The Businessman's Tie (The Power to Please, Book One)

by Deena Ward

  I was living a fantasy I hadn’t known I had. My body was keyed tight within the moment. What would Michael do next? Would I allow it? How far would I go for his pleasure? How far would I go for my own?

  And then I saw Him. I was drinking the attention of the crowd when I saw him. He stood next to a grouping of tables nearby, and he was watching me. His dark hair was brushed back from his forehead. His jaw was taut, and his entire body seemed coiled with strength.

  He met my eyes with an expression of anger that made me wince involuntarily. Angry. At who? At me?

  It was The Businessman.

  Chapter 4

  In the eighth year of my marriage, I had an affair with a man who lived in the apartment above mine. His name was Doug, and he was a senior in college. Because I had married at such a young age, only 18 years old, Doug wasn’t much younger than I.

  He was lovely and what I thought I needed at the time. He adored me. Or rather, he adored my body. When he looked at me naked, his features would slacken, as if the lines and curves of my nudity left him befuddled in wonder.

  I was flattered. He made me feel beautiful and wanted. So I slept with him every chance I got for nearly two months. When I told him it was over, he cried. Sweet young man. He thought he loved me.

  When my ex-husband and I were first married, we had sex all the time, as is usual for newlyweds. The sex was okay for me, and I thought it would get better in time. It didn’t. I would never have told my ex that being intimate with him wasn’t as enthralling as I might have hoped; his glass-thin ego never could stand the least hint of complaint. I just faked it. If he wanted sex, he got it. Luckily for me, as time went on, he wanted it less and less.

  The week before I began my affair with Doug, my ex had climbed into our bed late one night while I was sleeping, and with hardly a grunt of acknowledgement, proceeded to have sex with me. He rolled me onto my back, pushed up my nightgown, pulled the crotch of my panties to one side, spat in his palm, rubbed the spit on his penis, then climbed between my legs and shoved himself inside me.

  His eyes were closed while he fucked me. It was over in a few minutes. He came, rolled off of me, then stood up and left the room. He never said a word to me, nor I to him.

  I lay in the bed, immobile, legs still sprawled open, his semen slowly seeping out of me onto my bunched-up panties. When the goo cooled and became clammy, I finally got up and took a shower.

  I didn’t think about anything while I cleaned myself and changed the sheets. What was there to think about? I knew why he had done this thing. It was because I had dared to suggest, again, that he might look for a job. My bad. Guess I had it coming. I had been a bitch. A fellow deserved a little something to make him feel better after his wife had insulted his manhood, didn’t he?

  I didn’t actually believe any of that bullshit. That was his side of things, and I knew it. Over the next week, I asked myself, “If you know you didn’t do anything wrong, then why did you let him do that to you?”

  I was standing in the stairwell of our apartment building, heading home from work, when the answer finally came to me: it was easier to take my husband’s vile behavior than it was to try to change it, an action that would only result in another pointless argument.

  Could it be so simple? Yes. I didn’t care about him anymore. I felt nothing. Nothing when he talked to me and certainly nothing when he touched me. The night he “chastised” me, the only thing I felt was that damned cold semen.

  I stood in the stairwell thinking this through, wondering how many years I had been living in a state of numbness, when I saw Doug jogging down the stairs. He jogged the way young men do, young men who have more energy than sense. He smiled at me and said hello in the flirtatious way he used whenever we passed one another. I never encouraged him ... until that day.

  I thought, Doug can make me feel something. So I encouraged him, and instead of going home to my husband, I went upstairs with Doug.

  He was my indulgence. Even more delightful than his adoration was the idea that our time together belonged to me, that my husband couldn’t take this pleasure from me.

  I preferred that Doug fuck me in positions where I could see a door, any door. Doggy style was a favorite. Me, on the floor on my hands and knees, with Doug pumping away at me from behind, his hands roaming over my ass and back.

  His apartment smelled of unwashed clothes, dirty dishes and half-eaten delivery pizzas. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care that the furniture was a collection of other people’s stained cast-offs and that Doug had probably never vacuumed the shabby carpet that was rubbing faint burns on my knees and reddening my palms.

  None of that mattered because Doug, himself, smelled of soap and herbal shampoo and honest desire. I would crane my neck to look at him behind me, all clean and new, his skin shining with health and a thin sheen of sweat, a testament to vigor.

  But mostly, I watched the door in front of me. I would imagine my husband kicking open the door and barging in, seeing me and my lover in all our adulterous glory. I would see my wastrel of a mate gawk at me in surprise. He had never suspected something like this from me. Never.

  And I would shoo him away, telling him, “Go home. There’s nothing for you here.”

  And he would know it was true, so he would turn around and walk back out the door, still surprised and confused but understanding there was nothing to be gained from further discussion.

  Sometimes I varied the scenes, such as having my husband be angry or sad, but the gist of my reaction to his intrusion was always the same. It was an offhand “Fuck you.”

  I never felt guilty about my affair with Doug. I never will.

  Now, here I was, all these years later, sitting in a sex club. A man who looked liked a continental playboy had a finger in my bra and was toying with my nipple while a couple dozen club-goers watched.

