Maybe it mainly helped that she didn’t feel so young and foolish for wanting him. The oh-so-self-possessed and powerful Alexander Knight had admitted to struggling to get a handle on himself. I won’t pretend it’s not torture to be around you, to see you every day. And that “possibly” of his, the way he’d almost whispered it, so fraught, so full of the longing that plagued her, too.
If not a love of their shared misery, it felt like their joint resolve had united them on some level. Team Heroic Restraint.
She laughed and rolled her eyes at herself.
“You laugh now, but he’s not doing you a great favor. McCloskey is a bear of a client.” Jean clicked through the files on her computer, sorting out the ones to authorize for Amber’s access. “Although you’re organized enough to keep them happy. Better you than me, anyway.”
“Knight is giving Amber the McCloskey account?” Joe, who’d returned from Europe with a goatee that didn’t suit him, came around the partition into Jean’s office. “What, did you sleep with him?”
“Inappropriate, Joe. Shut it down.” Jean cut him off, before Amber could react, and with the hell-to-pay tone of the mother of four well-behaved children.
“Jeez—a guy can’t make a joke around here. Good job, though, Amber.”
“I just hope I don’t screw it up,” she offered. Hopefully he wasn’t really annoyed. Illustrative, however, of Alec’s point that people’s minds went there quickly enough, without having a reason for it. Actually I’m getting it because I didn’t sleep with him—not for lack of trying. Of course, that wasn’t entirely true, either. He was giving her a vote of confidence, showing that she belonged here and that they could work well together.
“If you don’t have enough to do, I can arrange to shuffle a few things onto you.” Jean gave Joe the hairy eyeball and he pretended to fend her off.
“No, no, I’m good.” When Jean turned back to her computer, Joe made an exaggerated gesture of wiping sweat from his forehead. “If you need help, though, ask me. Maybe we could have a drink after work some time.”
“Now you’re hitting on her?” Jean grumbled. “No interoffice dating allowed.”
“What? That’s not in the company rules.”
“It should be. Go away, Joe.”
“Jeez, going!”
* * *
For the next week, learning the ins and outs of the McCloskey account, on top of her other work, kept her well occupied. She and Alec had established a tentatively friendly working relationship over the project. Collegial, he’d call it, most likely. He kept the tone between them light, without that cold formality. And, for her part, she pretended not to notice when the back of her neck prickled from his proximity, or the way he sometimes coiled his fingers into a fist or shoved his hands in his pockets when she showed him something on the computer screen.
Though tempted, she resisted the urge to tease him, just a little, at these moments. Some devilish part of her very much wanted to. A deeper part, the starving heart, whispered that if she tempted him enough, he might very well give in, that she could drive him over the edge. Most of the time, she satisfied herself by knowing it.
And if he starred in her fantasies at night, no one need know about it.
It all went reasonably well and, during the day at least, she managed not to think about her sex life—or lack thereof—and what her future might hold. And then Lily invited her to join them for drinks after the partners’ meeting on Friday. They’d asked her to take notes again and she could hardly bypass that opportunity. Since they finished business in quick order, Bill suggested they hit the happy hour in the penthouse bar, his treat. Amber, spending a few more moments cleaning up the notes, heard the exchange.
“Why don’t you come along, Amber,” Lily offered. “Don’t you think, Bill? A little recompense for all the hard work she’s been putting in.”
“Of course you should come along.” Bill seemed genuine, then wouldn’t hear of it when she tried to demur. She felt less conspicuous when they rounded up a few others, a spontaneous reward for those staying late on a Friday night.
She didn’t have to sit near Alec in the big booth Lily snagged, fortunately, since the temptation to subtly flirt with him after a cocktail or two might have overwhelmed her. Unfortunately, he sat directly across the table, squarely between her and the dazzling view of the city skyline, unbearably handsome in his navy pinstriped suit. He’d relaxed, a glass of sipping whiskey in one hand, in a conversation with Bill that made them both laugh. Though their words tumbled under the overall din of conversation, enough leaked through to make her think they were debating the finer points of some sporting event. On the pretext of enjoying the view beyond, she indulged in observing him, his easy smile, how he ticked off his points on the long fingers of one hand, silver watch flashing in the lowering sunlight.
So she caught the moment his expression changed. The flicker of irritated tension as a vaguely familiar woman stopped next to him, provocatively tossing long blond hair over her shoulder. With her profile to Amber, the woman pursed her lips in a seductive pout, and said something that made Alec shake his head. An abrupt gesture of his meant to end further discussion. This woman didn’t seem to know that, however, and handed him a card, which he tucked in his lapel pocket after dismissing her. He frowned at his drink, lifting it, and his gaze snagged on Amber’s. Guilt. Faint embarrassment. It hit her then, where she’d seen the woman.
At the munch. She’d been sitting at the table, wearing the black leather collar. Though she hadn’t been wearing it just now, Alec had recognized her and her invitation.
Had taken her card.
