“Would you now?” I grin, in spite of myself.
He levels his gaze on me. “I doubt you’ll
find many men better suited . . . especially for the more outlandish and expensive fantasies.”
His self-assurance must come from knowing he can buy whatever he wants, and whoever he can’t
buy, he can probably charm into submission. I wonder what it must feel like to be him—able to live
his life with no limitations but the ones he puts on himself. I call myself a modern thinker, but feel
like an unsure girl inside. And here’s a man offering me a chance to become a woman in all the ways
I’ve only imagined. Would I be a fool to refuse? “Just how far are you prepared to take this, Mr.
Aster?”
“As far as you’ll let me,” he replies, tapping the pile of envelopes. “What do you
think?”
I think that I’m two breaths away from forgetting all good sense.
“I need to return
to work, sir.”
Standing up, I dare to pluck my beloved journal from his hand. He follows me
to the door and when I start to turn the handle, he angles his shoulder to block my exit. “Aren’t you
forgetting your lingerie?”
Something flutters in my belly. “It seems like a dangerous gift
to accept.”
“Oh, it is,” he says, leaning lazily against the door frame. “But I want you to
have it. I want to imagine you wearing it. I can’t quite get the picture of you naked right in my mind,
though. I can’t decide if your breasts are round or pointy, with low nipples or high nipples, and
the curiosity is driving me mad.”
“
Mr. Aster
.” I laugh, shocked, amused, offended, aroused,
and uncertain which is the strongest emotion. I’ve imagined men of all sorts in my fantasies: strong
and shameless men, controlling and crude. But I’m not sure I ever imagined a man quite so playfully
debauched.
“Take the lingerie,” he insists.
I don’t own anything like the garment in that
box. It’s pretty and feminine and utterly impractical. It would be a gift I couldn’t tell anyone
about, a gift just for me, secret and sinful and forbidden, just like him. “I don’t think I should.”
“Then don’t take it. Just stay. Because this is the most interesting morning I’ve had since
returning to the city and I’m not ready for it to end.”
“So I’m a source of amusement to you.”
It ought to offend me, but it doesn’t. Everything is crowded out by the coiling desire in my body.
“I mean to be a source of amusement for you, too, Miss O’Brien. Haven’t I already amused you?
You came into this office such a serious girl, but you’re on the verge of laughing now . . .”
I have to bite my lip to hold back the merriment he senses. “What happens if I stay?”
“Then
I’ll let you open an envelope . . . but there are rules. If you find that you don’t want to obey
the command written there, the game stops and you don’t get to open any of the other ones.”
Obey?
So there are
commands
in those envelopes. The thought of it makes me bite my lower lip even
harder. The secret notes were my own idea, drawn from little dreams that gave me pleasure in the dark.
Will I still like them in the light of day?
He returns to his desk, taking the topmost envelope
from the stack, then holds it out to me like forbidden fruit. I shake my head. Better that I take
my journal and go. Better to pretend that we never had this conversation. For all that’s said about
him, Mr. Aster seems like the kind of man who would keep his word about letting the matter drop.
All my best judgment tells me that I should go back downstairs as swiftly as possible and return to
my job while I still have it.
That’s exactly what I decide to do.
Somehow, I find myself
reaching for the envelope anyway.
CHAPTER
Two
I can’t say why I take it. Maybe it’s because he said
my writing was
lively and that it showed creative genius. Maybe it’s because I’m flattered by his
attention. Or maybe it’s because my fantasies are even more seductive to me than the man who claims
he’s willing to bring them to life . . .
I slide the cool linen paper through my fingers. I
open the envelope carefully, skimming my nail under the seal so as not to tear it. Then I draw forth
the little card and swallow at the two words written there:
Touch me.
I study him. No boyish
grin graces his features now; his eyes are fastened on me like there is nothing and no one more interesting
in the whole wide world. A tremor goes through me as I contemplate all the possibilities.
“Touch you?”
“If you like.”
Touch me.
Those two little words seem so harmless, but
carry such gravity that all my limbs go heavy. I glance at him, suddenly struck by the idea that,
like some dresses in the hotel boutique, he’s too expensive to risk touching. In his monogrammed shirt,
Brooks Brothers vest, and perfectly pressed oxford trousers, there isn’t much exposed skin. Just
his face, well-formed and patrician, and his hands and forearms—the backs of which are dusted with
pale golden hair.
I find that I want to touch him. I want to touch him very much. I come closer
to him and hear his intake of breath. But my boldness falters, and there’s an awkward moment as
I reach forward with a trembling hand, not sure where to put it. “Like this?” I brush my fingers against
the back of his knuckles. It’s an innocent gesture, the kind of contact strangers make on the
train without ever knowing. It binds neither of us to anything.
It also risks nothing.
That’s what his eyes say. He’s taken a gamble. Will I play it safe?
Letting my hand drift up
his arm, I rest it on his chest where I can feel his skin burning through the fabric. He’s hot as a
furnace and both of his hands grip the edge of the desk as if he were struggling not to make any sudden
moves that might frighten me. So close to him now, I’m overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him. But
that’s not what the card said to do.
Touch me.
