Twist (A BDSM & Romantic Erotica Boxed Set)

by Tara Crescent

He starts pulling out multiple varieties of cheese. Brie, cheddar, a Stilton and more. My mouth waters as he unwraps them from their packaging and arranges it on a tray. He adds crackers and olives, nuts and grapes and sets it on my coffee table. “Happy eating, Natalie.”

  I’d normally make some kind of snarky retort but I’m too busy inhaling cheese to answer. He tops up my wine glass with a smile before unpacking the rest of the groceries.

  “I forgot to tell you I’m vegetarian,” I suddenly remember with dismay.

  “I know you are,” he says calmly. “We work together, remember? Don’t you think I pay attention?”

  I eye him thoughtfully, but don’t speak. There’s more than a significant set of people who, upon hearing I’m vegetarian, tell me how delicious bacon is. I’ve never yet understood why they think that’s a helpful comment to make.

  Ted doesn’t try to talk me into eating meat and he doesn’t pout at having to accommodate my restrictions. Impressive, Mr. Ashburn.

  “What are you making?” I ask him.

  He shrugs apologetically. “It’s late,” he says. “Just pasta with pesto, if that’s okay? I thought we’d want to eat quickly.”

  “I love pasta.” I say through a mouthful of cheese.

  As he cooks, I chat with him. We talk about books and movies, both electing to avoid the topic of work. He’s a lot more fun to hang out with when he’s not talking about banking or investments. I watch his expert movements in the kitchen with some curiosity. “Do you cook often?”

  He nods, slicing some garlic into thin slivers. “Every day, if I can get to it. Thank heavens for grocery stores that are open all night. New York is fantastic that way. I shop then I go back home and start cooking. It’s my form of winding down after work, letting the stress of the day drain away. You? Do you cook?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t mind cooking, but I hate cleaning,” I confess. “Mostly, I eat takeout.”

  “What do you do to relax?”

  “I space out and watch TV.” I sound quite defensive as I speak. “I used to read a lot, but lately, I just can’t seem to summon up any enthusiasm for it.”

  “I’m enjoying my work,” he observes astutely. “You aren’t. That makes a big difference to energy levels.”

  I can see that. I remember the days when I worked as a terribly paid environmental policy intern in Washington DC.I used to leap out of bed every morning, eager to change the world. Sometimes, growing older and wiser isn’t always a good thing. The younger version of me was more enthusiastic. She was more adventurous; she took more risks.

  Though I’m taking plenty of risks with Ted.

  He plates the pasta while I daydream. I gesture to the spot on the couch next to me and he shoots me a crooked little grin. “Not demanding that I kneel next to you?” He sips at his wine. His gaze pins me down. “If the situation was flipped around, you’d be kneeling next to me.” His voice deepens. “I’ll feed you morsels of food. Your pretty little mouth will wrap around my fingers as you eat...”

  I gulp and take a bite of my pasta. It is delicious, but I’m too captivated by his words to speak and compliment him. “You’ll be naked, of course.” His voice is husky. “Because you’ll be my pet and pets don’t wear clothes.” His eyes drop to my cleavage. “I’ll clamp your nipples till they are cherry red in colour. Not to hurt you, but with each throb of the trapped flesh, you’ll be so aware of the moment. Your attention will be entirely on me. On the sensations I can give you. Your lips will part and you’ll plead so sweetly. Then I’ll make you touch yourself. You’ll push your fingers in and out of your cunt and just when your body is heavy with desire, I’ll order you to stop. And you’ll obey, because you won’t be in charge. And with the right person, not being in charge is the most freeing sensation in the universe.”

  “What’s the attraction? Why would any thinking woman give up her autonomy to be ordered around by a man?” My throat was dry with nerves. All the moisture in my body had fled to my pussy.

  He raised his eyebrow. “Is that how you think of it? As a lessening?” He shook his head. “You have it wrong. It takes strength and trust to give up control, but think about it. If you could abdicate your cares, just for a little while, to someone who respects the strength it takes to submit, why wouldn’t you?”

