It takes me a few days away from Dominick to process what happened. It’s not that I want to be away from him, just that he doesn’t contact me. I keep looking at the contract on my desk, but I don’t want to read it. I read over the first page, and my eyes bulge a bit at the price, but it’s within my means. I can afford it.

I just need to work.

The first business call I get is one of my new clients. A very difficult one. I recognize his deep, slow drawl right away.

“You told me I’d have my shipment by Tuesday,” he says, “And it’s Tuesday. I don’t see a shipment.”

I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, but I quickly pull up all my manifests to be sure. I know with difficult clients that it’s never a good idea to risk giving them something to get mad about.

“Maddie?” he says. “Hello? Are you busy painting your nails, or—”

“Just a moment, sir,” I say, my voice sickly sweet.

He sighs loudly.

I pull up his profile and the manifests, which confirms he’s wrong. “Mr. Humblebee, it says here that your shipment is scheduled to ship out today, not arrive today.”

“You told me it would arrive today, I know you said it!” he says, sounding irate.

I take in a deep breath. I open my email, search for his name, and find the email thread. “I’m looking at an email I sent to you last week, Mr. Humblebee, and I told you—in writing—that it would ship on Tuesday.”

He draws in quick breaths, then says, “Well, you should have been more clear, shouldn’t you have? We’re not all in the import and export business, and I don’t know all the lingo. Why would I even care when it’s shipped, I’m buying something, so I want to know when it arrives. When is it going to arrive, Maddie?”

I grind my teeth together. No apology for him being wrong all along and yelling at me as if he was right. Just immediately shifting blame and making new demands.

“Well,” I say, “Mr. Humblebee, your shipment went out from Shenzhen, and—”

“Shenzhen?” he yells. “Where the hell is that? Not in America, that’s for sure.”

“It’s in China,” I say. “Again, in our emails I see that we discussed at length that having your parts manufactured in the US was too costly, so you told me, in writing, that you’d go with China.”

“If I’d known it would take so long to ship,” he says, “Maybe I wouldn't have.”

“The shipment will arrive by Tuesday—”

“Next Tuesday?” He sounds almost like he’s hyperventilating now.

No, this Tuesday? The ship is going to go through a time vortex and arrive yesterday? What is his problem?

“Yes, Mr. Humblebee, just under a week from now it will arrive in Vancouver. From Vancouver I’d honestly expect that it can’t clear the port before the weekend, so it’s likely going to arrive at your place of business in two weeks.”

“Thanks for nothing,” he shouts, and hangs up on me.

I double check to make sure he’s already paid me. He has. He can deal with his two-week wait, but there’s no way he can get his money back from me. It’s signed and done.

Signed. That reminds me, and I look over at the damn contract. I open it up and flip through it. I see a bunch of very specific wording that I’d rather not think about, and I shudder a little bit, then close the contract once again.

I hesitate a few moments, pick it back up, and just sign the damn thing. The price is within my means, I know that Dominick is going to try to knock me up, and I know that he’s not going to be the father. Dominick knows whatever the rules are anyway, so it’s not like I’d break some rule that would make me have to pay a huge fine, or one that would send him away at the drop of a hat.

I stuff the signed papers into the folder, then slide the folder into my big oversized purse. I’ll keep it in there and give it to Dominick next time I see him. One more thing done and dealt with means less to stress out about.

The phone rings again, and I answer it with a cheery voice, happy to deal with anyone but Mr. Humblebee.

“Maddie,” the voice drawls.

God, again? Really?

“Yes, Mr. Humblebee?”

“Can the damn Chinese turn that boat around?”

“You want to cancel your order?” I ask. “You’d have to call the port in Vancouver and tell them not to put it through customs. Then they’d charge you a shipping and restocking fee.”

“You women and your fees,” he snaps. “Here’s what I’ll do. I don’t like working over the phone. I’m old-fashioned. I want to look you in the eye, Maddie, and shake your hand. How can I make a deal and work with you if I’ve never looked ya in the eye and shook your hand?”

I have his profile still open. He’s local. How unfortunate. I won’t have an excuse not to meet him. He’s bringing in just enough money that he’s worth putting up with. Just barely.

“Alright,” I say, “I’d enjoy meeting face-to-face, Mr. Humblebee. Where and when did you have in mind?”

“You come here. I don’t like driving.”

I try not to grind my teeth into the phone. “And when?”

“You aren’t already on the way?” he asks. “Get a move on.”

* * *

I drive up to what looks like a warehouse a kidnapping happens in. Okay not where a kidnapping happens, but where someone who is kidnapped is taken to.

Great. And I’m the idiot driving right up to it.

I don’t even see a sign or anything. It makes sense, because Mr. Humblebee is mostly acting as a middleman. He’s having components manufactured and shipped in bulk from China, and then he’s selling them piecemeal to customers. Considering how his rusted warehouse of a business looks, I can only assume he’s selling them online.

I pull up next to just two other cars and get a pretty bad feeling.

Without thinking, I get my phone out, open my messages to Dominick, and type out the address of Mr. Humblebee’s business.

Hey I’m here right now. Don’t come or anything... but if you don’t hear from me in two hours. Come get me.

I hit send. I know Dominick won’t be happy that I “gave him an order” but he’s the first person I thought of as a backup contact for “please don’t let me get kidnapped in this warehouse.” He can’t hold that against me, can he? I’ll explain to him later if he decides to get on my case about it.

There’s a trailer in front of the warehouse, and I walk up to it and ring the bell.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice chirps through the buzzer. The door unlocks, and I step inside.

I see a woman in her mid-40s sitting at a desk. She’s filing her nails, but she puts down the file to smile at me. “How can I help you, darling?”

“I’m... Mr. Humblebee told me to come see him?”

“Did he now,” she says, a devious smile filling her face. She pulls her glasses down her nose to look at me.

“Not like that,” I snap.

She laughs and hits a few keys on the keyboard. “Ah, sorry, he did let me know you were coming. I hadn’t noticed it. Silly me. Says you bamboozled him about the shipment date for his next order?”

I control my breathing. It’s not worth going off on the secretary who doesn’t even seem to know what’s going on beyond her nails.

“Did you let him know I’m here?” I ask.

“Well,” she said, “He told me he’ll be a bit late. He’s in the warehouse. No way to contact him when he’s in there.”

“He’ll be late?” I ask. “Are you sure? I just spoke to him fifteen minutes ago. He told me to come right away, I assumed he’d be ready for me.”

She laughs. “You don’t know Mr. Humblebee very well then, do you honey?”

“So you’re saying he’s late and unreliable?” I ask, anger flushing my cheeks.

“Oh, no,” she says. “He’s reliable. He will just get to you on his own time. He’s a busy man.”

“You realize I’m a busy woman, right?” I say, pressing my hands down onto her desk and looming over her. “Not just men can be busy. I think I’m going to leave.”

I turn on my heel, but the secretary clears her throat. “Ms. Morningside, if you really want to get him, you can just holler at him in the warehouse.”

“Great,” I say. “Will do.”

I stomp out of the trailer and go for my car. Then I look over at the warehouse and see one of the bay doors is open. Maybe I will holler at him, to tell him that he’s an asshole and that after this order is done, we’re through.

I step inside and see a bunch of tall shelves all packed full of machined parts. There’s a forklift sitting off the side, and there’s even a big sandblaster next to a giant vat where he must clean or anodize all the parts.

I feel a bit relieved to see all the legitimate equipment here. He has a real operation going with a secretary—even if she sucks. So he’s probably not going to kidnap me, he’s just going to totally waste my time.

“Mr. Humblebee!” I shout with my hands cupped over my mouth. “It’s me, Maddie Morningside. Your secretary told me to holler at you, so I’m hooting and hollering here!”

I wait, but there’s no immediate answer. Just when I’m ready to turn around, I hear, “Maddie, welcome. I’m back here.”

His voice echoes from behind the shelves.

“I just want to tell you that—”

He cuts me off. “Can you bring me the quarter-inch PVC pipe while you’re over there? One of the four-footers.”

“No,” I snap. “I cannot.”

I start to walk around the shelf, moving toward where his voice is.

“I’m not your secretary, or your errand girl, and I shouldn’t have come here to shake your damn hand. You ask me to come here right away, but you don’t even respect my time enough to be ready…”

I turn the corner and see his back. He’s tall. I’d expected a short, stocky, older man. Not a tall—

He turns around, and it’s not Mr. Humblebee. It’s Dominick.

