Mark

I'm nervous in a way I don't remember being before a meeting a woman for a date. Not since…but no, I won't think of her. All that's best left forgotten, buried deep in the past. I have a second chance with Nicole now. One I'll make the most of.

The club is only about a third full, and it still has that fresh air of anticipation, which will be gone as the night progresses and things get wilder. The patrons and staff are eyeing me with interest, since I'm new. Though some already know me by reputation, so there’s apprehension too. My dick's already half hard from just thinking about taking Nicole into the back rooms, showing her things she's only imagined until now.

Last night she was so willing, so vulnerable, so hot for me. But the feelings, the desires she woke in me are best left buried. Because they lead nowhere good. They lead to destruction.

I'll enjoy her, but I won't let her get that close again. And there's a lot to enjoy with Nicole. Her curvy, supple body is just the tip of the iceberg. There's also her wild, independent spirit, so tough to break, yet so sweet once it cracks. She's such a blank canvas too, from the manly way she dresses to the natural ease with which she follows orders and directions, so certain she can take anything coming her way. I've never met a woman quite like her, and I won't let her go again. And if she goes, this time we're going together.

It's almost nine. She'll be here soon.

* * *

Nicole

My heart is hammering in my throat as I enter the club. A hostess takes my coat, and then I'm led into the main room. The scene before me is just as odd as it was two nights ago, with collared, scantily clad women hovering around their men, or masters, I guess that’s the correct term. I stand out like a beacon in my long white dress. All the other women are wearing dark outfits—black, maroon, purple, and other colors of night.

I spot Mark sitting at a table near the wall. The air of dark power surrounds him like a storm cloud, and all the rest fades like it's just the two of us in the room. Self-conscious is the last thing I feel as his gaze literally swallows me up. I'd do anything for him, go anywhere with him, if he only looked at me like that all the time. And it's a frightening thought, makes my heart race even faster. Yet it's comforting too. Like I finally found what I've been searching for.

I've planned to ask him all sorts of things tonight. About his past, why he changed his name, about his secretary. Maybe even tell him about the story Lucy is writing on him. But all that is swallowed up in a haze of anticipation as he stands up, and draws out a chair for me to sit in. His lips graze my bare shoulder as I sit down, sending a current of electricity straight to my core.

None of that matters. I know it doesn't, and I don't need him to tell me so.

"I'm glad you decided to come," he says and waves the waitress over.

"I am too," I say, scanning the room.

The sexual energy surrounding me is thick and invasive, yet pleasant at the same time.

The waitress is approaching, her corset-clad perky breasts hardly moving as she walks. I'm ready to order a strong drink, something on the rocks, but she's not looking at me. She waits for Mark to order, and he does, getting me a sparkling water without even consulting me first.

I know annoyance is flashing from my eyes as I stare at him. Something dark and dangerous is shooting from his as he gazes back, but he's grinning.

"I want your head to be clear tonight," he says. And it makes sense, so I don't press the point.

"What happens tonight?" I ask instead, gazing around the room. I have some idea, but I haven't actually given it much concrete thought, too afraid I'd chicken out if I did.

"I'll show you what I need," he answers simply, yet there's a harsh undercurrent in his words.

I nod, my mouth suddenly very dry. I take a large gulp of water, the bubbles scratching my throat.

"Don't worry, we'll go slow," he assures me with a smile, his eyes softening.

He runs his fingers along my forearm, all the way to my palm. My apprehension flees before the soft pulses of excitement woken by his touch.

"Are you ready?" he asks, taking hold of my hand.

I am ready for him. So ready my breath is hitching in my throat. But whatever’s coming has to happen now, else I'll have too much time to change my mind.

I drink the rest of my water and smile at him. "Yes, I’m ready."

We get up, and I let him lead me across the restaurant floor by the hand. Heads turn as we pass, but the faces are mere blurs and my legs are jelly, so soft I don't know how I'm not stumbling.

My heart starts racing again as we reach the shiny black curtains in the back. He parts them to reveal a silver door, which reminds me of an industrial fridge door, or something straight out of the morgue. But I won't entertain that thought. I trust Mark. I love him, and I know him. He wouldn't hurt me.

The hallway on the other side of the door is lined by black velvet too, the only illumination coming from the evenly spaced lights along the floor. Something that sounds like a whip cracking reaches my ears, followed by a muffled scream. With every step I take I'm less sure about wanting to do this. Yet Mark's grip on my hand is firm and reassuring at the same time as he leads me down the hall.

Purple light spills from an open door in front of us. Mark stops when we reach it, and I peer inside, my heartbeat erratic.

A woman is suspended from the ceiling, her hands and feet bound with an intricate series of knots. A man wearing a black leather mask with only his eyes and mouth visible, is standing next to her, running a flogger along her back. I can't see her face, but she's perfectly still, and her back and legs are covered in angry red welts. Chairs are lined up around the bound woman, and a few spectators are sitting in them.

The man cracks the whip along the woman’s back, eliciting another muffled scream from her. It's only then that I notice the leather strap on the back of her head. She's gagged. And despite the strangeness and barbarity of this scene, I'm growing wet.