  Then I saw The Businessman in the crowd, looking as devastatingly handsome as I remembered. And he was angry. Definitely angry.

  Immediately, I felt guilty.

  Guilt. Really? It couldn’t be. The memory of cheating on my husband blazed clear and large in my mind. I had felt no guilt for a cuckolded husband, for the broken vows and the secret trysts. Not even once. Not even close.

  Apparently, I saved my shame for virtual strangers, men who seduced me then didn’t bother to tell me their names, or ask for mine.

  What the hell was wrong with me? The entire scene was absurd to the point of comedy. I fought an urge to laugh.

  I couldn’t look away from The Businessman, though, and his anger. Mixed with my inexplicable feelings of guilt was an equally inexplicable, though less powerful, tremble of fear. Fear of what? Shame for what?

  He and I didn’t even know each other, not in any real way. There could be no questions here of promises and fidelity. Yet he was glaring at me as if I had somehow betrayed him. Impossible.

  Michael must have noticed a change in me. He followed my gaze to The Businessman, who immediately switched his glare from me to Michael.

  Michael smiled and gave an acknowledgement nod, a brief hello. The Businessman didn’t return the gesture. His expression of anger disappeared in an instant, replaced by blandness, a nonchalance. He turned away and walked off into the crowd, soon gone from my view.

  Now you see him, now you don’t, I thought. That’s just like him.

  Michael, still smiling, appeared unfazed by The Businessman’s cut. His finger circled my nipple as he said, “Someone you know?”

  The moment having been considerably dampened for me, I gently removed his hand from my breast and answered, “A passing acquaintance.”

  I buttoned up my shirt.

  Michael sighed in a playfully dramatic way. “It’s so sad when a moment is ruined by some random thing or other. Still, you did please me while it lasted, so I’ll be content with that.”

  I smiled even though my nerves were still on edge. I reached for my drink. It was watery and tasteless from the melted ice, but it served its
purpose of wetting my dry lips and mouth, bringing me back to a more even state.

  I asked the question that I wasn’t sure I wanted to have answered. “Do you know that man?”

  I was certain that Michael almost asked, “Who?” It was something about the shape of his mouth before he said, “Just a passing acquaintance, same as you.”

  “Do you know his name?” I asked. “I can’t remember it, and I hate it when I can’t remember a name.”

  Michael said he didn’t remember. I was disappointed, until Michael added, “But I’ve heard a few rumors about him.”

  Ah, rumors. That was something, anyway. I said, “Oh,” then waited to see if Michael would tell me more.

  He said, “Some people have told me that he can be, how should I say this, unfeeling and harsh to his, uh, to the women under his care.”

  “What do you mean, the women under his care?”

  “His sexual partners. I’m not much for labels, but in general, a partner of his would be called a sub, short for submissive.”

  This time my “Oh” was no ploy. I said, “Then he’s some kind of regular here, and has subs. It’s BDSM.”

  Michael said, “Most people who come here are into BDSM, in one way or another, as I more or less told you before. I’m pleased you know the term. You’d be surprised how many people don’t. Here I thought you were some innocent young thing with no idea about the ways of the world.”

  “Uh-huh. Was that before or after you stuck your hand in my bra in front of some 30-odd strangers?”

  He chuckled low and sexy, “Well, perhaps not all that innocent. Innocent enough that I thought you might need some special handling. Now, however ...”

  I didn’t like where he appeared to be heading. “I don’t live under a rock, so I have a general knowledge of what BDSM is. Whips, chains, that sort of thing. But I don’t know anything other than what I’ve seen in movies or whatever.”

  Michael became thoughtful and studied me. Finally, he said, “You’re right. There are whips and chains in BDSM, but they’re just tools. A means to an end.”

  A means to an end. I wasn’t sure that bore much thinking about, not at the moment anyway.

  I said what I had not yet had the chance to say. “That man we were talking about. The one with the rumors. You said he was unfeeling and harsh to his women. Does that mean he dumps a lot of women, or does it mean he ... physically harms ...” I didn’t know how to finish my sentence.

  Michael said, “I don’t know. It could mean many things, or nothing. It’s only rumors. I find it interesting, though, that the conversation keeps coming back around to him. How did you meet him?”

  From his clipped tone, I knew this was a question that Michael wanted answered. I said, “I don’t remember.”

  “Hmm. Interesting ...” His arm had been draped casually over the back of the booth, so it wasn’t a stretch for him to reach out and touch my hair. He twirled one of my curls around his finger. “You shouldn’t wonder that I’m curious about you and him. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I think he was angry when he saw us together. At first, I thought that he snubbed my greeting simply because he was in a foul mood or some other nonsense. But now I wonder. Was he angry because you were here with me?”

  I said, “I don’t see how that could be possible. We don’t even really know each other.”

  Michael must have misread my rising agitation. He gave my hair a teasing tug, smiled and said, “Don’t be annoyed with me. You can’t blame me for feeling a bit jealous, can you? It’s nothing serious. It’s only that tonight, by the best of luck, I found the loveliest woman I’ve met in a long time. All I want to do is talk with her some more about pleasure, while all she wants to do is talk about another man.”

