Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2)

by Annabel Joseph

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I’ve been doing that.”

  Price hounded me to strike out on my own. He said I had a vision, something new to offer the world if I’d get my ass in gear and go for it. He told me he’d punish me if I didn’t secure my first bespoke customer by August. All I could think was, why am I in love with you again, after what happened last time? Why am I so fucked up?

  “You’ll bring Price to the party, yes? Tell me you’ll bring Price,” Andrew begged, growing giddy again. “That tall, blond, Scandinavian drink of water. Honey, you’re lucky he’s not gay, or I’d be all over him.”

  “I thought you loved Craig.”

  “I do love Craig, but can’t a boy dream? I’m envisioning a Craig and Price sandwich in this mysterious dungeon of his.”

  I hadn’t heard anything more from Price about the dungeon. I suppose I’d stalled in my attempts to become dungeon-worthy. We were having plenty of sex and I was enduring plenty of lessons in surrender, but somehow it wasn’t enough.

  “How much time do you spend with Craig?” I asked. “Like, in a typical week?”

  “All the time I can,” he answered dreamily.

  “No, I’m talking specifics. How many hours a day?”

  “I don’t know, babes. As many hours as we can. I love him. I want to be with him.”

  I thought a moment. “How much of that time are you Dom/sub, or Master/slave, or whatever you’re playing around with right now?”

  “Hmm. Maybe an hour or two? Long enough for him to fuck me up,” he said with a laugh. “Look at this. Freaking look.” He drew up the legs of his skater shorts enough to show me a row of lines across his thighs. Cane lines. I shuddered as I recognized them.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was sorry too. He didn’t even tie me up. He just made me sit on a hard chair and take it. I also had a gargantuan plug in my ass.”

  I was happy to hear I wasn’t the only one being inhumanely tortured by a Dominant partner.

  “And look at this.” He knelt up on my couch and pulled his waistband down over his cheeks.

  “I don’t want to see your ass plug,” I complained.

  “I’m not wearing one now. Look at my ass. Look at my bruises.” He waved his butt at me, showing his impressively dark bruises with a proud smile.

  I wondered what my bruises looked like. Price had used the Lucite paddle on me again the night before. I yanked my pants down too.

  “Wow.” Andrew whistled as he looked at my battered cheeks. “I bet that was painful.”

  I didn’t mention that I’d also been wearing a gargantuan ass plug. Showing my naked, bruised butt to my gay friend was pretty much the limit of sharing for me. I pulled my pants back up and looked closer at Andrew’s ass, at tiny, clustered patterns of dots.

  “How did he do that?” I asked, pointing to the little red pinpricks.

  “Something called a vampire paddle. He ordered it from Germany. God, I adore Craig. He’s so twisted. He says he’s going to put me in chastity soon. You know, the whole cage contraption on my cock, with the lock and key and everything? Just for fun.”

  I’d learned a little about male chastity during my trips to the BDSM clubs. It didn’t seem that “fun,” but to each his own. I hoped that Price didn’t know anything about vampire paddles.

  Andrew talked for a while longer about the depraved things Craig did to him during their play sessions, which made me feel a little better about my own deepening sexual perversity.

  “Does Craig ever choke you?” I asked. “Like, with his hand, or a belt?”

  “Oh, God, yes,” he said, clasping his neck. “I love it.”

  “Does he do it until you pass out?”

  His eyes widened. “Price chokes you out? Isn’t that scary? Craig never goes that far.”

  “It’s kind of scary. He only does it every once in a while. When I wake up, he’s always kissing me.”

  “I want him, Chere. For real. I want your man. I’m going to try to turn him gay.”

  “You know what’s funny?” I said, ignoring Andrew’s silliness. “We both ended up having inappropriate relationships with our mentors. Really inappropriate relationships. What would Norton say if they knew?”

  “I know what Cantor would say.” Andrew imitated his prickle-inducing gaze. “I should have been her mentor.”

  He was so spot on with the speech pattern and intonation that I burst out laughing. “I wonder what good old Professor Predator is up to these days.”