I'm just standing there, mesmerized, as the man in the mask runs the handle of the whip over the woman's pussy.

"Want to go in and watch?" Mark asks hoarsely.

The sound of his voice finally lets me tear my eyes away from the scene. I shake my head as the woman screams again.

He leads me onward, finally stopping in front of a closed black door. There's a knot of fear filling my stomach, but I'm also wet in anticipation. It's a maddening mix, fearing something and wanting it at the same time.

The room is lit with a soft bluish light, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust enough to see what's inside. A large X-shaped cross dominates the room, the kind errant slaves in the Roman Empire were tied to as punishment. The wall behind it is lined with various instruments, from whips, ropes, belts, clamps, to things I have no name for. A duvet is set against the far wall, covered by a fluffy white blanket. Somehow, that's the only thing that seems out of place in this room.

Mark's staring at me when I turn back to face him, his eyes shining even in the dim light. The duvet is not where we're going to do this. And I'm glad for it.

He strides over, pulls my head to him and kisses me, the soft touch of his lips melting away much of my lingering fear. His thumbs press into the sides of my neck and I gasp, the fear back. But it's only a momentary flash. He slides his hands behind my neck, unclasps my dress and brings it down to reveal my heaving breasts. He continues sliding it down over my hips until it's laying in a heap around my feet, and all that's left to do is for me to step out of it.

A matching set of translucent white lace underwear is all I'm wearing now.

"Go stand by the cross," he says, such command in his voice my legs obey on their own.

"Arms above your head," he barks, and I do it. The leather braces are rough against the back of my hands.

He walks over, never taking his eyes off me. The smell of his cologne envelops me as he reaches up to strap my hands to the arms of the cross. The straps are lined with felt on the inside, not hard and scratchy as I expected them to be. My toes barely reach the floor in this position even though I'm wearing heels. He bends down and slides my shoes off, then attaches each of my ankles to the remaining posts. I'm completely suspended now, only the straps holding me in an upright position. My sprained ankle aches, but it's a faraway sort of pain, and my heart's thumping so fast I'm sure the skin on my chest must be rising with it.

He stands a few feet away from me, just watching, the force of his gaze biting into me. My desire for him to touch me, strip me all the way, stands in stark opposition to the sense of helplessness and fear in a high stakes stand off, neither retreating before the other.

He kisses my neck as he pulls down my bra, the edges now digging painfully into the soft flesh of my breasts. He grabs them roughly just as his tongue invades my mouth, starts pinching and squeezing my nipples. I'm straining against the braces, because I need to touch myself so badly, need to touch him. His lips reach one of my aching nipples, his hot breath against it intensifying the pain even as it washes it away. I could come just from this, I suddenly realize as he pinches and pulls one while kissing the other. I moan loudly, a serious pang of need passing through my pussy.

He stops touching me abruptly and stands back, making me whimper in disappointment. He unzips his pants, pulling out his hard cock through the opening. I lick my lips, can't take my eyes off it.

He chuckles, then with a practiced motion, rotates the cross I'm suspended on. The sudden movement sends my stomach into my throat. He stops the cross so I'm suspended sideways, gravity pulling me down, making the restrains dig into my flesh, the pain in my ankle growing worse.

But I forget all that as he runs the head of his cock across my lips.

"Open," he commands, and I part my lips without a second thought.

He pushes the head in, and I open my mouth wider to accommodate him, but my teeth are still grazing his skin.

He slaps my aching, erect nipple. "Wider."

I obey, even as I gasp from the sudden sharp pain. He pushes his cock in, doesn't stop until he hits the back of my throat, taking my air. He pulls out a little, and then pushes in again, repeating the process. I love the taste of him as he fills my mouth, using me as I hang there helpless.

He pushes in again, doesn't stop at the blockage this time, makes me gag. Does it again and again, until I can hardly get a breath in between his thrusts. He pulls my nipple viciously and twists, pushes his cock in deeper into my throat as I scream. His hand is on the back of my head now, holding me in place, pushing it forward to meet his thrusts, until I have no control left.

So I release my desire to have control, let him use me as he will. It brings a sense of calmness I've only imagined so far.

With a long, determined thrust, he buries his cock deep in my throat. Hot semen flows out, coating my sore throat. I can't breathe, can't swallow fast enough, yet the pleasure I'm giving him is intoxicating.

He pulls out slowly, and I'm sorry for it. Tears are drying on my cheeks, but I'm not sad, far from it.

His gaze is intense as he spins me back upright and unties me, holding me up as he does so. My arms are tingling, my legs shaking once I'm finally standing on firm ground again.

He lifts me and carries me in his arms to the duvet, lays me down on the soft white blanket.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, and I nod, my throat growing sorer by the second.

He zips up his pants, and I actually sigh in disappointment. I'd hoped he'd make love to me now, soft and sweet, on this duvet. Instead he kneels beside me, his hand tracing a path down my stomach as he kisses my neck. He yanks my soaked panties down, and I buck my pussy into his hand once his fingers brush against my clit. He smacks me down there, hard, but even that pain is pleasure.

