Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) (7 page)

OMG. Chere.

That was not enough information. I texted back,
What? Date’s over? Are you okay?

I’m great
, he replied quickly.
That was crazy, hot, sexy. The client liked me. I was nervous, but it went okay.

Just okay?
I asked.

First time!
he texted back.
It wasn’t perfect, but he enjoyed himself. He said he was happy to “break me in.”

Did he hurt you??!!

He texted back a blushing emoji, and then a smiling one.
Not in any way I didn’t like.

You used protection?

Duh. Yes, mom.

I didn’t realize until that moment how nervous I’d been for him. At least he didn’t seem sad.
Always be careful
, I typed. Then I erased it. Then I typed it again and sent it. He sent back a heart emoji and three words.

I miss you.

A pause.

Are you still angry?
he texted.

Yes.

There was no reply for a while. I chewed on my lip and tried to tune out the escalating groans of Cantor’s partner, and the steady fall of his flogger.

Want to have breakfast tomorrow?
I typed.
Big Apple Diner?

He typed back a row of fifteen smiley faces, and the word
YESSSS!

I could picture Andrew’s smile in my head, and I knew I’d stay friends with him, even though it would hurt me to hear his stories about escorting. I knew I’d ask him for all tonight’s details just so he could get it out, because the first time was always the hardest, and he’d need support for what he’d chosen to do.

I ended our conversation with a semi-lie.
Heading to bed.

I was heading to bed very soon. I’d just have to leave the club to do it, and I wasn’t ready to pull myself away from Cantor’s performance quite yet. He’d put away the flogger and picked up a riding crop, and set about making his willing victim jump and squeak with pleasure.
You could have that
, my mind whispered.

And then I remembered
Good luck, starshine
.

Fuck.

I looked down at my phone. I could have amused Andrew by texting to him about my encounter with Cantor, but I didn’t tell him, and I knew I wouldn’t tell him, even at breakfast tomorrow. Somehow, it seemed better to keep it a secret. Maybe I didn’t trust Andrew enough anymore.

Well.

The more likely scenario was that I didn’t trust myself.

I closed the drapes of my hotel window. I had no binoculars, because there was no Chere to look at. I was in Beijing, in a skyline hotel I’d designed three years ago, just before I met her. The grand opening had taken place today.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony had gone well. My speech on behalf of Eriksen Architectural Design was duly translated into Chinese by a doe-eyed young national, and seemed well received. That translator hovered near me all through the following banquet, the hunger in her eyes unsettling me. She was beautiful, gorgeous, but she was no Chere. She would have broken into pieces when I got her alone. She wouldn’t have fought back, not like Chere. She wouldn’t have had those moaning, struggling orgasms that looked more like pain than anything else.

I kicked off my shoes and stripped off my suit, and tossed my cufflinks on the desk. I got naked and sat at my laptop, and opened the most recent email from Beacon Investigative Services. I browsed through photos of Chere going to class, photos of Chere going food shopping, photos of Chere returning home. Andrew wasn’t in any of them. They were apparently still on the outs.

There was another set of photos. Last weekend. Chere was dressed up, heading into the subway toward Meatpacking. Back to the BDSM clubs again. I didn’t like that she went, because I worried for her safety. Sometimes I followed her, sometimes I let other people follow her so she wouldn’t be alone, especially on the subway afterward in her tight dress and sexy black boots.

Jesus Christ, Chere.
She looked gorgeous…and available. Her quest for closure weighed heavily on my mind. I massaged my hardening cock and clicked to another photo, this one of Chere inside Studio Valiant. She hid in the balconies there, as she hid in the corners and dark spaces everywhere else.

I jacked myself harder, gazing at her pretty face. She looked sad. Lost. My fault? It was horrible to stalk her like this, but I had to watch her and know about her, and it turned me on to look at photos of her going about her day. It was a little like having her, even though I couldn’t have her.

I slouched back in the chair and closed my eyes. It was so quiet this high in the air. It was so cool, and I was so hot. Why hadn’t I taken advantage of the corporate courtesan they offered me? She’d been even prettier than the interpreter, with a round face-fuck mouth and a long pretty neck.