  “I know what he’s up to. My friend Tracy sees him at Studio Valiant all the time. He’s apparently getting kind of serious with this girl. Woman. An older woman. I mean, you know, not a student. Who would have imagined?”

  So even Cantor was having a serious, real relationship outside his wackadoo open marriage. Why was everyone else hooking up so easily and so naturally when I couldn’t even qualify for Price’s dungeon?

  “Good for Cantor,” I said glumly.

  “Are you jealous? Your thing with Price is way hotter, I’m sure.”

  “It’s hot, but...”

  “But what?” he prodded.

  “I don’t know. I feel like he could leave again tomorrow. I like the rush of being with him, but I feel like all we have is adrenaline, and mystery. There’s nothing real between us, and he keeps it that way on purpose.”

  “Why does he do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like, he’ll open up to me to a certain point, and I’ll think, wow, I’m really seeing him now, and then he’ll retreat and get all mean again. It’s frustrating. He doesn’t talk about his feelings, and he doesn’t allow me to talk about mine.”

  “That’s fucking weird.”

  “But he gives me poetry. He spouts poetry all the time.”

  He held my hand between his, stroking his thumb over my fingers. “You know what? I think he loves you. I think he’s falling for you so hard that he’s fighting it. Give him a little more time to open up. He always had his thing about privacy, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “And it’s been three years, but it hasn’t really been three years, you know? It’s been a few weeks since you got back together. You two will figure things out.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, leaning into Andrew’s hug. “Maybe everything will eventually become clear.”

  “Probably not. Love is never clear. But if you feel it, you know it.”

  “I don’t trust my love meter at all. I thought I was in love with Simon.”

  “Simon was a freaky case. How do you feel when you’re with Price?”

  I didn’t even know how to answer that question. Maybe that was answer enough.

  Price

  Chere and I arrived at Andrew’s party about an hour after it began. The gallery was packed with students, teachers, and the best of the art world glitterati. It took us a while to hunt down Andrew and his partner Craig. When we finally found them, Andrew threw himself into Chere’s arms.

  “You came! You’re here! I’m so happy to see you. And Mr. Eriksen!”

  “Price,” I said, shaking his hand. I’d told him five times already to call me Price, but he never listened, maybe because he was half my age. “Congrats on the art degree.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turned to greet Craig, who seemed like a stand-up guy. I liked that he was older than Andrew. It made me feel less creepy about being older than Chere.

  “Great party,” I said. “Very impressive crowd.”

  Craig gestured toward Andrew, who was whispering in Chere’s ear. “Trying to get Andy off to a good start. It’s hell out there for a painter.”

  “Any artist, really. That’s why I went back to school for an engineering degree.”

  Craig laughed. “It was business for me.”

  “I did that too.”

  He clapped me on the back. “It’s an honor to have you here, and I’m glad you brought Chere. Not sure the two of them would have made it through the last
year of art school without each other.” He pointed to a swarm of people across the room. “There’s tons of food, champagne, you name it. Make yourself at home.”

  The flat, white gallery walls didn’t absorb sound, so the voices in the room rose and fell in sharp tones. There was color everywhere, painted faces looking at painted canvases. We sipped champagne and picked at some appetizers, then walked around the walls looking at Andrew’s art. Some of it had already sold, which delighted her. His work contained a bright realism that meshed with his personality, sort of how Chere’s work was intricate and elegant, just like her.

  After a while, Andrew pulled her away to meet some of his friends. I hung back, content to watch her work the room, smile and offer her card. Good girl. This was where she belonged, not selling what she had between her legs, but selling the creative wonderland between her ears.

  The party rolled on, a classy, boisterous affair. Even Henry showed up, staying long enough to congratulate Chere and Andrew on their graduation. He shook my hand and, facetiously, congratulated me too. Nice of her pimp to come out, but I had mixed feelings every time I saw him. He’d brought her to me, but he’d used her too, made money off her.

  Protected me, Chere told me, the one time we talked about it. He was good to me.

