by Cynthia Dane
“It doesn’t sound the same at all.” Henry said that, and yet there was a twinkle in his blue eye that said he liked the idea of the challenge. “I’ll keep this all in mind.”
They ended their conference not too much later, Monica escorting him back to the salon as someone came in to relay that a guest had reserved it some time that night. Business as usual. “You are welcome to stay here, Mr. Henry,” she said after the maid left. “Do let me know if you are interested in a girl for the evening. There is…” No, wait. Chelsea is a conflict of interest with his friend. Sylvia has an appointment with a client. Yvette won’t even consider it. Judith… she’s gone on vacation this week. That only left Grace. “I have the perfect girl for you.”
Henry unexpectedly stood up from his chair and brushed off the top of his pants. “That won’t be necessary. I appreciate the hospitality, but I’m afraid I must be going. I merely stopped by for the chat and the tour. I’m sorry if that was improper of me. Should I make a donation?”
I see. She had not anticipated that. Few men made it all the way up into the mountains for a mere tour and chat. At least they wanted to have a little taste of what they could get in the future. “It’s no trouble. I am glad you enjoyed my Château.”
“Yes.” They walked into the foyer together, where Monica opened the coat closet and pulled out Henry’s overcoat for him. It wasn’t fur or leather, but it was soft against her skin, and big enough to wrap twice around her if she wanted to snuggle without a blanket. It’s comforting. The last time she felt like that was a long, long time ago. “Thank you again for the tour. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Henry tossed his coat over his arm and extended his hand to Monica. She offered it, fingers out, but instead of shaking it, Henry brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the tops of her knuckles. He wasn’t the first man at the Château to do so, but it made something tingle within Monica nonetheless. What a dangerous man.
The sunlight behind the door blinded her, almost making her miss his shadow disappearing into a Rolls-Royce parked in the front driveway. There was no driver. Henry Warren got in the driver’s seat himself before pulling away, sticking his arm out the window to wave adieu to Monica and the Château.
“What is it?” Sylvia asked, after handing Monica a package a few days later. The girl happened to be there when the deliveryman arrived, but now there were too many questions to ask. Sure, Monica got packages all the time, but those were usually the kind wrapped in plain brown paper or nondescript cardboard boxes. This one was wrapped in black with a red ribbon tied around it. “Is it your birthday? Shit, I had no idea!”
“It’s not my birthday.” Monica stood at the bottom of the grand staircase with the package in hand. Nothing big about it. Even in her small palms and between her thinner fingers it was small enough to hide somewhere. Cubed. Heavy. Whatever was in it easily weighed more than a couple of pounds. “And I don’t know what it could be. You sure it was addressed to me?”
“Yes, the deliveryman said it was for Monica Graham. I heard him say it twice.”
“Hm.” Monica started up the stairs. “If it’s anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”
Sylvia’s mood deflated, but with a rousing “Sure!” she disappeared into the dining room to get her lunch. It was Monday, the Château’s weekend, and after a busy Saturday some of the girls were still hungover. Even Monica, as she walked to her quarters with the package, still had yet to catch up on her sleep from helping to entertain a dozen men who wanted more food, more drinks, and more shows.
Her quarters were a total of three rooms: the master bedroom, an adjacent office, and a nice bathroom that had a jetted tub and a sink big enough to wash a dog in. Not that Monica had a dog. I would like a Pomeranian one day. She didn’t have time to dedicate to a pup right now.
She placed the box on her desk and sat in her leather office chair. Why not tear into it now? Monica turned the box over, but didn’t see anything but a strand of red ribbon held tightly in place. Her fingers touched the outline, but no hidden tags fell out to tell her who sent it. Why didn’t Sylvia find out what company the man was from? Monica sat it upside right again and pulled the ribbon apart.
The lid came off easily enough. Inside was a copious amount of white tissue hiding something large and silver.
Large, silver, and encrusted with tiny, sparkling diamonds.
