by Cynthia Dane
The problem was that most men who fit that bill turned out to be assholes.
Next time I talk to him, I’ll tell him it’s off the table. Until then, Monica was plagued with the images swarming her head. Henry Warren. Mr. Warren. Grabbing her from behind and pushing his lips against her skin, tasting the sweat her anxious heart pumped from her body; behind her over the bed and pulling away her clothes; teasing her with his cock until she was forced to beg for it; pulling her hair and trapping her against the bed while he fucked her, hard.
Her eyes opened to the realization that her hand was in her underwear, and that sexual sting she felt wasn’t only in her imagination.
Monica didn’t touch herself often. Not unless her Dom told her to for both of their pleasure. And in the end with him, it was always about Jackson’s pleasure instead of mine. His corrupted pleasure that only got off if she was miserable.
Her hand came out and she turned over in bed. I’m weak. I’m sad. I don’t deserve any of that shit. She knew she didn’t deserve it, and yet Monica decided to always blame herself. Because then it felt like she had an ounce of power over her own life.
That settled it. She wasn’t actually attracted to Henry Warren. She was attracted to the idea of escaping her past and getting into more trouble. Telling him to politely go away it was.
If she could.
“Mr. Henry Warren is here to see you.”
Monica’s head turned from the statements she read on her desk. “Send him in,” she said, turning the top letter over and emblazoning it with her signature. “Tell him that I’ve been expecting him.”
The maid nodded and escorted herself out of Monica’s office. It wasn’t even a full two days later after she received the box from him. The patron’s gift. The ode to her sweet nectar. Monica had rewrapped the gift and put it in one of her drawers. No use for it now.
A knock came on her door, and she waited two seconds before glancing up and catching sight of the man from her deplorable fantasies. Good God. Dressed in a dark navy blue suit with a silk black tie and sapphire cufflinks, Henry stood straight and proper in her doorway, dark blond hair neatly combed and his leather shoes recently shined. He gave her no knowing looks, instead choosing to bequeath a neither friendly nor business-like demeanor that Monica couldn’t read. She was too busy wondering how quickly she could shove everything off her desk so he could take her right there anyway.
Get a hold of yourself. Monica stood up from her chair. “Have a seat.”
Henry’s graceful legs brought him closer, and now Monica smelled that musky aftershave emanating from his body. She imagined him, on top of her in bed, that scent overpowering her as he thrust between her legs. Henry. That would be his scent. Whenever she was out and smelled it on someone else, she would think of him and all the wonderful ways he…
“I see you saw the news this morning,” he interrupted her thoughts with a point to the newspaper on her desk. “Terrible what happened to those people on that plane.”
Monica shook out her inappropriate thoughts and glared at the color picture of plane wreckage. “Yes. Terrible.” Just that morning she was reading it to feel better about her life. Now here came Henry to take away her Schadenfreude. “Can I help you?”
He took his seat in the chair across from her. Even sitting down he was still a good two heads taller than her. I have a weakness for tall men. Jackson had been on the shorter side. Monica could barely remember what it felt like to curl up next to a man over a foot taller than her.
“You know why I am here.”
Monica folded her hands on her desk, kept her back straight… but could not keep her lips from thinning. “I’m guessing it’s about this.” She opened the drawer next to her and pulled out the black box. It landed with a thud on the desk between them.
“I’m glad you received it. Did you take a look inside?”
“Of course I did. I must say that the contents were fairly shocking.”
“Shocking? To you? I thought nothing could possibly shock you.”
“I was shocked by the idea that you would think I was available for patronage.”
Finally, a reaction. Henry relaxed in his chair and smiled. Nothing sinister. Nothing… toxic. Not the kind of smile Jackson would have given her before he said something nefarious. No, the words coming out of Henry’s mouth were anything but. “I was under no assumption that you were available in that way. You have mistaken me.”
Monica opened the box and pulled out the collar. She found the inscription and shoved it in Henry’s direction. “And what do you call this?”
“My intentions.”
“You either think I’m up for patronage or not.”
“Let me put it this way. I know that you don’t work like the other young ladies here do. I know that. I’m also not interested in any of them. I’ve only been interested in you since the moment I first saw you.”
Monica almost lost her posture. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t completely explain my attraction to you yet. When I first laid eyes on you that night, I thought, ‘What a beautiful, refined woman. I want to get to know her better.’ And when I did, my heart only quickened more. Maybe I’m a fool, Monica, but I’m a fool for you.”
This was ridiculous. The man was talking like he came from a pre-War record track. Spare me. Nevertheless, Monica liked that kind of talk. She liked it when men sounded sophisticated and flattered her in such ways. If Henry could write poetry, that would just be… “You don’t know me at all. And you send me this? What is this supposed to mean?” The collar shook in her hand.
