by Evelyn Adams
His commander-in-chief tone would have pissed me off if I wasn’t so sure I’d riled him. That was still no reason to let him get away with it.
I DON’T WANT TO SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY CLEANING MY APARTMENT. DUST BUNNIES DON’T CARE ABOUT THE LIMITS HARD OR OTHERWISE. SAYING A THING DOESN’T MAKE IT SO.
DON’T TEST ME, KITTEN
Again with the kitten thing. Yeesh, I ought to accuse him of being some kind of crazy cat man. I was working out how to phrase it for the maximum amount of burn (and actively ignoring the way my pulse kicked up whenever he said it because I wasn’t anybody’s pet) when I shifted on my seat and almost fell off the stool. I overcorrected and had to grip the counter to stop from landing on my ass and put a sizeable dent in my smoothie cup. Taking it as a sign not to poke the sleeping tiger, rile Nicholson, or tempt karma in any other way where Jensen was concerned, I ditched the cup and shoved my phone back in the handy pouch without responding.
I got out of the club as fast as my abused legs could carry me. The last thing I needed was an overzealous personal trainer catching me on the way out to try to schedule more weight-induced torture. I needed food you had to chew. Smoothies were beverages, not meals, and I hadn’t been lying to Erik when I said I had to clean my apartment. I wasn’t obsessive about it, at least not in a clinical way, but I needed to keep my spaces orderly. My life worked better that way.
I lived in an older building just outside the district, a couple of blocks from my studio. With its cast-iron railings and long plantation shutters, I’d fallen in love with the place the first time I saw it. It was so unlike where I’d grown up and practically oozed Creole charm. It was also dusty, a little cramped, and it went from charming to hovel fast if I didn’t stay on top of it. I’d been so preoccupied with the threat of the lawsuit and work worries, it had been too long since I’d given it a good cleaning. I could probably write notes to myself in the layer of dust on the old dresser I used as a hall table.
Technically the gym was in walking distance of my place. Walking was the one exercise I didn’t normally shun but given the way my legs felt after all the lifts the polo-clad drill sergeant made me do, I figured I’d be dragging myself the last few blocks to my apartment if I tried to walk, so I splurged on an Uber. Erik hadn’t sent another text, and I spent way too much time rationalizing in my head the fact that there was nothing for him to respond to since I hadn’t replied to his last one and I didn’t care anyway. Lies, all of it, but there was a reason denial was a thing.
Sometimes the best way to preserve mental health was to avoid looking too closely at things. Okay, that was a total crock of shit and I knew it but it didn’t stop me from using it to quiet the what’s Erik thinking/who’s he doing whirlwind blowing through my head. I hated it when women spent all their time thinking about men. The last thing I wanted to do was become one of them. I owned my power, not some guy with an exceptional ass and the kind of mind that took sparring to a new, sexier level.
I made a quick stop at the bakery on Bienville. They didn’t have a storefront. The bulk of their business was supplying bread for po ’boys to local restaurants, but if you knew which door to bang on, they’d sell a loaf or two if they had leftovers. Leftover bread from the bakery was better than any bread I’d ever had before I moved to New Orleans. Crusty on the outside and lighter than air on the inside. My mouth started to water, thinking about it. I didn’t have to knock on the ancient painted wood door. It was open when I got there. I handed the older man standing in the shadow of the doorway a couple of dollars and he handed me a paper-wrapped loaf like some kind of clandestine yeasty drug trade.
Clutching my score to my chest so I wouldn’t be tempted to rip it open and shove chunks of the crusty deliciousness into my mouth while I was still out on the street, I hobbled the last half a block to my apartment. I climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor, certain my legs would give out any minute and I’d be left sprawled in the stairwell with nothing to sustain me but a loaf of bread until one of my neighbors took pity on me and called for help.
I heard bumping and what sounded like furniture being dragged over the floor above. Mr. Roulaine lived in the only other apartment on my floor. He was every bit of seventy, and I hated the idea of him trying to move furniture by himself. The idea of the sweet old man dropping from a heart attack gave me a second wind, and I managed to hoist myself the last few steps to the top of the stairs. I glanced from his closed door to mine and back again.
