Bonds of Attraction (Full Length Erotic Romance Novel)

by Alana Davis

  My skin had turned red. I turned off the shower and stood there, dripping in the steamy bathroom. A wave of emotion flooded me and I felt like crying. Tears welled up in my eyes and I fought them back. Somehow I viewed crying as giving in to some sort of despair that I refused to let take hold.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and walked out of the bathroom. As I walked to my bedroom, I couldn’t stop myself from looking over to where the blanket still lay in a heap by the fireplace. Images of Leon looking up at me flashed in my head. I shook them off and walked into my bedroom.

  I had never slept with a client before. There had been plenty of temptations. A few clients had been so appealing that I had considered referring them to another matchmaker just so I could sleep with them. But my professionalism always remained steadfast.

  I remembered one temptation very clearly. Three years ago, a young writer had hired me. His first book had been a sleeper hit after a celebrity had purchased the rights for the movie. When he came to me, he was approaching thirty, but his face still maintained a boyish charm that I instantly took to. Clean-cut hair adorned his head. When he smiled, his face turned radiant.

  During our first meeting, he pushed back his thick black-framed glasses every few minutes, adjusting them neurotically. It was clear that he was somewhat of an awkward one, but he was friendly and incredibly smart. His arms were wrapped with chiseled muscle; he explained that working out steadied his creative mind and provided it focus.

  There had been something incredibly sexy about him. During a conversation, he really listened. Even while he listened, you could almost see the gears moving in his head. Behind his eyes lurked a darkness that I wanted to explore. I had read his books, and if he were half as deviant as his characters, I definitely wanted to explore that.

  His eyes had revealed his desires. They looked me over as a man dying of thirst in the desert eyes a canteen of water. I felt myself getting turned on as he canvassed my body with those bright blue eyes hidden behind thick glasses that only added to his sex appeal. I wondered silently to myself just how much he had worked out to steady his creative mind.

  The young writer had been unable to meet women on his own. Even with his new-found success and relative fame, he had struggled to meet anybody that he could connect with. He wasn’t interested in one night stands and when I heard this, I almost dared to challenge him on it. In the end though, I matched him with a painter. He sent me a copy of his third book with a personalized inscription in it. In the same package, there was a wedding invitation.

  Even with the young writer and the numerous others who had turned me on, I had always kept it under control. My attraction had never even led to me fantasizing about them while I pleasured myself. With Leon, I had done just that. And now, it had become a reality.

  I dressed myself mindlessly, lost in my thoughts. I adorned a simple ensemble and gave it no more thought as I dived deeper into my anxiety over Leon.

  I had brought him home. That had been an even deeper violation of my own code of behavior than sleeping with a client. As unprofessional as it was to sleep with a client, I could have almost moved past it without too much of a problem if it had been an encounter in a hotel room or at his place. I had done neither of those things; I had brought him here and lied to myself that it wouldn’t lead to anything other than a furthering of our professional relationship.

  Had I known what was going to happen when I brought him here? It was possible that I had pushed back the conscious thought of seducing Leon in my place, or at least setting the stage for a perfect environment for it. I had undressed him! Then I had built a fire and sat next to him. He had still been naked when he told me to get out of my clothes. What did I think was going to happen?

  I may have known on some level that bringing him home would result in us having sex, but when I undressed him, it hadn’t been sexual. Leon had stood before me, practically a broken man. I had undressed him like I was a nurse and he was a patient of mine. After I wrapped him in the blanket, I had to walk him over to the fireplace.

  He had been so vulnerable. When he told me about Kevin, I had cried genuine tears over the death of a boy that I had never known nor would ever know. I had cried over Leon’s pain. When I saw that his eyes burned red from tears and anguish, my heart had melted.

  I had let my sympathy get to me. My feelings over his loss had confused me. My heart raced faster and faster as I contemplated the idea that I had genuinely warmed to Leon. Could I have developed feelings? Were those feelings deepening, even now? It was a terrifying thought.

  Leon had left without so much as a word of goodbye or a note after we had fallen asleep in each other’s arms following the most intense and satisfying sex that I had ever had. Leon must have not had many experiences like that either. Most of his sexual escapades involved whips and restraints. How many of those had started with heartfelt stories about his deepest tragedy?

  I had shown no restraint. With Leon naked next to me, I had allowed myself to be open to the possibility of sex. When he had begun to take off my wet shirt, our fate was sealed. How could I have been so foolish?

  I made myself a fruit salad in the kitchen. It was as though I were watching myself make breakfast and not actually doing it myself. I felt saddened that I had lost control over myself. It stung to think that I had betrayed myself on such a profound level.

  I had brought a man home. That man had been a client. I had slept with the client. Now, I was eating a fruit salad in my kitchen, alone and feeling like I had made a catastrophic mistake.

