Check out all the chapters by clicking HER(fix)E
CHAPTER THREE: SIZED UP
For a long moment, after she’d stepped through the door, Max couldn’t find her voice. She simply stared at the guy leaning leisurely against the large, black desk at the far end of a large room.
Frankly, she’d expected more.
She’d been expecting to walk in on some kind of dungeon or sex den or orgy or something.
Instead, he’d led her into an office. A nice office; the picture of expensive and exquisite professionalism.
Max jumped when the door behind her shut. Looking over her shoulder, she could barely see the outline of the door, painted to match the walls around it.
Thrown by the strangely everyday setting, she took it all in. The room was immaculate and magnificent, full of clean lines and shined surfaces. There was nothing in the room that didn’t need to be there. He wasn’t the type to leave his mail strewn about or to fan magazines over his desk.
All gleaming glass, polished wood, and softly textured flooring, the office managed to somehow feel both inviting and imposing. The cutting contrasts between the stark black carpet and furniture against the deep, drowning, vivid blue walls made the room feel charged and alive.
And menacing.
Much like the man who stood at its heart, taking her in with cool, wolfish eyes.
Max straightened her shoulders, refusing to be cowed, and dug deep for her voice. “How did you know my name?” She fisted her hands on her hips.
His mouth spread into a smile, his teeth gleaming white in the shadowed sea of blues and black.
No, it wasn’t a smile. Smiling, grinning, even a smirk, implied some amount of joy.
The look he gave her was more a show of teeth. Not really aggressive, but definitely a display of dominance and power. Here, in this club, in this room, he was in charge—for now anyway—and they both knew it.
“Max Wells,” he greeted as he nodded to her, “senior editor at Elysia Publishing.” His voice was clipped, controlled. Compelling. “Despite working for one of the fastest growing e-publishers, you still prefer paper manuscripts and a bright, harsh, red pen. You rarely take time off from work, not nights, weekends, or even sick days. And you haven’t been on a date in over eighteen months.” The tilt of his hard lips twitched. “Though you did get laid less than two months ago.”
His expression was calm and irritatingly collected. Her gaze narrowed suspiciously on him. The guy had a great poker face. His thin, curved mouth and sinfully sculpted features gave nothing away. He was the picture of competence and capability. Two qualities she—under normal circumstances—found undeniably sexy.
But, wrapped up in contextless mystery, as it was with this man, it made her wonder exactly what he was capable of.
He turned back to his desk to retrieve a plain-looking manila folder. Apparently, he preferred paper copies too. “John Jones.” He flipped the file open. “Another editor up for partner next month. It seems he was as boring and bland a lover as his name.”
“You have a file on me?” She reached an arm out to try and grab it from him. Her lips thinned when he kept a sure grip on it just beyond her reach. “Why do you have a file on me?”
No.
Better question.
“How do you have a file on me?” She didn’t even know his name—not that she particularly wanted to—but he knew when, with whom, and how she’d last had sex. Who was this man?
Cocky amusement flashed, for just a second, across his features while he smoothed the file flat on the desk. “Please, sit.”
Sit? Sit! She was more than damned tired of him confusing her for some lap dog. She gritted her teeth when he planted a hard, possessive hand over the printed details of her life. Like he owned them. Owned her.
Do you belong to me?
She stiffened her spine as that moment echoed in her head. “I’ll stand.”
For a long, tense moment, they stood there, their bodies locked in tense readiness, like an eerie hush before a storm. Bristling in the face of that tempest, Max flexed her limbs, feeling her blood pressure rise.
This man was a master at intimidation techniques; she could tell. She knew the type. She’d met enough bullies who’d taken schoolyard tactics into the boardroom or turned classroom hazing into street harassment. She could imagine how those techniques would translate in this aggressive, dominance-driven SM world.
Well, if this guy was looking for a victim, he was in for a fight.
Her jaw tightened when she heard his low laugh. “Fists clenched. Body braced for battle.” He tilted his head. “Do you feel threatened right now?”