He grins at me as steam nearly bursts out of my ears.

Dominick holds a small object up to his mouth, and then he says in Mr. Humblebee’s low, drawling voice—which I realize now is disguised by the machine in his hand, ”Hello, Madrigal.”

“Isn’t this a bit much?” I ask.

“It’s what you’re paying for,” Dominick says, no longer speaking into the machine.

“I’m paying to be jerked around by a fake customer, drawn into the warehouse, and—is your payment going to bounce on me?”

“No,” Dominick says, shaking his head. “The organization paid for it. It’s a business expense for me. One I deemed necessary.”

He’s walking toward me now. He’s wearing a tight, simple blue t-shirt and jeans. Also tight. I find my eyes drawn to his body, and I feel my anger bubbling, but I can’t look away from this gorgeous man.

“What is the necessity here?” I ask. “You get me angry as hell, worked up, and yelling at you in a warehouse?”

“Exactly,” Dominick says, and he grabs hold of my hand. “Now come with me.”

I pull against him, fighting, but he shoots me an admonishing look. “You’re not going to obey?”

I stop and relax myself. I look up at him and nod. “I’ll obey, but I can still be pissed off, can’t I?”

Without answering, he pulls me deeper into the warehouse.

We reach a large door, from which Dominick has to pull a huge metal deadbolt out of to open. It creaks and squeals as he pulls it.

“You know, when I saw this warehouse from outside, I told myself this is the kind of place people get kidnapped in—”

“You wouldn’t kidnap someone in here,” he says. “You’d bring them here after they’re kidnapped.”

“I... dammit, that’s what I meant—”

“Not what you said,” he says, pulling out a second deadbolt on the other side of the big door.

“Well anyway,” I continue, “It gave me a scary feeling, and now you’re pulling rusty deadbolts out of the kind of door you see in a horror movie.”

“I see, and you’re angry that I brought you here,” he says.

“You didn’t even bring me here, Mr. Humblebee, you made me drive out here.”

“Ah, that’s right.”

He pulls on the door handle. The big metal door creaks loudly, and then begins to slide open. Dominick’s muscles bulge as he pulls, but as the door gains momentum, he starts to let go and lets it coast open on its own.

“This way,” he says, gesturing for me to go first.

I look inside, and it’s pitch black.

I don’t want him to ask me about obeying again, but I do ask, “Was there anything in the contract saying you’re not allowed to kill me?”

He laughs. “You read it, you tell me.”

I didn’t read it, so I laugh nervously instead.

“Madrigal,” he says, “If I were going to kill you, which is very illegal, do you think I’d let a legally binding document stop me from doing it?”

I punch him in the torso. It just hurts my hand. “You say that to make me feel better?”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better,” he says. “I ordered you to go in. Now go in.”

He pushes at the small of my back, and I march obediently forward.

Then I hear the metal sliding again, and I look back in shock as I see the door closing. I thought it was pitch black inside, but I see the light from outside shrinking and closing down to a small sliver. That sliver finally disappears with a loud and deep thunk.

Now it’s pitch black.

I scream. “Dominick!”

“I’m here,” his voice says, cool and collected despite us stepping right into a horror movie.

I hear his footsteps, and then another sound of old metal moving. Followed by a crackle.

The lights turn on all at once, and I squint as the sudden brightness blinds me.

When I finally adjust and look around, I see a bunch of weird bondage stuff everywhere. On the walls, hanging from the ceiling, built into the floor and walls.

“Oh my God.”

“That’s what all the parts are for,” Dominick says. “The ones I ordered for the organization.”

“All this crazy sex stuff?” I ask, shocked that my wholesome business is shipping raw materials to a sex dungeon.

“This place can get wild at night,” he says, “Or so I heard. But for now it’s just us.”

I suddenly realize that I’m not just here on a sightseeing tour. All this “crazy BDSM stuff” isn’t something for me to gawk at like I’m in a museum. It’s all potential tools that Dominick could use on me.

He takes me by the hand and walks me toward what looks almost like a bunk bed. Instead of a top bunk, there’s just a wooden bar with metal rings. The wooden posts on the side have chains hanging off, and the bottom “mattress” looks more like something from a doctor’s office than from a Holiday Inn.

