by Alison Tyler
Nate was as busy as I was, working on an indie. He didn’t seem impressed or even all that surprised by my positive mailbag. Sure, there were more rejections than acceptances, but the stories I sold allowed me to bank a bit of green for the first time. He and I were in an odd place now. I’d turned in my manuscript and was waiting for notes from the editor. I had no need to jam out ten pages a night. Did this mean he had no need to sleep with me? We avoided each other during the daylight hours, still occasionally finding ourselves in bed late in the evening. But I sensed a rift, and I didn’t really know why.
That’s when Jody called. He was the screenwriter I’d worked for with Byron, and he asked me out for drinks. I was curious about how he’d found my number and what he might have to say, so I agreed to meet him. He was waiting, which was odd—Jody always ran a good twenty minutes late—and there were two drinks on the table. Martinis.
“First off,” he said when I sat down in the booth, “I want to apologize. I felt awful about what happened.”
I think I nodded. I didn’t really know what to say.
“I truly didn’t want to let you go, but Byron had been with me so much longer. I actually thought you did the right thing.”
“Sleeping with Connor?”
He smiled. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked, joking. “No, breaking off the engagement. You would have been miserable with him, always trying to live up to an impossible set of standards.” I was surprised that Jody was so easily able to read Byron, to sum him up in a single sentence.
“But that’s not why I wanted to see you,” he said, “Not really. I would like us to be friends. I always felt you were sort of worth more than him. And I want to apologize for the abrupt way you had to leave. So I’m offering you the chance to use my apartment in New York this spring, as a kind of peace offering. Whenever you’d like. For as long as you’d like.”
I hesitated. “What would Byron think about that?” I asked, because there would be no way he wouldn’t find out.
“Byron no longer works for me.”
I didn’t press, even though I was curious. Had he quit, or had Jody fired him, too? Before I could accept his offer of the apartment, though, I had a more important question.
“I’m sorry to be so bold,” I said, “but did you get Connor fired?” I had never spoken to Jody like this before. My job had been to make sure his life ran smoothly. If his shoes were uncomfortable, I’d run out and buy new ones. If he felt a hair out of place, I got him an emergency booking with his favorite stylist. I responded to his primal needs. I didn’t ask questions or provide him with counsel. And I was never, ever rude.
“Why would I do that?” He looked horrified.
I shrugged. “As some sort of punishment.”
Now, Jody laughed. “You ran my datebook for a year. You know what I have going on. Do you really think I would penalize you for doing something so similar to what I do?” He said this as if I might have gotten the idea to cheat on Byron from him, and as if he were oddly flattered. “I had to let you go because there was no way to have both you and Byron in the office, and he had seniority. But I’d never have gotten Connor fired for fucking you. I’m not that vindictive. And you didn’t cheat on me, did you?”
“No.”
“But I have another question for you. A proposition. I’d love it if you’d consider coming back to work for me after your New York vacation. And not as an assistant this time. I want you to take over Byron’s position.” He held up a hand heavy with precious jewels. “Don’t answer yet. Just think about it. And think about this, too. I have a friend who’d very much like to meet you.”
Before I could say a word, he waved over my shoulder. “Here he comes now. I told him a lot about you.” I looked around. And there was Jack.
Jack. The one with the out-of-control dog. Jack who wanted to bind me with chains. Jack, who got me drunk but didn’t press the issue, handing me his number and telling me he knew I’d call.
“Hey there, Jack,” Jody said, “This is Samantha.”
People think Los Angeles is so fucking big. Really, it’s a tiny neighborhood with overlaps at every corner.
I wondered whether he’d let Jody know that we’d met before, but he simply gave me a wink and sat at my side. “Pleasure,” he said, and I felt his leg nudge mine.
“Samantha’s going to use my apartment in Manhattan for a week or so. You have a place in New York, don’t you, Jack?”
His eyes were still on me, and I felt those familiar tremors start in the base of my stomach.