By him? By his glacier, above-it-all, annoyingly know-it-all tone? By his relaxed yet ready body that looked lean and long and nimble? By his long-fingered hands that somehow managed to look both refined yet completely merciless?
Not to mention his in-your-face air of confident unconventionality. He was unapologetically odd. Off. In the way he looked and the way he spoke and the things he did. In a manner that seemed to flaunt his strangeness. It was as if he knew all too well that he was different and didn’t care. He was going to do and be whatever he wanted and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. In a teenager, it would have felt like rebellion.
But, in him, it felt intimidatingly self-aware in a way not many people were and fewer knew what to do with.
He made her wary, sure.
Discomforted, maybe.
Off-kilter, for certain.
He seemed the kind of man who only let you see the parts of himself that he wanted you to see. He was unpredictable; she’d be foolish not to keep her guard up.
But threatened? That sounded so weak. Like admitting something best left unsaid.
So she scoffed, shaking her head. “No.” Of course not. If he thought that was enough to scare her, he had better think again.
“Then why are you holding yourself so defensively?” He spoke so matter-of-factly, his tone reminding her of an anthropology professor she once had.
She wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t liked lectures then; she wasn’t a fan now. Especially when something about him hummed with a patient, almost expectant delight, like a hunter who lured before he lunged. “You mean other than the fact that I’m being held captive in a room with a man who has a file on me, filled with private, personal information he shouldn’t have?”
She wasn’t scared.
She was appropriately concerned.
He knew things about her that he had no business knowing. It upset the balance of power between them. Put her at a disadvantage.
And she hated it.
That was all.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Good.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and studied her. “You strike me as someone who’s hard to intimidate.”
Damn right.
He stood, tucked the folder possessively under his arm, and stalked toward her, walking in a slow circle around her. “But then one has to wonder why all the defensiveness. First with Rand and now here.” Max fought the urge to move with him, to turn like a cornered animal unwilling to give this predator her back. “Why defend yourself against people not trying to attack you?”
She sniffed indignantly and straightened her shoulders, the scent of him lingering while he paced around her. “It might not be an attack in the traditional sense.” She planted her feet. Whatever he did, she would stand her ground. Max Wells wasn’t anyone’s prey. “But you, this club,” this whole subculture, according to everything she’d read on the subject, “creates and fosters an environment that feels unsafe.”
He paused, looming just behind her. “You joined and came to this club of your own free will, unsolicited and without coercion. At no point was anything done to you without your knowledge or consent. At most,” the sweet lull of his voice struck her, “it could be said that you had a heated discussion that was escalated, both verbally and physically, by you.” She felt, rather than saw, him lean closer, his presence like a stroke against the sensitive skin of her bared back. “Yet, it’s your belief that we’ve created and fostered an unsafe environment.” It could have been a question; she didn’t think it was.
“The discussion,” she countered, turning to face him, to challenge him, “required escalation. When the culture and environment encourages men to treat women like property at some kind of meet-market to be hunted down, dominated, and owned, yes, I believe that to be unsafe and in dire need of an escalated response.”
She may not be in immediate danger, but someone needed to stand up for the eventual and continued safety of the many women who dealt with a society that too often and too readily dismissed their well-being for boys will be boys mentalities. The world needed a wake-up and Max was not afraid to step up to that call.
“You felt hunted down?”
“Yes.”
“You felt dominated?”
Max tilted her head and thought about how to answer that. “I felt many of the men attempted to dominate me,” she clarified, “yes.”
“These men acted without your consent?” he asked. “Talked to you, touched you, or otherwise treated you in a way that made you feel unsafe?”
Max pursed her lips and tried to recall exactly what had been said and done to cause the fight. She frowned. “There was an assumption that, as a woman alone, I was free game; that’s offensive.” She raised her chin, daring him to argue with her. “It seemed to imply to them that they could take more liberties since I didn’t belong to anyone.” She deserved respect as a person, not as someone else’s property.
