by Tasha Fawkes
Fiancée. Fiancée. Fiancée… the word reverberates through my brain. With my body still tingling from the sex we just had in his office, I sit down at my desk, placing the manuscript down next to my keyboard, fidgeting with its edges.
"Everything okay?"
I glance up, startled by Tory's question. Her desk only a few feet from mine, I nod. "Why?"
"You look pale."
"I do?" I don't feel pale. I feel like I’m burning alive from the inside out. My unquenched desire has disappeared. It doesn't matter… it doesn't matter! I keep telling myself that, but deep in my gut and in the logical part of my brain, I realize that his words struck a chord, but I shake it off. It's not like we’re in a legitimate relationship. It's not like we’re officially dating or anything like that. What we do, we do in secret, and I want to keep it that way. What business is it of mine that he has a fiancée?
"Is there something wrong with that manuscript? Does he want you to revise it?"
I glance at Tory, trying to track our sort-of conversation. "Just a couple of things to check over. No worries," I say.
I try to focus my attention back to my computer screen, effectively shutting down any further questions. Nevertheless, I feel Tory's eyes on me. I can tell when she wants more information. After all, I've known her for about as long as I've known Stewart. As his cousin, Tory is the one who introduced us. While our relationship is sort of friendly at work, it isn't like she’s my confidant or anything. I don't have any confidantes. No besties, no BFFs, no joined-at-the-hip friends for me. No sir. I’m too busy… too busy focusing on my career aspirations. But man, at this moment, I wish I did have someone to confide in.
Despite my foray into the bondage world, I have to admit to myself that my attitudes, to some degree at least, are traditional. Daniel is engaged. Does his fiancée know about his… his hobby? His underground lifestyle? His many partners and the subs, including me? Maybe she does and maybe she doesn't. It’s none of my business. It’s theirs. And if she doesn't know, maybe she’s better off that way.
Still, I can't help the train of thoughts twisting my insides. What does that make me? And what does it say about Daniel? Then again, is that any of my business either? I shake my head and try to distance myself from thoughts of morality, ethics, and relationships. I stare at the computer screen in front of me, but a myriad of questions keep flipping through my brain, over and over again. The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m in a dead-end situation. Much as I like Daniel, as much as I want to spend more time with him, and even despite my growing feelings for him, I realize that nothing will come of our relationship.
An overwhelming feeling of sadness comes over me. Before I start to wallow in a pool of self-pity, I mentally slap myself. What's wrong with you? I’m not a character in my own manuscript. I’m not a character in any of the romance novels I’ve edited. For crying out loud, this is real life. It’s one thing to have goals and aspirations, another to fool yourself to the point where you believe that fantasy can become reality. Maybe for some people it does, but not for me, not Ashley Shiels.
My hands settle on my keyboard. I remind myself of my own goals, which is to become a published author. Daniel promised that he would publish my manuscript, but where do I go from there? Would I have had the same opportunity to get published if I didn't work here at Pen & Quill? Was he patronizing me, promising to publish my manuscript if… no, don't go there. I think I know Daniel well enough to know that if he thought my manuscript was crap, he would've told me that. Honestly, like any good editor should. Maybe not in those words, but he told me it was good and it just needed a little polishing.
My mind is spinning. I sense Tory occasionally glancing at me, and I finally turn to her with a frown. "What is it? Why do you keep staring at me?"
She says nothing, but merely glances at my computer screen and then back at me. I look at the computer screen and realize I haven’t edited one line since I sat down. I come up with an excuse. "Okay, so the manuscript needs a little more work than I implied."
"He's not mad, is he?" She glances down the hall to Daniel's office and lowers her voice. "He can be a prick sometimes, can't he?"
An unreasonable surge of annoyance floods through me, but I quickly tamp it down and offer a lame shrug in reply before again staring at my monitor. Really focused. But I still can't concentrate. Giving up on the computer, I move my keyboard aside and place the proof of the manuscript in front of me and start idly leafing through it. I don't have to do anything with it, it’s just a prop, but I pretend to read through it, if just to keep Tory off my case.
