by Andra Lake
Dallon smiled smugly. “Sit.”
I sat and crossed my arms. If he said anything lewd, I wasn’t going to hesitate to kick him out, customer or not.
He put down the paper and leaned forward the way he had in his office, clasping his hands. “I was happy to hear from Jeremy that you had talked about me. Contrary to what you think, I am interested in getting to know you.”
“Right,” I muttered looking away.
He ignored me and continued on. “I know I can be a dick and I wanted to make sure you are all right. How is your new place?”
I shifted slightly before answering. “It’s fine.”
“Where is it? I’m not going to stalk you, just tell me the area of the city.”
“It’s in Brooklyn,” I said vaguely.
He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek as if in thought. “I’ve never lived in Brooklyn.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not from a wealthy family, Amy. But I also wasn’t raised here.”
Oh. I nodded, feeling chastised for making an assumption about his upbringing. “I should help Jackson,” I said, standing up as if to leave.
“Sure. I can wait.”
“Wait?” My heart started beating like crazy. “Wait for...?”
He smiled, tilting his head and smiling at me in his smug way. “Wait for you to get off work, of course. I want to make sure you get home okay.”
“You’re not coming to my house,” I seethed in a low voice.
“Very well, we can go to a bar.” His tone was clipped and his eyes narrowed again. “I told you, Amy, we need to talk about this. Your place of work is not the setting for the nature of the conversation I wish to have.”
“I don’t want to talk to you about this. I gave you my answer.”
“How do you even know what I want to talk about? Give me a chance.”
“I already gave you a chance, and look how that turned out.”
“Well then, give me a second chance,” he smiled, flashing straight white teeth.
“You don’t deserve a second chance,” I muttered under my breath.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” he chided, eyes narrowed.
“Okay,” I said, letting out a long breath. “How about I put it this way: why would I want to give you a second chance?”
He smiled, leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Becaaause,” he said, drawing the word out, “if you agree to spend time with me and give getting to know me a shot, I’ll promise to delete the pictures. Refill?” He held up his mug.
I took it from him. “Right. You’ve probably saved them somewhere else.”
He frowned. “You asked me to delete them, and now that I have said I will, you’re accusing me of saving them somewhere else? What do you want from me, Amy?”
“Fine.” I turned and stomped back behind the counter, began filling his mug. The nerve. When I got a hold of Jeremy, I was going to kill him. It was the last time I shared anything with him! What did he think, that he could just send Dallon here and we’d be best friends? What did he care, anyway?
“Trouble in paradise?” Jackson whispered, placing clean mugs on the shelf below where I was standing.
“Huh?”
“You having a fight with your boyfriend?”
I scoffed. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Jackson looked surprised. “You look like a couple fighting to me.”
Like the people in the corner, I thought. I glanced over at their table, but they were gone.
“So, is your non-boyfriend waiting for you to lock up?” Jackson asked, grabbing more clean mugs and putting them away on the shelf. “Why don’t you take off? It’s been slow tonight so there isn’t much to do. And I kind of owe you.”
“That’s a great idea,” a voice said.
Jackson and I both jumped. Neither of us had realized Dallon was at the counter.
“I’ll take that to go,” he winked at me.
***
“So, Amy, what made you decide to go to NYU?” Dallon asked.
We were sitting at a table furthest away from anyone else, as per Dallon’s request. He’d given the hostess his dazzling smile and she’d practically tripped over herself trying to make him happy.
“I thought you already interviewed me,” I said tightly.
“Hmm. So it’s going to be like that.” He took a sip of his beer, his bright blue eyes never leaving mine. I shifted in my seat and finally looked down at my wine.
“I wanted to go to school far away from my parents, and I’d never been to New York.”
“Do you not get along with your parents?”
I thought about it for a moment, trying to gauge how much to reveal to a practical stranger. “We’re very different and I wanted a chance to be on my own for a bit and discover who I am.”
“I understand that. Did you come here thinking you would eventually go into Law?”
I hesitated, and he raised an eyebrow. I shifted again, but for some reason I answered his question.
“Kind of. I mean, I told them I would after my BFA. I feel a bit bad about that.” I looked down at my lap, biting my lip.
“Why is that?”
“Because they paid for me to come all the way here, and I kind of lied to them,” I said softly.
“You changed your mind,” he corrected.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “There was an option for me to complete a fifth year and get an MA so I could teach, but they were insistent that I enter law. I think they’re mad that they ‘wasted’ money on my BFA.”
“I’m sure they’re happy you got an education and want you to be happy. Most parents do.”
“I hope so.” It was making me uncomfortable talking about myself, so I quickly changed the subject. “How did you end up in New York?”
He flashed me a smile and picked up his beer, took a swig. “I’m from small town Idaho. Like I said, I didn’t come from wealth. My mother was a massage therapist and single mom. We were very poor and I wanted to make something of myself. Investment Banking was an area I knew I was interested in and could do very well in, and I have,” he added with a wink. “New York is the place to be.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “I love it here.”