  “You aren’t in charge now,” I challenged. “Do you feel safe? Do you feel free?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Am I not in charge?” His voice was smooth. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  No. I’m trying to cling on to the upper hand here, but I have a feeling that I’m failing quite miserably. He’s cleaned my kitchen almost naked. He’s cooked dinner for me and somehow, even though I’ve ordered him to each and every action, he’s never managed to lose control of the evening.

  Tempted as I am to push further, my eyes are closing on me. It’s been a long week. The couple of glasses of wine I’ve had with Ted, and the two pints I had for courage before he knocked on my door have rendered me sleepy.

  I have a really important meeting at ten in the morning. It’s late. I’m going to fall asleep and try another tack tomorrow. Hey, it’s my first day ordering Ted around. There were bound to be a few hiccups.

  He notices my yawns and prepares to take his leave. I decline his offer to help clean up – there’s only two plates to wash. “Oh, Ted?” I say when I’m about to close my door. “Since you like to cook so much, bring me lunch tomorrow.”

  Didn’t even say ‘please.’ Wow, you really are a bitch, Natalie.

  “I didn’t think you were coming to work tomorrow,” he responds, sounding surprised.

  “Only for the morning,” I sigh. “John Clarkson just sent me a whole load of pre-read material for Brannon. He’s going to pull you into it too, I think.”

  He looks pleased at that piece of news. Oh wait, Ted Ashburn likes being an investment banker. I roll my eyes. “Good night, Ted,” I say firmly.

  It’s late, I’m tipsy and sleepy. I can’t deal with people that enjoy their jobs at the moment. Perhaps in the morning.

  Chapter 6

  At six the next morning, I get a text from Joan. ‘Meet me for breakfast,’ her message says. I text her back and we arrange to meet at a diner halfway between our workplaces.

  “What’s up?” I ask her when she walks in. She’s looking stressed out and serious. “Is everything okay?”

  “Give me a dollar,” she says to me in reply.

  My brows furrow but I reach into my purse and hand her the requested money. “What’s going on?” I ask her again.

  “This dollar,” she holds it up, “is a retainer. I’m now your lawyer and our conversation is privileged.”

  Whoa there. Joan is serious. It suddenly dawns on me that this is a result of the Ted Ashburn situation. A hot surge of guilt runs through me. I don’t really mean to worry my friends. Joan is just as busy as I am. She doesn’t have time to deal with my bullshit.

  “Joan,” I start out. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.”

  “No,” she contradicts me. “You really don’t. Natalie, blackmail is a federal crime. You are looking at jail time and not in one of those pretty Vermont white-collar prisons either. Add in the sexting from last night, which is sexual assault by the way, and you are really digging yourself into quite a hole.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” I repeat. Perhaps I’m being stubborn. Every word she’s saying is technically true. I should be taking this more seriously. I shouldn’t be distracted by memories of Ted’s tight ass.

  “Damn it Natalie,” she exhales. “The stuff you did when you were younger, the streaking, the boarding of the whaler, at least there was a point to those things. You cared about the environment, you were championing a cause. What’s the point here? We were drinking Friday, and mouthing off. No one is going to blame you for waking up the next morning and dismissing our blathering as drunk nonsense.”

  You know what stands out in what she says? You cared about the environment. Not care. Cared.
Past tense. That stings a lot. I open my mouth to say something in reply. Something hot and angry and mean, a lashed-out response to her unthinking words. Then I reconsider and shut up. Joan is my friend. She cares about me; she’s here because of that. I’m sensitive to her words because it skates too close to the truth.

  Not for long, I promise myself. Soon, all of this will be over. “It’s just a game,” I tell her. “Just for two weeks.”

  Her expression is troubled. “You better hope Ted Ashburn never talks,” she says. “Because the courts aren’t going to agree with your assessment.” She turns around at the door. “You’re all dressed up today,” she remarks absently. Her phone beeps and her attention turns to the screen. “You look good.”

  My morning meeting goes about as well as can be expected. By the time I head back to the SB&C office at one in the afternoon, the emails have piled up crazy high and crisis after crisis awaits me. I sit at my desk with a groan and start typing.

  About forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. It’s Ted, holding a bag in his hand. “Lunch?” he asks. “Is everything okay, Nat? You look stressed.”

