by CELENE CAREY
“There are to be no calls, sub.”
“Yes, sir,” she vowed.
Then, the phone began to ring again. This time, he cursed. And instead of asking more questions, he smacked her again. Then, again. And each time it rang, his hand fell across her skin with a resounding echo. She shook, her release imminent. On a normal night, his hand alone upon her flesh would not bring her so close, but with the belt strikes first, his hand tonight was more than enough to have her huffing and puffing.
He would not offer and she could not come until he demanded it. A pounding headache pulsed behind her eyes. The pain of withholding her orgasm worse than his strikes. Unable to stop it, a moan erupted her lips. Her sheath flexed and inner walls convulsed on emptiness, seeking something, anything. Her clit was a swollen, ignored organ, the nerves poised for sensation.
Again, the phone fell silent. Taking a shuddering breath, she gulped for control.
Again, the phone rang. The torment began anew. Mr. Stone chuckled above her, behind her. He was amused, now, by the circumstance, his sadistic nature fed and rewarded by this new invention to their routine.
It would be hours before she found her release. Many unanswered calls sent to voicemail. Another hour before she was recovered enough to make it home. Still, the drive to her apartment only reawakened the memory. Her ass hurt, the welts stung, the shock of her orgasm on her nerves raw.
He was truly a bastard.
“I called.” Mr. Adams stood next to her desk. Mr. Stone was gone for the day, downtown with other bigwigs in the insurance game.
“I know.” Sighing, she put down her agenda, smiling up at Mr. Adams.
“You didn’t answer.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” Was she imagining it or did he sound ticked? The hairs at the nape of her neck tingled. Some inner warning, maybe? A stirring of some understanding? She cocked her head and observed his features. Desire flaring in her lower abdomen and settling heavy in her breasts.
“That’s unfair.” Her words slowed, drawled out, seductive, yet chiding.
“What’s wrong?” His voice softened. She was tired of lying to him. Tired of putting Mr. Adams off. He had been all but kindness and concern personified since her accident and recovery. And Mr. Stone had been nothing of the sort. He’d treated her as she always was.
“It’s nothing.”
“Liar,” he called her out and she met his eyes with a sneer. She shrugged. What could she tell him? What should she tell him? He was her boss as much as Mr. Stone was. Though, technically she was employed by both, she was promised, by her own choice, to Mr. Stone. “Come on, Angie, tell me.”
Fine. “I was with Mr. Stone.”
“Okay, so why didn’t you call me back when you returned to your desk, or home?”
He didn’t get it. She tried again. “With Mr. Stone.” She emphasized her statement with a knowing lift of her brow.
Frowning, he stared at her. She waited. When he got it, his confusion turned to anger. His eyes hardened, growing flinty. His lips compressed into a fine line. His pulse beat visibly at his temples. Blood rushed into his face, turning it an ugly color of red.
He grabbed her, fingers and nails digging into her shoulder as he hauled her close. Large, strong hands stroked down her sides and across her back. His palms cupped her ass cheeks, yanking her closer to him, up against the bulge thickening in his slacks. Yelping, she tucked her head under his chin, breathing deep of his skin and cologne. Over her panties and hose, his fingers brushed the welts, raised bumps of skin, flayed flesh.
“No!”
“I’m sorry,” she began, “I know I should have said--”
“Yes, you should.” He was stern, stepping into her space as he looked his nose at her. Her body reacted. Her flesh flushed, her skin itched. “Are you exclusive?”
“No.” I paused. “Yes. I don’t know.”
“Is it just sex?” Shrugging a second time, she held his eyes. She had no idea how to answer. “Do you kiss?” At this, she shook her head. No, they never kissed. “Hold hands.” Again, she denied the show of affection or closeness. “Date?” Another denial. “Fuck?” Yes, this, they did. She nodded her head at his final question. He studied her as she once again looked down, then back up below her lashes.
“Do you submit often?”
