Point of Submission (Point Series Book 1)

by Remy Rose

  Several minutes pass. I adjust the AC in the car and wait.

  Okay. And then, seconds later: Sorry.

  There. I slide the gear shift into drive. I’m not going to reply just yet. Let her think on it—maybe even feel guilty for judging me. This could definitely work to my advantage.

  I drive out of the parking lot to head back to my office. At the third stoplight, I pick up my phone, grinning as I picture how she’ll react to my text.

  Make it up to me.

  chapter thirteen ~ Cassandra

  “So you still don't have any idea where he's taking you?”

  “Nope. And it's a sucky feeling, not knowing.”

  “Oh, shut it. Part of you thinks it's fabulous. And I'm pretty sure I know which part.” Teal winked.

  We’re hanging out in my bedroom, Teal lounging on the pillows against the headboard with a Ring Ding in one hand and her phone in the other, while I stand in front of my open closet, surveying my wardrobe.

  “I seriously love coming here,” Teal sighs contentedly. “You have the best snacks.”

  “If you get any crumbs in my bed, I'm going to kick your ass. I told you to get a plate.”

  “I'm being careful. Lighten up! And I don't know how you stay so skinny with all the junk food you buy.”

  “It's the shit I shovel. And the shit I deal with. Plus, I don't wolf it down like some people. Tiny bites. I can make a Ring Ding last a week.”

  “You have a helluva lot more restraint than I do. Wonder if your self-control will apply to Carlo?” Teal licks cream from her fingers as she slyly raises an eyebrow.

  At the mention of his name, something unfurls inside me. Which I quickly fold up and tuck away. It’ll be good practice for the date tomorrow night.

  “I'm going to make sure it will.”

  “Uh huh. We'll see.” Teal sits up on the bed, swinging her legs over the side so that her feet dangle above the floor. “Your room is literally so perfect. I mean, the colors, the furniture… everything.”

  “IKEA and Pinterest.” I do love my bedroom: pale blue walls, a white bed frame and lamp table with clean, simple lines, and a sea-foam green comforter with piles of pillows in muted shades of blues and greens. One wall has a gallery of wildflower photos I took—splashes of color in crisp pictures. My mother had loved the variety and individuality of wildflowers, preferring them to what she called “unimaginative” floral bouquets.

  “I don't get how you keep your room like this. Mine looks like a department store at the end of Black Friday.”

  “Teal. Can you please just help me decide on something to wear?”

  “Not to be hating on your closet, but it's not like you have a lot of choices. Why don't you just go and buy an outfit?”

  “Because that costs money. And it would be making this date more important than it is.”

  “And just what is it?”

  “It's a dinner date. Singular.”

  “Umm...I'm guessing Mr. Leone is thinking more in plural terms.”

  “It doesn't matter what he's thinking. My plan is to be cool, unattainable and distant.”

  “Cass. You're a hot twenty-two-year-old, not Mount Everest. Have you ever thought it might be time to let someone...climb you?” Teal snorts with laughter.

  Rolling my eyes, I sigh loudly and take out a short black dress with a scoop neckline. “What about this one? I could accessorize.”

  Teal surveys the dress with disdain. “The LBD is classic, but it's predictable. How about the pink one with the slit up the side?”

  “It has a slit up the side.”

  “Grrrr, you piss me off. That's the whole point.”

  “I've always liked this maxi,” I offer, picking up the skirt of the strapless coral dress.

  “Nope. You need to show off your legs.” Teal gets off the bed and flutters a hand at me. “Move it.”

  Stepping aside, I watch with folded arms as Teal whisks the hangers from right to left with lightning speed and a running commentary. “Too floral...too young...too nineties—when was the last time you went shopping, anyway?—too needy...too bad...wait. What about this one?”

  She holds up a sky-blue minidress. I frown. The dress is the best I own—I’d been excited to find it on sale at Macy's. It’s clingy in all the right places, with a portrait neckline and triangular cut-outs above the bustline. And the color brings out my eyes. However...I last wore it to a dinner theater date with Dylan, which is the major issue here. That memory is like a heavy, unattractive accessory.

