Restraining the Receptionist: ...the Receptionist, Book 2 Page 6

  As always, Ethan surprised me. An array of items waited on his desk. A clean white washcloth perched on top of a folded towel. A bowl of scented water sat next to it. The outfit, far from being kinky, turned out to be a sleeveless cream sundress with an apricot-colored, vaguely flowery print. It looked like a Creamsicle. Demure and dainty, it ended just above the knees. I didn’t recognize the fabric, but it screamed money like a debutante on a shopping spree. It would look appropriate worn by an heiress flirting with a movie star over a Pym’s cup in a country club.

  I have to admit, it made me melt. All the bad feelings that had been weighing me down lifted away. If Ethan thought I should wear a dress like that, I couldn’t be so shameful.

  “As soon as I saw that dress, I knew it was for you,” said Ethan behind me.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re beautiful. And you don’t always know it.”

  I blinked tears from my eyes. How embarrassing. I never cried.

  “You deserve nice things. A nice life.” He continued on his mission to make me lose it.

  “Stop.”

  He came closer behind me, then softly touched my waist. “Don’t cry, luv.”

  “I’m not,” I insisted.

  “Those tears on your cheeks say otherwise.”

  I turned on him. “Have you always been like this? Controlling everything and everyone?”

  “Whenever possible,” he answered lightly.

  “I’m not joking. You always have to be top dog. Dictate everything. That’s not normal. What is wrong with you?”

  “How can it be wrong if it feels so good?”

  Obviously he wasn’t going to take me seriously. “I’m not joking around. I’m very upset.”

  “I see that. Here. Take off your skirt and panties and sit on the desk.”

  Now? He wanted to have sex again, now? I shot him a rebellious look.

  “Just do it. Trust me.”

  I didn’t know if I could ever trust him, but I perched on the desk anyway and let him take my skirt off. I closed my eyes as he spread my thighs apart. A strong smell of sex rose into the air. Then came the scent of expensive soap and the gentle touch of the washcloth. I let Ethan dab me clean, then opened my eyes to watch him do the same to himself.

  “To answer your question,” he said in a preoccupied voice as he worked. “Yes, I like to be in control. No, I don’t always get to be in control. But don’t for a second think that because I grew up with the lash, that’s why I’m dominant. My father tried to control me as a child, but it never took. He sent me off to boarding school, as befitted my class. There they tried to bully me. I soon found the only way to survive was to have the upper hand. So I fought and kicked my way to number one. Number one came with some benefits that I fully enjoyed.

  “When I’ve got a naked woman in my presence, I know what she needs. I don’t think about the rules, or what’s proper. What’s acceptable. I don’t think about anything. I act. I play. I experience. It’s the only time I feel completely at ease, when I’m bending an aroused woman to my will and giving her what she’s afraid to admit she needs.”

  I held my breath during this speech. I’d never expected to get so much explanation from him. “Or man?”

  “Or man. Inside we’re all the same, I’ve discovered. Everyone wants to be taken away from the boundaries that separate us. Tell me, little fire dragon, what do you feel when I tie you up and bring you to orgasm?” He ran the wet washcloth across my inner thigh.

  “Free,” I admitted.

  “Free from what?”

  “I don’t know. Free from people’s judgments. From worry.”

  “I’d go further. When I tend to your body’s needs as if they were my own, you’re momentarily free from the illusion that you’re separate from me. You’re not. None of us are.” He took up the towel to pat me dry, handling me like a baby. When he was done, I felt clean and fresh.

  “I gotta say, Ethan, that sounds like a load of crap.”

  “Well, I did a lot of thinking in prison,” he answered with a laugh. “Now put on this lovely dress.” I stood up so he could remove my blouse and bra and pull the dress over my head. No underwear included. The fabric slid against my skin with delicious luxuriousness. I sighed, suddenly feeling like a pampered princess.

  “Just as lovely as I predicted.” He turned me around with an admiring look in his blue eyes. “That’s why I had to do something about those walls you’d erected between us. Why I had to send Simon away.”

  “What?”

