by Cynthia Dane
Easy for her to say. She’s not fantasizing about this woman while having sex with other people.
She catches something on my countenance. Damn me and my shitty poker face. “By the way, whatever happened to that lovely girl you were seeing? The actress?”
“Stephanie May.” I put the pieces back into their starting positions. “Not sure it’s going to work out.” Not after what I did.
“Ah.” My mother continues to stand, her impeccable dress stiff against her body. She is a woman of clean lines and cleaner manners. “Too bad. She was lovely.”
“You never even met her.”
“Honey, I read the papers.”
Is she trying to tell me something?
I don’t read the papers. I barely read the internet. I keep abreast on business matters, stock prices, etc., but that’s about it. Otherwise I count on my assistants to do the grunt work there and pass on the important stuff to me. So as my mother puts her glass in the dishwasher and heads to the bathroom, I stop by the dining table and pick up these precious papers of hers.
This was the pivotal difference between my mother and father, and what makes them a formidable team even after their divorce. My father is all numbers and schmoozing people he already knows. My mother is all about schmoozing people she doesn’t know yet. She ropes them in, and my father keeps them attached. It’s not odd that my mother is obsessed with the local tabloids. They tell her who the up and comers are so she can keep an eye on them.
I should have known. Right there on Page 6 is my and Stephanie’s faces in separate pictures, side-by-side. “Hollywood Sweetheart Dating Rich Billionaire Playboy?” I admit we’re a handsome couple. Her high cheekbones, blond tresses, and bright eyes go well with my darker everything. Especially in this picture. I look good.
“Rumor continues to fly that Ian Mathers only uses women for his own amusement. An indiscriminate playboy, he has a great mind for business but a closed-off heart to love. But who cares? He’s young and enjoying what the world has to offer.” For some reason my eyes are drawn to this excerpt. “And the world offers a gaggle of beautiful girls, like Stephanie May, who was seen dining with Mathers on the 16th. We could say this is young love in bloom, but knowing Mathers’s track record, it’s more likely another fling on the road to 30.”
On the road to thirty? Excuse them. I just turned twenty-nine.
I fold up the paper and drop it on the table. Why do I care what a tabloid is saying about me? My business associates don’t care. Half of them are on that page with me, cheating on spouses or getting caught in another lie. As long as we’re still good enough for business, it doesn’t fucking matter. As well it shouldn’t…
On the front page, staring back at me, is an article about that library Kathryn helped a while ago. Her picture is superimposed over the children’s section, where a homely librarian is reading a story to a bunch of low-income kids and some of their guardians.
“Thanks to Ms. Alison’s skills, Foster Library now has a completely updated technology section that allows community members to search for jobs, take online classes, and apply for necessary permits. The new community wing invites local groups to reserve time for efforts, such as a quilting group, a French language consultation, and remedial writing classes.”
I step away from the table. My brain flickers between the image of Kathryn everyone has: the ball-busting businesswoman who also takes her time to help out those less fortunate. Next year she’ll probably be in a soup kitchen singlehandedly overhauling their methods to make them more efficient. Or maybe she’ll be arranging Secret Santa projects for the kids.
I don’t begrudge her for any of this. Better her than me trying to make a difference. It’s just funny. The Kathryn I know is much different from the Kathryn the papers portray. The Kathryn my mother supposedly knows.
The Kathryn I know is one who goes up to guys and flirts with them until it’s time to get frisky in a closet. The Kathryn I know hauls men around on a leash, steps on their groins with stiletto heels, and publically offers them a handjob if they will give her three orgasms in a row with their tongues.
The Kathryn I know? She spends half her time in my head, haunting and taunting me. When I’m not suddenly reminding myself of that incident twelve years ago, I’m imaging my nose buried in that silky blond hair, inhaling her body as I thrust my cock between her legs, taking her, filling her with everything that makes me a man.
There seems to be a few Kathryns running around out there. There’s Kathryn the rich philanthropic billionaire, Kathryn the nasty Domme who makes subs come in their pants, and….
…And the Kathryn willing to lie beneath me and accept my Topping, her moans begging me to make her come as she promises to do anything I want in exchange for pleasure.
I’m not sure that one exists anywhere outside of my head. Apparently, however, I would like to find out.
Chapter 7
KATHRYN
“Get those numbers to me by the end of the day, please,” I say to Anita as we step out of the elevator. “I’ll call them first thing tomorrow morning to set up the relevant conferences.”
She stops in the middle of the hallway to jot this down. I go ahead without her, because I don’t have time to wait for my assistant to do her job. Besides, she knows where we’re going.
Unfortunately.
I see Ian through the open door to the office we’ll be sharing for at least a week. We’re on one of the private floors of his family’s primary building, so graciously offered by Ian when “we” decided to work on the presentation together. I know what this is about. He’s babysitting me to make sure I don’t fuck up again.
You know what? At this rate, I need it.
