Serving Mr. Stevens, Part One: The Contract -- An Erotic Romance (Part 1 of 5)

Serving Mr. Stevens

Part One: The Contract

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1:
Barista

Chapter 2: Ravenous

Chapter 3: The Sixty-Sixth Floor

Chapter 4
: The Contract

Working in a coffee shop, you tend to see a lot of crazy stuff – especially when your store happens to be located on the ground floor of a sixty-story skyscraper in the heart of New York’s financial district. I’ve been working here a long time now, and until last week, I thought I’d seen it all.

But nothing could have prepared me for Him.

The morning Mr. Stevens entered my life began just like any other. It was a Monday morning, and as usual we were getting crushed. By 7:30 AM, we had a line of impatient, caffeine-starved businessmen stretching out to the door. As anyone who’s worked in retail knows, when things get that crazy, your body goes on auto-pilot. The customers all start to blur together, and your mind begins to wander of its own accord.

And on this morning in particular, I was daydreaming about some trashy X-rated movie I’d been watching the night before. A guilty pleasure, maybe, but these days it was the only action I was getting. I’d just about worn myself out with my new Rabbit vibrator, and I was still feeling the aftereffects of a multi-orgasmic night.

So I didn’t notice him at first, amid the throngs of people. My head was buried over the cash register as he walked up to the counter. I was scribbling on a coffee cup and thinking about the man from the movie last night – how he’d thrown the woman against the wall and had his way with her, rough and dirty, just the way I liked it. My fantasies had been getting kinkier and kinkier over the past few months, and although I hadn’t actually had the chance to act them out with a real man yet, I’d managed to cultivate a
very
active imagination.

But my daze was broken the instant he spoke.

“Don’t you make eye contact?” he said, in a no-nonsense tone that immediately caught my attention. It was more of a command than a question. Flustered, I jerked my head up from the register.
“I- I’m sorry,” I faltered.

Standing before me was a man who looked like he’d been cut from stone. This may have been my imagination, but I swore he looked like the guy from my movie last night. He was about six feet tall, with dark hair, a thin goatee, and disarmingly bright blue eyes. Though he looked to be maybe thirty-five, he carried himself with the self-assured confidence of a man twenty years older. Even with that dispassionate scowl on his face, he was startlingly handsome. 

Under different circumstances, I might even have tried to flirt with him – if I was feeling brave. But it was much too busy for that, and besides, I didn’t have the courage to try and breach his stern exterior. This man was all business; you could tell that just by looking at him. And from the way he was acting, I was clearly wasting his time.

“What can I do for you?” I asked him, trying to regain my composure. I offered him a weak smile.

Apparently it wasn’t good enough. “What can you
do
for me?” he sneered, eyeing me up and down.

For some reason, I suddenly felt like I was on trial. I nervously pushed a strand of hair out of my face and stood straight up, my shoulders squared. I wasn’t sure how to respond to his question, so I just stayed silent, looking up into that chiseled face and trying hard to maintain eye contact with him. I get nervous around handsome men in general, and his surly demeanor sure wasn’t helping anything – not to mention the fact that I’d just been thinking about rough sex with a man who looked just like him. As I tried to chase that thought from my mind, the moment seemed to draw out interminably. I hoped I wasn’t blushing.

Finally, he broke the stalemate and glanced at my nametag, where I’d written “Candace” in big, looping script. He smirked. All of a sudden, I felt very self-conscious about the way I’d written my name. It was immature, stupid – the way a high-school girl would have written it.
How embarrassing
, I thought to myself. Here was a man who was obviously used to evaluating the people around him, and nothing about me was giving him any indication that I was worthy of his respect.

But my fears may have been unfounded. He didn’t say anything about my nametag, other than to address me by my name when he spoke again. “Candace, is it?” he said, the steel in his eyes suddenly melting into a warm, friendly smile. “That’s a pretty name. And how are you this morning, Candace?”

It was like the previous moment had never happened. His abrupt change in attitude caught me totally off-guard. “I’m, uh, I’m good,” I said, and then quickly corrected myself when I saw his eyebrows begin to rise. “I mean, um, I’m very well. Thank you.” Though still flustered, I tried to act normal. “And you, sir?”