  My despair didn’t remain for long. It soon fell away to anger. Leon Christensen had given me his whole sob story, fucked me, and then left. He left like last night was completely meaningless. I felt the anger swell inside of me when I began to think that it probably was meaningless for a person like Leon. Sex was something that was so easy for Leon, it lacked any substantive value.

  A name crept into my thoughts. Dominic. I had sex with Dominic recently and it had meant nothing to me. He had even been nice and offered for me to crash at his place. Was I really any different than Leon?

  Last night had been different. Despite the fear it brought up in me, it was the truth. Whether the sex was a physical release or something deeper, Leon had bared a part of his soul to me. That had to have meant something. But left in my empty apartment, I felt betrayed. I felt like Leon had used me to get through the anniversary of his friend’s death. How many other women had he sat next to, crying over his dead friend until the conversation gave way to sex?

  There was no way to know the answers to my questions. This only angered me further; if Leon were here, we could resolve so much. Instead, he had come and gone as he pleased. My home was my sanctuary and he had treated it like a hotel.

  After a while, my anger began to relent. Leon hadn’t really done me any wrong. I had invited him to my home and it wasn’t as if I had told him to make sure he didn’t leave before telling me. I knew it was silly to feel that Leon had violated my code of not bringing a man home; I had brought him here. He had no idea that I didn’t bring men home. Yet I still felt angry.

  I rode the wave of emotions all the way into work. Even with the radio blasting, my mind screamed louder over the music. My heart raced when I thought of my professional reputation. I felt anger over Leon’s dismissal through his leaving. More than anything, I was hurt. I was hurt, and there was nobody to blame but myself.

  Chapter 11

  It was a beautiful morning, the sun shining high in the sky without a single cloud to block it. The rain seemed a distant memory. I drove to work with all the windows down and the warm wind blowing through my hair. It felt wonderful, but did little to calm my nerves. I pulled into the parking lot of the office, suddenly aware that my music was too loud and there were no windows to shield the noise.

  I walked into the office, sunglasses still on. A headache throbbed behind my ears and I felt hungover despite not having had a single sip of anything alcoholic the previous night
.

  “Good morning Miss Facet,” April said pleasantly. She worked continuously on the computer before her, barely looking at me when she spoke. “You have a ten-thirty with Charles Schreiber but he called to change it to eleven. I told him that would be alright.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Eleven’s fine. When he comes, you can send him right in.”

  I looked around my office. One of the chairs for my clients was pulled out before my desk. In an instant, I saw Leon sitting there, his legs crossed, his face smug. A sly smile spreading across his lips. Echoes of his voice filled the office.

  I sat down at my desk and the memory of Leon vanished. I turned on my computer and waited for it to boot up. Being in the office had the calming effect that I had desperately wanted all morning. If I had only known, I thought, I would have come here immediately. Fuck the shower and the breakfast. I could have sat back in my desk and known that everything was alright. Nothing was different.

  I knew better. Something was different. I had broken my own commandments. Client or not, there was something significant about everything going on; Leon Christensen had gotten into my head.

  “Hello, Miss Facet,” a man’s voice said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but your secretary said to just come in.”

  Charles Schreiber stood in the doorway, a tall man with a full head of black hair streaked with grey. He wore an apologetic smile along with a well-tailored suit. For a man in his late fifties, he looked great.

  “Oh no, you’re not disturbing me at all,” I said as I rose from the desk. I extended a hand and we shook. His grip was firm, but not crushing. Charles maintained eye contact throughout the handshake.

  I thought of Leon’s sapphire eyes blazing into mine. Locked in a different embrace, one where he was inside of me. Energy flowed through us like we were plugged into each other. Even the memory sent my hair standing on edge. Goosebumps flared over my skin and I felt my clothes grow mildly uncomfortable.

  “Please, sit,” I said, not skipping a beat.

  Charles Schreiber looked nothing like Leon, thankfully. Wrinkles lined the corners of his lips from decades of smiles. His hair was perfectly trimmed, and although he probably had shaven only a few hours ago, the faintest hint of a beard was forming on his cheeks. Dark brown eyes looked at me from across my desk, and I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief that they weren’t blue.

  “So, Mr. Schreiber,” I said. “It’s been about two weeks since we’ve last met. Tell me, how is your match with Miss Hoover going?”

  Charles’s face lit up. His lips smiled involuntarily before he even began to speak. I could see the excitement rise in him right when I mentioned his match’s name. I wrote down in my notepad that the reaction was immediate, a great sign.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Absolutely wonderful. Rebecca is amazing. We really get along and we’re even different enough that it’s always exciting. I know I’m probably jumping the gun on what I’m about to say, but I’m already thinking that this is moving towards something long-term. And I know it won’t be exciting like this forever, but I’m just as excited about that.”

  When Charles Schreiber talked about his match, Rebecca Hoover, he looked ten years younger. He even spoke like a seventeen year old boy who had just fallen in love.

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” I said. It was the truth. It was a welcome reprieve to escape from my own thoughts of Leon. Watching Charles light up like a kid on Christmas morning eased my tension. I already felt like I was back in my element.

  “The chemistry was instant. Like BOOM!” Charles exclaimed, clapping his hands together in a loud clap. We shared a brief laugh before he continued. “It really was. After the first date, I knew that I had to see this woman again.”

  I remembered my meeting with Charles after the first date. That had been the last time we had met. He had been excited then, sure, but his excitement was contained. He had been almost guarded about being too optimistic.

  “She’s very interesting. I can see myself wanting to get to know her,” Charles had said, his voice calm. It was the reservations of a man who knew better than to get overly excited too fast. But I had sensed that sparks were flying. “Rebecca is definitely unique.”

  Rebecca Hoover was Charles’s senior by one year. She had kept herself well-maintained, much like Charles, and could easily have passed for a woman in her early forties. Her beauty was the kind that could easily attract men in their early twenties, but she had been clear about the kind of man she wanted.

  “I’m not looking for a young man. I want a man my age. I don’t want some walking hard-on looking for some cougar or something. I’m interested only in a partner, a real partner,” Rebecca had said.

  I liked her instantly. When she spoke, she spoke directly and made eye contact. Her posture was excellent, yet she always seemed to look comfortable. I saw a woman that I could look up to.

  Rebecca Hoover was a college professor. She held two PhDs, one in molecular biology and another in mathematics. Unlike most academics, however, she was rich. Rebecca had explained to me that she owned more patents than she had birthdays, and when she explained what they were in, I had no reference for the words she spoke to me. Apparently this brought in a fortune for her annually.

  Talking to Rebecca had been a humbling experience. I had always considered myself to be a highly intelligent and driven woman; compared to Rebecca Hoover, I was neither of those things. Rather than be discouraged, I felt inspired. Despite my admiration, I quickly realized that Rebecca was going to be extremely difficult to match.

  Many of the men that I took on as clients were very rich. Most of them had advanced degrees, but the majority of them were in business. These men were great at making money and understanding how to operate a business, but it was clear that Rebecca was an intellectual powerhouse. Most men would cower before her. As she intimidated most men, hence, she had come to me.

  It had been a month before Charles contacted me. He was a hedge fund owner. He dealt with highly complex mathematical calculations on a daily basis, taking a personal interest in running the hedge fund himself. Prior to owning a hedge fund, he acquired a PhD in mathematics from Yale and subsequently taught there before leaving to pursue his fortune in finance.

  Upon hearing of Yale, I immediately thought of Rebecca. One of her PhDs was from Yale. Charles, while much more reserved with his intelligence, was clearly brilliant. Yet I knew that this would not be enough to secure a match.

  “Did you know that she can cook? Rebecca is not only the smartest woman, no, the smartest person, I have ever met, but she’s a demon in the kitchen. And she only cooks with vegetables! That woman is a certifiable genius,” Charles said.

  Rebecca Hoover was an avid practitioner of yoga. For the past twenty years, she had lived as a vegan and ran every day. She read more books in a month than I thought possible and didn’t own a television, although she loved to go out to the movies. Red wine was her absolute favorite dinner drink and she made sure to have at least one glass a day.

  “I swear, if she keeps cooking half as good as she has, I’ll never want for meat again.”

  Charles ran every day of his life. While not a vegan, he avoided meat more often than not out of concern for his own health. He had one son who was in law school in New York City and their relationship was good. He liked a strong beer but he didn’t indulge often over fear of getting a gut like his dad has. When I asked him about his favorite television shows, he struggled to remember shows that he watched as a boy; he didn’t own a television either. The library in his house, he told me, was the entire basement level.

  “You’ve really done an excellent job. I can’t thank you enough.”

  I wondered where Leon was; I couldn’t help it. While Charles stared me with gratitude all over his face, my mind drifted right back to my problems. Hearing about his new budding romance filled me with both happiness and sadness. Why couldn’t I be so lucky?

  The reason was clear. I wasn’t looking for r
omance. Charles and Rebecca had come to me specifically for romance. It was easy to find romance when you’ve hired someone to do all the legwork for you. Yet I didn’t begrudge either of them.

  “Trust me, you’ve thanked me plenty every time you’ve paid me,” I said smiling. It was an old joke that worked every time. The client always laughed and I shared in with a smaller laugh. Charles was no exception.

  “Still, I never would have tried something like this if it weren’t for Dean’s referral,” Charles said. Dean Atkins was a younger business associate of Charles. He had been a client of mine two years ago. He was married now and expecting his first child. “You really lived up to my expectations. It’s no surprise you’re such a successful matchmaker.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I was grateful for his kind words, but I couldn’t agree less. Yes, I was great at matching other people together. But what did it say about me that I couldn’t even handle my own personal life? I was in the business of love and meanwhile my own romantic encounters were one night stands and career damaging hook-ups with clients.