“What kind of liberties?” This was beginning to sound like an interrogation. “Were you touched or approached in a way that made you uncomfortable?”
Max crossed her arms over her chest. “This line of questioning makes me uncomfortable.” Dissecting her experience was beginning to feel more like dismissing it.
He paused by a black leather couch that sat along the wall and looked at her. He took a seat on the couch’s arm. “I’m merely gathering facts.” His fingers played with the file in his hands, running along its edges and spine. “If someone violated the club’s policies on conduct or consent, let me assure you as a representative of Donovan’s, we want it noted and dealt with, just as much as you do. Our rules and guidelines exist for a reason.”
Max huffed. Fine. “It was less anything anyone did.” She took another deep breath. “It was more an uninvited and unwelcome atmosphere.”
“Atmosphere?”
“The way those men spoke to me.” She leaned against his desk. “It was incredibly sexual right from the start.”
“They were hitting on you?”
“Yes.” God, she hated that term. It was so violent in nature. As if the only way a man could express his interest was to attack a person with it. She gave a derisive snort. Maybe it was the perfect term; she’d felt hit over the head with their intentions.
“And, when you expressed your disinterest, what did they do?”
Max popped her hip and snorted. “They kept pushing.”
“You said no and they kept insisting?”
Max tilted her head one way and then the other. “I gave them the brush-off and they didn’t get the signal.”
“But you never actually said no?”
She gave him a sharp look. “The absence of a yes is a no.” Nothing—absolutely nothing—meant yes except yes.
He thought about it for a moment. Crossing his legs casually, he set the file on his lap and then nodded. “Agreed.”
Max took a surprised breath; she didn’t think he was the kind of man who conceded an argument often.
It was nice to know that, at least, he could do it well.
He took out his phone from his jacket pocket and made a note on it. “I’ll talk to Rand, and the other men if I can, as well as make sure a more complete yes means yes statement gets circulated among members. Enthusiastic consent is always an idea worth promoting.” He gave a decisive nod before shifting his weight and moving on. “And, in addition to this, you also felt owned?”
That question rankled. How did she answer that?
Do you belong to me?
She shook her head sharply at the memory and chose her words carefully. “I felt like the fantasy of ownership is not only accepted here, but fetishized and celebrated.”
“That’s part of the point of this place.” He stood up and began to pace again, the muffled sound of loafered feet shuffling over carpet. “This is a place where fantasies and fetishes can be explored, accepted, and, yes, celebrated with people who share them. Safely. Sanely. Consensually.”
Max rolled her eyes. Yes, she was very aware what this place was and the line they fed to news sources and op-ed blog pieces, trying to sell this place as a twist on the traditional social club. They might tie knots here, but this was hardly the Boy Scouts.
“ ‘The fantasy of ownership.’ ” She could practically hear the grin in his voice as he tapped the file’s spine against the palm of his hand. “I like that. It is a fantasy, Max, a break from reality. In a world where those fantasies don’t belong—not even for us—this becomes a safe space for them. And for us.”
“But is it a fantasy really worth protecting?” Max turned to face him when he walked out of her line of vision, intent or so it would seem to use the space like a stage actor, forcing her gaze to follow him. “The world needs equality. And retreating into the fantasy keeps it insidiously alive. We don’t need a break from reality; we need to break from the idea that anyone has—that anyone can have—dominion over another person.”
“You’re saying that no one should be allowed a fantasy life.”
“Of course not.” Sexual fantasy was her business. And, by the smartass tone in his voice, he knew it. “But there’s a world of difference between fantasizing about things and what you do.”
“So it’s a fine thing to think about,” he said, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “so long as you never act on it? Love the sinner, but not the sin, right?”
Max straightened indignantly at his insinuation that she was using the same argument homophobes used to justify their hate. She wasn’t a bigot. “That’s not what I said and you know it.”
