by Nikki Sloane
I went still as a statue. “What?”
He gave me a final glance before heading for the door and lobbed the comment over his shoulder. “Feel free to try that again anytime, though.”
It barely registered because the confusion was still too loud in my brain. What the hell did he mean, he was about to ask for an obscene amount of money? He’d just gotten one hundred thousand shares from his father, and the promotion to the board came with its own salary and bonus.
I have more money than God, he’d said.
So why the hell would he ask for more?
The door to his office swung shut with a thud, leaving me alone with more questions and desire than I knew what to do with.
My goal to derail him had failed miserably, and the unsatisfied thirst snaking through my body was the only thing in control right now. I stared out the window at the landscape while I tried to flush away the heat. The vision he’d painted in my mind of his fist tangled in my seaweed colored hair made me long for it to be real. Not just the hair color, but the physical connection.
But it couldn’t be.
Besides the deal I’d made, everything was approved by Macalister, even the outfit I wore today. I’d been instructed to dress feminine—he preferred women in skirts rather than pants whenever they were in the office. It was some sexist bullshit, but I couldn’t complain about it.
I wasn’t allowed to do anything or be who I was. How long could I live like this before I lost myself? Even if I wanted to rebel, any change I effected would be temporary and corrected. Hair would be recolored, wardrobe revised, behavior modified, and then it would be like it never happened.
Like I never existed.
I needed something permanent. Something that couldn’t be undone. Something only for me.
Like a symbol I could look at and remind myself who I was, no matter how much the Hales tried to change me.
Oh, God. I swallowed dryly as the idea formed.
I could do it. But to carry it out, I’d have to make a deal with the devil.
As Macalister and I played our nightly chess match, I was a towering stack of blocks, and every move he made was another brick being pulled from the base of my foundation. The mood in the library was always tense, but this was a new level. Our conversations had lessened and become stilted since he’d unveiled the black box, and tonight I swayed and teetered in the silence.
“Checkmate.” It simmered with irritation from him because he found the victory hollow. “You were distracted tonight.”
My pulse mirrored a frantic trader on the floor during a massive selloff. “Yeah, I . . .”
Was I really going to do this? There’d be no turning back.
I said it quickly before I lost my nerve. “I’m ready to play the other game.”
There was no reaction from him, other than his calculating eyes assessing me for the truth. Whatever visual test he’d given me, I must have passed, because he rose from his chair and went to the spot where he’d tucked the dreaded box away.
But once he had it, he didn’t give it to me. He stood with the black box in his hands, the black bow at its front taunting me. “What makes you think you’re ready now?”
“I’m motivated,” I said.
He lifted a curious eyebrow. “Why?”
The question had an agenda. He wanted to know not only what had happened, but how badly I was motivated to see if he could squeeze even more out of me.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I need a space that’s my own.”
He scowled. “You have a room here. If Royce is not respecting that, tell me, and I will take care of it.”
Of course he’d think Royce was the problem and not himself, even though he’d been the one waiting for me in my room the night Emily had gone into the hospital.
“I’m not really talking about a physical space,” I said. “I need a place free from rules and obligations, where I’m the one in control and making the decisions.”
He appeared to find the answer satisfying. He set the box on the desk but left his hand on it, his turn not yet complete. “Explain to me the rules, so I know you remember how we’re going to play.”
Oh, Jesus. I swallowed hard. “At ten-thirty I use what’s inside the box. When it’s over, I text you the number.”
His face took on a wicked cast. “The number of what?”
My heart was in my mouth and got in the way of my tongue. “Orgasms.”
If I wasn’t so anxious, I might have appreciated the way he looked when he was satisfied. It was such a rare event.
“Are you allowed orgasms outside of our arrangement?”
“No,” I said.
“And so we’re clear,” he pushed the box to me, “by accepting this, you are entrusting your experience to me and surrendering control.”
It was impossible to catch my breath, but I got the word out. “Yes.”
The box was heavy, weighed down with a million reasons why I shouldn’t have agreed to his deal.
“Excellent.” His low, seductive voice was a fog that enveloped the room. “I look forward to receiving your text this evening.”
I said nothing as I wrapped the box in my arms and fled from his lust-filled blue eyes.
TEN
TEN-THIRTY CAME MUCH TOO FAST. Time seemed to go impossibly slow whenever I was with Macalister, but now I was locked alone in my own room, and the minutes raced by.
As soon as I’d left the library, I’d hurried down the hall and was thankful I didn’t run into anyone else. It felt like I was carrying a bomb and it’d explode if Royce saw me with it. So, I stumbled into my room, shoved the box under my bed, and pretended if it was out of sight it ceased to exist.
But the goddamn clock kept ticking, and soon I’d have to unleash all the evils inside Pandora’s Box.
At ten, I changed into a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, curled up on the couch, and tried to read, but every few sentences my gaze would drift over to the bed. Where would I do it? There? And how exactly did the strange vibrator work?