Dallon sat forward, leaned his arms on the table. “I’m going to be very honest with you tonight, Amy. I don’t usually make this much of an effort with a woman.”
I nodded slowly. He was probably used to women throwing themselves at him, sure, but for some reason I believed he was trying harder with me. So I asked the question I couldn’t not ask.
“Why me?”
He tilted his head slightly as if studying me. “I don’t know exactly. Obviously you fit all the qualifications, but there is more to it. A feeling I have around you. I haven’t experienced it before.” After a beat, he asked, “Do you feel it?”
I tried to shrug casually, but I knew what he was talking about: an energy pulling us together. Like I would know he was in a room without having to look at him. Like if I did see him, my heart would leap and I would get tingly and my spirits would soar just because he was there. But how was that possible when I didn’t even know him?
“All I know,” he continued, lowering his voice and looking at me intensely, “is that I am drawn to you, for lack of a better word. I’m hoping that it means something, that we want the same things, and I’m not going to ignore it.”
I chewed the inside of my lip. No matter my feelings toward him, I couldn’t let myself get sucked in. I would only get hurt. This man was gorgeous and rich—any woman would want him—and I was maybe slightly pretty and a wannabe artist. What could I ever offer him that would compete with any other woman? I was embarrassed to feel that about myself, but I had to face the truth: some of us were better looking and more successful than the rest of us.
“How many girlfriends have you had?” I asked, trying to sound casual and failing.
Dallon frowned and sat back in his chair, took a sip of beer before responding. His eyes never left me.
“One. It was in High School. After that, I never dated again.”
“You just slept with women.” As much as I’d tried to prevent it, my tone was critical. I looked away, feeling guilty for ruining what had been a nice moment. To his credit, he didn’t flinch, and he didn’t lie.
“Yes.” He watched me, letting me squirm while I processed this.
“And the pictures?”
“Are you asking if I’ve ever done something like we did the other night before?”
I nodded.
“Of course. But I think you already knew that. However, I have never put an ad out before. The pictures I have taken have been with women I’ve been with.”
“Women that let you take pictures of them while having sex?” I asked in a low voice. My heart was racing.
He hesitated for a moment before responding. “Sometimes. Some asked me to.” When I looked surprised, he added, “Begged me, actually.”
There was his arrogance again. I took a large sip of my wine and he laughed.
“So why the ad?”
“Because I was looking for something very specific,” he said slowly, looking at me with his intense gaze again. “In the ad I put a few ranges and received hundreds of applications, but none of them fit the bill like you.”
I frowned. “You didn’t have many blonde, five-foot-two and 105 pound applications?”
He smiled as if trying to be patient with me. “It wasn’t up for very long. I met with a few women, but I didn’t like them. Some of them were bitchy, others seemed phony. Phoniness is a deal breaker for me.”
I considered this. That meant I only had to be worried about tiny blonde women with genuine personalities, not the entire female population of New York.
“So, you’ve never... been with someone that looks like me?”
He smirked. “I wish.”
Again I had to ask it. “Why?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I mean, when I’m alone and I fantasize—” he stopped talking when I blushed and took a sip of my wine again. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Miss Clair?”
I put my glass down and just looked at his smiling face, refusing to allow him to get under my skin. Eventually, he smirked and continued on.
“I always think of someone that looks like you.” He paused as if weighing whether or not to continue. “In fact, when I saw your photo, I nearly fell off my chair. I thought: this is her.”
I swallowed. So I looked like the fantasy woman he pleasured himself to. That was far from romantic. In addition, he could very well have ideas of what this fantasy woman would be like, and would I live up to her? Did it matter? He wanted me because of a fantasy. It was crazy.
“I love the photos of you and I would like to keep them, but making you upset isn’t worth it to me,” he said softly. “I’d rather know you.”
I ran my finger along the wooden grain of the table. “There isn’t that much to know.”
“Bullshit!” he practically roared, and I jumped a little in my seat. “Do you think that little of yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I answered shakily. I hadn’t expected that strong a reaction.
“Don’t say anything like that again to me, understood?” His jaw was twitching. He was really angry, his eyes boring into me with enough intensity to make me wince.
I nodded, unable to look at him. The truth was, he’d embarrassed me by calling me out on my insecurities.
“Good. Never speak badly of yourself. That’s one of the most important lessons I’ve learned.”
“Dallon King’s recipe for success?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Confidence is key. Though, like I said, I do find your modesty refreshing. It’s as if you put an act on for the world, pretending you’re just a regular person. But I can sense there’s more to you—and only one special person will be able to break down those walls.”
Whoa. I reached for my glass of wine to take another sip, smiled embarrassedly when I realized it was empty. Dallon immediately motioned to the server and ordered me another.
“Thanks,” I said softly.
“You’re very welcome.” He smiled, his eyes warm, and I looked away. As much as I was trying to resist, he was making his way into my heart. I knew I should tell him I had to go and stop this conversation. My head knew nothing good could come of it—that he had major issues—but my heart was screaming to give him a chance, to let him in.
