Mark

She surprised me by coming up to the room when I summoned her. I was sure I'd have to go down and fetch her myself. And she wore the dress. The underwear too, most likely.

She's swaying slightly in her high heels now, unsure how to obey my command. Maybe unsure whether she should at all. But her dark eyes are lit up with a light all her own, and I know she wants to be here as much as I want her to be. Though maybe not for the same reasons.

She knows about what happened to Darlene, and she's here anyway, breathing hard in anticipation of me touching her.

She's game and we're gonna play. But I'll let her walk out when she's had enough. I owe her that much for the history we share. I just hope I can, once things start spiraling out of control. But that's a worry for another day.

"What are you waiting for?" I say. "Strip."

She blinks hard a few times in quick succession, her long eyelashes brushing her high cheekbones. Her fresh, natural, unspoiled beauty literally takes my breath away. I swear I could come just from watching her.

* * *

Nicole

I feel like someone's turned up the heat in this suite all the way up to unbearable. I want him to fall on me, rip my clothes off like he did in the bathroom of the restaurant. But instead he's just watching me, his chest moving as he takes long breaths. No other man has ever turned me on like this just by being. And I love it.

All sorts of storms are brewing in Mark's bright blue eyes, the air between us so charged I'm surprised not to hear thunder.

And there's only one way to break that tension.

But I've never stripped for a man before. I don't know how.

Yet there's no arguing with the set, dangerous look in his eyes. He wants me. And he wants me to offer myself up to him. Annoyance rises to the surface with that revelation, but it's swallowed up in the heat of the moment, by my need for him to touch me, take me, make me his. By my need to do exactly what he wants of me.

"Strip," he orders again.

His eyes widen as I slide the dress off my shoulders.

The gem lined black bra he sent me hides little. His eyes linger on my breasts then follow the dress as I slide it over my stomach, across my wide hips, revealing my thighs. I manage not to stumble as I step out of its confines.

He's on his feet in a flash, his fingers digging into my ass right before he rips the pantyhose I'm wearing along the back seam.

"You didn't wear all the pieces I sent," he growls at me and my stomach flips in something between fear and excitement, kind of like I’m riding a rollercoaster.

"It's too cold outside for a garter belt and stay-ups," I whisper.

"Apology not accepted," he says. "But you can still earn my forgiveness."

He's not joking, I can read that clearly in his set jaw, his hard, cold eyes. I can't believe how sorry I am for not wearing the garter belt, how embarrassed that I made the mistake.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing and lays me down on the bed.

He's still fully dressed and I'm in my underwear, vulnerable, on display for him, but the slightly scary feeling is exciting too. He reaches down and lifts my right leg by the ankle, tracing my calf with his fingers before sliding my stiletto off, then repeats the process with my right. I'm wound so tight I might snap at any moment if he doesn't start going faster.

He rips my tights all the way off. A predatory look crosses his eyes, as he wraps the ends of the nylons around his hands and pulls them taut. My stomach clenches, because he's a lion playing with his food and I'm dinner.

"It's time for you to really apologize."

He means to tie me up, I can read it clearly in his eyes. And with anyone else I'd say no, argue, storm out. But right now I'm growing even wetter at the thought.

"Move up on the bed," he orders, indicating the spot he wants me in with a nod. I do it. But the headboard is done in a cushy leather, and there's nothing to tie the nylons too. Disappointment, of all things, floods me. I have no idea who's commanding my mind, but it certainly isn't the Nicole I know. Yet I can't peel my eyes off his, and I can't wait for him to fuck me, while I'm tied up and defenseless.

He comes around the bed and extends his hand. I place mine in his and he ties my wrists together, then knots the end around the wall mounted reading lamp. I smile at him in what I see as an invitation, watch his eyes turn into something animal, insatiable. I'm prone on the bed, my arms raised above my head. The nylons dig into my flesh painfully, if I try to move.

But all that fades as he finally touches me, tracing a line from my collarbone right to the top of my panties, then up again.

I'm at his mercy, and I love it.

He loosens his tie and shrugs off his jacket, then lies down next to me, kissing the side of my neck. I shiver as his soft lips finally touch my hot skin.

"You're a very beautiful woman, Nicole," he whispers, and just the conviction in his voice melts something inside me that I didn't even know was frozen. I’m attractive, but I don't consider myself beautiful.

"Thank you," I say, since he seems to be waiting for an answer, sighing as he trails kisses down my neck, across my chest, finally finding my nipple. I shriek as he bites down on it. He grins at me and repeats the process on my other nipple. Both are tingling now, my whole body so ready for him, I can't even think.

He unclasps my bra, freeing my breasts, teasing, pinching my nipples, the soft flesh until I'm panting from the interplay of pleasure and pain.

"Please, Mark," I whisper.

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me," I tell him.

He shakes his head, pinching my nipple hard. "That's no way for a lady to talk."

But I'm no lady, and if he doesn't fuck me soon, I might just explode.

"Please," I repeat, and this time his hand slides lower, brushing across my soaked panties.

"You certainly are ready," he observes.

"I am."

He yanks my panties down, then runs his finger over my swollen clit. He's doing it slow, the caresses barely more firm than a breath. I buck my hips into his hand, wanting, needing him to go faster.