None of her business, naturally. But it burned at her. All his protestations of disappointing weekends and the fate of the single man. Total bullshit.
She sucked down the rest of her martini a bit too fast, making her head—already swimming with unreasonable jealous anger and hurt—that much more woozy. Knowing how irrational she was being only made it worse. She made her excuses, saying goodbye to the table at large, never meeting Alec’s gaze. If he even tried to catch her eye.
Of course, he didn’t come after her.
Which he wouldn’t because they had no relationship. He could sleep with, and kink with, every woman in New York City and she had less than nothing to say about it. In fact, she should be congratulating him.
At least one of them was getting laid.
Fuming, she clipped down the stairs to the subway, joining the press of commuters, the push and shove that usually energized her, made her feel a part of the center of things, but instead seemed as overwhelming as all the rest.
She’d known, hadn’t she? Of course she’d known that about him, had sensed it or observed it in his small habits. They’d talked around the edges of it. Possibly. And what does a foreign single man who’s into domination do to get his kink on but visit one of the very communities she and Kiki had looked up? Jealousy, such an ugly emotion, surged in the back of her throat with bitter bile. Yet she tortured herself by imagining him with that woman. Her, naked and kneeling, wearing that stupid, fucking cliché collar, and him standing over her in his crisp pinstriped suit, that coolly amused smile crossing his lips.
He’d probably find her at the bar after the group broke up. They’d flirt and he’d take her home for the weekend and he’d spend it doing to that blonde bimbo all the things he’d done in all of Amber’s many and imaginative fantasies. The thought seriously burned her ass.
“Hey, it can’t be that bad! A pretty girl like you should smile.” A guy whose elbow was casually looped through the upright as he swayed with the train movement gave her what he likely thought was a charming grin.
She didn’t bother to reply, only glared at him.
“Bitch,” he muttered, turning away.
“Why do they always tell you to smile?” said the woman nex
t to her, readjusting the strap of her laptop bag. “Like they’re God’s gift or something.”
Amber exchanged a rueful look with the woman and, as the train shuddered to a halt, realized she’d missed her stop by two. With a resigned sigh, she got off and made her way to the platform to retrace her steps.
Chapter Nine
Kiki wasn’t home. She’d texted that she had an after-work thing—a book launch party which looked to go late—and Amber was invited to be her date. At the time, she’d refused, already at drinks with her own work crew. In her turmoil, she’d forgotten about it until she got home and changed into a casual sundress, and then it seemed like far too much effort to go back out again.
Home by seven on a Friday night. Alone. Mooning after a guy she couldn’t have. Truly pitiful.
Although, when she considered she could be out with the guy she could have had, who thought she should smile because girls should be perky all the damn time, home alone sounded pretty good in comparison. It still rankled, though, imagining what Alec Knight might be up to. And that woman, having what she couldn’t. What—he’d been very clear and honest about—she never would with him. What she greatly feared she would never have.
A vision of the future her parents wanted for her loomed like a Stepford nightmare. They’d have her marry some nice man from an approved family and they’d live in a pretty house in Connecticut, having vanilla sex until she popped out some kids for the trust fund, dutifully using her maternity leave and then returning to climb the corporate ladder. Over time she would come to care more about color-coordinating the couch pillows with the window treatments, attending the dance recitals and soccer games and observing the company dress code than getting laid. Her boring husband—Biff, his buddies would call him—would lose interest in her, find a nubile mistress, and she wouldn’t even care.
All too real a possibility, as she’d watched that story play out between her parents.
Okay then.
Amber had never been the type to sit around feeling sorry for herself. Or to let one failure stop her. The munch thing hadn’t worked. There were other ways to meet like minds. Time to stop pussyfooting around it. She poured herself a glass of wine and fired up the computer.
With a sense of dipping her toe into water that might be too cold—or, worse, disease-ridden—she went to a BDSM forum and began reading the threads. A lot of subs seeking masters. More masters seeking subs or slaves. Though it made her skin crawl, the language had to be part of it, right? Kind of like branding. People had to give things a label or they couldn’t sort out what they were looking for from the mass of garbage.
Still plenty of garbage to wade through, as it was.
She lurked, reading through conversations and hanging in chat rooms here and there. People would sometimes pair off, or form little groups, and go into private rooms to enact scenes. A lot of the submissive types seemed to pick names that advertised them, like slutgirl69 and 4everUrSlave. Amber could just imagine her mother peering over her shoulder. Do they have to be so tacky? Tempting to continue to lurk, though that would get her exactly where she’d started—missing her opportunities, backtracking and alone. That dismal future with Biff.
So, when she uncloaked, she simply called herself NYCGirl. A few people waved or said hello. Immediately several sent her private messages.
Domme or Sub?
Want to be my slave?
Take off your panties. Stuff them in your mouth and meet me in this private room immediately or you’ll be punished.
No. No. And no.
