Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2)

by Annabel Joseph

  “I didn’t stalk you. I just dug up a little information on your boyfriend.”

  “That’s called stalking.”

  He took my chin and gave it a little shake. “No. Stalking is giving someone an apartment so you can watch them with binoculars from across the street.”

  He was joking, but it wasn’t funny. “Why did you watch me like that?” I felt like we could hash over this forever, and I’d never come to a place where I was okay with it. “Was it a voyeuristic thing? A sex thing? A control thing?”

  He rolled away from me and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. It was a Chere thing. I told you, it was hard to leave. Every session, it was so hard to leave you. If I couldn’t leave you for a week, how do you think it felt to take an extended vacation from your life?”

  “A ‘vacation’? So you always meant to come back?”

  “I don’t know what I meant. I wanted you to graduate and start your life, and then, I thought, maybe...” He covered his eyes and made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know. I want too much of you. I still want too much.”

  “What does that mean?” I wasn’t in the mood for his vague, distancing conversation. “I don’t understand why you keep saying that. How can you want too much from someone who’s already giving y—?”

  “I have a dungeon,” he said, cutting me off. He took his hands away from his face and glared at me. “I have a dungeon, Chere, right here in this apartment, on the other side of this room. It’s got everything, all the furniture and equipment. But I brought you here to the bedroom instead, because...” His voice trailed off.

  “Because you thought your dungeon might scare me?”

  He gave a mirthless laugh. “I know it would scare you. I would have liked that part. No, it’s... I can’t...” He let out a harsh breath. “Look, I’ve always been straight with you. And here’s the truth: since you came back into my life, I’ve been getting it ready for you. I’ve been buying things with you in mind. I fantasize about taking you in there and...”

  “And what?” I asked, even though I was kind of scared to hear the answer.

  “Enslaving you. Training you and hurting you and fucking you up until all you know is Yes, Sir and No, Sir, and What can I do for you, Sir?” He frowned. “You’re going to graduate in a month. You’re going to go out into the world and start a career. You’re going to be happy. You and I...” He made a rough sound. “I’m bad for your happiness. I’m not safe. You know I’m not safe.”

  “You’re safe,” I argued, like he hadn’t just revealed that he’d been outfitting a dungeon for me. I felt annoyed, because I wanted him to be safe. I wanted us to be two normal people without a bunch of fucked up issues. “You try hard not to hurt me,” I pointed out. “You exercise control. You’re not a vampire, or a lion, or some feral coyote.”

  “I might be a feral coyote. That would actually explain a lot.”

  He started kissing me again, hard, soft, licks and nips all over my face and shoulders. He cupped my breasts and then reached down to rake his nails across my tender ass. When I complained, he muffled my whimpers with more kisses, violent ones. I lost track of what happened after that. More sex, more pain, more tender caresses. More sex.

  I was dying to see this dungeon now. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. What can I do for you, Sir? I begged him for details as I drifted to sleep but he wouldn’t answer me. He just left the specter of a Price-designed dungeon hanging over my head. I pictured something awful, cold, and elegantly sadistic. I fell asleep dreaming of a dark, dank cement room with chains looping down from the ceiling, and whips lined up along the wall.

  When I woke the next morning, Price was gone. I vaguely remembered him kissing me around seven, and pulling closed the curtains against the morning light. I stretched my limbs, thrilled by the ache and burn. I felt weak and emptied out, and confused as ever about what had happened between us last night.

  The dungeon.

  I sat up and listened. I didn’t hear him, didn’t hear any sound in the apartment. I grabbed my towel from the night before, wrapped up, and tiptoed out into the hall to look for the dungeon door. He’d said it was right next to his room, but there was no entrance on either side. Damn. The doors on the other side of the hall stood open, revealing tasteful guest rooms and a home office. I sighed and retreated back to his bed.

  “You’re fucking me up,” I said to no one, in the luxuriant silence of the room. I curled up in the smooth sheets, then leaned down to smell his pillow. It held his scent, just like my aching body held his marks and bruises. I rolled back to my own pillow and noticed a note from him on the side table.

  Went for a run. Back soon.

  Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.

  I picked up the note and found another one underneath, also in his handwriting.

  Number of stars in my bowl: 1

  Number of shadows in my soul: 1

  Holy fucking shit.

  Price

  First mistake: taking her to my place.

  Second mistake: admitting I had a dungeon with her name on it.

  I only left her alone in the apartment because I knew she wouldn’t find it. It was hidden, sort of like our feelings toward each other.

  Third mistake: quoting D.H. Lawrence right after mind-blowing sex.

  I’d named her the star in my bowl, the shadow in my soul. What was that shit? Most of the time I had my emo side under control, but her fucking questions in the shower had tapped a bunch of unwanted memories. My relationship history was a morass of rejection, castigation, and deceit. I didn’t trust love. I didn’t trust any woman on earth, but I was starting to trust her. That morning, looking down at her snuggled in my bed, I’d confessed too much. My bad.

  Now she’d take that paper home and put it with the rest of them, and fantasize that I loved her when my love was a toxic, hurtful thing.

  I couldn’t really say where I expected us to end up. I just knew my love wasn’t good for her.

  I also knew I was getting worse, not better. I wanted all of her, every day.

  Price

  On a drizzly April afternoon in Lower Manhattan, Chere graduated from the Norton School of Art and Design. She graduated panty-less, for the record. I thought that was important, and no one could tell thanks to the long, black robe she wore over her dress. My grandmother would have been proud to see the first Stephensen scholarship recipient graduate with high honors. To my chagrin, Martin Cantor handed her the diploma. Fucking Martin.

  I took her to dinner afterward, to a glitzy, ritzy showplace with no prices on the menu. She always said these kinds of restaurants made her uncomfortable, but I loved making her uncomfortable, so it all worked out. I enjoyed her anxiety almost as much as I enjoyed the gourmet dishes set before us.

  “So what happens now?” I asked as our waiter whisked away the final course.

  “Dessert?” she said.

  “No, I mean, what are you going to do now that you’ve graduated? What’s next for you? Where are you planning to look for a job?”

  “Oh.” She rubbed her forehead for a moment. “Tiffany, maybe. Or one of the smaller jewelry firms that recruited at Norton.”

  “In other words, you haven’t thought about it.”

  She gave me a withering look. “My internship was at an architectural firm, so I’m kind of behind the curve on my job search.”

  “What about my investment idea? Using some of my cash to start your own company?”

  She looked sideways at me and tugged her hair. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? What don’t you like about the idea?”

  “I feel like you’ve already given me too much.”

  That response sounded distancing. Protective. Maybe she questioned my motives. Hell, I questioned my motives. I didn’t want to help her start a business, so much as I wanted to prevent her from working for someone else. That someone might overwork her or exploit her, or ask her to relocate to a branch in Hong Kong. W
e’d have to go back to arranged visits, to occasional, fleeting sessions in hotel rooms.

  No.

  “You should do what you want to do,” I said brusquely. “Like I said on your evaluation, you’re ready for whatever your future holds. Just don’t…”

  “Don’t what?” she asked, when I didn’t finish.

  “Don’t let some asshole take advantage of you.”

  I said this with a straight face, like I wasn’t a huge asshole who took advantage of her at every turn. But she’d had worse assholes in her life, like her ex-boyfriend, Simon, or her ex-pimp, Henry, both of whom had exploited her for their own gain.

  “I won’t let anyone take advantage,” she said, rearranging her napkin in her lap. “I know better now.”

  “If you’re not sure you’re getting into a good situation, ask for my opinion. Tell me what’s going on and I’ll tell you if it’s legit. I’ve been involved in design for a while. I’ve worked with a lot of great people, but I’ve worked with a lot of fuckheads too.”

  I shut my mouth because I sounded like a know-it-all idiot. The waiter brought dessert, some chocolate goo with smears of raspberry garnish that looked like blood.

  “Mahogany sacrifice,” I murmured. “Next season’s colors.”

  Chere burst out in laughter that was too loud for the opulent surroundings. The couple next to us looked over in disapproval and I glared at them until they looked away. Chere covered her mouth with her napkin.

  “Sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Am I making a scene?”

  “Yes, you fucking are.”

  That sent her off into more peals of laughter.

  “Eat your fucking dessert,” I scolded. “The chef worked very hard to make it look as if the cake was slaughtered. It’s all the rage. Primal patisserie.”

  “Stop,” she begged. She had tears in her eyes. Not angsty tears for once, but laughter tears. She finally managed to compose herself. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll make you sorry, you fucking slut.”

  She grinned at me over a bite of cake. “I love when you’re in a flirty mood.”

  I stared into her dark eyes, into lust and humor and miraculous acceptance. No other woman would consider those words flirting. I’d never let her go to Hong Kong. If she tried it, I would stop her. I’d fucking tell her no, that it wasn’t allowed.

  “I don’t want you to leave the city,” I said.

  “What?”

  “When you look for jobs, look for something in New York. In Manhattan, if possible. I don’t want you to leave the city.”

  I’d told her so many times that I wouldn’t interfere in her life, or do anything to affect her career. I saw the confusion in her silent regard.

  “I can’t fuck you if you’re not here,” I explained, which was the basic point of this conversation.

  “You work outside New York all the time.”

  “But I come back. I’m here. I want you to be here too.”

  She was suddenly very interested in the tablecloth.

  “What?” I said impatiently. “Am I being unreasonable?”

  “Well, I mean…” She looked up at me. “Do you get to choose where I work? Which job I accept?”

  “I’m only explaining that you need to work in the city or there’s no fucking point.”

  “No point to what?” She hunched up her shoulders and glanced around the glittering room. “What are we doing, Price? Where is our thing going?”

  Fuck. I hoped she wouldn’t ask that, because I didn’t fucking know.

  “Are you going to start up with the girly shit again?” I snapped, because the best defense was a good offense.

  “It’s not girly shit. It’s a legitimate question. I have to make some decisions about where my life’s going.”

  “And?”

  “And,” she said, with a barely restrained eye roll, “are we headed anywhere, like, commitment-wise?”

  Neither one of us touched our plates of chocolate cake. They sat between us, berry stained monstrosities.