  “Sorry, I forgot all about food,” I apologize. “No, it’s just work. You are getting some of this Brannon stuff too, aren’t you?”

  He nods. “Relax,” he reassures me. “I called their lead guy and set up an introductory meeting. He told me most of the stuff they sent over is background – we won’t need it yet. We’ll get a condensed version in the meeting.”

  I sigh in relief. “You are a lifesaver,” I say gratefully. “Thank you.”

  He shuts the door behind him and enters the room. “Natalie,” he orders me. “Sit. Shut the laptop for a second, put your phone on silent. It’s time to eat lunch.”

  Are you going to feed me, Ted? I want to ask that question out aloud, but I’m chicken. Besides, we are at work and SB&C will fire our asses without a blink of an eye. Not worth it, even if he looks particularly hot in his light grey pinstripe suit.

  I clear some room on my paper-strewn desk and he lays out the contents of the bag. A thermos containing soup, a sandwich and some chocolate-dipped strawberries. I groan appreciatively as I take a sip of the piping-hot tomato bisque. It is delicious. Spicy and flavourful. “You made this last night?”

  He shakes his head. “Last night,” he says, “I was too wound up. You want to know what I did, Nat?”

  I almost choke at the expression of open heat on his face. “I unbuttoned my pants,” he says. “Didn’t even take them off. Just pushed them down my hips. Reached in and pulled out my dick. I closed my eyes and I imagined you. Kneeling for me. Putting your head in my lap, sweet and trusting, knowing I will take care of you.”

  He’s taking care of me right now. Not sexually, but emotionally. He’s bought me lunch and he’s making sure I take the time to eat a healthy, nutritious meal. For an instant, I almost forget I’ve ordered him to do this. For an instant, I embrace the fantasy. But only for an instant.

  “Then I pumped my shaft, Natalie,” he says. His voice is smooth and smoky. “I thought about your red lips wrapped around my dick and I jerked myself off like a teenage schoolboy.” He gives me a cocky grin. “What about you, Nat? How many times did you make yourself come last night?”

  Twice, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

  “I’m eating,” I say haughtily. “I don’t talk with my mouth full.”

  He laughs knowingly. My cheeks heat at his tone. Damn him. Damn the impossible Ted Ashburn.

  Chapter 7

  By the time Friday evening comes around, I’m utterly exhausted. As I predicted, my respite from my crazy workload was exactly one evening long. All of Thursday and all of today, I’ve been in multiple meetings on the Brannon project. In the meanwhile, we aren’t officially done wrapping up the Hartland bank deal, so both Ted and I keep getting pulled into meetings for that as well.

  He manages to juggle the workload without any signs of stress. Me? I’m just grouchy. At the start, when Ted first moved from the London office, I was envious of him, but in the last few weeks, I’ve come to realize that he manages his work without stress because he’s genuinely engaged by this. I’m irritable because this was supposed to just be a few years of resume building before I struck out again to seek a job I was passionate about.

  I’ve been too busy to take advantage of Ted. Originally, I was going to have him come over to my apartment on Thursday, cook me dinner once again and then give me a massage. Great idea, right? His large, strong hands roaming all over my body, rubbing oil on my flesh, kneading every tense muscle? Possibly slipping lower, giving me the metaphorical happy ending?

  Except that we were both at work till midnight last night, so that plan was ruined. But tonight’s going to be different. I’ve told him to meet me at my apartment at ten. I’m going to get my money’s worth of out this situation, damn it. Ted’s going to be dancing to my tune tonight.

  But before that, it’s time for a drink with my girls. Many drinks, actually. Our Friday night routine cannot be deviated from. Not for a guy, no matter how sexy he is.

  The Friendly Drinker is open once more. Opening after a health-related closure in under a week? Suspiciously fast, right? I’m not eating there. I have no desire to scarf down rat droppings.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. Gross.

  It appears that much of the regular clientele shares my sentiment, because though I get there at nine, and it’s normally packed at that hour, today, there’s open tables and the place is almost quiet. My three friends are already seated in a booth. Joan sees me walk in and says something to the other two and they all stop talking at once.

