“I know I must remind you of her.”
I think of the breakfast he made me the other day — almost as a reflex, as if he never intended to poach those eggs until it was too late to stay his hand. I think about the side of Cole that was very much him that nobody sees, and how even the hardest stone is sometimes fractured inside.
“Not really,” he says. “You’re both competent and smart, I suppose. But you don’t look like her. You don’t act like her.”
I lean into him, and feel his arm wrap around me. I look up at him. “I know what I want. It’s not the same. I’d never try to control you. I’m strong. I won’t stop being strong. But with you? Here? I want to stop being strong. You were right, Cole. It’s exhausting to fight all the time. I don’t want to control you the way she did. I want you to control me. I’m yours, through and through, to do with as you wish.”
I fall silent. I can’t look at him. I’ve either done the boldest, most aggressive thing I’ve ever known a woman to do with a man, or I’ve been the most submissive version of myself that’s ever existed. I don’t know if I’m taking him over or surrendering to him. I don’t know if I’ve seized his reins, or laid myself bare to eviscerate.
For the first time, I’m embarrassed to be sitting here naked with him fully clothed, saying things it’s not in my character to ever say. I don’t know how he even got those words out of me — out of the Iron Bitch Alyssa Galloway. But he did. And I don’t know if I’ve done right or wrong.
I can only wait. Sit here as seconds tick by, waiting to see.
“You want it to continue,” he finally says.
“I need it to.” And with the words, I know I’m telling the truth.
“You won’t try and control me.”
“I want you to control me. For the time I’m with you, I want to be off-duty.” I mean this. I’ve never meant anything this much. “My life is so full, Cole. I’m always keeping schedules. I’m always deciding. I’m always in command. But right now, I want to be yours. Your possession, to do with as you please.”
Who the fuck am I? What the fuck am I saying?
Cole holds me for a second. His firm hands. The feel of his arm tight around me.
Then he picks me up and lays me on a plush rug in the middle of his hardwood floor.
“Cole,” I say as he begins to loosen his tie, his steely blue eyes upon me.
“Yes.”
“You’re in charge. In your hands, I’m not in control.”
He nods. The tie is off. His big fingers crawl down the front of his shirt, baring his chest. “If that’s what you want.”
“But the rest of my life — the times when I’m not here with you. Those are my times. Those are my boundaries. You can’t tell me what to do then. You’re not my only client. Or my most important one. You cannot talk down to me or disrespect me. I earned my place. You can fuck me all you want. But never, Cole, are you to fuck with me.”
It’s the best of all worlds. Cole doesn’t need another Rachel to spar with and I don’t want to be her, fighting his imposing ways. This is my compromise. In the figurative bedroom, I’m Cole’s. But the rest of the time, I answer only to myself.
“Of course,” Cole says.
“So I need you to make me one promise.”
“Anything.”
“I need to know that when I’m in your hands, I can trust you.” I swallow. “I don’t want to have to think when I’m with you. So you need to think for me. I’m giving you control. I’m closing my eyes and leaning backward, trusting that you’re behind me.”
“I’m here, Alyssa.”
“I want you to promise that if I start to fall, you’ll catch me.”
Cole nods assent.
And then he takes me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
COLE
I FUCK ALYSSA ON THE rug.
I fuck Alyssa on the terrace.
I fuck Alyssa in each of the bedrooms, and the second time she gets down on her knees when I tell her and takes my cock as it slips out of her pussy, jerks it off, and makes me come in her mouth.
I fuck her with my fingers.
I fuck her with my tongue, with my hungry lips.
I fuck her riding, standing, sitting, forward, backward, in every offered hole.
She begs. I give. I come so many times I’m entirely dry.
We rest.
We rehydrate.
We do it again.
I fuck Alyssa on the grand piano. I don’t play piano, but it’s there for show. We discover the weight limit of the propped-open lid, so I move her to the keys, and fuck her while her ass plays an obscene form of chopsticks.
I fuck Alyssa against my apartment’s tall glass walls, both facing in and facing out. Part of me hopes a paparazzo has climbed up into one of the other buildings and will take our picture, because the moment’s ecstasy makes me want to share it with the world.
Partly it’s pride. Nobody thinks Alyssa is what she is. This perfect woman, both strong and supple, both bold and submissive. She challenges me, but does as I say when it needs doing. She won’t do my laundry or bake me a cake, but she’ll hop up on the counter with her legs spread and coat her ass in flour if I say so.
I’ve made her come in every room of my house. I can’t get enough of her. I’m always thirsty for her, no matter how much I drink. She is my constant arousal. I want her so much, it’s almost painful.
When it’s gone on long enough, we call mercy. We sleep a little, and in the morning I finger her awake. She says she’s sore. I tell her to deal with it, and we do a workout like I’ve never done.
“Alyssa,” I say. “It’s seven o’clock.”
And just like that, I see something shift in her eyes. She’s still the thing that drives me to distraction, but now she’s something else. It’s like a switch has been flipped. She stops being Alyssa the Toy and becomes Alyssa the Powerful. I don’t give her any more commands. If I do so now, she’ll bite me in half.