“Yes,” he said, “in Chelsea.”
“That’s what I thought.” Jody was the only one working to keep the conversation going. But suddenly he said, “Excuse me for a moment, will you? I want to talk to the manager about a party I’m throwing for my boyfriend’s birthday.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Jack said, “You didn’t call.”
“No.”
“So I had to find you again myself.”
“How’d you know—” I started.
“Jody described you perfectly, the dark hair, pale skin, and that smile—and when he said your name was Samantha, I took a leap of faith.” His hand was on my thigh now. “I scared you.”
I nodded.
“I’m glad,” he said. “You ought to be scared of me.”
I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them and reached for my drink. “I don’t think I’m ready for you yet,” I told him, seriously.
“You are,” he insisted, his voice low.
“I’m seeing someone,” I told him next, even though Nate and I didn’t have any sort of agreement about what we were to each other. And now that my book was done, we’d fallen into a weird limbo-land.
“Someone who knows what you need?”
“Y-yes.” I hated myself for stammering. Nerves made me seem as if I were lying.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Not someone who can take care of you. Not someone like me.” His hand had tightened on my thigh throughout this whole interaction. He slid his body even closer to mine and his fingers pushed into the valley of my lap. We were in the rear corner of the restaurant and I knew that no one could see, but still I sucked in my breath when he started to slowly hike my dress upward, when his probing fingertips ran along the seam of my panties, when he found the wetness there.
“Tell Jody when you’re going to New York,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“What if someone comes with me?”
He gave me a wolfish grin. “Nobody’s going to go with you. Because you believe me. You know that I’m telling you the truth, Samantha. You need me. I can take care of you.”
Jody returned to our table then, apologizing for his absence and waving off my offer to pay for my drink. “Call me tomorrow,” he said, “and tell me when you can use the place. I hate to run, but I’ve got—”
“A pedicure,” I grinned, knowing his schedule at least as well as he did. He gave me two air kisses and hurried out. Jack put out his hand and helped me to my feet. My dress fluttered back into place. “Walk me to my car,” he said.
“Isn’t it generally the other way around? The gentleman walks the lady.”
“But yours is out on the street,” he said, “I saw it when I pulled in. And mine is down in the garage.”
Jack’s Jag was parked in the corner, but he didn’t open the door. Instead, he led me behind the expensive vehicle and put my hands up on the cold concrete wall.
“I’m going to give you a taste,” he said, his body close to mine, so I could feel his heat. “I should have done this before. So that you’d understand. So that you’d know.”
And then he slowly slid my dress up in back, anchoring it in place with one hand. “Pretty panties,” he whispered. “Take them off.”
We were in public. In the garage of one of the most prestigious buildings in Beverly Hills. I glanced at him over my shoulder, eyes wide, and he gave me a look that I’d seen in Nate’s eyes before. Obedience must ha
ppen quickly, or there would be pain involved. The thought of Nate made me pause for one second too long, because Jack was taking my panties down for me, roughly pulling the silky fabric along my thighs and down my legs.
“You’re always like this?” he asked, and I could hear the tease in his voice. “Always disobedient? Do you always push the rules?”
I felt it was safer to stay quiet. I closed my eyes as I heard him undoing his buckle. What would Jody think if he wandered downstairs to claim his white convertible BMW? Jody wrote about rich wives and their pool-boy lovers. His sex scenes were filled with sparkling descriptions and rippling pecs. But there was never any sort of kink involved.
“You’ve been whipped before,” Jack said, and I felt grateful that Nate and I hadn’t connected for about a week. My skin was mostly mark-free.
“Yes, Sir.”
“But not by me,” Jack said, softly. “Not by me.”
Chapter Sixteen:
The Garage
Jack’s eyes shone brightly in the garage as he told me that he didn’t give a fuck if people saw us. He was going to stripe my ass for me, and then he was going to take me back to his place. I remembered the promises he’d made at the restaurant in Beverly Hills: the toys he owned. The pain and pleasure he wanted to impart. Somehow what I did with Nate always seemed to have a lighthearted quality running through the action. But Jack was like steel.
