Three and a Half Weeks (3 page)

I took his hand and he led me down a long hall to double doors. Just beyond those doors was his library.

“Oh my God, this room is beautiful,” I exclaimed, for it took my breath away. Rich mahogany wainscoting lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A Mission-style mantel framed a stone hearth, currently hosting a cozy fire. On the two far walls, there were books lining shelves from floor to ceiling and a sliding ladder attached to handily reach the books on the upper reaches. The furniture, rugs, desk—everything was meticulously perfect.

“Sit,” he ordered me and I complied. It did strike me as odd how he didn’t ask but rather told, but I
instinctively kept kowtowing to his superior rank.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Um, sure, if you’re having one.”

He nodded and walked over to a cabinet. When he opened it I could see there were numerous bottles of wine, stemware, and probably every bar
accouterment
available at Williams-Sonoma.

“So, Ariel Strong, since this afternoon, you’ve learned much more about me. I think
I’ve given you fair warning. Even so, you’re here with me tonight. Might I consider it your capitulation?”

“Capitulation?”
There goes my cat-in-heat voice again.

He smirked. “Are you not fond of the word? Perhaps you would prefer acceptance?”

I gulped my wine. Things weren’t going as I’d envisioned in my fevered imagination. In my original version of the play script, this is when he’d begin to seduce me and we’d end up in bed, having the most incredible, mindbending sex ever. He’d peer into my eyes longingly and swear he’d never met anyone like me before. Afterward, I’d officially be dating the most eligible bachelor, possibly on planet Earth. Alas, I had to make major revisions in the plotline. Instead, we once again dissected our potential relationship in terms too clinical to suit me—me or any other woman in the world.

“Acceptance? Of your terms?”

I couldn’t read the look in his eyes but I knew there was some volatile emotion swirling about in the depths of those silvery blue orbs. He strode forcefully to the large mahogany desk and removed some papers from a locked drawer.

“Here,” he said, handing them to me
and sitting back down. “These will afford you a deeper understanding and then I’ll show you my little dungeon.”

“Your what?” The words were out of my mouth before I could do any neural filtering. Dungeon? Had I landed in some kind of twisted fairy tale?

“Relax,” he drawled, “it’s just a word. I’m aware of your innocence and I’m not trying to frighten you, Ariel.”

Could
have fooled me. He’d drawn up paperwork with forms attesting to health, hygiene, and the multitude of sexual acts that might be involved. Some of the options were utterly horrifying.

The terminology creeped me out, too. I know sexual slang is crude but somehow it seems more honest and less creepy. The technical terms seem to me as if one is cloaking a base act in a civilized robe… but it remains base: blowjob is honestly descriptive; fellatio is just creepy, even if its literal meaning,
to suck
, is more direct. I won’t even mention the female equivalent.

I looked up briefly to see Ian smiling in a smug fashion as he watched me reading the various papers. The thought occurred to me that he’d been here already, probably many times over, and suddenly I had to know.

“How many women have you done this with before?”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes inscrutable. “Too many to count. Next question?”

I hated that answer. “Any men?”

“No.”

“Do you find partners wherever you can?”

“Not generally, no. Usually in one place.”

To my questioning look, he responded. “A club where likeminded people gather.”

“Not high-priced boutiques then?”

Broadly smiling now, he shook his head. “Never before.”

“Then… why this time?” I was truly puzzled as to why he’d proposition me. Do I send out some subliminal message that I want to be beaten and dominated?” If so, I needed to know.

“I can’t answer that question, Ariel.”

“Why not?”

“Primarily because I’m uncertain as to the answer.”

Oh. Or was it an
aha
moment? He didn’t know. I wasn’t sure if I should take that as a victory of some sort… or be insulted. Rubbing my lips together in nervousness, I put it aside for the moment.

I looked at the paperwork again and began to wonder about all those women who’d sat here before
me. The world was a strange, frightening place if one chanced to look into dark corners.

“Why are you like this? Is it to keep yourself at an emotional remove?” I finally got up the gumption to ask.

He reared back, as if I’d slapped him. Then he closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, his face was impassive again. “Once burned, twice shy.”

“Who burned you?” I whispered the question, afraid to ask it, and afraid he’d answer it.

“A girl.”

“A girl?”

“A girl… I loved… or thought I did anyway.”

Aha. “So this type of sexual relationship is your way of keeping emotionally detached?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“A manner of speaking, i.e. you don’t want to fall in love again?”

“I’m not even sure I ever was in love to begin with… but to answer your question, no, Ariel, I do not.”

Later that night, he made up for all of the weirdness by being sort of romantic—definitely seductive. If nothing else, Ian wasn’t letting me escape until I’d at the very least surrendered my chastity. He must have seen it as a conquest—and he was all about conquests. So I finally lost my charter membership in the virgin forever club. If not for the conversations that preceded it in his office earlier that day and then just an hour before in his library, I would have felt my fantasy fulfilled. He was gentle, sweet, and achingly sexy. I was thrilled to have Ian as my first.

I spent the night and the next day with him. The following evening he drove me home himself, kissed me chastely on the cheek, and wished me goodnight. That night, instead of sleeping, my mind endlessly rehashed all of the requirements of the position that Ian was offering me: no emotional intimacy, slavish obedience of his rules, no looking at him without permission, kneeling at his feet during scenes, no public relationship, and strict adherence to monogamy
—I wasn’t even allowed to cheat on him with myself, if you get what I mean. I’d belong to him… but he wouldn’t belong to me.

