Don't Ever Stop: A BDSM Billionaire Romance

by Rock, Vivie

I smiled and drank some of my coffee. It was like drinking honey. Three sugars, my ass! There must’ve been at least ten in there. ‘That’s so sweet, Patrick,’ I said, and saw a blush spread across his cheeks. He obviously thought I was referring to him as sweet, and not the coffee. I found myself blushing too, and didn’t try to correct myself.

  For the next couple of hours, the sugary coffee woke me up enough to get on with a bit of work. I finished up an ad I’d started working on yesterday afternoon, and even managed to make a couple of calls to clients, put some feelers out, generate a bit more business to follow-up on later in the week. Patrick got on with his work too, and Jen still remained absent. I didn’t discuss it with Patrick, but I decided she must have pulled a sickie, not because of a hangover – as I was sure her liver had taken worse abuse than that, and she’d still come to work the next day – but, I thought hopefully, maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she felt terrible about her cruel display last night, and was building up the courage to apologize. And I, of course, would graciously accept. That was my daydream, anyway. I’ve probably already told you that I’m a bit of a daydreamer.

  When the clock hit twelve I didn’t waste any time in hurrying out of the office and into the cool air outside. I’d been planning on getting myself a big lunch, to make sure I soaked up any last remaining alcohol fumes inside me, and also to try and replace some of that weight I’d lost through the recent nerves and anxiety of finishing my Degree and starting my first proper job. But once I was out in the open, enjoying the refreshing breeze, I found myself heading towards the shopping mall instead of the pizza place.

  It wasn’t a big mall. It was the kind you get in suburbs all over the world, with too many indoor plants, scuffed sneaker marks on the floor, and the smell of disinfectant and hot dogs wherever you go. You know the type. I passed a couple of candy stores, a mother and baby store, and then a place selling cheap garden furniture, and headed straight for Kohl’s. I couldn’t afford anything fancy; I’d already got myself a dress for the awards last night. I’d have to go without all other luxuries until payday. But something told me I ought to buy a new outfit for my meeting at Global tomorrow. Whether I was about to get a punch in the guts or a handshake, I wanted to look good. This was Global Media, for Chrissakes. I couldn’t wear my mousey-brown pants and a crinkly old shirt there. I needed something confidence-boosting. Something that made me feel worthy.

  On the way to Kohl’s, I spotted a display in a window on my right that caught my attention. I stopped walking, and went up to the window. In the center of the display, there was a white mannequin, its skin like polished marble, and upon its body was the tightest, most revealing dress I’d ever seen. I mean, sure, I’d seen all manner of teeny tiny outfits on popstars, on the screen. I’d seen Lady Gaga in sheer dresses which barely covered her private parts. Paris Hilton in ‘princess’ dresses with thigh-high slits, Gwyneth in jaw-dropping side-butt-showing outfits. But you can get away with that sort of thing on the red carpet. You can’t get away with it in real life.

  And yet the dress in this window was for sale, for women strolling through the mall to pick up and try on. There was no visible price tag, but this wasn’t a showy mall. It couldn’t be more than – what? A hundred dollars? Two hundred?

  The top half of the dress contained three thin straps at the back, made of a luxurious, shiny black fabric. They wound around to the front, where they opened out into two thin black triangles, to cover little more than the mannequin’s (non-existent) nipples. Beneath the waistline, the silky black material clung to the model’s hips, with two thin, sheer panels down each side. The hemline of the skirt was short, skimming the thighs. It was devastatingly beautiful – and devastating at the same time.

  I took a closer look at the mannequin. Nope. She wasn’t wearing panties – they would have been on display with a dress like this. But would anybody wear this for real? Where would you wear it? A restaurant? A nightclub?

  I realized that I had my hand pressed up to the glass. I looked around at the other shoppers in the mall, but no-one seemed to have noticed me. I wasn’t exactly someone that stood out; I’d always been good at blending into a crowd. Even when I was standing slack-jawed at a store window, practically falling against the glass.

  Anyway, what was I doing? I needed to find a dress I could actually wear tomorrow. Something smart, conservative, businesslike. Something that could make me look like less of a young girl, fresh out of university. Less like the girl who cried onstage in front of everybody who’s anybody in the world of newspapers last night.