"Stay still," he orders, and I freeze.

He pushes one finger inside me, then adds another, working them in and out in a slow rhythm, each movement taking me higher. I relax, enjoying the moment, let him take control, because that's how he wants me, that's how I get what I want too. I know this instinctually, he doesn't need to say it.

My orgasm is building, and I'm just about to come when he pulls his fingers out completely. I let out an annoyed sound, which makes him grin menacingly.

"You may not come yet," he whispers, running his fingers across my lips. I stick my tongue out and lick, tasting myself on him, watching his eyes change yet again, darken, until I feel like I'm falling off a cliff.

He opens his pants, finally freeing his hard cock.

The next thing I feel is the blunt intrusion of his cock. He buries himself to the hilt in my pussy, driving all other thoughts from my mind as I come hard from just that first penetration.

But he's just getting started, his thrusts hard and deep, fast and growing faster. The nylons are digging into my wrists as I writhe under him trying, needing to hold onto something. Because the force of his thrusts are threatening to take me under, consume me. My orgasm builds again, pleasure crashing against me like a deluge of scorching waters.

I'm full to the brink, unable to go any higher, the pleasure he's giving me so intense it hurts. Then with a final thrust and a groan he buries himself inside me, my body milking him for every last bit.

He doesn't pull out, just sits back with his pulsing cock still buried deep inside me.

He reaches over and moves a strand of hair off my eyes, then cups my cheek, brushing his thumb across my lips.

He unties the nylons and kisses my hands. "Now you're forgiven."

His cock is rock hard again, and if this is the punishment, I'll transgress more often. Because I've never felt more beautiful, more wanted than I do in this moment.

* * *

His phone rings, an old style ringtone piercing through the hazy state I'm in. I don't know how long I've been laying here in his arms, fighting sleep because I want to enjoy the moment, this connection that's woven itself between us tonight.

He releases me and is up in a split second, which surprises me. I was sure he was fast asleep.

"What, right now?" he says after listening to the person on the other end for a few seconds. I sit up, pulling the blanket up to cover my bare breasts and stare at him. He's looking at me, but it's like he doesn't even see me, like I'm not really here.

"I'll be right there," he barks and hangs up.

His eyes finally focus on me. "You should go back to sleep."

"Are you leaving?" I ask.

He nods, looking around the room like he's searching for something. Then he walks into the bathroom and comes out holding a bundle of regular clothes. The parts of his tux are strewn around the bed.

He dresses quickly, pulling on a pair of slacks and a black sweater. It hugs his muscles perfectly, hiding them, yet leaving little to the imagination. I'd hoped to touch him more tonight, explore every hard nook and cranny of his body. But he's ignoring me again.

"Should I stay?" I blurt out, unsure why I'm even asking him to make choices for me. Of course I should leave.

"As you wish," he says, pulling on his boots.

"Is that how it's gonna be between us?" I shriek. "You fuck me and then leave me? Like I'm nothing more than…than air?"

He looks at me, a shocked, confused expression crossing his face. It turns into a sly, dangerous grin. "Air? That’s a very fitting description."

I'm gasping, trying to come up with something to say, but failing. What's he even saying? Why do I even care? This is just more games. He's already at the door, his coat draped over his arm.

"I want you to stay," he assures me. "But if you don't, I will find you."

"Yeah, I won't hold my breath." But I say it to the already closed door. I'm on my feet, ready to run after him, tell him to shove his promises. But I don't.

I could stay, wait for him. But that's all I've been doing since Christmas.

Still, it's an easy choice to make. I can wait a little longer.

I wander over to the closet, looking for something of his to wear before I get back into bed. But the closet is empty. I turn around, scanning the room.

Everything except the bed is exactly like the maid would leave it after cleaning up. The discarded tux is the only thing of his in the whole room. He only rented this suite for sex with me. Sure, I could stay, but he won't be coming back. Someone from reception will probably come to kick me out in the morning.

The nerve.

Why can't I just stay away from him? I've managed to just fine for the past twelve years. Then a couple of presents, and some hot sex, and I become some weak female totally dependent on a man's every whim.

I stride over to the bed, yanking my nylons off the lamp. I rip them worse than they already were, but I don't care. I hate the idea of wearing the dress he bought me, so much so, I can't stomach actually putting it on. But then I'd have to walk out of this room naked, ride the cab home that way, and that's not really an option.

So I swallow my pride and get dressed, cinching the belt of my coat so tight over the dress it hurts. This is the last time Mark is making a fool of me. The absolute last time. I'm not playing his games anymore, and this dress is going back first thing tomorrow morning.

* * *

I yank open the door, but instead of out, I take a step back into the room, as Mark's secretary appears before me.

"Are you leaving, Ms. West?" he asks and I'd love to smack that knowing grin from his lips. He knows exactly what Mark and I did tonight. Hell, Mark probably told him.

"Yes, I am," I huff instead and squeeze past him.

He catches up to me at the elevator. "I'll escort you home."

"You'll do no such thing," I snap, pressing the elevator button over and over like it's done me some wrong.