Sliding my hand down, I rest both my palms
on his thighs. The firm muscle there takes me a little by surprise. The tailoring of his clothes
understates the power of his physicality. Beneath the slightly scratchy wool fabric, I feel the evidence
for myself and it makes me tremble. A bulge of arousal has risen beneath his trousers and if I
move my hands only a little bit, I can stroke him. But do I dare? What if his mask of civility is hiding
darker impulses he’s barely managing to restrain? Our eyes meet, our gazes lock, and then I wonder
which one of us truly has the darkest impulses.
Maybe it’s me.
Spreading my fingers wide,
I slide my hand over the hardness of his erection and am delighted by the answering pulse beneath
my palm. His low growl of approval warms me all over. It makes me feel sexy and powerful. Womanly.
When I press harder he groans and his eyelids lower, heavy with desire. It makes me giddy to get this
kind of response from him with nothing but my touch . . . I rub him, enjoying the size and firmness
of him against my hand.
“More?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Perhaps he hasn’t heard
me. Then he swallows. “What do you want, Sophie?”
The use of my given name pulls me closer
to him in intimacy. I want to keep touching him. I want to make him growl again, that pleasurable sound
deep in his chest. I want to undress him and see what he looks like under his clothes. I want him
to undress me and see what I look like under mine.
But all of these things are new fantasies;
the old one still has more power over me.
“I want to open another card.”
His hands flex
on the desk, like little invisible bands were holding him still. Nothing is holding him but his own
self-control. “Same rules as before,” he reminds me. “Whatever is on that card, either you do it,
or the game is over.”
I’m afraid of the eagerness with which I tear the next note open. Glancing
down at the card, I see four words this time.
Let me touch you.
I look up to see the question
in his eyes. It’s both a plea and a promise.
“You want to touch me, sir?”
“
Very
much.”
His enthusiasm makes me stammer. “W-where? I mean, where do you want to touch me?”
“Everywhere.”
My throat convulses in a little gasp.
“Oh.” I feel as if I must understand
all
the rules.
“And what if I ask you to stop, Mr. Aster?”
“Then I’ll stop. But the game will be over.”
“And what if
you
stop before I want you to?”
His dimples deepen with his smile. “If I do
it right, you won’t ever want me to stop.”
Let me touch you.
The question is still in
his eyes and I answer it with a single nod.
Knowing he has my assent, he breaks those invisible
ties on his wrists and reaches for me. Drawing me to stand between his legs, he surprises me by
first stroking my hair. Then his thumb brushes my lips. The sensation is so intimate that the hair
raises on my nape.
While I’m still reeling, he puts both of his warm hands on my shoulders
and I realize how big they are. Big, warm, meaty hands that inch themselves down to my breasts, cupping
them. Most women wrap their breasts to fit the popular flapper style, but mine aren’t big enough
to need flattening. I find myself suddenly quite grateful for that, because I don’t want anything else
to come between my skin and his.
Following his example, I keep my hands still, letting them
dangle uselessly to give him the best access to my body. My head tilts back in pleasure. My nipples
tingle and I wish he’d take them out and suck them into his mouth, but he’s in no hurry. He kneads
my flesh, squeezing my breasts, rubbing them in a circle, first this way, then that. It feels so good,
I don’t think of stopping him.
I worry that he’s right and I might
never
want him to stop.
And isn’t that just how girls get into trouble?
His hands slip lower. He strokes my belly,
my hips, my thighs. It’s only when arousal makes me unsteady and I lean against his leg for balance,
that his hands slide round my back, then down, down, down to cup my bottom in his hands and draw me
tight against him.
The hardness of his erection meets the heat between my legs, sending a jolt
through me. Face to face. Hip to hip. It’s a perfect preview of what it might be like to be joined
with him. To have sex with him . . .
He murmurs, “I’d like to kiss you . . . you’re actually
quite lovely, Sophie, do you know that?”
I’m no bug-eyed Betty but my face is big and round
as the moon, so I’ve never thought of myself as a beauty, either. “I’m going to let you kiss me whether
you sweet-talk me or not, Mr. Aster.”
He chuckles. “I hadn’t any idea what you looked like
when I read your diary and I don’t think it would have mattered. I wanted you and was willing to go
to great lengths to get you. But when you came into my office, I couldn’t stop smiling because you were
prettier than I had any right to hope.”
He knows how to talk to women, I remind myself. He’s
had practice charming all manner of beauties, foreign and domestic. It’s probably a skill he’s cultivated,
so I shouldn’t take it to heart . . . but I do. And when his mouth closes over mine, I’m lost.
He kisses me slowly, teasing at my lips until I kiss him back. Until my arms go up around his neck
and I dare to brush my fingers over his golden hair, releasing the scent of Brilliantine. I imagine
being cradled against him like this, naked. The big bulk of his body around me. A desire made only
more intense when he begins unfastening the belt around my drop-waist knit jersey dress. When he’s
done with the belt, he pulls the garment up over my body, and I find myself lifting my arms even higher
so that he can remove it.
