The Willing (5 page)

"What the fuck?"

"I'm leaving," I bit out through gritted teeth. "You try that shit again and I'll—"

"What shit?" Oliver seemed aghast, genuinely uncomprehending what it was he'd done to merit the slap. "Are you mad, woman? I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?" The whole shouting business was becoming a little comical. Here we were in frankly regal surroundings, yelling at each other like Stella and Stanley.

Oliver touched gingerly at his lip, as if checking to see if I'd drawn blood. I should be so lucky. Maybe I shouldn't fault the guy; he didn't look like he got smacked around a lot. No doubt people were too scared to dare lay a finger on his golden head. I didn't have that problem, not while my pulse was rushing viciously against my eardrums. I'd hit him again if he didn't keep his distance; I wasn't screwing around with a man who threatened to destroy what little stability I had left. A man, I recalled, who had already done it once before.  

Breaths huffed in and out of my lungs as I waited for him to speak. Finally, drawing back to full height like a lion poised to strike, he fixed me with cold blue eyes and said, "I want you to work for me." I watched him swallow hard and realized he was trying to gather his wits, that he wasn't finished. In a million years I couldn't have imagined that the follow-up to that spectacular opening volley was going to be: "I want you to work for me… as my domina."

I was pretty sure, though, that the response he'd been gunning for was not a belly-clutching laugh. Too bad, because that was precisely what he got.

Chapter three

"I'm sorry," I gasped when I got myself under control. "Are you mad?"

Oliver bristled. "Hardly."

"Listen, honey... When you're getting someone to tie you up and gag you, it's generally a good thing to be able to trust them. Now I don't know what you're smoking, but why in the hell would you ever think you can trust me?" Not only had he given me ample reason to wish him ill, but I's just slapped him across the face in what he must have thought was an unprovoked overreaction. What more proof did he need? I was hardly a good candidate for the job. (A small part of me was relieved he hadn't asked for the reverse, which I'd been expecting and dreading in equal part.) "I'm all for people exploring kink, but you don't know what you're getting into--"

"Don't," he snapped, whip-quick, "condescend to me. I know what I'm asking."

I relented. "Okay, let's say you do… I'm sure you can find someone who, you know, likes you?" Like the Latvian model. Me, I just wanted to kick his ass.

A small, mirthless smile crept to his lips. "In my experience, it's best not to mix the private with the professional. This would be a business arrangement in every way. We would sign a contract and non-disclosure agreement... and of course, there would be payment."

Any other day and the implication that I would set aside my scruples for a price would've earned him an earful. Not today, though. "How much?" I heard myself ask and pushed the thought of Carrie resolutely out of my mind.

"Two thousand dollars."

"A month?" That was already more than I made working for Madam Madrigal and her endless succession of grabby hands.

But Oliver shook his head. "Two thousand dollars
per week
."

That meant eight grand a month, forty-eight in six months. I'd be able to make the mortgage payments, easy, and even set something aside for a rainy day. (I seemed to be having a lot of those lately.) I hesitated, finding it hard to refuse outright. "What would this entail? I'm not going to be your live-in plaything." My life was my own and I wasn't prepared to give up my freedom to be at Oliver's beck and call, however good the money.

He snorted dismissively, as though I'd said something funny. "That won't be necessary... Will you come into the sitting room to discuss details?" He led the way and I followed more sedately behind.

The sitting room proved as magnificent as the foyer, with beautiful, lush Persian carpets and cherry wood paneling on the walls. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, unlit. I wondered if it was just for show, to impress guests. It wasn't really necessary as far as lighting: lamps dotted about on antique tables provided a pale glow, bright enough to see by.  

I tried not to like the place too much. I was already compromising my pride for cash; I didn't want to enjoy it, too.

Oliver dropped to a plush gold-and-beige couch. "Please, have a seat." Oddly enough, his strained civility only reminded me of the man who'd tried to box me in last night, all threats and no scruples. I wasn't fooled by his newfound gentility.

