The Willing by JJ Moreau

fingers were pruny and aching from the ice-cold water.
    I knew I'd have to take better care of my things now that official, legit employment was absent from my life. Sure, Oliver paid well, but as soon as our three-month contract ended, I would have to find something else.
    When I fired up the browser on my laptop next, I pretended it wasn't to check my email. For good measure, I even launched a job ad website, and pretended to peruse the entries while I waited for my inbox countdown to update.
    It did. No new emails.
    My heart sank a little.
    I probably shouldn't have been pinning my hopes on Oliver; he was a busy man with a company to run and a life that didn't involve me. It wasn't like we were together, whatever rumors might take seed if we were ever seen in public. This whole schoolgirl crush thing I was developing for him had no future. I was losing perspective, to say nothing of endangering my finances every time I let my thoughts run wild.
    There was a lesson in that. I was allowing myself to get swept up in what had been a good, not-so-humiliating evening with a man—a rarity these days—but that didn't mean I had any chance of being more than what I was as long as I stayed on his payroll.
    Hunter had told me once that the things we liked to do—the kinks we shared, sometimes publicly—were best enjoyed with a loving partner. It occurred to me that I wanted that someday. I could be more than someone's employee, or the flavor of the week at some high roller's birthday party. Getting paid for company or sex or smiling and nodding—or wielding a whip, for that matter—wasn't exactly a lifelong dream of mine.  
    With heavy heart, I opened the browser page I'd just loaded and clicked the flashy, red sign up button. I needed to think of my future after Oliver and Madam Madrigal.
     
    Oliver wanted me to meet him at six PM, so naturally I showed up at five-thirty, completely anxious. I told myself I wasn't, but the pep-talk did no good. There was a hollow in the pit of my stomach, like someone had reached in and scooped up my insides, leaving me with nothing but air and a racing heart.
    "I know I'm early," I told Oliver cheerily on the phone, "but I'm busy later, so..."
    "Another man? Careful, Jo, I could get jealous."
    "I seriously doubt that." I had boxes to pack and a move to organize, but if he wanted to think I had a date, I wasn't going to contradict. Truthfully, going out and getting picked up was not on my to-do list. I was more concerned about paying both rent and a mortgage at the same time—and how unbelievably stupid that was. Of course, if I was bound to lose the apartment, then surrendering my small, troublesome lease was probably just as dumb. I couldn't afford to think that way.
    "I'm not home," Oliver told me crisply. "You'll have to wait."
    "Sure. Any good magazines in your lobby?"
    Silence trickled down the line for a long moment, the miles of empty space between us crackling with the static of white noise. Then Oliver said, "Ask George to let you into the apartment."
    "George?" I asked, because that was easier than wondering if Oliver was worried I'd be spotted in the lobby. Granted, yesterday's get-up had been pretty obvious, but now I was wearing a sensible skirt and an even more sensible pair of flats—the only one I owned. With my curly red wig on, I didn't exactly look like I belonged in this part of town, but maybe no one would do a double take at the sight of me.
    "The concierge," Oliver clarified. "I can always call him myself..."
    "No, it's fine. I'll ask. I think he likes me, anyway."
    George turned out to be receptive to the claim that Mr. Shepherd had invited me to go up to his apartment, but he still called Oliver to check. I tried not to feel offended. It was probably just procedure.
    I climbed into the elevator feeling anxious and exited into the penthouse with similar discomfort for no discernible reason. The lights were down on the upper floor. Even downstairs, everything but the