by Bec Linder
He stroked my ass with his free hand, small circles, and then, without warning, lifted his hand and brought it down with a resounding smack.
I yelped. It escaped from me with that first stroke, and I immediately bit my tongue to hold in any further noises. I had to be quiet. I had to be good. I would be so good that he would keep me in his bed forever.
The blows reined down in quick succession. He hit me with his open palm, fingers spread, making a loud sound every time and sending waves of sparkling pain through my body. My parents had beaten me when I was a child, but this felt nothing like those early spankings. Carter wasn’t trying to hurt me; he was trying to make me feel the power he had over me, and the pleasure and pain he could give me.
I felt alive.
It did hurt. That wasn’t the goal; it was a side effect, but my nerve endings didn’t care. My brain did care, though, and it told me that the pain I was feeling wasn’t pain at all—it was ecstasy, in a slightly different form.
The skin of my ass felt hot, like a bad sunburn. My skin tingled with each blow, and every time Carter’s palm came down, I felt it throughout my entire body: my scalp prickled, my toes curled, my pussy throbbed, and I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood. I wouldn’t make a noise. I would be good.
It stopped, after some indeterminate amount of time. Carter smoothed his hand over my ass, comforting, and then down between my legs. He pushed his thumb inside of me and then smeared the wetness over my swollen clit, stroking me in languid circles. I breathed through my nose, desperate, trying to hold on.
“You’re ready,” he said. He slid one hand beneath my thighs and the other beneath my shoulders, and lifted me from his lap. He carried me around the side of the bed and lay me on the mattress. I clung to him, limp and almost beyond language, but he gently disentangled my hands from his shirt and stepped back to take off his clothes.
I watched him, curled where I was on the bed, as he unbuttoned his shirt and revealed his muscular chest, as he unzipped his trousers and revealed the length of his erection. He really wasn’t wearing underwear. I wanted to feel him on top of me, pressing me down into the bed. I wanted to feel him inside of me. My skin prickled all over, and I thought I would fall to pieces the instant he touched me.
He folded his clothes and put them on a nearby chair, slowly, deliberately, and opened a drawer in the bedside table. I watched him open a condom and roll it onto his thick cock. I watched him climb onto the bed and kneel above me, the very picture of masculine glory, and I reached for him with my limp arms, wanting.
“You showed me,” he murmured, leaning down. “You were very good.” He kissed me then, deep and passionate, and I tasted myself on his tongue.
I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, and we were still kissing when he pushed inside me.
I couldn’t last long, not after what he’d put me through. I felt my orgasm building as soon as he rolled his hips against me, and as he moved faster, I dug my fingers into the dense muscles of his back and felt my mouth opening in a soundless moan. His cock dragged out of me and I was on fire, and he pushed back in and I was hurtling through space. I didn’t control my body anymore. I was completely at his mercy, and he was going to make me come like this was our last night on earth.
“That’s right,” I heard him saying, from a great distance, “you’re almost there, aren’t you? Be a good girl and come for me,” and I didn’t, not right then, but a few strokes later, my tense muscles all released at once, in a sweeping cataclysm that shook me down to my very bones.
When it ended, I relaxed against the mattress, too exhausted to move. Carter was smiling down at me, a look in his eyes that I couldn’t identify and was afraid to, and he rolled his hips against me a few more times, almost too pleasurable in the aftermath of my orgasm, and then his face tightened and he shook apart in my arms.
He rolled off me, and for several minutes we lay together in silence, breathing, sharing space, our hands tangled together between our sweating bodies.
“I could use a shower,” Carter said at last, and I laughed and said, “I could too.”
His bathroom was enormous. I had never seen anything like it. His walk-in shower had a skylight, dark now, and two big shower heads that poured down on us like rain. We scrubbed each other, laughing about nothing, and dried off with his plush white towels.
We went back into the bedroom, and he gave me a bathrobe to wear, and a comb. I sat at his dressing table and combed out my hair. The clock on the wall told me it was only 11—much too early for bed. I usually didn’t fall asleep until around 4. I wondered if Carter would expect me to leave, or expect me to spend the night. He probably had to work in the morning.
Before I could decide if I should say something about it, he solved the problem for me. He came over to me, dressed in a pair of low-slung black pants and nothing else, and took the comb from my hand. He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “If you stay here tonight, we can have fresh bagels in the morning, and I’ll have Henry take you back to your apartment.”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” I said. “If you have to work—”
“You could never cause me trouble,” he said. “I don’t want you to think that.”
I looked down at my hands, overwhelmed. He was one of the most powerful men in the city—probably in the country—and I still didn’t believe that I had any right to his time. Whenever he ate dinner with me, that was time he could have spent contributing to the global economic system, as Sadie would put it. I always felt vaguely guilty, like I was preventing him from finding the solution to world peace.
“Regan,” he said sharply. I looked up. “I enjoy spending time with you. I want you to stay here tonight, so that I can see you again in the morning. If you need to go home, of course that’s fine, but I don’t want you to leave just because you think you’re—that you’re imposing.”
“Okay,” I said, and smiled at him, tremulously, to show that I understood.