“Give me another way to word it.” He lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Saying that this intrinsically has any bearing on one’s real life or out-of-scene beliefs must, by logical extension, assume that’s true of all forms of role play, like when playing video games or acting in a film. Or reading or writing a book for that matter. We know where reality starts and ends. In terms of sexual desire, it’s been proven time and time again that we, in the kink community, have a better grasp of it than most people.”
Max’s brow furrowed and she tapped her toe. “So exactly where does my file fit into all this?” He was holding her information hostage; did he honestly think his game didn’t have real-world consequences?
He shifted. Just a bit. His hand tightened on the file he was still holding. The small movement felt like a crack in his shields.
She smiled, curious as to how he would respond.
He cleared his throat. “The information gathered and kept through the petition process is for your protection as well as Donovan’s. Given what we do here, we have the right and duty to know who we’re letting in through our doors. It’s intended to reduce, and perhaps even prevent, the number of regrettable encounters among members.”
She didn’t really see why they needed to know her work schedule or her whole dating history for that, but she understood the intention. She even agreed with it. “Fine, that’s fair.” Or fair enough, anyway; places like these ought to play it more cautious.
“But I’m leaving now,” she told him sternly, so he couldn’t mistake the truth in her voice, “so you no longer need that information. I want that file.” And no one—definitely not this arrogantly amused man—was going to stop her. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine and held out her hand. “So,” she said, striding toward him on a mission, “if you would just hand it over.”
He turned abruptly and walked away from her. Rather dramatically, if you asked her.
But it was effective nonetheless. A tactic that could have felt like a retreat, but instead felt like a calculated execution of the power he wore as well as he did his expertly tailored suit. With his back turned, her gaze ran all over him. From his shoulders.
To his back.
His hips and legs.
And then up again.
His suit framed his form, emphasizing his strength and exuding power. It was cut impeccably, she noticed when he turned to face her again. Made with a master’s hand.
A businessman’s armor.
It made her feel small and feminine next to him, without her own familiar shields donned. She felt defenseless in almost weightless, amountless satin. Even the blue slash of his tie was a shocking assault as it lay silken against the crisp, stark black and white.
She took in all that fine fabric, soft but sure, as her fingers itched to stroke. She was suddenly swept with the overwhelming urge to tug that thin strip of sky-colored silk out from its jacketed trappings, to uncurl it from around his neck, and...
And what?
Max shook her head at the inane thoughts. No stranger to bondage, she’d dated a guy in college, Rob, who’d loved nothing more than to make love while tied up with his own ties. Max had always found the whole act—trussing Rob up while he panted and moaned, aping at escape—rather forced and more than a bit awkward.
Plus, Rob had had cheap ties, thrift store finds or hand-me-downs, that had been, as often as not, stained or fraying.
But this man, with his high-priced designs and hard-handed demands, was more likely to want to tie her up with the damned tie than anything.
And Max did not do that kind of thing.
While she’d been willing to tie up Rob—willing to bind him and slap on the handcuffs—no one ever tied her down. The enlightened, clean-cut, and well-maintained modern men she dated knew better than to even ask to do something as gender-coded and anti-feminist as that. On principle alone, she couldn’t even imagine allowing a man that much power over her.
Certainly not some arrogant, smug ass who barked commands as if she were his pet!
He looked at her without really meeting her gaze. “You petitioned for and were granted a guest membership pass.” He leaned back a bit to really study her.
Particularly, the signifying neon probationary bracelet wrapped around her wrist.
Then he lifted his tempting eyes to meet hers, stopping her with a stare. The searing intensity she saw there burned her through the icy blue.
She inhaled sharply.
My God, the look he gave her was positively molten.
She’d expected this man to be cold. Calculating. Remote.
But his blue eyes boiled with craving want and ruthless intent. Focused all on her, that intensity was shocking. Meeting his gaze, she felt as if she were seeing him. Really seeing him. She was glimpsing beneath the shell of outward civility to something savage that lay lustful inside him. It was a depth she didn’t think he let many others see.