Feeling a little ill—and okay, cowardly—she logged out and shut down the laptop entirely. Carried her glass of wine to the window and stared out. She and Kiki didn’t have much of a view, but at least the window looked directly across the street and not at a brick wall. She didn’t know how to sort it out, how her fantasies of Alec Knight—or even, before him, her favored faceless stranger—could be so compelling, so profoundly exciting while talking to people actually doing the stuff left her feeling soiled. Bereft, even.
Then she spotted him.
Alec Knight.
Looking as if he’d stepped out of a graphic novel. Standing across the street, hands deep in the pockets of his dark topcoat, streetlamp shining on his face as he looked up at her window.
Her heart gave a foolish, even romantic jump and she lifted her hand to wave. He flinched and took a step, as if he thought to flee. She knew him well enough to see him catch himself. He shook his head slightly, then tipped a finger to his temple in a wry salute. She pointed at him to stay there, grabbed her phone wallet and her heels, then dashed out the door.
She ran down the stairs—far faster than the ancient elevator good only for hauling up groceries could go—praying that he’d still be there. Dashing past the doorman, who only gave her an appreciative grin and a wink for her bare feet, she saw him standing there still, leaning against the lamppost. She stopped to pull on her heels, aware that he watched her do it with that bemused expression she caught on his face sometimes, then crossed between cars.
“I waited,” he said. “You needn’t have run down barefoot. Though I apologize for this. I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why are you?”
He lifted his shoulders, looking past her at the traffic, the people walking by, anywhere but at her. “Impulse. A terrible one at that. I didn’t expect you to come to your window—wasn’t even sure which was yours. I’m a bit drunk.” His gaze came back to her face, then down to take in her bare toes in the high, strappy sandals. “And now I’m caught in the act. I apologize. I’ll go.”
“Don’t.” She’d said it too sharply and his eyes flew to hers. Met and held. Caught. “Maybe we could go get a drink. Talk.”
“About the McCloskey account?” He drew out the creamy syllables, full of irony for them both. “We’ve talked. There’s nothing more to say, is there?”
“If there’s nothing more, why come looking for me?”
“You left so suddenly. I was worried about you and wanted to make sure you had got home safely.” He laughed then, a ragged sound, and ran his fingers through his hair. “And that’s a tidy lie. I knew you were upset—about what you saw, though I don’t know how you knew—and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I think about you all the time.”
“I think about you, too,” she whispered, imagining that, but for this wall of rules between them, she could step into the folds of his open topcoat and wrap her arms around his waist.
“Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.” He said it softly, gaze drifting to her mouth, almost to himself.
She knew that line, from something. “Dante’s Inferno?”
“Marlowe’s Faustus. It’s been on my mind lately. Can’t imagine why.” He shook his head at himself, much as he had when she spotted him out her window. “It’s a cool night and you have no jacket. You should go back in. I’ll cease to stalk your doorstep.”
“There’s a bar on the corner. Let’s go have a drink.”
“We can’t go have a drink together, Amber.” But he didn’t sound firm. Weary, more than anything. An edge of frustrated desperation.
“Why not? We did earlier this evening. Colleagues meet for meals and drinks all the time. If you really want to, we can even discuss the McCloskey account.”
His gaze burned into hers. “You know that’s not what we’d discuss. Not why we’d go for this very ill-advised drink you’re proposing.”
“But you want to,” she insisted, testing him by edging closer.
“I want a great many things I can’t have.”
“Tell me about them.”
He breathed out a laugh. “Because we’re not torturing each other enough as it is?”
Aroused by this conversation as she hadn’t been by the much more frank language from the forum, she cocked her head. �
�You could set the rules. I’ll abide by them.”
* * *
Alec sucked in a breath, gut punched by her suggestion, by the sheer impact of her proximity. Amber stood far too close, looking much too sweetly seductive from her polished candy-pink toenails to her goose-pimpled hard nipples, clearly visible through her pretty cotton sundress. She should really be wearing a jacket. He should never have given into the impulse to come here.
And yet—to be brutally honest with himself, as he needed to be in this fight against temptation—the illicit nature of this meeting added excitement to it. Just as letting himself stand across the street from her building had, indulging in gazing up at it, wondering which window might be hers, his system zinging with desire he hadn’t felt in years.
She felt it, too, soft blue eyes practically glowing in the spring twilight with the challenge. Daring him to set rules for her. So dangerous. So tempting. Maybe knowing how very profoundly he craved exactly that.
“Topping from the bottom, are you, Ms. Dolors?”
“What does that mean?”
Minx. “I think you know. You’re manipulating me masterfully enough.”
“I didn’t make you come here,” she pointed out. “Didn’t even ask you to.”
“For which I’ve apologized and attempted to rectify. You are definitely the one tempting me to stay, to draw out what we both know can never be consummated.”
A hint of stubborn determination to the set of her chin, she pursed her full lips. Considered. “I went to a munch,” she said. Then raised her golden brows, daring him to respond.
Which he nearly had no wherewithal to do. “I...I beg your pardon?” Christ, he actually stammered.
Under His Touch Page 8