I tried
picturing myself in the role. I couldn’t. How could I be around this handsome, thrilling man and have no rights of claim to him? He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, didn’t
want
one. He was seeking a sexual partner, the latest one in a long line of them. I wanted a lover, a confidant—if I got lucky, maybe even a soulmate.

I was forced to make a painful decision. Even though I barely knew him, it was truly difficult to make and it hurt my heart, knowing I was shutting the door to ever seeing that glorious man again: his endearing grin, his beguiling eyes, the way his ass looked so bitable in well-fitting suit trousers.

The next day handmade chocolates arrived in a sterling silver box with an invitation to again join him for dinner.

Instead of accepting, I forced myself to send him a text message, begging off. Even if he weren’t so mesmerizing, it would be dangerous. I have a bad habit of being able to be talked into just about anything by just about anyone. I always expected to one day find myself on the six o’clock news as the stupid friend who leaped off a bridge, sat on a train track, bungee jumped into a cliff, or whatever, because her friends told her to do it. I could just see myself, in traction in the hospita
l, both eyes black and blue, the television news camera right in my purple, pulpy face, whining, “My friends told me it would be fun!”

I knew I needed to walk away from Ian Blackmon. He didn’t want what I wanted and he never would. I wanted a mate, someone with whom to grow intimate, share secrets, and enjoy simple things together, like good music or wine or a fat, cuddly puppy. Someone with whom to laugh and cry, have important discussions about current events, curl up and spoon in the cold, dark night. A boyfriend to introduce to my friends and family, to be seen out in public with, and to have the right to drape my arm around his waist whenever the urge took me.

He wanted a sex slave, an unequal partner to submit to him in every way possible, a woman who wanted nothing more out of her life than to please him.

I
wouldn’t mind pleasing him; in fact, I would damn well love to please him, in every way possible. I’d gladly give myself to him, body and soul. But I wanted him to love to please me, too. And therein lies the rub.

Ian Blackmon was dangerous—to me, my tender heart, my mental wellbeing, especially. I’d known him for ten minutes and I already felt attached to him. What would happen to me in a month? A year? He could destroy me
, break me into a million little pieces, kill me with a thousand cuts.

Saying goodbye by text was shitty, I concede, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it in person. Simply stated, staring into those penetrating eyes of his would preclude me from saying no to anything he suggested and, really, that wasn’t good for my health.

The message itself was short and simple:

Ian,

Thanks for a great time. I enjoyed getting to know yo
u further (much further) and the tour of your lovely home as well as the exhilarating evening sail. I enjoyed other aspects of our time together, too.

I don’t think we’ll be seeing one another again but I do want you to know that I very much appreciated all the attention you showed me. I’d wish you good luck in your life but it seems you already have plenty of it. I don’t know what else to say.

Ella

I cried when I wrote it, knowing I was doing something irrevocable when I hit
send.
When would I ever meet another powerful, enigmatic man like Ian? Probably never. I drew my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me in a sorry facsimile of affection, and waited for his response.

When he didn’t reply to my text, I thought a.) he wasn’t near his phone and he’d see it later, or b.) he readily accepted my farewell and was moving on, casting his eye about for the next sex slave candidate. What did I expect anyway? I couldn’t be important to him, not this early in the game. If ever.

Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang. There he was standing at the door to my apartment, looking as delectable as ever, his hair windblown, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, with his tie in his hand. He smelled like fresh laundry.

“Come for a drive with me,” he said, his deep voice like endorphins to my brain, but his pretty eyes held uncertainty.

“Um, I’m not dressed,” I looked down at the yoga pants and ripped tee I was wearing. “I wasn’t planning on going out again today.”

“May I come in, then?”

“Sure.” I backed up a few feet to allow him entrance. It was strange having the larger-than-life Ian Blackmon, a man recognized in public, in our small, humble apartment. Now I felt happy that Mariah had replaced the old laminate countertops with a beautiful slab of black granite only two months ago. Gesturing to the stools at the kitchen counter, I said, “Have a seat: I’ll go throw some clothes on and we could go for that drive.” I then scurried out of the room, padding barefoot down the hall, in a rush to get to my bedroom. I wanted to hurry him out of the condo before he could work his magic on me again.

But
when I turned around to close the bedroom door, he was right there—so close I could smell his aftershave and his own beautiful Ian scent—and without another word, he kicked the door shut behind him and pushed me up against the nearest wall. Pinned by his hips, I could feel his rock-hard erection on my belly.

I went on the offensive. “Ian. I want you t
o know that I don’t think this Dominant/submissive thing will work for me,” I said breathlessly. “I’m just a very disobedient type—ask my mother—and I have a willful personality. Both of those traits will serve to undermine my value as a sex slave. Plus, I’ve never aspired to be one, but… listen… if I
were
the type to want to be a slave, I swear you’d totally be my idea of a very fine master or sire or liege… or whatever they call you. I just…”

He never allowed me to finish my rambling. He kissed me until I was seriously depleted of oxygen and would agree to anything. His voice, both soft and menacing, spoke directly into my ear.

“Did you expect me to just accept your rejection, my sweet Ariel? If so, you have no idea with whom you are dealing. I always get what I want—and make no mistake, darling girl, I want you. You want me, too.”

True that.

His hand curved around my face, lifting it to get my undivided attention. His eyes were blazing with some kind of volatile emotion when he looked into mine. “You feel it too, don’t you, Ariel?”

I couldn’t deny it. The
it
he referred to was the palpable electricity that snapped and crackled around us whenever we were together in the same room. But I was scared of
it
too. And of him.