"Mr. Cross' orders. I'm to see you safely home." There's a hint of an accent in his voice like he's foreign. French maybe.

"I don't follow his orders." That's a lie, and my stomach floods with warmth at the ease with which I stripped for him, how I obediently let him tie me up, use me. But I'm not that woman. Not really.

"All the same. I have to follow them," the man replies as the elevator arrives. He holds the doors open for me. "After you."

This is so infuriating. First Mark tells me to wait, having no intention of coming back. Then he has his secretary take me home.

"I'm perfectly capable of making the journey home on my own," I tell him, imitating his business-like style.

He nods and doesn't say anything. His ignorance is making my blood boil. Or is it Mark's ignorance?

I no longer care enough to even try and figure that out. I'm going home. Alone.

"Do not follow me, or I'll scream rape," I hiss at him as I exit the elevator on the ground floor.

"You wouldn't," he chides, sounding exactly like Mark might.

"Watch me," I say loud enough for the receptionist to raise her head and look at us.

"Mr. Cross won't be pleased."

"Yeah, well, I'm done pleasing him." I can't believe I said that. So I pretend I didn't and rush out. Mostly because pleasing Mark has given me more pleasure than I want to admit, even to myself.

The secretary doesn't follow me outside, so I won that battle. But it's snowing hard, and I can hardly see more than a few feet in front of me. My legs feel like icicles in the space of taking two steps.

There's a line of cabs parked in front of the hotel, but I don't take one. This avenue is going the wrong way; I'll hail a taxi on the next one over. I've already splurged enough on the way here. In fact, I should be taking the subway, but in my tiny dress and ripped tights that's hardly an option. The cold air will at least clear my head, I hope.

I walk fast, but even so my teeth are chattering by the time I reach the first crossing. There are hardly any people around. Not surprising. Uptown residents don't walk places, and it is the middle of the night.

The snow is muffling all sound and the silence is eerie. A feeling of being followed rises out of nowhere as I'm walking down a dark street to reach the next avenue. It's stronger than any such fear I've ever had, real or imagined. I stop and turn halfway down the street, my heart in my throat, sure I'll see someone following me. But the street behind me is deserted, no one emerges through the curtain of snow.

Stupid, Nicole. I'm just jittery from Mark's behavior and the argument with his secretary.

I quicken my pace, wrapping the coat tighter around myself. The icy air is coming in through all the openings and I'm shaking now, not just shivering.

The feeling of being watched intensifies, and my stomach is in knots, I’m that sure someone is about to grab me. Just nerves, I assure myself. But I don't believe it. My instincts have always been spot on, and I always trust them.

I'm practically running now, cursing myself for taking this long walk just to save a few dollars. I spot a cab just as I come up on the next avenue, and actually yell out for it to stop, running the rest of the way to it.

"In a hurry, Miss?" the driver asks. "Where to?"

I mumble my address, because I'm shaking so hard.

"What's that?" the driver asks.

I repeat it more clearly. I look back, the feeling of being watched lessening as we drive off. No one rounds the corner after me, and soon the whole intersection is lost behind the falling snow. I probably imagined the whole thing. Like I need to be giving myself more problems than I already have.

What I need is a hot shower and then bed. And when Mark calls I won't pick up. I did my part. I warned him. Now he can go treat some other woman like she's his property to use and discard as he sees fit. I'm done.

* * *

Mark

If it was anyone else calling, I'd have told them to fuck off and stayed in the hotel room with Nicole. But Karlov is one of my old clients, the last of my old clients. He needs this money moved now, tonight, and then he'll disappear back to Russia, and I'll never see him again. I hope.

Maybe Nicole waited. Pierre was supposed to call me after he took her back to her place, and he hasn't yet, so there's that hope.

I wish Karlov would hurry his meaty fingers and get done signing everything.

"And this one also?" he asks in heavily accented English. But his French is even worse, and I don't speak much Russian.

"Yes, yes, sign all of them," I snap, checking my phone yet again.

"And after this, all will be transferred back to me?" he asks, his pen hanging over the last paper he has to sign.

"Yes, all the funds will be funneled back through your Siberian gas pipeline project, and then you can do what you want with it." I've explained this to him at least a thousand times. For one of Russia's biggest tycoons he's incredibly thick.

I'm glad to be getting out of this type of money laundering business, but Karlov and men like him got me where I am, helped me quadruple my money, and clean up my messes. I could quit now, live off of what I already earned for the rest of my life. But I love the rush power gives you, and I'm about to take on the richest criminals of them all as clients. The men of Wall Street. I'll be a billionaire ten times over when I'm done here.

Karlov finally signs the last document, then gets up with a groan only an old fat man can produce.

I extend my hand. "It was a pleasure doing business with you."

Instead of shaking my hand, he grabs it and pulls me into a bear hug. "Pleasure is all mine. Sorry you going legal."

I'm not sorry, and I can't wait to see the back of him.

Pierre walks into the office as the door is closing behind Karlov.

"Where is she?" I ask. "Did you take her home?"

He probably can't hear the disappointment in my voice, but it's there.

Pierre brushes the freshly signed documents off to the side of my desk and sits on the edge .

"No, she wouldn't have it. Took off by herself."