  My first reaction was to assure him that I wasn’t offended and that I hadn’t been thinking about The Businessman. But I stopped before I said anything. I would never admit it to him, but Michael was right about me digging for information. Why was I doing that, anyway?

  The Businessman’s anger, like my guilt, had been irrational. According to rumors, he treated women badly. I wasn’t going to be able to ask Michael for more specifics about those rumors. Regardless, the critical point was that The Businessman had walked away from me, again.

  Michael was here. I was undeniably attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? I loved the way his dark hair brushed his shoulders and the way he pushed his hair behind his ears with unconcern. His body was lean, taut and strong. And maybe he was a bit dangerous, too. Who knew where he could lead me. He was persuasive, to say the least.

  I had come out tonight to fulfill a desire that The Businessman had created in me. There was no reason why he had to be the one to fulfill it. Michael Weston could do just as well. Maybe better. I wouldn’t know without trying.

  I said, “I’m sorry I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m not interested in that man.”

  He looked pleased and said, “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I’m just worried that I might have wandered into something that’s out of my depth. The idea of BDSM is, well, let’s just say, I’m not a masochist, and I’m certainly not a sadist.”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  I laughed at this ridiculous question. “I think I’d know by now if I were. If I knock my shin on a coffee table, it just hurts, it doesn’t turn me on. And I’ve definitely never been excited by someone else’s pain. I can’t even imagine it.”

  I recalled how it felt when The Businessman spanked me and I almost withdrew my statement. Those smacks felt nothing like a banged-up shin.

  Michael said, “You laugh, but it’s only because you don’t understand. I could talk to you for hours about why you’re wrong, but it would be much easier if I could show you.”

  I thought of the woman in the stiletto heels, the woman Michael said he had whipped. I shook my head. Nope, wasn’t ready for that. I said, “I’m not looking for a beating tonight.”

  Michael gave a rueful chuckle. “That’s a pity. But I didn’t think you were. I believe we’ve proven tonight that you like to be watched, and I was thinking the next logical step would be to see if you like to watch. It could also serve the purpose of a lesson of sorts, if you’re interested in learning more.”

  I think one of the things that most intrigued me about Michael was his ability to make outrageous offers seem perfectly logical. Normal even. He said all of the above as if he were suggesting we take in a tennis match because I mentioned I had never seen the game.

  I didn’t know what to say to him.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to come up with something. He said, “It would be a simple thing. Right before I came over here I saw some old friends heading to the back. We could go watch them. Trust me when I tell you, they wouldn’t mind. It’s why they’re here, after all.”

  I couldn’t deny that it was a tempting offer. Hell, Michael himself was tempting.

  I said, “How would it work? Is it like an arena or something? Or do we just knock on the door and say, hey, we want to watch you do ... whatever it is you’re doing?”

  He smiled. “No. We’d be in a different room. Just you and me. Watching.”

  He waved his hand in the air, as if to brush away any more questions or objections I might have. He said, “It’s no big deal. You’ll see. We’ll just go back there and you can take a look around and if you don’t want to stay, you’re always free to walk away. Consider it a tour of the club.”

  “Well ...” I said.

  He sealed the deal with, “You enjoyed pleasing me before. Say yes, and you’ll please me again.”

  I smiled and said, “Maybe, but first, I need a drink.” I said it in a teasing way, but I was serious too. Had I ever needed a drink more? I didn’t think so.

  Michael’s flirtatious demeanor changed. His brows lowered and he asked, “How many drinks have you already had tonight?”

  Somewhat offended, I answered, “Three, maybe four. I don’t see how it’s any concern ..
.”

  “Then you’ve had more than plenty. And it is my concern. You want another drink so that when you wake up with a hangover tomorrow morning you can blame whatever happens tonight on the alcohol. If you do that, you’ll be cheating yourself of what you might learn here, and make all of this a waste of time. Are you wanting to waste my time?”

  I answered, “No, of course not. I was just ...” I almost said “kidding around,” but that wasn’t true. I had thought I was kidding around, but maybe he was right. I didn’t know. As I’ve said, he was a persuasive man, and he elicited an inexplicable need in me to give him what he wanted.

  “Do you still want that drink?” he asked.

  “I guess not.”

  I felt a small flutter in my stomach when, at my answer, he smiled at me.

  “Good, let’s go,” he said.

  I thought, I guess I’m doing this thing. I could always leave. That’s what he had promised. I would hold him to it.

  We slid out of the booth, and he held his hand on the small of my back as he guided me through the crowd to the open doorframe marked VIP at the rear of the room. Not far inside, the short hallway ended in a closed door which was attended by a man who might have been a twin of the beefy bouncer who guarded the entrance to the club.

  Michael nodded at the man. The guard returned his nod, opened the door then stepped aside for us to enter.

  My nerves a-jangle, I allowed Michael to lead me through the door.

  Chapter 5

  We entered a hallway which was surprisingly well-lit. I guess I had been expecting cheesy red lights, paintings of nude women and worn runner carpets, your basic movie-whorehouse decor. There weren’t even any tables crowded with celebrity wannabes swilling down over-priced champagne.