Fiancée. Fiancée. Fiancée. A hollow, achy feeling develops in the pit of my stomach. Why do I care? Besides, I have Stewart, don't I? I grimace but then realize that I have to be sensible. Rational. I pull my desk drawer open, pull out my purse and set it on my lap as I dig inside for my phone. Before I can second-guess myself, I text Stewart and ask if he wants to come over tonight.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
I glance at Tory and sigh. "Everything is fine, Tory. I promise."
She finally seems to accept my response and returns to her work. I glance at her occasionally, but she’s now fully involved in editing the manuscript on her computer screen. I lied. Everything is not fine. Of course, I wish things had gone differently… I realize where my thoughts were headed. This has to end. Much as I don't want it to, I also don't want to be anyone's mistress, either by implication or the true meaning of the word. Daniel is engaged. That makes everything different.
For the next hour or so I try my best to do the job I’m paid to do, but every few minutes, I find myself glancing down the hallway toward Daniel's office. My emotions range from disappointment to irritation. Why didn’t he tell me that he’s engaged? Why?
And despite my fantasizing about him for so long, do I really want to be with a man who would cheat so willingly with me and possibly other women? No, no possibly about it. That playroom in his basement is not brand-spanking new, no pun intended. How many subs does he have? How often does he bring them to his secret basement?
I mentally slap myself again. What does it matter? Why should I care? Why did I think that something would come out of our… whatever we’re doing? Playtime. That's all it is to Daniel. Getting his rocks off. Playing around. Fucking.
And me? Honestly, what did I expect? It’s obvious to me now that Daniel isn't, and never will be, a one-woman man. For all I know, his fiancée has been down in that playroom as well, and maybe he's had a ménage a trois going on down there, or even orgies. What the hell do I know?
I sigh again, staring at the hallway. When he comes out, I’ll give him a look, maybe gesture with my chin for him to meet me out in the hallway outside the office. Or maybe I can manage to time it so that we end up in the elevator alone at the same time. I need to tell him that this is over.
Over before it really even got started. How depressing. The story of my life, isn't it?
I sigh. It was a good experience, and I learned a lot even in a few short sessions. I enjoyed it, no matter how things ended. But it’s time to end it. Time to move on.
I don't want to. I want Daniel.
Nineteen
Ashley
I glance around my apartment, making sure I picked up all the laundry, emptied the trash, and the kitchen sink is clean. Stewart will be here any minute. I cheated and stopped off on the way home from work to pick up Chinese takeout, which is now warming up in a skillet and a pot on my stovetop, the containers in the trash.
I didn’t see Daniel emerge from his office, not once, before I left work at five o'clock. Now, close to seven, I’m waiting for Stewart, but not in a good way. I feel like I’m settling, like I’m surrendering, giving up, throwing in the towel. Whatever you want to call it, I’m doing it. I try to be more excited about Stewart's impending arrival. After all, until I started my manuscript and began to fantasize about Daniel and I in that manuscript, I was okay with Stewart, if never sexua
lly satisfied.
Sure, he could be dorky at times, obtuse, and downright annoying. As a pathologist, his world is one of order. Constancy. While the sex is bland, we got along well enough for the most part. I think under different circumstances, we would've been more compatible, but I spent months, if not longer, constantly and mentally comparing Stewart with Daniel. Well shit, Daniel is off the table, so to speak. Now I have to move on. Even so, I find it difficult to work up the same anticipation for seeing Stewart that I experienced with Daniel.
Then again, Daniel and I didn't date, not in the traditional sense of the word. Our interactions were purely sexual in nature. That’s obvious by the fact that I didn’t even know he was engaged. I know very little about Daniel's day-to-day life, other than what he had divulged in snippets. It's not like we openly went out to dinner, or events, so what the hell?
