by Megan Hart
"Something for me." I already knew what I needed, but
before I could head for the back room where she kept her
files of writing papers, Miriam came around the counter.
"My dear, you look awful," she said without any pretense
of diplomacy. "You sit down and have some tea right now.
Or better yet, come here."
She gestured and I folowed. She took me into a back
room marked Private and sat me down in a spindly but
comfortable chair in front of a polished wood table. I sat
gratefuly; my knees were a little shaky. She didn't pour me
tea from a pot, but she heated water in a smal microwave
and gave me my choice of tea bags from a smal container.
She didn't ask me to reveal my secrets. Not that I would
have. I didn't know Miriam al that wel, and though she
was old enough to be my grandmother she'd never acted
like one. I was glad for the tea, though. She passed me a
cookie from a tin, too.
"Sugar helps," she said.
I nibbled. "With what?"
"With everything!" Miriam laughed an entirely sexy laugh
and I could easily imagine her as the 1940's pinup girl she
must've been. "There, now. Your color's coming back."
Apparently I hadn't just felt like paper, I'd looked like it,
too. "Thanks, Miriam. But I have to get going. I have an…
appointment."
"Ah." She nodded and smiled. "And you need something
special for it, yes? Something special to write on?"
I swalowed sweetness but tasted bitterness. "Yes."
I swalowed sweetness but tasted bitterness. "Yes."
"I have just the thing." Miriam held up a finger and got up from the table to pul down a large album from one of the
shelves.
Covered in what looked like leather, the album opened to
reveal sheets of paper, al types, each bound inside the
album with thin strips of metal that held the pages together
without punching holes. Several loose pages fluttered as
Miriam turned the pages, carefuly touching only the edges.
I moved closer to look at what she offered. I'd seen lots of
fine papers, many of them from right here in this shop, but
the pages in this book were beyond fine. They were
exquisite.
"Handmade papyrus," Miriam said with a reverence some
people used for jewels. "This is linen-textured parchment
cut from an antique book bound in the 1700s. And this
one was just so lovely I had to have it."
She tapped a page of plain white, slightly glossy paper.
"Doesn't look like much, but it holds the ink in such a
way…"
She sighed and shook her head, stil turning pages and
catching a few more that floated free. "I know I have
catching a few more that floated free. "I know I have
something in here just for you. I keep this only for the most
special occasions."
"You don't even know what I need it for." It sounded like
a protest, when I didn't mean it to. My fingers itched to
caress those papers. To find exactly the right one.
"Gram?" Ari poked his head through the curtain. "I
delivered that letter for you—oh, sorry. I didn't know you
weren't alone."
Miriam waved a hand. "It's al right. Paige, would you
excuse me for a minute? I need to go take care of
something."
"Sure, of course."
"You go right ahead." Miriam put her hand on my shoulder
as she passed, as though for support.
Greedy, I was already puling the book toward me, but I
paused when she touched me. I looked up. She was a tiny
woman, and though she stood and I sat, we were stil
nearly eye to eye. She cocked her head to look at me.
"You'l find just the right thing. You always do. I told you,
Paige, you have a knack for knowing just what someone
needs." With that, she squeezed my shoulder and left me
there.
She was right, I thought, my fingers already flipping the
album back to the beginning so I could start with the first
page and savor each one. I was good at knowing what
people needed, and how to give it to them or how to help
them take it. Too bad I didn't know how to do the same
for myself.
And then, there it was.
I found it in the middle of the album. A heavy, cream-
colored card of high-grade linen. Expensive stock. The
sort of paper I coveted and hoarded but never actualy
used. A slightly rough edge along one side. Custom cut, I
could see, from a larger sheet. Not quite heavy enough to
be a note card, but too thick to use in a computer printer.
Shal we begin?
He'd been coming out. I'd been going in. Days later, the
first note arrived.
Hi, Ari. What are you doing here?
Delivering something for my grandma.
With shaking fingers I puled the paper from its binding.
Wow, I didn't think I'd run into you.
Of course not, dear, why would you?
I no longer had to wonder who'd sent that first list. The
one that had changed my life. Miriam, it seemed, knew
what I'd needed.
Now I knew what I had to do.
The right clothes make al the difference.
I wore a black pencil skirt with sheer, blackfoot seamed
stockings and a garter belt. A white shirt, fitted, with
buttons and long sleeves. Underneath, I wore plain white
lace panties with a matching bra. Black stiletto pumps. In
shoes so high it's impossible not to walk as though you're
fucking the world with each step.