“What the…” She stood up, peering into the box as her fingers felt the smooth surface of metal. Then links. A chain. She uncoiled it, letting it snake in front of her as one foot, two feet, three feet pulled out of the box and revealed the collar on the other end.
The collar was encrusted with diamonds. Several small, sparkling, but expensive diamonds twinkling in and out of the light flashing through Monica’s office window. What is this? She knew what it was, but her mind refused to believe that anybody had sent her a chain and collar. Monica hadn’t owned one since… since… Jackson. The one he gave her was gold.
Just because this was silver, however, didn’t mean it wasn’t insanely expensive! How many diamonds were in it? What grade were they? What cut? Was this pure silver or a coating? Monica dumped the collar and chain on her desk, the thud echoing between wood and leather. Who is giving this to me? She emptied the box, tearing apart the tissue in search of a card, a piece of paper, anything to discover what the hell had happened. Was this a prank? If it was, it was an expensive one! No, no, not a prank…
A horror hit her heart.
Jackson. It had to be from Jackson.
He was the type of sick snake to send her something like this, to remind her that he existed and once controlled her… once chained and locked her up in his mansion to be used as a plaything for weekends at a time. Once he tied me to our bed and didn’t come back for a whole day. Monica had starved and nearly messed herself, which was exactly what he wanted. She liked a little humiliation, but that was the beginning of the end between her and him.
It didn’t matter how expensive this “gift” was. Jackson had billions to burn and wasn’t above wasting his money. Monica grabbed the collar and had half a mind to throw it through the window, to rid herself of the jerk who made her life hell and nearly destroyed her spirit.
She held the collar up in her hand. Sunlight reflected off the inside of the silver, illuminating something engraved on the inside.
Monica held the collar in front of her face and squinted. She could barely make out the tiny words.
“I want to be your patron.”
How long did she stare at those words? How long did she hold off the swelling sense of relief, desire, and that budding monstrosity called love?
How long did Monica pretend that she didn’t know who really sent this? Even when she slowly turned the collar in her hand, she still did not believe she would see the name that popped up on the other side?
“Henry Warren.”
Monica collapsed into her chair. The business side of her brain wanted to grab a pen and paper, write a letter telling Henry that she appreciated the offer, but she was not up for patronage.
The other side of her brain? The one that couldn’t think clearly because it was lost in a haze of imagining what a man like that could do to her in the bedroom?
It didn’t want to write anything at all. It wanted to cry in relief.
Chapter 4
The Patron’s Gift
For some inexplicable reason, Monica did not have any of Henry’s contact information. Since he never paid for any services, none of his phone numbers, addresses, or even e-mails were on file. No way I’m calling Mr. Witherspoon to ask. Monica would die from horror.
There were a few things they needed to get straight. First of all, Monica was not one of the available girls. She didn’t work like they did. Her job was to keep the Château running smoothly and making sure they all drowned in dollars. What had ever given him the idea that she could receive a gift like that?
He did understand
that she wasn’t available, right?
Monica thought back to their tour multiple times, wondering where she had dropped some hint that Henry Warren was free to bid for her prolonged services. He didn’t seem interested in any of the other girls. Why would he come all the way out there to turn around and head home? And then to buy something that cost thousands of dollars and send it to her, asking if she would like to… to…
Every time Monica’s thoughts reached this part, her eyes glazed over and she imagined herself naked, or maybe in her lingerie, shackled to bed with that silver, diamond encrusted collar wrapped around her throat. Blindfold optional. She tried to cut the thoughts off before Henry Warren entered in his summery suits… no, dark blue… no, gray… his large, masculine hand spanking her on the ass before he whispered what he wanted to do to her. Fuck me.