I wanted to know him too.
The server returned with my wine and after I took a sip and put my glass down, Dallon reached out and put his hand on mine. Shivers tingled all the way up my arm and into my belly. I looked up and stopped breathing. He was smiling at me with a tender expression, his eyes moist. At that point, I knew I was already lost, that I had been lost since the moment I met him, and nothing that had happened since had changed that.
He was in.
Chapter Six
“Will you give it a shot?” Dallon asked, tracing his finger over the top of my hand, his brilliant blue eyes on my lips. It was very distracting.
“I can’t,” I whispered, removing my hand. “When I realized you had those photos of me, I felt... dirty.”
“Why? You look beautiful in them.”
“I was referring to the one you sent me. I was afraid you might send it somewhere and the idea of other people seeing it terrified me.”
“I would never do that,” Dallon said in a voice that sounded like a low growl. “I would never send any of the pictures I took to anyone, and the idea of anyone else seeing that picture in particular absolutely disgusts me. I would never do that to you, Amy. I would never do that to anyone.”
I shrugged. “Things happen. Someone could come across them.”
“True. I suppose I could die and someone could find them.”
I flinched, not wanting to think about him dying.
He reached into his bag, pulled out his camera. “Here,” he said, passing it to me. “I haven’t taken any pictures since then. Scroll through and delete them.”
I accepted it carefully. He was handing me his most valued possession and letting me delete them myself. I was surprised he was following through, let alone letting me do the deed myself. I put the camera on the table gently, not quite ready to look at them.
“The picture you sent me…” I began, unable to look at him, “Did you save that somewhere? On your computer maybe?”
The corner of his lip twitched, but he managed to look serious again. “To my phone so I could send it, but I deleted it right away. I also deleted the email I sent you.” His face broke into a smirk. “I like that one.”
“I don’t!” I snapped, my cheeks heating.
He shrugged. “I suppose you didn’t like it when it happened, either. Had you ever been spanked before?”
I shook my head, blushing like crazy and unable to look at him. What kind of question was that?
“Good. I’m glad I was your first.”
I glared at the wall. I didn’t have to ask if I was his first.
“Did you like it?” There was a hint of amusement to his voice.
I turned to glare at him. He was smirking, one arm on the table, fingers absently stroking his glass.
Douche.
He laughed, presumably at my expression. “I’m not asking if you liked getting spanked, Amy, though I’m dying to know. What I meant is, what did you think when you saw the picture?”
“I was embarrassed and angry,” I said without hesitation.
“And?”
“And I couldn’t believe you had actually sent it to me!”
He smiled before lifting his glass to his lips. He had a beautiful mouth.
“But you didn’t like it,” he said in a way that implied he believed the opposite, that mouth of his twitching again. Shivers ran down my neck and I picked up the camera to distract him and
myself.
The most recent picture was the first to display. It was of me half-sitting, half-leaning against the bed, peeking up at him shyly. My cheeks were flushed and my hair was flowing over my shoulders wildly. Sexily. I felt my mouth fall open and quickly closed it. The mixture of sexuality and innocence surprised me. Was that really how I looked?
“You’re very sexy,” he said softly, noticing my expression. “It’s good for you to see that.”
I swallowed and scrolled backwards, knowing what the next picture would be. I could barely look at it; it made me feel a variety of emotions I wasn’t very comfortable feeling, but one of them was dirty.
“I want to delete the spanking ones,” I said quickly.
Dallon nodded, leaning forward to point to a button beside the screen. “That one,” he whispered, his breath on my cheek.
I pressed the button with the trashcan icon and hit OK to confirm. My heart was beating rapidly. Relief instantly flowed through me when I saw the next picture was of me lying on the bed. It was pretty innocent: just me in a bra and skirt, one hand on my stomach and the other on the bed beside me. The type of picture that might be on the front of a magazine.
That’s when it struck me: Dallon was good. He had talent.
“You’re a good photographer,” I told him, scrolling through to the earlier pictures.
“And you’re a good model. You’re a natural.”
You’re just saying that, I wanted to say, but part of me knew that he wasn’t. It was obvious scrolling through the photos that I was able to pull off ‘the look’. Even though I’d felt nervous and embarrassed during the shoot, I didn’t look it; I was surprised at how well I’d done.
I was lying on my back expressionlessly, lips slightly parted, staring through the lens as if into the viewer’s soul.
I continued to scroll through, growing more surprised by the photos he’d taken. I’d assumed they’d all be like the lewd one he’d sent me, but most of them were truly artistic: a close up of a long neck, my face and long hair over bare shoulders. When I looked at them, I really did feel like I was beautiful.
I handed him back the camera. “You can keep the rest.”
“Thank you,” he said, putting it away in his briefcase again. Then he leaned over the table toward me, put his hands together on its surface and looked deep into my eyes. “I mean it, Amy. Thank you for giving me your permission to keep them and the opportunity to photograph you.”