"Slow," he whispers into my ear.

I lay there unmoving, my whole body taut from the effort of doing so. He rewards me by stroking my needy clit. My breaths are coming in short jabs, turning into a whimper as he inserts two fingers into me, stretching me open.

He starts pumping them in and out, while rubbing my clit with his thumb at the same time. The pleasure keeps rising higher and higher, until all I know is the burning need for release. His movements get faster, more frenzied, and I can't keep from writhing as I come with a blinding intensity, aware of nothing but the pleasure he's giving me.

He keeps his fingers inside me until I settle down. Then he stands up abruptly and walks over to the cross to collect my dress.

I rise up on my elbows, the room fuzzy.

"Get dressed," he says handing me my dress.

A second ago, I thought everything was perfect, now the same ice as this morning is encasing him again, and I think I must have done something very wrong.

"What is it?" I ask, reaching for his hand. He lets me hold it for a second before snatching it away, not meeting my gaze.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask in a half whisper.

"No, you did everything right," he snaps and walks to the door. "Put the dress on. We're leaving."

And then I'm alone in the dark room, which is so much scarier without Mark in it.

* * *

Mark

She took everything in her stride. And she enjoyed it all, every last slap and command. I'd meant to start her off more slowly, with no restrains and no real pain. But she seemed so eager, so willing to try it all. Hell, if I brought over one of the whips, she'd probably just stick out her perfect round ass and smile at me.

When Nicole says she'll do a thing, she'll do it. All the way and with no holding back. I should've remembered that about her. Should've known this would be no different.

But this has to be different. I must stay in complete control, or else.

Yet all she has to do is smile at me, touch me, and it's enough for that control to crack.

But she doesn't know what she's playing with when she's with me. And I won’t let her find out. I'd give her up altogether, if I could. But that's not an option anymore, and never will be again.

* * *

Nicole

The hallway is deserted when I emerge from the room. All the doors are closed, and Mark's gone. He just ran out, and that disappointment hurts enough to bring tears to my eyes.

The sounds of whip cracks, moans and screams follow me as I walk down the hallway, fighting the urge to run.

I did what he wanted. Gave myself to him. Asked for nothing in return.

The connectedness I felt as I offered myself to him on that cross was real, palpable, and I knew he felt it too. But maybe I was wrong. Why did he just leave?

I close the last of the distance to the silver door at a jog, my ankle protesting. But I ignore the pain.

Once I reach the door I fling it open, seeing the room through a veil of tears. I want to keep running, but how deranged would that look?

A strong hand grips my arm as I clear the curtain. It's Mark. I recognize his cologne, because I can't actually see his face through my tears.

"Come on, let's go," he says and pulls me towards the exit. Doesn't even ask why I'm crying, or if I'm alright.

I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand, ashamed of them now. Though the pain that brought them is still very raw.

In the foyer, he holds my coat out for me, and I slide my arms into it, keeping my eyes on the ground.

"You shouldn't let it effect you like this," he tells me without an ounce of caring as he leads me through the door. The cold air freezes the traces of tears on my cheeks in an instant.

"You just left me in there," I complain, can't help it.

He whips around and grabs hold of my shoulders. Not roughly, but not gentle either. "We do this on my terms, Nicole. It's the only way."

I nod, the sheer conviction riding his words enough to make me agree, obey. What's happening to me? I want to argue. Tell him he hurt me. Make him say sorry. And I don't understand that either.

The town car that brought me here is parked in front of Mark's shiny black sports car. He pulls me to it, and opens the back door.

"Get in," he says, but this time I stand my ground, fight the urge to obey.

"Are you coming with me?" My voice is shrill from swallowed tears.

"The driver is taking you home," he tells me. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Come home with me," I plead and reach out to touch his cheek, but he anticipates the move, grabs my arm and stops me.

"Not tonight," he says through gritted teeth. And I realize it's not me he's fighting, it's something inside him. "Do as I say."

He's still holding onto my hand like maybe he's not decided yet. But I don't say anything more just look deep into his eyes, trying to read what he's hiding. But it's no use. It's like I'm looking at the surface of the sea from very high up.

"I will call you tomorrow," he repeats and averts his eyes, lets go of my hand and strides to his car.

I watch him get in, start the engine and speed off, and only then climb into the town car. But even after he's gone I can't shake the bone deep sadness, which I don't think is my own.

* * *

The haze of hurt has faded by the time I'm laying under the covers in my own bed, showered and wearing my comfy pajamas. Yet the sheer excitement of the last few days puts my aloneness now in stark perspective, and my chest clenches at every creak and hiss in my empty apartment.

But I like living alone, I enjoy the privacy.

Yet right now I'd much prefer lying naked in Mark's arms in his warm hotel room.

I pick up my phone off the nightstand then just stare at it, unsure what to do. Or rather, unsure whether I should do what I want to.

But my whole body is screaming Yes.

I had a great time tonight, Mark. I type, and then press send immediately before I can change my mind.

I know. His reply flashes onto the screen a split second later.