My anger rises in a whoosh, nearly choking me. "I told you to go with her."

"About that, Mark," Pierre says and stands up, probably sensing how close I am to punching him. "This secretary shit is seriously cramping my style. Especially, the managing your girlfriends part. Get someone else, and let me do my real job."

"This is your job, and you'll do it, or else." The only reason I'm not punching him is because I don't have any time to waste. I have to go see Nicole. Make sure she's alright.

"She took a cab, she's fine," Pierre yells after me as I storm out of the office.

"You better hope so!" Because if anything happened to Nicole, I'm killing him first.

* * *

Nicole

My apartment seems unearthly quiet when I'm done with the shower, and the feeling of being watched is back. There's a ball of nerves in the pit of my stomach like I'm about to take a really hard exam, or go to a job interview. But after the last few days, can I even still trust my feelings?

Mark's got me twisting and turning, until I don't even know how I feel. One minute I'm pissed at him, the next my heart's fluttering because I want to see him so much, want him to touch me, fuck me.

But this fear I have, it's more than that, and I can't even imagine going to bed and trying to sleep. Not when I feel like someone who's trying to kill me is standing right outside my door.

I sit on the couch in complete darkness, wrapping the blanket around myself. The hallway light is visible through the crack at the bottom of the door and I stare at it, certain I'll see someone walk by at any moment.

I freeze when a shadow passes across the light. I don't hear any footsteps, just see the dimming of the light. My heart's racing so hard, it's like an elastic band's snapping in my chest.

The shadow recedes just as my phone starts buzzing somewhere to my left. I reach for it, but it's Mark and I'm not answering his call. I need time to think.

Yet he did call.

A flood of warmth fills my chest at the fact that he kept his promise, erasing some of my panic. I wish he was here, then I wouldn't be so afraid.

But then he'd just leave again, and I'd be in the exact same place. So I let it ring. When it finally stops I notice he's called me five times already. Not surprising, since a moment later he's calling again.

What's with the sudden panic? He was just fine not returning my calls for the last month. I let it go to voicemail again. At least this new problem washed away some of my other fear. Yet I still feel like I'm being hunted.

The roar of an engine, followed by the screeching of tires fills my silent living room. A moment later the buzzer sounds. I'm shaking now, feeling like events are spiraling out of control, like this is the beginning of bad things unfolding.

I’m clutching the phone, already practicing for a 911 call.

I think I was followed. I'm home now, but I think someone's trying to make me open the door. I think someone wants to hurt me.

Mark's calling me again. I could just pick up, let him take care of me, tell him to come over right now.

Someone bangs on my door and I let out a strangled yell.

"Nicole!" Mark's voice echoes from the hall. "Are you home? Open the door!"

I’m halfway to the door, before I remember it might not be a good idea to let him in. What if he was the one following me?

But the feeling of being watched is fading fast now, like it did back when the cab took me away. And this is Mark, I've known him since we were children. He wouldn't hurt me.

"Thank God," he says as I open the door, then wraps me in the tightest hug. The last of my panic disappears like it never was.

"Are you alright?" he asks after he locks and bolts the door.

And maybe I should tell him how afraid I was that someone was following me, someone who meant me harm, but I feel so silly for it now that he's here, staring at me like he's ready to kill anyone standing between us.

"Yes, I'm fine," I assure him in a rather small voice.

"Why didn't you pick up when I called?" His eyes flash to the phone I'm still clutching, so all lying about how I didn't see his calls is out of the question.

"You left me alone in a hotel room you had no intention of returning to," I say instead.

"I had every intention of returning, time permitting," he says and lays his hands on my hips. I hoped he was going to hold me, so I sway a little as he just moves me and walks to the window to check the street outside. He's all purpose as he stands off to the side of the window, so no one outside can see him. It seems odd, but he's probably just checking to see if his car is alright. This isn't the best neighborhood. Or maybe he knows someone was following me?

"Time permitting?" I snap. "What's that supposed to mean? And what are you looking for now?"

He doesn't answer right away, just peers out the window some more, stoking my anger higher.

He finally strides over to me, resting his arms loosely around my shoulders. "You should live in a building with a doorman."

Now he wants to tell me how to live? But that's a fleeting thought. My wish to be independent is quickly getting eclipsed by the baser need to be protected. By him. The dark power he exudes is totally messing up my mind.

"How did you get in?" I ask, but I don't move away from him. I want him to touch me, kiss me, bend me over the couch and have his way with me.

"The downstairs door was open," he says, and my heart starts racing. There might have been someone in the building; maybe I didn't imagine it all.

"You alright?" he asks, pulling me closer.

I nod, unable to speak. But really I am, now that he's with me, and I don't need to be voicing my neurotic thoughts. And I don't have to fight him either. Because I want him.

He leans down and kisses me, gently at first, but then his tongue enters me, the kiss rising in pitch until I have no doubt he wants my complete and utter surrender. And I give it willingly as I let his tongue invade my mouth.

He grabs my ass and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his hips, my arms around his neck. His demanding kisses, his strong arms, take the last of my fear. I was imagining things. No one is after me. Except Mark, and I want him to find me. Always.