I didn’t, not really, but I would try.
I wanted to be good for him.
“Okay,” he said. He stroked my damp hair and said, “I never go to sleep this early, and I’m sure you don’t. We could watch a movie, if you’d like.”
I thought about it: curled together on his comfortable sofa, close together in the dark. “I would like that a lot,” I said.
That was what we did: some forgettable action flick, and popcorn Carter made on the stove. I fell asleep partway through, and woke to see Carter gazing at me with a soft look on his face.
“What is it?” I asked, sleepy, rubbing my eyes.
“I’m happy,” he said. “That’s all.”
I knew what he meant. I was happier than I had ever been, happier than I thought I had any right to be, and it scared me. I knew that happiness didn’t last.
Chapter 3
I woke up alone the next morning. Judging from the sun pouring through the windows, it was mid-morning—time for me to get going. I had to work that afternoon.
Carter had promised me bagels. I splashed my face with some cold water and made sure my hair wasn’t doing anything too strange, and then I padded out of the bedroom, tying Carter’s robe around me.
I smelled coffee as I made my way down the hall toward the main room of the apartment. Carter, I had learned, was a coffee snob. He ground his own coffee every morning, and I didn’t think he would have set foot in a Starbucks if his life depended on it.
He was sitting at the table with his laptop, but he closed it and pushed it aside as soon as he saw me. “Sleeping Beauty,” he said.
I blushed. “Is it late? I didn’t mean to sleep in.”
“It’s only 10,” he said, smiling at me. “I know you keep odd hours. I didn’t expect you to be up at the crack of dawn. I haven’t been up very long, either.”
Judging from the fact that he was fully dressed and already hard at work, I thought he had probably been up for at least a couple of hours, but it was
sweet that he was trying to set me at ease. I said, “Is there coffee?”
He got up and went into the kitchen, and I trailed after him. The tile in the kitchen was cold beneath my bare feet. Carter poured me a cup of coffee and handed it to me, and I leaned against the counter and sipped at it.
“What kind of bagel would you like?” he asked. “I have plain, onion, and cinnamon raisin.”
Did he really think I would eat an onion bagel in front of him and risk onion breath? Maybe that wasn’t the sort of thing men worried about. “Cinnamon raisin sounds good,” I said.
He opened a paper bag on the counter and pulled out a bagel. “Butter? Cream cheese? Orange marmalade?”
“Mm, cream cheese,” I said. Carter sliced the bagel and dropped it into the toaster, and then swiveled to face me, one hand on the counter on either side of my body.
“How’s the coffee?” he asked.
I reached over his arm to set the mug on the counter, and then, feeling incredibly brave, wrapped my arms around his neck and gazed up into his eyes. “Pretty good,” I said.
He chuckled and leaned in to kiss me, slow and sweet—not one of the heated kisses we had shared the night before, but a sleepy morning kiss, fond and familiar. The kind of kiss I allowed myself, for a single, idiotic second, to imagine sharing with him every morning for the rest of our lives.
I squashed that thought, mercilessly, like a cockroach. If I started down that road, I would never find my way back. Better to avoid temptation altogether.
He pulled back and kissed my cheek and my forehead. “How did you sleep?”
“Pretty good,” I said again. “I don’t think I moved all night.”
“You were talking in your sleep,” he said.
I groaned and buried my face against his shoulder. “I still do that?”
“Oh yes,” he said. He stroked one hand up and down my back, slowly. “Something about muffins, I think. Then you started laughing.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” I said, mortified.
“It was adorable,” he said, which didn’t mean I hadn’t woken him up. “You sounded very happy. I wanted to wake you up and ask you what kind of muffins you were dreaming about, but I thought it would be kinder to let you sleep.”
“You should just wake me up if I do that,” I said. “I mean, not that I’m assuming we’ll do this again, or that—I mean, I obviously don’t—”
“Are you still so nervous around me?” he asked, and tugged on my hair gently, tipping my head back. “Regan. What else do I have to do to prove that I want to spend time with you? Why is it so hard for you to believe that I find you beautiful and fascinating and easy to be around?”
Because nobody had ever thought those things about me before, but of course I couldn’t say that to him. I shook my head, at a loss for words, and then the toaster popped.
I could have kissed that toaster, because Carter was immediately distracted with fishing out the bagel, putting it on a plate, getting the cream cheese out of the refrigerator, and I was off the hook. I reclaimed my coffee mug and took a searing gulp, burning the roof of my mouth. Bullet dodged.
We ate at the table—or, really, I ate, and Carter sat and watched me, and asked me what he thought he should buy his secretary for Christmas.
“What does she like?” I asked.
He looked stricken. “I don’t really know. That’s the problem. She’s a wonderful secretary, and we have an excellent working relationship, very congenial, but we don’t exactly talk to each other about our personal lives. She’s married, and she has a son in high school, and there’s a picture of a golden retriever on her desk, but beyond that I don’t have a clue.”
I chewed my bagel thoughtfully. “Hand lotion,” I said. “Or fancy soap. Something expensive. All women like hand lotion. And even if she doesn’t like it, she can just re-gift it.”
