Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 1: The Seduction (3 page)

Saturday, January 1, 2011

I
don’t even know where to begin this entry, and I only have an hour to get to work at the restaurant. I just know that I don’t want to forget any details and I need to write them when I’m fresh. I’m certain I’ll look back at this at some point and crave the feelings and memories as clearly as they were in my mind tonight.

To start, Mark had me change clothes and then meet him at the gallery before the party. The entire staff knew I was attending the party with him and Mary was just plain mean. She popped into my office and said, “I guess it takes the right skirt to climb the ladder around here.” I assume she was calling me a slut; her tone said she was. It wasn’t easy to remind myself she was probably feeling threatened and bite my tongue, but I did.

Mark and I rode to the party in his Jaguar. I don’t even HAVE a car, so it was a luxurious ride for me, for sure. And being in that car alone with him was impossibly intimate. I swear, when I am with him, I feel him in every part of me. I think he feels it, too. Or maybe not. But even if there is an attraction between us, it can’t work out. He’s my boss and he has another woman.

Ricco’s home is in a ritzy area of the city and it’s elegant in every possible way. And Ricco himself is not only fabulously talented, he’s striking in person. Not beautiful like Mark, but there’s something about the way his sharp features and deep-set eyes come together. Very arrogant and regal, almost hard. But I also sensed a softer part of him that I think is part of his creativity. I really bonded with Ricco and he stayed by my side most of the night; he even invited me to have coffee with him next week. I thought Mark would be pleased, but for some reason he wasn’t. He kept watching me with Ricco, and more than once, he appeared in the middle of our conversation and just listened. Maybe he was evaluating how I handle clients. I can’t be sure.

Despite Mark’s irritation with me, when the night was over he offered to drive me home. He walked me to my door and I swear he wanted . . . something. Not a kiss. It’s not that simple with Mark. Maybe he wanted to fuck me, but I didn’t let my mind go there. I just stood there, trying to figure out what it was he wanted.

What was it that I wanted? The only word that comes to mind is “more” for me. For him, I had this uneasy moment of thinking “too much.” Mark would want too much, and somehow it would never be enough. I have no idea why I feel this, but I do. It’s insanity for my mind to be in this place anyway. He’s my boss. He might be able to separate whatever that “too much” is, but could I? Would I end up ruining my dream for mere hot sex, over and done with?

Yes. I’m beginning to think that is where this could go, and I won’t let it. Or maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. Mark still calls me Ms. Mason and I call him Mr. Compton. He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t made one remark that is even remotely sexual. I have no reason to believe we are headed toward naked and starving for each other, unless it’s in my dreams. And that is one dream that I’m confident I could recall in vivid detail . . .

Sunday, January 2, 2011

T
oday I had coffee with Ricco at the coffee shop next door to the gallery. I was shocked when I arrived early to discover that the gorgeous brunette I’d seen with Mark at the restaurant is Ava, the woman who owns the place. Not only that, she wasn’t rude or snotty at all this time. She’s probably closer to Mark’s age than mine, and carries herself almost regally, maybe too much so—like it’s a way to hide what she doesn’t want seen. She seemed to want to build a friendship, but I couldn’t quite feel right about it with the conflicting impressions I’ve had of her. She laughed and joked with me, and asked me how I was handling Mark being so controlling. I wondered if she was trying to get me to say something she’d then repeat to Mark. That’s so cynical of me, but it’s what popped into my head and I never say anything I don’t want repeated. She even whispered a warning about how temperamental Ricco can be. (But I’d heard the same from Ralph and Amanda.)

She did enough talking for both of us, and it turns out she’s known Mark and Ricco for years and they are all friends, though I’m not sure how this many gorgeous people are ever just friends. Some people would say that is small-minded of me, but it is what it is. I was surprised that I liked Ava. I’m not sure what to make of her. I’m going to be cautious with her, that’s for sure.

I didn’t say much about Mark or Ricco to her. I don’t even share things with the people I know well. There were too many years of my mother working double shifts at the hotel she managed, warning me not to talk to strangers while she was gone. Not to tell people whom I knew things that they could let slip to someone else, who would know I was alone. She was so crazily insistent that I learned to write stuff down. It’s better that way, I’ve found. I’m the only one judging me or influencing my own thoughts. I think most people let others decide who and what they are too much.

As for Ricco, he was amazing to me, and I saw nothing that screamed of his reputation for being temperamental. I warmed to him immediately, just as I had at his party. He’s one of the few people I’ve ever felt this comfortable with this quickly. He has this protective vibe about him that I found surprisingly appealing. Maybe it’s because he’s a good fifteen years older than me and almost fatherly, though he’s far too sexy a man for me to ever think of that way, and I feel no deep, burning need for a father figure. I don’t need or want to be taken care of. He tugs on some deep part of me, though. Really, he and Mark both do, but for different reasons. With Mark, I think it’s all about raw power and just plain lust. With Ricco, maybe there’s friendship? I just don’t know.

We were about to leave when I saw Ava talking to a man at the counter dressed in Harley boots, jeans, and a leather jacket. The look on her face said she was in lust. I sure hope I’m not that obvious when I look at Mark. Then the man turned around and I took in the sweeping whole picture he made, including collar-length mussed-up blond hair that screamed “wild and wicked rock star delicious,” and I could see why she was looking at him that way. Ricco followed my attention, and the two men waved at each other.

Then the next thing I knew, I was meeting the “rock star,” who was the incredibly famous Chris Merit. The man’s art sells for scary, wonderfully big price tags. As for the wild part I’d assumed, he didn’t come off that way. He was all business, about to head to a meeting with Mark, and Chris wanted to confirm that Ricco was still donating a painting to the next Riptide auction for a children’s cancer charity he supports. Despite the two being cordial, I didn’t get the impression Chris and Ricco were all that fond of each other. I think Ricco has a problem connecting with most people, but I think he’s just artistic and misunderstood. I’m going to his private studio this weekend to preview the work he’s willing to let me show to special customers, and I’m beyond thrilled.

I returned to the gallery and was called into Mark’s office. The power that man oozes from behind his desk is enough to make me forget every other man and my name. He then proceeded to drill me about Ricco and to warn me that artists could use my eagerness for success to manipulate me. He said it was his responsibility to protect me. I told him I didn’t need protection. His reply: My gallery. My employee. My protection. Those words were laced with possessiveness, and the way he’d looked at me . . . I felt more naked than I have felt with my legs spread wide for any other man. The air thickened with awareness between us. And then, in a snap, it was gone as if it had never happened, and maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was my imagination.

Mark proceeded to test me on the material he’d given me to study. I’m pleased that I passed with flying colors despite my crazy work schedule. I’m not as pleased about being tested every afternoon in his office, but that’s his plan. Until I convince him I’m ready, Mark won’t put me on the showroom floor. He was quick to tell me that he plans to push me to my limits.

I left the meeting with the same feeling I’d had the night I’d visited the gallery the first time. This man is going to have a profound impact on my life.

Friday, January 7, 2011

H
ot banker dude Josh showed up at my door right after I got home tonight. This is what happens when you are a chicken and don’t return phone calls. He had a bottle of wine and roses for me. I tried to be strong. I told him I wasn’t in a place to date. He said okay, let’s just share the wine.

I should have said no again. But he just looked so scrumptious and smelled so good, and I felt bad about not calling him back. The next thing I knew, I was naked and he was licking me all over and I was panting like a wanton wench who didn’t have any sense in her head. I blame Mark for turning me wet and wanting every time he walks into the room. And I already knew Josh was gifted with his tongue, and boy was he. I was quivering with release in no time.

I tried to repay the orgasm by giving him a blow job, but he didn’t let me. He decided to lick me all over again and gave me yet another orgasm. The man was determined to win me over. Then he fucked me and he did it well. That man hit all the right spots in all the right ways.

I should have been won over. So why was it still not enough? I know he thought it would be; I saw it in his eyes. I told him nothing had changed, and he said okay again, we’d be fuck buddies. If he’d meant it, I might think it wasn’t such a bad idea. A no-commitment kind of thing. I don’t have time for more than a wham-bam-hit-me-with-an-orgasm-or-two kind of relationship.