I'm holding my breath, waiting for more, but after two minutes go by I realize it's not coming.

Did you? I write.

Yes.

He's being so curt. Why?

Can I come over?

I can't believe I'm being this forward. But the need to be next to him is a physical ache.

Not tonight. I'll be in touch.

My heart sinks to somewhere below my stomach as I read those words. And I know he's not on his phone anymore, not waiting for my reply, but I text OK anyway, because I don't want him to think his answer is not perfectly fine with me, that I'll wait. It's not true, strictly speaking, but I don't want to turn him off with my neediness. I get like that in the beginning of relationships, want it all right away, and I know I've put off quite a few guys with it.

I keep clutching my phone though, still waiting for a reply. And even when it doesn't come a half an hour later, I'm still hoping it will.

* * *

The sun wakes me the next morning. I'm still clutching my phone, and it's 10 AM. I must have turned off the alarm without actually hearing it.

I jump out of bed, ignore the blood rushing to my head, and run to the closet. I have never been this late going to work since I started at the Wall Street Journal nearly three years ago. Sam must think I'm dead.

The unbidden, slightly horrifying thought wakes me up completely.

I won't think of Mark like that anymore. He's given me no cause to doubt him, and Lucy's warning is probably just stuff blown out of proportion. The story is what you make it. Sam taught me that too. It goes with his motto that a journalist must always be fair when reporting, because just about anything can be twisted into something it's not.

After some deliberation, I decide not to wear the whole pants suit Mark got me. Instead I just put on the trousers and couple them with a cowl neck lilac sweater. Since the sweater is loose and covers my ass, the outfit's not as sexy as it was yesterday. I like it better that way.

The driver is waiting for me by the car when I emerge from the building. I didn't call him, fully intent on taking the subway to work, which means he must have been waiting for me since at least seven AM. Even though it's uncharacteristically warm today for a January morning, he must be freezing.

"You didn't have to wait," I tell him as I walk up.

He holds open the back door for me. "It's my job."

I have no idea how to reply, so I don't, and just climb in. If Mark's still lending me his driver, it means he wants to see me again. After his curtness last night, I had my doubts despite him saying he'll call me. I've heard that from guys before, and a lot of them never called me again.

Once at work, I slip into the office like I'm supposed to be this late. A few heads turn in my direction, confused looks on their faces, but I ignore them. Sure, it's not like me to be late, but it's none of their business. I don't see Lucy anywhere.

"Tell me you have the article ready, Nicole," Sam yells across the room as I'm hanging up my coat.

Shit. I haven't touched it since he gave it back to me yesterday morning.

"You'll have it by tonight," I assure him and open my laptop, while digging in my bag for the loose pages with his corrections.

"I'll be waiting," he says and disappears back into his office.

I set my phone next to my computer, so one glance at it will tell me if someone called or messaged me, then sit down to work.

Only it's slow going, because I'm checking the phone for Mark's call every few seconds. I can't concentrate on the work, have no idea what I actually wanted to achieve with the story. It's all a blur. Especially Sam's scribbled corrections, which, for some reason, I can't decipher very well today.

But I know the reason.

My brain's all fuzzy, and the only thing clear is that I want Mark to call me. Only he's not doing it, and it's nearly lunchtime.

I've gotten no work done on the article. Nor have I started my column for this week.

Enough is enough.

I plunge the phone deep into my bag, and then kick the whole thing far under my desk.

Sure I want Mark to call. Yes, I want to be with him right now.

But I love my job too. And that's what I need to be focusing on right now.

After I make that decision it gets easier, and the next time I look up from my laptop, the sunshine from this morning is just a band of yellowish light against the darkness of night on the horizon.

I stretch and reach for my purse. My stomach clenches when I pull out my phone and see that Mark hasn't called at all.

But at least the article is done.

And I can't deny I'm disappointed, but I can ignore it.

"I just emailed it to you," I tell Sam through the open door to his office. We're the only ones still here.

He leans back in his chair and blinks at me a few times like he's not sure what I'm talking about.

"The article," I tell him, annoyance coloring my tone. But I'm mad at Mark, not Sam, so I add, "I incorporated most of your corrections into it," more complacently. I walk over to his office.

"Good, great," Sam says, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I'll read it tonight."

I suddenly realize how old he looks. "Maybe you should just go home and get some rest."

But I know he won't.

"I might," he says very quietly.

"You should, the paper will wait," I say, smiling at him, but it's not transferring to his face.

"Milly has cancer," he says so softly I'm not even sure I heard him. Milly's his wife of some forty-odd years. They were high-school sweethearts. She's a kind, bird-like lady who always bakes heaps of cookies for office parties. Kind of like my mom does at Christmas. My eyes sting, and I'm not far from bursting into tears.

"But they caught it on time, right?" I blurt out. "She'll be OK?"

He nods slowly, and opens my article, hitting the ‘print’ button. "We hope so."

The printer in the corner of his room bangs to life and starts spewing out a copy of my article.

"I'll have it for you tomorrow," he says, getting up to collect the pages.

And I know it's a dismissal, but I'm frozen in place. I want to comfort him some more, but I don't know how.