He deposits me on the bed then stands over me, before finally taking off his coat and removing his sweater. I wish I was still wearing the gem-lined bra and panties, but all I've got on are my comfy flannel pajamas.

His tattooed chest is heaving casting shadows on his chiseled abs. His nipples are hard, so inviting in the way they adorn the top of his perfectly developed pecs.

I reach up to touch him, something I've wanted to do for what seems like forever. He sighs as my fingers brush across his nipple, but he grabs my hand and twists it away.

"I told you to stay at the hotel," he says, his eyes gleaming.

"You said it was my choice," I counter.

"But I wanted you to stay."

And I'm getting the picture now. He wants me to obey him in all things. This is how it works with him, what he was trying to convey last night. And I want to obey. Which surprises me, but feels right at the same time.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asks, but there's more to it, things unspoken.

"Yes," I whisper. And what I'm actually agreeing to is much bigger, but I revel in jumping into this unknown abyss, where he commands and I obey. I've been on the edge of it this whole time, hanging on, trying not to fall, since he reappeared back in my life. But what for? I want to submit to him, have wanted to since the first time I saw him.

His eyes change color to a deeper blue, as he seems to read what I really mean.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

I pull his hand closer and kiss it. "Yes, Mark. Take me."

That's all he needs, it seems. He lets go of my hand and unbuttons my top, running his hands over my exposed breasts.

"Lie down," he commands hoarsely, and I obey without a second thought, raising my hips as he slides my pajama bottoms off.

I'm growing wet in sheer anticipation. I want him to tie me up again. Never, not even in my wildest fantasies did I imagine that would turn me on like this. But being helpless, completely under his control to do with as he liked brought a sense of calm, belonging, freedom like I've never known before.

Yet that's not what he's planning now as he lies down next to me, planting soft kisses down my neck. I sigh in contentment, but it turns into a shriek as he bites down on the base of my neck.

All my nerve endings are tingling by the time his bites and kisses reach my nipple. His hand is stroking my stomach, edging lower, down farther. I fight the urge to buck up into his hand, even though the need for him to touch me down there is maddening.

A sharp pain pierces me as he bites down on my nipple, but it's washed away a split second later by a wave of pleasure so thick it takes my breath away. He's tracing my clit, running his fingers in a slow lazy circle as he kisses my nipples better.

He pinches my clit, and I buck my pussy into his hand, because I need more. Need to come.

"Stay still," he commands, and I obey.

"Please," I whisper, and he grins at me, working one finger inside me.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes," I breathe.

He works another finger inside, then starts pumping them in and out, faster and faster.

"More?" he asks.

And I sigh another yes, unable to actually articulate a coherent word.

He adds a third finger, stretching me open, and works them in and out even faster, hitting my pleasure spot each time. I lose it, coming so hard I see stars. He doesn't stop though, keeps pumping, my pleasure rising to a feverish height. I lose my sight, can't breathe, all I can do is try and hold out against the intense fire threatening to consume me.

When I open my eyes, he's lying by my side holding me.

"Thank you," I whisper, not even knowing what compelled me. All I really know is that I want to do the same for him. Over and over again.

"You're welcome," he says grinning at me. "But if we keep doing this, there will be rules."

I nod, even though my mind is protesting. But it's very silent and very far off. I want him, any way he wants me.

"We will discuss it later though," he says and lets me go. I grip his arm, trying to stop him.

"I have some work to finish," he says, prying my hand away. "I'll call you when I'm done. My secretary will escort you anywhere you want to go in the meantime."

"I can get places on my own," I say, and I know I sound desperate and petulant.

"No more arguments about that, Nicole," he warns, picking up his sweater off the floor. "That's one of the rules. I want you to be safe and protected."

It doesn’t quite sit well with me; I’ve always done things on my own. But I can't really argue. Nor do I want to after the memory of feeling like someone was following me last night rushes to the surface. Maybe I should tell him. But then he'll just think I'm insane.

"OK," I say simply. He grins at me then leans over and kisses me. Hard and needy, yet gentle and sweet too. Just like he is. And I know, beyond a doubt, I'll never get enough of him.

* * *

When I wake up again, it's nearly four PM. I feel rested like I've slept for days and my first thought is Mark. But I have no missed calls from him, only about ten from my editor Sam, and even one from my co-worker Lucy.

Oh, shit. I have that repeat interview with Milton Harrison tomorrow morning and I haven’t prepped at all. I do need to speak to Sam. So I call him, even though I'd rather just call Mark, invite him over.

Sam picks up before the first ring even sounds. "Nicole, finally. How did it go last night?"

I was supposed to arrange an interview with Mark, but somehow I never got around to it. A smile plays on my lips at the reason for that, my mind drifting off to his hotel room, the nylons digging into my flesh as he took me, rough and hard.

Focus, Nicole.

"I spoke to him," I say. "I'm sure he'll grant an interview."

"He said so?"

"Well, no, not exactly," I answer evasively. "But I'm sure he will."

Sam sighs loudly. "What is happening to you lately?"

"Milton Harrison agreed to another interview," I tell him rather too defensively. But I'm so sick of being second-guessed at every turn. "Do I have your permission to revive that story?"