  “This is perfect. It'll show off your ripped arms, and your tan, and your eyes...oh, now what? What the hell is wrong with it?”

  “I've worn it before.”

  “No shit. You should wear the crap out of it. It's gorgeous. Put it on.”

  “I've worn it before on a date with Dylan.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So I associate it with him.”

  “Then it's time to create some new associations. Put it on.” Teal shakes the hanger, the dress waving like a banner.

  Sighing, I begin to undress. There’s no use arguing with Teal; she’s in pre-law, for God's sake. She'll be a bulldog in the courtroom.

  “I don't know how to say this without sounding lesbo, Cass, but Jesus, your body is smokin'.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about.”

  “And you don't know how to take a compliment.”

  I pull off my t-shirt and smooth back my hair. “Thank you. I guess I do know how to take an insult, though.” I wink as I take the dress from Teal and slide it over my head, reaching behind my back to zip.

  “Daaayyumm, girlfriend! This is perfection. It's classy, not too dressy, and sexy. The color is amazing on you. And your ass looks fanfuckingtastic.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Whatwhatwhat? Did Cassandra Larsen just accept a compliment?”

  “Don't mock me.”

  “Sorry. But seriously, you look so hot. I'd do ya.” Her eyes narrow as she bends down and peers closely at my bare legs. “I'm seeing a little stubble. Make sure you shave tomorrow. And I'm not talking just your legs.”

  “I am totally ignoring that last comment.”

  “I mean it. And don't use one of those cheap-shit disposable razors. Get a good one where the replacement blades cost about twenty bucks a piece. It'll be worth it.”

  “What about shoes?”

  “You can borrow my white strappy sandals. Carlo's tall, right?”

  “Mm-hmm. I don't want anything too high-heeled or slutty, though.”

  “No worries—they aren't exactly knock-me-down-and-fuck-me shoes. I wonder if he has a foot fetish?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Have you checked out his Facebook yet?”

  “I don't even know if he has one. I get the feeling he's above that sort of thing. He's kind of cocky.”

  “You shouldn't judge him till you get to know him better. Maybe he's not really cocky, and it's some sort of defense mechanism.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you Googled him?”

  “You seem to think I want to find out more about him.”

  Teal snorts. “Like you don't? Creep on him, for God’s sake. What’s wrong with you?”

  You, of all people, should know. I feel my mood sink like a stone. I’m not some high school girl obsessing over the quarterback, where dating is sweetly simple: going to a dance, making out afterwards, texting your BFF and then having a group chat to discuss the sordid details...where the primary concerns are how far you'll let him go on the next date and wondering when you might change your status to the very cozy in a relationship.

  The cold reality of tomorrow night's date with Carlo feels like ocean water in my veins. It’s taken a lot of time and effort to simplify and de-stress my life—to be comfortable with how things are. There is nothing comfortable about Carlo; just the thought of him shakes me to my core. But still—his smoldering eyes, that beautiful mouth...I’m helplessly, hopelessly drawn to
him, like magnet to metal.

  “Hey.” Teal's tone is gentle, her eyes anxiously searching Cassandra's face. “You okay?”

  “I don't know. I just can't believe I'm doing this.”

  “It's a date, Cass, not a lifetime commitment. Just keep it in perspective.”

  “But dates turn into relationships. And I'm not ready for a relationship.”

  “How do you know that? It's been a long time since Dylan.”

  “I still feel...guarded.”

  “Guarded isn't a bad thing. You were hurt by two different guys. I get that. The one you were with before Dylan that used you to write his papers and made you pay for things—what was his name again?”

  “Jason.”

  “Right. Jason. He only went out with you for like...what, two months? And then when his old girlfriend wanted him back, it was over. That didn't really count.”

  “It felt like it counted.”

  “Well, I'm not counting it. And I think this is more related to you growing up with an asshole of a father who treated your mother like shit. It's totally understandable that you'd have a wall up. I just wish you'd be excited, though, even a little bit, about going on a date with a gorgeous guy who is obviously very into you.”

