Three and a Half Weeks

by Lulu Astor

  For him, the crisis he was experiencing amounted to a loss of control. He couldn’t stop Kira from killing herself—one slip of his ability to regulate everything and everyone. He couldn’t stop himself from falling for Ella. Another slip. Emotions were eroding his ironclad control and that he could not accept, could never tolerate. He would reclaim control—consequences be damned.

  He stepped over to the wall and selected an implement. He knew it should be the flogger—Ella was far from ready for the heavy stuff. Even a flogger might be pushing it. But despite knowing it was a very bad idea, his hand reached for the single tail—his favorite whip and the one he used to use on Kira.

  The first lash caught her unaware and she shrieked loudly. “No screaming, Ella. Just counting. I expect you to take it with grace. If you cannot do so, then use your safe word. Those are your two options.” He struck her again.

  She never counted but she attempted to take more than she should have. Well before he got to ten, her knees gave out and she would have fallen to the ground if she weren’t tied to the crossbars. She managed to spit out her safe word, from a throat parched and running on shallow respiration, both caused by panting. The shock of hearing her safe word catapulted him back into his right mind and he threw down the whip, rushing to untie her from the cross.

  Even as he carried her to the bedroom, he knew it was all over: she’d leave him for certain. His initial reaction was a quiet acceptance; he believed it was probably a good thing in the long term. No emotional attachments, he reminded himself… and Ella was starting to wiggle her way under his skin—with her alabaster complexion, her perfectly curvy ass, and her sharp wit, she was invading his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night.

  But as he gazed down at her china-doll perfection, he felt crushed at the mere thought of never seeing her again… and he felt like weeping. He was overcome with grief—grief at Kira’s premature death and grief at how he’d just killed a young, tender relationship that was increasingly important to him.

  Did it ever matter what kind? Grief was grief. And it hurt like fucking hell.

  He gently laid her on the bed, soothed the red welts on her skin with a numbing salve, cooed to her, and brought her a shot of brandy and some ibuprofen.

  “Ella, I’m sorry,” he whispered into her neck, wet from her tears. He could hear the anguish in his own voice.

  She ignored him, turning away from him.

  “Please don’t hate me; I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t. You may need this lifestyle, Ian… but I don’t. I can’t.”

  Despite everything, she still allowed him to touch her. He made love to her very gently, trying to show her how deeply his feelings for her ran. Afterward, well...

  She got up with obvious difficulty, hissing when the movement pulled on her back. His whip had left one stripe across her shoulder blades and several on her backside and upper thighs. Seeing his whip marks on his women usually made him hard; now, they just made him sick.

  “I’d like you to avoid making any decisions until you’ve had time to calm down. Please, Ella?”

  “I’m oh so calm, Ian.” She was standing with her back to the floor-length mirror, head turned to survey the damage. “Will these leave scars?”

  “Of course not! I would never mark you like that.” He was truly affronted.

  “Oh, silly me. Are these small signs of affection then?”

  He stopped talking at that point. Her snide remarks told him he would get nowhere with her tonight. The shy salesgirl who entranced him was gone; in her place was a strong, pissed-off woman.

  Her wits about her again, she grabbed for her clothes and dressed hurriedly, occasionally grimacing when it hurt. She had to go, she told him; she had an early morning tomorrow. He was adamant about driving her home. She was vehement in her refusal. They ultimately compromised: his driver would take her home. When Ian said goodnight to Ella, he knew in his gut it was really goodbye. She merely nodded grimly, turned on her heel, and walked out of his life.

  He nearly cried himself to sleep that night, like a child. His emotions were all over the place and he didn’t know what to do about it. He began to feel her absence the moment she strode out the door, taking with her his happiness, his contentment, even his pride.

  For three days he forced himself not to call her, not to show up on her doorstep. He allowed himself to send flowers once and that was all. Giving her time to think—and hopefully miss him as he missed her—was his intention. He never expected her to disappear.

  On the fourth day, he called her cell phone and received his first shock: it was disconnected. A half hour later, he stood on the steps of her condo’s front entrance. When he knocked on the apartment door, he had an awful premonition but he refused to allow it into the light of day. It forced itself through anyway: something told him he wouldn’t see Ella again.

  Mariah answered the door. “Yes?”

  Relief. He cleared his throat. “Hello. I’m Ian Blackmon. I’m here to see Ella?”

  “I’m sorry but Ella’s gone.”

  What? “Gone?”

  “Yes. Forgive my lack of manners. I’m Mariah, Ella’s friend and roommate—former roommate now, I guess. Ella left the country two days ago.”

  “Left the country? How could that be? She never mentioned any plans to that effect when I saw her four days ago.”

  Mariah shrugged. “I didn’t see it coming either but she packed her bags in a rush, handed me her share of next month’s rent and said adios, promising to keep in touch. I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned away. Whether it was true or her friend was lying was immaterial; he had to be gracious about it until he knew for certain. On his way home, as his heart thundered in his chest in a cold-sweat panic, he outlined in his mind how he’d find her. Be logical and proactive, he reminded himself. Hopefully she was using plastic since her cell phone was disconnected. Credit cards and cell phones leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

  Two weeks passed, and after zero luck in scouting out her location, he called his security expert to recommend an investigator. He needed to run somebody to ground.

