Entry-Level Mistress (7 page)

“What I find interesting about that whole circle,” I began, shifting to my side. “Is that there was this atmosphere, this creative energy around them. And their success, their success at celebrating themselves even, has ruined so much for artists like myself. We grow up with this romanticism of the ex-patriots, or of Greenwich Village in the twenties and thirties. So we can’t just live within the climate of art we naturally exist in. Instead we feel like we need to live up to some mythic ideal.”

He was staring at me and suddenly I felt self-conscious, aware of our nakedness, aware of the whole situation. Of the fact that I’d just had sex with Daniel Hartmann. Had his mouth …

“I’m rambling, sorry.”

“No, I understand,” he said, reaching out to take my hand, to stroke my fingers. But now
his
hands were both strange and known.
His
fingers had been inside of me. “I remember the first time they put my photograph on the cover of a magazine. Just like you, I’d been in family shots before, black and white, tucked down in the corner of a page, but that time the spotlight was on me.” I tried to imagine that, what it must have been like to lose any modicum of anonymity overnight. “Not only was that magazine like a mirror, but the face of every person who looked at that and then looked at me? It gets a little bit confusing separating out who you are and who people make you out to be.”

In the silence after, he continued to stroke my hand. I studied where we joined, intertwined. His skin was smooth and rough at the same time, the friction of it against mine exquisite but also comforting. Again, I had that feeling that I’d had in the car three days earlier, as if I could delve within him, know him deeply.

“I’ve seen nearly all your magazine covers. Read the articles,” I admitted. “I would be living my life but then, I’d be at a bookstore or at the airport or something, and there would be this reminder. You were this mystery to me. Lucifer as Adonis.” I ended on a laugh. He wasn’t laughing but he was listening and I couldn’t begin to guess what he thought of what I was saying. “Daniel, who
are
you?”

I didn’t expect him to answer. I mean, really, we were learning about each other here in his bedroom. At least … learning about each other physically. I moved closer, put one hand on his chest, stroked the ridges of muscle, studied his face.

I looked from his eyes, to his mouth, to his eyes and then stayed there, longer than comfortable, beyond the moment that we both blinked. Then he shifted, pulled me toward him. I went willingly, loved the feel of him sliding over me. A crinkle of wrapping and his hand between us for just a moment before I wrapped my legs around him again. I sucked in my breath at the still new feel of stretching around him, of his naked body so intimately against mine.

Only this time, he moved slowly, infinitely slowly, and held himself up, our gazes still locked. I didn’t know what the hell we were doing but the sensations within me were rising faster than his hips rocked against me. I grabbed him close, mouth to his neck, and urged him on faster.

He was skin, flesh, male and hot. It was strange and frightening and wonderful all at once. When I came, I cried out his name as if I had known it forever.

It was late when I asked him to drive me home. I overrode his protests and attempts to seduce me back into bed with a stern reminder that I had work in the morning. Work for
him
. Then I blushed and looked away, trying to pretend we hadn’t had that strange conversation on Friday about a different kind of work.

He had put back on his shirt, left it half-unbuttoned. He wore leather flip-flops down to the garage, but drove barefoot. With my dress slipped back over a body that didn’t really want to be confined, that wanted to revel in the lushness of the night, the drive across town felt illicit. The sky looked darker, the roads more silent and deserted. When we pulled up before my apartment building, I wanted to climb on top of him one more time, right there in his car, on the street. As if he’d read my thoughts, he reached out, caressed my thigh. But that was it, just that brief touch. As he walked me to the building, I wanted more. Finally, at the door, he kissed me.

The apartment was quiet when I stepped inside; Leanna’s door stood closed. I moved about the space as if it were a strange place, as if I’d made a new home in the world of his bed in the fourth floor of that walkup. I did everything by rote, washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed into nightclothes. But under the covers of the bed, my body felt different. I smelled of him.

In the darkness I glanced about the room. I could make out the shape of the last sculpture I had created before I graduated, the head of Medusa. I’d been playing with a mythology theme, trying to find a way to make it new and fresh. In the dark, the snakes looked too smooth, the skin as well, and my skin, the pads of my fingers, so sensitized after the evening, understood exactly what was missing.

Several hours later, I walked into the third-floor office and, grainy-eyed, headed straight for the coffee maker. I set the pot to brewing and then settled down in my cubicle. I didn’t look at James when he walked by, or meet anybody’s eyes, except for Lance when he stopped at my desk with a CD of images and a list of detailed directions. The creative surge of three a.m. dimmed under the bright, fluorescent light of morning. I had absolutely no idea what was going on between Daniel and me. The sex had been good. No. The sex had been great. But maybe all he had wanted was to get Mark Anderson’s daughter in bed.

Was there anything wrong with that? If that were his entire motivation, could I blame him? The thought both amused and disgusted me.

I silently sat through the morning department meeting, staring at the color-photocopied handout. Lance talked about a shared vision of the future of Hartmann Enterprises and a bunch of other managerial motivational stuff that made me tighten my grasp on my coffee cup. Then he shifted into creative stuff, relaying Hartmann’s plans, his desire to move the company in a more global direction, to think about portraying the business that way as opposed to purely American. I’d never thought about company branding as being culturally derived, but it was so obvious I felt stupid for having not. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t admired art, particularly pop art, from around the world.

Jillian, Greg and Steve were the main creative designers and the sketches in the handout were all variants on ideas they had come up with for a new logo, the logo being the first step of redesign. Piece by piece they would redo all the internal stationery and literature and then the website and external literature. There was a good chance, as they got further into the process, that underlings like James and me would be given projects such as “create this page according to this established look.”

I returned to my cubicle, flipped through the handout again and then settled down to the previous task of the day.