He smiled again, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Splendid,” he said. “It seems you know your manners, at least.” He placed his hands on the counter and leaned a little towards me, ever-so-slightly entering my personal space. Part of me wanted to step backward, but somehow I felt rooted to the spot. I wasn’t scared of him, not exactly. It was more of a heightened awareness, like all my senses were intensified. It was a total adrenaline rush – and I had to admit, I kind of liked it.

“My name is Thomas,” he said. “Thomas Stevens. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Candace.” As he spoke, I caught a faint whiff of his cologne. It smelled incredible.

“Pleased to meet you,” I managed.

“Tell me, Candace, how long have you worked here?” He asked the question casually and without any hurry, as if we had the whole place to ourselves and all the time in the world. And every time he said my name, a small jolt of electricity sparked through my brain unheeded. It was getting hard to focus on his questions.

“Two years,” I replied.

He nodded thoughtfully, appearing to weigh my answer with great deliberation. “Hmm.” There was something going on behind his eyes, something I couldn’t quite comprehend. Was he sizing me up? Threatening me? Flirting with me? …All of the above?

But just then, my conversation with the handsome stranger was cut short, as the person in line behind him decided to speak up. “Hey, buddy,” he said indignantly. “Why don’t you cut the small talk? There’s a whole line of people waiting for you, you know.”

My stranger paused at the interruption, cocking his head slightly. He didn’t show any hint of agitation, except that all the emotion instantly drained from his face. Again I was reminded of a statue, carved from rock – cold and unyielding. He turned around slowly to address the intruder.

“Excuse me,” he said, in an icy tone. “Is there a problem?”

A flash of recognition crossed the man’s face, and his eyes widened in what looked to me like fear. “Mr. Stevens!” said the man, putting up his hands in deference and laughing nervously. “Sorry about that, sir! I didn’t see that it was you there. Please, take your time.”

But Mr. Stevens didn’t seem satisfied. “What’s your name?” he asked the man, in the same intimidating tone he’d used with me a moment earlier – except that this time, there was no mistaking the thinly veiled threat underlying his words.

The man fumbled awkwardly. “Ah, um, George Fallon, sir. I’m in the, uh, Foreign Markets division.”

Mr. Stevens glowered. “I know what division you work in, George. As you must know, I’m familiar my organization’s personnel. I just didn’t recognize you at first, because no employee of mine would address someone so rudely.”

With every word Mr. Stevens spoke, George seemed to shrink further into his suit. He looked like he didn’t know whether to burst into tears or run away. “Of course,” he squeaked. “My apologies for the interruption, sir.”

Mr. Stevens remained silent for a long moment, looking at George with that same emotionless, slightly dissatisfied manner he’d shown with me. Finally, just when the tension was getting unbearable, the corner of his mouth perked up in a half-smile.

“Apology accepted,” he said. “Good day to you, George.” And just like that, it was over, as if nothing had happened at all. Turning away from a visibly relieved George, Mr. Stevens stepped up to the counter again, a cheerful smile on his face.

“Sorry about that,” he said to me. “Now, where was I? …Ah, yes, I remember. Candace, dear, what is your job title?”

I really didn’t know where this was going, but I decided it was best to just answer his questions. “They call me a barista, but I’m really just a cashier.”

He clucked his tongue, raising his eyebrows in disapproval. “Now, now, Candace, you mustn’t sell yourself short,” he said, staring straight into my eyes. “You’re a confident, capable, and I dare say, a beautiful young woman.” I blushed. “You must always take pride in your work, Candace. Pride above all. Remember that.”

I nodded hesitantly.
What is he talking about?
, I wondered.

He looked at me for a moment, as if an idea had just occurred to him. “Candace, I’d like for you to give me a call this afternoon, perhaps while you’re on your break. I have a… proposition for you, one I suspect you’ll find to be quite interesting.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, um, thank you,” I said finally. “That would be nice.” I smiled at him, out of confusion more than anything else. He smiled back warmly, looking into my eyes. I went into a daze for a second, my mind full of questions, but I forced myself to come back to reality. “Would you, ah, like something to drink?” I asked.