After a few seconds I finally regain my senses, say good night and leave. Mark not calling seems such a small thing in the grand scheme of things all of a sudden, and I really need to hear my mom’s voice.

* * *

I call Mom as I'm waiting for the elevator, but it just rings and rings. Then her voicemail message is cut short as I lose service in the elevator. I'll try again later, once I'm back home. Maybe even ask her advice on Mark. Or maybe not. She never liked him very much, and I can’t exactly give her any details about our relationship anyway.

I haven't called the driver like he instructed me to do, and I had hoped to just slip into the subway, and take the train home. But he's parked right in front of my building, and waves to me as I exit.

Maybe I could just pretend I didn't see him, but I don't. Though I will speak to Mark about this taxi service he's arranged for me. I'm fine traveling around on my own, and I enjoy it. It gives me the time to clear my head after a long day of working.

He holds open the door for me and I gasp as I bend down to climb inside. Mark's waiting for me, his tie loosened and an intense gleam in his eyes.

"This is a surprise," I say breathlessly and sit down next to him, trying hard to rein in the giddiness rising fast in my head.

"I thought we could have some dinner," he says, eying my outfit. "But it'll have to be somewhere out of the way."

I know he's referring to my oversized sweater and I don't appreciate it.

"Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?" I ask pointedly.

His lips curl up at the edges, and it's not a smile. "We'll discuss that later."

"The outfits you're picking for me are too revealing," I say anyway, since why wait?

He leans over and instructs the driver to take us to some sushi bar like I hadn't said a thing, then presses a button on the side of the cabin. A black screen rises up, hiding the driver from view. I know what's coming next, and I can't wait. I actually lick my lips in anticipation, my heart fluttering.

He lifts my head up by my chin and gazes into my eyes hard and deep, before leaning over and kissing me, hard, demanding, his tongue invading my mouth, forcing me to submit. This is all the after work relaxation I need.

I hear his zipper come undone as he yanks my head back by my hair, breaking the kiss.

"Suck my dick," he orders. But the driver is right there and I know he can hear everything.

He pushes my head down into his lap. I stiffen my neck, but not enough to stop him.

He runs his cock across my lips. "Open up."

"Not here," I manage, though the feel of his velvety skin on my lips is waking all sorts of desires in my body.

He yanks my head back, forces me to look at him. "Are you disobeying?"

"Your driver will hear us," I protest, avoiding his question. "And these windows aren't even all the way tinted."

My scalp's burning because he's gripping my hair so tight, but instead of angry it's making me even more aroused.

"Just do as I tell you. No need to worry about anything else," he says, a very intense and determined look in his eyes.

And I suddenly don't know why I'm fighting him on this. I want to suck his cock, want to please him.

So I lean my head back down, and lick the head, eliciting a sigh. I open my mouth, enveloping his cock with my lips slowly. But he's clearly not in the mood for slow. With a single hard thrust he pushes his cock in, making me gag, then pulls out and does it again. I know I'm grazing him with my teeth, even though I'm trying to keep my mouth open enough to accommodate him, but he doesn't seem to care. He's holding my head in place as he pumps his cock into me, and soon I'm no longer gagging. I feel him half way to my stomach with each thrust, and I love this possessive and harsh way he's using me. My pussy is tingling and so wet I'm sure it's seeped right through my pants.

He buries his cock deep in my throat, and I feel his warm semen flow, so thick and fast, I'm gagging, can't breathe. But he won't let me go, holds me in place as he spills the last of it down my throat. My hand shoots to my pussy, because I need to come too, right now.

He pulls out his cock and snatches my hand away. "You can't come yet."

"Is that an order?" I say defiantly, and rather hoarsely because my throat is raw.

"Yes."

"But I need to," I whine, not enjoying this little game, and hoping he'll relent.

A very dangerous look passes over his face as he zips up his pants. "Later you can come too. If you're good. But we're having dinner now."

I realize the car is stopped, for how long I have no idea.

He opens his door and I climb out after him, feeling very wobbly. It's hard to walk because my pussy is swollen and my whole body is still screaming for release. Is this how guys feel when they have to walk around with boners? I guess Mark doesn't have that problem right now.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder and leads me to the restaurant. Besides an older Japanese couple eating by the counter, the place is empty.

Mark takes me to a table at the back, and pulls out a chair for me. I sit and cross my legs tightly, trying to curb my arousal. But it's still burning right through me, just the sight of his face, his strong jaw, and bulging arms, enough to stoke it higher. I'm not even hungry. I just want to get out of here and finish what we started.

He scans the menu, then orders for both of us, as is his habit.

"I'd like a soup too," I say once he's done. "You know, for my sore throat."

He grins at that last, and something of the old Mark, the one I grew up with, flashes across his eyes. I missed that Mark, I suddenly realize. He was never an easygoing guy, and angry a lot of the time, but he was also very caring, and could sometimes be sweet. I haven't seen that side of him at all since he came back into my life.

"What kind?" he asks, and I just get the first thing that pops into my mind.