The office is small and even a bit cramped, but it’s fully equipped with everything we could possibly need. Tinted windows to keep the cleaners from distracting us as they go up and down the hall in the evening. A drafting table with a light box so we can go over every detail of the designs. Endless coffee from both our assistants making runs to the café downstairs and the machine in the corner of the room. And, of course, the big table in the middle of the room, where Ian is currently sitting with his laptop open and papers spread all over the place.
He’s casual. For him, anyway. He’s wearing a charcoal long-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons unsnapped. No tie. The shirt is tucked into a pair of black pants with a bold black belt holding it together. A silver watch with a giant face sits on his wrist. Patek Philippe, of course. The most casual thing about him is his dark hair, which looks as if he’s been running his hands through it all morning already. His coffee’s cold.
“Morning,” I say, standing in the doorway with my bags hanging from my shoulders and elbows. Anita has even more. I’m moving half my office in here for a week, and right now I’m not sure what arm my purse is hanging from. “How long have you been here?” I am so not late. In fact, I’m ten minutes early.
Ian shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep last night so I came in early.” A pen taps against his lips. He doesn’t look up from his screen. A covert look tells me it’s all spreadsheets and graphs. Boring, but necessary. “I’m going over the numbers my father and I came up with a week ago. Never hurts to quadruple check. I’ve already found one minor discrepancy which will need to be fixed before the presentation.”
Anita stumbles in behind me. I tell her where to put my bags and how I want my work station set up. Also, to get herself a cup of coffee. Girl looks ragged.
I notice that there’s no sign of Ian’s assistant anywhere. Unheard of in our line of work.
Within an hour I’m completely set up at the other end of the table. Within an hour Anita has her own cubby in the far corner, where I have her doing the menial shit that doesn’t need my personal attention. The girl has been working so hard for me lately, helping me with this stupid project of my father’s, that I think I’m going to treat her to lunch today. And every day until the presentation is over and I
can breathe again.
My first order of business is to make multiple copies of the proofs from the designers. There will be copies permanently in my briefcase. Some in my apartment. Some in this office. Ian happens to look up and see me store the office copies in a cupboard.
“See? I’m on top of things.”
His lips grow taut. “I wouldn’t think otherwise.”
He’s been silent the whole day. The only time we speak is if he needs me to pass him something or if one of us has a quick question about some boring business aspect of what we’re doing. We’re sterile. We’re careful.
I don’t know why. I mean, I’m not hurting to talk to Ian Mathers about anything, but it’s weird that a guy who is usually so chatty to people he knows isn’t talking to me. He talked to me before the meeting on Friday. So why not now? Is he angry at me? He… couldn’t be. Not after what I heard Friday night.
God, I had almost forgotten about that. I don’t know how. My brain must be trying to save me.
“Where’s your assistant?” I finally ask, taking a five minute break to lean back in my chair and drink the latest cup of coffee Anita has deposited in front of me. “I know you’ve got a hottie or two running around doing your bidding somewhere.”
I never meant to be sexual in my banter. And yet there it is, an implication rolling off my tongue, which I quickly hide in my coffee.
Ian stares at me, hand covering his mouth in that lazy way. Oh, sorry, am I boring you, Ian? The thought of me apparently wasn’t boring you the other night.
“I try not to rely on them too much.” He looks back to his laptop and clicks a few things. Soon enough he leans back in his chair as well, arms extending above his head before folding behind it. His shirt strains against his torso, outlining his muscles. Damn, the man works out. Earlier he muttered something about taking an hour break in the afternoon to use the gym, but he hasn’t gone yet.
“Why not?” I ask. Anita has saved my scatterbrained ass more than once.
His mouth twitches into a wan smile. Smug. So fucking smug. “I rather rely on my own abilities to get my shit done.”
I slump my shoulders and frown at him. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t say anything…”
“Passive aggression isn’t attractive.”
His smile widens. Finally, some semblance of emotion coming from this guy. “Now, you know how aggressive I can be.”
“Uh huh.” What’s he referring to? His business prowess? His Doming? His ability to slam a woman against the wall and growl into her ear as he fucks her?
Whoa, where did that come from?
I glance at Ian, but he’s already reading something on his laptop again. His look is so pensive that it’s almost brooding. Ugh. I love brooding men. Doming them, anyway. They make the best subs.
Now I’m imaging Ian Mathers as a sub, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh at the impossibility, or…
Or bite my lip and wonder some more.
I already know what kind of sub he would be. The worshipful kind. He’d be a sub who makes a girl feel like a fucking goddess in the bedroom. A master of oral sex in whatever position she wants. The kind to hold her hips as she rides him and controls the angle of his cock. All he would ask for is the extreme honor of coming inside her, one of the hottest, more intimate things a Domme can allow. Most Dommes I know never let their male subs come inside them. They’re either directed away from the body or allowed to mark one place outside of the woman’s mound. Never her face.
I don’t really care. I don’t see letting a man come inside me as a sign that he has too much power. But he better be wearing a condom. I’ve never done bareback.
Ian would be the kind of sub to beg to come in me. Then he’d eat me out until I came, either for the first time or the tenth time. With any luck, the whole experience would be so hot that he’d get hard again in time for me to want his cock once more.