Angelique’s eyes widened. “How--”
“You reek of it. I would recognize those marks anywhere. The way you manage to avoid and yet offer eye contact. Your servitude.” A hurtful statement softened with a dimpled smile. “He’s your dominant?” It wasn’t a question directed at her, so she didn’t answer. He already knew. And, in that instant, she too realized how he knew. He was one as well.
She hadn’t been so far off then, from her first impression. Her boss, Mr. Stone, and the new partner, Mr. Adams, were both--were all high-powered men?--dominant bastards. Bastards, she had to admit, that she found very attractive and enticing. One, to whom she already found pleasure. Could she find the same with Mr. Adams? He was more to her personal tastes, at least. Would that make it harder or easier? Did she dare to find out?
“Will you kiss me?”
Her lips lifted as she considered her impromptu plea. Did she want him to kiss her? Mr. Stone never had. Never even attempted to. In truth, now that she thought about it, she wanted a man to kiss her.
“Would you like that?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, sir.”
He took a step closer, kneeled before her. His eyes glinted at her use of ‘sir.’ “Will you leave him for me?” Taking her hand in his, he held it tight, his forefinger tracing over the top of her hand. The tiny hairs there stood on end, begging for his attention. She agreed with her body. He was something special.
“It isn’t my choice.” She said it lightly, though a hint of sadness clung to each word.
“Of course it is, Angelique.”
“No, sir. Mr. Stone owns me.”
Mr. Adams laughed, then, startling her. “You don’t know, do you? It is not the dominant who is truly in control, my dear. It is the submissive. Your choice to submit, your choice to leave. You have the power. We could not continue as we do without your willingness.”
Angelique closed her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder. She considered what he said, wondered at it. Was it real? Opening her eyes, she looked down at Mr. Adams. He smiled up at her.
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to. Didn’t. Mr. Stone was a dangerous man. But, heavens above, did she want a man to kiss her… Why, oh, why had she insisted on the truth even after he’d offered her a kiss? Because he’d asked, she reasoned. He’d asked her to leave Mr. Stone.
“I promised him. Signed a contract.”
His smile faded. “Did you know?” He stood, dropping her hand. “And did you think to read the fine print?” She knew it. He had wanted his words to be her truth, her undoing. And she was positive there was some nugget of truth to what he had said, at least for him, but not in Mr. Stone’s world.
“I did.” She grinned, though it wasn’t a pleased one.
“How long?”
Ah, so he knew as well, this little tidbit of Mr. Stone’s work. “Five years.”
“And you will not act against him?”
“I will not, sir.” She lifted her chin.
The sudden change in him was shocking. His face turned red, then purple. Veins bulged at his temples and the line of his neck. He was visibly enraged, a condition that, in her lifetime, Angelique had never seen in real life. His mouth worked, no noise emitted. His eyes stared daggers at her. His hands tightened into fists. A full minute passed, then he turned away, shaking in his anger. Another two minutes and he heaved a great tremulous sigh which spoke her to muscles, relaxing her as well as him. When he swung back around, he was his normal color, though his eyes had dulled, his lips in a flat line.
Angelique wasn’t sure, what, exactly had set him off. He knew she was Mr. Stone’s. He knew of Mr. Sto
ne’s contract. Surely, he would have known she would refuse him until her time was up. They were, after all, partners.
“I will drive you home.”
She glanced at the cock sitting over her desk. Where had the time gone? It was a quarter past five. “Okay,” she agreed. He walked off and she sat back down, tidying her desk for the next morning. A few minutes later, he returned, briefcase in hand, jacket donned.
“Shall we?” He smiled at her. It wasn’t quite the same, but she was pleased for it. He had, until his outburst, been a pleasant and friendly man despite her first impressions. She would remember his anger in the future.
Taking his offered elbow, she followed him to the elevators and down to the parking garage. She was still unable to drive, choosing to leave her crutches at home though according to her doctor still needing them, and her feet and legs still tender from her fall. She’d gotten to work this morning through public transportation--a harrowing adventure she was loathe to repeat--and was gracious at his offer of a ride home. She didn’t dare ask how he’d known she would need one. The man seemed to know far too much of her as it was.