  “We couldn’t continue on with that artificial separation between us. It wouldn’t have been healthy for our relationship. Yours, mine and Simon’s.”

  “So you sent him on that trip on purpose?” My temperature rose.

  “On purpose? How else would I send him?”

  I pulled away from him, feeling the silky crisp fabric of the dress swish against my legs. I didn’t let it distract me from my outrage. “You know what I mean. On purpose to wear me down. Make me break the deal.”

  “Ah. Well, yes, that is precisely what I intended. Surely that wasn’t against the rules?” He gave me a mischievous wink.

  “This isn’t about the rules! This is about trust.” I took another step back.

  “That it is. You didn’t trust me before.”

  “And you think I will now?”

  “I hope you’ll trust me to know how far to go with you, yes.” With a frown, he scratched his jaw, which drew my eyes to his strong hands, the hands that had given me so much pleasure.

  “I don’t like being manipulated.”

  “I don’t like having to explain myself.” Thunder gathered on his face. Suddenly I had to get out of there. I longed to be with Simon. Sexy, sweet Simon who was always straight with me, who didn’t play unpredictable games.

  I ran from his office and snagged my purse off my desk. He followed me, moving fast.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t like to explain myself,” I shot back. But when I was out the door, I poked my head back in for just a second. “Call Chantalette. See if I care.”

  Even though I detested Chantalette, I was a professional who couldn’t leave my responsibilities untended.

  I hailed a cab to take me to the Greyhound bus station, struggling to recall the name of the hotel I’d booked for Simon in Atlantic City. I needed to be with him again. My mind was too full of Ethan. It threw me off-balance. And nothing would fix it other than the sight of my green-eyed god.

  I don’t know why, but Greyhound buses always get routed through the seediest, most rundown sections of town. I nestled into a seat by the window and watched the panorama of down-and-out flow past. Grubby kids played hopscotch on the sidewalk, pre-teens showed off their skinny legs in microskirts, gangs of small-time losers lounged on front stoops until their grandmother yelled at them to come in and clean up their damn mess. I knew the territory, I’d lived it my whole life.

  It occurred to me that Ethan might fire me. Or had I quit? Storming off the job is generally not recommended, even though I had suggested a replacement. He probably figured I’d quit. And maybe I had. So what? I could get another job. I’d worked at Cowell & Dirk for long enough to be able to put in on my resumé. And Simon would give me a good recommendation even if Ethan refused.

  For a moment I amused myself with what that recommendation might sound like. Highly skilled at taking calls while tied to a chair with a vibrator strapped to her clit. Experienced at performing oral sex during conference calls. Able to service two men simultaneously. Responds well to training and willing to assume new tasks as required, especially if they involve a dick up her ass.

  I snickered, and the bag lady in the next seat gave me a suspicious look. She wore three dirty sweaters, one over the other, each one some variation of blue.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking about something funny at my job.”

  She went back to clutching her newspaper and muttering to herself. Right there, smack on t
he page facing me, was an ad for the Trump Plaza in Atlantic City. Simon’s hotel.

  Talk about a sign from the universe.

  I relaxed, knowing I’d done the right thing. Ethan had pushed me too far. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to be Number One with me. With everyone. He didn’t want me to think of Simon first, to hold Simon dearer in my heart. He wanted to be the Big Kahuna of all he surveyed.

  I didn’t mind it in bed. Or at the office. But I ought to have some say over what went on in my heart. And my heart wanted Simon. Green-eyed, pirate-walking, scar-up-his-face Simon.

  I tried to conjure up an image of his face, but things inside my head had gotten a little blurry. Green eyes seemed to morph into ice blue without my consent. And when I tried to remember Simon’s voice, quiet and contained, Ethan’s gravelly one kept coming through. That’s why I needed to go to Atlantic City. I had to see Simon before his image got washed away like grime off a windshield.

  How had Ethan managed to dominate my thoughts in the short few days Simon had been gone? Did I have no loyalty, no faith? Was I so easily distracted? All it took was a picnic and some nipple clips?