  Was I good to her? She was getting restless in our sex-only relationship. I enjoyed our sordid assignations and I wanted them to continue, but there was a growing tension between us, some idea that we should be taking a next step. For me the next step was harder sex and deeper pain, and more frequent sessions. It was a collar, and my dungeon. For her, the next step was love and caring, and interconnectedness… She needed to realize I wasn’t some fairy tale prince.

  While she continued her chat with Henry, I headed to the bar to get something a little stronger than champagne. While I waited for the bartender to pour, I couldn’t help hearing a loud conversation behind me.

  “I can’t believe he’s here,” said a woman’s voice. “And fresh out of fucking rehab. I was counting on his untimely death to drive up the price of his work.”

  “Glenda! That’s awful.”

  “That’s business. I sell on commission. Jesus, he looks great,” she drawled, as if this disappointed her.

  I turned to look at the two women. One was older, with a pointy nose and big teeth, and the other closer to Andrew’s age, in a red, fringed cape. The older one texted furiously on her phone.

  “I hardly recognized him, girl,” she said, fingers flying. “He looks…human. Apparently the old guy beside him is his ‘sober companion.’” She said the last part in a sneer.

  “Omigod,” said the younger one, giggling. “I give it a couple of weeks.”

  “I know, right? Two months ago he was mixing heroin and meth. Simon Baldwin hasn’t painted sober in ages. I don’t know what makes him think he can do it now.”

  They looked at me then, and I thought, Simon is here, and Chere is here and fuck fuck fuck.

  “Here’s your drink. Hey, man, here’s your vodka tonic.”

  I turned at the bartender’s voice, took my drink, and shoved some money in the tip jar. I scanned the room.

  “Oh my God, Mr. Eriksen.” Andrew came flying up to me.

  “Price,” I said between my teeth.

  “Price.” Andrew tugged on my arm. “Simon is here. I swear to God I didn’t invite him.”

  “As long as he stays the fuck away from Chere.”

  Andrew turned me around and pointed to the two of them in the middle of a crowd across the room. I could see Simon’s face, but not Chere’s. He was as dark and ugly as I remembered. His features made me think of a weasel. Why was she talking to him?

  “Craig says I should leave them alone,” Andrew said. “He says it’s a big deal that Simon Baldwin showed up here, but after all the shit he did to Chere…” He wrung his hands. “I think I’m going to go over and kick him out.”

  It was a brave sentiment, but a fledgling painter couldn’t confront a living legend in front of this art crowd, and order him to go.

  “Don’t make a scene at your own party,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  I wasn’t sure what I meant to “take care of.” From Simon’s expression, he and Chere were having a normal, cordial conversation. An older man flanked him. His sober companion? Rich, privileged fucks could have something so coddling as a “sober companion,” a hired friend to follow them around and encourage them to make good choices. I should have been happy to see Simon cleaned up and sober, but all I felt was rage.

  I didn’t want him near her. I didn’t want him looking at her or breathing the same air. Asshole. You hurt her. When he smiled at her, it was a shitty, insincere smile. I didn’t care if he was sober now. I’d never forgive him for what he did to Chere, and I wouldn’t let her forgive him either. I pushed a group of idiot gawkers out of my way so I could take her arm.

  She looked over, and I saw relief in her face. That glimmer of relief calmed some of my riotous anger. She wasn’t any happier to see him than I was.

  “Who’s this?” asked Simon as I glared at him.

  “P.T. Eriksen,” I replied, shoving out my hand. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but you’re an asshole. When you were with my friend here, you treated her like shit.”

  His hand went limp halfway through our shake. His sober companion seemed flummoxed by this blunt confrontation. I could feel Chere staring at me but I kept my gaze on Simon’s face.

  After a moment, he shrugged. “Chere and I went through some dark times together.”

  “You went through them together?” I repeated, restraining myself from slugging him. “I think you went through the dark times, and dragged her down with you.”

  “He’s doing better,” Chere interjected, her voice high with anxiety. “He went to rehab.”