I only made it ten minutes before I sat on the floor, my back against the side of the bed and the box on my lap, the ribbon undone. My mouth went dry as I read the instructions. Half of the thing—the smaller end—went inside me. The wider, fat end would press against my clit.
Of course, I considered not using it and faking the ordeal, but I was sure he’d know somehow. And it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but be a little curious.
I’d never admit it to Macalister, but I’d never used a vibrator before. Like a fool, I’d thought my parents watched the credit card statements, and I would have been too embarrassed to be caught buying a sex toy with their money. Plus, I’d been a virgin and able to get myself off just fine with my own hand, so I never had much drive to seek out additional help.
When the time drew near, I was strangely numb to all emotion—other than anxiety—like I’d been with the initiation. It seemed weird to have the lights on, so I turned them off, and only moonlight lit my room as I climbed onto my king-sized bed. I pulled off my clothes, wiggled under the covers, and sucked in a deep breath.
At the other end of the hall, Macalister was likely in his room, thinking about me. Would he touch himself as we did this? Or would he be completely focused on me? Maybe he’d multitask during the session and check how his personal stocks were performing.
Alice wouldn’t be around because they didn’t share a bedroom. It wasn’t their loveless marriage that kept them apart. Their sleeping patterns were total opposites, as Macalister was an insomniac and Alice needed a minimum of eight hours of rest to function.
My fingers crept down across my stomach, inching lower. I closed my eyes and pictured Royce today, wearing that stunning black suit and maroon tie, his pants undone and his hard cock clenched in his hand.
As he stroked in my mind, my fingers rubbed over my swollen clit. I didn’t want to think about why I was already wet or what had turned me on before I’d even started the fantasy.
All that was important was that I be ready before the clock hit ten-thirty.
Breath escaped my lungs as I pushed the black vibrator inside me. It was cold and smooth, and the other end fit tight against my slit. It wasn’t . . . uncomfortable. If anything, it felt good.
But the waiting? That was agony. I lay in my bed, my hands balled into fists at my sides, so tense I was ready to explode. Was this part of the session? To build anticipation until I was—
“Oh!” I gasped.
Vibrations buzzed against my center. The sensation wasn’t like anything I’d experienced. Instant, acute pleasure burst between my legs, so great it made me flinch. I gripped handfuls of the sheet beneath me, needing to hold on as warmth spread along the length of my body.
It stole my breath and my thoughts.
All I could focus on was the pulse, both inside and out, which made me want to twist and writhe. I turned my head and groaned into the side of my pillow. Holy fuck, it felt good. I just had to lie there and take it, surrendering control.
By the time I got a handle on the sensations, the pattern changed from a steady vibration to a slow building one. It would crest and ebb, and with each cycle I clawed my way reluctantly closer to an orgasm.
I was alone in the room. If I were controlling the vibrator on my own, this would mean nothing. Royce’s only issue with me using a toy would likely be that he didn’t get to participate.
But I wasn’t in control.
And that made all the difference. The walls between Macalister and me were only an illusion of propriety. What I was doing was wrong. Worse was the sick appeal of it. Royce had denied me for a year, gotten what he wanted, then traded me away. I could argue it served him right that he’d allowed this to happen.
I crossed a line, and now it felt too good to stop.
My breath came and went so quickly it left me lightheaded. Sweat beaded at my temples as my orgasm approached. It was useless to resist, and I gave up holding back. The only worry now wasn’t if I would come, but if I could stay relatively quiet as I did it.
A tremble worked its way up my legs, my eyes slammed shut, and I jammed my hands into my hair. I wasn’t going to come—I was going to break apart. Even if I was able to piece myself together afterward, I wouldn’t be the same. There’d always be this stain on my insides from where I’d let Macalister in.
Win at all costs.
That was what I had to do. Losing the battle was all right as long as I won the war.
I rolled onto my stomach and released a pleasure-soaked moan into my pillow as I came. The orgasm tightened my muscles until I wasn’t in control, and they tweaked and contracted like a marionette’s strings being pulled. Ecstasy purred and buzzed, sizzling on my nerves until everything was tingling.
It was so, so good until it was too much.
I reached down and yanked the vibrator out, overly sensitive. It continued humming, quiet as a whisper as I blew out a long breath and struggled to slow my heartrate. When I was no longer tingling and the fog had cleared in my brain, I grabbed my phone and thumbed out the message.
Me: One.
Five seconds later the vibrator died, and it was painfully silent in the room.
Macalister: Tomorrow you will have two.
I lobbed my phone onto the other side of the bed, hoping it would take the wicked excitement along with it.
My Porsche was waiting for me in the circle drive the next morning, washed clean and gassed up to go. I climbed into the driver’s seat and wrapped my hands around the steering wheel, letting the feeling of being in control calm me. Every mile of road I put between myself and the Hale house lifted more pressure off my shoulders.
I’d told the Hales I was going to visit my sister, but I drove out of the way to Port Cove first. The tattoo shop was nicer than I expected, with upscale furniture and flooring and a sexy vibe. Arturo, the artist, was short with tattoos crawling all over his skin, and he listened thoughtfully as I explained what I wanted.