“Expensive hand lotion,” he said. “See, this is why I need you in my life. The other women I know have too much money and too little common sense. If I had asked my mother about this, she probably would have told me to buy my secretary a new Porsche.”
“Maybe she would like a Porsche,” I said.
He sighed. “She told me not to buy her anything ostentatious. That’s a direct quote.”
“Your secretary sounds like someone I would get along with,” I said.
“I’ll have to introduce you, then,” he said. “Maybe you can pass me some inside information that will help with future present-buying decisions.”
I smiled at him and ate the last bite of my bagel, and dusted the crumbs off my hands. “I should get going,” I said, already regretting the thought of leaving him. I didn’t want to go home, or go to work later. I wanted to spend all day lounging around his apartment, watching him work, and maybe luring him back to bed later.
It was a nice fantasy, but not realistic. Keeping my job was more important than indulging my infatuation with Carter.
He glanced at his watch. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I should get to the office at some point.” He leaned across the table and kissed me deeply. “I’ll have Henry take you home. When can I see you again?”
I thought about it. I was scheduled to work for the next three days, which made it impossible to do more than grab a quick lunch with Carter. And that was as unsatisfying as eating a single potato chip: as soon as I had a taste, I wanted more and more. “Maybe Thursday,” I said. “I’m not working.”
“Let’s go to the art museum,” he said. “Have you been?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know which art museum he was referring to, but it didn’t matter. In the six years I’d been in New York, I’d never been to a single museum. I was usually hustling so hard to pay my bills that I didn’t have the time, energy, or spare cash to go look at expensive paintings.
“Let’s go,” he said again. “I enjoy seeing you in daylight. It’s worth the trip. I’ll take the afternoon off. It won’t be as crowded.”
“That sounds really nice,” I said. Maybe not the art, so much, but being together with Carter in public, holding hands, maybe—that sounded nice.
“Good,” he said, and kissed me again. “You are a dreadful temptation. Go get dressed and I’ll call Henry. If you don’t get out of here soon, I won’t be able to let you leave.”
I knew he was right. And Thursday wasn’t so long to wait, really, even though it seemed like a million years.
I went back to the bedroom and dressed in the clothes I’d worn the night before. Carter escorted me to the building’s underground garage, and kissed me beside the car, both hands circling my waist.
“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he said, and opened the door.
It was too perfect to last. I knew it, but I was still going to enjoy every second.
* * *
We met at the art museum on Thursday. Carter wanted to send his driver, but I insisted on taking the subway. Being driven around in a town car was surreal, and riding the subway was my way of maintaining some sort of control over my life. Carter wanted to whisk me into his world of expensive conveniences and high-limit credit cards, but I wasn’t ready yet. I didn’t know if I ever would be. It was too much like a movie—like I was watching my own life from the outside.
I walked the few blocks from the subway station to the museum, hands shoved in the pockets of my coat. It was a bitterly cold day, clear and bright, and the wind kept blowing my hair into my face.
The museum was a huge, imposing building, and as I waited to cross the street, I scanned the steps for Carter. There weren’t many people out, as cold as it was, and I found him easily, standing on the top step in his familiar overcoat, a scarf wrapped around his neck.
I realized I was smiling, and ducked my head to hide my no doubt foolish grin. I was doing that a lot lately, smiling like an idiot every time I saw him or got a text message from him or even thought about him.
The traffic light changed, and I crossed the street and began climbing the steps. I knew the exact moment
he saw me, because a smile broke across his face, and he lifted one hand in greeting.
I barely felt the steps under my feet as I climbed. It was like I was being tugged along by a rope, lifted up into the air. My body wasn’t doing any work; my knees weren’t bending. I was gliding.
I mounted the final step. Carter slid one arm around my waist, holding me close, and bent his head to kiss me. “Your poor face,” he said.
I lifted one hand to touch my cheek. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Pink,” he said. “You must be freezing. I shouldn’t have let you take the subway.”
“I like being outside,” I said, which was true. I liked walking and looking in shop windows and watching the people who passed me on the sidewalk.
“Well, let’s go inside where it’s warm,” he said. “We’ll get a map, and you can decide what you’d like to see.”
We went into the atrium of the museum, which was enormous, and crowded full of people, even on a weekday afternoon. I’d forgotten about the usual Christmastime swarms of tourists. Carter confidently sailed across the room, and I actually held onto the back of his coat like a small child so that I wouldn’t be left behind.
There was a long line to buy tickets, but Carter went right past it and up to the desk that said Museum Members. He fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to the girl behind the counter, who took a glance at it and chirped, “Welcome back, Mr. Sutton!” I could tell from the way she tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled at him that she knew exactly who he was.
I glanced over at all the people waiting in the regular line. That’s where I would have been, ordinarily. None of them looked upset or impatient; they were all just waiting for their turn.
But all doors opened for Carter.
“Are you ready?” he asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I smiled at him and took the arm he offered to me, crooked at the elbow like he was an old-fashioned gentleman. He handed me a map and said, “First, I think, the Temple of Dendur. We can sit down there and plan where you’d like to go next.”
