by Julie Kriss
So I poured a coffee at the coffee station in the middle of the office and I drank it as I sorted email, both mine and his. I fielded requests for Aidan to take meetings or speak at conferences. I took a call from the legal department. I went through the mail.
There was a piece of mail from a hospital in Chicago. Thinking it was a request for a donation, I opened the letter and skimmed it. Too late, I realized how personal it was—I couldn’t unread what I had read. I set the letter aside, along with other papers that I needed Aidan to sign. I went to his office and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said.
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Aidan was standing at his floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie today, just black pants and a black dress shirt that was cut perfectly to his torso and the flawless line of his waist. His hands rested casually in his pockets. He had a shadow of stubble on his jaw. I let my gaze take him in for a quick second while he wasn’t looking at me—the sinuous line of his muscled shoulders, the way his pants fit over his ass. I thought of the pilot I’d met in the bar last night, of how knowingly his mouth had worked over my pussy, and my skin went hot.
He turned and looked at me, his features stern. But I knew him now, and I could read his expression—there was amusement in his eyes. “Nice of you to show up,” he said.
I kept my chin up. “Sorry, the time you gave didn’t work for me. I had things to do.”
“I apologize for keeping you from your important work.”
He leaned his weight a little on one hip, and I thought of what he had looked like in jeans last night. I tried to keep my cool. “I went through the mail,” I said. “There’s a letter from a hospital. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have read it. I didn’t know it was personal.”
I held out the letter, but Aidan stayed where he was, making no move to take it. “Is it about my mother?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t read all of it.”
“Read all of it now.” His voice was calm, though cooler than before. “I don’t want to read it. What do they want?”
I turned the page back around and read it. “They say, um, that in her condition she sometimes tries to wander from the grounds. They recommend moving her to a different section of the hospital where they watch the patients more closely.”
There was not a hint of reaction in his face. “And?”
I read to the bottom. “And, er, the change in care is more expensive.”
“Of course it is. Tell them that the change is fine and I approve the expense.”
I folded the letter. “I’m sorry your mother is ill.”
Pain showed in his expression for a brief moment and I watched him fight it back. I wondered how often he fought down his pain. “She’s losing her memory,” he said. “It’s happening faster than the doctors expected, and they don’t know why.”
“What about your father?” I asked.
He shook his head. “My mother left my father when Ava and I were little after he hit her one too many times.”
My stomach twisted. “I’m sorry, Aidan. I shouldn’t pry.”
“It isn’t prying. Not when you know the person.” He stepped toward me and touched the line of my jaw with his fingertip. “And I’d say we know each other pretty well, wouldn’t you?”
I suppressed the shiver his touch gave me. Did we know each other really? We’d talked plenty, but that was usually in character. I raised my gaze to his. His eyes were dark and beautiful. There was pain in their depths but there was also warmth, because he was looking at me.
Yes, I did know this man. Even when we gave each other different names, I still knew him. And he knew me, in ways that no one else did—not my sister, my parents, my coworkers, my former lovers. Aidan knew me in a way that made me know myself better.
It was terrifying.
I was no one, an anonymous child who had been left at a hospital with her sister. Because I’d had to build my identity from nothing, I thrived on being the good daughter, the good sister, the good assistant. What Aidan knew about me—the real me—fractured all of that.
“I’m not renegotiating the game,” I said.
Aidan’s finger was still on my jaw. He dropped his hand. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Turn around.”
It didn’t matter how defiant or opinionated I was; when he said that, I did it. I didn’t even think. I turned around.
His hands came to my hips. I sucked in a breath at the touch. I tried to keep it quiet, but he heard it. His fingers pressed into the fabric of my knee-length skirt, pulling it up one inch, and then another.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, his voice low and rough, “how much I want to bend you over my desk and fuck you?”
I closed my eyes as I felt the hem of my skirt drift upward. “No,” I said.
“You sound so convincing, Samantha, but we both know I could do it if I wanted. Undo the top button of your dress.”
I did it, my hands moving of their own accord. My skin was flushing hot.
“The next one,” Aidan said.
I unbuttoned the next one. Cool air brushed the skin between my breasts. The entire office was on the other side of the door—phones ringing, keyboards clicking. My pussy throbbed.
He lifted my skirt higher, then brushed his warm fingers over the outside of my thighs, tracing lines on my skin. “I would fuck you until you came,” he said calmly. “I would fuck you until I came inside you, and you’d work the rest of the day knowing my cum was inside you. If you let me, I’d fuck you until I was the only thing you thought about every morning. I’d fuck you until you craved me above anything else.”
A soft moan escaped my throat, but I cut it off. “No,” I rasped.
His fingers moved to the front of my thighs, then traced a line between them. So very, very close to my pussy in my damp panties. “You won’t let me, so I’m not going to. But you want me to, Samantha. You want me to fuck you, and you want it very badly.”
“I don’t.” Who was I fooling? I was standing in Aidan’s office, my dress unbuttoned and my skirt up, my eyes closed, dying for his hands between my legs. But I said it again. “I don’t.”