  “I mean, I just want to know,” she said.

  I sighed and pushed the cake to the side. “I thought you were done with relationships. I thought you wanted us to stay detached. You know about our ‘thing,’ Chere. I want to fuck you. I want you available for fucking. Are you going to start whining about your feelings now, and my lack of commitment? Because I’m not going to put up with it.”

  “Oh, are you going to leave?”

  Fuck!

  It was a perfectly timed and scathingly executed reminder that I didn’t hold all the power in our anti-relationship. It put me off my game for a moment. The waiter brought the check, providing me some time to gather my shit.

  Why was she pressing me for these kinds of answers? We’d both agreed we didn’t want to get embroiled in some complicated relationship. I took out my card and studied her stiff posture, her guarded expression. I wished I had the laughter back.

  “This is stupid,” I said. “You just graduated. Why are we discussing this tonight?”

  “Because I just graduated.”

  “So what? Nothing has to change. All I said was that I wanted you to get a job in the city. That’s all.”

  “You can’t make those decisions. Unless...”

  “Unless what?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

  “Unless we’re a couple,” she said. “A committed couple.”

  I snorted. “Is that what you want, Chere? That hot fucking mess?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a mess.”

  “Any relationship with me would be a mess. Trust me. You’d end up a miserable wreck, and you’ve been there, done that, right? You said you didn’t want that again.”

  “A miserable wreck? Really? You keep saying how bad you’d be for me, all dungeons and torture all the time, but I don’t believe you.” Her steady gaze skewered me. “You give me poetry. You have feelings. I know you have feelings,” she repeated when I looked away.

  “Keep your fucking voice down.”

  “You care about me. You wouldn’t have done all the things you’ve done if you didn’t have a heart. Why can’t we try a relationship and see where it goes?”

  It’ll go to hell, starshine. It’ll go to sadness and destruction. Out loud I said, “I don’t want a fucking relationship with you. Get over it. There’s no fucking way.”

  She kept at me like a fucking badger. “All through the internship you told me there’s always a way. Don’t let anyone tell you no. I know we’re both fucked up. I know we both have issues—”

  “I meant that there was always a way in design.”

  We fell silent, scowling from opposite sides of the table. The waiter slunk back to get my card. Once he left, she frowned at me and sat up very straight.

  “There’s a way for us, Price,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?” I sneered. “Love? Marriage? Children?”

  “If you want it. You said to never accept the answer no.”

  “Too bad. I’m telling you no. That’s not what I want.”

  “The dungeon then. A slave and a lover.”

  A slave and a lover. Would that be so bad?

  Yes. For her, it would be the worst fucking thing of all.

  “You just graduated,” I said again, and now I sounded like I was pleading.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  I’m afraid of your unhappiness. I’m afraid you’ll want to go, and I won’t want to let you go.

  “Can’t we wait?” I asked. “Can’t we wait a fucking month or two, until you’re settled in a job? I like things the way they are. Why do we have to force ourselves into some kind of serious relationship just because you’re out of school?”

  She looked away from me, hunching her shoulders even higher. She didn’t understand. There’s always a way, she insisted. Why had I told her that? Every relationship I’d ever entered had ended in drama or litigation. There was no happily ever after with a guy like me, which I’d repeatedly tried
to explain to her.

  But maybe…this time…

  She’s not like the other ones.

  That was the danger. She wasn’t like the other ones. She didn’t just want my cock or my money. She was after my fucking soul.

  Chere

  “So, can you come?” Andrew asked, bouncing up and down on my couch. “You have to come. It’s going to be a huge party. Craig’s invited tons of his art friends, and three or four of the curators from the Met.”

  “I’m definitely coming,” I said, which sent him into more paroxysms of joy.

  Now that Andrew had graduated, his boyfriend Craig was throwing him a launch party at the gallery where he worked. They were going to put up Andrew’s paintings and show them off to everyone in Manhattan’s high-art network, from the tastemakers to the gallery owners and museum curators. It was perfect timing, because Andrew had recently turned in his notice to Henry. He told me he felt like a quitter.

  I told him it was okay, because he’d found something better than escorting. Love.

  Yes, Andrew was in love. I’d met Craig and Andrew for dinner a few days ago, and I absolutely approved. They were an amazing couple. Price had come too, to finally meet my friend. It was the first time we’d had a “date” type of dinner with another couple. Andrew had phoned me afterward to swoon repeatedly about Price, at least until Craig called him away into the bedroom. They were already living together, because they were that loved up.

  Meanwhile…Price and I…

  Ugh. I’d talked the big talk about wanting to be independent, about not wanting to participate in any more relationships, but I was full-on in love with him again, and the sentiment was not returned. The most committed thing we’d done since I graduated was exchange test results so we could stop using condoms.

  As for my job search, I tweaked my resume and sent it out, but the big houses were looking for on-trend designers, not someone who delighted in the strange and spare. Bulgari offered to bring me on as an unpaid intern, but the last thing I wanted was another internship. My career advisor at Norton called the second week out. Was I finding success in my job search? Had I tapped into my contacts? When I explained my unsuitability for the current market, they advised me to stay in touch with my internship mentor.