Jack was different.
I could guess why he was acting like this. I never had called him after our date. I’d struck his ego with a fateful blow, and now he was going to repay the favor with his belt, on my naked skin.
Jack didn’t have to tell me to count. I’d learned that much from Nate. He lined the blows with precision, neatly covering my ass and the tops of my thighs. I did my best to remain composed, trying to hide the fact that I was mortified at the thought that someone would see, and wondering how a man who was clearly as successful as Jack was didn’t care if someone saw him punishing a young girl in public.
Maybe when you’re that rich, you no longer have the ability to be embarrassed.
I kept my hands on the concrete wall. I counted the strokes. It was chilly in the garage and I could hear cars traveling nearby, but I refused to turn my head to look. I thought of the pretty girls from the modeling business on the third floor, thought of the producers and directors at the film studio on the first. Hoped that nobody I knew would see me. I lost count, and Jack instantly gripped my hair in his fist and insisted, “Stay focused, girl. Don’t make me angry.”
I understood that he wasn’t punishing me because he was angry. He was punishing me because he had promised that he would.
Thoughts ran through my head. What would Nate say when he saw my striped skin? What would he do? He went out with other girls, but I didn’t think he played like this with most of them. Would he turn against me? Or would he be aroused at the thought that I’d been whipped by someone else? Would he make me recount every erotic detail? The way the leather had felt against my skin? The way my sex juices had started to pool between my nether lips?
Again I choked on a number, losing count, and Jack’s low laugh of disbelief made my breath catch in my throat. I wasn’t trying to displease him. I was swirling, off balance, unprepared for our encounter. He grabbed my hair tight once more, and brought his lips to my ear. “Oh, baby,” he whispered. “You haven’t found the right man for the job yet, have you? You don’t know how to act. You’re untamed, begging for the crop, desperate to be controlled.”
Was he right? I had no idea. I felt as if I were on the cusp of coming. If he simply brought one finger between my lips, if he flicked my clit with the softest touch, I would explode. Or implode. I was wrecked, and Jack knew it. But he didn’t stop.
The belt kept landing. The pain built. And I counted. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. I have no idea. My back tightened. My muscles coiled. I knew better than to look over my shoulder at him, to try to gauge his limits. I played as meek as I could, arms tight, head down, and I visualized Jack slamming me up against that freezing cold wall and fucking me.
When Jack was finished, when he came up behind me and pressed his strong body to mine, I finally felt the tears come. Not from pain this time, but from release.
He spun me around, and I collapsed into his arms, let him set me in his passenger seat.
Let him drive me home …
To his home.
Chapter Seventeen:
Sunset Over Sunset
Back when I was in college, I got my license to do massage. I had a table, and mostly worked for Jody and his wealthy movie-industry friends, driving out to their houses in Malibu or the Hollywood Hills. My services were often given as a gift for weddings, birthdays, and anniversaries. So I was familiar with the building Jack drove us to, an exclusive condo perched over Sunset Boulevard, looking haughtily down at Spago and Tower Records and the glitter of the city. One of my clients had lived here, and I’d adored doing massages at his place—especially because Jonah always fell asleep on the table. At the end of the massage, I’d steal outside onto the balcony and stare at the lights while I waited for him to wake up.
Jack lived in the penthouse, where the view was even more spectacular. Daylight doesn’t do much for L.A., but I could tell that when evening came, a magical transformation would take place. I saw little of the rest of the décor—aside from noticing that Jack was a minimalist, which was expected. Hard floors. Straight-edged furniture. Stark modern art.