He leaned forward, his breath against my neck. I could smell him, the heady scent of him mixed with the smell of my own sex. “We don’t need the game, Samantha,” he said. “You don’t need it. You never have. You just need to let go.”
Behind my closed eyelids, I pictured that—what letting go would look like. What it would feel like. With Aidan, it would feel amazing, like I was finally myself after a lifetime of trying to be someone. Of not knowing who that woman really was.
I stood frozen and helpless, temptation washing over me. And then Aidan removed his hand. My body ached as he lowered my skirt, the fabric brushing my oversensitized legs. He circled to the front of me and gently fastened my buttons.
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. We looked like two people standing in an office, but he had just undone me completely, and we both knew it.
His expression was serious, his eyes dark. “Your move, Samantha,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
Thirty
Samantha
* * *
“I don’t know how you do that shit,” Emma said to me. “I think I want to kill someone.”
I raised my eyebrows as we walked into the smoothie bar on 8th. Just a few blocks from the Port Authority—historic home of junkies and prostitutes for most of New York’s history—and an “artisanal smoothie” cost $13. “Murderous is not how you’re supposed to feel after a yoga class,” I told my sister. “That really isn’t the point.”
She rolled her eyes. Even in yoga pants and an expensive, complicated yoga top, Emma looked like she was on her way somewhere at top speed. “How does anyone do any of those poses? And why? I mean, triangle pose? I do not look like a triangle, no matter how you twist me. It isn’t happening.”
&nbs
p; I grabbed her mint-and-kale smoothie and shoved it at her so she would stop complaining. I’d asked my sister out for a comfortable, relaxing Saturday, hoping for some girl time. But even though I loved my sister, girl time wasn’t really her thing—evidenced by the fact that she had already pulled out her phone and was answering texts. Yoga wasn’t Emma’s thing, either, even though she was fit and strong.
“What?” she said, glancing up and noticing me looking at her.
I shrugged, sipping my own lemon-and-hand-pressed-cranberry smoothie. “I’m just wondering if you stay fit by crushing the bones of your enemies.”
Emma grinned. “I also stay hydrated with their tears. It’s part of my regime. Oh, and I run.”
“Outside?”
She looked horrified. “Are you kidding? This is New York. I’d probably catch a communicable disease right before I got murdered. I do not have time for that.”
There was a reason Emma was single and happy about it—most men found her a little terrifying. “How did it go with Ethan?” I asked her as we left the smoothie bar.
“Who?”
“The guy you tried to set me up with from Tinder. With the tattoos.”
“Oh, him.” She shrugged, though I thought her expression got a little tense. “It was fine, I guess. Nothing spectacular.”
“So you slept with him, then.”
“For the millionth time, Samantha, the word is fucked. And yes, I did.”
My sister thought I was a square. She had no idea I’d come within seconds of fucking—yes, fucking—my smoking-hot boss in his office. I wasn’t going to tell her. “And it was bad?” I asked.
“It was fine.” Her voice was flat. “No fireworks, though, if you know what I mean.”
I did. “For you or for him?”
Emma snorted. “Oh, there’s always fireworks for the guy. Every time. But for me, well, let’s just say I’m glad I invested in a proper sex toy collection. Otherwise I’d be orgasmless and even more bitchy than I already am.”
“You’re not bitchy,” I said loyally. “You’re just driven. Focused.”
“Thanks, sis.” Emma smiled at me, one of her real smiles. It didn’t matter that we were different—ever since we’d been left at that hospital, we’d been in this life together. We always would be. Even when she brushed me off.
Which she was about to do in three, two…. There it was. “I gotta go,” she said, holding up her phone, as if that explained it. “Shit is hitting the fan. I’m going to go to the office and get some work done.”
It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, but I already knew it was futile to tell my sister not to go to work. She’d ignore me anyway. “I thought we were going to go shopping,” I said.
“I shop online. It’s faster.” Her phone buzzed again and she waved at me. “Later, sis.”
I went back to my apartment, showered, and changed. Drank some water. Just a normal Saturday for a single working girl.
Your move, Samantha. I’ll be waiting.
I put the glass of water down on the counter and took a breath. It was like Aidan was standing right there, saying it in my ear. My body flushed hot.
This had been happening ever since the scene in his office. I would be going about my life as normal, and then suddenly I’d be hot and aching, thinking about those words. I’d wake up thinking about them, my sheets twisted over my legs. I fell asleep thinking about them, too.
Aidan was as good as his word. He hadn’t contacted me about anything other than the most mundane work issues. We hadn’t been alone together. He hadn’t texted me instructions for the next round of the game. Because, as he’d promised, the next round of the game was up to me.
You don’t need the game. You never have. You just need to let go.
I was a coward. I knew that. I was pretending life was normal, that I hadn’t played a wild and filthy game with my boss. I was pretending that it hadn’t changed me, that it wasn’t still changing me. My life wasn’t normal while I was thinking about Aidan saying those words. It would never be normal until I had the guts to take the next step.