  “But why is he into me? He's rich, he's insanely attractive...he could have anyone.”

  Teal walks forward and places her hands on my shoulders. “Stop being so goddamned needy. You're not only absolutely gorge, you are bright and feisty and funny, and anyone with a penis would want you. Probably a few vaginas would, too. You are the only who doesn't seem to get that.”

  My protests are like a protective barrier, but flinging them at her is futile—Teal collects and discards them like bits of trash. The only defense remaining in my arsenal is raw, stripped-down honesty.

  I look into her eyes, fighting the sting of tears. “I'm scared, T.”

  “I know, sweetie. But it's okay to be scared. You're taking a risk...and you should. It's time.” She loops her arms around me. “Now get out of that dress and let's go grab something to eat. I'm effing starving.

  “The Ring Ding didn't take?”

  “Nope. Plus, I have an insatiable appetite—for both food and sex. And maybe after your date with Mr. Leone, you'll find yourself hungering for more.”

  This time, I don’t protest and allow myself the slightest of smiles as I slip out of my dress. Teal squeals in delight and holds up her hand for a fist bump. “Yayyy, there's my girl!”

  I slide the hanger back into the dress and hang it in the closet. There are two words pulsing in my brain like fireflies.

  Tomorrow night.

  chapter fourteen ~ Carlo

  Standing in front of the mirror in my master bathroom, I assess my appearance. Light grey, Jil Sander textured-twill blazer, a jade-colored shirt and trousers in a slightly darker gray. The last time I wore this jacket was at a break-up dinner for the previous woman I was with. As usual, I didn’t felt guilty; the restaurant was five-star, the food excellent, and she’d taken the news much better than anticipated. Of course, it hadn't hurt that my parting gift to her was a Bony Levy ruby and diamond flower pendant. When I got to the part about needing to tell her something, she'd looked at me with dewy brown eyes and a subdued expression—completely opposite of the independent, frosty woman I'd first met. She knew. But she just nodded when I said as much as I wished things were different, I wasn't ready for a relationship. It was obvious she was disappointed, maybe even more than that...but she accepted it—just like she'd accepted my sexual demands, given some time and the concoction of whatever I have that makes women want to obey me.

  I’m more incredulous than arrogant about this. It fascinates me, how I’m somehow able to not only dominate women, but change them. The pattern’s always the same with this type of woman: at first, defiant resistance...softening into mild protests, which grow few and far between...drifting into meek hesitation...and then finally, the point of submission.

  I’m not sure exactly how, but I’ve acquired the ability to make women believe they not only want me, but need me: my words, my hands, my mouth...my cock. There have been times when the woman would actually beg me to take her to bed, and there have been times I was so turned on I had to call upon all of my willpower not to throw her down on the bed and just fuck, before the optimal time. But the key, as I’ve learned, is to go excruciatingly slowly. Let the want—the need—build and simmer, until I have the woman exactly where I need her to be. It’s more than just the game, and more than just my own sexual gratification. Each time I’m able to seduce an unlikely woman into total submission, I feel not only triumphant, but almost comforted. Because it means I’m in control, and things go according to my timetable, my plan. And Christ, I’ve needed this, ever since—

  I rein in that thought hard and fast, before I finish it. I’ll be seeing Cassandra soon and need to be in the right frame of mind. Not to mention that dwelling on the past is fucking useless.

  Back to Cassandra, and wondering what she could be feeling right now. Anticipation, apprehension, excitement—hopefully, mostly the last one. Getting her to agree to the date had been moderately challenging, but giving up on a woman I’ve chosen is never an option. There’s a stirring in me, imagining our first kiss and how it’s going to feel to touch her for the first time.

  And imagining the possibilities of the game finalé.

  Cassandra's will need to be exceptionally erotic. Something we’ll both remember.

  I lean in closer to the mirror, smooth my eyebrows and remove a piece of lint from my lapel. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, I open a small bottle of cologne and dab a wet fingertip along each side of my neck, half-smiling as I picture Cassandra’s reaction. White Cristal has never failed me.

