by Sky Corgan
Flesh
Part Two
SKY CORGAN
Text copyright 2015 by Sky Corgan.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.
CHAPTER ONE
I want him.
It infects every subconscious thought I have. Those two pale blue eyes, gazing down on me with desire. The feel of his hands wandering over my curves. The taste of his lips. The mint on his breath.
We're together in my dreams, not Dominant and submissive, but lovers. He grinds on top of me, his fingers threaded with mine, holding me down as he makes loves to me as if he's reading my mind—knows exactly what my body needs, how to angle his hips, how deeply to thrust inside, how quickly he needs to move to make me orgasm. It has to be a dream, because no one is this perfect.
And when I wake up, I realize that it was a dream. My eyes flutter open, and the image of his face fades. My hormones calm down, and the lingering phantom sensation of him between my legs subsides as I realize that I've woken up alone. Then a wave of sadness washes over me, because I always wake up alone.
He's not real. At least, my idea of him isn't real. I can have him again, but I have to pay a price. And he'll never really belong to me.
If I go back to Flesh—if I see him again—he'll become an addiction. No better than drugs or alcohol or anything else bad. While I'm with him, I'll ride that sexual high that only he can provide. But when it's all over, when I'm alone and in my bed like I am now, all I'll feel is regret. All I'll think about is how pathetic it is that I have to pay a man to pleasure me.
I had my fun with him. My thirty minutes of experiencing the BDSM lifestyle are over. Been there, done that, didn't get the T-shirt.
If I want to remain sane and grounded, I can't go back. I have to see the experience for what it was, a one-off good time with a handsome stranger. With this new resolve in mind, I sit up, pick the Flesh business card up off of my bedside table, and toss it in the trash, ready to return to my normal life.
***
Mondays suck. Sometimes, it doesn't feel like there's enough coffee in the world to get me going. At least, I love my job. Not a day goes by that I don't thank God that I was able to land a career in the field that I went to college for. The company I work for isn't the most prestigious one out there, but my boss and co-workers are great, and it pays well enough to keep me from wanting to seek employment elsewhere.
Environ Design has only been around for nine years, and I've worked for them for five of those nine years. I started an internship with them as an interior design assistant when I was in college. Now, I can both decorate and design spaces, but I prefer to stay on the decorator side of things, not that I have much of a choice in the matter. With such a small staff, I pretty much go where I'm needed and do what I'm needed to do.
I get to my desk fifteen minutes early and start up my computer, ready to check out the day's projects. Work has been slow lately, and since I just finalized a project on Friday, any new projects that come in today will probably be passed off to one of my co-workers. If a big project comes through, I might get to stick around and help out. Otherwise, I'll likely get sent home early.
When I open my inbox and find it empty, I scowl. It's a good thing I squirrel back money. Otherwise, these weeks where I make less than forty hours would be a killer.
“Morning, sugar puss.” Derrick, one of my co-workers, drops himself into one of the chairs in front of my desk. The coffee in his hand sloshes, and he has to move with it to keep it from spilling over.
“Careful there, stud.” I smirk at him over my monitor. “You wouldn't want to get those designer slacks dirty.”
“No, I sure would not.” He sets his coffee down on my desk and then stands to check his pants, making sure there are no stains. “I knew I should have kept the lid on that.”
My gay boyfriend looks impeccable, as normal. Armani from head to toe, not even the dressiest of their catalog, but I'm certain that every single piece of clothing he's wearing is worth at least one week of my salary. Today, he's matched black slacks with shiny loafers and a fitted gilet with a hood. His shoulder-length dirty blonde hair is slicked back, giving him a sleek, sophisticated appearance.
“Get any on you?”
“Nope. Thank God. I don't have time to go home and change.” He sighs in relief before sitting back down.
“You don't?” I quirk an eyebrow. “ I guess Tyra gave you a client today.”
He slaps his knees excitedly. “Oh, you betcha. A big client. One of those enormous, gorgeous houses on Shaddelee Lane.”
“Lucky you. A richer,” I tease, trying to hide the jealousy I'm feeling inside. It seems like I'm always assigned the small three bedroom houses with the clients who are on a budget, while my co-workers land all the huge projects—the ones that are the most fun, where you can go batshit crazy designing the perfect space because the client has no concept of price limit.
“Lucky us. You're going to work on it with me.” His eyes widen with happiness before he puts his index finger over his lips to shush me. “But don't say anything to Tyra about it. You're not supposed to know.” He drops his voice to a whisper, leaning over my desk slightly so I can hear him better. “It's an extremely high profile client, and Tyra says that if we do a good job on this one, we'll both get a huge bonus.”
Bonus. The word is music to my ears. It's not a word we hear often, and it's typically only associated with clients who have very loose wallets.
“Haven't heard that word in a while.” The last time I got a bonus was a year and a half ago when we were sent in to redesign an office building.
“I know. I'm so excited.” He's practically wiggling, making a clapping motion without touching his hands together so as not to attract too much attention from our other co-workers. I wish I had a fraction of his energy. Always excited about everything. No wonder he's so damned skinny.