His eyes are back to the icy impermeableness of the Mark he is now. I'm glad for the reminder that the old Mark is still in there somewhere, that he's not gone for good. It gives me even more hope that Lucy's insinuations are just bullshit.

"From now on, I want you to wear sexier outfits," he says.

"And have guys staring at me all the time?" I snap. "No, thank you."

The dangerous look is back in his eyes. "Don't fight me on this, Nicole. It's one of my rules."

"You want other guys drooling over me?" I ask incredulously.

"You're a gorgeous woman, Nicole, and you should show that off," he says, and despite my annoyance, the compliment wakes pleasant butterflies in my stomach. "And I don't worry about other guys, because you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice hits me like a rock. He's not kidding, not even a little bit. But what's really surprising is that I don't mind.

"I don't own any sexy outfits," I tell him anyway.

"Then I'll take you shopping," he says, and leans back so the waiter can deposit the first plate of food onto the table. "Tomorrow."

My soup's arrived with the first dish too.

"I can buy my own clothes," I protest, since I know what he means.

"But you won't," he says and picks up a piece of sushi. "Eat your soup before it gets cold."

I reach for it without even thinking twice, that's how ready I am to obey him. It's madness, so I don't start eating right away.

The sushi he ordered is mostly the rice-less kind, and I don't like those very much.

I blow on the soup, then eat a spoonful, the hot liquid searing my bruised throat. But the heat does wash most of the pain away.

"Is this how it will be?" I ask. "You dressing me, driving me around, ordering food for me?"

"Do you really mind?" he asks, picking up another piece of sushi.

Do I? A part of me does, but another one, a larger one wants this adventure, wants to find the Mark I fell in love with all those years ago. Though the man sitting across from me now is also very enticing.

I shrug and eat more soup, ignoring the question.

But he's staring at me like he wants an answer, the piece of sushi hanging off his chopsticks.

I smile at him and drink the rest of the soup. "No, I don't really mind."

"Good," he says and holds out the piece of sushi to me. "Have some."

"Nigiri's not my favorite kind," I say.

And that dangerous gleam is back in his eyes. It always comes when I defy him, and it makes me want to do it more often. "Have some anyway."

I lean forward and open my mouth, watch his eyes narrow with desire as he places the piece of sushi into my mouth. I don't think we'll be eating much longer. We're about to leave and go finish what we started earlier. And it's totally worth chewing on this large piece of raw fish to get there faster.

* * *

A cold wind is gusting down the avenue as we exit the restaurant, but it does nothing to quench the desire still burning inside me.

I scoot into the car as soon as he opens the door, making room for him too. The driver doesn't need any telling where to go, like it's all been settled already. I hope it's his hotel room, but my place would work too.

"Ready to come?" he asks, taking me by surprise. I thought we were going home, that maybe we'd take another shower together. I've waited this long, I don't mind waiting until we're in bed.

He clearly has different ideas though, as he unzips his pants, pulling out his hard cock.

"Take off your clothes," he orders and I cast a glance at the screen separating us from the driver. I swear he's looking right at me through the rearview mirror, even though the screen is completely opaque.

"Do it, Nicole."

His tone brooks no argument, and, really, I have none.

I slide off my pants, then pull the sweater over my head. I'm not wearing a very sexy set of underwear and I'm sorry for the oversight now.

"We'll have to do some underwear shopping too," he observes, as I take off my panties.

"I guess we better," I say in a small voice.

He grins and pulls me into his lap, so I'm straddling him, my pussy resting against his pulsing cock. He moves with me to the center of the seat.

"Take hold of the handgrips," he says, and I do it immediately, my arms now stretched wide.

He yanks down my bra, exposing my breasts then pinches both my nipples hard. My hips jerk forward on their own, I have no control left. I want him inside me so bad I'm shaking.

"Don't move," he says and pinches my nipples again, harder. I yelp this time, but manage to keep my hips completely still.

"Lift up," he says, and I come up on my knees, my legs spread open over his wide thighs. He runs the head of his cock over my swollen clit, and I sigh, one of the handgrips slipping from my palm.

He slaps my ass so hard it stings. And I don't need him telling me what I did wrong as I frantically reach for the grip again.

He squeezes my stinging butt cheek, waking the pain again. "Good girl."

He stretches my legs even further apart with his knees, opening me up, then pushes his cock into my pussy with a single vicious stab, holding me in place by my waist so I can't jerk up and away. Not that I really want to, because all pain disappears as he starts thrusting into me, harder each time, going deeper. I'm so open he's meeting no resistance. The zipper of his pants scratches my inner thighs on each upward thrust. I'm taking all of him, I suddenly realize, as though the fullness wasn't telling me that already. I feel his cock high up in my belly, the explosion of pleasure building inside me so fast I actually fear it. I scream out as he pinches my nipple again, twisting it violently. But I'm coming so hard the pain and pleasure are one and the same.

When I come to, the car is stopped, and I'm resting against his chest, his cock buried so deep it's a part of me. I can make out the entrance to my building through the tinted windows.

He squeezes my ass. "Come on, time for you to go home."

I protest, but not in actual words. He lifts me off his cock, the sudden emptiness unwelcome.