Fuck, who cared about her? It was Chere I fantasized about as I came in a gasping mess. Cum oozed down over my fingers and dripped onto the designer wool carpet. Why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she with me?

Because you want what you shouldn’t want.

When I jacked off, I usually thought about hurting Chere. I fantasized about binding her and torturing her, and fucking her ass without lube. I imagined raping her and making her cry. I never thought about why, or how, just the tears and her agony. If she were mine, in my apartment, in my dungeon, I’d find a way to make her cry every day. I’d make her come every day too, covered in my marks, covered in my cum, covered in my protection
.

It was nice fap fodder, but it wasn’t happening. I wouldn’t let it happen, because you couldn’t take a bright, ambitious person in the midst of a personal renaissance and make her your slave. You couldn’t lock her in a dungeon and keep her there for your pleasure. Even if you wanted to do that very, very much.

I went to clean myself up, and returned to click through the last of the photos. They were grainy, covert, long-distance shots. I wished for the thousandth time that I was standing right in front of her, holding her in my arms. I’d stroke her velvet cheekbones, lick her freckles, kiss her pert nose. I’d hurt her and then I’d make everything better, and then I’d put her in a luxurious cage where she’d be safe until I wanted to hurt her again.

Holy fuck. What the fuck?

I stopped on the photo, enlarged it so I could see the man sitting beside her on Valiant’s balcony. I clicked back to the email, scanned to the bottom.
Conversation with male, middle age, not identified. Subject went home alone.

Fucking Jesus in hell, she better have gone home alone. As for the
male, middle age
, I didn’t need any identification. I knew Martin Cantor, not just because he was one of Chere’s professors, but because I’d attended Norton with him back in the day. I’d seen him at fetish clubs around the city, drawing in women with his sage, caring-Dom thing. I’d never liked him. He was a smarmy jackass with more ambition than talent, and the last thing in hell he needed to be doing was hitting on Chere in a club.

I clicked through the photos, seriously disturbed. She was his
student
. How dare he look at her that way? She didn’t want his attention, that was clear from her hunched posture and the way she faced away from him. And Cantor, with his smiles and expressions. Smarmy fucking pervert.

She went home alone
, I repeated to calm myself.
She went home alone.
In all this time, she hadn’t hooked up with anyone, any other man, even casually in the BDSM clubs. She’d focused on school—and occasionally me—like a very good girl. Fucking Cantor. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was her teacher. Not only that, he was married with two kids.

I stood and started to pace. This wasn’t her doing. It wasn’t her fault. He’d gone up to the balcony and drawn her into conversation. The photos told the story...they just didn’t reveal what words they’d exchanged. I wanted to trust that Chere wouldn’t fall for his bullshit, but she’d fallen for bullshit before, like when that asshole picked her up after the Gansevoort debacle.

That man really hurt her. That’s why I was so leery of leaving her without protection now. She was so easily hurt and so easily taken advantage of. She was honest with that jerk from the Gansevoort, and what did he do? Left her sitting at a table, alone, shunned, ashamed. When I heard that part of the story and saw the bitter look on her face, I wanted to put my fist through a wall. I mean, what the fuck?

Cantor wasn’t going to get a shot at hurting Chere. If he was the reason she was looking for closure, then she wasn’t fucking getting closure. I called downstairs for a limo to the airport, and started packing my shit. I was supposed to leave the day after tomorrow so I could spend a little more time in the city, but those plans were changing. Martin Cantor? Fuck no. I was leaving for New York tonight.

*** *** ***

I figured I had two choices in this situation: confront Cantor, or confront Chere. The latter wasn’t happening. I didn’t trust myself to have anything to do with her, especially now that she was so close to graduating and moving on with her life.

