Pierced (Tall, Dark, and Handsome Book 2)

by JA Huss

  “You know that’s not all you were.”

  “Do I? Because I don’t get it. She gets my job. She gets my status. She gets everything I had—”

  “Then why did you take the job as VP? Why didn’t you just tell him no? He wasn’t going to force you into a promotion.”

  “It wasn’t a promotion. It was… a payoff. That’s all.”

  She crosses her arms and scowls. “You are the one who accepted the position.”

  “Yes, because I didn’t understand who he thought I was. I thought he’d hire another me. Not a Valerie.”

  “There is no other you, Myrtle. Anywhere.”

  “That might be true,” I say. “But he’s satisfied with her. He might even be happy with her. So then I have to ask myself… am I just a joke around here? Was I just sexy Myrtle who sits in front of Pierce’s door? He obviously doesn’t need me. He’s never needed me, Eden. He just needed a Valerie. And it’s not fair,” I say. That sad feeling is back, only much, much sadder. “It’s not fair because… because…”

  “Because you needed him,” Eden finishes.

  I nod. Tears are actually stinging my eyes. “I needed him. And I know it’s naïve, but I really saw us together forever. And now it’s over and I can’t.” I shake my head and force those tears back. “I can’t stay here and watch what I thought was the perfect relationship just… fall away into something as ordinary as Valerie. It wasn’t love, OK? It has nothing to do with love. It was mutual respect. It was a partnership. It was something he and I built together and yeah, maybe we got a little comfortable. Maybe I got a little comfortable. But it was all I had. And now I have nothing. Valerie is the new Myrtle. Do you know I actually heard someone say that the other day? I wanted to die of humiliation all over again. There is nothing left for me here. Nothing at all. And there’s nothing I can do about it because now I’m not Myrtle, Pierce’s erotic and scary gatekeeper. I’m Myrtle, that weird woman who does nothing all day and gets paid more than Josh Washburn.”

  She sighs. It’s long and sad. After several seconds of silence she says, “Do you want to go to lunch with me?”

  I nod. “Can we go right now?”

  She laughs. Because it’s barely ten thirty. “For sure. Let’s go.”

  I don’t go back to work after I’m done hanging out with Eden. I wander down to Corporate Affairs and chat with Maggie about the party. I’ll stay at Le Man through the party, I decide. I started this, so I have to finish it. I owe Pierce that much.

  But after I finish with Maggie I can’t make myself go back to work. I can’t face those people.

  Everyone knows what I know. Everyone sees what I see.

  Everyone but Pierce.

  So I just drive home and start getting ready for Pierce’s visit tonight. I grab a bottle of wine and a glass, go down into the dungeon, and throw myself into preparations. And when that’s complete, and I’m satisfied with the sequence of events that will occur, I go upstairs to my bedroom, walk into my closet, and carefully choose my outfit.

  Pierce Chevalier is going to get the full Mistress Myrtle treatment.

  I’m going to make him see me. I’m going to make him regret all his bad decisions.

  I’m going to show him what he’ll be missing when I’m gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - PIERCE

  It’s already dark when I pull up to the guard shack. Colorado’s vast, almost blue-seeming night sky stretches to infinity. The same guard from last night sits inside the guard station, reading a paperback. I roll down the window and say, “Anastasia Steele to see Ms. Rothschild.”

  She grins, slightly. She looks down at her list of one name and says, “Ah, yes. Welcome, Ms. Steele.”

  I roll my eyes. Perfect. “Hey. What’s your name?” I ask her. She looks taken aback by the question.

  “Um. Samantha,” she says.

  “Samantha what?”

  She cocks her head. “Crabtree.”

  “Samantha Crabtree. OK. Sure. So, whatcha reading there, Samantha Crabtree?”

  Her eyes narrow, sizing me up. “A novel.”

  “I see that. What novel?”

  She takes a breath and says, “You can go through, Ms. Steele.”

  Ah. She’s not interested in my usual charming, get-to-know you banter. OK. That’s fine. I can appreciate a person who doesn’t trust me. Hell, I may appreciate them more than a person who does.

