by Ava Lore
...Oh my god. Did I really want to get to know him better? Not just to have something to hold over his head? Why did I want to have something to hold over his head, anyway? Were we in some kind of competition? To blackmail him when I was done with him? To get money? To... what?
I resented him for making me marry him, didn't I? I hated that rich shithead, that arrogant jerk who was in cahoots with my jackass father, the guy who thought he could buy me, the kind of guy who thought everything in the world was for sale and his for the asking... right?
The guy who said he'd listen to you. The guy who makes you come so hard you have an out-of-body experience. The vulnerable guy under all that calm Buddha bullshit. That's the guy you hate, right?
I pressed my hands to my face and tried to think, but my thoughts were suddenly a jumble, confused and tangled—
The front door burst open and I jumped halfway out of my skin. “Shit!” I leaped out of my chair and raced to the foyer just in time to see two burly, handsome men dragging my personal effects—far too shabby for this beautiful house—up the front steps.
“What's this?” Sadie said from behind me.
“My stuff,” I told her. “I'm moving in.”
She snorted. “You got it bad.”
“Shut up,” I told her. “And once they're done you have to help me find something to wear for dinner tonight. I don't want to end up on Perez Hilton looking like something the cat dragged in.”
“I'm only human,” Sadie said.
“Shut up.”
*
I had the movers install my stuff in an extra bedroom for now. Together, Sadie and I picked out a dress for me, a little black affair that Sadie said was classic, and then we went hunting for baby pictures of Anton. Or old school yearbooks, or high school love letters... anything really.
What we got was exactly dick-all. Anton's house was clean of anything that might implicate a past. The only thing I found of interest was the grand piano in the fourth-floor parlor, covered in dust and complicated sheet music, and the bookshelves in the master bedroom, lined with an eclectic mix of volumes so diverse that I first suspected he had simply ordered the most visually pleasing arrangement arrayed against the white shelves. Most of the volumes were well-worn, however, and I found his hand writing in several of them: the Illiad, a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, and a book called Waiting for the Barbarians all had his distinct, spiky print scrawled over the pages, though the notes made little sense to me. A well-thumbed copy of The Thornbirds rested atop the Illiad, as though recently read.
Other than that, it was a beautiful house that seemed to be perfectly set up for a real estate showing, except for the fact that the basement was locked. Probably for the best. If Anton did have a sex dungeon, I was certain he wouldn't want Sadie to know about it.
Sadie did not share this opinion. “Ugh,” she said, tugging on the handle to the basement door. “This guy is weird. And creepy. Who doesn't have personal touches in their house? And why is this door locked? This is like that fucked up fairytale where the girl marries this dude and he's got all the mangled bodies of his other wives locked behind a door and he's all, 'don't check out this door!' like a douche.”
“Bluebeard,” I said. “Or maybe the Robber Bridegroom.”
“Whatever.” She gave the door a kick of disgust. “It's getting close to seven. You should probably get ready.”
“Right,” I said. I'd been avoiding thinking about it. Was I going to be the target of hidden cameras tonight? And what was I going to talk to Anton about? And was I actually interested in him? The thought was too uncomfortable to even examine, so I'd shoved it down after Sadie had suggested it, but like a dead body it kept bobbing to the surface. Dinner was suddenly seeming like a really bad idea.
To my surprise, Sadie put an awkward hand on my shoulder. “Come on, it's not going to be that bad,” she said. “What's the worst that could happen?”
“He chops me up and puts me in the basement with his other wives?”
She smiled. “Relax. You're probably more fun alive than dead.”
“Not helpful!” I told her as, behind us, the vestibule door opened and Anton Waters stepped inside.
Silence fell over us as we all stared at each other, and I realized, after a moment, that Anton and Sadie had never met and that I was the one who should be introducing them. “Oh!” I said. “Uh. Anton, this is my friend—and personal assistant—Sadie MacElroy. Sadie, this is Anton Waters, my... husband.”
God, that still felt awkward to say.
Anton stepped forward, extending a hand and a smile. “I'm glad to meet you, Miss MacElroy. Let me give you my personal assistant's number and you two can talk compensation.”
“Nuh-uh,” Sadie said. “I'm talking to you. Tomorrow. At your office.”
Anton paused, but recovered quickly. “Very well.” He reached into his impeccable suit jacket, extracted a business card, and handed it to her. “Call first thing in the morning and we'll work you in.”
“Good.” She plucked the card from his fingers and extended her hand. They shook, and then she turned back to me and gave me a hug.
“See you tomorrow, Lis,” she said.
“Hurgle,” I said, too mortified to respond properly. She ignored me and swept through the gallery, turning once to give Anton the I've-got-my-eye-on-you gesture, which, thankfully, his back was turned for. Then she bolted out the front door and was gone, and we were alone again.
Anton stared at the hand she had shaken. “I think she sprained one of my fingers,” he said. “I may regret hiring her.”
“I won't,” I said, “and since she's my assistant, I'm the one that matters.” It came out far more vitriolic than I meant for it to.
