I frowned but couldn’t stop the twitch of a smile. I took his hand and gave it a firm shake.
“Lauren Perry,” I replied. “Like the champagne.”
“Laurent Perrier, close though, and just as nice on the tongue,” he said.
I laughed and shook my head. “So, red or white?” he asked.
“Red.” I took the bottle from him and closed the apartment door.
I covered my mouth to stifle the giggle. I was thirty years old and giggling like a schoolgirl. I gave it a minute before looking through the spy hole. I couldn’t see him, but I could see the bottle of white on the floor. I stupidly opened the door to retrieve it. He stepped out from just beside the door.
“That was rude,” he said.
“Yep. Funny though.”
“Hmm, not sure. Are you going to invite me in?”
“Before I do, how did you know where I lived?”
“I dropped you off here, remember?”
“How did you know what door number?”
“I own the company you work for, therefore I own the personnel records too.”
“I’m not sure I’d agree that you own them. Don’t you have such a thing as the Data Protection Act in America?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “If we do, then I regularly breach it.”
I swung the door wide and gestured with my arm for him to enter. I’d play along for a while.
“You didn’t call,” he said.
“Was I supposed to? Are you expecting me to come running to you all, ‘seduce me, Mackenzie? I’m a weak woman who needs a romance novel Dom.’ Well?” I’d used a childish voice to emphasise the point.
“No, I’m not attracted to weak women, they break too easily. I’m impressed with your knowledge of a romance novel Dom though.”
I huffed as I walked to the kitchen with the two bottles of wine. I held one up then the other. He pointed to the red.
“Although, maybe I should put you over my lap and spank that tight ass of yours,” he said.
“In your dreams.”
“For now.”
Again, that fucking clenching started at his words. I’d need to do something about that. Maybe if I did some sit-ups, I’d have better control of my stomach muscles and could stop it from happening.
I handed him a glass of wine and took a sip of mine. It was a lovely wine; I hated to guess at the cost.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“There’s a great Chinese locally, we can order in, if you don’t want to do your hair.”
I’d forgotten about the towel wrapped around my head. Vanity had me grabbing it and pulling it away. I ran my fingers through the tangled mess of hair. Again my body betrayed me when my stomach, the one that hadn’t stopped clenching, grumbled loud enough for him to hear.
“Takeout it is then,” he said, as he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket.
Before I had a chance to protest, he had the phone to his ear and was talking. He hadn’t even asked me what I wanted.
It’s all a game, I thought.
I placed my wine on the counter and grabbed two plates and some cutlery. I cleared the table of my briefcase and handbag and set it. He took a seat, twisting the wineglass stem between his fingers. I sat opposite him. At first we didn’t speak.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“You do. And don’t give me the, ‘I misunderstood you’ crap.”
“I’d never insult your intelligence with that. I think you understand me only too well.”
“So?” I took a sip of my wine.
He furrowed his brow. “You said you owe me an apology, where is it?” I asked.
Under the table my legs shook at my audacity. No matter what, he was still my boss.
He smiled. “You intend to make me work for it, don’t you? Lauren, we started off on the wrong foot. I don’t regret one minute of spending time with you, fucking you, but I apologise for everything else.”
I chose to ignore the first part of his sentence.
“I accept your apology.” I raised my glass to his.
“I like this Lauren,” he said.
“This Lauren?”
“Already you’ve changed. In just a week there’s a spark, a light in your eyes.”
“Maybe I’m just done with bullshit.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Because I have a proposition for you.”
I was interrupted from asking what the proposition was by a knock on the front door.
“Dinner,” he said.
“That was quick, and how did they get in?”
“I took the chance that you might be hungry and pre-ordered.”
He hadn’t answered the second half of my question. He rose and opened the door. He returned quickly with two white plastic bags.
“I do hate the British fascination with plastic bags,” he said, as he set them on the kitchen counter.
“Why?” I asked, as I unpacked tinfoil containers.
“Bad for the environment.”
His answer surprised me. Only a week ago he was telling me how he liked to buy a business, sell it for a profit, that he wasn’t a charity, and was unconcerned about the employees of said business. He didn’t seem to be the type of person concerned about the environment. But then, I had to remind myself; I didn’t know much about him at all.
We sat and ate, drank wine and chatted. He was evasive on his past, family, and businesses. It was as I cleared away the plates and stacked the dishwasher that the atmosphere changed, became highly charged with electricity. He’d been relaxed, or had certainly given the impression he’d been so.
Then I saw the physical change in his body. He’d tensed so slowly that I was able to see every muscle contract. If I could see inside him, I’d watch tendons tighten and ligaments shorten. I’d watch every vertebrae twist and move as his spine became rigid. The one thing I wanted to do, but had no way of, was to be able to read his mind. He was closed, his features devoid of emotion, his eyes dark.
I didn’t like the change in either him or the air around us that sparked with tension. I took my time to pour more wine and set the dishwasher on. I was deliberately slow as I filled the jug with fresh coffee and kept my back to him as the kettle boiled.