The car ride was nice. Quiet, but nice. That was until she opened her mouth. She never did like too much silence.
“I am sorry about before.”
“About what?” He turned his head quickly at her words, looking at her with an upraised brow before swinging his attention back to the road and traffic.
“Well…” she stumbled, put off her train of thought by his nonchalance. Feigning forgetfulness was not what she expected. “You got angry…”
“Did I?”
She hoped he was teasing. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Gulping over the lump formed in her throat, she squeaked out, “Yes, sir.”
“That’s better. Now, what are you on about?”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?” He turned to her again, then back, with a grin.
“I cannot be with you as long as I am with Mr. Stone.”
“And why not?”
“I signed a contract,” she stated matter-of-factly. Even a bit primly.
“Not because he would know.”
She hesitated. “No.” Shaking her head she added, “No, sir.”
“Then there is nothing wrong. He doesn’t have to know.”
“What?” This time it was her turn to look at him with confusion.
“You will be mine.”
“No!” Her voice rose, squealing.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he wove expertly through the city streets until he had worked his way uptown to the hotel where her mother and she were still living. Under his thumb, basically, since he owned nearly the rest of her floor. They pulled into the circle. He threw the car into idle, set the brake, then hopped out, walked around to open her door, helped her out, grabbed his briefcase from the backseat and tossed the keys to the waiting attendant. The young man was fast on his feet, catching the ring of silver keys in the air and darting around to slide into the driver’s seat and take off.
“Mr. Adams,” Angelique tried again once they were within the public lobby, surrounded by so many other people.
“Yes? What is it?” He grasped her upper arm, propelling her across the tiled lobby to the bank of elevators--one waiting on them, the door open.
“About us,” she hastily whispered while moving her hand back and forth between them in place of what he’d so abruptly suggested in the car.
“Oh…” he drawled. “That.” Smirking at her, he leaned close as he shoved her into the elevator, pressing a number behind his back so the doors would close. “Don’t deny me again. I may get angry.” He said the last word menacing, baring his teeth in a primal display of alpha-maleness. Shuddering, Angelique cringed away from him. He shoved her back. Stumbling a bit, she grabbed for the wall and settled in the corner.
This man tugged at her in a way she could not understand. One minute sweet, boyish, the other hard and cruel. She enjoyed the sweet man, not so much the mean one. However, her body was responding quite flatteringly to Mr. Adams cruel side and not so happy with his boyish side--peevish was the word which came to her.
The elevator chimed, then bounced to a stop. She righted herself, automatically yanking on her skirt’s hem in an old habit. His gallant side returned as he swept her forward, his arm across the threshold. Following her out, he placed a large hand to her back, sliding it down to rest at the small of her back. As she reached her room’s door, hearing the television blare from the other side--a choral rendition of “Amazing Grace”--she turned into Mr. Adams.
“Will you at least kiss me goodnight?”
Angelique blinked up at him, doing her best to make light of the whole evening, praying he’d laugh and joke and they’d once again been the friends they were while she was in the hospital.
“Not while you are still his.” He tapped her shoulder, then walked down the long hallway to his own door. He never looked back.
Apparently, she was wrong. Would he ever be that man with her again?
Chapter Two
She clung to the phone. Should she or shouldn’t she? It was a stupid question, she knew she was going to, that’s why she hadn’t hung up the phone yet. She’d been sitting on the edge of the bed for the last thirty minutes dithering. Her mother shuffled around outside the door from living room to kitchen and back. She was either pacing for setting up a spread for lunch. With her, Angelique never was sure these days. The woman had reverted back to a time when she was a little girl, growing up with her English grandparents. Tea time was a sacred event.
Saturday was passing and not the way Angelique had planned. She needed to call.