When my purse vibrated against my foot, I didn’t force myself to wait. I plucked the now-still phone from the pink depths of my purse. Filled with an energy that had been absent only a moment earlier, I flipped it open.

thirtieth floor. East conference room. Now.

My pulse raced and my mind followed. I didn’t know what he wanted. There were no fake files to bring up, no excuses. Merely a time and a place. I’d never been on the thirtieth floor. I didn’t know what department was there or if it was even a Hartmann floor. Although Hartmann Enterprises was the name on the top of the building, he only used nine of the thirty-two floors.

And for how long would I be gone? What if Lance needed me or—

I shook my head. It was stupid to wonder. Ultimately, Daniel was my boss so surely if he wanted me to meet him, he had a reason.

I pressed my legs together tightly, trying not to think of
that
reason. Because really, it was one thing to make out over lunch, but another thing entirely to do so during paid work hours.

A different kind of work.

I shook my head again, not liking where my mind was going. I turned back to the computer. What if my phone were turned off? I couldn’t possibly meet him then.

But after last night, how could I not? Perhaps the method was unorthodox, but I was well on my way to knowing Daniel Hartmann, knowing what made him tick. If I didn’t go meet him now, how on earth would I ever find a way to get revenge? It was a stupid, thin excuse of a reason, but I savored it as I stood, stretched, and then, as nonchalantly as possible, made my way to the elevators. I didn’t look to see if anyone watched my progress. I didn’t want to know.

The thirtieth floor was dim and empty, only the emergency lights making anything visible. I turned to the right, east, down the hall.

“Emily.” I heard my whispered name at the same time that I felt his heat, that he pulled me into the conference room and into his embrace. I didn’t have a chance to respond because his lips were on mine and my only thought was to meet his kisses with my own.

I wore a cotton tank beneath my cardigan, and beneath that his hand roamed, caressed my breast through the thin cup of a cotton bra. Every touch burned, sharply exquisite.

“I couldn’t wait another minute,” he whispered against my ear before tugging on the sensitive lobe with his teeth. So this, then, was the work.

“Convenient I happened to be in the same building.”

As he laughed, I gave into the idea, enjoyed it. I stepped back from him. To my left I could see the rooftops of Boston through the glass window. Could anyone in those other tall buildings nearby see us here in this half-darkness?

Not that anyone else mattered because Daniel was watching me, wanting me, and I wanted him. I shimmied my a-line skirt up just enough to reach for my panties. I slid them down, letting the skirt fall back into place. Then I dangled the skimpy cotton from my finger.

I loved seeing that tight, controlled expression on his face, the one that revealed all the passion he held back, that I’d feel when he thrust into me.

I let the bit of fabric drop, took a step toward him. He strode forward, wrapped me in his arms in that dizzying way that made me unaware of anything but him and his touch. He used the wall as leverage, held me up against it as he delved beneath my skirt and stroked between my thighs. He slid a finger into me and I moaned, forgetting to be quiet. He knew exactly how to touch me, the right pattern, rhythm, everything. I climaxed under his touch and while I was still crying out, trembling with the release, he covered himself and thrust deep within me, reaching for his own.

•  •  •

Cool air struck my skin as he moved away. My weight my own again, I leaned heavily against the wall. Tugging down my skirt, straightening my sweater, I looked out toward the window and tried to gather my thoughts, to understand the wave of emotions now buffeting me. But in the wake of sex, my mind was a wasteland of sexual satisfaction. “So … ”

I listened to his footsteps as he crossed the carpet. He knelt down in front of me, holding my flimsy little panties, pink with a lacy trim. I stared down at the top of his head, at the beautiful waves of his hair, as I lifted my legs one at a time. He slid the fabric up, kissed the inside of my knee. What the hell were we doing?

“Is this going to be a habit?” I asked.

He kissed an inch further up my bare thigh. Was he buying time? Trying to formulate just the right response? I had questions I wanted to ask him. Bold, honest questions that would cut to the quick of our past and our present. But I held my tongue, terrified at the idea. What if he said something that made it impossible for me to stay?

“Yes,” he said softly, his lips moving against my skin.

He stood and leaned closer, slowly stroking my neck. I leaned into his hand.

“And if I text you? Will you come running?”

Again, he hesitated, studying my face, running a thumb along the line of my jaw. What did he see in my expression? His was like a mask.

“I doubt it,” he said finally.

“And?” I prodded.

“You’re coming home with me tonight.”

My stomach clenched at his tone, tight with desire. Yes, I wanted that, but could I continue to let him have his way so easily? Get away with his arrogant admissions? I lifted my chin, raised an eyebrow.

“So this, it’s going to happen your way, everything? You text. I run. You pick me up, drop me off … ”

“I like the way that sounds,” he agreed, a small smirk on his lips, as if he knew there was no way in hell I or any other woman would go for that.

“OK.”

He dropped his hand.

I amused myself. I really did. Of course I wasn’t fine with that sort of highhanded treatment, but agreeing was worth that look on his face.

“OK?”

“Sure. For now,” I said with a shrug, smiling inwardly. “But I’d better get back to work.”

And when he did text that afternoon, just as my workday was ending, I did exactly as he said. Took that long elevator ride to the top floor, nodded to Janine, who stared at me impassively, whatever judgments she might have hidden far behind her professional façade, and then entered Daniel’s office.

When I stepped inside, he was standing next to his desk, shuffling a stack of papers with no sign of stopping work for the day. He looked up, and that half smile of his struck me hard, just like it did every time I saw him. He met me halfway across the room, pulled me tight against him and I instinctively rose up on my toes to meet his kiss, breathed in the scent of his skin.