He stays silent for a few moments, likely because I've taken him off guard with this change of subject. He's the type of guy who can only really focus on one thing at a time.

"You pestered Milton for a second interview?" he asks, and now I'm the one sighing in annoyance.

"No, he called me back, said he was sorry for the way he acted and asked if we could reschedule."

"And did you?"

Who does he take me for?

"Yes, for tomorrow morning."

He laughs and I think I hear him smacking his desk. "Go for it then. Bring me something good."

"Do you have any suggestions?"

"Just what we discussed, but be nice to him, so he doesn't run out on you again," he says. "I know you can do it, kid. I've always known it."

"And Mark? I mean, Cross?" I ask, his last name foreign on my lips, but I don't want Sam to think we're as close as we are, else he'll say I'm not suited to write the article about Mark. And I do still have to help him bury it. A ball of fear forms in my stomach as I connect the tying me up last night with the escort found dead tied to a tree, but I chase it away.

"Talk to Lucy about what she has, and then we'll discuss it," Sam says, and it takes me a few moments to make sense of his words. "But Milton takes priority."

"OK," I mutter, suddenly feeling queasy. But Mark wouldn't hurt me. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He's rough around the edges, but his center is solid and good.

* * *

I don't want to call Lucy, because I did technically steal Mark's story from her, and I know how mad that would make any journalist. About as mad as it made me, the five times she did it to me, while she was pretending to be my friend. But I need to know more about Mark’s past. I should know it. Because the seed of fear just isn't going away, and even if it’s all fabrication, I need to let him know what he's facing.

"Glad you decided to return my call," Lucy says scathingly as she picks up. She's been cold and biting with me since I told her to fuck off, after I realized she was going through my computer and desk to find out what I'd been working on, so she could claim my leads as her own.

"Oh, don't act all hurt, Lucy," I snap. "You had it coming, and I can write any story on Mark Cross better than you. I mean, I know him, if nothing else."

"Do you?" she asks, chuckling. "Have you even done any research yet before you met him in his suite all dressed up like the slutty version of Cinderella?"

I ignore the insult, since how the hell does she know about me meeting Mark in his room? What else does she know? She must've followed me there.

"He wasn't at the party, so I went up to his room to talk to him," I lie.

"Sure you did," Lucy muses. "But your private life is none of my concern. I should warn you though, Mark Cross is not the school boy you used to know, I'll bet my life on it."

My heart’s racing, because she's probably right. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to trust him as you do. His ex-girlfriends would back me up, I'm sure. If they still could."

My mouth's working, but I can't get a sentence out.

"Do some research for yourself. Police reports would be a good place to start," Lucy says. "Then call me if you want to talk. But don't ever say I didn't warn you."

She hangs up before I can say anything else. The room's fuzzy all of a sudden, and my heart's beating so fast I'm afraid I'll faint.

I was sixteen when I saw Mark last and he has changed a lot. He was a tough guy then, sure, but he's taken that to a whole new level, and maybe I am naive thinking I know him still. Everything I've learned of him since he came back into my life, everything he's done, is telling me Lucy's right, that I shouldn't trust Mark. So why am I so eager to do it anyway?

* * *

After Lucy hangs up I just stand there, clutching the phone in one hand and my coffee cup in the other. It's like she burst some bubble in my mind with what she said, and now I'm the old Nicole again. The lonely, workaholic journalist with practically no social life. Not the Nicole craved by the hottest guy I've ever seen. Even last night is more like a hazy memory of a dream than something that actually happened to me.

And try as I might to hold onto the feeling of rightness, of belonging that Mark's touches and his attention brought out in me, I can't. Because it's all overshadowed by Lucy’s dark insinuations.

Would Mark be capable of murdering a woman?

His rages are a sight to see. And though never truly directed at me, I've seen him lash out at others, and it wasn't pretty. I saw him beat a guy from our high school bloody one time, not long before he was sent to that reform school for stealing a car, and I didn't see him again for twelve years.

And with his 6 foot 5 frame, wide chest and bulky arms, he's the type of guy I'd cross the street to avoid if he were a stranger walking my way. Just in case. He'd turn me on, sure, but bad boys are best avoided, no matter how hot they are. Because they're always trouble, even when they're playing nice. Right?

The logical part of my mind is answering yes, but my whole body is screaming no.

Mark's never directed his rage at me. I enjoy the rough sex, and I've always felt wanted by him, cared for, like I'm the only woman worth touching in the whole world. And I wish he'd call me already.

I finally release my death grip on the phone and turn on my laptop.

It's not something I want to do, but I should know what Lucy is talking about. Since I don't have remote access to all the databases I could search through at work, I'm stuck with just doing basic Internet queries.

My heart's in my throat as I'm waiting for the first article about the dead escort to load. I start scanning it, but the words are just a jumbled mess, not forming into coherent sentences in my mind. Because I'm that afraid I'll read something incriminating, something that will force me to give up Mark. And I don't want to do that.

I take a few deep breaths and start reading again from the top, going very slowly. I’m smiling by the time I'm done. Mark is only mentioned in passing, as someone she knew, not even as a client. So maybe there is nothing to worry about.

