Three and a Half Weeks
THREE AND A HALF WEEKS
BY LULU ASTOR
THREE AND A HALF WEEKS
.
Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to others. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Lulu Astor, or I, Sisyphus Publications. Please purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN:
978–1–63068–521–8
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. References may be herein contained to historical events and/or authentic locations; however, the names, characters, incidents, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.
This book would not have been remotely possible without all of my faithful online followers of
One Shady Character
. Over seven hundred of you were there for every chapter and we had well over 300,000 visits to the story site. Thanks to your enthusiastic support, sharp insight, pep talks, and loyalty, a silly spoof on a popular novel became a book all its own. A thousand cyber hugs to y’all.
I also have to give a nod to the authors who inspired me while writing this work. First, and obviously, E.L. James. I’d like to think I inspired her, too. For the wicked pulley idea, thanks to Cherise Sinclair and her book,
My Liege of Dark Haven
. I had C.J. Roberts’
Captive in the Dark
on my brain when deciding Natasha’s fate. Finally, my new best friends, the irresistible (and fantastic author) Nicole Reed, and the fabulous Ena Burnette she introduced me to, who helped launch this book into the blogosphere.
Other titles by Lulu Astor:
Complements
, Book I
Complements, Book II: A Force of Nature
Complements, Backstory: Between Us
His instructions begin in the hotel room.
“Do you have a garter belt?”
“No. But I do have silk stockings that stay up without a garter. Do you want me to wear those?”
He nods. “And your black stilettos, please.”
It’s not until we get in the taxi that he makes his next request. Once he gives the driver an address, he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Take off your panties.”
I look at him as if he’s lost his mind. “What?”
His face is unyielding. “You heard me. Do it.”
“In here?” I screech, thinking about all the people and…
stuff
… that’s been on these car seats. “It’s not hygienic.”
He shakes his head, a gesture he uses when he is dismissive of my concerns.
I am sitting in a
taxi in New York City with Ian Blackmon.
The
Ian Blackmon of Wall Street and
WSJ
,
Forbes,
and
People
magazine renown. That list actually goes on
ad infinitum
. Before our chance encounter, I’d never heard of him. Now I see his name and likeness everywhere I look. Before Ian, I’d never even dreamed of meeting a man like him. Now I share intimate moments with him and revel in his possession. Before, I’d never been tied up, dominated, and ravished.
Now I am…
frequently
.
My name is Ella Strong. Welcome to my brand-new world.
The whole thing was meant to be a joke.
I wrote the book as a Christmas gift for my closest friends: it was way too dirty to send to anyone else. My best buds
believed it to be pure fiction (and why wouldn’t they?) and that was exactly how I planned it. How many of them would believe that the kinky man in my book was someone I had actually met, the man who took my virginity, who made me an indecent proposition, who wouldn’t get out of my head no matter how hard I tried to kick him to the curb?
I had met Ian Blackmon, gorgeous
CEO-extraordinaire, by pure and accidental chance. At the time, I was in my last year of college, and my friend Mariah had helped me snag an excellent part-time job in an upscale boutique. Trying to get me ready for the job interview—me, the girl who shops at Target (pronouncing it Tar-zhay to give it panache)—was a comedy of errors in and of itself.
“Okay,” Mariah said, holding up a pair of platform patent-leather high heels, “what designer?”
“Jimmy Chow?”
“Choo. Jimmy Choo—Jimmy Chow’s is a restaurant— and,
no
. They’re Louboutins! For God’s sake, Ella, pay attention. What about these?” She held up a pair of low, very pointy slingbacks.
“I know this,” I yelled, snapping my fingers. “Those are Manolo Blahniks!”
“Right! There’s hope for you yet. Okay, let’s move on. What about this skirt?”
And it went on all evening long
, with one break for yummy thin-crust pizza. By the end of the night, I had my upscale designers down pat. Then it was time to score some pricey clothes on eBay. For the interview itself, Mariah lent me her red Stella McCartney suit and I somehow managed to dupe the owner and snare the job. Woohoo.
It was on a Friday night, just before closing, when he walked in, commanding the small shop without even trying. I was at the regist
er, collating the cash receipts and filling out my timesheet, when the door tinkled open and in strode the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I had never heard of Ian Blackmon, new to Portland as I was, so when he handed over his credit card to pay for the pricey necklace he hastily selected, I had no idea who he was. Didn’t matter anyway.
He’d come in with purpose, as if on a strict time schedule.
“Good evening, I’m shopping for a gift. Jewelry, perhaps.”