With a deep, fortifying breath, she dialed Mr. Adams direct line. He’d given her mother the number to his apartment the day they’d moved in. Since he was at work, with her, however during the day, the line was intended for her mother to reach his live-in manservant and personal assistant--she couldn’t believe he actually had one--if there was trouble.
Praying the call would get to him, as well, she counted the rings. One, two, three, four… oh, God, he wasn’t home! She began to panic, hyperventilating on the other other end. But then, the message came on, ended, and the phone chimed for her to leave a message. If she hanged up, he would still know she called, the voicemail surely recording this number, and leaving no message was worse than leaving any message.
What was she, a teenager?
Opening her mouth to speak, she said the first thing that came to mind. If it thought she was stupid, so be it.
“Hello, uh, hi, this is Ange… no, Ms. Jacobson,” she decided professional was better than tarty. “I was just, uh, um, calling to see… I am hoping that you are fine. Good.” Behind her, her mother stepped to the threshold of the bedroom and asked her daughter about sandwiches. Angelique turned to face her, face squished up in confusion. She mouthed, ‘What?’ to her mom while trying to remember what she had already said to Mr. Adams. “Um, when you get a chance… no, when… anyway call if you want.” She had an instant idea. “Or, hey, come by and we’ll talk in person. I’ll, um,” she thought fast, “uh, I’ll meet you in the garage. All night. I’m… I’ll be waiting.”
Yanking the phone from her mouth, she shook her head. She was an idiot. The message had been a veritable disaster. Her intention had been to smooth over last night’s disaster, not create a new one. Now she was locked into a night in the parking garage, waiting on a man she was certain had better things to do than hang with her. Definitely an idiot.
“Ok, mother, what did you need?”
“Oh nothing, dear, I just wanted to know whether you preferred the cucumber sandwiches with dill or watercrest.”
Angelique laughed. Standing, she crossed to her mom and enveloped her in a bear hug, rocking them both back and forth. She loved her mother more than anyone else in the world. Crazy or not, she was a treasure to be cherished.
Her mom peeked up at her, smiling. “
So, the dill, huh?”
Angelique laughed harder. “Yes.”
The garage was a dim, cold, smelly place. Had Angelique been a more intelligent person, she would have realized just how bad of an idea this was. There was no way Mr. Adams would ride the elevator to the basement level just to pick up a woman who already “dumped” him once and literally lived next door. But, since she’d promised, here she waited.
Wondering, not for the first time, whether insanity ran in her family and desperately trying to remember if her father or grandparents had been this nuts, she almost missed the chiming of the elevator as it creaked to a stop and the doors slid open. She was slumped against the corner opposite the elevators, hidden for the most part behind a row of handicapped vehicles. The nice skirt and ruffled blouse beneath her jacket were wrinkled, her coat bunched up, a line of grime along the back of her thighs.
The doors opened to reveal the tall stature of Mr. Adams. Her breath escaped her in a whoosh as she hurriedly straightened and ran her hands over her jacket, blouse, and skirt. It did no good, but she could hardly care. He’d come.
Mr. Adams stood on the threshold of the elevator, one hand splayed across the open doors, holding them apart, despite the incessant chiming. His neck poked from the interior, his eyes searching through the dimness of the garage. She stepped forward, away from the wall and into the space between the wall and the closest car. Angelique could just see him over the roof of the car. She smiled. Clearing her throat, she drew his attention as she cleared the car and stood in plain sight.
“You came.”
Nodding, his face otherwise a bluff to his inner thoughts, he walked from the elevator and let the doors close behind him.
“I’m glad.”
Saying nothing, he continued toward her. She walked to meet him.
“I didn’t think you come.”
At last he spoke. “You asked me here. I never leave a woman waiting.”
Well… she wanted to say. He was two hours late. Apparently, he did like to keep certain women waiting, just not all night. “Thank you.” As she approached, she extended a hand. Angelique wasn’t sure what she expected him to do with her hand--shake it? kiss it?--either, honestly would be great.