by Linnea May
I hold my breath when he leans down, moving his face so close to mine that our noses almost touch. I can feel the warmth of his breath sizzling on my skin when he speaks.
"Sit," he hisses at me. "Now."
He underpins his sharp words by gesturing toward the chair opposite the one where he had been sitting.
My response is a hateful glare.
We engage in a silent staring contest for a few moments before he raises his voice again.
"Sit," he repeats. "You have five seconds."
I huff. "Or else?"
"Or else I'm going to make you sit."
I ponder his threat for a moment, assessing the situation at hand. He's big, tall, and strong and could overpower me easily. Would he actually risk causing a scene in a public place just to make me sit at his command? And what would stop me from jumping right back up?
"Five," he begins counting, his eyes seething with anger.
"You can't be serious."
"Four."
"Now, listen to me, I'm not going to-"
"Three."
"This is ridiculous."
"Two."
He moves closer to me still, and I instinctively tense up, preparing for an aggressive move. He's standing so close to me now that our bodies are brushing against one another in various places, but he hasn’t lifted a hand, nor has he grabbed me.
Yet.
"One."
As soon as the word is spoken, I duck, again evading the threat of an assault that doesn't happen. He doesn't move an inch, but watches as I obediently lower myself onto the chair.
"Good girl."
I can't believe I just did that.
Strangely, his words of praise send another shiver down my spine, a pleasant one this time. What the hell is wrong with me?
My eyes follow him as he moves around the table in slow, confident moves, sitting down in his chair like a king on his throne. As soon as he sits, a waiter appears out of nowhere and places two flutes of champagne in front of us. I cast the waiter a confused look as he scurries away noiselessly without even so much as a glance at me.
"Are you hungry?"
His voice draws my attention back to the table.
I shake my head. "Not really."
He raises an eyebrow. "You'll eat. They have excellent appetizers here."
I don't know how to respond, so I just continue regarding him with the same angry expression that’s been on my face since I first stepped inside the building. I've never been to this restaurant, and had actually never even heard of it before receiving the email. When I looked it up, I quickly realized why. This place is so far out of my price range that it was never even worth considering.
He casts me a belittling smile and then states the obvious. "You seem angry at me. Why is that?"
"You know very well, why," I snarl at him. "This can hardly be a coincidence."
He chuckles. "Of course it isn't. As soon as I saw your file, I knew the two of us would be compatible."
My eyes widen in surprise. "You thought-"
"If anything, I should be angry at you, young lady," he goes on. "After all, you lied to me."
I shake my head. "I did not lie to you! I'm not an escort."
"And yet, here you are." He takes a languid sip of champagne.
I let out an angry growl. "Didn't they tell you anything about me?"
"I think I know what I need to know."
"No, you don't," I insist. "I'm not a real escort. I'm a reporter, just like I told you. I'm only doing this for a story. This is research."
The momentary dark flame in his eyes tells me that he doesn't like that piece of information. I remember witnessing a similar reaction when I first told him this at the agency. Something about it really seems to make him uncomfortable, whether it's my job itself or my insistence that I’m not an escort.
"If you're only here because you think I would help you with your story, you should leave right now and not waste any more of my time," he says coldly, fixating on me with his sinister stare. "I was told your file is legit, as meager as it may be, and that you may actually be interested in the deal I have to offer. If that's true, we may have something of mutual interest to discuss and you should stay."
He reaches for the flute in front of him, but doesn't drink from it. Instead, he swirls the liquid ever so slightly, watching as the golden pearls dance in the warm glow cast by the flickering candle in the center of our table.
"So, what will it be?" he challenges, without looking at me. "Leaving or staying?"
I straighten up in my chair and grab hold of the other flute with a little too much fervor, causing me to almost spill champagne on the linen tablecloth. I raise the glass to my lips and meet his testing gaze with heated determination.
"I'm staying."
Chapter 8
Jared
Belinda warned me that this girl is a feisty one. A girl with a strong mind who isn’t a professional in this business. She's never once done anything like this and likely never even considered it before the day she walked into the agency for her interview. I know more about her than she thinks I do, and so far I like every single bit of it.
Except for one thing.
Her job could pose a problem. I will be surrounded by nosy media and paparazzi either way, especially if – no, when - anything from my past resurfaces. Hiring a girl to fulfill all of my needs – to be my little slut behind closed doors and a presentable partner for the public at the same time – is meant to lessen the dark spots of my flawed character.
I'm not a good man, but I have to make people believe that I am.
Bringing a reporter into my own home – and especially my bedroom – seems like the most stupid idea I’ve ever had.
It's an unnecessary risk, a risk I wouldn't take if she didn't enchant me the way she does.
There's something about her that speaks to me, something that makes me think that she might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, exactly what I’ve needed. She's smart, determined, and ambitious.
I no longer want to work for money by the time I'm thirty.