So I looked up Cantor’s office hours and paid him a visit. It felt strange to be back at Norton, in the administrative area where I’d come to arrange Chere’s scholarship. When I knocked on Cantor’s half-open door to get his attention, I realized there was a student in there. I saw long legs, delicate hands, the tight jeans co-eds wore. My heart turned over for one stricken, oh-shit moment, but it wasn’t Chere. The universe wouldn’t be so capricious, after all the effort and care I’d taken to avoid her the last two and a half years.

Cantor and the blonde co-ed turned to look at me. He regarded me with confusion, then recognition and surprise.

“Price? Price Eriksen?” He stood and came to the door. “It’s good to see you. What brings you to Norton?”

“A private matter,” I said, looking at the girl.

He turned back to her. She was already shouldering her backpack. “We were just finishing up. Academic counseling.”

Academic counseling, my ass
, I thought, as she moved past me with a blushing smile. Cantor took her arm as he said goodbye.

“Keep at the renderings, Simone. I’ll see you next week.” He turned his attention to me and shook my hand. “Come in. This is a surprise.”

“How are you, Martin?” I couldn’t quite keep the fuck-you from my voice. We’d never been friends. In fact, we’d been bitter rivals during our student days.

“I’m just...wow. Surprised.” He spread his arms and shut his laptop. “Blast from the past.”

I took the seat he offered and looked around. “Are you expecting anyone else? Any more appointments?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Most of my students are finishing end-of-semester projects. It’s a little late now for them to be seeking my advice.”

I looked around his neat, organized work space. He had a decent office for a has-been hack. Cantor studied me expectantly, leaning back in his chair.

“So, what brings you back to your old alma mater? What can I help you with? Are you here about internships?”

“What?”

“Internships. Want an intern?”

I shook my head. Norton begged me annually to take an intern, and I always said no. “I’m here for another reason,” I said, allowing displeasure to creep into my voice. “I’ve come to discuss one of your students.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss students. It’s a matter of privacy, educational statutes, all of that.”

“Her name is Chere Rouzier.”

His lips tightened. “Oh. Yes. She’s a third year design student, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Can’t you? Are you big on following the rules?”

He was starting to get the idea that this wasn’t a friendly visit. He stood to shut the door, then sat at his desk and returned my hard gaze.

“How do you know Chere?” he asked.

“I know her…tangentially. I have an interest in her well-being.”

Cantor shrugged, determined to play things off. “As far as I know, she’s doing well. I’ve had no complaints.”

“You’re her teacher.”

“Yes, I’ve worked with her in several classes, but I can’t tell you anything more. Really, Price, I can’t. It’s against university policy.”

“You know what else is against university policy?” I said with a scowl. “Hitting on students in lifestyle clubs.”

He didn’t ruffle easily. He never had. “Are you talking about last Saturday? We ran into each other at a club and said hello. That’s the extent of it.”

I couldn’t call him a liar without admitting my investigator had timed a fifteen-minute conversation.

“What’s your interest in Chere?” he asked, studying me. “What is your ‘tangential’ connection?”

“Friend of the family,” I said. “We go way back. I look out for her.”

“Is that so? Well, she’s an admirable woman. A diligent designer, and enjoyable to teach.” He lifted a finger on top of his laptop, wiggled it twice, and set it down again. Yeah, he found her enjoyable, all right.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re perving your students,” I said, staring at that finger, “or that she’s not the only one. But in return, you’re going to do something for me. You’re going to leave her the fuck alone.”

He gave up any pretense of professional collegiality and smirked at me. “You’re no friend of the family. Who is Chere to you? What’s the story, Price?”

“The story is a married Norton professor hitting on a student at a BDSM club.” I leaned closer to him. “I have proof it happened. Pictures. I’m sure the administration would love to look at them. Leave her alone.”

“In a few days, she won’t be my student anymore. How do you know she won’t come after me? Chere seems very lonely.” He paused, raised one black, arched brow. “Does she know you take pictures of her at clubs?”

“I didn’t take them. A friend showed them to me.” I stood and adjusted my tie, and walked to the door. “Leave her alone, Martin. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. Your wife puts up with a lot, but she might not put up with as much when you can’t get a job.”

“Are you threatening me?”