“Morning, you two.” Tyra comes out of her office and stands in front of the doorway, looking at us. “Can I see you in my office?”
“Sure.” Derrick drops the smile from his face, going deadpan in an instant, as if we're in trouble instead of about to be put on an amazing assignment.
We both grab our coffees before heading into Tyra's office. She closes the door behind us, and we take our seats on the other side of her desk. All I want to do is grin as I think about the bonus, but I know I have to remain composed. My last one was a little over a grand, enough to put a down payment on a new car. Maybe I can get a new living room suite with this one. The living room suite that Janice and I have now she inherited from her deceased grandmother, and none of the furniture matches. It's a bit nerve-racking having to look at it every day, especially since I'm in the interior design business.
“How was your weekend, guys?” Tyra smiles at us as she circles around to sit in her plush black office chair.
“Good,” Derrick and I both respond, nodding and looking at each other. Normally, he would be more chatty. He's always spending his weekends going out to clubs or hanging out with friends or having socials, and he typically loves to gush about it on Mondays. Not today though. Today, we're both waiting to hear about the project. Waiting to hear that magical word. Bonus.
A smirk quirks the side of Tyra's full lips, and she gives Derrick a sarcastic look. “You told her, didn't you?”
One of his hands immediately jumps to his chest, and the fake offended expression he gives her is enough to make me laugh. “I would never.”
“What's the project?” I ask, trying to pull Derrick out of hot water by diverting he
r attention, though I doubt Tyra is really mad at him. We all know he can't keep his mouth shut about anything for too long.
She glares at him from across the desk for a moment, though there's no real ill intent behind it, then she grabs her mouse, gives it a few shakes to breathe life back into her computer, and starts clicking buttons to bring up the new client's file. When she has it displayed, she stands to turn her monitor to face us. On the screen is a gorgeous Mediterranean mansion nestled against a lake.
My mouth falls agape at the sheer size of the place, and I jump slightly as I feel Derrick's hand slide on top of mine on my lap. When I glance over at his face, all I see are money signs behind his chocolate eyes, though I know he appreciates the house just as much as I do for its beauty and the potential it has to be a fun project.
“It has five bedrooms and seven bathrooms, almost seven thousand square feet of space, and the owner wants the entire thing redecorated aside from two rooms,” Tyra begins rambling the details off to us. “We're talking rugs, furniture, art work, plants, anything else you can think of that will fit. He wants the vast majority of the old furnishings taken out, packed, and transported to a storage facility, which we're also going to help him with. Basically, the entire house is getting a facelift.
“He says he wants to go modern, but has no eye for design. That's where you two come in.” She crosses her hands on top of her desk. “Now, this client doesn't have a whole lot of time to be involved in the design process. He has a very busy schedule, so we want to make this as easy on him as possible. We'll be keeping contact with him primarily through email. You can email furniture options and your design drafts, and he'll approve them or give feedback. It may turn out to be a lengthy process, but it will be well worth it.”
“Sounds great. When do we start?” Derrick pulls his hand away from mine and leans back in his chair.
The displeased look that Tyra was wearing earlier returns. Her dark eyes blaze into Derrick's for a moment before she turns her attention to me. “That's why I didn't want you to go running your mouth. We haven't actually landed the client yet.”
Hope drips away from me like water from a leaky faucet. The images of new furniture playing in my head quickly fade as I realize that there's no guarantee that we'll hook the client, so getting a bonus was probably just wishful thinking.
There are two other interior design companies in the area. Both of them have been around longer than we have. Both have worked with several high-profile clients and businesses. The client has probably scheduled a consultation with them as well, which means that we shouldn't even bother getting excited, because he'll likely choose one of them over us.
“I'm sending you both out this afternoon for a consultation with the client. I want you to be as professional and attentive as possible. Derrick, you have an amazing eye for design and how spaces should be efficiently used. Amy, you're charismatic and have a knack for working with difficult clients. I want you both to put this man's mind at ease that we can take care of anything that he needs, even if it goes beyond the scope of what we normally do.
“Show him your experience. Take one room, and walk him through the design process, your suggestions and recommendations. If he wants something specific, agree with him as much as you can, but also try to steer him in the right direction. We need to land this client. It would be a huge break for our company and could lead to a lot more high-profile clients in the future, which means more money for all of us.”
Now that I'm over the idea that we might actually procure the client and get a bonus, I focus on Tyra's assessment of me. Charismatic is not a word I would ever associate with myself. Shy, yes. Charismatic, no. My passive nature and fear of confrontation are what typically helps me to work with difficult clients. It has little to do with me actually being able to control another person's emotional state. I tend to cave under pressure. And to be honest, I'm certainly not the most experienced person in the office. Definitely not the person I would send to deal with a client of this magnitude. I suppose I should be flattered and grateful though.
“Who is the client?” Derrick asks, still very interested. It looks like he's more confident in our abilities than I am. Maybe some of that will rub off on me on the car ride over to the client's location. I'm not going to hold out too much hope though.