  Forty-eight hours later, he had her new address in front of him, courtesy of Allen Larson, the PI he’d hired. Still, he wasn’t sure of his next step. Knowing where she was now was comforting enough to allow him some time for reflection and perhaps time to try to resist the inevitable. He didn’t want to give in to the weakness of love. Emotion was debilitating; detachment was empowering. For a little while, that became his new mantra. Kickboxing became his new obsession.

  Exactly two weeks after receiving the information on Ella’s location, he stepped off a Virgin Air jet at Heathrow, a piece of paper with an address written on it in his hand. Would she be happy to see him or horrified he found her? He just didn’t know, so he took a cautious approach: he waited outside her flat, sitting on a park bench for several hours at a stretch. When he first spotted her coming out of the brick building, his heartbeat seemed to falter for a moment, then thrummed strongly like a motor revving while his whole chest tightened painfully. It was so good to see her beautiful face. He’d missed it so much.

  That was the moment when he had to confront reality: despite his best efforts and his diligent attempt to distance himself from all things romantic, he’d fallen in love. And, another slap in the face: chances were rather excellent that his love was unrequited. He was Ian Blackmon, one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, so said Fortune, People, Maxim, and Forbes, and the one girl he loves probably despises him and all of his evil ways.

  The very evening he walked into Archipelago and saw her for the first time, he probably began his descent into life as a besotted fool. She was exquisitely beautiful but Ian had seen so many gorgeous women—most wealthy men do. Physically beautiful people almost always use their looks to trade up in life, so he always had lots of them fawning around him.

  But it was
more than mere looks. Ella had something else, a sort of dual persona going on. On the one hand, she was pristine innocence, almost angelic in her purity. Warring with the innocence, however, was a kind of innate femme-fatale allure, daring men—with her azure eyes—to come closer so she could destroy them with her charms, a kind of vagina dentata, the nightmare of anyone with a penis and a healthy libido. It sucked him in immediately.

  On their first date, he’d decided he would mold her to be his next submissive if she were at all amenable. He could easily make it worth her while financially and she was a struggling student. In return, he could feed off some of that innocent charm while nurturing her undiscovered femme fatale. He pursued her with a single-minded determination.

  Her virginity threw him for a minute or two—he wasn’t expecting it and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. What he did know beyond a shadow of a doubt, virgin or no virgin, was that she wasn’t leaving his house that night without him fucking her, one way or another. Her virginity merely caused him to reconsider his plans. His planned domination became a seduction and he found it every bit as satisfying as any BDSM scene could be. Maybe even more.

  Did some part of him recognize that very night that she was his, or more aptly, that he was hers? Very possibly.

  He went back to the States without ever making contact with her. For one thing, he knew he wouldn’t be successful. Too much time had already passed and she had made no effort to get in touch with him. She was done with him the moment he picked up the single tail. His dour conclusion was that he’d have to live without her and so he went home.

  But peace was elusive. At first, he tried to banish her from his mind. It didn’t work. Then, he thought he should return to the UK and beg her forgiveness, bring her flowers and chocolate. Or fine wine and sincere apologies. Expensive shoes and jewels, for God’s sake. Whatever it would take.

  But he knew he’d fail. And the one thing above all else that Ian Blackmon couldn’t tolerate was failure—he’d almost rather die. Days passed, then weeks, months, eventually accumulating into a tortured year, a celibate year, a year during which he worked longer hours, and made ever more money, and spent his redirected sexual energy on self-improvement, working out constantly to create a tireless machine out of his body. Going without sex conserved quite a bit of energy, he learned, which was why professional boxers weren’t supposed to have sex for weeks before a bout.

  Another lesson that came his way was that the idea of taking a whip to a woman no longer appealed to him. If anything, it had the opposite effect. A broken heart can change all of one’s priorities in a flash. The anniversary of their split was fast approaching and he still was nowhere near over her but he recognized he had to move on, and made plans to go to the club to meet new women and even considered attending one of his sister Zoe’s exhausting parties that were always teeming with debutantes.

  That was when providence smiled upon him and during lunch with his sister, he learned about Ella’s bestselling book… and he knew he’d come across a way to lure her back into his life.

  “Answer me, Ian, you followed me to the UK?”

  Ella’s voice pulled him back from the past, into the conversation they were having in New York. “Yes,” he concedes, “I followed you to the UK.”

  Her pulse began to race as she realized the implications of his admission. He must have loved her… even then… as she loved him. “Why didn’t you contact me? I was waiting for you.”

  “You were? I thought for sure you would reject me, that you despised me.”

  “Well, I did. But I also loved you and missed you so much. I would have been thrilled to see you, Ian.” She’s wringing her hands. “When were you there?”

  He told her and she squeezed her eyes closed. If only he’d visited her, let her know he was there, they might have avoided so much pain and loneliness. “Oh, I would have been so happy to stay with you instead of in my drafty dorm room. I missed you with every part of me… but the next move had to come from you.”