“Sit,” he says, his voice dark and impossible to ignore.

“Um,” I stammer. “You’re forgetting the sanitary paper?”

“It’s clean,” he says.

I sit down.

He gets right up in my face, so close I think he’s going to kiss me, but he instead reaches down—without breaking eye contact—below the bed. I hear something clatter, and he brings up a small metal object.

“Give me your hand,” he whispers.

I obey, and he holds my hand gently in his. He places what I realize is a metal cuff around my wrist. He pulls out a key and locks it, and then he holds up a second cuff. “Other hand.”

I give him the other hand without a fight, and he locks it shut. The cuff is smooth metal, and it’s long enough that it doesn’t dig uncomfortably into my wrists like a police handcuff would.

I hear metallic jangling as Dominick pulls on the chains attached to both ends of the bed.

He hooks the chains into little rings protruding out of my cuffs, then he steps back and looks me over.

I reach down and pull at the chain. “You realize I can unhook this chain, don’t you?”

He pulls on something out of my view, and I hear a horribly loud clattering, like raining metal.

The chains start to move, and as soon as I realize what’s happening, I feel the cuffs tug at my forearms. My arms are pulled up and outward, and when Dominick finally stops, each of my arms is jutting out and up at a forty-five degree angle. I pull a little bit, but there’s almost no slack. I just feel the cold metal of the cuff press against my skin.

“You’re completely under my power and control now,” Dominick says. “You still feel angry, don’t you?”

I nod.

“At me?” He asks.

I try to think it over, but I realize I’m not mad at him. He’s doing what he’s trained to. I’m paying him to mess with me like this, to keep me on edge, and to do whatever it takes to give me a baby.

“Are you mad at me, Madrigal?”

“No,” I say.

“At who then?”

I shake my head and mutter to myself.

“Who?”

“At Mr. Humblebee,” I say. “But that’s—”

“No,” he says. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I was looking for. You’re mad at someone who isn’t even there. You simply. Can’t. Let. Go.”

His voice sounds hypnotic like he’s telling me what I should think, but I realize he’s right. I can’t let go of my anger, even when it’s directed toward a man who doesn’t exist.

“I’ve had customers like him,” I say, trying desperately to justify it. “It’s not like you just made this up out of thin air. There are people out there like that and they get under my skin. I’m allowed to be mad at that if I want.”

“Yes,” Dominick says. “You can be mad, of course. But you’re projecting your anger onto whatever you can. You’re mad at a man who doesn’t exist, and rather than letting go of that anger or working through it, you just project onto others. Vague others, in this case.”

“So you’re like my shrink now?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I lie down instead of being chained up?”

“You’ll likely lie down soon enough,” he says, grinning, and then I see a flash of black in his hands. He moves toward me, and I feel cloth tightening over my hair and sliding down my face, and then I see nothing. The true pitch darkness is here.

“I’ve covered you with a shroud,” he says.

“A shroud?” I ask. “A regular blindfold isn’t dramatic enough for you?”

“I’m going to undress you,” he says. “We’re working on your anger today, which seems quite necessary at this point.”

I do feel the anger flowing, but he basically stuffed a potato bag over my head with no warning. I can’t see a thing, and—

And I smell him. His hands are pulling at the collar of my shirt. My lips part, and I realize with a sudden elation that he can’t see my mouth. I smile wide, knowing that he can’t see me at all. So maybe a shroud does have advantages over a regular blindfold. If I’m going to be blinded, I might as well get a little bit of extra privacy out of it.

I feel him pull at my top button, and I know it’s opening only from the cool feel of air hitting the top of my chest.

I hear the soft sound of his finger running slowly across the silky fabric of my shirt. I realize now just how quiet it is in this room. We’re in a sealed chamber. I can hear my own breathing louder than anything else.

I feel more cool air on my breasts as he pulls lower on my shirt. Soon he’s pulling the shirt away, but he stops with it just stretched out and open. I realize he can’t remove it without tearing it since my hands are cuffed and chained.

He touches the skin of my breasts, both at once, and I moan quietly. Does the shroud block sound too? No, if it did, I couldn't hear Dominick’s breathing the way I do.