Only, he didn’t mean it. This gorgeous man with bedroom skills very few men possess, who is sweet and sexy, and successful, must have a long list of woman chasing him, but he wants me. I told him I didn’t think the fuck buddy thing would work out. He told me he’d show up with another bottle of wine and convince me otherwise.

Oh, yes. I made a mistake by fucking him last night. I’ve opened up a big can of trouble.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

I
visited Ricco’s home today and took a tour of his private gallery. It was spectacular and he had a Mexican chef prepare an authentic Mexican meal for us that was amazing. I asked him millions of questions about his art and his creative process and he answered them all. And when he asked me about my life, I shocked myself by almost crying when I told him about my mother dying of lung cancer. I don’t know why I told him, and I absolutely don’t know why I almost cried. And now, why can’t I stop thinking of the nightmare I haven’t had in weeks, where my mother pushed me back under the water of the bay?

Monday, January 10, 2011

M
ark informed me that my first time working with actual customers would be at a gallery event Wednesday afternoon that will carry into early evening. I’m thrilled, but I have to work at the restaurant that night and I can’t get the time off. I tried. So it’s going to be this nightmare of a challenge to do well at the gallery and then rush to the restaurant.

Monday, January 17, 2011

T
onight there was a wine tasting at the gallery and I had to work at the restaurant right after the event, just like last week. I made it to work last week, so I was sure I could do so again this week. Working two jobs has been killing me, but ever since Mark let me loose on the sales floor I’ve done well.

The event this evening seemed to be going well, too. I made an expensive sale and landed a number of contacts I know will equal more sales. I was feeling good until the event ran late, and Mary had some crisis to deal with, and Mark asked me to stay. But I couldn’t, without losing my job at the restaurant. The instant I told him this, Mark called me into his office. He shut the door and I leaned against it. He was close, his gray eyes glinting with irritation.

“You work for me or you work for them. Choose now, Ms. Mason.”

“It’s not about choice, Mr. Compton. It’s about the necessity of paying my bills.”

“You’ll never turn this job into a larger income if you can’t complete duties.”

Since when was this an option? I rebutted, “I haven’t been told I have any chance to make more money.”

“You just started.”

“My bills didn’t.”

That glint in his eyes had turned sharper and I was sure he was going to fire me. Instead, he’d said, “Ten percent on tonight’s sale to get you by. If you continue to do well, there will be more. But that’s on the condition that you quit the restaurant. It’s beneath you, and I don’t share unless it’s on my terms. This isn’t.”

I had barely been able to breathe. He’d just offered me a huge bonus and given me the chance to make this job my career and actually get paid for it? I’m not going to get my hopes up. Not yet.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

S
o much has changed in the past two weeks. To Mark’s displeasure, I gave a short notice at the restaurant. It was so crazy busy, juggling both jobs, that I didn’t have time to write in my journals. I still haven’t, despite leaving the restaurant fully a week ago. There have been events at the gallery, and . . . there has been another big change. Him.

He’s become a huge part of my life. He, who wants to be known simply as “Master,” has swept into my world and torn away walls I never knew existed, and that I’m not sure I want torn down. But he wants to tear them down. He says he will control me, command my body, and show me pleasure like I’ve never known. He will show me trust that is the greatest bond two people can share. He will fuck me senseless, and then do it again and again until I know nothing but him.

Why does this appeal to me? Why am I considering this? If I know nothing but him, where will I be? How will I exist? He hasn’t touched me yet, but I feel as if he has. Josh showed up with wine, and nothing he could do could entice me this time. There is only him, my would-be “Master.” And that is what he wants. I share my joys and fears and pain with him. He will show me rewards and escapes.

When he first told me I was a natural submissive, I didn’t believe him. I lean on no one. But he says that makes me need the outlet he can offer: the place where I can safely hand over all that I am, and just feel. It frightens me to realize how much this idea seeps into me and flows so easily. Handing over control to this man terrifies me . . . but it also arouses me like nothing in this lifetime ever has, besides art.

He wants to meet tomorrow night, to give me a small taste of what he is offering me. He promises to start slow and give me the chance to test the waters before we go very far, and before we sign an agreement as a true Master and Submissive.

An agreement that says he owns my body.