  Ah. So they’ve been talking about me. I’ve a fairly good idea why and judging from the serious expression on their faces, it’s intervention time.

  Fuck me. Now I really, really need a drink.

  My little gang takes our interventions seriously. We almost never interfere. They certainly never tried stopping me when I streaked across campus during my undergrad days. We didn’t say anything when Anna went on a raw diet where she ate a handful of almonds a day in an effort to cleanse her system. About the only time we interfered was when Joan was dating this complete prick who was patronizing and rude to wait staff. Because, come on. Only assholes are rude to wait staff.

  Side note - This should be a first-date litmus test. Mean to your waiter? Don’t tip properly? No next date for you, jerk-face, because life’s too short and no one should be with a person who’s so unpleasant to be around that everyone walks on eggshells when they are near.

  Ah, I’ve started on a pet peeve of mine. Moving on. The girls are giving me a sombre look. I guess I’ve just got to deal.

  “Nat,” Anna opens. “This is an intervention.”

  “Does this intervention come with a beer?” I quip.

  Joan gives me a disapproving look but Beth pushes a filled pint glass towards me. “Might as well,” she says philosophically. “After all, it is Friday night.”

  God bless Beth. I take a long drink. “Alright, before you guys start,” I say when I put down the glass, “may I point out that it’s just all a game? Ted’s fine. And Joan,” I turn towards her with a raised eyebrow. “I thought I paid you a retainer. What gives?”

  Joan shakes her head emphatically. “I haven’t disclosed any privileged information,” she says. “Also, you are splitting hairs.” She fixes me with a piercing look that makes me realize she’ll be great in court. “Did you hear Ted Ashburn talk to someone about something that may or may not have been insider trading?”

  Another gulp of beer, then I answer. “I did.” I start to say something else, but she holds up her hand for silence. “Let me finish,” she says.

  Ahem. Yes, counsellor. Whatever you say.

  “Did you tell him to do as you say? Did you say or imply that you wouldn’t tell anyone about his phone call if he followed your instructions?”

  I’m not supposed to speak, so I bite my tongue.r />
  “Nat,” Anna leans forward. “Listen. It’s partly my fault. I know you can’t resist a dare. I shouldn’t have egged you on. We were all drunk, we were all stupid. The challenge’s off, okay? I don’t want you to go to jail.”

  “Yes,” Beth chimes in. “I’ve been doing some research for a story. Jail’s not nice. You’ll become someone’s bitch, Nat.”

  “Maybe I’ll end up ruling the prison,” I suggest flippantly. “Maybe I’ll do the warden’s taxes and save him or her a bunch of money and I’ll become the queen bee.”

  There’s a collective eye-roll. Joan takes one for the team, leaning forward and giving me a ‘won’t you be serious, Natalie’ look. “One,” she starts, counting on her fingers, “you won’t be in Maine. Two, this isn’t the fifties and three,” she pauses for dramatic effect, “as many times as you watch Shawshank Redemption, it isn’t going to come true.”

  “I’m not actually sure it was set in the fifties,” I say mildly, grinning inside at the look of irritation that rises in Joan’s eyes.

  Okay, okay, I have to stop baiting them. They are my friends, I love them and fun though it is to get a rise out of them, they are missing the point entirely. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Ted’s just walked into the bar. “And…” I pound down the rest of my beer. “My victim’s just entered.” I wink at them. “It’s been fun, ladies. See you next Friday.”

  They look horrified and disapproving. For a second, I feel a twinge of something that very much resembles my long-dormant conscience. Then I push it down. I’m entitled to my fun.

  Chapter 8

  “I thought I told you to meet me at my apartment,” I say crossly to Ted as we walk the fifteen blocks back to my place. The streets are snarled with traffic and walking is a lot faster than being stuck in a cab. Not that I can’t think of some fun things to do in the back of a cab with Ted Ashburn.

  “I don’t always do everything I’m told to do, Natalie,” he replies smoothly. We walk in silence for a block or two as I ponder those words and try to figure out what exactly about Ted’s presence at the Friendly Drinker is bothering me. Finally, I have it. “This feels like an intrusion into my time with my friends,” I say carefully.