Then I feel a warm wetness press against the soft skin of my neck. I tilt my head back for him, and he kisses slowly up my neck.

Soon he reaches the border of the shroud, and he stops. He whispers to me. “I wonder if you still look angry, Madrigal.”

Then he presses his lips back to my neck and works his way down. He kisses across the supple flesh of my breasts, and I feel him cup and squeeze my breast through my bra with one hand. He focuses his lips on the other breast, and I find myself desperately wanting him to tear the damn bra off.

Instead, he slips one finger down into it, and he pulls. “Your nipples are hard. Now, think about how angry you are at Mr. Humblebee, and all those customers like him.”

Some anger hits me, but I push it away. I don’t want to think of that now. I don’t care about it. But I should obey Dominick, shouldn’t I? Even if there’s no way for him to know if I obey or not, I still should obey. That’s what true obedience means.

So I think of Mr. Humblebee, who I realize is just Dominick. I think of other customers who have dismissed me because I’m a woman. Or because I’m young. They didn’t respect me for who I am. They wasted my time, they blamed me, they ignored their own faults.

The anger feels hot and fresh now, and—

And Dominique tears at my belt, and he pulls my jeans off so fast I can’t even think.

I let out a yelp, but the anger and surprise spikes my adrenaline. I pull myself toward him, but the chains catch and jangle. I twitch my muscles uselessly, and then I feel Dominick press against my panties.

“Anger makes you wet?” He asks.

I’m not just feeling anger right now, you idiot. I’m feeling a very confusing and frustrating jumble of emotions, and it’s not as simple as—

He presses harder and runs his finger along my mound and across my soaked panties.

I cry out, my body twitching and rattling the chains.

“I’ve brought your anger to the surface,” Dominick says. “Now I’ll tend to it.”

And without another word, he rips my panties down to my heels, and moments later I feel his lips press against the wetness of my pussy.

I try to lean back, to fall on my back and spread my legs wide for him, but the chains hold me upright.

“Grab the chains,” he grunts, “And pull yourself up.”

Is the sex dungeon a gym now?

“Pull,” he says, with fierce urgency.

I grab the chains and pull. My muscles bulge, but I’m not strong enough to lift my body off—

Dominick’s hands slide under my ass, and he lifts me. I feel him slide underneath me, and his lips and tongue press right against my wetness.

I let go of the chains, and it lowers me down harder onto his mouth. I’m sitting on him, I realize. I press my knees down and straddle him, but I keep my hands tight around the chains.

I realize that Dominick could easily have lifted me up, but he wanted me to use the chains. I can’t get more slack by moving down, but if I pull on the chains I can give myself more room to move up.

I tug on them as his tongue finds my clit, and it gives me some extra room to buck my hips. I slide my pussy all over his tongue, and I moan loudly as he presses into me in just the right spot.

I can hear how muffled my own moans are, but the shroud does nothing to hide how intense they are. Whenever I thought of obeying Dominick, or him dominating me, having him go down on me was not the first thought that sprang to my mind. The way he fingered my asshole last time was more in line with my expectations. Still, I’m pleasantly surprised.

He moves his tongue expertly up and down my wetness, and he teases my clit just right. He builds the orgasm up the way an expert sculptor would form a piece of clay. He doesn’t go in too hard or press too much, he touches my clit just enough to make me long for more, and he never gives me quite enough to push me over the edge.

He’s already clearly established that I’m not to beg him, so to bridge that gap between what he is giving me and what I need, I have to use the chains.

I pull on them, and I give myself just enough slack to raise up an inch or so. Dominick moves up to meet me, and I hold myself there. My muscles tremble and burn as I hold my body weight up. It burns hard in my back and shoulders, but I don’t let go.

Dominick’s tongue presses into my clit, and it feels so good that a gasp escapes my throat. Electricity surges through me, and just when I sense he’s about to pull away from me once again, I let go of the chains.

As he pulls away, I fall down onto him, and I hear him laugh as his tongue presses hard against me. I get what I want, and he doesn’t let off my clit this time. The electric feeling goes further out from between my legs. It flows out from my core and makes my whole body buzz and sing.

And he goes on like that, making me work for my pleasure, until I finally feel an intense pressure building up and beginning to release.

