who I’m not going to think about at all.

  “I know it’s a school night, but come just for an hour or two. It’s a nice, small venue. I’m not going to sweet-talk you into doing any work for me this time. I can introduce you to a few people. Or not. It’ll do you good.” She flashes a kind smile at me, then turns to the counter to finish making some food.

  Does she think I’m a loser? Here I am, living in this big, lively city without any real friends and spending most of my free time at home. And I do kind of want to reward myself for the successful pitch. “I’m coming,” I say and head to my bedroom to get ready.

  We take a bus to the venue, which turns out to be nothing like the Sexpo. It’s an old theater in the old commercial district, vaguely art deco, and kind of run-down, but that somehow makes it feel intimate. There’s a rickety wooden stage at the front, and the floor space is filled with small round tables, each with a candle lantern in the center. I check out the running order. Dominique is performing third out of six performers. I’ll stay for her show and then I’ll leave.

  All the performers are gathered around a couple of high tables in a dark corner off to the side of the stage, and Dominique brings me over and introduces me to her friends. There’s an artist, an actor, and a girl and a guy who sing in different bands. They seem like a cool bunch, and I sip my gin and tonic and chat about the city’s performing arts scene. But now and again, I scan the crowd for someone. A certain tall, broad-shouldered someone with a messy brown quiff and incredible caramel eyes. So far there’s no sign of him, and I’m glad. The last time he popped into my mind, I almost deleted his number from my phone. The thought of him makes me feel way too hot and uncomfortable. My first drink goes down fast. Which has nothing at all to do with the fact that there’s a tiny thread of nerves running in my veins. Why should he be here anyway? All the acts are burlesque, or something like it. Nothing on the flyer indicates that anyone’s getting tied up. But maybe he likes burlesque too, I muse as I get another drink. He has the flyer.