It was one she didn’t think many would want to.
Where had it come from? For God’s sake, they were having a conversation—a fight—and he was turned on? Most of the men she knew would do just about anything to avoid arguing with her, but this guy looked eager for a fight.
For something more.
Suspiciously, she shuffled back. She had a feeling that feeding any hunger in him wasn’t wise. He didn’t seem like someone easily satisfied. No, she was sure, once he sank his teeth into something, he never let it go. She felt her heart race and took yet another tactical step back, trying to figure out this stranger’s motives.
She watched his gaze narrow on hers, his eyes sharpening while he took her in. A sinful storm roiled, aroused and alert, beneath the thick layer of ice in those blue depths. Like a flame, it begged to be touched and stoked. It lured with a light that promised the sweetest burn.
It was all the more tempting in contrast to the control that kept it contained. It was deceptively dangerous—that cage, that leash—for the wanton wild writhing within. It made it seem safe to poke and pet. To rile and tease the beast. Warily—and just a bit excitedly—she wondered what would happen if that control cracked.
Because she was fairly sure that, let free, hunger from this man could be cataclysmic. Could drown and devour. A woman would walk away different after being with him.
Max shivered.
His voice was low and still so steady; melodic really. “Which means you were told, on numerous occasions, exactly what our policies and guidelines are. Including but not limited to the fact that your information could and would be used for club purposes and that, as a probationary member, it was highly encouraged that you attend all events with an established member, like Kat or Peter Richards, until full membership is extended. To help avoid or resolve any misunderstandings or mixed signals. Like with Rand.”
Max’s jaw clenched at his words. So that was how he knew so much about her. Kat or Peter. She’d kill Kat for talking about her to this guy. “Since I’m never coming back, I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”
“Oh, you’ll be back.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” He cocked his head as if he were seeing something in her. “And soon too.”
“What makes you so sure?” she asked, prickled by his presumption.
“It’s all right here.” His long ponytail flicked behind him as he walked around his desk to sit in the large, leather office chair. He picked up her file before flipping idly through the pages. “You’re driven, successful, aggressive. You’re looking for someone—something—to match you. You thrive on challenge, but the men you’ve been with before either can’t handle you or bore you.
Max winced at the truth of his statement. A woman had to be driven to succeed today. She couldn’t play passive anymore. She had to fight and claw and take what she wanted, and Max was a woman who wanted a lot. Even if it meant long hours and last-minute dropped plans. Even if it meant being ruthlessly single-minded about her career, leaving little room in her life for much else. It wasn’t something many men—wasn’t something anyone—found terribly attractive in a woman for long.
But Max saw it as a virtue, not a flaw. If a man or anyone else wanted to be in her life, they’d better be worth making room for. And, he was right, she just hadn’t met many who were worth the effort. “And you think that’s you? Is that how you draw women in to your sordid, little club?”
He smirked. “Donovan’s doesn’t have to draw anyone in.” He set the file back on the desk. “There’s no shortage of people, many of whom look just like you, petitioning to get in.”
“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes, irked at the memory. “You guys are more like a country club than a kink club. I signed more contracts and jumped through more legal hoops for you than I did when I bought my condo and my car combined.” They’d scoured her social media accounts. Her work information. Hell, they’d even grilled her about her political leanings on several social topics like gender, race, and sexual orientation!
“Did you not enjoy my work? I’ve belonged to less exclusive clubs, those that didn’t think it necessary to do their due diligence. Considering our size and demographic, we find the extra legwork more than worth it. Besides,” he said with a grin, “I’d think a lover of language such as yourself would appreciate the complexity and subtlety involved in such contracts.”
She opened her mouth to snap off a snippy retort, before his words really registered. Her mouth shut so sharply her teeth clinked.
His work.
A lawyer.
Figured.
It would explain the unaccountable conceit and the inability to accept no for an answer. “So that’s how you know who I am.” She sneered. “Those petition contracts pretty much made my life an open book for you.”
