I checked the bottle—it was kefir infused with lavender and honey. What a peculiar combination. She was right, it sounded like perfume.
Then I tried the drink for myself. Eww, and it tasted like cologne too.
Poppy liked the third one. “It’s zingy.” It was the apple cider vinegar, kefir, and paprika one.
I tracked all their comments. My personal favorite was the watermelon blueberry one. Darcy turned up her nose at all of them.
After the informal market research, I had a better understanding of the product. Now I had to think about ways we could advertise it. Call me competitive, but I wanted to wow the design team.
“So where’ve you been?” Poppy asked.
Darcy was still reading, and Iris had settled on yet another competitive cooking show.
“Around. I’ve been busy with a project.” I didn’t look her in the eye.
Her brows drew together. “I don’t believe you. Something’s up.”
She could be uber-perceptive at times. Sophomore year, Poppy was the one who’d figured out I’d been smoking marijuana. And I’d been so careful, spraying myself down with Febreeze and using breath mints.
“Nothing’s up.” I kept scribbling away on my legal pad.
“You’re lying.”
“Me?” I glanced up, all startled, as though I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
She sighed. “Fine, I’ll bide my time until you feel like confessing. You’ll tell me eventually.”
To avoid her prying gaze, I took the notes to my room and shut the door.
She knocked a couple of times, but I told her I had work to do and she went away.
Poppy was right, and I felt like an asshole for keeping her in the dark.
I couldn’t keep a secret this big for long.
But explaining it to somebody else was out of the question, at least until I had a better handle on what I felt.
Chapter Eleven
Malcolm
I got up at five this morning and went for a run until I couldn’t breathe or take another step. Usually, I hit the gym down the street or used the treadmill in my office, but I needed fresh air and the time to think.
Last night, I’d spent a couple of hours developing the photographs I’d taken of Kate. The erotic pictures were seductive but also had a strange, haunting quality. It reminded me of my initial work in the field.
Now that Kate wasn’t in front of me and I wasn’t distracted by the screaming needs of my body, I had the opportunity to look at her.
And I could read the hurt in her eyes, the slight pain.
Kate was smart, strong, and beautiful. She had no reason to doubt herself, but she was unloved. Call it gut instinct, paired with the knowledge I’d gleaned from my online snooping, but she had a huge chip on her shoulder. Probably in an effort to hide the tender feelings inside.
Submission had a way of exposing vulnerabilities, calling up wounds from the past, but it also healed someone, patched them back together. It was all about the bond, the trust involved—provided the dominant in question wanted to protect and care for his submissive.
And I cared about her, more than I felt comfortable admitting.
I found our time together satisfying on several levels. But this thing with Kate couldn’t work in the long term. I shouldn’t get attached, but I had a bad feeling it was too late for that sage advice. I should accept Kate’s affection as a gift, a fun fling I’d look back on fondly in my golden years. Yet I couldn’t get out her out of my head. And not even running five miles could make my thoughts center on anything else.
I was settled in my life, while hers was up in the air. I had my career, my apartment, and I’d figured myself out a long time ago. Kate was still on a journey of self-discovery. She was in the process of becoming an adult, figuring out who she was and what she wanted. Soon she’d be out on her own, and I’d only have bittersweet memories. Might as well make some spectacular ones.
When Hope and I parted, it’d been devastating, a blow I’d never fully recovered from. And I bet it’d be worse with Kate.
An hour later, I sat in my office, freshly showered and wearing a brand new Calvin Klein suit.
Kate knocked on the door. Like yesterday, she wore a skirt suit. This time in a feminine pink. Her eyes were big and bright, her bow-shaped mouth curved into a triumphant smile. Oh, yes, she was coming into her own.
A stab of guilt cut through me. Keeping her as a personal assistant had been a selfish whim on my part. When I’d met with her about the position, I’d been attracted, no, enraptured by her unique combination of bluster and vulnerability. I should’ve spent the last couple of months acting as her mentor, teaching her about the ad business, instead of keeping her at my beck and call.
Yet it’d been oh, so seductive sending her on intimate errands. All of those chores were something a girlfriend or a wife would do, but Kate was neither of those things.
“I take it you had a few ideas for the ad?”
“Yes!” She pulled a tablet from her briefcase. “Can you take a look?”
“Sure.”
“Since the demographic for the water kefir drinks is young, health-conscious women, I’d like to do a social media campaign, with an emphasis on Instagram.”
Kate handed over her tablet, which was queued to her personal account. I thumbed through the shots—carefully posed snaps of the product. One sat next to a jar of overnight oats, another beside a dumbbell, a third was perched on top of a stack of textbooks. While Kate wasn’t a professional photographer, she had an eye for detail and clearly understood the message the company wanted to get across.
“If you think I’m on the right track, I’d like to send samples to several influential fit bloggers, maybe get a little Google juice going.”
I was familiar with the expression—referring to having a product show up on the first page of a web search, thereby capturing more potential consumers.
“I like your ideas. This is an excellent strategy, especially when we pair it with more traditional markets like television spots.”