My phone starts vibrating as another article is loading, this one longer, more in depth, a commentary of sorts.

Mark's calling. I want to pick up. Yet I don't know if I should. And the decision is paralyzing me. The Nicole I used to be is warring with this new one, the one that wants Mark beyond reason. I don't date much, that's the problem. Any other woman would know exactly what to do right now.

The phone stops vibrating and a rock the size of a football seems to drop into my stomach. I do know my answer! I can't just ignore him. I need him, his kisses, his touches, his body entwined with my own.

I call him back right away without another thought.

He's reserved as he greets me back, like he knows exactly what I was thinking. I want to assure him it's not so, that I had no doubts, but thankfully I manage not to, since that would come across as way too desperate and neurotic.

"Get dressed," he tells me. "I'm picking you up in half an hour."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Dinner," he says. "Wear something nice."

The edge is still there in his voice, but I have no doubts left. He'll tell me himself about whatever happened in LA, in his own time. He deserves the chance to explain himself to me, without me first snooping around his past.

"I'll be ready."

* * *

The sexiest dress I own is the one he bought me, but maybe wearing the same thing two nights in a row is not a great idea. After going through my entire wardrobe twice, I finally settle on a black evening dress with a scooped neck. It's the second sexiest dress I own, and also the shortest. I only wish I could wear the matching panties and bra he bought me under it, but the panties are pretty much ruined, and I don't have another set to wear with the bra. The fabric it's made from is silky smooth, satin most likely, and all my underwear looks dingy next to it. In the end I settle on a matching lacy number, and complete the ensemble with the garter belt and stay-ups he sent me.

The rational Nicole peeks in as I'm checking how I look in the mirror, reminding me that I've never put this much thought into an outfit. But I silence her, because I feel lighter than air right now, and I've never been this impatient waiting for a guy to come pick me up.

The buzzer sounds, and I only press it long enough to make sure it's Mark, then rush out the door.

He holds the door open for me, his eyes fixed on my body, but I can't read whether he likes what he sees. Yet his eyes are on fire, shining bright even in the gloom of the street, when they finally meet mine.

"You look amazing," he says and pulls me to him, planting a long, steady, hard kiss on my lips. I have no doubts he means it as his tongue invades my mouth, no doubts about him whatsoever.

He breaks the kiss much too soon, then ushers me to his car by placing his hand on my lower back. It's a shiny black sports car, maybe a Porsche or a Beemer, and certainly the most expensive car I've ever ridden in.

He drives fast, and if it was anyone else behind the wheel, I'd be worried, because the roads are icy. But he gives off such confidence, drives with such precision, I don’t even think of the risks.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

He grins at me. "It's a surprise."

I should be bringing up the interview, the story my boss wants me to write, but why kill the mood?

We're stopped at a red light, and he caresses my thigh, rolling up the edge of my dress with his thumb.

"You wore the stay-ups?" he asks appreciatively. "Good girl."

The warmth that floods me at his approval is already hot enough to consume me. Coupled with his caress, it’s maddening.

We're way downtown I realize suddenly, and all around us there are only what looks like abandoned warehouses. I know this area of the city has been cleaned up of crime and drugs in the last few years, but it's still not a place I'd want to wander around on my own at night. He pulls over at the curb in front of a large dark structure, and my heart is in my throat, my vision blurring fast.

"Are you scared?" he asks, but there's not much concern in his voice.

I shake my head. If I tried to speak, he'd hear the lie.

After he gets out of the car, I just sit there, my mind stuck in a frenzied, incoherent loop. The sense of danger, of someone following me returns in a rush and I'm suddenly just as scared as I was last night. But it disappears as he opens my door, extends his hand to help me climb out. As long as he's with me, I don't have to be scared. I think. But the aftertaste of fear lingers as he leads me towards the building, my heart hammering in my chest.

What if this is just an abandoned warehouse? What if he plans to murder me tonight?

The thoughts are coming on their own; I have no conscious control of them, or my racing heart.

A door I didn't even see opens, revealing a well-lit foyer inside.

"Welcome, Mr. Cross," the doorman says. He's wearing a typical doorman uniform complete with gold buttons and sashes, but he's built like a bouncer.

I relax a little as Mark directs me inside, and slides my coat off my shoulders.

"What did you expect?" he asks wryly, handing my coat to a gorgeous lady that appeared out of nowhere. She deposits it on a rack by the door.

"Not this," I admit as we walk further inside through a set of heavy black drapes. This really is a restaurant, done up in plush blue and black velvet, and very sparsely lit.

We're led to a table at the far side of the vast room, and it takes my eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness. When they finally do I realize two things. I'm way overdressed, and this is not like any other restaurant I've ever been to.

If some of the patrons weren't actually eating I'd be sure they don't even serve food here. Or that the women are the food. They're in all shapes and sizes, all of them, including the waitresses, scantily clad, wearing dresses that barely cover their bodies. At one of the tables, a gorgeous woman with thick auburn hair, wearing only a negligee and a collar is kneeling beside a man. Every so often, he feeds her scraps off his plate. And she's not the only one in such a bizarre position. Only it's not just odd, it's also exciting.