“His name is Lucian Reddick.” Tyra pauses, perhaps expecting us to recognize the name. I draw a blank, and when I look over at Derrick, I can tell that he's never heard the name before either. “He's a plastic surgeon to the stars,” she clarifies.
“Ah, I see. Yes. So, if we do a good job, word of mouth might get to some of his celebrity clients.” Derrick puts the obvious pieces together.
“That's my hope.”
I stare at the house, trying to come up with something helpful, something that will make us seem more personable and trustworthy. “Does he have kids? I could bake some cookies to take with us.”
“We didn't discuss his family, but that's not a bad idea.” Tyra points at me and beams. “See, I knew I put together the right team for the job. You guys are gonna knock him dead. I just know it.”
Oh God, she's way too hopeful. That means she's going to be grumpy and depressed if we don't get this.
“I hope he likes chocolate chip,” I let out a dry laugh, trying to pretend to be enthusiastic about the consultation, when all that's really going through my head is the fear of letting Tyra down.
Bribery doesn't always work, but it's worth a try. Besides, if I can think of any way to help draw the client in, I should implement it. Not only would it mean a big bonus for Derrick and I, but it would also bolster our careers. Maybe we'd even get a raise. Whatever the reward—whatever my pessimism—I need to take this seriously. I need to do whatever it takes to land this client.
CHAPTER TWO
Derrick's eyes shift from the road to my lap. The smell of a dozen freshly baked chocolate chip cookies fills the car and makes both of our stomachs gurgle. It's not that we haven't eaten. It's just that they smell so damn good.
“He won't miss just one.” Derrick makes a grab for the plate, and I have to jerk it away. I know he did it in jest, but it's not really funny. Even though the cookies are covered with saran wrap, the last thing I need is for them to slide off of my lap and fall on the floor.
“Pay attention to the road,” I snap at him.
“We're going to have to go eat after this. That smell is making me feel like I'm starving.” He groans, his shoulder slumping in defeat.
“Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” I stare down at the cookies, feeling my stomach tighten as another audible growl rumbles through it.
“It was a brilliant idea.” Derrick straightens himself. “Kids love cookies. And even if he doesn't have kids, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.”
“And if he has a wife?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Women like chocolate.” He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. He has a point. I probably wouldn't turn down chocolate unless it was from my worst enemy. “Seriously, though, just looking at those is making me hungry.”
“What do you want me to do, put them in the backseat?” I glance over my shoulder. Derrick's car is immaculately clean. The thought of potentially getting cookie crumbs on his leather seats makes me feel uneasy. While I don't think that he'd complain about it directly to my face, I don't want it to be an issue at all.
“Just set them on the floorboard. They'll be fine.”
I do as I'm told, trying my best not to spill the plate as I maneuver around the small space. There's barely enough room for my legs, let alone a plate of cookies. In the end, I have to straddle the plate with my feet so it will fit.
“Did you do any research on the client today?” Derrick asks.
“No. Did I need to?” I give him a confused look.
“It would have been a good idea. Guys like that love to have their egos stroked. You should say that you're a fan of his.”
“You sho
uld say that.” I scowl. Plastic surgery has never had any appeal to me. While we'd all like to change some things about ourselves, I feel like we are made the way we are for a reason. There's no reason to mess up God's work with fake boobs or butt implants.
“Do I look like I need plastic surgery, honey?” He rolls his eyes.
“Are you saying that I do?” My mouth falls open for a split second before I sock him in the arm.
“Ow!” He winces. “I'm driving. And that hurt. You can really hit, for a girl. You know I was just joking.”
“Less joking, more paying attention to the road.” I nod ahead. “Give me the brief on what I should know about this guy.”
“Well,” he drags out the word. “He's worked on all the hottest actors and actresses in Hollywood. Most of them fly out here for his services. Apparently, if you're in the spotlight, and you need work done, you go to him.
“He's fairly young, for a surgeon. His parents were both politicians, so he comes from money. I can only assume he's going to be an entitled prick. Lots of ego stroking with this one.” He makes it sound exhausting. Derrick is great at ego stroking though. If there was an award for ass kissing, he'd win it, hands down. Every client, he treats like they're the most important person in the world. That's the real reason Tyra sent him. I'm still confused about why she sent me.
As silence finally settles over us, my mind begins to drift. I know I should be focusing on how to please this potential new client, but thoughts of my session at Flesh yesterday keep creeping in to take over. In my mind, I visualize the business card that I threw in the trash. Silently, I pray that Janice doesn't take the trash out today. Then I chastise myself for thinking that.
My experience at Flesh was a one-time thing. It was exciting and fun and kinky, but it was wrong somehow. I shouldn't have to pay a man to please me, and I shouldn't crave being roughly handled. My ideal relationship had always revolved around romance up until Janice introduced me to the world of BDSM. The thought of a man sweeping me off my feet, kissing me passionately, and making love to me sweet and slow had been what got me going. Now, I'm thinking of silk ties and blindfolds and pale blue eyes.