He turned to me in surprise. “Have I done something to offend you, Felicia?” he asked.
I pressed a hand to my forehead and forced myself to relax. “No,” I said after a moment. “No, I'm sorry, I'm just on edge. Sadie said I'm all over the internet, and we're going out tonight, and... I don't know. I don't know what to talk about with you. We haven't even been on a date and we're... married.”
He tilted his head. “Yes,” he said, “we are. Is that what is bothering you?”
Lots of things were bothering me. “Where are your baby pictures?” I blurted.
He stared at me.
Good, I thought. Very smooth, Felicia. That won't tip him off that you know about his basement full of severed limbs at all.
“I'm sorry?” he said.
Well, I might as well go whole hog. I waved my arms, indicating his house. “What's with this place?” I said. “Where are all the pictures? Where are the... I don't know, the overdue library books and the stray receipts from the grocery store and the junk drawer with little bits of lint and a pair of broken scissors in it? Do you even live here?”
To my relief, Anton didn't look angry that I'd been snooping around—although I suppose, technically, he had invited me to do so by telling me to make myself at home. Instead he looked amused. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I live at the office more than I do here.” He glanced around himself as though taking in his own house for the first time. “Perhaps it is a bit spare on the personal touches.”
I blinked. I hadn't expected him to say that. “And the baby pictures?” I said.
“Who keeps baby pictures of themselves around?” he asked me.
I stomped my foot. “You know what I mean,” I said. “Where are pictures of your family? And friends? You have family and friends, right?”
For a long moment he regarded me intently. “I see,” he said at last. “We're at this portion of the program now, are we?”
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
He stood very still. “You said you wanted to know more about me. That's fair enough. Unlike you, I don't have a blog that you can check.” I knew I should have deleted that thing. “But I want things from you in return.”
Licking my lips, I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I nev
er thought it would be otherwise.”
He glanced at the door behind me. “Have you been trying to get into the basement?” he wondered.
“I thought you might have a sex dungeon down there.”
That caught him off guard, and he laughed. I noticed that when he laughed, he always looked shocked, as though I had somehow inspired something foreign and strange in him. Visibly choking it down, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, there's no sex dungeon here.”
I noted that he didn't say there wasn't a sex dungeon at all, but I let that lie for now. “So what's down there?”
He shook his head. “Nothing of import.” Stepping forward, he put his hands on my arms, wrapping them in the warmth of his palms. A shiver raced across my skin at the contact.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you would like a glass of wine? And we can talk?”
Yes, I thought. God, yes. Anything to take the edge off. But out loud all I could do was say, “That sounds great.”
He gestured toward the kitchen. I slipped past him and the heat radiating from his body made my mouth go dry. He was like an overclocked machine. A sex machine.
Man, I should have been a poet.
In the kitchen, Anton opened the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of white wine. I stood awkwardly by the sink as he popped the cork and poured out two glasses. Handing me one, he lifted it in a little salute. I did the same and swallowed half of it in one gulp.
Anton watched me. “I don't mean to make you nervous,” he said at last.
“You don't,” I said automatically. Which was a total lie and he knew it, so I just shrugged. “You kind of terrify me more than make me nervous.”
He raised his brows. “Do I? Why is that?”
“Oh... you know...” I said.
He shook his head.
I sighed and swallowed the rest of my wine, letting its bitterness curl over my tongue while I tried to form a complete thought. Without asking, Anton poured me another glass.
“That,” I said.
“What?”
“You're a business guy. You make me nervous because you act like you own me.” As I said it, I realized it was true. For the same reason I hated men like my father, Anton's intensity, his possessiveness, made me on edge, for more reasons than one. His touch branded me, but a brand is not a fence. On one level, being his was attractive, delicious, overwhelmingly submissive. On another, I couldn't help but feel he was slowly ensnaring me in a web, building a cage around me from which I could not escape.
Sadie told me to get over my parents, but how could I when I was suddenly in the same situation?
“I don't mean to act that way,” Anton said, cutting through my thoughts. “You are my wife. It is my pleasure to pour a glass of wine for you.”
“Yes,” I said, “but I'm your wife despite the fact that we didn't go through the whole getting-to-know-you phase. That's... that's kind of important, I think.”
He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I hate that phase,” he said at last. “It seems to me to have been prudent to skip it.”
He was really unbelievable. “Well, it can be awkward at times, I guess,” I conceded, “but it's really fun.”
“Is it?”
I gulped more wine. “Falling in love? Yeah. It's fun.”
Anton shook his head. “No. I don't want to fall in love. That's not...” He appeared to search for the right word. “That's not compatible with my continued happiness. Too messy. Too much can go wrong. Like I said, cleaner this way.”
I stared at him. “Wow,” I said at last. “And I thought I had issues.”
He cocked a brow at me and took another sip of wine. “You do,” he said. “I've read your blog, remember?”