All of my designers were of a certain age, and none of them had grown up with the internet the way a person Kate’s age had. We’d done social media campaign work in the past, but the results had been mixed at best. Maybe because we didn’t have a tech-savvy team member in charge?
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
She beamed.
And my heart twisted.
“Pitch it to the team and get their feedback as well. I’ll tell Seth to have creative work on some mock-ups, which I want you to tweak.”
“Thank you!”
Jesus, she almost sparkled. Kate hadn’t gotten much praise in her life, and she always soaked it in. No wonder she loved the “good girl” comments.
I knew her father was a sore point. Every time he’d come up in conversation, she changed the topic quickly. I knew what it was like to live with wounds that refused to heal. She needed to get it out in the open, make sense of her relationship with the man.
But I knew she’d fight me on it every step of the way.
I owed it to Kate to show her just how very special she was.
“Come here.” I crooked a finger at her. “I’ve got something to show you.”
“What?” She bit her lower lip.
“You’ll see.” I sat her down on the couch and then placed the photographs I’d taken into her hands.
“Oh….” Kate sucked in a breath.
“Yes, ‘oh.' You’re very photogenic, Ms. Vincent. Remind me to use you as a model more often.” I walked behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders.
She flipped through the sensual photos, breathing a little harder, her legs sprawling open. In the current picture, Kate’s arms were roped together, her chest thrust out, nipples tight and hard.
I cupped her breast. Not surprisingly, her nipples were just as stiff. Yeah, the “not in the office” promise was shot all to hell.
�
��You’re coming over tonight.” It wasn’t a question. “And I’m going to spend the evening tying you up then fucking you senseless. When you can’t take anymore, I’ll carry you to my bed, and you’ll sleep beside me.”
I was going to regret this sooner rather than later. The closer I got to her, the more it would hurt when she left, but what the fuck? I wanted all of her I could get my hands on.
Maybe I have some masochistic instincts after all.
“But—”
I pinched her tender skin. “That’s not the proper response. What do you say when I give you an order?”
She moaned. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. Now, get out of here before I fuck you on the couch.”
She hesitated a second, and I grasped her around the waist.
Kate squealed. “Okay, I’ll see you, later on tonight.”
“That’s better.”
She dashed away, and I was left alone with a raging hard-on and a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
Well, I’d better get used to the taste of regret.
***
Kate
After work, I found Poppy in the common room on her laptop. She was typing away, drinking what had to be her fourth or fifth cup of coffee of the day. Like me, she was a serious java addict.
“You came home again? And here I thought you’d forgotten where you live.”
I winced.
So I’d been a little scarce lately. I could make up an excuse and stay home with my roomies tonight, but I didn’t want to. I felt so good when I was with Malcolm, I couldn’t seem to stop.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy, and before you ask, I can’t stay. I’ve got plans.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down beside her on the couch. “Where are the rest of our roomies?”
“Iris went to work. The girl’s been a wreck since she found out about the engagement, even though she’s putting up a good front. She tried to walk out of here in her pajamas. I had to drag her back to the bedroom and hand Iris her waitress uniform.”
“Yikes. God, I hate William.” Karma had better do its thing because he deserved to be reborn as a cockroach, or a senator. Better yet, Iris should get revenge on the little weasel.
“Oh yeah, get in line.”
“And Darcy?”
“At the library with the professor.” This was said with a meaningful wink.
“I see. Has she made a move on him? We’ve only got a few more weeks to complete this pact.” I seemed to be the only one making any progress so far.
“We didn’t agree to anything.” Poppy closed the lid of her laptop so she could focus on me. “Meaning, of course, she hasn’t—Darcy always does the right thing.”
Glad I wasn’t the only one who found it annoying, but I had something to make crystal clear.
“Yes, we did, but all of you are shy and awkward, which is why I’m the leader of the group.”
She scowled. “You aren’t the leader.”
“Am too.”
“Are not. And speaking of shady deeds, where’ve you been, roomie? I’ve missed you.” She nudged me with her elbow.
“Um, busy.” I wasn’t sure how to explain what I’d been up to. “And how’s Sebastian?”
Her mouth pursed. “Still fake-married to my mother and off-limits.”
“You might as well tell me, because your expression says something went down.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She picked up her laptop again, and I snapped the lid shut this time.
“Come on, tell me.”
“Fine, I might’ve, uh, smooched him.” Her cheeks flamed a Harvard shade of red.
“Shut your mouth! On second thought—don’t. Tell me everything.”
Poppy lifted a shoulder. “Not much to tell. I was tipsy, and he was there. Somehow, my mouth ended up on his.” She buried her face in her hands. “God, I cringe even thinking about it.”
“So you crashed and burned?”
“That’s putting it mildly—this was like a Titanic or Hindenburg type of deal.” Poppy pantomimed an explosion, complete with sound effects.
Uh oh.
“What happened after the kiss?”
“A big, fat nothing. All of a sudden, I forgot how to speak. My lips refused to move, so I couldn’t come up with some lame excuse, like I tripped and accidently landed on his mouth. Sebastian said we’d forget it ever happened.” Poppy groaned. “God, I wanted to die—and now it’s awkward. He’s been hiding out at the club ever since, and I’ve been avoiding my mom.”