  It wasn’t just that. Ethan had an absolute dominance about him that drew me in and set me up for the sucker punch—his vulnerability. I’d sensed it early on. But the longer I knew him, the more intimate I got with him, the more I understood the truth about his bossy side. It protected the hurt part of him. Those wounds that went so deep I’d probably never understand them.

  Was it so wrong of me to want to help him? Was it wrong of me to…love him, even a little?

  The questions added up. All I could do was throw myself on Simon’s mercy and hope he had the answers.

  Chapter Seven

  When I finally tracked Simon down in a cave-like bar on the Boardwalk, he wouldn’t have known the answer to “what are you drinking”. My sexy Simon was smashed. He had an array of shot glasses lined up in front of him like obedient little schoolgirls. Even with his black hair all mussed and his eyes bloodshot, he looked hot. His tie had wrapped itself around the wrist of the shady lady next to him. She was tugging him in for a kiss. To give him credit, he turned away before she could initiate mouth-to-mouth contact.

  “Excuse me,” I said, worming between them. “I’m this man’s…uh…” How could I explain our relationship? Then again, why did I have to? “…receptionist-slash-vengeful sex doll. Do you mind?”

  With a closer look at her, I realized she was about sixty, and not only that, had very likely not been born female. Her outrageous red curls, rough bone structure and hefty build made her look like a football player dressing up as Lucy for Halloween. No wonder they kept the lights so low and the liquor flowing.

  She looked like she wanted to put up a fight, but I gave her my own personal version of Blue Fury and turned my back to her.

  “Simon, let’s get out of here.” I tugged at his shirt sleeve. No suit jacket in sight.

  He mumbled something but didn’t fight me as I pulled him to his feet. He swayed and clutched at me. I pulled his arm over my shoulder and scanned the room, looking for a red exit sign. Aimless cocktail music floated around us, along with cigarette smoke mixed with perfume. Not nice perfume, but the kind meant to drown out the smell of degenerate late nights. Outside, no doubt the sun still shone, seeing as it wasn’t even seven yet, but inside, the atmosphere already felt like an all-night binge.

  Simon stumbled. I wouldn’t be able to get very far carrying an unconscious body.

  “Have you eaten?” I hadn’t eaten anything since that picnic, several hours and two orgasms ago.

  He shrugged. Surely they had food in this hellhole. I hauled him to a corner booth covered in torn pistachio-green vinyl and let him slump against me while I analyzed the menu. Many nights spent coaxing my father out of a drunk gave me an edge. Simon needed greasy fries and a burger. And some tomato juice. Call it Dana’s cure all.

  After a long swallow of tomato juice, he perked up a bit. As soon as he started downing the French fries, he became considerably more lucid. “What are you doing here, Dana? Ethan send you?”

  “No, Ethan didn’t send me.” I bristled, even though it was a perfectly logical conclusion for someone who didn’t know what I’d gone through in the past few hours. “I’m very angry with Ethan right now and I wanted to see you.”

  He frowned and eyed the burger.

  “No burger yet,” I ordered him. “Let the fries coat your stomach first. My theory is they neutralize the acid or something.”

  “What?”

  “Just trust me.”

  Apparently he did, as he stuffed another fry in his mouth. “Told you not to mess with Ethan,” he mumbled.

  “I didn’t. He messed with me. But I don’t want to talk about it yet. Why are you drunk?”

  “Why not? Feels good.”

  “It must feel better than it looks. You look like crap. Still hot, of course.” I had to be honest about that.

  “Dana, my fiery Dana. There’s no one like you.” He mooned at me. “If you’d been there, we could have pulled off the pitch, I bet.”

  “The Woodfield pitch?”

  “Bunch of dickheads. Nothing but questions questions questions. Knew most of it. Not all. So much for that.” He slugged his tomato juice, cursing it for its lack of alcoholic content. “If you’d been there, you could have fed me some answers. But no, Ethan had to keep you for himself. At least we had our deal.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, well…”

  “You broke the deal.” Simon suddenly didn’t look drunk any more.

  I shrank back into the disgusting vinyl, trying not to think about how many desperate characters had inhabited this booth. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “He always gets what he wants. Always.”