I looked like a mistress, finaly, even if it wasn't the vinyl-
I looked like a mistress, finaly, even if it wasn't the vinyl-
catsuit and flogger-wielding sort. I felt like a mistress, too,
which was probably more important. I'd put this outfit on
like armor, a shield, and there was no mistaking I turned
heads.
I loved it. I don't think there's a woman alive who doesn't
relish that power of knowing any man she passes would
get on his knees for a taste of her. Even if it's al mostly
fantasy, it was one I was capable of delivering, and I had
no doubt there were at least a few I passed along the
street who would've gladly given me what I wanted just
because I demanded it.
I was a few minutes early, but not too many. The lobby of
the Hilton was done in subdued reds and golds and
browns, the carpet clean but worn in places that turned the
floral pattern into something more geometric. Paneled
wood wals turned it into a gentlemen's club missing only
men in cravats and top hats smoking cigars. The elevators
were off to the left while straight ahead past the front desk
were couches and chairs set up in conversational
groupings and doors leading to conference rooms. I took a
seat in a far chair half hidden by a tal potted plant that
turned out to be plastic.
I saw him. He didn't see me, but then Eric wasn't looking
for me the way I'd been waiting for him. Besides, I'd
planned it that way.
He went to the desk. I could see his grin from where I sat,
cou
ld tel by the way he pushed his too-long hair out of his
eyes again and again he was nervous. He had an overnight
bag slung over one shoulder.
He looked so beautiful. The hair, the eyes, the long legs
and broad shoulders. I thought of him with his hand on his
prick, coming at my command. I thought of him on his
knees, his mouth on my knee, my thigh. My cunt.
I thought of the bracelet that marked him as my
responsibility.
I thought of a lot of things as I watched him head for the
elevator and punch the button. I thought of even more as I
watched him wait for it to arrive, its progress from the top
floor taking forever and marked with a ping and the floor
number lit above the sliding doors. I got to my feet in my
armor, with my shield. The plastic plant blocked the view a
little, but he could've seen me, had he looked.
Eric didn't look around. He bounced on the bals of his
feet. His bag slapped his side and he let it slide from his
shoulder to grab the strap. The elevator pinged but didn't
open, stuck on the third floor. I heard him mutter
something. I stepped away from the plant. The elevator
opened.
Sometimes, you turn back.
And sometimes, you walk away.
I watched him get into the elevator and the doors closed
behind him. I watched its progress up and up, the lit
numbers showing me exactly how far he went. Then I
turned on my high, spiked heel and went to the front desk,
where I puled a letter from my black clutch purse.
It was an explanation, short but firm, and a final list of
commands for Eric to folow. He would be disappointed,
but something told me he'd be relieved, too. Some things
are better left in fantasy.
I handed it to the clerk. "Would you see that the gentleman
who just checked in under the name Rose Thorn gets this
note, please? It's important."
The staff at the Hilton are wel trained, and this boy was no
exception. Or maybe it was the clothes and the way I said
the words, as though I had no doubt he would jump to do
my bidding without even the snap of my fingers. He
nodded and took the paper from me. He looked at the
blank front and then at me, and nodded.
"Absolutely, ma'am."
"Right away," I said.
"Yes. I'l do it myself." He looked to the girl beside him, who shrugged, not at al taken in by any of this.
He didn't peek as he walked away, and no matter what he
might have done the moment the elevator closed behind
him, I would never know.
It was done.
Austin opened the door after I'd knocked three times. He
looked me up and down, his mouth slowly curving. He
opened the door, wide, and stepped back to let me
through. I didn't miss the way he leaned toward me as I
passed him, or the way he breathed me in.
I stopped in his living room and pivoted to face him.
"Austin."
"Paige," he said patiently.
I took a breath so deep it lifted my shoulders, and I
dropped my purse. It hit the floor and bounced, but neither
of us looked at it. When I opened my arms he came into
them, and when I kissed him, he kissed me back.
"I want you," I said.
I showed him how much with my hands and mouth.
"I'm sorry," I told him.
Austin kissed me harder.
"I love you," I told him.
It was not the first time, but I didn't want it to be the last.
Austin gathered me close and breathed into my hair, his
big hands hot and restless on my back. "I love you, too."
Sometimes, you turn back.
Sometimes, you turn back.
Sometimes, you walk away.
And sometimes, you find the place you're meant to be, and
you stay there. You find a way to make it work.
Whatever it takes.
SWITCH
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4601-4
Copyright Š 2010 by Megan Hart.
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and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval
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permission please contact Spice Books, 225 Duncan Mil
Road, Don Mils, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.
Spice and Colophon are trademarks used under license
Spice and Colophon are trademarks used under license
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[http://www.Spice-Books.com]
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