  “It did,” he said with a smirk.

  “Yeah, right. Suing me for breach of contract a year later. Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “It sort of worked, didn’t it?”

  “So you filed the suit to get me back? Not because of the book?”

  “Yes to the first question, no to the second.”

  It’s her turn to smirk; she climbs onto his lap and begins to kiss him, every part of him that’s accessible. “A normal man would send flowers or jewelry with a heartfelt apology.”

  “I’ve never been accused of being normal.”

  “You wasted time, Mr. Blackmon, precious time. All those months we could have been together. Now it’s up to you to make it up to me. But first tell me what’s bothering you about Natasha’s situation.”

  “I think she texted me for help,” he admits, feeling anew a stab of horror. He tells Ella about the interrupted message.

  “Ian,” she says after a while, “let’s commit to planning and enjoying our wedding. After our honeymoon, we’ll investigate Natasha’s new life to see if we need to intervene. I think that will make both of us feel better, don’t you?”

  He nods.

  “She doesn’t deserve any mercy from us but as a woman, I’m horrified to think of anyone being consigned to a life of sexual slavery. It would be better to die, I think. So maybe we can get someone we trust to do some reconnaissance. Who knows? Perhaps the man will fall in love with her and treat her well. Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.”

  His fingers reach out to comb her hair behind her ear and caress her face. “I love you, Ella.”

  Rather than answer him with words, she answers him with her lips in a different way. A better way. And suddenly, sitting on his lap isn’t so comfortable anymore, as things harden and shift beneath her. He smiles wickedly as she squirms.

  “I know where we can stow it in a nice, warm place where it won’t interfere with your sitting on my lap in comfort.”

  “Really? Well, then…”

  He pulls up her short skirt—God, but he loves short skirts—and yanking her panties out of the way, he unzips and impales her in one fluid motion. Her head tilts back and a low moan vibrates in her throat.

  “Yes, much better,” she says. “Much… much… better.”

  Chapter 52

  Countdown: T minus 56 hours and 23 minutes.

  At T minus zero, Ian and I will stand in front of hundreds of witnesses and vow to love one another until death. No biggie.

  I picked up my dress today, having had the last fitting three days ago, which called for one very minor adjustment. Mariah’s dress was the height of perfection, but Zoe’s needed a bit of taking in since she’d shed ten pounds since her last fitting. Call me unreasonable but I would think that a considerate bridesmaid (not to mention new sister-in-law) would be able to maintain her weight for three teensy, weensy months. Zoe is a definite pain in the ass, no doubt about it. Her mother, however, is not. Faith showed me her gown last week and I have to admit it’s a brilliant choice—for her coloring, age, figure, and style. Faith and I will definitely get along for we are alike in so many ways—but not too many ways to make it creepy and weird for Ian.

  Anyway, I haven’t yet seen my mom’s gown but she assures me I’ll love it. I’m comfortable she’s right since she generally displays impeccable taste. As the bride, I got to select Mariah’s gown and though it presented an almost irresistible opportunity to exact revenge for years’ worth of abuses by putting her in a horribly garish contraption of a frock, in the end I couldn’t do it. I selected a drop-dead gorgeous aubergine silk strapless—and quite short—cocktail dress. Zoe’s is just as short but on a bias cut with cap sleeves. Why should my girls hide their killer gams? Those legs don’t come cheap or easy and they need to show them off to find their own husbands, damn it. I’m still holding out for Mason for Mariah. Hope springs eternal.

  We compiled the guest list as soon as we returned from New York and Da
niel’s wedding. My mother sent me a list of her guests and Faith provided me with hers. When we put the three lists together and subtracted the few duplicates, there were still over four hundred names. And a few of them were women who had a history with my darling husband-to-be. Those names had to be weeded out.

  The moment had arrived for us to have the long-postponed chat about Diana Benson and Kaylie Ayres.

  We had spoken about it already, of course, that night when we got home. The entire car ride back to Ian’s place was silent and tense but I was not going to go to sleep stewing over it. When the front door to his home closed behind us, I went on the offensive.

  “So what was that little trap all about? Did you mother do it intentionally?”

  His eyes blazed. “Of course not! Why would she? My mother likes you very much, Ella.”

  “You’re not going to stand there and deny you had a relationship with both of those women who were there tonight. Are you?”

  Rolling his eyes, he exhaled through his nose loudly. “No, I’m not going to deny it. Kaylie was a fling when I was a kid, for God’s sake. I just wanted to get laid and I wasn’t too choosy. I never took her seriously and I thought she was doing the same. My mistake.”

  “And the cougar?”

  He smirked. “Funny you should call her that—”

  “That’s what she is,” I interrupt. “She’s got to have a good ten years or more on you. She was stealing from the cradle.”

  “Yes, she is actually fifteen years older than I. When I met her, I had no idea she was married to my father’s partner. I just saw a sexy, older woman and I took her up on her offer. The shit of it was she knew damn well who I was and of her relation to my family.”

  “Were you not offended by the age difference?”

  He shrugged. “I asked her if it bothered her after we’d been seeing each other for a while…”