Whether he was perturbed by her growing frustration or not, he didn’t let on. “You said to impress you by sending you something that you would like. Well? Don’t you like it?”
“What would make you think that I like something like this?”
“Because…” Henry stood up, pulling his jacket closed and weaving a single button through its hole. He leaned across the desk, hands splayed in support above the now empty box. His lips were not too far from Monica’s, which parted in surprise as she came so close to kissing this relative stranger, but dared not make a fool of herself. “I know a ready submissive woman when I meet one, Monica.”
Breath tore from her throat, her chest, and into the empty air between them. How dare he… How dare he what? Want her? Recognize her? Know her? Her skin was sweaty, making the collar slip between her fingers. Her nail grazed against a diamond, a lump going down her throat. Those eyes… Piercing into hers. Seeing her soul. Picking apart her brain and feasting on the morsels she offered. The only thing keeping her from sitting up and kissing Henry Warren was the blaring alarm going off in the back of her head. Idiot.
“You would have to be a submissive woman to run a place like this. I can hear these walls echoing with your need to be touched tenderly and with the determination that only a man like me can provide.”
Another swallow. “You are sure of yourself.”
“Don’t insult me, Monica. Are you telling me that I know who you are, but you don’t know me? We’re two halves balancing each other out. We’re Yin and Yang. And you have so much Yin. You really should find an outlet for it before you’re consumed by your own energies. You know what? Same could be said for me. We need harmony.”
“Don’t insult me… you don’t know me…?” He didn’t mean from a previous encounter. He meant that knowing notion that they were two halves of the same whole. Yes. Of course Monica had noticed it. Hadn’t she been fantasizing about Henry tying her up, spanking her, and pinching her body until she cried? Because he’s one of them. A Dom. Henry never said he wasn’t. Oh, God. This was not making her position any easier to bear. I want you, Henry Warren. I want you to make me feel like I used to. All the pent up stress and frustration was like a ticking time bomb in her gut. Monica could ignore it as long as no one else was around. From the moment Henry entered her life, she wanted him to use and dominate her until she was harmoni
ous again.
She wondered if he was feeling it too. A mighty desire to take out his power on a ready submissive woman. Let it be me…
The collar grew hot in her hand. If she put it on, she could have him. Right here. Right now, in her office. Or the bedroom next door. Monica clutched her chest and averted her eyes so those blues no longer destroyed her. It also kept her from kissing the damn man.
Henry lifted his hand, knuckles hovering next to her cheek. “If there’s someone else…”
“No.” She spat it too quickly, before her emotions could be purged. “There is no one.” Monica had to tell herself that until she finally believed it.
“So then…” Henry did not dare touch her. Monica wanted him to, for two reasons: first, she wanted the man to put his hands all over her. Second, if he touched her without permission, then she would know that he would end up being no better than a man like Jackson. No boundaries. No love for her.
But he didn’t touch her. The fact tortured her.
Don’t tempt me. Tempt her into something stupid. Monica was too close to her previous relationship to even think of starting up a new one, let alone one hinged on domination and submission. It was what she wanted in her heart, but damnit, she wasn’t ready!
“Don’t touch me,” she said, almost breathless. “Please.”
He hesitated, but Henry backed away. For the first time Monica saw disappointment in those eyes. What, did he think she would fold beneath his pressure and give him whatever she wanted? She had her reasons. He didn’t need to know them. “My apologies. I read the situation all wrong.”
:”Yes, you did.” No, you didn’t. Henry was perceptive. Too perceptive. He had read Monica like the open book she apparently was the first moment they met. A man like that could be dangerous. “I’m sorry, somewhere along the way you got the impression that I can be bought like one of my girls.” She slammed the lid back on the box and pushed it toward him. I don’t mean it like that. Her girls weren’t “bought.” They were professionals selling a service, yes, but they weren’t commodities. Yet did men ever see it that way? Maybe men like Henry Warren needed to know exactly where they all stood. She wasn’t to be bought. Or sold. Or controlled in that fashion. Monica was her own woman in this world she created. She had to learn how to live on her own and take care of herself. No man would really do that for her.
“I’m sorry to have offended you.” Henry replaced his disappointment with the same poker face Monica used. She knew it well. “Please, forgive me. And don’t hold this against any of my friends or colleagues. They have no idea I’m here doing this.”
“Wouldn’t have assumed so.” Even when these men were together, they worked independently. “And apology accepted. I don’t think you’re a bad man or anything. I just think we got our wires crossed. I am not available.”
“No, of course not.” He cleared his throat and continued to smooth out his jacket. Every time he did this, he created more wrinkles. “If I may say…”
“Go on.”
“This only makes me more interested in you.”
