Wanted to see if he could see her today. Perhaps even this morning.
Seduced by the devil, indeed.
Which was why she wouldn’t do any of those things. Like an alcoholic giving up booze for a week, to prove to herself she could, she left the tablet closed away in her desk drawer, pulled on jogging clothes, pocketed her keys and walked to the beach. She needed to get back into shape and burn off some of this energy, both.
It felt good to be outside. Though it would be nicer if she could exorcise Ryan’s voice from her head. Along with the feel of his hands on her body. And the way he looked at her, studying her responses to his more outrageous suggestions. Threatening to punish her, that glint of aroused cruelty in his eyes.
Reaching the boardwalk, she picked up her pace into a slow jog, joining the rollerbladers, skateboarders, bicyclists and other runners. All of them tanned and lean, bikini-clad and shirtless, human gazelles like Sarah Prescott. Once upon a time, in her heyday, she could have at least held her own, but not this first time out after such a long hiatus. People passed her on both sides, their polite “on your right” and “on the left” sounding an awful lot like “get out of the way, you pitiful loser.” Far too quickly she was winded enough to have to slow to a walk—and suffer being passed by faster walkers.
All of it too much the story of her life.
Dark things. No, Ryan with his sunlit life and massive fortune had no idea how dark things could get.
She walked a while longer until her thighs began to ache and feel weak. Maybe she should take it easy for day one. Turning her feet back home, she contemplated the rest of her day. What bills she had money to pay were paid. They needed more groceries, but the checking account was already waning, especially with the twins wanting to splurge. Amazing how fast one could burn seventy grand by throwing it into the ever-growing crater of one’s life.
Maybe she could pick out a small service to perform for Ryan. Pad the checking account and cement in her own head that all of this was about getting paid for a job. Nothing more. She wouldn’t look at the punishment modules and she wouldn’t tell him what she’d done. It almost seemed like it hadn’t happened, that furtive orgasm on the shoulder of the road. Something else. God knows what he’d pay for maybe a blow job at work. The way Ryan threw money at her, she could maybe set up a scenario to earn the entire remaining $850 thousand. Maybe the girls would have an away performance with the dance team and she could give a weekend to letting him punish and violate her every way imaginable. Then she could walk away. Escape this sticky trap of desire before she couldn’t muster the will to do so.
Telling herself it was only to see if it was possible according to the app, if not humanly possible for her body or psyche to withstand, she got out the tablet and tried adding absolutely everything. To her great annoyance, Ryan had—fully in character for him—been a step or two ahead of her and most of the menus would only let her select one kind of punishment at a time. She tried searching for the highest value scenario and found one worth two-hundred grand, but it was being displayed, touched and punished at a private party. The thought of which made her brain feel like it had swelled up and pressed against the inside of her skull.
No, she couldn’t do that.
And, because she wasn’t so certain of herself there, she did not read through the new scenario he’d proposed, except to note that it involved her being prepared and delivered to him, as he’d spoken of with such sexual roughness in his voice.
Among other new modules, he’d added ones simply called “coffee,” “lunch” and “dinner.” Curious to see if any of those involved a quick-cash BJ—look at her, learning to think like the prostitute she was—she tried selecting lunch and discovered it was not only worth $5,000, but she couldn’t add “fellatio” to it. Not public or discreet—and who knew what “discreet” meant to him there. Not even “private” with one of the many possible positions he suggested. She couldn’t even add a costume.
Just lunch. Him and his damn lunches.
He only had one to three open on his calendar, too, besides later in the evening, which she couldn’t do. Irritated enough to message him, she did so through the tablet, though he would be working or in meetings and likely wouldn’t see it for a while.
You can’t pay me $5,000 just to have lunch with you.
She closed the tablet, deciding to make a grocery list. It pinged before she snapped the cover.
Don’t worry, I can afford it.
She glared at the message, last night’s anger rising again. I didn’t opt in yet.
But you’re thinking about it. Say yes. I want to see you. Talk to you.
Why? She typed the question, but didn’t send. Erased it. It won’t let me add anything else.
No. Nothing sexual to this. Lunch. So we can talk.
Feeling petulant she nearly typed that she didn’t want to talk, but that seemed too petty. At a loss for anything better to text him, she closed the message window, clicked on “lunch” and saw him accept it immediately. He messaged an address but said nothing more.
Almost disappointed that he didn’t, and not understanding herself at all anymore, if she ever had, she decided she’d better get showered and dressed if she wanted to hit the grocery store before her fancy lunch.