According to her, that is her main reason for being here, the reason she’s willing to sell herself to me. Of course, I need more than that. There are certain things that can't be faked, and if she's not even the slightest bit turned on by what just happened between us, she's not going to work out for me.
But her eyes and reactions tell me that she is. Her pupils were dark, her cheeks showed that telltale flushing glow, and her breathing admitted her lustful agitation.
And she hates herself for it. She has this delicious fury of a first timer, a strong and tenacious woman who takes no shit from others. Yet here she sits with her pussy wet and throbbing because I ordered her around like a pet.
Pushing her buttons could be a lot of fun. I love watching her react to me, and she’s obviously intrigued by what I have to offer, even though she has a hard time admitting it to herself.
We clinked glasses after she declared that she wanted to stay, but neither one of us has said another word. She emptied half of her champagne waiting for me to take the lead.
Very good.
"Why did you want to meet me?" I ask, catching her gaze.
She looks confused, cocking her head to the side and pursing her lips as she contemplates a response.
"I didn't know I would meet you," she says eventually. "Your inquiry was vague and anonymous."
"I wouldn't call it vague," I object. "It very clearly states what I would expect from you."
She rolls her eyes at me.
Big mistake.
I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table as I move in closer to her.
"Do that again and I'll bend you over the table right here and now," I calmly tell her in a low voice. "And spank that attitude out of you."
The look on her face in response to my warning is priceless. I can almost see the rush traveling through her body, the heat, the excitement, the desire to test me, just to
see if I would actually do it.
I would.
But she's smart enough not to test me, not yet.
Her anxious fascination is quickly replaced by anger. Of course. It's just a split second during which she allows the irrevocable allure to wash over her before she remembers who she is and who she wants to be right now.
"Excuse me," she snarls in a tone that's heavily underlined with disgust. "What the hell did you just say?"
"You heard me right. Do that again and I'll spank your tight pretty ass until it's blooming red."
"Do what again?"
"Roll your eyes at me."
She grimaces, unsure what to make of what's happening. Her inner turmoil is so visible that I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
"Well, that's simple," she huffs. "Just don't say anything that makes me roll my eyes at you."
I can't help but let out a little laugh at her defiance.
"You're brave, I give you that."
A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, but she doesn't quite let it happen. She can't. It would tell me too much.
"You still haven't answered my question, though," I remind her.
She casts me a quizzical look.
"Why are you here?" I rephrase my earlier question. "On one hand, you're saying this is purely for research, but on the other, you told Belinda - and me - that you're in this for real. What's your deal?"
She bites her lower lip and reaches for her safety net, the almost empty flute of champagne. I would order her another one, but not until we've eaten something. I don't want her to make any decisions while intoxicated.
"You're right, that was misleading," she admits. "I just wanted to point out that... this is not what I do. Not what I normally do."
"Why?"
The confusion on her face intensifies.
"Why are you so set on making sure that I don't mistake you for a professional escort?" I clarify. "What would be so bad about that? And why do you even care what I think about you? I'm here because I want to buy you. Doesn't that pretty much set the stage for our relationship?"
She furrows her eyebrows. "Relationship?"
I give her a little smirk, knowing that my words have already started a thinking process inside that pretty head. She knows what's coming; she knows that I'm about to call her out on prejudices she never knew she had.
"You seem to have a very limited understanding of the word if you don't think we'd be entering into a relationship if both of us agree to this deal," I say. "Relationships can take many forms, some of which are very different from the romantic kind you may be familiar with."
"Sure. Of course I know that," she retorts, her tone sounding pissed. "I just didn't expect the word to be used for... this."
I know there's a hint of condescension in the way I'm smiling at her now, and it makes her furious. She's about to say something, but we're interrupted by the waiter delivering the first two plates of appetizers I ordered. The way she's eyeing the plate tells me that she's hungrier than she wanted to let on. Typical. While it is to a degree flattering, I will never understand why most women prefer to pretend they don't need food to survive, ever, and avoid eating in my presence.
"Toasted brioche rounds with their house-made crème fraiche and some caviar," I explain, pointing toward the dish.
"Fancy," Ann comments, trying to appear unimpressed.
I expect her to pick at the food like a sparrow because that's what most women do when I take them out for dinner. But it seems Ann worries less about artificial appearances than I thought she would. Instead of picking at the tiny brioches, she picks one up and stuffs it into her mouth in one piece. She chews with gusto and her cheeks balloon like a hamster.
Now I'm the one fighting to hold back a reaction from her. There's an adorable innocence about the way she eats, something that clashes with her otherwise strict and reserved behavior.
"Good, huh?"
She nods eagerly, and remembers just in time that her mouth is still stuffed with food before giving me a reply.
"I've never had caviar before," she says. "Didn't think I'd like it."
"Sometimes it's not about the ingredients itself, but what you do with them," I tell her. "I've noticed that it’s similar with women."
Her face darkens as she looks at me with angry confusion. "What do you mean by that?"