"If we do this, it's a short-term arrangement. I can find you someone more suitable for the long term—"

"How generous," he drawled and I resisted the urge to flip him the bird. "And would you be charging a finder's fee?" The implication was obvious: I was now both hooker
and
pimp in his eyes. I didn't think I could sink any lower. "In any event," Oliver went on before I could make up my mind, "I'm not interested in any one else. I have sufficient means to acquire another—
domina's
services if yours aren't quite up to par." He seemed to struggle with the word—interesting.

For some bizarre reason, I actually felt affronted by the way he twisted my idea into something worth mocking. "Trust me, I'm very good," I snapped before I could think the better of it.
What am I doing?
I wondered.
Why am I trying to persuade him?

I hated that he could get into my head like this, all suave and wily like a goddamn snake. Worst of all, I hated that he was dangling a cash prize before my nose that I was really in no position to refuse. I felt cheap and mercenary. I also knew that if I didn't take it and just walked away, I'd feel even worse.

"From what I recall," Oliver said, having let my momentary lapse simmer for long enough, "that's purportedly the case. We'll start with a six month contract and go from there."

"Six months?" I snorted, as if I hadn't made that same calculation a minute ago. "You've got to be kidding me. Two." If we didn't kill each other first.

"Four," he shot back, smiling tightly. He had experience at this negotiating business. I wondered if he knew what he was doing, getting involved with a dominatrix; surely he belonged on the other end of the riding crop? He was too cunning by half, he'd be a handful under any woman's whip, never mind my own.

I shook my head. "Four's too long." Four months would mean thirty-two thousand dollars. I tried not to be greedy, to keep my expectations low and my ambition to a minimum. "Three months. Do you expect me to be on call?"

"That would be something," Oliver chuckled. "But I think you'd just pretend you didn't hear phone ring. We'll meet three times a week, to start. I might need more or less, depending on my availabilities… Do you have any days when you're fully booked?"

He meant my other job. The way he phrased the question made me think that maybe he wasn't going to be a dick and ask me to quit working for Madam Madrigal. I sure as hell didn't intend to heed that request even if he did think to make it. I'd still need a way to support myself in three months, once our little arrangement inevitably ran its course. That was, of course, assuming I made it that far.

 "I can't say in advance," I said, "but I'll keep you posted. What exactly do you expect me to do for you, Oliver?" I stopped just short of calling him 'Shep,' like he'd styled himself back in the day at the club. I wanted to twist the knife, but I didn't want to put myself all out of sorts again. "Have you ever done this before?"

I watched him squirm a little in his seat, folding one leg over the other as if uncomfortable. I wondered if it was all a ploy to distract me; wouldn't put it past him. In the end, he said, "I have enough experience to know what I'm asking for."

"Are we talking college girlfriend who tied you up from time to time? Hot wax games on Valentine's, what?"

"Does it matter?"

His absurd diffidence was starting to get on my nerves—a problem I foresaw I'd have with him often. "What do you think?" I snapped. "I need to know if you're inexperienced, coming into this with preconceived notions or—"

"—if I've read a naughty book and decided to emulate?" His silver-grey eyes narrowed. "I won't discuss my previous affairs with you." The tight-laced tenor of that closing statement left me no hope of changing his mind. "What I will say," he added after a moment, "is that I know what I want and I'm not afraid to ask for it. Your job is to say yes and deliver. Think you can do that?"

"Depends on your version of 'it'." There were some kinks even I wasn't comfortable with, to say nothing of those I hadn't attempted in the past. This was a job and like any other job, I'd have to prepare, make sure I was on the same page as my partner. Had it been a relationship, I might have counted on Oliver to give me a little leeway for errors, but that wasn't the case.

Thank God
, I thought,
because there's no living with a man like Oliver
. He didn't just exude self-importance, he embodied it down to the marrow of his bones.

I'd be lying if I said the thought of taking a riding crop to him didn't satisfy the parts of me that couldn't stand his smug face. I knew I'd have to set those feelings aside whenever the time came to put him on his knees. I hoped I'd be able to.