The noise was coming from my apartment, which didn’t make any sense at all. I stood in the hallway close enough to the top of the steps to make a run for it—controlled fall would be more like it—if I needed to, and tried to figure out what to do. I’d never been one of those women who hear a noise in the creepy basement and go investigate. I was more of the wait outside on the porch for the cops to come kind of woman, but calling the police in this case felt like overkill. I clutched my bread, debating my next move when my apartment door opened, and a pleasant-looking woman emerged, carrying the biggest vacuum cleaner I’d ever seen. It looked like a jet engine with a handle and bag attached.
“Oh hello,” she said, pausing in her attempt to wrestle the vacuum to the top of the narrow flight of steps. “You must be Ms. Smithson. We’ll be finished up and out of your hair in just a minute.”
“I’m sorry. Who are you? Finished with what?” Maybe the post-workout endorphins were messing with me and I’d forgotten I’d invited a group of people to my apartment, but I didn’t think so.
“Mr. Jensen hired us to clean your apartment. I hope I didn’t ruin the surprise. I assumed you knew.”
Her pretty face looked stricken, and I relaxed my forehead and pasted what I hoped was a friendly smile on my face. It wasn’t her fault Erik Jensen was an assuming know-it-all bastard who’d gotten someone to break into my apartment. And if the vacuum and the Happy Housekeepers logo on her navy polo was any indication, she and her crew had taken cleaning off my to-do list for the day.
“It’s okay. Thank you,” I added, hoping I was right about the cleaning thing and that they weren’t part of some kind of elaborate petty burglary ring.
She flashed me a quick grateful smile as she resumed dragging the massive vacuum down the steps. I took a few tentative steps toward my front door, uncertain what I was supposed to do since there were still people inside. Calling Jensen and telling him to stay the fuck out of my apartment was at the top of my list, but I wasn’t sure I wanted an audience for that. Before I could decide, the door opened and people all wearing navy polos and carrying a variety of cleaning paraphernalia filed past me. It was like watching a clown car empty out of my small apartment.
“All finished,” said the last one through.
The young woman held the door open for me, and I murmured my thanks as I entered my cleaned to within an inch of its life space. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a smudge anywhere and the place smelled like a delicious combination of lemon and lavender. I set the bread on my spotless kitchen table and crossed the immaculate living room with its freshly vacuumed carpet—it was almost a different shade of aubergine. I didn’t want to think about how much dirt the Happy Housekeeper people must have gotten out of it. I pushed open the bathroom door and decided I’d sell a kidney if I had to to get them to come back every month.
My towels were stacked in perfect order and the cosmetics I’d left in disarray on the counter had been organized and tucked neatly into their spots. The pale-blue box holding the bath oils Erik sent me sat on top of a fluffy folded white towel. It was like walking into my own personal spa. I stood frozen in the doorway, trying to choose between soaking my abused muscles in my scrupulously clean tub, eating my fresh bread, or calling Erik and—I couldn’t decide between thanking him or yelling at him. It was hard to stay angry when faced with so many delicious choices and an unscheduled afternoon stretching out in front of me. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try.
My phone buzzing with an incoming text mana
ged to unstick my feet. I slid open the screen and saw a new message from Sir. Yep, I could definitely try.
PROBLEM SOLVED. NOW YOU DO WHAT I WANT.
My finger hovered over the screen, responses already flooding my head. The words were coming too fast for a text so I hit the Call icon and waited for Erik to answer. I didn’t have to wait long. There was only one ring before I heard his voice, warm and rich with just enough of a drawl to feel like melted caramel washing over me, on the other end of the line.
“Yes, kitten.”
Any indecisiveness I’d been feeling vanished at his greeting.
“I’m not your fucking pet.”
“Not yet, but you will be. My fucking pet.” He laced the word with enough heat to let me know exactly what he was thinking.