“Yeah, but you just said you want a wife without the messy part of loving her. You need a fucking therapist to help you with that, not an arranged marriage.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But Felicia, why would I need a fucking therapist?” he asked me. “I already know how to fuck.”
That caught me off guard and I laughed, nearly spilling a mouthful of wine down my shirt. I stared at him in amazement. “I didn't know you knew how to joke,” I said. “Oh, whoops, we're getting to know each other now. That's not good.”
His lashes fluttered as he leaned against the counter and took another sip of wine. “It's fine,” he said. “For now.”
“How gracious of you.” I cast about for something to say, then finally hit on the perfect conversation starter. “So how was work?”
“Full of headaches and triumphs,” he said. “Working on the takeover of your father's company, actually.”
I had almost forgotten that was happening. In my mind, marrying Anton meant only that my mother got medical attention. Thinking about my father getting a second chance in life made me want to throw up, but I didn't dare. The wine I was drinking probably cost as much as a new iPhone and it would be a terrible waste to send it back down the drain before I'd absorbed its precious alcohol.
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
“You don't sound too thrilled that your family is avoiding total financial ruin the likes of which has not been seen since 2008.”
I shrugged. “If you'd grown up with my dad, you wouldn't care much what happened to him, either.”
“I still don't,” he said. “I just thought you might.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Learning something about me. That's dangerous.”
Anton did not seem amused by my sarcastic remarks. Carefully he set his wineglass down, the clink of it on the marble counter top grating over my wine-heightened nerves.
“Felicia,” he began, but I held up my hand.
“No,” I cut him off. “I'm sorry. I know you're a private person. I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't okay. I'm just being an ass after a long and stressful day. Two days. Week. Whatever.”
He still watched me. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as though girding his loins. When he opened them again, he had a determined set about his mouth.
“Is the sex not good enough for you? The money?” he asked.
He was so dense. But so was I. We were two peas in a pod, I guess.
“It's not that,” I said. “I just worry about you.” And it was true. He did not act like a rational human being. I should have been running in the opposite direction like my ass was on fire. But I needed him. And... well, I kind of liked him.
“You worry about me?” he said incredulously.
I shrugged. He wasn't the total asshole I'd thought he was.
Anton stepped across the narrow space, closing the distance between us. Reaching out, he stroked a finger over my cheek, a light, gentle gesture that left me trembling, my lips parted, begging for something I couldn't put a name to.
Bending his head, Anton slanted his lips against mine and kissed me.
God, the man could kiss.
Our lips slid together, soft and sensual. He nibbled at me, as though sampling delicate fruit. Then his tongue slipped from between his lips and I was falling open to him, falling apart, begging him to come into me.
His arms went around me, his hands tangling in my hair as I rubbed my hands up his chest. I felt his heart hammering beneath my palm as he broke our kiss and moved his mouth to my ear. Hot breath whispered inside my head, full of wordless answers I could never decipher.
I was putty in his hands, my whole body listing into him, as though I were a sinking ship and he was the only thing keeping me afloat. If he kissed me again, I knew I would drown.
He didn't. Pulling away, he took my hand. “We should continue this conversation upstairs,” he murmured.
Swallowing hard, I nodded. Upstairs. Yes.
He guided me back into the gallery and then up the narrow staircase. The creaking of the old floorboards beneath our feet crackled in the air between us.
We arrived in the master bedroom on the top floor. The room was dark, this late in the autumn, and the skylight above us was like a black hole.
I imagined if it were to break we would be sucked out into space.
Anton switched on a bedside lamp, then took me by the hand and led me to the center of the floor, a few feet from the bed. The whole room was white and blonde, clean and fresh. Anton stood in front of me. His whole being screamed control, even in the way he relaxed his stance. The rock hard body underneath his suit hummed with tension. He had to control himself to relax, and, despite myself, my heart went out to him.
What had happened to make him so guarded? What made him so alone?
My fingers twitched. The gulf between us was so great, but if I could reach across it, if I could touch him where he stood trapped in his own iron grip...
“Ask me a question.” The words were sharp and hard, startling me. I hadn't even been thinking about asking questions. But as I studied his face in the soft lamplight, I could see he was determined about something. There was nothing in his expression that told me what he was determined about, but that in and of itself was something.
I licked my lips. “Tell me about your family,” I said.
The barest of tells: the muscles around his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Disrobe,” he commanded me.
I brought my hands to the buttons of my blouse. One by one, I released them, and he watched me. As I parted the fabric above my breasts, I paused.
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to button back up again?” There was far more bravado in my words than I felt inside. My knees were jelly, and the heat in my core was spreading.
“What would you like to know about my family?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Anything.”
“Anything?”
I knew then that I'd made an error. He could tell me whatever he wanted, and I'd be no further than I was already. Well. Might as well double-down. I lifted my chin. “Yeah. Anything.”
His eyes flicked down my body. “Very well. I have no brothers or sisters. Continue.”
Could have been worse, I thought. My trembling fingers popped button after button through their holes, and each one revealed me to him. At last they were all done, and I let the blouse slip from my shoulders to the floor.