"I'm familiar with bondage," Oliver said, interrupting my thoughts. "Rope, handcuffs… I prefer to keep any easy-to-spot marks to a minimum, so I'll be providing the implements we use—"

"Call them toys," I suggested, "we're going to be talking about dildos and nipple clamps here. No need to make it sound fancy."

His lips pressed together in a pout. He was so stuck-up, no wonder he didn't like to call an anal plug by its name. The thought of him as a submissive in a BDSM context was completely insane. "I'll be providing the toys," he reiterated, "and there will be no dildos."

No anal plugs, either, I figured. Fair enough. "So I take it strap-ons are out of the question, huh?" If I got a blush out of him, this whole evening might be worth it.

Oliver held my gaze. "I enjoy impact play. Crops, canes, floggers… I have an electric kit you' may need to familiarize yourself with."

"What about sounding?" If he hadn't reacted at the strap-on, I couldn't help but up the stakes a little. I'd known a few guys who balked at the mere thought; others who involuntarily clenched their thighs once they realized what I was suggesting.

Disappointingly, Oliver barely even blinked. "There will be no sexual contact whatsoever between us."

My jaw practically hit the floor.

It wasn't uncommon; back when I'd worked at the club, I'd had a few clients who weren't looking for a fuck in any capacity, but orgasm was a pretty frequent by-product of the kind of play I engaged in. I'd never shamed my clients for coming during our sessions—not unless that was something they'd explicitly said they wanted from me—and I was at peace with being the vehicle through which they found release. For some reason, though, I'd expected gratification of that kind to be front and center on Oliver's list of expectations.

"Are you sure about that?" I had to ask, my disbelief wasn't going to go away on its own.

He canted his head into a nod. "I'll use the stop-light system for my safeword. Are you familiar with that?" I said I was. "If I'm unable to speak," he went on, "I'll keep a plastic ball in hand. If I drop it, that means stop. I don't have to tell you that failing to comply will result in direct termination of our contract… and what's more, I will make it my personal preoccupation to make sure you never find work again."

There it was: the control freak simmering just under the affable façade of an adventurous man. I felt a cold shiver arc up my spine. "Do you always threaten the people who work for you?"

"You haven't agreed to anything yet," Oliver pointed out, very soft, very even.

"You're not leaving me much choice."

He scoffed. "That's not true. I may have explained there would be consequences if you didn't make this meeting and I do mean everything I say about disregarding my limits once our arrangement is in place, but if you choose
not
to work for me, then you'll suffer no penalty. You're free to walk out that door if it's what you want."

I followed his gaze to the double doors that led out into the marble foyer. Did I believe me him? Could I walk out right now, retain the last inches of my pride, and never have any reason to see Oliver Shepherd again? It seemed too good to be true.

"How do I know you won't follow me like a lost puppy?" I asked, smirking. The thought of letting him see how frightened I was galled me.

"You don't," Oliver said, "but I give you my word that it is the truth. I have no desire to stalk you."

Desire
? No, I didn't think so. But the means to make my life hell for daring to turn him down? Those he had in excess, to say nothing of the guts and grit to use them. I already knew he could hold a grudge.

In any event, that wasn't even the crux of the problem. I had already made my decision, for reasons far less lofty than fear. "You expect an answer tonight?" I asked.

Oliver nodded slowly. I almost thought I spied a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, as if he wasn't quite sure why I had changed the subject so abruptly. I didn't linger on the observation; I didn't want this awful, mercurial man to be more to me than just a job.

"Then my answer is yes. I'll work for you, Shepherd. On
my
terms," I added quickly, "and with the caveat that if I will always rely on my better judgment during any scene or role-play. Your safewords are your guarantee than I won't overstep your limits, but you must also commit to respecting mine. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," he said, lips curving at the corners as he rose. "I'll defer to your superior savvy and experience." I recognized a barb in the way he said it, but my attention was on the documents he extracted from a low white lacquer cabinet mounted over the flat screen TV.