Monica didn’t have a lot of crushes, but she was still human. When she fell for someone, she fell hard, usually for the most random reasons she never understood. Her first time with Jackson only happened because she liked the way he charmed her. Her other ex Ethan Cole had a brooding bad boy thing going for him that she liked – especially since he was a total puppy inside. Wish I ended up with Ethan over Jackson. It was a ménage arrangement back then, until Ethan decided he didn’t want to share anymore. Stupid Monica ended up moving in with Jackson full time… and then ended up where she did. With a gun in my hand and nothing to live for.
So why Henry? He was handsome, and charismatic, but so were a lot of the other millionaires and billionaires who came to the Château. They all talked to her. Some even expressed romantic interest in her. Monica was able to rebuff them all. Why did she care about what they had to offer when she could give it to herself? Then here came Henry, grazing his fingers against her skin, kissing the top of her hand with those soft lips, and giving her a sub’s collar in a black box.
He wants to dominate me…
Monica canceled her one appointment that afternoon, told the girls she wasn’t feeling well, and sat alone in her office. The sunshine slowly descended behind the garden. By the time it kissed the horizon, she still didn’t know what to do. She wanted to call Henry and ask him the meaning of this. Except that was silly. She didn’t have his number!
I shouldn’t be talking to him anyway. No, she should definitely be obsessing over him and his motives instead. That was a good use of her time, especially when all she did was sit at her desk and watch the day slowly go by.
She made an appearance downstairs for dinner. Then she took a bath, hoping the hot water would soak away the absurdity of it. Yet it was dangerous sitting in that tub by herself. naked. She imagined the collar around her neck, the chain dangling over the side of the claw foot tub as Henry’s long fingers walked down her bare chest and pinched her nipple. “Get clean,” he would say like a true Dom. “I want to get you dirty all over again.”
Monica went to bed completely beside herself. I haven’t felt this way in so long. Not even since before Jackson went off the deep end and started hurting her. Rarely did Monica feel such a sexual attraction to men she barely knew. There was so much trust involved in being a sub! These young girls who worked for her had the fortitude to forego knowing a man for more than ten minutes. Besides, it was a job for them. For Monica, it was her lifestyle.
She wanted a man to take control, both in the bedroom and out. She wanted agency, but she also wanted to be taken care of and never have to worry about things again. She wanted a man to overpower her in the bedroom and make her tear apart at every seam.
The problem was that most men who fit that bill turned out to be assholes.
Next time I talk to him, I’ll tell him it’s off the table. Until then, Monica was plagued with the images swarming her head. Henry Warren. Mr. Warren. Grabbing her from behind and pushing his lips against her skin, tasting the sweat her anxious heart pumped from her body; behind her over the bed and pulling away her clothes; teasing her with his cock until she was forced to beg for it; pulling her hair and trapping her against the bed while he fucked her, hard.
Her eyes opened to the realization that her hand was in her underwear, and that sexual sting she felt wasn’t only in her imagination.
Monica didn’t touch herself often. Not unless her Dom told her to for both of their pleasure. And in the end with him, it was always about Jackson’s pleasure instead of mine. His corrupted pleasure that only got off if she was miserable.
Her hand came out and she turned over in bed. I’m weak. I’m sad. I don’t deserve any of that shit. She knew she didn’t deserve it, and yet Monica decided to always blame herself. Because then it felt like she had an ounce of power over her own life.
That settled it. She wasn’t actually attracted to Henry Warren. She was attracted to the idea of escaping her past and getting into more trouble. Telling him to politely go away it was.
If she could.
“Mr. Henry Warren is here to see you.”
Monica’s head turned from the statements she read on her desk. “Send him in,” she said, turning the top letter over and emblazoning it with her signature. “Tell him that I’ve been expecting him.”
The maid nodded and escorted herself out of Monica’s office. It wasn’t even a full two days later after she received the box from him. The patron’s gift. The ode to her sweet nectar. Monica had rewrapped the gift and put it in one of her drawers. No use for it now.