My knees were shaking so much they were bruising one another. I cobbled together as much courage as I could. “Please step this way,” I m
anaged, leading him to the corner glass display where we kept our mostly costume jewelry. He peered carefully at the selection and quickly zeroed in on one he favored.
He never asked the price on anything but then, so many of our customers don’t. Asking the price of items is
gauche
when you have money to fritter away. The cost of this particular necklace was astonishingly stratospheric at three thousand dollars for costume jewelry, but it was a designer piece.
“May I see those two as well, please?” He gazed at me when he addressed me and I couldn’t help but be affected by his overall beauty and focus.
Working in the pricey shop for the past two months, I’d managed to acquire some small amount of grace while in the company of affluent, important people… so why my knees were knocking together just because I was standing in front of this man was an enduring mystery. One would think that I’d never set eyes on a perfect human being before.
He was wearing an espresso-
brown suit, elegantly tailored and so dark it was almost black, brown wingtips, crisp white shirt, and a silver tie. Mmm, edible was the first word that sprang to an inquiring mind.
“Yes, of course.” I carefully removed each piece from its display, willing my fingers not to visibly tremble, and set them
, side by side, on a black velvet tray. One was sterling set with onyx and the other two had amethyst stones. All three were very pretty and very expensive.
“Hmm. Which one do
you
like?” he asked me, looking up from the jewelry to my face. Wow, his eyes were light and beautiful, fringed as they were by his lush, dark lashes. Would he think me rude if I gripped him by the ears, dragged his face to mine, and made out with him over the counter? Shaking my head to dispel the image, I tried to answer his question intelligently, all the while staring at his lips.
“All three are quite stunning,” I said, wondering if he could hear my pounding heartbeat. “What color does your wife favor?”
“It’s for my sister and she wears a lot of bright colors, pinks and purples, in the main; I guess the amethyst then?”
“Probably a sure bet if purple’s a favorite color.”
“Yes, I think this one,” he pointed to the nicer of the two. “Please giftwrap it; I’m running late and I almost forgot her birthday,” he said as he handed me his credit card.
“Of course,” I said, keeping my voice neutral when my body was imploding inward like a controlled demolition. I rang up the sale and he signed the slip quickly. I watched him closely: this guy was too damned gorgeous and he was near enough to me that I could smell him—his cologne or aftershave or whatever, and it was, like, sublime. He was tall too, with thick, dark hair that contrasted with those light eyes. But never mind what he had; what he didn’t have was a wedding band on his finger. Another woohoo.
Yeah, right. Why would a man who looked like he did and could spend three grand without batting an eye have any interest in a mousy shop girl? I went to the other counter to wrap the box, selecting the store’s signature silver and white paper and finishing it with a purple ribbon.
“
Sir? Here you are. I hope your sister enjoys the necklace.”
He looked at me long and hard. Did I say something wrong?
“Thank you,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “I’m sure my sister will love it. I appreciate your assistance, Miss…?”
My face got hot so I knew I was blushing to my hair follicles. “Ella… well, Ariel, actually. Ariel Strong.”
“Very pretty name—
unusual
name. Thank you again, Ms. Strong,” he said, smiling for the first time and he sauntered off.
Wow. That smile could effectively compete with the Caribbean sun.
The next day, I asked Mariah if she’d ever heard of him. I’d Googled him and reams of information and images flashed brightly on my computer screen.
“Ian Blackmon? Of course I’ve heard of him. Haven’t you?”
“Uh, no? Or I wouldn’t ask you, right?”
“Well, it’s true he’s Portland royalty and you haven’t lived here very long at all. Okay, how would I describe Ian Blackmon?” She tapped her finger on her upper lip. “Combine the mind and personality of Steve Jobs, the looks of, oh, I don’t know, the most terrifically gorgeous man in Hollywood, for example, the philanthropy and bank account of Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, hell, even Angelina Jolie—and you’ve got Ian Blackmon.”
I naturally assumed Mariah was grossly exaggerating about him, as she was wont to do. “Really? Well, I met him last night at the shop. I can attest to the gorgeous and rich part. I felt like a giggly schoolgirl crushing on her teacher or something.”
“I’ll bet. Well,
he’s a notorious bachelor who’s never seen with the same woman twice. God, I hope he’s not gay—that would be so unjust. The gays have more than their fair share of good lookers playing on their team, don’t you think?”
“Hmmm,” I replied, my mind back in the company of the man in a dark brown suit. I hoped he’d come back into the shop sometime soon.
Or did I?
I wrote the book because it was fun; I wrote the book to exorcise him from my system; I wrote the book because I had no extra money for Christmas gifts for my friends. I didn’t consider it a violation of the legal contract he had me sign, first, because the book was presented as fiction with no real names used, and second, the book was supposed to be read only by my friends, with no wider circulation than that one small circle of women.