I used sex as power often enough to know exactly what he was doing, but there was something else there too. Something that made me believe he’d enjoy every minute of it. The sex more than the power. It was the opposite of the way I usually felt about it. I hated it but my body responded, and I pressed my legs together to ease the ache I didn’t want to feel.
“You had no business breaking into my apartment.” In my mind, I had a thousand comebacks, most of which started with you arrogant fucking prick, but breaking and entering was the first complete thought I could get hold of.
“I didn’t break into your apartment. I had someone let the cleaning crew in to take care of the dust bunnies so we could concentrate on the hard limits.”
I wanted to hate the ease he used to throw my words back at me, but I couldn’t help but admire him a bit too. The man was arrogant and assuming to a fault, but he got shit done. Competence was the new sexy where I was concerned.
“Now you have the afternoon to take a bath,” he said as if him saying it made it so.
It pissed me off that his suggestion mirrored what I’d been planning to do.
“When you slide your fingers inside your sweet pussy, I want you to imagine it’s my hand touching you. My hand bringing you to the edge of orgasm over and over before finally making you come. My fingers your hot cunt clenches around when you can’t hold back any longer.” He dropped his voice as he spoke until it was a low rumble in my ear, linking his words to my throbbing clit.
I hated that he could make me feel so much without even touching me—hell, without even being in the same room. But I was curious too, both about my response to him and how much more he could make me feel. I had no trouble getting myself off, but in my experience, sex with a partner was adequate at best. I didn’t need to do it to know that sex with Erik would be anything but adequate. I didn’t need to do it but I wanted to. Not that I would. Unless I did. Fuck.
“We can consider this your notification that you’re going to come. Although, I’d love another picture or two of you in the tub. Have you had a chance to try what I sent you?”
My brain stuttered for a moment, trying to catch up with his words and then I realized something.
“Why did you send the bath stuff to Charlotte’s office when you knew my home address?” I’d assumed he didn’t have it or hadn’t bothered to look it up. But if he’d done it just to embarrass me in front of my friend, I wanted to know.
“I didn’t want to cross that boundary until you invited me to.”
“So what’s changed? I sure as hell didn’t invite you to my apartment.”
“I moved the boundary.”
Of course he did.
“Take a bath, Alexandra. I want to book our next session for tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at two.”
I wanted to tell him I had plans, but with the cease-and-desist in place, we both knew I probably didn’t. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but a part of me I didn’t like all that much wanted to tell him to fuck me. I settled for an eye roll he couldn’t see and then hung up before I said something I’d regret.
I OPENED THE PHOTO FOR about the hundredth time and stared at the image on the screen. I’d looked at it so many times I ought to make it my fucking wallpaper, but I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else seeing Alex like that, which was insane given her profession and the ease with which she shed her clothes. Feeling possessive was a new thing for me and one I wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
The woman knew how to set a scene. An almost empty wineglass perched on the edge of the tub, its scarlet liquid a sharp contrast to the white porcelain. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, unobscured by bubbles. I’d sent her bath oil instead of bubble bath for exactly that reason. Rather than pretending to be shy, she’d taken full advantage of the water’s translucency. I could clearly see the soft mound of her stomach and the gentle swell of her breasts. She’d cropped the picture just below her nipples but it was enough to remind me what it felt like to have her pebbled flesh, tight and aching against my palm with nothing more than the thin silk of her blouse between us. Or my new favorite thing to imagine: her skin with nothing but the slick of water and scented oil as a barrier.
It was her hand that captured my attention and made it hard for me to think of anything but replacing it with my own—a fact I was sure she was acutely aware of. Her palm covered her sex, her slender fingers sliding between her legs in a way that made my fucking mouth water. She’d sent the photos as I was getting ready to walk into a dinner meeting with a potential client I’d been courting for months and instead of giving the client my full attention, I found myself glancing at my phone, waiting for her hand to magically move and show me what I wanted to see. What I wanted to taste. It was like the best retro porn. Pure unadulterated sex without actually revealing anything, so I was left wanting so much more. I had no doubt she knew exactly what she was doing and my preoccupied—hell, fucking obsessed—state was her desired effect.