He smirked with a brief, proud nod.
Freakin’ figured.
“Adding in the extra verification processes was a particularly brilliant addendum to the original contracts,” he commented off-handedly, “wouldn’t you say? I’m particularly proud of them.”
“Proud?” she spat at him. “It’s an invasion of privacy! You pretty much used your terms of agreement to cyber stalk me.” What kind of man could be proud of that?
“How so?” he asked. “Stalking is a non-consensual act—a non-consensual and completely reprehensible crime. Every one of our members—established and guest—reads and signs contracts explaining the rules to them, providing informed consent and adherence to those rules. You gave us your information.”
At her cynical snort, he arched a winged brow. “No one forced you to sign. In fact, as you said yourself, it’s difficult to even be extended an invitation, much less receive acceptance.” Ticking off his fingers, he said, “At least three references from existing, established members, an extensive background check, at least one interview—I was sorry not to be at yours—and then the contracts themselves.” Folding his hands, he aimed a vaguely mocking look at her. “You hardly walked into this club blind.”
Max clenched her jaw, unsure of what to say to that. Feeling thoroughly scolded, she straightened her spine, trying not to feel like a rebellious child. “Well, Mister…” she said, trying for a touch of her own famed cool professionalism. But then she shook her head, realizing that she still didn’t know his name.
Didn’t matter.
She coughed haughtily. “It’s been interesting meeting you, but I believe I’ll be on my way.” She held out her hand expectantly. “Now, if you’ll just hand over my file.”
“It’s not actually yours,” he pointed out.
She waved her hand insistently. “It has my information in it.”
“It’s about you,” he said. “That doesn’t make it yours. You gave us this information to use for club business when you signed those contracts.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t give you anything.”
“You’d be amazed what one can learn with a background check and a few interviews.” He tsked, shaking his head with feigned disappointment. “People sign away so much and never even know it. When they open a bank account. When they apply for school. When they post photos online. Every day, people are giving their money, their privacy, their rights away with a single sweep of a pen on an unread contract or terms of service.” He sighed deeply and gave a fatalistic shrug. “At least we tried to warn you, told you what it was you were agreeing to, let you know about the reference interviews and background checks ahead of time. We can hardly be blamed if you didn’t listen.”
Max fought the urge to stomp her feet and scream. “What could you possibly need with that information?” She couldn’t understand it. She was leaving and never coming back—she didn’t care what he thought he knew about her or her type—and that should render the information, that was questionably helpful in the first place, completely useless.
He shook his head and walked closer to her. “In general,” he said casually, “it’s helpful to keep information on past, current, and petitioning members. We also keep records on those who’ve petitioned but, for whatever reason, didn’t make it through the process. Just in case the information becomes relevant further down the road.”
Max tapped her toe impatiently. “Relevant how?”
He leaned on the desk next to her. “In case they choose to petition again or are connected in some way to someone who petitions in the future.” He studied her, his gaze calculated. “Or in case they become a problem for the club or any of its members.”
Max blinked blankly. “A problem?”
He shook his head. “We’ve had cases where past probationary or even past established members have threatened to out others, usually ex-partners, to gain leverage. Sometimes in divorce cases or child custody battles.” He frowned and his eyes hardened. “It’s too easy for the outside world to see what we do here as indefensible,” he said, a resigned edge slicing through his words. “We defend our own here. And I’ve found that the best way to diffuse such situations is by keeping thorough records.”
She’d bet. It was hard to blackmail someone who knew all your secrets too.
She understood that. It made perfect sense.
She just couldn’t accept it. “Look,” she said, trying to be reasonable, “I’m not going to out anybody or try to leverage anything. I just want to leave. So just give me my information and we can be finished here.”
“We’re not finished.” The coldly composed stranger pulled her from her thoughts as he pushed closer. “In general, I like to know things. In specific, I like knowing about you. I’d like to know more.”
She rolled her eyes. “You could just ask.” It tended to be easier that way; not to mention, come off less weird.