The knock on my door startles me from my increasing myriad of depressing thoughts. I stare at it for several moments, wondering what Stewart will do if I don't answer. If I pretend I’m not home. No, I can't do that to him.
I move to the door and open it, forcing a small smile. He’s wearing an off-the-rack suit from a retail store, his tie crooked, his collar open. "Hey, Stewart." He steps inside, wraps me in his arms, and plants one on my lips. I return the kiss half-heartedly, gently pushing against his shoulders, giving him a small chuckle as I shut the door behind him.
"You hungry?"
"Sure, what are you fixing?"
I gesture toward my small kitchen table. "Chinese takeout."
He chuckles, the one thing about him that I really like. He isn't fussy, that’s for sure. He will eat anything that’s put in front of him. "Wine?"
"You bet," he says, slipping off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch and then heading for the kitchen table.
He pulls up a chair and sits down, crossing one leg over the other as he leans back, one arm dangling over at the back, and looks at me. He has a weird expression on his face; the same look he gets when he’s looking through his microscope, studying some bacteria or something.
"What is it?" I finally ask, moving past him into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Merlot and a corkscrew. He turns his head and glances at me over his shoulder. "Spill," I order.
He shrugs. "I admit I was a little surprised that you texted me and wanted me to come over for dinner. You've been avoiding me lately."
The heat of a flush rises in my cheeks, and quickly I lower my head, pretending to concentrate on inserting the corkscrew just so into the wine cork. "It's just been hectic at the office now that the holidays are over, that's all."
He says nothing, and I pour a couple of glasses of Merlot, take them to the table, and sit down across from him. One thing about Stewart; we don't have to fill the silence with empty talk. I sip, and then, watching him gulp down his glass, take a couple larger sips myself before returning to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle, and plunking it down in the middle of the table. He refills both our glasses while I grab a couple plates from the kitchen cupboard and dish up rice and orange cashew chicken.
By the time we finish eating, muttering inane pleasantries throughout supper, I’ve downed three glasses of wine. My head feels like a balloon floating a short distance from my shoulders. He looks at me and grins.
"How about a romp?"
I shrug. Why the hell not? Without another word, he heads for my bedroom, pulling off his button-down shirt as he makes his way down my short hallway. He’s the Stewart I’ve always known; athletic build, more suited to a surfer than a pathologist. I imagine another relatively tame episode in bed, although he does tend to get a little wild when he drinks wine, which certainly isn't often. His idea of wild is doing it slightly different than the traditional missionary position. Maybe on our sides. Big whoop.
For the first time in a long while, I assess him. His shaggy, not quite brown hair is a bit on the long side, and he has nice-looking green eyes that bespeak an Irish heritage. Come to think of it, he and Daniel are only a couple years apart; Stewart a couple years younger. Stewart's green eyes are more the color of grass, and I automatically compare them to Daniel's bright green. Dammit! Is this to be my fate? Comparing every man I sleep with in the future to Daniel? What if—oomph!
I startle, realizing that Stewart has stopped just in front of my bedroom. I slam into his bare chest as he chuckles, his hands reaching to steady my shoulders. His breath feels warm against my face, smelling of Merlot.
"I forgot condoms."
Nothing like a cold splash of water on my face. I glance up at him, nibbling my lip. "I think there's still a couple in the bathroom cabinet. Go look."
He scooches past me in the hallway and disappears into the bathroom. The light clicks on and I hear the medicine cabinet open and him rustling inside it as I make my way into my bedroom. I pull off my shirt and pants and then climb into bed, slightly dizzy, my thoughts fuzzy.
Moments later, Stewart returns, holding up a red package in his hand. "Found one!" He laugh. "We'll get one shot at this, so we better make it good!"
I watch as he undresses. His cock is already engorged. Try as I might not to, I see Daniel in my mind's eye, making mental comparisons. I purposely shove those thoughts out of my head as Stewart climbs into bed beside me. Leaning his face toward mine, he kisses me, sticking his tongue in my mouth as his hand begins to grope my breast. Then that hand strays downward toward my legs.