  I wanted, finally, to be taken seriously.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Whole Lotta Flowers

  Back at the office, Patrick was asleep at his desk. I put my shopping bag down by the door, took off my jacket, and then settled down to work. The dress I’d bought in the end wasn’t too bad. It was inexpensive – thank you, Kohl’s – but smart and flattering. Pale green, like the underside of ivy leaves, with an Empire waist, knee-length, and with a sweetheart neckline. Not bad for fifty dollars.

  As I worked, I tried to hit my computer keys quietly, so I didn’t wake Patrick. He looked kind of cute, scrunched up on his desk like that. I hadn’t been here long, but he’d been a pretty good friend to me since I’d started. I was pleased I worked in a place with someone like him.

  Now and then, I felt his eyes on me. In more than a friendly way, I think. My guess was just that Patrick had a thing for the ladies – he could have charmed anyone he wanted with that lovely Irish accent of his, that fluffy blond hair, that cheeky smile. I mean, I wasn’t attracted to him or anything… Of course not. If anything, he looked a bit too similar to my ex-boyfriend, actually. My ex, Jacob, and I had been in a relationship throughout the whole of university. It was me that finally broke it off. Jacob was a lovely guy – a med student, with an immaculate academic record, a place on the university baseball team. My mom and dad loved him. Mom in particular. They’d go out of their way to impress him when he came to stay, bringing him tea and cakes – things they never did for other guests, trying to charm him with stories from their youth. I think, in many ways, they made more of an effort with him than I did.

  The problem, though, was that I just didn’t feel it. That spark. That head-over-heels feeling I’d been assured by Hollywood that I’d feel when I met Mr. Right. Jacob was just… Jacob. Nice, polite, smart, Jacob. He was always saying things like, ‘It’s up to you, honey, whatever you think’s best,’ and ‘What do you want me to do, darling? Whatever it is, I’ll do it.’ Stuff like that.

  When I thought about it, on my more hormonal days, I got this sick, knotted feeling in my stomach when I thought about breaking up with Jacob. We’d talked about moving in together, having a family… heck, we hadn’t even had sex yet. Can you believe that? Three years together and we’d never got further than third base. And that was only once or twice.

  I just wanted it to be special. But whenever I tried to work out what ‘special’ involved, I couldn’t figure it out. Candles? Music? Oysters? Wine? I know Jacob would have done all of that stuff for me. He would have done anything. By the end, he appeared desperate. I only had to say ‘I like lilies’ and I’d get a bunch of them, waiting outside my dorm room door within the hour. But it never felt right to me. And so, when push came to shove, and we went away for the weekend to cerebrate the end of my Degree, to a cottage in the countryside, with a four-poster bed, candles, not another soul in sight for miles on end… that’s when I did it. I broke up with him. ‘I’m sorry, Jacob,’ I told him. ‘It’s just not working for me. It’s not you…’ You know, all the usual clichés. I mean, you’re probably getting an idea of how much of a nervous rambler I can be sometimes. Well, this was a three-hour epic. At the end of it, we were both crying, and then Jacob drove me back home, said goodbye to my parents, and we never talked again.

  That was two months ago. And I still honestly don’t know if I did the right thing.

  My phone rang at around ha
lf two, waking Patrick up and making him jump. ‘Shit!’ he shouted. ‘What did I miss?’

  I shrugged my shoulder up to my ear, indicating that I was taking a call, and he got up and left the room. After a couple of minutes he came back, spruced up, smelling of aftershave, and looking back to his old self.

  I had finished my call now. ‘Nice nap?’ I asked, smiling.

  ‘Not bad thanks, flower,’ said Patrick. He’d taken to calling me that since he found out my name was Rose on the first day. It was kind of funny. He was actually one year younger than me, but he spoke to me like I was a delicate little thing in need of protecting sometimes. Patrick straightened his tie as he sat down, licking his lips, which looked a little dry all of a sudden. ‘Listen, Rose. Feel free to tell me to fuck off or shut up or whatever, but do you fancy… maybe… going for a quick hair of the dog after work?’

