Heavy Equipment

by Warren, Skye

  This is something else. Tenderness.

  I’m the one who pulls back. I find my balance against a wall with priceless art I vaguely recognize from a museum benefit auction last year. It’s sacrilege to lean on a piece like this, to touch it with bare hands, to feel the brush strokes against my palm, but I’m incapable of holding myself up.

  And I can’t trust the man in front of me, not one second more.

  He stands where I left him, his expression one of bemusement. He touches his lower lip with two fingers. What does he feel there? My kiss? My naivete, most likely. How quickly I surrendered.

  “You’re dangerous,” he says, his voice uneven.

  “Me? You’re like two hundred pounds of muscle. What could I do to you?”

  He rubs his jaw, looking away. “I guess we’ll see,” he murmurs. “Time for bed, beautiful.”

  When this night began I never would have expected the flick of anticipation low in my belly. Asher has already proven he can make me enjoy this. The dates my daddy arranged? They never made me feel anything but duty. Certainly not this all-consuming fire that spreads and spreads.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed, unsure where to begin. Do I undress?

  Or do I wait for him to undress me?

  There was no mother to give me the birds and the bees talk. She died years ago, but her spirit left a long time before that. On a good day she would tell me parables about frogs and tigers. There would be gossip about people I didn’t know. Sometimes the stories would blend together until I wasn’t sure which was fiction or fact. Maybe she didn’t know either.

  On a bad day, she wouldn’t speak at all. I learned to manage the household before my feet could touch the floor at our dining room table. I planned parties and hired staff. Papa was too busy with Li Industries, so I was the only one left. That’s how I ended up in this room, I suppose. If the business was failing, if papa had run out of ideas… I was the only one left.

  Asher crouches down in front of me, and I hold my breath, waiting, waiting.

  He hooks one arm behind my calves and pushes me lengthways on the bed, his movements brusque, unceremonious, and definitely unsexy. A sweep of his arm, and then I’m covered with the sheet. “Goodnight,” he says, already turning toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  He stops, his back toward me. “Yes?”

  I have the sense that he’s afraid, which doesn’t make any sense. I’m the one who should be terrified. I should be shaking beneath these covers and grateful that he’s giving me a reprieve. Instead I’m disappointed. You’re dangerous, he said to me. What could he possibly be afraid of? “You’re just going to leave.”

  Finally he faces me, his expression impassive. “I told you not to think about one fuck or two. This is going to be a long-term arrangement, you and me. I’ll use you plenty before it’s over.”

  I flinch. “You like scaring me on purpose.”

  A short laugh. “I thought you liked me scary. I thought that got you off.”

  This night has been strange. Surreal, even. And I think I’ve done a good job going with the very weird flow. I’ve been a good daughter about as much as I can take. All I have now is rebellion. “I don’t see you getting me off right now. Looks to me like you’re running away.”

  Challenge arcs through the air like electricity. He’s made of metal in this moment. He feels every bit of my anger, but he isn’t burned by it. Instead he smiles, slow and full of promise.

  “You’re right,” he says, silky venom in his voice. “You’re a little tense tonight. Understandable, really. I can help you relax, beautiful. Would you like that?”

  It isn’t really a question. Not when he’s already pulling the sheet away.

  Two fingers tap my ass. “Turn over.”

  I’m obeying him without really knowing what comes next. Not until he pushes a large pillow between my legs. His hands are rough as he props my ass in the air.

  “You ever masturbate like this?”

  I’m kneeling on the bed with a pillow wedged against my sex. My cheeks burn at the implication—both that I might have come this way under cover of night, and that I’ll come this way now. “No,” I say, drawing out the word.

  “You don’t sound sure,” he says in a low laugh.

  I’m too embarrassed to admit that I’ve done this. Too embarrassed to move, until he gives me a sharp slap on my ass. Pain yanks a high-pitched noise from me, and I move in an awkward jerk against the pillow. It isn’t a pleasant friction. It feels like not enough, not enough, not enough.

  Asher slaps me again, this time on the underside of my ass. It hurts more there, the burn sharp and deep. I moan and move forward, just to escape him. And move back again, because part of me likes the pain. Then I’m rocking against the pillow, moving mindless and unafraid.

  I hear the whistle of his hand. I know the pain is coming.

  And still it takes me by surprise, right between my legs. He slapped me, there. He slaps me hard enough that I cry out, muffling my scream into the pillow. I speed up, and he slaps me again. I don’t know whether he’s punishing or rewarding me. It feels like both as I barrel toward climax, the pillow tight and hot between my legs, my mind too lust-drunk to care about how humiliating I must look right now.

  When it comes climax is a soft wave, ocean water reaching across my face, closing over my nose. Until I can’t take a breath anymore. Can’t see anything beyond the wavery underwater.

  And then I drift down, down, down into sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The top perfume in the U.S. is Bath and Body Works’ Japanese Cherry Blossom. Thirty million units of the mixture are sold each year.

  I wake up when it’s still dark outside.