“I have a picture,” I said.
I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, and searched for it on my profile. As I scrolled, it was sickening how long it took to get through all the fake posts I’d made before finally getting to the real me. I’d buried myself under an avalanche of selfies with my daily outfits, curated office shots, and vapid party pictures. I’d posed with people who didn’t care about me, only what I could do for them.
When the consultation was over, I drove to my parents’ house.
It was the first time I’d been there since I moved in with the Hales, and it was beyond strange. Everything felt . . . smaller. The lights didn’t shine as brightly, and the rooms seemed overwrought with items my parents didn’t need. It had a claustrophobic effect I’d never noticed before.
Emily was in her pajamas and in bed when I arrived, her back propped up by pillows. It didn’t look like she’d showered today, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Concern made me collapse beside her.
“I’m tired all the time,” she said. “This baby is sucking the life out of me.”
I didn’t miss the way her gaze slid over me, taking in my designer clothes, my rich brown hair, and perfectly manicured nails. Envy wasn’t something I’d ever seen in my sister’s eyes before. Was she wondering if this was what her life would have been if she hadn’t gotten pregnant?
I wanted to tell her it was like my Instagram feed—nothing was as glamorous and perfect as what I projected. She didn’t know Royce had sold me out, or who he’d handed me over to. I wanted to confide in my sister and best friend what I’d had to do to earn the right to drive myself here today.
But I couldn’t, because that meant I’d have to admit it out loud, and I couldn’t stand to see the judgment twist on her face. Not to mention, she was on bed rest, and I shouldn’t cause any additional stress.
There was a third, shameful reason I didn’t say anything. I still wasn’t over what she’d kept from me. Her affair with her professor, her pregnancy, and the rumor she’d heard about the initiation. I wanted to move past it, but I struggled.
No one was who I thought they were, and it felt like my whole family was slipping away.
“It’s going to be all right.” I tried to make it sound convincing but faltered. So, I curled up in bed beside her and watched Netflix while we talked about things that didn’t matter. She probably wanted to escape as much as I did.
“Marist,” our mother said when she came in and discovered me in bed beside Emily. “Were you even going to come say hello?”
“Of course,” I said. “I thought you were going to join us.”
She scowled. “No. I wish I had time to sit around and watch TV, but I’m too busy.”
Her passive-aggressive statement sliced through my mood and turned my tone sarcastic. “I’m sure.”
She ignored my attitude. “I need to leave soon. I have an appointment at Barney’s.”
Tension tightened the muscles in my back. “You’re going shopping?”
“I need a dress for the anniversary gala.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t worry, I have a budget.” An idea must have taken hold in her mind because she abruptly straightened and brightened. “Do you want to come with me?”
A hundred thoughts hit me at once, but the cynical one was the loudest. What was her motive for asking me to join her? Did she genuinely want to spend time with her daughter . . . or was she hoping I would be able to pay for her dress?
I’d go with her, if for no other reason than to make sure she stuck to her budget. I’d have to save her from herself.
It was like I’d just swallowed ice and it sat as a frozen lump in my stomach.
I sounded like Macalister.
At twenty-three, Jillian Lambert was two years older than I was. When her hair was down, it was long and wavy, but tonight her honey brown tresses were pulled back into a high, sleek ponytail. Her black dress had fluttering shoulders, and it walked a perfect line between casual and dressed up.
Sh
e’d chosen wisely. I still hadn’t figured out exactly how to dress for the Hale family dinners either. I took my seat beside Royce and flashed a sympathetic smile to her across the table. She looked nervous as hell and like she’d rather be anywhere else than seated beside Vance.
Sophia had told me Jillian had a nasty, very public breakup with her boyfriend at the marina fundraising event Royce and I had missed. I had the sneaking suspicion Vance had played a part in it. His guiding hand had orchestrated the thing somehow to make sure she would be single.
Because his father wanted Jillian with Vance, and the Hales always got what they wanted.
“Thank you for joining us this evening,” Macalister said to her.
Her voice quavered. “Thanks for having me.”
“How is the training going? Are you prepared for the race?”
She glanced at the man seated next to her like she needed his approval.
“Yeah, we’re ready,” Vance said.
Macalister was irritated his son had spoken in her place. He refocused on Jillian. “Does your father think you have a good chance at winning?”
She nodded. “We’re all hopeful.”
Macalister eked out half of a pained smile. Her answer lacked the kind of confidence he demanded from both his family and his employees. He couldn’t say anything, though. She was his link to her father, who was Macalister’s link to the president, and he wasn’t going to risk falling out of Wayne Lambert’s good graces.
“Vance has been so helpful,” she added. Her amused gaze darted to him. “Always telling us what to do and stuff.”
I snorted. “What did you expect? He’s a Hale.”
Oh, my God. What the fuck did I just say?
Every pair of eyes at the table turned to me, and the room went so quiet no one was breathing. I was Medusa again. Everyone had turned to stone.