"Get dressed," he orders and hands me my panties. I do as he tells me, wince as I pull my bra back over my aching nipples.

"Are you coming with me?" I ask once I'm dressed and we're just sitting there, the look in his eyes unreadable.

"Not tonight." He leans over me and pulls the handle, flinging the door open. "But I'll see you tomorrow."

I pout, but don't argue. That same cold dismissal was in his voice last night and arguing did no good then.

So I step out and slam the door shut, watch the car disappear around the corner, wishing I knew what the hell is happening between us.

* * *

I didn't think I would, but I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, and I almost slept right through the alarm again.

Mark's rule about dressing in more sexy clothing keeps intruding as I'm trying to pick out an outfit. But I'm still not sure I want to obey him on that one. A part of me does, but there's the old Nicole in there too, telling me it's bullshit, and I shouldn't let a man dictate how I can dress. Before Mark, I wouldn't entertain that notion for a second. I'd give the guy suggesting it a piece of my mind, and never call him again. Now, I kind of like the idea of looking good for Mark.

In the end I opt for my pencil skirt, a white shirt and a corset type top that I got on a whim once, but never wore, since I thought it looked too slutty. I pair the outfit with black knee high boots, which are more conservative than stilettos. In fact, everything I own is more on the conservative side. And now he wants to take me shopping. A large part of me wants to just enjoy it while it lasts. But the part that likes to pay her own way is louder.

The driver is waiting for me by the car, and my cheeks flame up. He must know exactly what went on in the back seat last night, because I sure screamed loud enough. Nothing in his face or voice betrays the knowledge as he greets me though, so I force my thoughts to other matters.

Like the story on Mark that Sam wants me to write. Now that my other article is done, he'll start pushing for it.

Surprisingly enough, I'm the first to arrive at the office. Even Sam's not there yet. Must be home with his wife. A wave of sadness passes through me, so strong my throat constricts. Sam's been my mentor since my undergraduate years. I owe him a lot, and I want to be there for him through this. But I don't know if I can.

The office door slides open, and I look up, fully intent on offering Sam my support, such as it is, but it's Lucy who walks in.

There are dark circles under her eyes like she hasn't slept at all.

"Good, you're here," she says and comes over to my desk without even unbuttoning her coat first. "I hoped we'd get to talk before everyone else got here."

My heart rate goes into overdrive, all the sadness consumed by fear. Now she'll tell me another scary thing about Mark, and then everything we've built in the last few days will be jeopardized once again.

"What is it?" I mutter coldly, letting none of the panic enter my voice.

"I got my hands on the crime scene photos and some of the reports on that dead escort," she says, digging through her bag and finally pulling out a thick manila folder. "Here, take a look."

I take the folder automatically. It's the kind that closes all the way, so thankfully there's no way anything will fall out, forcing me to look at it. Because I have no intention of doing that.

"I'm pretty sure we shouldn't have this," I mutter, holding the folder with just the tips of my fingers like it's poisoned.

"No, we shouldn't have it. This is completely confidential. A guy I used to date works for LAPD and he made copies for me, but we can't print any of it, seeing as it's still an open investigation at this point. Though they're confident they have the right guy and will be formally charging him soon. They’ll release the evidence then too."

I lay the folder on the desk next to her bag. "They probably do have the right guy, Lucy."

"He claims he's innocent. It's some immigrant out of Mexico, who speaks very little English. It's such a cliché really. The whole thing just screams that he was set up. And I doubt he'll get a fair trial, don't you?" she snaps. "No, I think this is Cross' work. My sources tell me so too."

I cringe. "Who are these sources?"

She smiles at me wryly. "They're confidential, so I can't tell you. But trust me when I say they're reliable."

"Why don't they come forward then?" I'm fishing here, and I know it. But there's no way I'm working on the story with her, if this is the direction she wants to take it in. And I'll make sure Sam's on my side.

The door slides open and a couple of our co-workers walk in, Sam bringing up the rear. Lucy snatches her bag off my desk, but leaves the folder.

"Look at the material," she whispers, casting her eyes over our colleagues. "Later, and in private."

Then she leaves. I feel like the folder is filled with snakes ready to lash out at me as soon as I open it. So I just stuff it into my own bag, fully intent on slipping it back to her unopened later.

* * *

Meet the driver at 5 PM in front of your office. He knows where to take you. I received the text from Mark at one, and I've been reading and rereading it since, trying to find something endearing in it, I guess. But there's nothing. It's just a cold command.

Lucy left right after the morning meeting and hasn't been back since, so I couldn't return the folder to her yet. If I left it on her desk, one of the others might find it, and then who knows what would happen. Nothing good, I'm sure.

It's almost six. I should go downstairs. Because a guy ordered me to. It doesn’t sit well with me.

But this is Mark, and the mere thought of being with him is enough to drown out most of the objections. Not how it should be, I guess, but it is as it is. And I might as well enjoy the ride.

Mark's not waiting for me in the car like I hoped he would, and about fifteen minutes later the driver deposits me in front of a boutique in Soho. It's a store I've salivated in front of a couple of times, but never went in, because nothing in it costs less than $1000.