Two women share my bed. The one I fuck, and the one who, if I do something stupid to impose on her business, will fuck me up.
She heads to work. She has no clothes. Fortunately I do, so she gets showered and dressed and with the additional time between us goes through my ladies’ wardrobe and suggests I get rid of everything that’s not her size or liking. It isn’t a command. She doesn’t get to tell me what to do, just like I don’t get to tell her what to do when lust presses Pause.
But there’s that understanding between us. Its black-and-white nature fits us both perfectly. There are rules for this thing we’re doing, and violating them will bring its end.
She won’t force my hand in the ways Rachel did, so it’s okay that I’m different around her. It won’t be like with Rachel, even though Alyssa — in manner and ambition, though not in appearance — is somewhat like her.
Where things went wrong before, they won’t go wrong now. Because we have our rules.
When we’re together, I’m in charge. That’s how Alyssa wants it, so she can turn the world off and follow instead of having to constantly lead.
When we’re not together, we answer only to ourselves, with zero interference.
While under my command, Alyssa will do as I say.
And in return, I’ll take care of her. Tell her when playtime is over — when it’s 7am and time to get ready for work. I won’t let her miss appointments she allows herself to forget during our bliss. In a way, I’m like her domineering secretary. I keep her calendar. I’m her reminder — allowed to have my every way, but in exchange she’s allowed to lose herself completely.
She’ll fall into my arms.
And I will always be there to catch her.
Alyssa goes to work, and because we have no appointments scheduled, she ignores me all day. Then she comes to me and we fuck Friday evening to nothing. I ask her if she heard from Jenna. She tells me she has, and that Jenna’s father is fine, free to go with only a small stint in one artery. We fuck to celebrate. I make her come thr
ee times first with my tongue and a hand massager, because I’m that much of a giver.
We fuck Saturday away.
We fuck Sunday away.
Monday comes.
And the cycle repeats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALYSSA
JENNA ASKS ME FOR A Cole update when she stops by my office on Monday, but I blow the question off. I feel bad doing so, since she is my only good female friend these days and since it was Jenna, bless her heart, who showed me the right thing to do with Cole.
If she hadn’t pushed me to push him, I might have assumed Cole had walked out on me over anything. Maybe he decided he didn’t like me anymore. Maybe he decided he needed a new publicist. But now I understand what Cole needs, and what I’m in a perfect position to give: a relationship based on shared power, driven by sex. I need the release and some companionship; Cole needs sex without the nagging and browbeating.
We’re a perfect match, no strings unduly attached.
And I really did consider spilling to Jenna, before Friday. Thursday was quite the pleasure-fest, but Cole seemed to have gone toy shopping while I worked on Friday. We did stuff that night that I’ve only read about in the spiciest erotica. It was hot as hell, but I can’t tell Jenna. I’d have to couch the story, so I decide not to tell it at all. “We’re kinda maybe together,” is all I’ll say.
Despite the total dearth of detail, that one line raises Jenna’s eyebrows and makes her smile too widely, showing her straight white teeth. She looks like a girl with a secret and a joke — and they’re actually the same thing, and the joke is on me. It’s a superior little look, and even as I’m laughing the presumption annoys me. What, does Jenna know me better than I know myself? We haven’t even officially been friends for a week.
She asks if Cole and I want to go on a double date. It’ll be fun, she says.
It’s not really that kind of together, I tell her.
That shuts her up, and she gives me her quizzical I’m-going-to-do-what-it-takes-to-figure-this-out look. It makes me wonder at my own words — what I meant by saying Cole and I were “kinda together,” and additionally what it meant that I’ve more or less denied it.
What the hell are Cole and I, anyway?
Fuck buddies?
Friends with benefits?
A codependent hate-sex couple destined for a horrible end?
I push the issue away. I don’t want to think about it. So I divert conversation to Jenna and Ashton, to her father’s health. She goes willingly enough, but if I know her at all she’ll ask the question again. And that, in turn, brings my mind right back to the issue.
When Jenna leaves and I return to work, the whole thing keeps rolling around in my head.
If I had to introduce Cole to someone at a party, would I introduce him as my boyfriend?
That seems laughable — yet not really, given the number of times he’s put things in me.
If my father went into the hospital like Jenna’s, would I call Cole to tell him?
The answer is yes, but details are fuzzy beyond that. Cole would insist on giving me a ride because despite my protests, he seems determined to take care of and look out for me, the way he did that night in the bar when I’d had too much to drink. But is that why I’d be calling? For a ride? And what are the answers to the questions that follow, about Cole’s role in various hypotheticals I haven’t faced?
I only know I’m happy.
But my insidious mind whispers: There’s a difference between “pleased” and “happy.”
My brow furrows at that phantom voice, but I don’t have time, mercifully, to consider it.
The phone rings and I hear a familiar voice before I can even check the Caller ID.
“Hey, Baby.”
“That’s not professional, Onyx.”
“I’m sorry. I meant, ‘Hello, Hot Pants.’”