  My phone chimes from the vanity top. Is it her? I check the screen. It’s Alexis, texting to see if I can come over later tonight. Ah, shit...we haven’t had any contact since that night a few weeks ago, and I feel a little guilty about neglecting her where she’s been there for me. But now that I’m becoming more involved with Cassandra, I have to channel my energies toward the goal and forego any hook-ups with Alexis. She’ll be fine with it; part of our deal is no questions and no hurt feelings if the other person isn’t available.

  I reply to her text with a simple apology about having plans and check the small silver clock above the sink. I’ll leave in five minutes. I’ve made reservations for 6:30 at Bent Brook Country Club. Cassandra will like it; the Club is classy and elegant but not pompous, and the food is fantastic.

  And then, if all goes according to plan...I’ll be bringing her back here after dinner.

  The mid-August sun is blinding as I back out of my garage. It’s a thirty-minute drive to Elizabethtown. I’ll keep the convertible top up until I can ask Cassandra what she'd prefer. Quite sure sure she won’t want any wind blowing her hair.

  I enter Cassandra's address into the GPS and then slide on my sunglasses, feeling a surprisingly strong surge of pleasure at the thought of seeing her. I always look forward to being with a beautiful woman, but this...this feels like the magical intoxication of a high school date—something I haven’t experienced since my first love.

  My only love.

  Too fast. I’d gone too fast, that time.

  I'm sorry for your loss. Hollow, careful, emotionless words of someone following protocol to deliver the news that will cause the world to stop.

  I grip the steering wheel, enraged at myself for going back there. Fuck the past. The world might have stopped for me, but I restarted it. Threw myself into the business, exercised to the point of exhaustion, drank more than I should have. But I survived. What choice did I have? I learned it was possible to go on and to regain control of things. Work. Women. Life.

  I survived.

  I’m feeling calm and confident by the time I pull into Cassandra's parking lot. It’s a typical townhouse-style apartment complex with a few harshly-pruned, complimentary shrubs along the walkway. I’d me
et her at the door, but I’m under strict instructions to stay in the car and text when I get there. She might be feeling self-conscious about her apartment in light of my financial status. So I’ll let her have her way.

  This time.

  I put the Mercedes in park and text her. She replies in seconds: OK. Be right out.

  The door opens. Cassandra steps out, and Jesus...I have to catch my breath. I knew she’d look beautiful, but this exceeds all expectations. She’s absolutely stunning. The dress accentuates her tanned, muscular legs and her curves, and as she turns to lock the door, my eyes are drawn to her ass, which is trim and round and perfect. My gaze travels up her bare back to her hair, gathered in a low, loose bun with a sparkly clip tucked just above her ear. Elegant and sophisticated look great on her. I’m filled with the urge to go stand behind her, put my hands on her shoulders and kiss and nip a slow path along her neck.

  Patience, Leone. Patience.

  She walks toward my car, holding a small silver clutch and taking slow, careful steps in her tall sandals like she’s a little girl unaccustomed to wearing heels. As she gets closer, I can see that she’s keeping her gaze on the ground—almost submissively. Watching her is creating a flood of emotions in me that I can’t even separate or identify. I only know that I want her.

  Badly.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out of the convertible to meet her. She looks up at me then, her face glowing. Judging from her expression, it’s clear she is mutually appreciative of my appearance, which makes me smile. Her eyes look more blue than green tonight, probably because of the color of her dress, and her lashes are thick and full against pale, shimmery eye shadow.

  Jesus, it’s going to be unbelievably tough to keep my hands off her.

  I bend down and give her a kiss on the cheek, hesitating to let my lips brush against her skin. “I have to tell you, Ms. Larsen, you're looking a bit different than the first time I saw you at Windswept.”

  She blushes and smiles. “Are you saying I clean up good?”

  “Uh, yes. Although that's a major understatement. Kind of like saying the Mona Lisa is a nice sketch.” I open her car door and watch as she climbs carefully inside, tugging down the bottom of her dress and crossing her legs at the ankle.