He didn’t just want a week with me. He wanted a week of complete surrender. A week to do everything and anything he wanted, apparently had long wanted to do to me.
A shiver traveled down my spine. What did he want to do? How long had he been thinking about me, wanting me? All these years, was there a chance he’d felt anything like I had? That fierce yearning and all those long, sleepless nights?
In the stockroom, he’d attacked me like a ravenous beast. Panting, he’d turned on the light because he needed to see me. He’d wanted to devour every inch of me. He’d fed off of my pleasure, craving it, driven to take me to the highest pitch.
I’d never felt so delicious, so reckless and fiercely alive. I could still hear his voice, low and demanding, “You’ll surrender to me, Kara. Agree to do anything I say. Everything I want.”
A deep throb pulsed between my legs. You’d never know I’d had a mind-shattering orgasm not long ago. I felt so unsatisfied, even more famished after the appetizing teaser. I remembered his promise, whispered wicked in my ear, “I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget your name.”
On the couch, eyes closed, I trailed my hand down my bare throat. I wanted that.
Enough with the nun. Enough living like a grim widow. Enough troubles and worries and deprivation and things getting worse every day instead of better.
It was time to forget everything and live full and free and crazy. Relish this wild moment and give myself up to every second of it for a week. Then I’d never look back.
I grabbed my phone. Before I could think twice, I typed in a text message. Before I could back out, I pressed send.
I’m in. One Week. Anything you want.
I woke the next morning up to a text message from Declan:
Meet me in the hotel bar tonight. 7 p.m.
Oh God. What had I done? I rubbed my eyes and read it again. It still said the same thing, still clearly communicated that Declan would meet me tonight. To begin our agreement, one week of unrestrained, wild and kinky do-everything-he-asked-of-me sex.
I lay back in the soft, comfortable bed in my soft, comfortable cashmere PJs and whimpered. I couldn’t do this. Why had I sent him that text last night? What, had I thought I was in a movie? Auditioning for the part of sub in Fifty Shades? This wasn’t a game and I wasn’t that kind of woman.
I threw the covers off, cold panic gripping my gut. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake. What had I been thinking? The man had no heart, he’d showed that quite clearly six years ago. And now I’d agreed to give him free reign? A week to do whatever he wanted to me? It had to be the stupidest thing I’d ever even considered.
I looked at my phone. I could text him and tell him I’d changed my mind. Sure I’d said yes last night, but I’d been drunk on pheromones or endorphins or whatever he’d done to my brain chemistry with that orgasm. Now in the cold light of morning, I knew I had to say no.
How had I even fallen asleep last night? And yet, I had, right after I’d sent The Text of Sin. I’d enjoyed a sound and surprisingly deep sleep.
But I was awake now. I needed to talk with him, explain this wasn’t going to work, not the way he’d described it. But I should do it, face-to-face, in person. Turning tail and running now was tempting, but childish. I’d see him, have an adult conversation—and not Adult adult—rational, practical, realistic. I’d explain that my answer was no. Then I’d make the long drive home, empty-handed but with a clear conscience and the knowledge that I’d dodged one hell of a crazy bullet.
OK, decision made, now I just had to wait an entire day to see him. It was barely nine in the morning. Ten hours before seven o’clock. Ten hours in a hotel room to go out of my freaking mind.
9:20 a.m. I got up and showered since it was something to do.
9:35 a.m. I pulled on the jeans, t-shirt and boots from yesterday, rumpled and crumpled from my old bag where they’d been stuffed in a ball. In the mirror, I looked like I’d slept in a trash bin.
9:40 a.m. I pulled off my clothes and ironed them. Then I put them on again.
I was going to go nuts in that hotel room. Pacing around like a tiger in a cage, I knew no TV show would hold my attention. I was going to have to go out, head to a museum or something, whatever people did with this crazy thing called leisure time.
I made it until 2:30. I was really proud of myself.
“What can I get you?” The bartender wore a clingy black short-sleeve button down, tattoos snaking up and down his arms. He wiped down the bar as he spoke.
“Diet coke, thanks.”
He nodded and filled me a fountain soda. Not exactly a money-making order, but he didn’t have a bunch of patrons at this time of day, anyway. In the bar in the hotel Declan owned. Where I’d be meeting him in 4 ½ hours.
I guessed I lacked creativity. I’d marched around a whole bunch of city blocks, scared a few pigeons in a couple of public parks. I’d even paid six bucks to go into an art museum.
Standing in front of a nude portrait, all I could
think about was last night. Declan had flipped a switch inside of me. I looked at something tasteful and classy—at least I guessed it was, it was hanging in an art museum and all—and I thought about sex. How eagerly I’d let Declan strip me down. How much I wanted him to do it to me again.
“How’s your day going so far?” The bartender flashed me a smile. He had dimples. I wondered if he hated them, they seemed much more school-boy than the cool look he was clearly striving for.
“Great, thanks. You?” You could take the waitress out of the diner, but she’d still serve you up a smile.
“So far, so good.” He gave me a wink, then headed down the bar to answer the phone.
How was I going to make it another 4 ½ hours? I was already halfway through my soda. The pigeons of Billings couldn’t take much more of my milling around.
“Aw, shit.” The bartender’s not-so-muffled swear caught my attention. He held the phone to his chest and called over a middle-aged guy who also wore a black button-down shirt, only his strained over his burgeoning belly. The conversation lasted all of 60 seconds. Tense, angry, he slammed the phone down onto the bar.
“She’s calling in sick again?” the bartender asked. The other guy I guessed was the manager nodded, grim.
“Don’t tell me.” A woman around my age dressed in a black t-shirt and skirt came over to the bar, a round tray clasped against one hip, a fist on the other. The manager kept shaking his head, not meeting her eyes. “She didn’t!”
“She did,” he confirmed.
“I’m going to kill her. Sheila’s out of town. Jess has a show tonight. We’re screwed!”
“Everything OK?” The question popped out of my mouth before I even knew I was asking it. I was the only person at the bar with them. It seemed the polite thing to do.
“Fine, thanks,” the manager answered, not looking fine at all.
“Just a waitress calling in sick.” The bartender flashed me that dimpled smile.
“Again,” the waitress added with disgust. “You want to wait tables tonight?” she grumbled, looking at me.