  Simon spread his arms with a sigh. “I have a lot to atone for. I was just telling Chere how sorry I was for all the shit I put her through.”

  He looked sorry as a fucking punk. I glanced at Chere. Was she falling for this bullshit, for his angelic, fake expression?

  “So, the Tribeca Train Wreck is sober,” I said, turning back to him. “How has it affected your art?”

  Simon looked at Chere, like, who is this guy? “I’m pretty new out of rehab,” he said to me. “So I don’t know yet, but I imagine everything will be fine.”

  “If not, you could always get back into the narcotics. Want a vodka tonic?” I asked, holding out my drink.

  “Price,” Chere said quietly. She shook her head at me. “Don’t.”

  Don’t wasn’t going to work for me right now. Everything about him was pushing my buttons. I’d seen Simon in person once, at a gallery show three years ago, but I’d never had the displeasure of standing this close to him. Now that we were face to face, with Chere beside me, I felt dangerously close to losing my shit.

  Simon tilted his head at us. “You two are together?”

  “We’re friends,” she said, at the same time I said “Yes.”

  The last fake drop of pleasantness leached out of Simon’s rehabbed features. “I get it,” he said. “You’re her customer.”

  “He’s not a customer,” said Chere. “I’m not escorting anymore.”

  “She graduated from Norton with honors,” I added. “She’s a designer now. She does amazing work with metals and jewelry.”

  “I saw your pimp here,” Simon said, ignoring me. “I don’t care if this dude’s your customer, if you’re still into your—” He waved a hand. “Your prostitute shit. Whatever.”

  “My prostitute shit?” Chere locked eyes with Simon and took a step in his direction. “My prostitute shit?” she repeated through her teeth. “My prostitute shit paid for your fucking livelihood when no one knew who you were. My prostitute shit kept us in that fucking expensive studio loft and paid for your fucking expensive drugs.”

  The sober companion held up a hand. “Let’s stay civilized, shall we?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t know if that’s possible,” said Chere. “Simon and I don’t have a very civilized past.”

  “I said I was sorry.” Simon threw up his hands. Conversations were going silent. People were staring. “You never seemed that put out by the work. It was kind of your thing.”

  “It was my thing because you were putting thousands of dollars up your fucking nose on a weekly basis,” said Chere.

  “You never tried very hard to stop me,” he shot back.

  “Wait.” I held up a hand. I was so close to beating him. So close. “Are you saying it was her fault you were using drugs? Because she didn’t stop you?”

  “She was the reason I started in the first place,” he said nastily. “Ask her. Ask her how things were. It’s hard to be happy when your girlfriend’s a whore.”

  I felt Chere stiffen beside me. I saw Andrew and Craig pushing forward, their faces pale with concern. But most of all, I saw Simon’s lips curl and his eyes rake over Chere in condescending judgment. It was all I could fucking take.

  I threw a fist and connected with his face. The sober companion gasped and jumped backward. Andrew screamed. People shouted and glass shattered as a waiter dropped a tray of champagne. I made sure Chere was out of the way and then Simon and I locked in grappling combat. Sober or not, Simon Baldwin had a beating coming and I was more than happy to give it to him.

  I only got a punch or two in before he went down like a pansy. I dragged him outside and told him to stay the fuck away from Chere forever, while Andrew’s party guests catcalled and shot video. Chere touched my throbbing cheekbone—the one place he’d got me—and cried.

  Somewhere along the line, his sober companion called the police. They showed up in a barrage of flashing lights and I got arrested.

  It was worth it, one hundred percent.

  Chere

  Price had a lawyer on retainer, and lots of money, so he only spent an hour in the holding cell. Once his lawyer bailed him out, he strolled into the common area with his tie, belt, and cufflinks in a manila envelope, and a garish bruise on his cheekbone from his throwdown with Simon. I’d had a bruise in the exact same place during our session at the Four Seasons three years ago, a bruise Simon had given me during one of his rages. Price had been so angry when he noticed it. He’d called me a fucking idiot and told me Love lies.