I reach for his hand and stop it by the time he gets to my hip. I feel horrible. I want to cry. I want to scream. He doesn't seem to notice, but just keeps kissing and kneading my hip like it’s a lump of dough. His cock presses against my thigh.
It’s at this moment I realize I can’t go through with this. I’m just not into it. I can't get Daniel out of my head. I don't want to have boring sex with Stewart. To even suggest something a little different will really upset the status quo, at least as far as Stewart is concerned. I can't really fault him for it. It's just that sex with Stewart is dull. Always the same. It was boring before I experienced bondage with Daniel.
I pull away from him, and although I still feel a little fuzzy, I know what I need to do. He tries to envelope me in his grasp, and I place my hand on his chest. He looks at me, his pupils slightly dilated, his lips open, his face flushed.
"What is it? You want to put it on?"
For a second I don't know what he’s talking about until he extends the still rolled condom toward me. "No, Stewart, I don't want to put it on—"
"You want to go bareback?"
I stare, dismayed that he even knows the term. "No, I don't want to go bareback, either. Stewart, I can't do this."
"What do you mean?" He frowns, and then his eyes widen. "You're not on your period, are you?"
Oh my God. "No, Stewart, I'm not on my period. I just can't do this." He reaches for me again, and I pull away even more. Another inch and I'll fall out of the bed. I lift myself onto my elbow, one hand placed firmly on his chest. "I mean I can't do this. Sex. Us."
"What are you saying, Ashley?" He gestures at the bed. "We're lying naked in your bed. And you just changed your mind?"
I don't want to hurt him, really I don't. I steel myself and rolled out of bed, quickly heading for my dresser, where I yank out a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He watches me pull them on, his expression confused.
"Ashley, what's going on? Did I say something? What?"
Do it, I tell myself. Do it now. Cut the cord. Quickly. I have his full attention now. He sits up in bed, staring at me. "I don't want to hurt you, Stewart, but I just don't think it's fair for either one of us to continue. I—"
"Is it that guy at work? Your boss?"
My mouth drops open and I deny it. "It's not, Stewart," I say. That at least is the truth. "I just need some time to figure out where I am and what I want."
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his trousers. "And you waited until we're in bed to tell me this?"
"I
'm sorry, Stewart, I didn't realize that… that it was over between us until we got into the bed."
He frowns. "I don't believe it. You met another guy." He jerks his pants on, his movements stiff and awkward. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why string me along? How long have you been stringing me along, Ashley?"
"I didn't do it deliberately, Stewart," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Even I realize it’s a self-defense mechanism. "I just don't feel like I can commit to a relationship, not the way you want me to. We're at different places in our goals. So, what's the point? I don't want to just have casual sex. You can understand that, can't you?"
He mumbles something that I can't understand. I don't bother to ask him to repeat it. It doesn't matter. He steps toward the bedroom door and then leans down to snatch his shirt from the floor. He pauses, then slowly threads his arms through the sleeves, every move precise, straining for what I perceive as his attempt to maintain his dignity. His face flushes with emotion as he looks at me, enclosing the buttons on his shirt. He rubs a hand through his hair and lowers his eyebrows. His eyes bore into mine, it’s as if he can read every thought racing through my head.
"I'm sorry, Stewart, I don't—"
He lifts a hand. "You do know, Ashley, that once I walk out of here, it's over. Forever. I'm not going to beg. I'm not going to take you back. It's obvious to me that you've already decided." He shakes his head. "But I'll say one thing. I thought we were in a relationship. I thought we were on the same page. The least you could have done is have the decency to talk to me about this." He shakes his head again and then turns and leaves the room.
I don't move, not even after I hear the front door open and close softly behind him. The apartment grows still. I gaze at the bed, my clothes on the floor, and then, out of nowhere, my eyes fill with tears and a stifled sob erupts from my throat.
Shit.
Twenty