He let me wander while he fixed us drinks, and again I wasn’t surprised when he handed me a glass of very good whiskey. Neat. There was nothing extraneous about Jack. Nothing spare on his six-foot-two frame. No nonsense about his short, dark hair or his ice-blue eyes. He fit into his environment perfectly. But I didn’t. I sipped my drink and felt like a wildflower growing in a sidewalk crack. I had that sundress on, a pastel riot of tiny flowers adorning the sheer silky fabric. My shoes were silly, tall wedges with laces that ran up my calves. To be like Jack, I should have had on a sleek pair of black leather pants and a wife-beater. Or an inky black dress with no adornments whatsoever. What did he make of me? Of the flush of color in my cheeks from only the first few sips of the fiery liquor? Of the way I couldn’t stand still, but needed to pace to the windows, then back to the nearly wall-size modern painting above the uncomfortable-looking sofa?
“What are you thinking?” Jack asked.
“That I don’t fit in,” I told him. Whiskey makes me honest.
He smiled, and immediately his features lost their craggy seriousness. His smile changed everything. Lit his eyes. Turned him model handsome. “You fit in perfectly. You transform the place.”
I shook my head. I felt like a hick here. The women Jack ought to date ran studios. They had people like me working to organize their pedicures, their facials, their love affairs. Jack had nothing in this place that showed a person lived here. No books scattered about. No trashy magazines. It was like a showroom from an architectural magazine.
He leaned against the bar and stared at me, and I felt myself needing to pace again. I couldn’t imagine sitting on the sofa, or on the oddly shaped chair. I couldn’t imagine ever sprawling out on the wood to read the naughtiest sections of my favorite gossip rags.
“Do you remember what we talked about at dinner?”
And now I stopped walking. Yeah, I did. Of course I did. He had told me what he wanted to do to me. He had floored me by reciting my fantasies in a way that no man ever had. Not Brock back in school. Not Connor. Not Nate. He had spelled it out, as if someone had given him the key to my diary and he’d read every entry—a diary that didn’t exist outside of my head.
I looked into his eyes. “Yes,” I said, and then when he waited, “Yes, Sir.”
“You weren’t too drunk?”
“No.”
“What did I tell you?”
I found myself slowly walking away from him, until I’d actually backed myself into a corner of the room—the corner of one wall an
d the sliding glass doors to the balcony.
“You said that you knew what I wanted. You said I wear my desires on my sleeve.”
“But what were your desires?” He was being patient. I could tell. But I could also guess that his patience had a limit.
If I could have burrowed backwards like a rodent, I would have. My back was pressed onto the cool white wall. I was trapped there, but I’d trapped myself. Jack hadn’t taken a step toward me.
“You said I needed—” Oh, Jesus. You know? It never gets any fucking easier.
“You needed—” he prompted, and then he was in front of me, his hands on either side of me, one on the wall, one on the window. My thoughts slowed down. I realized that he was going to leave a palm print on that pure wall of glass. I wondered if he had a maid who came in daily to Windex. The world slowly stopped moving. His eyes were focused right on mine. I could feel my heart beat. I could hear his breathing. “You needed …” he demanded, and I closed my eyes and lowered my chin, actually folding into myself, making my body as small as it could possibly be.
“You said I needed to be hurt.” As I spoke the words, I remembered how I’d felt when he had said them. My legs feeling as if they’d turned to liquid, as if I’d never be able to stand again. My panties were wet. My cheeks were pink from embarrassment. Now things were different. I was alone with Jack. I opened my eyes and looked up at him from under my lashes, as bold as I could possibly be. He was blocking me from any escape. But I didn’t want to escape.
“That’s right,” he said, and once more he smiled, but it was a different smile this time. His eyes seemed to grow colder. The smile didn’t light them up the same way.
“You worry about it,” he said, looking at me as if appraising my most private thoughts. “You feel bad because of the things that you want.”
I nodded, and I could feel tears stinging my eyes, but they didn’t fall free.
“Stop beating yourself up about what you like,” he said, and his hands came down and gripped my wrists and then lifted them, holding them over my head, stretching me. “It’s the way you are, the way you’re wired. You need to accept that. If you’re going to let me take care of you, give you what you want, you have to get over the rest. Can you do that?”