A knock came on her door, and she waited two seconds before glancing up and catching sight of the man from her deplorable fantasies. Good God. Dressed in a dark navy blue suit with a silk black tie and sapphire cufflinks, Henry stood straight and proper in her doorway, dark blond hair neatly combed and his leather shoes recently shined. He gave her no knowing looks, instead choosing to bequeath a neither friendly nor business-like demeanor that Monica couldn’t read. She was too busy wondering how quickly she could shove everything off her desk so he could take her right there anyway.
Get a hold of yourself. Monica stood up from her chair. “Have a seat.”
Henry’s graceful legs brought him closer, and now Monica smelled that musky aftershave emanating from his body. She imagined him, on top of her in bed, that scent overpowering her as he thrust between her legs. Henry. That would be his scent. Whenever she was out and smelled it on someone else, she would think of him and all the wonderful ways he…
“I see you saw the news this morning,” he interrupted her thoughts with a point to the newspaper on her desk. “Terrible what happened to those people on that plane.”
Monica shook out her inappropriate thoughts and glared at the color picture of plane wreckage. “Yes. Terrible.” Just that morning she was reading it to feel better about her life. Now here came Henry to take away her Schadenfreude. “Can I help you?”
He took his seat in the chair across from her. Even sitting down he was still a good two heads taller than her. I have a weakness for tall men. Jackson had been on the shorter side. Monica could barely remember what it felt like to curl up next to a man over a foot taller than her.
“You know why I am here.”
Monica folded her hands on her desk, kept her back straight… but could not keep her lips from thinning. “I’m guessing it’s about this.” She opened the drawer next to her and pulled out the black box. It landed with a thud on the desk between them.
“I’m glad you received it. Did you take a look inside?”
“Of course I did. I must say that the contents were fairly shocking.”
“Shocking? To you? I thought nothing could possibly shock you.”
“I was shocked by the idea that you would think I was available for patronage.”
Finally, a reaction. Henry relaxed in his chair and smiled. Nothing sinister. Nothing… toxic. Not the kind of smile Jackson would have given her before he said something nefarious. No, the words coming out of Henry’s mouth were anything but. “I was under no assumption that you were available in that way. You have mistaken me.
”
Monica opened the box and pulled out the collar. She found the inscription and shoved it in Henry’s direction. “And what do you call this?”
“My intentions.”
“You either think I’m up for patronage or not.”
“Let me put it this way. I know that you don’t work like the other young ladies here do. I know that. I’m also not interested in any of them. I’ve only been interested in you since the moment I first saw you.”
Monica almost lost her posture. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t completely explain my attraction to you yet. When I first laid eyes on you that night, I thought, ‘What a beautiful, refined woman. I want to get to know her better.’ And when I did, my heart only quickened more. Maybe I’m a fool, Monica, but I’m a fool for you.”
This was ridiculous. The man was talking like he came from a pre-War record track. Spare me. Nevertheless, Monica liked that kind of talk. She liked it when men sounded sophisticated and flattered her in such ways. If Henry could write poetry, that would just be… “You don’t know me at all. And you send me this? What is this supposed to mean?” The collar shook in her hand.
Whether he was perturbed by her growing frustration or not, he didn’t let on. “You said to impress you by sending you something that you would like. Well? Don’t you like it?”
“What would make you think that I like something like this?”
“Because…” Henry stood up, pulling his jacket closed and weaving a single button through its hole. He leaned across the desk, hands splayed in support above the now empty box. His lips were not too far from Monica’s, which parted in surprise as she came so close to kissing this relative stranger, but dared not make a fool of herself. “I know a ready submissive woman when I meet one, Monica.”
Breath tore from her throat, her chest, and into the empty air between them. How dare he… How dare he what? Want her? Recognize her? Know her? Her skin was sweaty, making the collar slip between her fingers. Her nail grazed against a diamond, a lump going down her throat. Those eyes… Piercing into hers. Seeing her soul. Picking apart her brain and feasting on the morsels she offered. The only thing keeping her from sitting up and kissing Henry Warren was the blaring alarm going off in the back of her head. Idiot.