I sat down at my kitchen counter and my gaze caught on the erotic novel I’d bought. One Night with the Devil. The woman’s hands on the cover, bound in red ribbon. I’d read the book multiple times by now—I could recite some of the passages by heart. It wasn’t that I had a kink for being tied up and bound, though I knew some people did. What kept me coming back to the book was the boldness and fearlessness of it, of the heroine who craved pleasure and went after it with an incredibly hot man. I don’t care if it’s one night or forever, she tells him at one point. I don’t care if you keep me or you throw me away. I just want you to take me. Right now, in every way you desire. Take me.
I had done that, been that way, with Aidan. During the game. I wasn’t finished playing yet.
You don’t need the game. You just need to let go.
I picked up my phone, and before I could lose my courage, I texted Aidan: Where are you right now?
His reply was typical Aidan, mysterious and sexy. Does it matter? Now I’m talking to you.
I swallowed, my throat dry. I should probably call him and talk about this in person, but my guts only took me so far. Besides, I didn’t want to punctuate this with um and uh like a nervous idiot. I thought about Nadia, the heroine of One Night with the Devil. I thought of Sarah, the financial CEO I’d been in the first round of our game. She’d been sexy and proud of it, and I’d liked being her. I decided to channel her now.
I texted: Are you still waiting for my signal?
His reply was immediate: Always.
I smiled to myself. I’ll think about it, I wrote, but if we’re going to renegotiate the game, I have conditions.
The dots moved. Name them.
He was playing. I knew that—this was a different version of the game. But there was something raw and honest about it, too. I knew that right now, while not playing a role, Aidan would do anything I wanted.
I leaned back in my chair and sipped my water. One of my favorite things about working for Tower VC, I wrote, is the health plan.
Aidan: Is that so?
Me: Yes. The prescription coverage is particularly generous. It’s excellent for staying on birth control.
There was a second of silence, and then the dots moved again. Samantha, you are playing with fire.
Of course, I wrote, for me to consider any man, he’d have to have a clean bill of health. And I would provide the same.
Aidan: Hold that thought.
I waited one minute, then two. I sipped my water. I was starting to get restless when my phone chimed again, this time with an email. I opened it and read it in shock.
Aidan had sent me exactly what I asked for—his clean bill of health, sent from his doctor. I scanned over the document and saw it was dated the day after we’d met at the art gallery. The last time we’d had sex with a condom.
He’d gone to the doctor the next day, because he’d planned this.
I opened my text app again.
Me: Do you always get what you want?
Aidan: Your turn.
Me: You didn’t answer my question.
Aidan: I’m not getting what I want right now, and I haven’t in too long. You know that. Now send me the damned document.
Me: How do you know I have one?
Aidan: You wouldn’t have started this conversation if you didn’t. I’m waiting.
Damn it, he was right. I’d had a checkup a month ago and had all of my annual tests done. I found the document he wanted and sent it in a reply email, then texted him again. All right, now we’re even.
Aidan: Done. Tell me your next condition.
I bit my lip, my confidence ebbing. What was I doing? This man was my boss, one of the richest men in New York, and the sexiest man I’d ever met. I’d only been bold enough to seduce him when I was playing someone else.
I looked down at myself, sitting at my kitchen counter. I was wearing black leggings and a
soft T-shirt with my most comfortable bra under it. My hair was in a rough ponytail and I had no makeup on. I didn’t have on the heavy makeup and expensive dress I’d worn the first night of our game. I didn’t have an identity at the ready. I was just me, on a Saturday morning. Did I actually think I could get a man like Aidan Winters?
I pictured him in his penthouse right now, lounging beautifully, probably wearing black silk pajamas. I’d never seen Aidan in black silk pajamas, or any pajamas, but I pictured him wearing them anyway. His dark hair was a little mussed in the picture in my head, his body long and lean and nearly naked. Masculine perfection. A man on top of the world.
He was still waiting for me to text something. So I wrote: My next condition is that you tell me what you’re doing right now.
He waited a second, and then he wrote: The truth? I’m walking. It’s what I do when I’m at loose ends. I walk the city. I’ve probably covered every part of it by now. I just spent an hour at the Met and now I’m in Central Park, heading toward Columbus Circle. Not sure where I’ll go next.
I stared at the words in surprise. The man on top of the world was walking alone, probably had been for hours. He did it all the time.
And I realized that the Man in Black wasn’t really who he was. It was a costume he put on, a persona. The real Aidan was a runaway kid from Chicago who had come up with an idea with a few of his friends. He might be one of the richest men in New York now, but when he didn’t have to be the ice-cold venture capitalist, he was just Aidan, who liked art and wandered the streets of New York with everyone else.
It makes money, but it’s utterly cold and unfulfilling, he’d said the night at the art gallery. And the first night we played the game: I wanted to do this the first second I saw you. He’d been in character, but he’d been telling the truth. We’d both been telling the truth. It just took playing the game to say what we really meant.
It was time to take a leap of faith. As me.
I lifted my phone again. I texted Aidan my address and the entry code to my building. Then I added the bravest words I’d ever written: