The Willing (17 page)

"What? I didn't catch that."

He turned his head towards me, repeated: "Then you should probably lie down. You look tired." If ever there was sure-fire way to ruin a relationship like ours, then that request right there was probably be it.

As often seemed to be the case these days when I was with Oliver, my better judgment proved absent and common sense offered no other recourse than for me to lie down beside him over the covers, my hand still petting awkwardly at his copper-colored hair.

"Can I ask you something?" I felt Oliver stiffen a little, his eyes blinking open with a flutter of dark lashes. "Not—it's not about you." Not about his scar, more likely, because I didn't want to bring it up. "I was wondering, at the party... what was all that about?"

Oliver frowned. "The meetings behind closed doors?"

"Yeah. You don't have to tell me," I added quickly, in case it was one of those top secret back room deals that mere mortals weren't supposed to know about. "It's just, I saw Cecil Holland recently—"
worked for him
was more accurate, but I'd left that party faster than you could spit, "and he seemed pretty pleased with himself." I shrugged. "I distinctly remember Mr. Delgado looking about as happy as a cat in a bathtub."

"That's because he didn't get the return on investment he was hoping for." Oliver turned a little, adjusting his arms so they fell on either side of his head and he could peer at me across one bicep. "He had his sights set on Holland for a merger. Emerson Industries made a better offer."

"Ah... you crashed the party."

"Literally, I'm afraid." Oliver didn't look the least bit repentant. I tried to picture him in the office and imagined a man more like the one who had me sign those contracts than the one lying beside me now. It wasn't enough for regret; I didn't have the power to unstitch anyone's armor without their consent. Oliver wanted to be here—and I wanted to lie beside him.

"You and Evangeline make a good team," I heard myself say.

He craned his head to look at me. "You think so?"

"Yeah." I didn't know where the comment was coming from. Jealousy wasn't impossible, but it was unnecessary. Evangeline had intimated that she and Oliver weren't an item. I chose to believe her. It was my experience that women who held positions of power in their professional lives didn't want to be calling all the shots at home, too. Oliver was too much of a pushover for the likes of her.

He needed much more than she'd be willing to give.

"Funny you should say that," Oliver mused. "She said the same thing about you and I." For some reason, I felt a shiver of unease arc through me.

"She told you we met at Holland's villa, didn't she?" Why not? I had no agreement of discretion with Ms. Emerson and didn't expect her to think a call girl's privacy was anything worth respecting.

Oliver canted his head into a nod. So he knew about me walking around topless when I wasn't here:
great
, as if I needed any more hurdles in my path.

"Are you going to ask me if I slept with Holland?" I ventured, trying to rile Oliver up rather than admit to a sense of shame.

"Do you want me to?" He arched a brow.
I want you to care
, I thought, but kept my silence. He went on: "Unfortunately, I don't think he'd be interested in what you have to offer. More's the pity."

"Is it?"

"What?"

"A pity?" Did he want me sleeping with other men? If he reiterated that I was free to do my job, I'd have to press him. I
needed
to know and when better to ask than this very second, when Oliver had no way to escape me?

It occurred to me I was taking advantage of a vulnerable man. Guilt coiled in my belly, but self-interest was stronger. I'd hate myself later.

"I don't know," Oliver answered after a pause. "I don't think you like to sleep with clients. Of course, Cecil's got a water bed, so maybe for the sake of novelty..."

I grinned despite myself and flopped onto my back on the bed. "I'm not that easy." Only that wasn't really true, was it? I hated that I wasn't permitted to make love to Oliver. What did that make me, if not easy?

"Are you comfortable," I heard him wonder, "dressed like that?"

"Have you seen my purse? I don't have a pajama stuffed in there." I wasn't Mary Poppins by any stretch of imagination.

Oliver seemed undeterred: "I could lend you one."

"Not in your current position, you can't," I teased. He was probably just kidding, trying to put me at ease. He didn't need to; I'd slept in my work clothes before, often propped against Michelle's shoulder as we waited for the first morning train.

"You can find your way to the master bedroom on your own."

I sat up on my elbows. "Oh, Oliver... this is how guys like you end up short a few gold wristwatches." I'd seen his Rolex, to say nothing of the cash he wired into my account every week. I knew full well that he was loaded. Most days I pretended not to care, but this was skirting close to the edge of temptation.

"I've got insurance," Oliver said, the picture of nonchalance. "Or you could untie me and I'll go with you."

The two of us in his bedroom seemed like a terrible idea, but that wasn't why I considered it. "You're good now?" If I untied him, that likely meant an end to the session, so it was conceivable I'd be expected to just head home.

Oliver held my gaze for a long moment. "Leave the wrist cuffs."

I perched over him to unbuckle my garish red belt and unspool it from the headboard. Despite my best attempts, I couldn't pretend to miss the way his breath caught when my breasts brushed the inside of his arm. An apology almost made it to my lips before I thought
fuck it, if he doesn't like it, he'll stop being a tease
.

I knew I had signed an agreement, but I was only human. I had made a science of professional mistakes.

Once his ankles were free, Oliver rolled up and off the bed with far more grace than I anticipated. "I should probably clean this up," he said, wrinkling his nose at the mess around us. Scattered sex toys blanketed the floor like debris in the world's strangest shipwreck.

I greeted the answer with surprise: "Don't you have staff for that?"

"Some things are private," Oliver huffed. "How would you feel if you worked as a housekeeper and someone asked you to tidy up their sex dungeon?"

"Smile and nod and remember they're paying my salary?" I suggested. "What, you think it doesn't happen? I worked in a hotel once, for a short while... You'd be amazed at the things people leave lying around."

Oliver perked up. "Vibrators?"

"I found a strap-on in the bath tub once, does that count?"

"You'll have to tell me more," Oliver said, yawning despite himself, "in the morning."

I tried not to let my heart leap in my chest at the sound of that. He wasn't really saying he wanted me around in the morning—was he?

The master bedroom was dark and earthy, the king sized bed arranged to face a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows presently curtained with gold fabric. "How can you stand living in a penthouse if you're afraid of heights?" I asked, peering at Oliver as he stumbled into bed.

"Who says I'm afraid of heights?" he quipped, bouncing as he dropped heavily to the mattress. I arched a brow. He dropped the act. "I believe in facing my fears head on... and then investing in nice curtains so I never have to look at the view if I don't want to." He sighed. "I'm all about workarounds."

And masochism
, I almost added. There was no point in riling him up: he had already divulged a lot for one night, most of it sensitive and private. It hadn't been easy on him. No wonder he wanted to keep the cuffs on.

"Are you going to sleep naked?" I asked, padding over to the bed in my bare feet.

Oliver cracked one eye open. "Yeah... pajamas are in the dresser over there, if you want..." He pointed, but I didn't bother following his directions.

"No, I'm good." My skirt unzipped with a soft hiss, metal teeth parting one by one as I reached behind me to loosen the fly. Had I been thinner, it would have slid down my thighs effortlessly, like something out of a movie, but Mother Nature had given me ample hips and it took a little bit of graceless tugging to force the miniskirt down. I shucked my leather jacket next, which left me in underwear and the V-neck blouse I only wore when I wanted men to stare at my tits.

When I glanced up, it was to find Oliver looking at me none too covertly. I think he expected me to stop there, but if he meant to expose himself to me, then I had a right to return the favor.

I seized my blouse by the hem and pulled it off, careful not to take the wig off by the same token; I had some practice with this. Everything remained in its proper place. I had a black bra on underneath, the fine lace detailing mirroring my thong.

Oliver said nothing as I reached for my bra straps and lowered them down my arms. I didn't try to put on a show for him. For one thing, I was too tired, for another, I wanted him to see me just as I was: a little belly fat, a birthmark on my left hip. Small breasts according to the measure of cup sizes and previous lovers alike. I hooked both thumbs into my thong and lowered it down my legs without a second thought. I hadn't worn stockings or garters, so there was no attempt to titillate.

What little light filtered in through the still-open bedroom door and lined my body with a pale glow was all the artifice I had on my side. On the other hand, I could see the flush on Oliver's skin almost perfectly. He wasn't insensitive. That was something, I figured.

It took him a brief, precious moment of adolescent fascination, but then Oliver seemed to catch himself. I watched him as he shuffled backwards on the mattress to make room for me; with bound wrists, that only gave rise to an awkward shuffle and a creaking of the bedsprings. I smiled. Real life had no business being perfect, anyway. I wanted the awkward bits, along with the heart-pounding passion and the daring, allegedly depraved role-play. I wanted everything and I wanted it with Oliver.

A stroll on the moon was probably about as realistic.

I slid into bed and beneath the covers directly. I wasn't ashamed, but it was chilly in the room. I gestured for Oliver to do the same.

"Thanks," he murmured as he settled down on his side, facing me from about a foot away.

"No problem," I offered, figuring that tonight wasn't really the best time to question my actions or chart the unknown with a guy who obviously wasn't thinking clearly. We were definitely venturing off the beaten path, which was both courageous and more than a little foolish. Maybe tomorrow I'd wake up to discover Oliver wanted nothing to do with me anymore; morning tended to bring with it a sense of lucidity otherwise absent in the night time.

Maybe I'd finally decide he wasn't really the guy for me after all, unlikely as that seemed—too many complications and hidden depths weren't exactly what I was looking for in a man. Besides, since when did I need anyone to want me?

I might have dwelled a while longer on the myriad ways in which we could screw this up—whatever
this
was—but my pessimism proved no match for Oliver's comfortable bed. It wasn't any hardship to let my eyes droop shut to the steady metronome pace of his breaths, cocooned in silk sheets and down bedcovers.  

One thought still circled my mind like a restless vulture: what exactly had happened Oliver to make him so cagey?

Chapter eleven

I came awake slowly, untroubled by blades of sunlight bleeding mercilessly through my curtain-less windows or the creaking of the garbage truck beneath my bedroom window. If anything, it was the silence that got to me. The more my sluggish brain searched for familiar markers and the less the evidence seemed to add up.

And then, suddenly, last night's chain of events surged out of the depths of memory. I remembered the club, the non-session after I'd blown Oliver off; I remembered falling asleep in his bed—his actual bed, where he usually slept—once I'd taken all my clothes off for him.

I sat up so abruptly I was amazed I didn't give myself whiplash.

The room was still dusky, curtains drawn tight over the windows. The bed was empty beside me, but the indent in the pillow seemed to suggest Oliver had lain there for a while, maybe even slept right through the night. I had no memory of that. For all I knew, he'd come to his senses and bounded to safety while I snored.

Where did I leave my clothes? Frenzy sunk its claws into my flesh and wouldn't let go. I pushed the covers aside quickly, fumbling in the shadows for the bedside lamp. I hit the switch by accident and the room flooded with enough amber-yellow light to see by. Someone, I guessed and prayed it was Oliver, had gathered my things and arranged them on the dresser.

My insides liquefied at the thought. I could only imagine what he must have thought of me for hopping into his bed like that. Last night's challenge seemed less like a brave caper in daylight.

I dressed quickly, my hands slow and clumsy, fingers too lacking in strength to tug up the zipper. My eyes still felt sticky with sleep; I needed a minute to realize those were actually my fake lashes, having come unglued during the night.

Oliver's bedroom had a large adjacent bathroom, which came in handy as I scrubbed off last night's paint job. I probably should have checked the pillowcase for traces of mascara, but right now that seemed like the least of my problems. I splashed water onto my face, and then soaped up what was left of my make-up. I looked like less of a train wreck when I'd finished, but my clothes told the story even if my face did not.

There was nothing to be done about my wig. Tossing and turning in bed had tangled it terribly and it hung lopsided from the side of my head now, making me look about as attractive as a scarecrow. I plucked it off intending to put it back. I never got the chance.

"Jo?" Oliver called from the bedroom. "Everything okay?"

I couldn't make out if he was trying to speed me on my way or if he was genuinely concerned. Both seemed likely. My heart stuttered in my chest. "I—yeah. Why wouldn't it be?" I propped my shoulder against the doorjamb and attempted a crooked smile.