“I’m going to cum,” I whimper, praying that will mean he finishes me off without me having to pull myself up and down as an orgasm rocks across my body.

Then I feel him pull away. Completely. He disappears from beneath me, and I reach out and touch thin air.

“You’re not going to cum yet,” he says, his voice condescending and snarky.

“No,” I whimper, and when I try to reach down and touch myself, the chains stop me from getting anywhere near. I can’t even touch my nipples.

“Think again about how angry you are with Mr. Humblebee—”

“Fuck Mr. Humblebee!” I spit through the shroud. “I don’t care—”

“You sound angry,” Dominick says, his voice playful now.

I hiss through my teeth. “Dominick, I don’t care about him, I—”

“I’m going to help you cum, Madrigal,” he says. “But I want you to bring that anger back to the surface again. Hold onto it and don't let it go.”

Why would I want to think about my stupid idiot clients while I’m trying to have a mind-blowing orgasm—

“I can sense your hesitation,” he rasps. “Grab your anger, now.”

His voice is behind me now, and he slaps me, hard, on the ass.

I pull on the chains to brace against the pain, and it hoists me up once again. When I release, he’s beneath me again. His tongue presses against my clit, and my eyes roll back into my head.

I remember why this is happening in the first place. I remember that he knows what he’s doing. I’m to obey.

I channel the anger. I let it wash over me and consume me. As the anger burns through my body, Dominick’s tongue flicks across my clit. I hear him sucking up and licking my juices as they begin to flow more and more.

I let the anger burn sharper. It stops being about my idiot customers. It’s anger at myself for being infertile. Anger at myself for being so fucking difficult that no man will put up with me, anger that—

A switch goes off inside me. The anger is gone. The raw heat and intensity of my rage is all still there, but it’s been replaced entirely with—

Oh. God.

My inner walls clench up, and a fucking river flows out of me. I feel myself gush white-hot. I’ve never gushed before, but I am now, and Dominick is doing everything he can to drink it all up, I feel his tongue moving, and I hear him sucking it up.

But senses like hearing and sight are nothing to me now. The intense ecstasy exploding within me is all I can really feel now. Even the place where his tongue touches my clit is too external now. The pleasure from that has already been pulled inside me, and like a gasoline fire, it cannot be extinguished, it can only burn itself out.

My muscles pull and ache and tremble as I thrash against the chains. My hips thrash wildly, completely lost beyond my control.

I cum and I cum and I cum, and when I think it’s over, my body thrashes again, and a new wave blasts through my body.

I do finally collapse, as much as the chains will allow. I hang limp with my arms outstretched, like a butterfly whose wings have been pinned.

Dominick has moved from beneath me, and he’s behind me now. I feel his arms wrap around my body, so I lean back into him. His wide chest catches my weight, and I rest my head against his shoulder.

“Good girl, Madrigal,” he whispers. “You are my star student.”

“I thought I was your only student,” I whisper, my voice faint as a feather.

“You are,” he says, stroking my hair, “But the organization is going to be very pleased with your performance.”

“As long as you are pleased,” I say, desperately trying to bring this back to the two of us. No contracts. No organization.

He bites my ear, and presses his tongue against it. I pant as the afterglow intensifies.

“Anger can strengthen the block we are working so hard to remove. So this is what you will do with your anger from now on,” he says. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “I understand completely.”

Before he leaves the warehouse in his own car, I grab the contract out from my car and hand it to him. “I’m fully committed.”

* * *

The next day, after I’ve brushed my teeth—but not gotten dressed—I stumble down the stairs to make myself a coffee.

As I turn the corner of the stairs, I smell the unmistakable scent of coffee hit my nose. Did I somehow already start making it, but I was so tired that I forgot? Am I really that exhausted from my sex dungeon in a warehouse orgasm? Or—

I go down into the kitchen to see Dominick standing in my kitchen in a grey slacks, a white shirt, and a grey tie. His muscular frame really fills out the shirt, and his legs look—

Wait. What the hell is he doing in my kitchen? He didn’t stay the night—he’s never even been in my house—and I swear to God I locked the door.

“I got coffee brewing,” he says casually as he helps himself to my milk and granola.

“What... what are you doing in my kitchen?” I ask.