"Do you think you can know all about what or who a person is or can be when you first meet them?" I ask. "See all their facets? Imagine everything they're capable of?"
Her gray-blue eyes lock onto mine for a few moments before she slowly shakes her head no.
"I don't think so," she says. "But it does make me wonder: do you see women as ingredients?"
She narrows her eyes and fixates her attention on me, holding me in a place with a gaze that would be intimidating, if I lacked confidence in my words.
"You focus on the wrong things," I tell her. "You focus on words, not the meaning behind them."
The frown on her face grows bigger. "Would you care to elaborate?"
I nod.
"When you first meet a person, all you see is potential. You don't know all about who they are or who they can be, but you can tell by the way they speak or react, by the way they move, and by the way they articulate their thoughts what they have the potential to become."
Ann shrugs. "That's all very vague."
Vague. That seems to be her favorite word. She's a very straightforward, no bullshit-type of person, and not much of a theorist, it appears.
"You, for example," I say, raising my voice and enjoying the way her head tilts up when she realizes I'm about to talk about her. "You're very concerned about what other people - me, for example - think about you. That strikes me as odd, considering you're obviously a very strong-willed and independent person otherwise."
It's hard to tell whether she's flattered by my words, or not. She looks at me with an apathetic expression, not a single muscle on her face moving.
"But it also tells me one very important thing about you," I continue, noticing that her ears move upward in attention, like a little bunny. Fuck, she needs to stop with that damn cuteness.
"It tells me that you like to please."
The frown is back on her pretty face. I'm sure I'll see a lot of it, if I decide to take her in. I'm also sure that I'll be able to keep that face of hers in check, eventually.
"I like to please?" she repeats. "I hardly think so."
I smile at her as she scoffs. "I wouldn't expect you to agree. I'm just saying there's more to a person than you can see on first impression - that goes for you, and for me, too."
"You like to scatter a lot of intellectual fairy dust on all of this, don't you?"
Her question catches me off guard, something that doesn't happen very often.
"When do we get to the real stuff?" she adds. "The terms of this deal? When do we talk about that? I thought that's what we're here for."
I signal for the waiter to bring us the next course of food. A simple hand gesture suffices for them to know what I want. I've been here many times before, and I usually order the same array of dishes.
Just moments later, two servers appear at our table, one of them clearing the empty plates, while the other exchanges them for a new dish, a selection of antipasti.
Ann sits up straight, tense and impatient with her eyes glued to the table. As soon as we're alone again, her eyes dart up to mine, her eyebrows arching in an expectant expression.
I straighten up, too, gesturing toward the food in front of us.
"We'll eat," I inform her. "And then we'll talk business."
Chapter 9
Jared
It's hard to get her to talk. I've never been with a woman who was so reluctant to engage in mundane chit-chat. I have to worm every single word out of her, even about the most mundane topics. I hoped to find out more about her work and how she intended to proceed with it once she's living with me. I thought it would be smart to approach the subject caref
ully, slowly, by talking about innocent, random topics, allowing her to talk about herself as much as she wanted to so she would become comfortable enough with me to open up about more delicate issues.
But Ann is making this really hard. She speaks in short sentences, only giving up the absolute minimum. She barely even looks at me, instead keeping her eyes glued on the food. At least she's appreciating that part of our evening. It's easy to tell that she genuinely enjoys every single dish, and while she was adamant that I not mistake her for a common call girl or whore, she doesn't seem to care what I think about her eating behavior. After being somewhat hesitant at first, she soon digs in as if she hasn't seen food in days. Not once does she cast me one of those insecure looks seeking reassurance that I've grown accustomed to receiving from other women. Most of them look at me as if they were asking for permission to eat, and I've always hated it with a passion.
"Glad you're enjoying your food," I comment, mostly to see if my remark causes her to break.
She's still chewing when she looks up at me, hurrying to swallow before coming up with a reply.
"It's fantastic," she says. "I give you that, you know good food."
I huff. "How generous."
She casts me a cocky smirk, an expression that’s usually part of my repertoire. This girl will be a piece of work, that's for sure. I can't wait to bend her over my knee and hear her yelp in pain when my belt leaves its mark on her sweet perky ass.
If she agrees to all of this. I need to remind myself that nothing is official yet. She needs to sign the contract first and become mine completely, ready to submit to my will and ready to put her own life on hold for as long as I need her.
As soon as the dessert plates are cleared from our table, she looks up at me with expectant eyes.
"Would you like an espresso?" I ask.
"No," she says. "I want to talk business."
"Hold your horses, young lady."
I cast her a warning look, a gesture that's lost with her.
Belinda said it would be hard to find a girl who is as cold-hearted and calculating as me, but that was before this one appeared. Ann doesn't strike me as a dreamer, a girl with a soft heart and a strong yearning for romance, the desire to find her one and only, and live her own fairy tale ending with a prince riding up on his white horse. It definitely wouldn't hurt if she had at least some of those qualities, though.