What ended up happening was something I could never in a million years have predicted nor anticipated. I mean, come on: how could he hold that against me? But he very much was holding it against me and though I doubted he’d really drag me through court over it, he was planning on making me pay, one way or another.
He was the man who took my virginity. From the first moment I saw him in the shop—Archipelago—I wanted him.
Badly.
Still, I didn’t believe I’d have a ghost of a chance. The man was perfection in every way: looks, grooming, voice, and wallet. I was vastly inferior with my untamed hair, my designer knock-offs (for the most part), and my pathetic bank account. He had it all over me—just call me Cinderella.
Something about me must have appealed to him, though, because before too long, I found myself in his mansion on the mountain, hoping he’d try to seduce me. To say it didn’t go as swimmingly as it did in my feverish imagination would be vastly understating the situation.
I guess the fact that he had me sign a confidentiality agreement the day he summoned me to his office should have clued me in to the fact that he had something to hide. But I was too much in awe over him to notice any imperfection—the man could have had human taxidermy propped up on his desk and I might have overlooked it. It’s not everyday that one meets a man like Ian Blackmon.
Besides, he
also had me sign a liability disclaimer. I just figured these kinds of waivers or contracts were standard issue for someone of his position and wealth. You know, no biggie.
In addition to
being gaga over him, I remember being somewhat terrified by him that day in his office. He’s an important man for a reason: he oozes competence, grace, and confidence. It’s ridiculously intimidating to us mortals.
Truthfully,
I was feeling intimidated before I even stepped foot into his office. The platinum-frosted blonde who manned the reception desk tried her level best not to stare at me as I sat fidgeting in reception. She clearly couldn’t figure out why someone who looked and dressed like me would have business here in Blackmon’s universe.
“Miss?”
I sidled up and stepped nearer to the desk. “Yes?”
“May I offer you a beverage? Coffee, tea, or perhaps iced water?”
“No, thank you,” I answered, feeling at a disadvantage, a fish out of water.
The woman’s
eyes skidded over my outfit and frowned, barely hiding her disdain.
For
my part, I didn’t much care about Frosty’s attitude. I just wanted to do whatever was necessary to take my leave in short order. Uncomfortable was how I felt in the manufactured air of Excalibur’s luxurious corporate offices. But first I needed to satisfy my curiosity—my mother always warned me that my intense curiosity would prove to be my undoing. When his driver deposited me at the front entrance of the building a few minutes before, I looked up and saw the name Blackmon—
his
name—carved indelibly into the imposing limestone edifice of the tall building. Was the whole gigantic building owned by his father? I decided to ask Frosty.
“Excuse me,
does Mr. Blackmon’s father own this entire building?”
The blonde stared at me
in consternation. “Mr. Blackmon’s father?” she repeated like an idiot.
“Yes,” I
elaborated, unable to resist, “you know, the man whose wife gave birth to Ian Blackmon and who then raised him into adulthood?”
“I’m sorry I don’t understand. Mr. Blackmon’s father has nothing to do with the corporation.” Though the frosted blonde behaved ve
ry politely, her tone was dismissive, putting me in my place. “Are you here to interview for a job?”
“Job?” I
repeated, perplexed. “Uh, no. I’m here because Mr. Blackmon summoned me.”
Now Frosty looked taken aback. “Oh. Please accept my apology, Ms. Strong. I thought you might be one of the candidates for the open positions for which we’re interviewing. I was wondering why you were on this floor, rather than 23 where HR is located.
I didn’t much care about the slight. I was too worried about whether my extreme agitation was plainly visible to everyone in this plush corporate bubble. Could they see me perspiring excessively? Was my face shiny with sweat, my eyes bulging in terror like the fish out of water? Or were they all too distracted by my wrinkled clothes and messy hair to take note of anything else?
Just then the massive mahogany doors opened and a tall, wickedly handsome man emerged with two people in t
ow, an older, silver-haired man and a stern-looking, fiftyish woman. I looked up and everyone else disappeared. There he stood, the man in the brown suit in all of his Armani glory. Today, though, he wore navy, with a pearl gray shirt, and
aubergine
tie. His light eyes swiveled toward me, dazzling me with his peppermint smile—all red and white and delicious.
“Ms. Strong,” a silky baritone voice s
lid through the air and into my ears where it diffused into all the pertinent body parts. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice. Please come into my office.” He turned to Frosty and said, “No calls, please, Janine. You might also have to reschedule my five o’clock. If you don’t hear from me by 4:30, cancel… but check with Claudia for conflicts before rescheduling.”