“Today I’m going to shadow you. Well, be your assistant—”

“I work alone,” I snap.

“Not today you don’t,” he says, opening drawer after drawer, poking his head in, and shutting each one. “Where are your spoons?”

“Dominick, how did you get in here?”

“You gave us full access when you signed the contract, remember?”

“Oh,” I mumble.

I need to remind myself to replace my app-enabled lock system with good old-fashioned dumb metal.

“Seriously, where are your spoons?”

I shake my head and turn around, pull out the drawer behind me, and give him a damn spoon.

“You want a cup?” he asks.

I look down and realize I’m wearing a sheer white t-shirt with nothing under it. My nipples are pointing out. Hard.

I can’t muster the effort to feel embarrassed. Not after everything this man has done to me. “Yes, Dominick, please pour me a cup. I’m going to go get dressed.”

He’s going to be my assistant today? What is the point of that? How is that going to help me? Is he going to surprise fuck me in the car or something? I really struggle to see this man outside of a sexual context, even though I do have a bunch of warm, fuzzy, and very confusing feelings about him.

I find myself going for my most revealing, but still acceptable for work, outfit. I put on a tight black skirt with stockings, and a white shirt that lets me leave a few buttons too many undone. I put on high heels that make my legs and ass look amazing, if I do say so myself.

I come back downstairs to my cup of coffee, and Dominick smiles up at me from the kitchen table. “Did you want granola too?”

He holds up an empty bowl, as if he’s been waiting for me to say yes.

I nod, and he jumps up and starts filling the bowl for me. “I added some of the raspberries you had in there to mine. I’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You’re very generous with my stuff.”

He laughs, and I find myself smiling wide like a dumb schoolgirl. Like this, I can almost imagine that we live together, or that we slept with each other—like normal people do—in my bed, and we just woke up together.

I sit down at the table with him, and I eat my granola and drink my coffee.

“What do we have on our plate today, boss?” he asks, winking at me.

“Can I voice a concern?” I ask, instead of answering his question.

“Go right ahead.”

“If you remember how I was very angry about men like Mr. Humblebee, ones who didn’t take me seriously.”

He gives me a shit-eating, dirty grin, which I try my best to ignore.

“Anyway,” I continue. “I’ve worked very hard to get my clients and customers to take me seriously. If you’re going to make me walk around with a vibrator, or if you’re going to suddenly force me into some crazy voyeuristic sex situation in front of a client, I—”

“I’m not going to,” he says. “The point of today is for me to observe you during a normal day. I want to pinpoint other aspects of your block. It’s a recon mission, no troops will be sent in to penetrate any tight choke points—”

“Got it,” I say. “Spare me the metaphors. Today is actually very important, Dominick,” I say. “I’m meeting with some of my manufacturers who are here from China. It’s much bigger than a typical day for me.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Lucky for you I speak Mandarin.”

“No you don’t,” I snap.

“Ni bu xiangxin ma? Ni zhen de tai—”

“Stop it!” I snap. “You can’t be for real. When the hell did you learn that between all your sex dungeon training and—”

“Let’s just say that my superiors have very high hopes for me. We are an international organization, after all.”

“Damnit,” I hiss. “I learned a few sentences I was going to try to impress them with. Now you’re going to upstage me, and you’re supposed to be my assistant.”

“Let’s hear it,” he says, draining the last of his coffee.

“Hear what?” I ask.

“What you memorized. Your Mandarin.”

My face turns red, and I suddenly don’t want to.

“It’s an order, Madrigal,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. I clear my throat and try really hard to remember all of the tones. “Wo. Hen…”

I see his face scrunch up like I’d just run my nails across a chalkboard. “Let me start over. Wo hen... hen gao xing ren shi—”

He holds up a hand. “Your pronunciation is terrible. I’m not saying this to be rude, but they literally will not understand you. It will show weakness more than anything else. Tactically, you’re better off making them struggle with English to talk to you, it gives you the upper hand.”

He’s talking about this meeting like it’s a battle. I like that.

“Then you can show off and break out your fluent Mandarin,” I say.

He shakes his head. “They’ll never guess I speak it. I’ll stay quiet and get intel for you. It’s pointless to show them my hand.”

“Oh,” I say. “That would be... very useful.”