bracing myself for the gentle let down. He wouldn't have summoned me here just for an apology—particularly considering it wasn't really all that necessary. He had done nothing wrong. Gerry's visit was Gerry's problem. Sure, it was awkward as hell to try and pretend I hadn't been beating the shit out of her brother mere minutes earlier. I still wasn't convinced she hadn't heard us go at it, but Oliver had no part of blame in that.
"What about last night?" I repeated.
He stalled, like a turntable record spinning without sound. His gaze found mine, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I'm not going to explain myself to you," he bit out eventually. It seemed to take a lot of effort to even get that far. "I thought I was clear the first time."
"Clear? I'm sorry, you're going to have to be a bit more specific. I'm a little rusty at mind reading."
My days of taking a verbal lashing lying down had come to an abrupt end when he thought manhandling me was okay. I didn't want him thinking that just because I worked for him he could treat me like dirt again. Pride was a fickle thing: all the more so when buoyed by a schoolgirl crush.
"I told you I want no sexual contact between us," Oliver clarified, cheeks flushing.
He had. I remembered that part of our conversation pretty well. I couldn't help think it was a shame, but my reasons were largely selfish and I wasn't in the business of persuading Oliver to step outside his comfort zone.
"You're the one who pulled out the nipple clamps," I pointed out instead. They had been vicious-looking things, too, none of that padded, plastic stuff I'd used back in the day. Oliver could pretend all he wanted, but he wanted pain with sex.
His choice of props betrayed him.
"I noticed that you failed to use them," he said, trying to sound accusing.
"Failed? No," I lied, "I was taking into account the no-sex clause. Or are you going to tell me nipple-play is something other than sexual?"
I watched affront flash across his face, twisting his lips downward. Last night had been enjoyable, in my opinion. And I knew he'd enjoyed it, too; the wet spot on his boxers had been pretty illuminating. "Don't be embarrassed," I added quickly. "Honestly, I'm pretty flattered. Any girl would be, but when it's a dom/sub thing, these things can be tricky. I thought you did great—"
"That will never happen again," Oliver said, interrupting me with an icy glare. He wasn't amused or embarrassed; if anything, he looked livid.
My throat felt tight. "Okay… Can I ask—"
"You may not."
Shit . Well, that ended that conversation pretty quickly. I told myself my job here was to make sure he got whatever he needed out of our sessions, that my enjoyment was secondary and largely irrelevant.
I should have realized a guy like Oliver would be majorly screwed up; he'd closed down a sex club because he had a problem with the owners. He'd hired me to beat on him because—and this was just a guess—he was too scared to find himself a partner he didn't have to strong-arm into giving him what he needed.
As I left the penthouse, I couldn't shake the odd, unpleasant feeling that the guy I'd built a guy up in my head obviously didn't exist in the real world. I had lost sight of who Oliver Shepherd really was. I was either lonely or stupid, and since I didn't have time for the first one, I decided to remedy the latter.
This was just business and I needed the money.
I was barely out of Oliver's tower when I drew out my smartphone and scrolled down to Madam's private number. She answered on the third ring with a warm and cuddly "what do you want?"
"Need any reinforcements tonight?"
I could hear Bach in the background and guessed that Madam was at another one of her daughter's recitals. We weren't supposed to know about the kid, but rumors traveled fast in our tiny world of women. Dealing in petty secrets kept us from talking about the skeletons in the closet. "What makes you think I have an event tonight?" Madam Madrigal purred
"What about last night?" I repeated.
He stalled, like a turntable record spinning without sound. His gaze found mine, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I'm not going to explain myself to you," he bit out eventually. It seemed to take a lot of effort to even get that far. "I thought I was clear the first time."
"Clear? I'm sorry, you're going to have to be a bit more specific. I'm a little rusty at mind reading."
My days of taking a verbal lashing lying down had come to an abrupt end when he thought manhandling me was okay. I didn't want him thinking that just because I worked for him he could treat me like dirt again. Pride was a fickle thing: all the more so when buoyed by a schoolgirl crush.
"I told you I want no sexual contact between us," Oliver clarified, cheeks flushing.
He had. I remembered that part of our conversation pretty well. I couldn't help think it was a shame, but my reasons were largely selfish and I wasn't in the business of persuading Oliver to step outside his comfort zone.
"You're the one who pulled out the nipple clamps," I pointed out instead. They had been vicious-looking things, too, none of that padded, plastic stuff I'd used back in the day. Oliver could pretend all he wanted, but he wanted pain with sex.
His choice of props betrayed him.
"I noticed that you failed to use them," he said, trying to sound accusing.
"Failed? No," I lied, "I was taking into account the no-sex clause. Or are you going to tell me nipple-play is something other than sexual?"
I watched affront flash across his face, twisting his lips downward. Last night had been enjoyable, in my opinion. And I knew he'd enjoyed it, too; the wet spot on his boxers had been pretty illuminating. "Don't be embarrassed," I added quickly. "Honestly, I'm pretty flattered. Any girl would be, but when it's a dom/sub thing, these things can be tricky. I thought you did great—"
"That will never happen again," Oliver said, interrupting me with an icy glare. He wasn't amused or embarrassed; if anything, he looked livid.
My throat felt tight. "Okay… Can I ask—"
"You may not."
Shit . Well, that ended that conversation pretty quickly. I told myself my job here was to make sure he got whatever he needed out of our sessions, that my enjoyment was secondary and largely irrelevant.
I should have realized a guy like Oliver would be majorly screwed up; he'd closed down a sex club because he had a problem with the owners. He'd hired me to beat on him because—and this was just a guess—he was too scared to find himself a partner he didn't have to strong-arm into giving him what he needed.
As I left the penthouse, I couldn't shake the odd, unpleasant feeling that the guy I'd built a guy up in my head obviously didn't exist in the real world. I had lost sight of who Oliver Shepherd really was. I was either lonely or stupid, and since I didn't have time for the first one, I decided to remedy the latter.
This was just business and I needed the money.
I was barely out of Oliver's tower when I drew out my smartphone and scrolled down to Madam's private number. She answered on the third ring with a warm and cuddly "what do you want?"
"Need any reinforcements tonight?"
I could hear Bach in the background and guessed that Madam was at another one of her daughter's recitals. We weren't supposed to know about the kid, but rumors traveled fast in our tiny world of women. Dealing in petty secrets kept us from talking about the skeletons in the closet. "What makes you think I have an event tonight?" Madam Madrigal purred
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