  I’ve always been an early riser, and according to the antique clock on the wall, today is no different. I stumble to the bathroom where I’m shocked fully awake by the sight of my favorite L’Occitane toiletries. He wasn’t joking about how long he’d been preparing for this. I don’t know whether to be flattered that he wanted me to be comfortable—or terrified that he knows so much about me when I don’t even know his middle name.

  The familiar citrusy scent soothes me despite my worries, and I step out of the steaming shower with a towel around my body. The closet contains full racks of clothes I would have bought at Ann Taylor and Banana Republic. I prefer simple clothes, like the cream cable knit sweater and plaid slacks I pull from their hangers. Red Ralph Lauren pointed-toe pumps from the shoe rack will be the only pop of color.

  I open a wooden drawer and freeze. Asher has been spot-on about the things I like so far, but this underwear isn’t anything I would have picked out for myself. There are no full coverage neutral briefs or black bikini panties that will hide neatly beneath my clothes.

  There’s lace and patterns and ruffles.

  One pair of panties has a little eyedrop cut out in the front beneath the waistband. It hardly reveals a full square centimeter of skin, but the thought of wearing it makes me feel naked.

  The thongs are made of satin so soft they make me think I might actually enjoy wearing them.

  It gets stranger when I try to find a bra to wear. There aren’t any.

  As I search through the drawers I find stockings and garters. Scarves. Even a hat, which is surprisingly cute, but there isn’t a damn bra in the entire walk-in closet.

  “Problem?” comes a low voice from behind me.

  I whirl, clutching the towel close to me, using the clothes I haven’t yet put on as a shield. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d come wake you, but you’re already up. Excellent. I have to be at the worksite by seven a.m. or the guys get the idea they can be late, too.”

  “There aren’t any bras,” I say, my cheeks flaming. I did embarrassing things last night. I climaxed again and again—against the wall of my childhood home, in the cab of his truck. While humping a pillow on the bed ten feet away from us. But discussing my underwear with him feels more intimate.
>
  An eyebrow lifts. “You don’t need one.”

  I stare at him, more shocked in this moment than when Nathan Fitzsimmons snapped the strap of my training bra in sixth grade. What’s this for? he said. You don’t have anything to put in it. I’ve always been flat, despite the multitude of push-ups I tried through middle school, the padded bras in high school. And I’ve mostly accepted that shortcoming, at least until Asher Cook looks at me with calm refusal.

  “Excuse me?” I manage to say. “I’m the one who decides that.”

  He gives me a half smile, completely unfazed. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m the one who decides what you wear and for how long. I’m the one who’s going to tear that off you. But those pretty little tits you’re hiding under that towel? I want access to them any time of the day.”

  Pretty little tits? “I’m flat.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re small. And I’m big. And you know what? I think you like that. I think it makes your tight pussy even tighter, thinking of how I could overpower you.”

  A shiver runs through me, and he’s not entirely wrong. There’s pleasure. And there’s fear, which only serves to make it sharper. What would it be like if he didn’t let me out of the closet? What would happen if he demanded that I drop the towel? My fist tightens on the thick cloth, because I already know what would happen. I would fight him. I would lose.

  His soft laugh fills the room. The hair on the back of my neck rises. “Come downstairs,” he says, already turning away. “We have a full day ahead of us. I can’t wait.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cherry blossoms are thought to be native to the Himalayas. The flowers originated somewhere in Eurasia before migrating to Japan.

  Fabric rubs against my breasts with every small movement, leaving them tender. I cheated ever so slightly, wearing a thin camisole beneath the cable knit sweater in lieu of a bra. The plan backfires, because the silk brushes against my nipples. By the time I walk downstairs my nipples are hard and jutting up against the heavy fabric. Awareness of my breasts spreads and spreads, until I’m standing in a strange room thinking of nothing but my pretty little tits.

  That’s what he called them, and for the first time I actually believe that might be true. They might be pretty and little. They might be small, if he were to caress them with his large, callused hands.

  Asher stands with his back to me, broad shoulders encased in a white T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. His boots complete a look I know is designed entirely from utility. That’s what this man is made of, work and strength and determination. But around him… that’s a different story. There are paintings on every wall, some taller than me, all of them museum quality. The one he’s looking at is a painting of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom, the flowers swirling around, so lifelike you can almost smell the bitter sweet scent of them.

  “We need to talk,” I say, stepping into the room. I’ve donned my armor in the form of clothes. I won’t be cowering in a towel for this conversation. And I’m not going to let him distract me with sex.

  He turns, his eyes alight with amusement. “We can talk on the way to the worksite.”

  I take a step forward. “Why do I need to come with you?”

  “Because,” he says with exaggerated patience. “One fuck or two fucks, they aren’t going to pay for what your daddy owes me. It’s going to take a lot more than that.”

  “So you want… what? An assistant.”

  His laugh is molten steel. “Yes. Exactly. You’re going to assist me.”

  “Bullshit. You want to show me off so the whole city knows my father owes you money. You want to humiliate my family, but I’m not going to let you do that.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “What kind of fool do you take me for? I’m not going to agree to any deal that’s indefinite or that harms our ability to do business in the future. If you want me to pay with my body? Fine. Then you tell me exactly how many nights it will take to work off the money.”

  He turns to look back at the cherry blossoms. “It would have been easier for you if your father told you.”

  Suspicion is a dark churn in my stomach. “Told me what?”

  “That there’s no end date.”

  “He wouldn’t have—” My throat is too tight to speak. He wouldn’t have made a deal like that, except I didn’t think he would make a deal like this either. I’m not sure what my father’s capable of anymore.

  I look around the room with fresh eyes, seeing the incredible quality of artwork displayed here. Art I’ve seen in studios around the city. Artists I recognize who work out of New York City and London. He drives a completely ordinary truck. He wears ordinary clothes, but he has art like this hanging on his wall. This is the kind of wealth that isn’t meant to show off. It’s been spent on things he enjoys.

  And I’m becoming very afraid that I’m his latest acquisition.

  “What would my father have told me?” I ask, relieved that my voice doesn’t shake.

  “This isn’t for one night. Or two.” He turns to face me, his expression grave. “It’s for your hand in marriage. We’re engaged, beautiful. We’re going to be married.”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. “But that’s impossible.”

  A humorless smile. “Because I’m a dirty construction worker and you’re the beautiful June Li?”

  “My father would have told me that.”

  “He was supposed to. And last night? I was going to have a conversation with you. Instead you acted like I was beneath the dirt on your shoes. And your father pretended like I was some kind of monster.”

  My chest feels tight. “I didn’t know.”

  “No. You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault, but I suppose I felt like punishing you for that, so I acted like I was there to fuck you for a few thousand dollars a pop.” Another hollow laugh. “Of course, I didn’t realize that the scariest thing for you would be marriage to me.”

  This is the man from my foyer last night, the one uncompromising and almost cruel. Part of me wants to reassure him. It comes from hurt, this coldness. Except what he’s saying is too true to deny. It is terrifying to realize I’ve been married away without my consent, in this century.

  Terrifying that it could have happened without me even knowing.

  Oh, I’m sure I could refuse to get married at the altar. I don’t think my situation is so far gone that I can’t. But what would I do if I’m not honoring my father? I’m supposed to be the good daughter. I’ve lost my family and my identity in one night.

  “Let’s go,” Asher says, his voice like steel. He opens the front door and makes a mocking bow for me to step through. “It’s time to go to work.”

  He means his worksite, where he shows up on time so his men don’t get the idea they can be late. And he also means work for me, because that’s what this marriage has become. My obligation. My duty. The only way to honor a heritage I believe in—to marry a man who sees me as an object to acquire.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cherry blossom flower petals are edible. You can bake them in cakes, pickle them as a garnish, or brew them in tea. Häagen-Dazs sells a cherry blossom ice cream.

  Asher Cook is in his element on a worksite. He speaks to his crew with a natural sense of command, and they look to him for leadership. And he’s not above getting his hands dirty.

  We’re only at the half-constructed building for twenty minutes before he has a tool belt wrapped around narrow hips and a hard hat on his head. Something is wrong in the ceiling, or so I deduce from the general waving of hands. I’ve been deposited in the corner where I can be out of the way.

  “Stay here,” he tells me in a gruff tone without meeting my eyes.

  He does not wait for anything as mundane as a ladder.

  Instead he jumps to clasp the edge of the ceiling beam, then levers himself up with strength I can only admire. He flips himself onto the beam and then walks to the other end, as casual on the ground as he is twenty feet above it. I have to
force myself to unclench my fists. It could be concern for any passing stranger, but I know it’s not. I know it’s more. Something changed between me and Asher.

  It’s not just about sex anymore. And it’s not just about duty.

  Which is why I don’t obey him.

  I wait until he turns around—still twenty feet off the ground and on the other side of the floor. That’s when I stand up and stretch. Even from this far away his gaze caresses me with undeniable heat. My nipples pebble against the fabric. They won’t be visible beneath the texture of the cable knit sweater, but I pull it over my head, leaving me in only the thin ivory camisole.

  There’s more than just one dark gaze on me now. Many of the men are looking at me. They don’t dare say anything, not since I came with Asher Cook. I’m not a lost little lamb in a school girl outfit. No, I’m a woman now. And my nipples press proudly against the silk, declaring my readiness.

  The problems in the ceiling aren’t the focus of the men anymore.

  Conversation quiets and then becomes ringing silence.

  My cheeks burn, but I started this for a reason. Because my father could have introduced me to Asher at a dinner party, he could have asked me to date him, he could have even told me to marry him. I would have done it as the good daughter. Instead he sabotaged any chance of a normal relationship.

  If I asked him why, he would say it was for the family honor.

  I know the truth. It was cowardice. And this? My heart beating faster, my chest rising and falling, my nipples proud and firm beneath the thin silk? This takes courage.

  My arms reach above my head, stretching for the world to see. It could not be more blatant. Even though I’m wearing plaid slacks and my hair is done in a bun, it could not be more sexual. Even if I were stripping at a club in a thong I could not feel more inviting than this.