I didn’t need to look to know he’d silently left his chair and was standing behind me. His musky aftershave wafted around. His hands appeared in my line of vision as he placed them, at either side of my body, on the countertop. He was close; enough to have me push up against the kitchen cupboards to keep a semblance of distance and respectability.
“You’ve spent the whole evening asking questions. Now it’s my turn,” he whispered, as he ran his nose up the side of my neck.
I tried not to react. “You’ve spent the whole evening avoiding answering those questions. Maybe I’ll do the same.”
“But I don’t need your words, Lauren, to get the answers.”
His breath ghosted the sensitive skin just under my ear. I wanted to turn and push him away, but I didn’t. It was just a game, right?
“What turns you on, Lauren?” he whispered. His mouth was close to my ear.
“I’m not going to answer that,” I whispered back.
“My voice does, I can see that.”
“How?”
“Your skin is reacting, every word I utter causes goosebumps, just here,” he said, as he ran his nose the length of my neck.
“I’m cold,” I said.
His deep throaty chuckle had the hairs on my arms stand on end, let alone goosebumps.
I gripped the countertop to stop myself from leaning back onto his chest. I wouldn’t give in, no matter what he did.
“You’re an arrogant fuck,” I said.
“Hmm, I’m not sure I’d agree. Arrogance suggests superiority, yet I worshiped your body.”
“Oh, please.” I dragged out the word ‘please.’
“I made you come, three, four times?”
“What
changed, Mackenzie? Which version of the man are you really? The one I just dined with, or this one?”
“I’m whichever one is required at the time.”
“You need therapy.”
“I have it, right here.” His lips closed around my earlobe, and he sucked it into his mouth.
“I’m not qualified,” I said, desperately holding back the moan that wanted to replace my words.
“Then I’ll train you,” he said as he released my earlobe.
“I have a job, I don’t need another.”
“Do you know what I’d love to do?”
I shook my head, although I had half an idea.
“I’d love to shove my cock down your throat to stop your smart words.”
I spun around quickly but he didn’t move away.
“How dare…”
Before I could finish my sentence, his mouth was on mine. He took that small step closer until his body was flush with mine. His tongue forced its way in, demanding control. I raised my hands and placed them either side of his head, and I pushed. I wasn’t strong enough. Again my body betrayed me, my tongue tangled with his as if it had a life of its own. I’d wanted to flatten it, deny him any response other than an open mouth. I couldn’t.
My hands slid around his head, my fingers tangled in his short dark hair. I gripped and pulled. He didn’t react. I couldn’t bring myself to pull it from the roots, to hurt him in the hope he’d give back the mouth he’d taken prisoner. I didn’t want to.
It was his moan that had me finally kissing him back with the same level of passion. Instead of pulling his head from mine, my hands pushed it closer. I needed to gain control; I needed to turn the tables. I needed to up my game.
He breathed heavily through his nose. I could feel his erection as he ground into me. I was so aroused by his assault; I could smell myself. I’d never been kissed so passionately; I’d never had my blood boil, my heart pound, by a kiss before. But then, I’d never encountered anyone like Mackenzie.
I had my eyes closed when his kiss changed, became gentle, when he pulled his head back a little until he was gently sucking on my lower lip. I opened them when he finally stopped.
He didn’t smile; he didn’t smirk. Whereas before his face was emotionless, then it wasn’t. Despite his dark eyes, I could see his pupils dilated with lust. I felt overwhelmed by him, by the emotion I seemed to be able to provoke without knowing how or why.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered. I was no match for him.
“Everything. I want you to experience everything. I want you to feel worthy, more than adequate, and to know you’re not alone.”
He took a step back. I watched his chest rise and fall as he regulated his breathing to get it back under control. He raised a hand and I flinched slightly, not knowing why. He ran the back of his fingers down my cheek.
“So hot,” he said. I was hoping he was referring to the flush that burned my skin. Or maybe I wasn’t, I didn’t know.
“What turns you on, Lauren?” he asked again.
“You.”
“Even when you don’t want to be?”
“Even when I don’t want to be.”
“Will you do one thing for me?”
I didn’t answer, nor nod, or shake my head.
“Write down your fantasies.”
“Why? Why do you need to know that?” It was a question he’d asked me before.
“Because.”
“I think you need to leave.” I didn’t want him to, I wanted him to pick me up and carry me to the bedroom, strip me of my clothing, and fuck me like he had before.
“I will, but only because you and I are not finished yet. Write those down for me.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen. I heard the front door open and softly close. I counted to twenty, in my head, before my legs gave way, and I slid down the cabinet to the floor.
I raised my shaking hand; my fingertips gently touched my still tingling lips.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I whispered.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I wasn’t sure that it was in sadness. I was wrung out, for sure. I was an emotional wreck, but had been before Mackenzie Miller made an appearance.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d sat on the tiled floor. My phone beeped to let me know I had a text message. I stood and winced as my knees ached. My phone was still attached to the charger on the kitchen counter. I reached for it.
Do you know how hard it is to drive a high performance sports car with one hand down your pants? Mackenzie
“How the…?” I shook my head. First thing Monday, I’d be having words with Personnel.
I typed.
Since I don’t possess a cock, I guess the answer is no. Drive carefully.