  ‘Hair of the dog?’ I asked.

  ‘A quick drink. Hangover cure. Just a small one.’

  I was exhausted. I still hadn’t eaten. I’d got a meeting at Global I needed to be fresh for the next day. But thinking about Jacob this afternoon had been stirring something inside me…

  Patrick’s a nice guy.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I accept your offer. Just one drink.’

  One drink won’t hurt. Will it?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hair Of The Dog

  The bar opposite work wasn’t the nicest in the world. It had a couple of pool tables in the corner, dominated by men in vest tops with faded tattoos. There were big plasma LCD screens on every wall, and the barmaids had a sort of grumpy, jaded look, so that even though most of them were probably my age, they looked like they’d been stuck in this job for a thousand years. It made me even more eager to get somewhere with my career. Advertising sales wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do, but it was a start. All I needed to do now was figure out the rest… Easy, right?

  Patrick was on his third drink, and I was on my second. I’d eaten a bowl of chips, at least, so I’d lined my stomach, but it was hardly the hearty meal I’d planned on having today. I’d raid the refrigerator when I got home later. Mom would have put some cold potato salad in there, if I was lucky. That had been one of my favorites since I was a girl. I sometimes thought I’d do anything for a bowl of potato salad.

  ‘Well,’ Patrick said, taking a big swig of beer. ‘Jen’s gonna get in trouble with Christina tomorrow. She hates it when people pull sickies. Even if you are genuinely sick, come to think of it. She’d much rather you sat at your desk, vomiting, than stayed at home, not making any money.’

  ‘Or stayed at your desk sleeping,’ I said, giving Patrick a playful poke in the ribs.

  We were both silent for a moment. It was the first time I’d ever broken the invisible ‘personal space’ barrier between us. I felt like maybe touching his torso had been the wrong thing to do. I mean, if he’d touched mine…

  Luckily, Patrick began smiling again, and I decided I hadn’t upset him.

  ‘I feckin’ hate baseball,’ Patrick said, looking up at the plasma screen opposite us. The volume was off, but it looked like a rowdy scene. The fans were cheering and yelling. The camera zoomed in on a young boy, stuffing his face full of popcorn, and a man beside him, presumably his father, spilling beer on top of his son’s head.

  ‘You hate baseball?’ I said, grinning. Maybe Patrick wasn’t so similar to Jacob after all.

  ‘Not my thing at all,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m a lacrosse man.’

  He struck a silly pose, as if he was holding a lacrosse stick, and we both burst out laughing, and this time, Patrick gave me a playful nudge. He didn’t touch my ribs though, like I’d done with him. He went for the safer option of the lower arm.

  I couldn’t believe this. It felt like I was flirting. After I broke up with Jacob I thought that maybe I’d never find anyone to flirt with again. And it felt nice. Really nice. Patrick was a nice guy.

  I made a mental note to stop using the word ‘nice’ so often.

  ‘So tell me about yourself, Rose,’ Patrick said, wriggling slightly further forwards on his seat, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on mine. ‘What do you do when you’re not working in the glamorous world of local news?’

  I smiled. ‘Well, I finished university in the summer,’ I told him. ‘I have an English Language Degree.’

  Patrick pretended to nod off, and I almost poked him in the ribs again, but restrained myself.

  ‘At uni I did a lot of swimming. I like getting out into the countryside on my bike. I love riding as fast as I can. Sometimes–’ I broke off, realizing what I was about to say.

  ‘What?’ Patrick urged.

  ‘Sometimes I feel like all I want to do is ride on my bicycle, as far away as possible, and never come back.’

  ‘Ride where?’

  ‘Anywhere but here,’ I said, with a sad shrug, realizing I’d never said that out loud before.

  Patrick studied me long and hard for a while. I felt his eyes boring deep into me. ‘Ah,’ he said at last, ‘a nihilistic escapist. I can see why you’ve joined advertising sales. Welcome aboard. You’re one of us, now.’ He grinned again, and I felt embarrassed I’d let my guard down like that, but pleased by his reaction.