“Oh, I’ve asked around about you.”
See, weird. “You could ask me.”
He lifted a casual shoulder. “I’ll admit, we don’t usually go so in depth with people’s background checks as we did with you? Usually, we just look for red flags like criminal histories, abusive behavior, problems with drugs or money, and the like.”
She rolled her eyes. Yay, she was special. Wasn’t that just great. “Why do it with me then?”
“For years, you’ve been very vocally against this establishment and kink culture in general and you don’t think we might suspect ulterior motives? That we wouldn’t want to know exactly the type of person we’re dealing with? Given who you are and your connections in the publishing and media industries, you’re an exposure risk.”
Huh, well. Max gripped the desk’s edge and shifted a bit, frowning. She couldn’t really argue with that.
“Be honest, Max.” He leaned back a bit, leveling her with a serious look. “Would you have done differently?”
She wouldn’t have. They both knew that. But it still felt weird and invasive that he knew something as…intimate and integral to her as that. And that he knew it so well, was so sure of it, without really knowing her. Without her knowing him at all.
She huffed. “Then why let me in at all?”
He shrugged, his gaze softening and sharpening at the same time with a confusing awareness that she didn’t even want to know how to deal with. “I like knowing about you. And, as I've already said, I’d like to know more.”
Cute. “So ask me.”
He shook his head. “I find that people are much more honest about each other than they are about themselves.”
She snorted. “So you prefer gossip.”
“I prefer being prepared in advance, don’t you?” He tapped the file again. “Kat has some amusing stories about Googling the men you date.”
Max pursed her lips. She was going to kill Kat.
“Google has some interesting things to say about you.”
She snorted. Didn’t she know it? As one of the heads of the campaign for more ethical and empowering porn that had led to her partnership, in addition to finding new voices to better fit their new image, it’d been her responsibility to contact all the authors, sellers, and marketers who didn’t fit the company’s new aims and either work with them on alignment or execute out-clauses. She had quite the colorful internet reputation. Phrases like “a femi-nazi on a Crusade” had quickly become synonymous with her name. She took it to be the highest praise. Even so. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to believe everything you read on the internet?”
He let out a laugh. “Believe me, I don’t, but I do like to know what I’m getting into.” His face tipped down, his sly, slanted lips coming close to hers. “And I’m always willing to dig deeper.”
Whoa. Wait. “Excuse me?” She sputtered, quickly laying halting hands on his shoulders. There would be no getting into or deep digging here.
Even though her touch was barely restraining him—more of a warning than anything—he stilled instantly, not backing off but not pushing further either. “Why did you come here? To this,” he chuckled softly, “meet-market, as you called it?” He pivoted his head from one side to the other, invading her space without ever moving closer. “If not for this?”
Not liking his provoking proximity, she countered, “A woman should be able to go to a club—even one such as this—without it being assumed that she’s looking to get hit on, hooked up, or hijacked.” She pushed him back, putting some distance between them, a little surprised when he allowed it without force or fight.
“Your gender, Max,” he told her definitively, “has nothing to do with it.” He shrugged. “Or, at least, very little to do with it. I don’t know if I would go so far as to label Donovan’s a meet-market, but we are a social club where people are invited to meet, mingle, and play. Even under yes means yes rules, surely, it’s not inappropriate, in this setting, to ask the question.”
Max pursed her lips and gathered her thoughts. A harder task with him still standing so close. She stepped to the side for a little much-needed distance. “One,” she said, “we’re in your office at the moment, not the club. Different setting, different rules. And, two, I never actually heard the question. If one is going to argue that the clarity of answers is necessary, shouldn’t the question also need to be just as clear?”
He smiled and nodded in admiring concession. He stood straighter and, even though that put him a step further from her, she felt his presence pull on her. “I want to kiss you.”
Tsk, tsk. She fought to hide a small smile. He was leading the witness. “That wasn’t a question, counselor.”