  “Cool,” I say, smiling. “Catch you on the flip, Crabapple.”

  “Crabtree.”

  “If you say so.”

  The huge gates swing open and I roll through. My heart speeds up a little bit as I make my way around the drive. I’ve never felt this way before. I’m almost a bit lightheaded. I’ve been sober for pretty much my whole life, so I don’t know entirely what it feels like to be drunk, but I’ve certainly seen it. And in my recollection from the one or two times I have been tippled, it was a little like this. Buzzy. That’s how I feel. I’m buzzy.

  I’ve spent part of the day wrestling the thoughts that Eden put in my head earlier. The notion that somehow Myrtle has feelings for me. Like actual feelings. And, even more preposterously, that I have them for Myrtle. I mean, I’d like to think that I’d know if either one of those things was true. And try as I might, I just can’t envision it.

  Myrtle and I have been flirtatious, sure. But that’s always just been fun and games. Playing the roles we were cast to play with each other. From the first time she came in to interview to be my assistant, I knew she was the kind of woman I’d want to have around me. Someone I could spar and parry with. That’s what I liked about her. What I like about her.

  It’s why I was willing to do this whole thing in the first place. This peripeteia in our relationship. I’ll do what it takes, because I can’t lose her. I just can’t. Even if things are different than they were before, just knowing she’s around is enough to make me feel… comfortable.

  But I’m not in love with her. That’s just… that’s just insensé.

  I remind myself of this now so that I don’t confuse the surge of excitement in my beating heart and the flow of blood making its way to my dick for anything other than what it is: The thrill of discovery and the joy of release.

  Last night was the first time I can remember when I wasn’t the boss. When I wasn’t the one in charge. When I wasn’t making the decisions and the calls and the choices. When I was just… doing as I was told.

  It was thrilling.

  And we only just got started. I can’t wait to find out what tonight’s going to bring.

  I’m going to give her what she wants and then, when the weekend comes, I’m going to give her what she doesn’t know she wants. Under the guise of letting her dominate me, I’m going to seize control of our dynamic once more and then everything will balance and go back to the way it was.

  I never actually got around to reading the second two Fifty Shades books, but I’m pretty sure they probably ended with Anastasia Steele running a men’s magazine and Christian Grey forgiving her for the fact that Ana had him publicly humiliated.

  Feels like the direction the books were headed.

  I hop out of my car and almost bound up the steps to the door. I ring the bell, once again expecting Kacy or whatever her name was to answer. Instead, Myrtle’s voice comes over the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh… Myrtle?”

  “Yes.”

  I pause, waiting for more. When no more comes, I continue. “Uh, it’s Pierce. You wanna let me in?”

  After another moment of silence, there’s a buzz and I hear the front door unlock. I push it open, carefully, to see the inside of the main hall is aglow in candlelight. Pedestal candles in glass hurricanes fill the space. It’s haunting, but elegant. It’s the kind of light that radiates seduction.

  Looking around, I see no one. No people. No tigers. No serval/leopard things. Nothing. Music plays everywhere. Slow, melodic, but grinding and borderline sinister. It reminds me a little of the music tha
t a girl I went out with a few times used to favor. She owns an art gallery in the TDH. Um… Serena? Shit, I can’t remember her name. But she actually kind of always reminded me of Myrtle, so this is a bit of déjà vu.

  And that causes me to realize…

  Huh. Every woman I’ve ever gone out with kind of reminds me of Myrtle. I mean no one is Myrtle. Certainly none of the women I was with ever had her wit and, um, moxie… I guess. But in the abstract, they all kind of remind me of her when I stop to consider it. I never thought of myself as having a “type,” but…

  “Pierce?” comes an echoing purr throughout the speaker system in the house.

  “Uh… yeah?”

  “Come to the dungeon.”

  The ‘to the dungeon’ part was almost a whisper. This is gonna be wild, I have a feeling. I’m doing my best not to betray my enthusiasm. “OK,” I say, looking around just to make sure a lion or some shit isn’t going to jump out and, I dunno, lion-fuck me or something.