* * *
Ryan closed the tablet once it became clear that she wouldn’t say anything more, and returned his attention to the meeting. Part of his attention, anyway, as Celestina occupied most of it. Difficult to discern tone in texts, of course, but people revealed more subtext in them than the common wisdom dictated. Terse messages, even for her. Nearly belligerent. Still angry with him, then. Or with herself. And yet she’d contacted him and opted to see him, which was more than he’d hoped for so soon. He’d resigned himself to the possibility of not hearing from her again for quite a while, if ever. Everybody had a different cooling period and he’d pegged her for a brooder, which could mean she’d seethe for days. He hadn’t wanted to contemplate that she’d resolved to shake free of him entirely.
But then, she needed the money, didn’t she? That $70K would have spent fast, given her dire financial straits, particularly with the tuition chunk. The dual feelings of self-congratulation at having a method to bring her back to him and the consternation that the money might be the only reason she would pricked at him. It had never much concerned him, that women might be interested in him solely for his wealth. In fact, he relied on it. He liked the money, too, after all—along with the comforts it could buy. He could personally attest that women were far more receptive to overtures from a wealthy man than a poor one, especially one as unhandsome as he. The romantic ideal that spouted about the best things in life being free was just that—idealized nonsense.
He should know.
There was absolutely nothing romantic about being hungry, or so cold your hands and feet ached, or not even having enough change to take the damn bus to your miserable job. Worst of all, the anxiety, the fear and the dread worked on you, putting a person in a perpetual state of stress. Each small setback becomes a calamity that threatens to pull you under because you’re barely treading water as it is. That monotonous state of alarm had been apparent in Celestina, so much so that it grabbed him. He would have done much more to get her to take the money.
It had just worked in his favor that he’d been able to use it to seduce her and then possess her. She’d been at least a little attracted to him, much as she tried to act otherwise. She would not, however, have dated or slept with him without it. Certainly he couldn’t have coaxed her into these games so quickly otherwise.
Wasn’t that part of his original rationale? At last a woman he could be up-front with about his kink from the beginning. A clear and mutual understanding of what they both wanted from the arrangement, no strings, no confusions.
So it shouldn’t bother him, that she kept treating thi
s like business. Shouldn’t rankle as if she intended it as some sort of personal insult. And he shouldn’t be daydreaming about seeing her in just a couple of hours. Or worrying that she might be looking for a way out.
Well, he wouldn’t let her out. There. Decision made before the meeting. Only the execution remained. They’d talk and he’d say whatever she needed to hear.
He arrived at the restaurant early, having cut the last interminable conference call short. Though the lunch crowd jammed the place, the reserved table on the quiet balcony awaited just as he’d specified. Another useful aspect of having plenty of money to throw around. A vase of bloodred roses in full, luxuriant bloom graced the table, and wine of the same color sat breathing in the bottle. Learning the Spanish wines had made an excellent substitute for learning Celestina’s body in the late or small hours, when obsessive thoughts about her kept him from sleeping.
While he waited, he added the five thousand to her account, so she’d have it as soon as possible. A little hedge against fate, daring the universe to prove him wrong by having her not show.
She arrived late and flustered, speaking to the maître d’ as she scanned the room, hesitant, as if she expected to be thrown out. The man led her across the room and Ryan caught the moment she spotted him, that enticing blush heightening her aristocratic cheekbones even as she kept her spine erect and head high. He’d expected something considerably farther south of his heart to ping at the sight of her and her unique combination of pride and timidity. She drew a sort of affectionate protectiveness out of him. The other face of wanting to possess her entirely, perhaps.
He stood as she reached the table, took her warm hands—damp from nerves?—and brushed her cheek with a kiss, which made her blush harder. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, wondering what discomfited her so about the gesture.
Nodding away the maître d’, he seated Celestina himself, enjoying the glimpse of the dip between her breasts as the boat neck of her black sheath dress sagged when she scooted the chair forward. He sat across from her and poured them both wine. At least she didn’t argue this time, though she frowned at it ever so slightly.
“I haven’t been here before,” she said. “Lunch must cost as much as you’re paying me.”
“Not quite.” He kept his voice smooth, refusing to rise to her bait just yet. Holding up his wineglass, he waited for her to lift hers. “To a delicious meal on a beautiful day with scintillating company,” he said, before she could suggest toasting to whatever bill she intended to pay with today’s fee.
Though she clinked her glass to his and sipped, she regarded him with suspicion over the rim. When he reached over the table to take her hand, she startled enough that he lost some of his patience. She’d better not be planning to break up with him. “Good Lord! I’m not going to yank you over the table and turn you over my knee—why are you so tense?”
She fired at that. Better than looking like a cat about to take off running. “I don’t understand what I’m doing here.”
He didn’t grind his teeth, through great force of will. “I wanted to see you. Talk to you. It occurred to me that it’s not balanced to see each other only when we’re enacting a scene, because you might not communicate with me freely under those circumstances. Don’t worry—” he added when she looked askance at the other diners “—no one can overhear, that’s why I asked for this table. So I added in opportunities for us to spend time talking. Besides which, I enjoy your company.”