His grin widened. “Do you want me to?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it?
And, frankly, it was one she was more than willing to put off. Unlike him, she didn’t feel prepared in the slightest for this encounter. “At the moment, what I want,” she said, standing up and walking away from the desk, “is my file. Now.”
“I’m not giving you this file.” He shook his head. “It’s not yours and I won’t give it to you.” Cocking his head to the side, he smiled and reached for the file again. “But,” he said gamely, “I’d be willing to make a trade for it.”
Yeah, she bet he would be. “I’m not having sex with you.” She scoffed. For a folder? He was deluded, if that’s what he thought.
His lips lifted into an amused half-smile. “As you said yourself, I haven’t actually asked you to.”
Oh. Right.
“I just wanted to be clear.” She felt relieved and, if she was honest, foolishly disappointed when he nodded. “What do you want then?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, tapping the file’s edge against his arm, effectively dangling it in her face. “Three requests—”
“Three?” she balked. “For a single file.”
“Or we could discuss more about John Jones,” he suggested, his tone baiting. “Or perhaps Nick Myers, the one before John.” He cracked open the file again. “A paralegal who refused to go down on you despite the fact that you had done so for him on several occasions—”
Fine!
“What are the three requests?” she interrupted, feeling her cheeks flush. She was going to burn that damned file! And then she’d shove the ashes down Kat’s big mouth!
“Nothing too difficult, I assure you.” He shut the file again. “I want you to have a drink with me—”
Nope. “I’m not drinking tonight.” She shook her head.
“Donovan’s has a wide selection of non-alcoholic—”
“I’m not drinking,” she repeated. “At all.”
For a moment, he just stared at her as if weighing his next move. “It’s a simple request.”
“I don’t feel comfortable with any request that puts my safety into issue,” she stated. “Pick another.”
“How does a drink with me put your safety at risk?”
“How do I know I won’t get slipped something?”
“The arrogance that assumes I would even want or need to drug you aside,” he argued, “your exception is unfounded. Donovan’s has never had a problem with date rape drugs or drugs of any kind. Meet-market or not, most of our members are, or are seeking to be long-standing members; beyond the morality of it, it behooves us to be good to each other. Large as we are, our community is still a relatively small and closely knit one. Word spreads fast and, if you want to continue to play in our circles, you’d better make sure that word on you is above reproach.” He laid his hand on the file again. “Besides, as we just discussed, we screen our clientèle carefully, which is why it’s never been an issue.”
Uh-huh, sure. “If you screen your clientèle so well,” she asked, “then how did Rand, the bar-brawler, get in?”
“Rand is,” the man said carefully, “aggressive in his desires, but I wouldn’t label him a brawler.”
“He was going to hit me.”
“But he didn’t,” he pointed out. “You, however, did strike him.”
“That’s different,” she argued. “He was going to hit a woman.”
He shrugged, his face drawn into a thoughtful expression. “Does that make a difference?” Max just stared at him in offended shock. “In a world that welcomes Dominants and submissives of any gender, I can’t afford such prejudices. Any attack made in anger is unacceptable, regardless of who made it.” He narrowed his eyes, looking down the fine sweep of his nose at her. “I’m surprised that a feminist such as yourself would believe otherwise.”
Max—feeling irritatingly ashamed for having indeed thought otherwise—couldn’t think of any way to argue away his logic. “Fine,” she answered snappishly. “Bottled water then. What else?”
He stood up from the desk before rolling the folder neatly and tucking it into his jacket’s inner pocket. “When we’ve finished with our drink, you will leave here and won’t come back without a proper escort.” He turned to exit the room. “Come.”
“Wait!” she shouted. He looked back expectantly. “If I do this, I want the file and I want to know your name.”
He flashed her a wicked grin. “You, Max Wells,” he said, his voice full of sensual satisfaction, “may call me Sir.”
READ CHAPTER FOU(fix)R
Available now as an eBook
WANT MORE?
No comments:
Post a Comment