And then I’d ride him until I died.
“Kathryn.”
The way he says my name – and subsequently knocks me back from my weird as hell fantasies – isn’t anything like the way he said it at The Dark Hour, when he….
“Yes?”
“I’m going to the gym. Text me if there’s something really important. You have my number.”
I nod. I’ve had his number for years, not because we’re anything more than acquaintances, but because I have everyone’s number. Everyone’s. “I’ve got your number.”
“Cool. See you later.”
The office feels empty without him. Even though Anita is here, sitting in her corner typing a thousand emails, all I can think about is the way Ian said my name now. And the way he said it at the height of his climax, his mind thinking only of me as he fucked one of the hottest women in Hollywood.
I’m flattered. I’m frightened. I’m feeling things that I haven’t felt for him since I was fifteen and wondering if the stories about him and his cock were true. Damnit, Ian, get out of my head! Don’t you understand that it could never happen between us? We both want completely different things from the other person.
You want things from me you could never have. I want things from you that you would never do in a million years.
There’s no compromise here. I need to stop thinking about you, for my own sanity.
Chapter 8
IAN
I’m losing my fucking mind.
For three days now I’ve sat across from Kathryn Alison at that table and tried to get my shit done. For three days I’ve been slow as molasses answering emails, updating spreadsheets, and making speech notes. Makes me want to call in an assistant.
Except this wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for her.
Kathryn doesn’t know she’s doing it. Or at least I don’t think she knows that she’s seducing me. Women with that kind of power are so dangerous that I often don’t deal with them for more than a night. I prefer women who need or want me to seduce them. I’m a lot more likely to get what I want from those types of women.
See, I keep imagining impossible scenarios with Kathryn. When she reaches back in her chair and stretches, I imagine popping open those buttons and burying myself in her breasts. When she sucks on the straw of her water bottle, I see her puckering up, waiting for me to kiss her. When she yawns in the morning and early in the evening, I see a woman who is about to suck my cock.
I bet she’s great at that. Most Dommes are. They’ve gotta give out great rewards to their male subs.
I want to lick the shoulders she shakes the sleeves of her jacket off. I want to stick my hand down her pants and feel my fingers choke in her folds, in the seam of those tight pants. And dear God do I want to spread her out on the table and drive myself into her until we both come.
My cock inside her, surrounded by her warmth and reaching deep, deep into her until I’m so buried that she’s screaming about how full she is.
I want to see her writhe beneath me, that beautiful blond hair circling her face like a halo. I want to hear her gasp my name…and call me sir.
She said it the other day. On the phone with one of her father’s investors. “Yes, sir. That won’t be a problem, sir.” Holy fuck, she said it quickly without a second thought, but I was so enthralled with the way those sounds rolled off her tongue that I proceeded to fantasize about the most impossible thing ever.
Dominating Kathryn Alison.
Bend her over. Spank her. Gag her with my cock. Spill my seed on her and admire how filthy she is. Filthy for me.
I Dom, not to control and hurt, but because I want to completely own the person I’m with. Even if it’s a one night stand, I’m a lot happier hearing her at least pretend to give herself to me, body and soul. Subs are so powerful. They trust you with their bodies, their hearts, the scars they already have on them. They want you to make them feel safe. And dirty. Safe to be dirty.
To fulfill their fantasies. And yours.
Kathryn understands t
his too well. It’s why this fantasy of mine will never come true. Very few Doms switch. Dommes like Kathryn, who have to psych themselves up to be the go-getters the world tells them they’re not? They’re even less likely to give up control. I’ve had sex with a couple of Dommes. Just regular sex, no role-play. Even when I was on top of them, thrusting into them, bending them over, pressing them against walls… they were very much in control of the situation, even if they were careful to not threaten my power. Those hookups only work when we’re both too horny to care but can’t find non-Doms to fuck. Sometimes you just want a hot pussy, and sometimes they just want a hard dick.
It’s too different with Kathryn. This isn’t shrugging and deciding to go for it. This is much deeper.
And I’m losing my mind.
***
Right now I’m at my big desk at home, trying to finish up the work I couldn’t get done with Kathryn around. It’s Wednesday night and I’m tired. So tired that twice now I’ve thought my cat Saoirse was my mind playing tricks on me. She’s a dainty little black cat, a master of knocking shit over and chewing on power cords until she gets a nasty jolt. (And to the point her owner had to anti-cat every power cord in the condo.) Normally at this time of night she’s snoozing away on her pillow in the living room, but tonight she’s hopped up on something and jumping on and off my desk at strange intervals.
Normally I love sitting here to work at all hours of the day. I live on the nineteenth floor of this high rise and have a fantastic view of downtown, especially at night when the lights twinkle and the darkness turns my condo into a cave of creativity. But not tonight. Tonight? I’m staring at my reflection in the tinted windows, willing myself to get my shit together.
I’m not perfect. Like any man, I lose my ability to contain my bearings once in a while.