  I make my way through the candlelit space until I rediscover the door to the basement. Or, I guess, dungeon. It’s ajar and smoke is billowing up the stairs in thin strands. Pushing it open further, I see that the candle theme continues and extends down to where Myrtle is, I presume, waiting for me. And there’s a smell. Something familiar from my youth.

  Incense. It smells like the same kind the priests used to burn in the thuribles they’d swing back and forth when walking down the aisle before Mass. Holy shit… If I go down these stairs and find Myrtle dressed like a nun, I’m gonna lose my shit.

  I’ve always had a thing for nuns.

  I confessed that once and the priest just sat there for a long time, trying to decide what my penance should be. After a fair amount of silence, he finally just said, “Nuns? Really?”

  I haven’t been back to church in a long while.

  But I have a feeling that I’m gonna be kneeling at a very different altar in a few minutes.

  The music is louder here. It’s dull and throbbing. It actually sounds like sex. Which is, y’know, a good mood-setter, I suppose.

  “Myrtle?” I ask, as I put a foot on the first step and hear it creak under my weight. I place the other foot ahead of me as well and begin my descent.

  It’s dark. Just one candle at the bottom of the stairs. A very tall pillar with a high-climbing flame. I try to duck my head to see the room, but it’s been blocked. Covered with—I reach out to touch the barrier—satin. Black satin.

  I continue until I reach the bottom step and notice there’s a hanger on a hook. On the hanger is clipped a note in red lettering. I pull it off and hold it up to the candle. It says, Take off your clothes and hang them here. ALL of your clothes.

  “Take off my clothes? Now?” I announce to… well, to the black satin curtain.

  Silence.

  “Myrtle?” I pull the curtain aside and see nothing. I mean, nothing. Blackness. No candles, no nothing. Just blackness. “Myrtle?”

  A whip cracks in the dark. “Did you not read my note?” Myrtle’s voice. Or, rather, a variation on Myrtle’s voice. Harsh. Throaty.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “You want me—”

  “Was the note not clear?”

  “I mean, it’s dark, so I had to kinda squint to see it, but—”

  “Stop. Talking.” The whip cracks again. “You have three seconds to decide and then this is over. Either follow my commands or get out of my dungeon.”

  I take a deep breath and hold it. Open my mouth to say something like, Are you sure? Because this sounds like a lot of fun and I’m pretty sure we’d both be sorry tomorrow if—

  “One.”

  Shit.

  “Two.”

  “OK, OK. Just give me a minute.”

  “One minute. Starting now. When you’re done, wait on the other side of the curtain for my next command.”

  I loosen my tie and take it off, draping it over the hanger.

  The sound of tapping shoes on the floor takes my attention away from the fact that I’m pulling off my suit coat and kicking off my own shoes. Slow, methodical steps. The sound of a lighter being flicked. There’s a small crack in the curtain, so I get a glimpse of shadows dancing on the other side.

  I want to pull the curtain aside and see her. See what she’s doing. See what she has in store. But something seems different tonight. Her mood, maybe. And I think if I pull that curtain aside she might actually send me home.

  A part of me wants that. Wants to go home. And a part of me definitely does not.

  I have a stroke of anxiety that what’s about to go down is going to get very, very real, and I have a premonition. A premonition that I didn’t previously take into account. That this could change us. Again. I changed us in a huge way this past summer and this will change us again.

  But, shit, I’m not thrilled with the way things are now between us, so what the hell? May as well roll the dice and see what happens.

  Because I think… I think Myrtle is done with me. I think, possibly, in her mind, she’s moved on already.

  It’s obvious she doesn’t need a job with me. Perhaps she’s never needed a job with me. And every day since “the incident,” it’s become harder to come up with a rationale for why she sticks around.

  So…

  I take off my shoes, socks, and pants and start unbuttoning my shirt. When that’s done, and the only other article of clothing I have left is my boxer briefs, the full realization of what I signed up for—what she’s going to do to me tonight—manifests.