I’d stolen glances between courses and hoped that the client read my distraction as confidence and a lack of eagerness. We weren’t the only firm trying to hook them. If I was lucky, the others had been so busy fawning over them, they’d find my apparent disinterest intriguing. Or more likely, it would be one more thing for the other partners to take me to task about. After the recusal debacle, I couldn’t afford many more. I might be the boss, but I wasn’t the only one and Jared knew me well enough to tell when I was bullshitting him. Coupled with the line I’d fed him the other night at dinner, it was only a matter of time before he put things together and realized I was fucked in the head over a woman.
None of that had stopped me from making plans for our session or from keeping those plans. It would stop me from having sex with Alex—for today at least, which was frustrating as hell. I couldn’t remember a time I’d wanted a woman more. It was as if every single thing she did was designed to amplify that desire, which was exactly why we wouldn’t be having sex. Regardless of how much I wanted to be inside her, we weren’t doing it until I was sure she was willingly submitting and not just playacting.
I wanted the real thing or nothing at all. That was a lie. I wanted Alex any fucking way I could get her but I still had at least enough control to set and hold some standards for myself. I didn’t want to be one more man she sharpened her blade against.
The town car pulled up in front of her building five minutes before I was scheduled to be there. I glanced up in time to see the curtain on her apartment window flutter closed. So much for surprising her. I opened the door, letting in a rush of low country heat and humidity so thick, it felt like I could cut it with a knife. It was hotter than normal for this time of year and felt like a storm building. An afternoon thunderstorm might break the tension and suit my purposes perfectly.
I strode to the entrance of her building, frowning when I found the door unlocked. It was one thing not to have a doorman. Most of the older buildings downtown didn’t, but it was another thing entirely to leave the building open to any drunken tourist or homeless local to wander into the dark stairway and wait for the residents. That was unacceptable. I ignored the fact it had served my purpose with the cleaning crew. The ease with which I’
d gained access to her apartment was one more thing to add to the list.
Ignoring it until I could figure out how to fix it, I hurried up the narrow stairs to the second floor. I scanned the doors, stopping in front of the one with the 2A stamped onto the cast-iron knocker. I raised my hand to rap on the door but it opened before I had a chance, revealing Alexandra dressed in the pale-pink pencil skirt and matching bra and sheer blouse I’d had my personal shopper deliver. The nude-colored pumps were hers and if she’d followed my directions, they were the only other things she was wearing. I couldn’t wait to find out if she’d obeyed me.
Her expression was a mixture of irritated and interested, and for the moment at least, it looked like interested was winning. Sending her clothes had been a stroke of genius. She was so used to taking her clothes off; I was determined to keep putting them back on her. And if I left off a piece or two, it only emphasized her vulnerability, something I was pretty sure she didn’t feel when she was totally naked.
“Good afternoon, kitten.” Honestly, pet names didn’t really do it for me, but I loved seeing the way her eyes flashed when I said the word.
“What’s up, pup?”
Laughter erupted from my throat, ending with a very undignified snort. This woman—this sexy smart-ass—was going to be the death of me.
“Point taken, Alexandra,” I said, crowding her until she gave in and took a step back against the wall.
I didn’t want to physically intimidate her—not exactly—but I needed to be the one who set the tone, and I couldn’t afford to let her start to top from the bottom or we’d never get to the place I wanted to be. The kind of dominance and submission power play that could turn the exchange into a duet, into music we made together and not just two people performing side by side.
I leaned in until I felt the breath from her parted lips on my face. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated and I’d bet much more than the thousand dollars I’d paid her for the session that she was wet and ready for me. Ready to find out how fucking perfectly we fit together. I hated it for both of us that we needed to wait. It would be so much easier to close the fraction of an inch between us and kiss her until we ended up back inside her apartment, and I ended up inside her. Easier but so much less satisfying. At least that was the lie I told myself as I stepped away from her without giving in to the urge to taste.