Standing before him in nothing but my white chemise and pantaloons,
I’m again beset by rapid-fire breathing and a stuttering tongue. “T-the n-note only said that I should
let you touch me, not that—”
“You get to say stop at any time,” he reminds me.
And I will,
I promise myself. I
will
stop him. But not now. Not when his hands slide so deliciously beneath
my undergarments, fingers sweeping over the wide areolae of my nipples. And not when the flat of his
palm skims into my drawers and cups the pulsing mound of my sex.
His hand lingers there, fingers
slipping up inside. My squeak of surprise gives me away, and he murmurs, “Why, Miss O’Brien, you’re
not a virgin, are you?”
“Of course not,” I say, afraid to reveal the truth. Afraid that if
he knows, all these sophisticated womanly feelings might disappear. And anyway, it isn’t much of a lie.
There was the Irish revolutionary who cornered me after a lecture and very nearly seduced me with
his tales of woe. I didn’t stop him until we were both half-dressed and panting against a tree in
the park, his fumbling hands urging me to recklessness. And that doesn’t even count the boy back home
. . . but no, I can’t think of
him
now.
Not with Mr. Aster’s clever fingers finding the secret
swollen place between my folds that makes me cry out. He strokes between my legs until my head swims
with pleasure and my whole being seems cradled in the palm of his hand.
In a husky voice, he
asks, “Will you let me see you naked?”
Unlike the stark commands written on the cards, this
is a request. There’s no challenge or threat. Just his own admission of what he’d like. I’ve already
let him touch me and undress me. I’m ready to let him do even more than that. By way of answer, I
slip out of my undergarments and let them fall to the floor.
He smiles, stooping to kiss the
tips of my nipples. “Splendid. Upturned and rose pink. Just like your lips.”
“What about yours?”
I ask. “Time for you to show a peek, don’t you think?”
“All in good time.”
He spins me
around, away from him, confusing me. Then, the warmth and weight of his hand presses down on my back,
forcing me to lean over. With the iron of his erection pressed tight between my buttocks, I feel
trapped. Somehow taken prisoner by his masculinity alone. I can’t make a sound of protest.
I need to say something to make him stop. Because I know what he’s going to do! But I’m wrong. His fingertips
skate through the slickness between my legs, then draw the wetness back to an even more forbidden
place that makes me arch up in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“I’m touching you
everywhere
,” he murmurs, pressing the wet tip of his finger at the tight opening. I don’t expect the rush of heightened
sensation and yelp with distress. “Relax, Miss O’Brien, I won’t hurt you.”
And he doesn’t.
The pressure is insistent, but gentle. His thumb slides in only to the first knuckle and my body squeezes
and tenses around it. It isn’t the pain, but the idea of what he’s doing that makes me spiral
down into myself, into a place that feels entirely sinful. For these aren’t the fumblings of a nervous
boy or a drunk revolutionary. Only a man with perfect confidence in what he’s doing would dare to
touch a woman’s body this way.
Facedown on his desk, my nipples hard to the point of pain against
the unyielding lacquered top, I ask, “Is this what you do to other women, sir?”
“I’ve never
played this game with the note cards before, no. Or do you mean to ask whether or not I’ve fucked a
woman in the ass?” The discourteous words shock me and set the mood. “I’ve done that several times.”
I speak in a breathy little whimper. “Oh.”
“Do you want me to fuck your ass? I don’t remember
seeing that in your journal.”
His erection presses hot and hard against the backs of my thighs,
and though the desk takes most of my weight, my legs strain under me. I press the burning blush
of my cheek against the cool wood of the desk and I say, “I—I don’t know. I never thought about it
before.”
My eyes are on the stack of envelopes while his finger slips shallowly in and out
of that nether passage. I’m struck by an overwhelming sense of gratitude. That he’s so shameless gives
me a freedom I’ve never felt before and likely never will again. I’m so eager to claim this freedom
that I reach out and snatch the next envelope from the top of the pile.
“Wait!” he barks. “Don’t
open that yet.”
“Why not?”
He pauses just long enough in his answer that I’m afraid he’ll
have a good reason and I’ll never find the courage. So I tear it with my teeth, yanking the card
out, and everything inside me catches fire at what I see.
Let me fuck you.
“That’s why,”
he says, easing his finger from me and turning me around to face him. “I was going to switch it with
the next one.”
Gooseflesh rises on my skin. It feels so strange to be exposed to a man, here
in the middle of the morning, with sunlight streaming through the tall windows that overlook the rest
of the city and no shadows to hide behind. And since I can’t hide, there’s no choice but boldness.
“Why did you want to switch out the card? Don’t you want me?”
“Oh, I want you. I’ve wanted
you from the moment you walked in the door. My cock is
aching
from wanting you.”
“Then why
didn’t you want me to open this card?”
“I didn’t think you were ready. But now it’s too late
for second thoughts . . .” He bends to nip at the hollow of my throat and when he speaks, his voice
is steel. “You opened the envelope, Sophie. You know the rules. If we start breaking them now, it
will set entirely the wrong tone for this affair.”
Are we having an affair? I’m already writhing
against him. My body is already dancing to this tune. The part of me that isn’t all desire is
having to fight for every word. “Right . . . here?”