On His Terms

by Jenika Snow

  So, all in all she looked like a hot fucking mess.

  She didn’t look good enough to be working in a place like this right now, but hell, it was Saturday, she was nursing a half-hung-over, half-still-drunk mindset, and so this was as good as it was going to get. She just hoped that whatever Rian Hartford had to say was quick, and that he got to the point.

  The elevator reached the top floor, and the doors slid open. She smoothed her hands on her thighs, feeling so damn nervous for some reason, and actually had to make herself take that first step. The office was silent and still, and there was this thickness in the air. Sorcha couldn’t describe the feeling she had as she walked closer to the double office doors, the ones she knew closed her off from Rian Hartford. Her pulse was pounding so hard and fast, and she could feel her heart beating in her throat and hear it in her ears. She gripped the handle with one hand, tightened her hold on it, and used her other hand to bring her knuckle down on the wood.

  “Come in.”

  His voice was so deep, so penetrating, that she swore she felt the vibrations right through the doors. Sorcha pushed the door open and stopped at the sight before her. There was a caterer off to the side, hands behind his white clothed body, and a cooking station set up in front of him. He was focused on nothing in particular in front of him, and the spread of food that was laid out on the table was impressive. Rian was sitting behind his desk, this impatient and slightly angry look on his face.

  “You’re late,” he said in that bastard-like voice of his.

  She looked at the stainless steel clock on the wall, noticed she was only fifteen minutes late, but still knew it was no excuse. “I know, and I’m sorry. Traffic was horrible.” She didn’t explain that she had slept in, or that she was suffering from a slowly heightening hangover and was still slightly drunk.

  “Timothy, please start cooking two ham and cheese omelets,” Rian said to the chef, but kept his focus on her. “What else would you like in your omelet, Miss. Case?”

  Her stomach protested to the very thought of food, and she felt nauseous when the sound of the ham sizzling on the skillet came through. And then the sound of Timothy using the whisk on the eggs was what sent her over, because all she could think about was the slimy consistency of the eggs.

  “Excuse me.” She barely got the words out before she dashed out of the office and into the small, private bathroom in the front lobby. She made it to the toilet just as her stomach heaved and she emptied the water she had drunk this morning. For several seconds she breathed in and out. When she was relatively sure she wouldn’t throw up anymore she stood, walked over to the sink, and braced her hands on the lip of it. She stared at herself in the mirror, saw the beads of perspiration line her forehead, and quickly washed her face. She felt like shit, and of course she had to make an ass out of herself by running out of Mr. Hartford’s office. There was a knock on the door, and before she heard his voice she knew it was her boss.

  “Miss Case, are you all right?” Rian asked in that ever-present calm and collected voice of his.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” She looked back at her reflection, watched the trails of water move down her face, and breathed out. “Get your shit together,” she whispered to herself, and grabbed a few paper towels to dry herself off. Her purse was one of the big bulky ones, and she grabbed a small bottle of mouthwash. Cora made fun of her for her “backpack”, but hell, in times like this she was glad she had a little bit of everything. After rinsing out her mouth, making sure she looked semi-decent and not like she had just hurled, she left the bathroom. Sorcha stopped when she saw Rian standing on the opposite side, leaning against the wall with his hands in the front pockets of his pants. He certainly looked different today. But seeing him standing across from her, wearing a pair of dark, most likely designer and very expensive jeans, and a white button down shirt that was tucked in the waistband, was vastly different from his tailored suits. He looked almost … human. She looked like shit, she knew that, but the way he was watching her, as if he was trying to figure her out, made her feel even sicker, if that was possible. Did he know she was hung-over, or maybe he jumped to a different kind of conclusion, like she was having morning sickness or something?

  Good grief, Sorcha. Why in the hell would you think that?

  “If you’re not feeling well we can always do this another time,” he said with a blank expression, and this whole air around him making her feel even more unstable than she already was. Something was up, that was for sure.

  “No, I’m fine. I feel much better actually.” She didn’t want anything to eat, but she also knew getting something in her stomach might help her.

  He nodded once, pushed away from the wall, but didn’t say anything for several seconds. He just continued to watch her, and she found herself shifting on her feet. She glanced at the ground, looked at his polished loafers, and then slowly worked her gaze back up his body. She hadn’t meant to seem like she was checking him out, but she supposed he might take it that way. Because you were, Sorcha. He was a big man all around, at least half a foot taller than her five-foot-seven height, and his body was toned, muscular, and she could tell he had restrained power beneath his flesh.

  “Well, then let’s get something to eat, get comfortable, and then we can discuss why I’ve asked you here.” He didn’t wait for her to reply, just turned and headed back toward his office. She followed behind, and once inside she realized he was still standing by the door off to the side. She glanced at him, made eye contact, and felt her stomach do this little flip. He shut the door, moved past her, and right before he cleared her path she swore she heard him inhale. Rearing back slightly, she looked at him with her brows furrowed, and glanced over at the cook, who was moving toward them. The table was set for two, with dishes which were probably made of crystal and china..

  “Miss Case?” Rian said in that deep voice of his, and held out the chair for her to take a seat. “You can set your,” he glanced down at her purse, “overnight bag,” he looked back at her and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “You can set it on the couch, if you’d like.”

  “It’s a purse, a big purse,” she said with annoyance, but when she turned her back on him and made her way toward the couch she smiled. Once she was over by the table again she sat in the chair he offered. He leaned slightly forward to push the chair in, and she could see in the corner of her eyes that he was close to her face. She swore he inhaled again. “Did you just smell me?” She glanced over at him sideways, saw him straighten, but didn’t miss how he hardened his jaw.

  Clearing his throat, he sat in the seat across from her, unfolded his linen napkin that was in the form of some kind of waterfowl, and placed in on his lap. He leaned back, placed his arm over the back of the chair, and stared at her. They didn’t say anything for several seconds, and once the cook brought over a bowl of fresh strawberries, whipped cream, and a carafe of orange juice and a bottle of champagne, Rian excused him. They were left alone, the silence stretching between them, and her discomfort and confusion rising at what was happening right now.

  “Juice, Miss Case?” He lifted up the carafe and looked pointedly at her.

  “Mr. Hartford—”

  “Call me Rian. I think for what I am going to propose to you the formalities can be pushed aside at this moment.”

  What he was going to propose?

  He grabbed her glass without waiting to see if she’d reply, and filled her glass with the orange, clearly fresh squeezed liquid.

  “Mr. Hartford—”

  “I’ve asked you to all me Rian, Miss Case, at least for today, and in return I’d like to call you Sorcha.” His voice had gone harder, as if her not calling him by his first name annoyed him. He set the carafe back on the table, grabbed his fork and knife, and started eating his food. For several seconds all Sorcha did was watch him. He even made eating an omelet somehow seem sexy. Damn him. He had to work out, because under that thin dress shirt she could see the definiti
on of his muscles, could see the power he held in his body, and not only in his mind. He was a brilliant man, even if he acted like an asshole a lot of the time. Looking down at his hands, she saw the veins running along the back of his smooth, tanned flesh, and traced his big and masculine fingers with her gaze. Something was definitely wrong with what was going on, and it was sending up major red flags in her.

  She lifted her gaze and stared at him. He was already watching her, his jaw working slowly as he chewed. He swallowed, and the sound of him doing the act seemed to drown out all other noises.

  “Are you not hungry?” he said after he had taken a drink from his orange juice. He took his napkin, dabbed his mouth, and then leaned back. Again, that fucking dead air filled the space between them. “Eat, Sorcha.” He didn’t say it in a loud, booming voice, but the type of power he had behind those words made it seem like he had. “I can tell you’re hung-over, and some food will do you some good.” He leaned forward again, grabbed his fork, and started eating.

  She did the same, and although her stomach protested with every swallow, as the time passed she started to feel marginally better. Once she had eaten and drunk as much as she could, she wiped her mouth, leaned back in her chair as he had done so many times, and waited for the ball to drop.

  “So, you’re probably wondering why I called you in on a Saturday, and had this set-up when you came in?” He lifted an eyebrow, and she nodded.

  “Yeah, it crossed my mind.” Sorcha licked her lips and noticed the way he lowered his gaze to watch the act.

  “Let me ask you something, Sorcha. When you look at me what do you think?”

  Was this a trick? A test?

  “I’m not sure that I understand what you mean.” Her heart started beating fast again, and she shifted on her seat.

  “Do I need to ask the question again? Rephrase it so that you can better understand it?” He was being a bastard again, and that was clear by the tone of his voice and this cocky fucking smirk that covered his face.

  She felt her expression harden. Oh, she had a lot of things she could have said, a lot of things she had said in her mind and to Cora only. But they were things she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Rian Hartford, not unless she wanted to lose her job. “You’re my employer, and therefore I see an intelligent man that knows how to run a business. I see a man that took over his father’s company at a young age, made it even wealthier.” She was playing safe, because she had no damn idea where he was going with all of this. He didn’t speak for a moment, and when he finally did he seemed angry, or at least the look on his face made her think he was.

  “I didn’t ask for the sugarcoated explanation of what anyone could read in my bio. I want you to tell me what you see when you look at me. Off the record, without repercussions.” He started drumming his fingers on the table. Whether that was from nervousness or annoyance, she still hadn’t figured it out.

  He seriously wanted her to call him out on the bullshit she thought about him? It seemed like a trick, and she didn’t speak for a second, and finally he exhaled roughly.

  “Just speak.” He was most definitely angry now.

  She sat up straighter, gritted her teeth, and narrowed her eyes. She so didn’t need to be talked to like this by some egotistical asshole that thought the world revolved around him.

  He grinned, like did a full blown smile that had his straight white teeth showing, and totally changed the way he looked. “Exactly, Sorcha.”

  Oh. Shit. She had totally said those words out loud. Her face heated, her palms started to sweat, and she contemplated bolting like a coward. Because wouldn’t that be the smart thing to do?

  Chapter Four

  Rian watched her like a hawk about to swoop down and capture her in his talons. “I’m not going to fire you, Sorcha. In fact, knowing what you really think is very refreshing.” He grabbed the bottle of champagne, took the two flutes that sat on the tray beside that, and filled them halfway. He then grabbed the orange juice, and made mimosas before handing her one. Alcohol was the last thing she wanted, but the hair of the dog and all that.

  “You’ll feel better.” He tipped his glass back, drank some, and watched her over the rim of the flute.

  She took a long sip, and she did admit that after it was all said and done she felt marginally better as well.

  “I am a cocky bastard, Sorcha, and can be cruel and unyielding when the time calls for it.”

  She downed the rest of her mimosa. “We’ve eaten, had some drinks, so if you could please tell me why I’m here…” She swallowed, hating that she felt nervous like this. It was an uncomfortable sensation that made her feel not like herself. Whenever she was around Rian Hartford she felt weak, on display, and when he stared at her so calculatingly it was like there was no secret that she could keep from him. But she didn’t tell him how she felt, didn’t show how unsteady he truly made her. Sorcha put up a wall of indifference and discontent, because when it came to a man like him there was nothing that was left out in the open.

  He was authentic in his emotions, in his feelings and how he acted. He displayed his innermost basic urges that made a human what they were. And although they made him a bastard, a hard and unrelenting man, there was a part of her that could appreciate that side of him.

  “Timothy,” Rian said in a raised, yet steady voice. A second later the cook entered the office again, cleared the dishes and food off the table, and then left them alone. “You’re anxious now to hear what I have to say, but I have a feeling you won’t feel the same way once you know my intentions.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, just stood and grabbed a manila envelope off of his desk. He faced her again, and then set the envelope on the table in front of her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, but reached for the envelope and pulled the papers out of it before he responded.

  “A proposition, Sorcha.”

  She glanced up at him and watched as he moved back to his seat and sat down.

  She looked back down at the paperwork, scanned the first page, and felt her heart drop to her stomach. “A proposition.” She stated it to herself. “This is a contract.” She stared at him again, offended, slightly appalled, but most of all curiously aroused as a few of the words in the contract jumped out at her.

  “It is.” He leaned forward, clasped his hands on the table in front of him, and looked her dead in the eye. “My image tends to get tarnished because some of my past sexual partners go to the media, thinking they are somehow hurting me.”

  She swallowed, and knew what he was talking about. Sorcha had seen the news, read the tabloids about some of the women he had screwed, a few of them coming forward because they had been scorned. Every woman wanted to be with Rian Hartford. They wanted to know what it was like to have him over them, thrusting into them, and showing them that the dominance he had was also what he used in the bedroom. Sorcha included. She wasn’t into BDSM, but didn’t know if that was what he was implying with this contract. But what she did want to try, what she’d even thought about on a few occasions, was how powerful he truly was behind the exterior he presented. But what always turned her off was the fact Rian was an asshole, a big-time douche-bag at times, and because of that she had put all desires she had to the back of her mind. She wasn’t immune to his charms, to the way he looked, or the fact he screamed sex appeal. But she was smart and refused to be another one of his office slutty romances.

  “But I want you, Sorcha.” He stared at her so deeply that she tightened her hold on the papers.

  Could he hear her heart beating, see it in her neck? She felt like her heart would burst right through her chest. “You want me?” Had she said that out loud, or just thought it?

  It took him a moment to answer. “Yes. I want you really fucking badly, in fact.”

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  She had never heard him swear. Rian was always so in control that cursing almost seemed like a waste of time for him, or at least that was what she had assumed given the way
he acted and held himself. Looking over the contract, she took note of the key points. It was only two pages, but God, it seemed like there was so much more to it than that.

  “I don’t understand any of this.” Of course she could read, got the basics of it all, but her mind felt like mush, and she felt disconnected from everything. When she had felt like something was off, she certainly had never entertained this idea.

  “I am making the proposition that you be mine for the length of one week,” he said calmly, with conviction and almost a touch of excitement in his voice. “During that time you will be mine, Sorcha Case. You will live in my home, eat my food, and be by my side during any functions that I have to attend in a formal and informal sense.” The silence stretched between them after he spoke, but Sorcha couldn’t find it in her to speak, let alone think about what he was actually saying. “You will be mine in any way I see fit, Sorcha, sexually, intellectually, and socially.” He leaned forward an inch. “In any. Way. I. See. Fit.” He let those words hang between them, and then slowly leaned back, placed his arm over the back of the chair again, and took on the same position as he had when she first entered his office. “And in return you will be paid a substantial amount of money since the time spent with me will have you away from your job.”

  She glanced down at the bottom of the last page, and swallowed her shock. A five-figure amount stared back at her, and the initial things that went through her mind were that she could pay all of her bills. But she shook her head, not knowing what to say to this exactly. The contract was very widespread, blanket even. What Rian had just told her was exactly what was written in front of her. No details, no explanation of anything. “I’m not a prostitute.” Her anger rose, and her self-preservation took a front seat.