  “Not this time. I’ll quit if I have to. I feel terrible. I only want to be with you. I’ll quit, actually I may already have, and we can be together outside of Cowell and Dirk. We don’t need Ethan.”

  He didn’t answer, because he was too busy looking up at a group of four men who’d stopped by our booth.

  “Simon. Fancy seeing you here.” The leader of the group gave an empty smile, his glance slithering across me.

  “Hello, gentlemen.” Simon nodded at each in turn. I felt in my bones the effort it took for him to appear sober. “Top of the evening to you.”

  “Likewise. We’ve been discussing our meeting. Some of us seem to think we need to revisit a few issues.” The men still wore their business suits and actually looked fairly cute. Mid-thirties to early forties, at the oldest. I tried to dredge up a memory of what business the Woodfield Group was in and failed. For all I knew, they sold fields of wood.

  “Call me tomorrow. We’ll set up a time.”

  “Well, we were thinking maybe a looser atmosphere would help. If you want to stop by our suite at the Tropicana, we’re going to be doing Jagermeister shots until we can’t stand it. We’ve got some burgers on the way too.”

  It sounded dreadful, but I sensed Simon getting interested. If he went with them, would I have to go too?

  Simon whispered in my ear. “I should probably do this. Ethan’ll have my ass if I let this one slip away.” I didn’t comment on his unfortunate phrasing.

  “Go ahead, I don’t mind,” I told him.

  He rose to his feet, only swaying a tiny bit.

  The man in charge turned to me. “You’re more than welcome to join us, Miss…”

  “Arthur. Dana Arthur. I’m Cowell and Dirk’s receptionist.” I told him that to prove I wasn’t just a random girl hitting on sexy Simon, but I should have kept quiet.

  His gaze sharpened. “Even better. I’m sure you can help us through some of the hurdles we keep running into.”

  “No,” said Simon, sharply. “She’s not at work right now. She’s on vacation. She quit.”

  “I didn’t quit. Well, maybe I did. Or will. Anyway, I can attend the meeting if you want.”

  “I don’t want.”
Simon set his jaw in that familiar stubborn way. But even though I was uncertain about my continued employment at Cowell & Dirk, I wanted him to stay employed. I didn’t want Ethan to be mad at him for losing the contract. If there was some way I could help, I wanted to do my part. I shoved aside his hand and stood up.

  “I’d love to join you all. Obviously, Simon’s the expert but if I can facilitate anything, I’m happy to do so.”

  The man, who looked to be part Arab or South American or something, gave me a broad smile and gestured for me to precede them out of the bar. They crowded after me. I distinctly felt four sets of eyes on the back of my apricot Creamsicle sundress. Simon stayed close to me.

  “Don’t trust these guys,” he hissed in my ear. “They’ve been pulling all kinds of crap on me. And I don’t like the way they’re looking at you. What’s with this dress, anyway?”

  He looked at me as if he’d just noticed I was dressed like a lost little debutante.

  “Ethan gave it to me.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “I don’t like it.”

  “Well, I’m not taking it off now.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Pleasure shivered through me. My own pirate Simon, acting like he was the boss of me, just the way I liked it. Maybe later I’d be able to coax him into bed back at the Trump Plaza.

  The Woodfield Group had a sweet conference-room-type suite at the Tropicana with a fully furnished rust-red living room, a messy kitchenette, and a huge bouquet of fake tiger lilies on the coffee table. It had a lived-in look, with a couple suit jackets tossed over the backs of chairs and a five-pound hand weight rolling around on the carpet.

  Soon I had a margarita in one hand and had kicked up my feet to listen in on the meeting. Boring stuff, if you asked me. I sipped my drink and flipped through someone’s Men’s Fitness and tuned out the talk about “termination protocol” and “management structure”. I was reading an article about the new craze in indoor rock climbing when the words started wandering in weird circles across the page. The word “equipment” separated itself into three words, with “quip” turning a back flip over “ment”, while “e” tagged along behind like a balloon on a string. I watched the words with fascination until they all faded away.