  ‘What do you say?’ asked Patrick, picking up his drink. ‘One more for the road?’

  I looked at my empty glass, and shook my head. ‘I’d better not,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be sensible. Big day tomorrow.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ve already had double my weekly allowance this last couple of days, anyway.’

  Did I detect a hint of disappointment in Patrick’s voice?

  ‘Alright,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to the station,’ Patrick said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I replied. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. When I get back from Global.’

  I picked up my bags, and walked away from the table, leaving Patrick finishing his drink. I wasn’t sure why I’d just walked away so suddenly like that. I think it was because I sensed something.

  Patrick was about to make a move on me. I’m sure of it.

  And I just don’t know if I was ready for that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Going Global

  The Global Media building was on the other side of New York – the good side – in Midtown Manhattan. It was one of many skyscrapers, so tall that if you looked right up at the top of them from the sidewalk you felt dizzy. The Global skyscraper was particularly special. It stood out from all the other skyscrapers, even the iconic landmarks such as The Chrysler Building and the Empire State. The Global building was based on the idea of Chinese boxes. I remembered reading about it in the papers a couple of years ago, when it was unveiled. Chinese boxes come in sets, graduating in size, each box fitting inside a next, larger box. They’re a bit like Russian dolls. Imagine a set of seven Chinese boxes, stacked on top of one another, towering into the sky, and you’ll get an idea of the shape of the building.

  But it was more than just the shape that made it special. Within each stacked box, the façade was made up of two layers. The space between the two layers was used for lush landscaping. Bonsai trees and bamboo could be seen growing behind the huge, crystal-clear panes of glass, along with Japanese cherries and wisteria. In effect, the outer layer of the building was one giant glasshouse, containing the most exotic plants I’d ever seen, in greens and pinks, yellows and indigos.

  And it was a clever technique. The building was so startling to look at that you forgot you were looking at the home of a major news corporation. You couldn’t see the tired journalists pulling all-nighters. The covert interviewees selling their life’s secrets. You just saw a hub of lush, eastern promise. Even the Global Media logo had been given an oriental makeover since Redmond Cooper had become CEO of the company. This man had revolutionized everything.

  I crossed the road, heading up to the building, pulling at the hem of my green dress. It felt oddly frumpy in the face of such opu
lence. I was dreading whatever this morning’s meeting was about to bring. I honestly had no idea what anyone at Global Media could want with me, a newbie at advertising at The Chronicle, with just three week’s experience and a bog-standard English Language Degree behind me. I’d been wracking my brains about it all of last night, after I left Patrick at the bar, and all of this morning on the way here. I could only conclude that I was probably in trouble for something. Or being maybe Christina was right. I was being asked to give away some company secrets. They’d seen a weakness in me at the awards, tears rolling down my cheeks, and they’d thought: she’ll do it. She’ll sell her own people out. She’s got nothing to lose.

  I walked into the sliding doors, impressed by the sudden scent of greenery. It was like stepping into a Botanical garden, not a workplace. It made me feel a little calmer. I could smell the flowers on the trees, too. It was spring, and the cherry blossom was out in here. Beautiful.

  I stepped forwards, towards reception.

  Behind a large, polished mahogany desk, sat a perfectly made-up and manicured woman, bearing a name tag inscribed with Judy. Her hair was scraped back into a bun, showing off her razor-sharp cheekbones, and her lips were painted a bright, glossy red. ‘Yes?’ she asked, kind of moodily.

  ‘H-hello,’ I stammered. ‘I work at The Chronicle–’

  Judy stopped looking at her nails and looked up at me, paying me attention now, flashing me a wide smile. ‘You must be Rose Smith,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, amazed.

  ‘No need to look so shocked,’ she laughed. ‘I’ve been told we’re expecting you. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Champagne?’

  Champagne! At nine in the morning?

  ‘No, I’m okay thanks,’ I said, marveling at the difference between this place and my own workplace. I felt like I was getting movie star treatment!

  ‘Here, let me take your jacket,’ Judy said, stepping out from behind her desk, revealing her long legs, encased in immaculate, sheer, (five? ten?) denier pantyhose, and high heels.