  “Your minute is up.”

  “I’m—one second.” I tighten my eyes, open them, take off the boxer briefs, and stand there behind the curtain. Naked. “OK, I’m ready.”

  “You’re sure?” she purrs.

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “Then pull the curtain aside, take one step into the dungeon, and stop.”

  I have an overwhelming urge to cover myself. Because some things you can’t take back. And the moment Myrtle sees me like this—stripped bare, down to nothing—I won’t be able to take that back.

  I’m not embarrassed of my body. I work out. I eat right. I lay off the fromage as much as possible. So I have a very fit body. And my suits are custom-tailored. They are made not just to accommodate my physique, but to accentuate it. So it’s no mystery that Pierce has, as one might say, “got it going on.”

  But if I do this… tomorrow at work, she’ll know. She’ll know what’s underneath.

  So I draw in a deep breath, pull the curtain aside, and take one step into the dungeon.

  It’s different than I remember. Which is to say, I’m not sure I really took it in at all. Last night it seemed very much like a candlelit basement in a big, weird house. Tonight, it feels like…

  If the exterior of the house reminded me of my childhood home in Marseilles, this reminds me of the inside of some seventeenth-century French castle. In fact, it’s almost exactly like the catacombs leading to the Palace of Versailles. If the catacombs had received a makeover and been spruced up with lace and silk and painted in hues of silver and cream.

  The cages are adorned with thin strips of satin. Soft, delicate material, but strung along the bars as much for function as design. It’s clear that they’re there in order to bind someone to them. To hold them there. Secure them.

  Off to the side is a bed. A four-poster bed with a canopy. More satiny ribbons hang from the posts. It’s soft-looking and plush and elegant. But at the foot of the bed sits a chest with whips and handcuffs and bridles and some shit I’ve never seen before in my life.

  Pillared candles are everywhere, creating a golden, amber glow that causes the metal and concrete and dark bricks in the walls to feel almost inviting. Almost. Because right in front of me is a red velvet rope. I reach to unfasten the barrier when I hear a sharp, “No!”

  I look up as the billowy smoke from the candles swirls around my head and the smell of incense fills my nostrils. And then, like a wraith appearing from the shadows, Myrtle emerges.r />
  She’s not wearing a nun’s outfit, as it turns out. She’s got on…

  Ho. Ly. Fucking hell.

  I can barely process it. Myrtle. She of the dark skirts and open blouses. She of the sexy librarian glasses and the knowing looks. She who I have seen every day for the last seven years, but never, ever, in my wildest dreams, like this.

  The high heels she wears are eggshell-colored. Almost white. They have petite, silk ribbons on the tops. They’re sort of like Mary Janes, if Mary Jane were about to shove a stiletto into your crotch and bend you over to make you beg her to stop punishing you.

  The hose she has on aren’t hose per se. They’re more like skin sleeves. Again, shimmery and white, they’re either rubber or latex or some material that blood and liquids will just slide off clean. They come to mid-thigh, and pinch tightly enough that the strong, toned flesh of her legs is cradled inside them and then erupts into glory at the place where they meet her garters.

  The garters themselves are a complicated affair, and, like the cages and the bed, have satin ribbons hanging from them that trail down the sides of her legs. And rather than being bound to a garter belt by one single strand, there are four individual straps that traverse the circumference of her thigh and attach to the waistline of her frilly white panties.

  She has on a corset. A finely stitched, ornate affair with a floor-length skirt hanging from the back and lines in front detailing the shape. Vertical stripes of silver that look like boning running along the body of the well-structured piece. It fastens across the front with five metal buckles that appear as both a seduction and a challenge. Guardians of the skin within.

  The same goes for the bra. White satin with beaded detail and another metallic buckle in the front to restrict entry. Long, white gloves disappear under the puffy sleeves of a silk shrug that just covers her shoulders. It fastens with a fragile-seeming brooch in the front and rises along the sides of her neck in a pseudo-military collar.