I laugh. Most guys couldn’t pull that off, but Onyx does. He’s hot like all the other rich young guys in the Trillionaire Boys’ Club — the magnetism that Nathan Turner’s counting on to attract the press the group needs to hit critical mass — but he’s still harmless as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know why, but Onyx and I clicked as friends immediately. It’s something I don’t have with my other male clients, and I like it. I sincerely believe that while he’s probably attracted to me like he said, our boundaries are so established that making a move on me simply isn’t in the cards. Onyx is a good guy. Nowadays, anyway.
“What’s up?” I ask
“Just confirming.”
“Don’t you have better things to do than confirm your own appointments? Haven’t you heard the expression? You’re supposed to have your people call my people.”
“I like the personal touch.”
“Ah. But see, you’re wasting my time, too.”
Onyx laughs. “How’s your nightmare client?”
It takes me a while to figure out what he’s thinking of, but then I remember. We were talking about this at that tiresome banquet thingy last week. The nightmare client, of course, was Cole.
“Fine.” I’m suddenly sure that Onyx knows something, and is prying.
“I hear you’re working with him a lot. With the guy you hate so much.”
“Are you spying on me?”
“My people called your people.”
“Uh-huh. And what did they say?” I keep my voice light, but I’m suddenly nervous. Has Cole been talking? Blabbing to his buddies (Ben at first, then the others) about our adventures? We said we’d keep things between us, but who knows? Boys will be boys, and we’ve done plenty over the past week worth bragging about.
Hell, I almost told Jenna — but I’m allowed to, being the woman. Cole’s not.
“Just that he’s been speaking very highly of you. The Club has its own referral network, and Cole’s recent reviews are glowing.”
I’m touched. “Why are his reviews so notable? What about everyone else’s?”
“I only paid attention to his. Because you said he was such an asshole.” Onyx makes his voice sarcastic. “Oh, yes. What a total dick.”
“Did you call to mock me?”
There’s a shuffling on the other end of the line. Then a pause. Onyx settles, his voice more professional when it returns. “No, actually. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“I might be moving.”
“You might be moving?”
“Okay. Not might. Will. It’s sort of in the bag.”
This is news to me. I’m not sure why it matters since I have clients all over the globe, but his tone says it does, for reasons unknown. I ask the predictable questions: “When? Where?”
“Within the month.” A deep sigh. “Inferno Falls.”
I close my eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“No. You know how Inferno is growing these days. Still small enough to not be jaded like a big city, and filled with talent. Hip in ways places like Chicago and LA just aren’t anymore.”
“LA isn’t hip?”
“It’s hip if you have money,” Onyx says. “You know how it is.”
“What does this have to do with you?”
“Well, you know this initiative Forage is making into education, right?”
“Is this the thing you guys are partnering with GameStorming on?”
“Not quite. And we’re not partners.” He laughs. “Cut off my arm, but don’t make me partners with Caspian White.” Another laugh. “But I think you mean GS’s Einstein module. That’s open source and we’re piggybacking off of it. Caspian happens to love the idea — but no, it’s not a partnership.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I meant.”
“Then yes. Anyway, we knew we needed to open a new campus to fully exploit it. Aiden wants to put it in Inferno.”
“Why not San Francisco?”
“Einstein is only code, Alyssa. There’s no need to co-locate with GameStorming. Besides, have you seen real estate prices
anywhere near the Bay?”
“I think Forage can afford it.”
“Inferno Falls has the right temperature for this project. I don’t like to admit it, but Aiden’s right. The talent pool is there and the city is perfect. We’ll get tax breaks thanks to all the jobs this project will bring to the area.”
“And you have to move there. To shepherd it all.”
“We both think it’d be wise.”
“You’re the company’s co-owner, Onyx. You could send anyone. Why the hell do you have to head it?”
“We’ve been over it internally. Trust me, Alyssa. It makes sense.”
I shake my head at my empty office. “Goddammit, Onyx.”
“It’ll be fine. But—”
“It’ll be fine until your old girlfriend finds out you’re back in town. What the hell is wrong with you? When you hired me, the Mia issue was one of the first things you told me about.”
“I’m sure she’s over it. That was a long time ago.”
“Then why did you bring it up? Don’t act like I’m an idiot, Onyx. We both know she’s a time bomb. The fact that you left her ass high and dry was fine until you built a thirty-billion-dollar company, and—”
“Thirty-four billion.”
“Can you please just stop measuring your dick for a second?”
Onyx doesn’t have a witty rejoinder. He must hear my tone — the one that makes men afraid of me.
“You leaving her was fine until you made it big,” I continue, slowly this time, as if he’s an idiot. “But even that could be handled — maybe — as long as you stayed out of sight. But even with Mia in the Falls and you in Chicago and wherever else, we always knew there was a chance you’d get into some sort of public shit-flinging contest with her.”
“What did I do to her that thousands of other men haven’t done to women over the ages?”
“You became rich and famous,” I say, still using that tone. “Now stop acting like you don’t know this, and answer me a question: How intelligent would it be for you to poke the bee’s nest by moving back home, right into the same damn town you left her in? Do you really think she won’t know? Do you really think she won’t find out and have a very big, very public problem with it?”
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer Page 12