It was with a smile that I changed ‘unknown’ to his name in my contacts.
I poured myself a large glass of water, turned off the kitchen lights, and headed for my bedroom. I pulled down the blind and climbed into bed. I picked up my Kindle and just held it. I’d intended to read but I couldn’t see the words. My mind was filled with him, his scent, his words, his breath, and his touch. Everything about him consumed me. I liked it.
****
I woke late the following morning; my night had been filled with the eroticism that was Mackenzie Miller. I couldn’t recall the dream, but judging by the wetness between my thighs, I assumed it to be good. I slid my hand under the waistband of my pyjama bottoms and my fingers circled my clitoris. I closed my eyes and thought of him. I brought every minute detail to mind. His dark eyes and hair, the way the muscles on his forearms had flexed when he tensed. I pictured him with his hand down his pants. His strong fingers wrapped around his cock, massaging himself.
I heard his whispers in my head; I felt his breath against my skin. I was transported back, I recalled the way he humiliated Scott, for me. I relived every moment I’d spent with him until my body shook, and I moaned out loud as an orgasm washed over me. It was neither as powerful or as fulfilling as the ones he’d given me, but it was enough to dull the ache between my thighs.
****
I was half tempted to Google why someone would be interested in another’s fantasies but was too frightened to see the results and have that in my search history. I thought of his request while I showered and dressed, and as I sipped my tea and ate my toast. If it had been anyone else who had asked me, the word ‘pervert’ might have sprung to mind, but there was something about him that said he had plans. It was all part of the game.
If I were to stand a chance of winning this game, I’d have to think hard. There didn’t appear to be any rules, other than fucking with my head. One minute he’d been a normal guy, sharing a meal and a bottle of wine, the next: predatory and challenging.
I was sure he was a little fucked up in the head, perhaps more than a little. No matter what, he was beginning to intrigue me.
I walked into my bedroom and opened the wardrobe door. Black, grey, more black; it was devoid of colour. I smiled, although shopping wasn’t one of my favourite things to do, maybe it was time for this ‘ice queen’ to thaw.
I checked my watch and decided to head to Westfield’s. I’d avoided visiting the ‘largest shopping centre in the U.K.’ according to its advertisement, until then, not wanting to be surrounded by people invading my personal space. I was a woman on a mission. I forbade myself from picking up anything dark or dull. No muted tones, no pastels even.
By the time I’d arrived back home, I had bags of colourful clothes and a couple of new pairs of shoes. I didn’t remove the black suits. When the game was over, I had no doubt I’d be back to wearing them. I simply moved them to one side and hung red, green, blue, and purple alongside them.
The last bag that I emptied was from the chemist. I pulled out a box of condoms and placed them in the bedside cabinet, just in case.
I chuckled as I sat on the bed. Whatever this game was, it felt liberating, empowering even. I’d found I w
asn’t slumping my shoulders so much; the tension in my neck wasn’t as noticeable. I was answering back, standing a little taller. So what if great sex was a by-product?
When I thought back on the last few months with Scott, I guess somewhere along the line I’d begun to feel a little downtrodden. Maybe instinctively I’d known, maybe I just hadn’t wanted to face up to it. We hadn’t had sex in months, in fact that could have been a year. We didn’t go out alone, together. If anything, we were really just flatmates, except he was the one having all the fun.
I picked up my phone. Was it the norm to text my boss on a Saturday afternoon? But then, we’d crossed that ‘should not have been crossed’ boundary the first night we met.
I’ve been thinking. It’s a little perverted to want to know a stranger’s fantasies, don’t you think?
I waited with bated breath for a reply. I knew what I was doing: baiting him, but for the first time in a long time, I felt alive.
Ten minutes, then twenty minutes passed before he finally replied.
I sucked your cunt, Lauren. I’d hardly call us strangers. And I’m offended by your accusation.
Oh shit! Was I offensive? I sat there with no idea how to reply. I reread his text. It surprised me to notice that I wasn’t disgusted by his choice of word. Had anyone else used the ‘C’ word, even within earshot of me, I’d cringe; tell them off for being so crude. But not him, and I wondered why.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.
I’d pressed send before I thought about what was going on. In fact, I had no real idea what was going on at all, but had I just played straight back into his hands?
I asked you to do one thing for me. Now I’m asking for another. Trust me.
Trust him? I didn’t know him. This ‘stranger’ had bowled into my life. I’d spent an amazing night, doing something I’d never done before; sex with a stranger, then found out he was my new boss. I’d thought back. Had he known who I was?
I don’t know you.
My name is Mackenzie Miller. If my father is to be respected, you need to add ‘the second’ to that. I was born in South Carolina, moved to LA late teens. Google me.
Google him? Why the fuck hadn’t I done that earlier? I grabbed my laptop. Thankfully there weren’t that many Mackenzie Millers in South Carolina or LA. His father was involved in manufacturing back in the 1970’s. I found an old college photo; Mackenzie had played football, American football. There was a report detailing how he was about to turn pro before being injured in a car crash that had resulted in the death of his friend. Fuck! That must have been a painful time, both physically and mentally.
The Facilitator Page 6