I want to ask him what this place is once we're finally seated, but I think I know. It's a sex club. A BDSM club. And I'm not sure how I feel about being here. There are knots and butterflies in my stomach and only some of them are from the strangeness of this place. The rest are from me wanting to experience this for myself. With Mark.

"You have questions?" he asks, but it's more of a statement.

"Yes," I answer though, honestly, I don't even know what I want to ask.

"You said you wanted to be a part of my life," he says, moving his hands to encompass the room. "This place and what goes on here is a large part of my life. I wanted you to see, before you made your final decision."

I do want to know more. I've only ever read about places like this. But that's not what bothers me right now. It's the nonchalant way he's suggesting he'll just replace me with someone else, if I say I don't like it. The fact that I think I might is not even factoring in right now.

"And if I change my mind?" I say, before even following my train of thought to the end.

He's staring at me, his eyes bright again, like vast fires are burning inside him. But he's not saying anything. And I can almost see something warring inside him. I'd like to think it's his need to be with me against his need to have this.

"We have to talk," I add.

"Most likely," he says, but we're interrupted by a waitress bringing the menus.

He waves them away, and orders something French for both of us, along with a bottle of wine. I can't wait to have the drink in my hand. Though my heart's still jumping in my chest and I don't think wine will be enough to calm it.

Because if I am to start something with Mark, I need answers first, assurances that I can really trust him.

"So talk," he says.

"My editor wants me to do a piece on you, like I already told you," I start, not able to quite focus, but needing to get these things out. "And the escort they found brutally murdered factors into the story prominently."

"Ask your questions directly, Nicole," he snaps. "These types of diplomatic walkabouts give me a headache."

He's struggling to control his temper, I can see it in the way his eyes are tight at the edges. Even minor annoyances used to lead to full blown rages in him, but he seems to have gotten better at controlling his anger in the intervening years.

"Did you have anything to do with the woman's death?" I ask point blank, surprising even myself.

"Do you think I did?" he answers, equally empathically.

"You did know her."

"Yes, but only professionally."

"You mean you hired her to do stuff like this with you?" I say, pointing at the room at large.

His eyes flash. "I don't like the way you're speaking about it, but yes."

I don't much like how I'm speaking about it either, because a huge part of me wants to try it too, but I know what I read about these practices. And I know what Lucy told me.

"Role playing games can sometimes get out of hand," I say more complacently.

"I would never hurt you," he says taking hold of my hand.

His touch sends sparks shooting all through me, but I'm still glad that the wine arrives at that exact moment, and he has to let go of my hand to taste it, approve it.

Approve me.

That's what's really bothering me. Because I'm pretty sure he never hurt that woman.

"You didn't answer my question," I say, taking a sip of my wine.

"I didn’t kill her, and this is the last I will speak of her," he says, the edge of finality in his voice sharp enough to cut. "But I do have needs, ones you may not be willing to fulfill."

Yes, I would!

But I don't say it, because that small thought can't hold a candle to the rage burning inside me now. He's not even really giving me a chance. He's completely ready and willing to just put me aside.

I slam my glass down, spilling wine all over the table. "Unfortunately, that's not good enough. I need answers."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. There's anger in his eyes, but something else too. Something hungry, predatory, and my insides melt at the sight. It's how I want to be looked at. Right before he grabs me, makes me submit. But no. This is too dangerous. Mark's too dangerous. And I don't even know myself when I'm with him.

I stand up, still unable to break eye contact with him. I wish he'd order me to sit back down, to stay, then I'd know what to do. As it is, my worst fear is coming true and I'm panicking. He can replace me in a heartbeat. And if I don't leave right now, I won't ever be able to replace him. I'll fall and hurt myself, and I'll never be whole again.

He doesn't stop me as I walk away from the table, yet I feel his gaze all along my back like a raging forest fire.

* * *

I get my coat and exit the restaurant. Then I'm standing in the freezing cold, on a dark sidewalk of a deserted street with no idea what just happened. I could go back inside, I want to. But my pride won't let me. Mark could've stopped me. But I'm replaceable.

I start walking, the click of my heels echoing in the eerie silence. I don't even hear cars, let alone see any. And the fear of being watched is back with a vengeance, so thick I'm having trouble breathing.

A man emerges from the shadows and I actually scream out, twisting my ankle painfully as I back away.

But I recognize him, it's Mark's secretary. Yet I'm still far from reassured.

"Come on, Ms. West, I'll take you home," he says.

"I'll find my own way," I mutter. But my ankle is burning and I don't think I can walk without limping.

"No arguments tonight, this is no place for a woman alone." His tone is calming.

"Fine," I say. I don't really have many choices, since I didn’t my phone, and there's no way I can walk all the way home.

I have no energy left to argue, to do anything really. Come what may, I really don't care, so I follow him to his car, and he lets me in the back like he's my driver.

Mark made plans in case I ran out of that club. He expected it. And he didn't even come after me. Because he doesn't really care. He can have any woman he wants. I'm not special to him. So it's all the same to him whether I'm there or not. Whether I'm anywhere.

All I needed was an assurance. A glimpse into his true motives. And he didn't even follow me out into the street. That's how not special I am to him.