If he hoped to hear her offer the same, she disappointed him. Instead of replying, she picked up the menu and studied it as if it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. A complex and layered woman, his Celestina. Skittish and going to lengths to protect herself. Perhaps the ex had treated her worse than she let on. He liked that option—not about him in that case.
Giving her the time to decide—on her menu selection and what tack she’d take next—he soothed himself by savoring how lovely she looked, with the sun glinting off her shining dark hair, just a hint of red in the black. The simple dress should have been demure, but on her lush curves became as voluptuous as the red dress had been. An orderly soul, she’d likely be wearing black lingerie under it. Maybe thong panties, to prevent a line in the closely clinging material.
“When you look at me like that,” she muttered at the menu, “I feel like I’m the one being served up for lunch.”
He relaxed at her words, relieved of a worry he hadn’t fully formed. It shouldn’t matter that she was as aware of him as he was of her, but it did. More, it meant something that she offered the observation. A kind of gift, telling him how she felt without him dragging it out of her.
“Yes. I could devour you whole,” he said softly.
She set the menu aside and met his gaze. Then she shook her head, as if clearing it, and sighed out a sharp breath. “And then you say things like that...I really can’t decide how I feel about any of this, Ryan.”
She’d called him by his name—the only other time since he’d had his hand buried in her and she’d been nearly beyond reason. Offering him another kind of intimacy. Or signaling her intent to break it off with him. He marshaled the many arguments he’d prepared to convince her otherwise. “Tell me about it.”
She glanced around at the other diners again, all too far away and too involved in their own loud conversations to overhear, but still hesitated. “I don’t know how to handle things like...what happened last night.”
“Be more specific. Was there one part you found it more difficult to handle than another?”
She tilted her head, the precise wing of hair brushing the similar line of her jaw, giving him a bemused look. “It’s amazing to me the way you just discuss this stuff. At a public restaurant.” She gestured to the other diners, as if he might have forgotten their presence.
“We’ll have our food boxed up and go somewhere more private to talk.”
“No,” she said, hastily enough to make him raise his eyebrows. “That is, it’s better for me to be in public with you for now.”
That irked him. “I would never do anything with you that you don’t agree to. That’s why you have a safeword and everything is spelled out in the tablet.”
“It’s not that—though I could argue the Mrs. Matthews thing crossed that line—it’s more that...” She trailed off, looking so distressed he wanted to pull her across the table, indeed, but to kiss and caress her senseless so she’d stop thinking so damn much.
The waiter arrived to take their order and she had to fumble with her menu, seeming to have forgotten what she’d chosen, if she’d truly picked anything before. After the waiter left, Ryan reached for her hand again and this time she at least let him take it. “It’s more—” he prompted.
She wouldn’t look at him, though she squeezed his fingers. “I don’t think I trust myself to stop you.”
Her voice had gone quiet enough that he had to strain to hear her, then the import of her words sank in. Not attempting to break it off at all. Instead acknowledging her submission to his will. The tremendous sense of relief nearly made him smile, which would be all wrong. Manfully, he swallowed it down, along with the surge of lust her confession caused.
“Celestina—that’s why we set the parameters ahead of time. So you don’t have to worry about stopping me in the throes of passion. We won’t go past what you decide ahead of time.”
She narrowed her eyes, darkly accusing. “One word—loopholes.”
Chapter Fifteen
She had him there. Kind of. But he could see her point. “Okay—what’s the solution? More specificity in the app. I can be more detailed, take more time with it.”
The waiter set her meal in front of her and she thanked him with a flash of a gracious smile, one that lingered on her lips when she turned her gaze back to him, making him realize she’d never bestowed a look like that on him.
It faded quickly as she assessed what he’d said. “You’d be willing to do that—give up the loopholes you enjoy so much?”
“I’m not sure there’s much I wouldn’t give up to have you the way I want to.” Or to earn a smile like that.
“The Mrs. Matthews thing, that—”
“Was a mistake,” he interrupted, enjoying at least her surprise at his admission. As if she knew he rarely admitted to them. Hated acknowledging mistakes almost as much as he hated making them in the first place. Though she had that knack of seeing through him, so maybe she did know. “I apologize for that. I...got carried away and lost my head. I promise never to let it happen again. Not without your prior agreement.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“I know.” He drank his wine, kicking himself for it.
“Why?” She asked it flatly, a kind of challenge. The queen, demanding an accounting.
“Why did I say otherwise?” How to explain this to her? He gave himself a moment to assemble his thoughts by sampling his meal, vaguely surprised by the prawns as he didn’t recall ordering them and they certainly didn’t go with the wine.
“Are you stalling?” She sounded amused and, when he risked looking at her, a small smile played on her lush mouth.
“I hate making mistakes,” he admitted, hoping he wouldn’t choke on it. “Being less than perfectly in control.”
Under Contract Page 13