Sebastian had an apartment right above Vagabond. He only spent the occasional night at Bettie’s place. I always suspected he used it to shag groupies or something, but I never said so.
“You should text him and talk it out.” Things had gotten a lot better between Malcolm and me after we’d met in his office.
Or worse, depending on your point of view.
“Aw, hell no. I’m gonna pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Sebastian’s got a thing for you. When you’re in a room together—the man can’t take his eyes off you.”
“Maybe, but it’s a moot point. They’ll get fake-divorced, and I won’t have to worry about it anymore.”
“What about your mom? Does she know about the kiss?”
“No, she hasn’t said anything. But seriously, what about Bettie? As in, what was I thinking? I kissed her husband—her husband. Sure, she’s not in love, but still—finders, keepers. Right?”
“Come on, I doubt she’d care, even if she found out. Bettie loves you, and she’s all…I don’t know, cool about things.”
I tried not to sound jealous.
Bettie might not act like a real mom—she didn’t do curfews and homemade cookies, but she took a real interest in Poppy. If I was abducted, I doubt my father would even notice, while Bettie would be all over the airwaves, demanding Poppy’s release.
They were best friends, or sisters, more than a mother and daughter, at any rate. I envied Poppy her connection, someone who was invested in her life, who cared for her..
“Yeah, I know, but there are some lines you don’t cross. And I have a feeling this is one of those. We’ve never competed for the same guy—sisters before misters.” Poppy heaved a sigh. “Sometimes, I wish she was a regular mother. One who wasn’t married to hot rock star.”
“Bettie’s not so bad.”
“Oh, yeah? She sent me what I assume was a post-coital selfie with her new boy.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry I taught her how to take those.”
“Eww. They were naked?” Gross.
“No, but they were both all tousled like they’d rolled out of bed, and they had these sappy grins. Her lipstick was smeared on his mouth and I did the math.”
Stomach turned, I set my coffee down.
“Oh, yeah, and get this—he’s only 18—a freshman at Julliard. He’s interning on Broadway. I guess his grandfather is somebody in Hollywood. It’s this whole favoritism deal.”
“He’s younger than us?”
“Yup.” She popped the ‘p’.
“Eww. At least my dad’s chippies are above the drinking age. I guess Bettie’s having a midlife crisis.”
“Probably, but don’t you dare say she’s middle-aged. She still lies about it, even to me. Bettie tried to tell me she was only thirty-nine. I know she didn’t have me at eighteen.” Poppy shook her head. “Well, at least she’s happy. My dad’s getting married for the sixth time, and I’m invited. Again. I don’t see the point in going to these anymore.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to shack up? When I get married, it’ll just be the one time. And if it doesn’t work out, I’m done with love—I’ll take up quilting or something.”
I doubted I’d ever walk down the aisle, but I appreciated the sentiment. My dad had never gotten hitched either. It wasn’t until preschool that I learned a lot of people had parents married to one another.
Poppy ran a hand down her face. “Maybe
I’m ashamed of myself and I’m looking to lay blame elsewhere. I kissed my own stepfather.” She kept saying it, as though trying to let it sink in.
“The British term is snogged, as your step-daddy would call it.”
“Shut up.” But there was a hint of a smile on her lips. “Seriously, what’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. You did something crazy. We’re supposed to do crap like at our age—besides, I can’t even judge you.”
Since she’d opened up to me, I had to come clean. It wasn’t fair to leave her in the dark.
“Why not?”
It was my turn to flush. “My boss is Fifty-Shades-ing me.” I blurted it out before I lost my nerve.
“You’re screwing the boss—the one you hate?” Her eyes widened. “I’m going to need some details. I don’t need a full-frontal description or anything, but I want the scoop.”
After I had filled her in, Poppy sat there with slightly stunned expression.
“Sorry, I’m still marveling at one detail. You got a job in a dungeon?”
“Hey, easy on the judge-y face there, Lolita.”
“I’m trying ‘O’.” She was referring to The Story of O, a novel about a sex slave.
“How is that more shocking?”
“Because it’s a sex job. What about your public records? What if an employer does a background search on you?”
“Well, since I never actually got paid, there won’t be written record, and I’ll leave ass-whipping off my skill-set list.”
She snorted with laughter.
I couldn’t help but smirk as I imagined a potential employer scanning my resume. I could add all kinds of exciting items—created and implemented creative punishments for disobedient clients.
“So you like it, then? The rough stuff?”
“Yeah, it’s…kinda hot, actually. And it’s not all rough. Malcolm is tender, too.”
“Oh, my God, you really like him. You’re calling Malcolm by his name.”
I had a bad habit of nicknaming the men I screwed around with—Frat Boy, British Guy, Quick Draw—and believe me, he was. I realize now it was a way of distancing myself.
“I never thought I’d see you all gooey over somebody.”
Rough Ride (Let it Ride Book 1) Page 9