Monica showed him out after that. Men. She latched the door to her quarters and turned to face her small, private hallway where she likewise kept her secrets, fears, and heartbreak locked away. Men! Apparently Henry Warren thought she was playing hard to get.
Maybe she was.
Chapter 5
Clipped Wings
“How much is it worth?” Monica tapped her fingers, her favorite appraiser sitting on the other side of her desk and studying the diamonds in the collar. “I need to know if I should sell it or give it to one of my girls.”
The appraiser, aptly named Mr. Jules, looked up with his ocular device still in his eye. He was an old and frail man for only being sixty-five, but he was one of the only qualified men in the city Monica could convince to make house calls. She summoned him every time they received a gift of patronage to confirm what she suspected.
I have no idea what to expect with this. As much as she wished she could be rid of the collar in only a few minutes, she was still a businesswoman and had to keep her coffers in mind. If the collar were worth a nice sum, she could get a better payday. However, if Henry Warren had underestimated her worth, well… she would make sure he returned one night to see another girl wearing that collar. That’s what I think of that. Any of her girls would be delighted to have it. Such a thing meant nothing other than more status to their clients. It would be an excellent way to embarrass Mr. Warren.
Mr. Jules spent another minute staring at one of the diamonds before sitting up with a sigh. He removed his instruments and jotted something down on a pad of paper before clearing his throat and telling Monica what she had been waiting to hear. “This is only my professional guess at the moment, but I would estimate this… piece of finery… to be worth about…”
“Yes?’
“Thirty-thousand dollars.”
‘Thirty…” Monica clapped her mouth shut and summoned the propriety she always needed in these situations. She couldn’t tell Mr. Jules the collar was thus far the most expensive patronage gift anyone there received. She couldn’t tell him that it was worth more than the solid gold collar she had with Jackson. She couldn’t even tell him that it had been for her! While Mr. Jules wasn’t the type of man to go blabbing around town about her business, there were some things men didn’t need to know. “Thank you. You sure that’s a good estimate?”
“In truth, it may be more. I’m assuming all the diamonds have the lowest grade I can confirm. The silver is solid, though. The only thing bringing down the value is the inscription. That’s only if you sold it as is. If you pieced out the diamonds and sold the silver as scrap, you could get a lovely price.”
“Naturally.” That’s what she would do. Not for the better price, but to also… what? Do the professional thing, since Henry’s name was on that? “Thank you for your help. This definitely helps me make some decisions.”
Mr. Jules saw himself out, leaving Monica to sit with her silver collar and chain. Thirty-thousand dollars. She knew Henry was loaded, but most patrons – let alone clients – didn’t drop that much money on a gift for one girl. Even Mr. Carlisle, who spoiled Sylvia silly, never went higher than twelve-thousand for a full set of jewelry. These men bled green. That didn’t mean they bled for their paid girlfriends and mistresses.
The more Monica let herself think about it, the more she heard Henry’s voice echoing in her head. “We’re two halves.” Part of her attraction to the submissive lifestyle was the beautiful binary presented to her. Things were black and white. Roles were clear. She never had to think beyond what she wanted for dinner and what she should wear that day – unless they were chosen for her, of course. She liked it when her Dom picked out a beautiful outfit for her to wear, ordered for her in a restaurant, and told her where they were going. But it only worked if he knew her enough to know she would feel great in that dress, love the meal, and enjoy the sights they saw. Monica was envious of her friends who had such men in their lives.
“I want to be your patron.” Monica’s nail scratched against the inscription. How had she overlooked the potential inside Henry? When they met, she assumed he was like any other alpha but polite male. That was until he told her what she had really been thinking – that he was Dom through and through.
Before any man could be accepted as a patron, Monica did some research on him. What he did, where he lived, how he made his millions or billions… Henry Warren was a name she hadn’t heard before. Either he dropped a good amount of his fortune on this collar and chain, or he was a sleeper businessman who controlled the world from behind the scenes. He wasn’t the face of a major company. He wasn’t a famous heir that showed up on Page 6. He was old money, but he knew how to use it. Monica’s last lover was old money as well. And look how that turned out for me.
Old money men were snobbish and out of touch. New money men were reckless and prone to bad decisions. Monica would never
find a good balance.
Her phone rang.
The landline on her desk, of course, not her cell phone. Few had access to that. Monica shook her head to clear the cobwebs before snatching up the phone and saying, “You have reached Monica Graham. Speak.”
Nothing surprised her anymore. Not even hearing Henry’s voice on the other end of the line. “Good to hear you sounding so cheerful today.”
The collar was cold in her hand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Warren?”
“Please, Henry.”
“No, Mr. Warren.”
The pause was surely not comforting for either of them. “I was wondering if you would do me the honor of dinner, Ms. Graham.” He was going to play her game.
“Dinner? Why on Earth would I have dinner with you?”