Mark's standing by the door, the collar of his dark grey coat turned up against the wind. He looks like some model from a magazine, showing off the latest in high-end corporate fashion. Only he's not just pretending, he's the real thing. And he wants me.

"Hi," I breathe as I reach him.

He leans down and pulls me to him, kissing me gently yet possessively, and the rest of my objections get washed away. I did exactly the right thing coming here tonight.

"Let's go in," he says and swings open the door.

"You sure?" I ask. "This place is crazy expensive."

But I step inside anyway, because I already know his answer.

The saleslady walks up to us. "Welcome."

She has spiky platinum blond hair, and she's wearing something that looks like a cross between a poncho, a sweater and a dress.

The lock clicking shut startles me, and I look at her, my heart racing.

"The store is yours for tonight, Ms. West," she informs me with a smile.

I look at Mark questioningly, but he just grins and nods. "I told you I'd take you shopping."

"This is too much…I can't…" I mutter, looking around at the rows of dresses, suits, and blouses. I know most girls dream of being treated to a shopping spree like this, but I haven't even thought about it in ages. Sure I fantasized about winning some big gift card, but never that an ultra rich guy would just hand over his credit card to me.

"There's strings, obviously," he says, reading my mind correctly. "I get to approve everything you buy."

That dangerous look is back in his eyes, and I know there will be no arguing the point.

"Shall we start with something for the office?" the saleslady asks, breaking off our silent stare war. She motions to a rack of business type clothes.

"Sure, OK," I mutter, following her to the rack.

"Pick out what you like, then you can go try it on," she urges.

I slide my hand over the jackets, the fabrics soft yet luscious under my palm. Just getting these things dry cleaned would cost a fortune each month.

In the end, I pick out a couple of blazers, skirts and trousers. She carries everything to the back area, which is hidden from view by a thick black curtain, not unlike the one at the club. The memory of that night flashes to the surface, bringing my desire for Mark to a whole new height. Sure, this is great, but being alone with him would be better. Behind that curtain maybe…

Pull it together, Nicole.

After I pick out a few blouses and dresses with price tags that make my head spin, I'm ready to start trying it all on.

The saleslady leads us to the back area behind the curtain, and I'm actually disappointed that it's just a large dressing room with wrap around mirrors, a lather sofa and a screen for some privacy when trying stuff on. But what else was I expecting?

"You can leave," Mark tells her. "We'll call you if we need you."

She retreats back behind the curtain and closes it shut.

"Start trying it all on," Mark says to me, and I pick up the first thing off the rack the saleslady deposited my selections on.

It's a short flared dress and a matching blazer. And I can already tell it won't work, since the skirt's way too short.

Mark sits down on the sofa, his legs spread wide. I'm trying not to stare at his hard cock.

I go behind the screen.

"No need to bother with this modesty, I think," he says, but I peer out from the side of the screen and shake my head.

"I think a little privacy is needed," I tell him. "It'll make the viewing more enjoyable."

"Maybe you're right," he says, grinning at me.

It takes me awhile to put it on, and yes, the skirt is too short. No way am I wearing this to the office. I saunter out, standing on my toes, wishing I wore stilettos instead of the boots this morning.

"Spin around," he tells me and I do, the dress flaring out around my hips.

"We'll take it," he says, loosening his tie.

"But it's so short. Look, you can see my panties even if I bend just a little bit." I do it to show him, and it makes him sit up straighter. I just lost that argument, I guess.

"You'll take it," he says. "And you'll wear it."

It's a soft peach color, so that's all wrong for me too. But I will get it, and I will wear it, just to get that reaction from him again. And again. In fact, I wish he'd come over and rip it off me right now.

The sexual tension between us gets more intense with each new item I try on. He summarily vetoes all the stuff that's not either tight or short, demands I get the stuff that is.

I'm on my last dress, a gold number that's made entirely of shimmering strings. It hides little when I walk, less when I twirl around.

"I want this one," I say, checking my reflection in the mirror. "Don't care what you say."

"Oh, I want you to get it," he says and comes over, wrapping his arms around me.

His hard cock is pressing into my back, and I know exactly what he wants. I want the same thing. But we're in a store, the clerk just behind the curtain. Not that an audience ever stopped him before.

His hand slithers in under the strings, inching downward.

"Mark, she's right there," I breathe, the words coming out in a moan as he kisses my neck, and slips his hand into my panties.

"Let her be," he says. "I'm done just looking."

He rubs my clit in slow strokes, kissing my neck, my breath fogging up the mirror as I moan.

His other hand is cupping my breast, and he squeezes my nipple hard as he rams two fingers into my pussy. My nipples are still sore from last night, and the pain piercing me stands in stark opposition to the pleasure his fingers are waking in my pussy. I'm seconds from orgasming.

"You want to come, don't you?" he asks hoarsely, and I just nod, pressing my burning cheek against the cool surface of the mirror. It's all I want right now, to come the way only he can make me.

But he pulls his fingers out of me and brings them to my lips. "Lick."

I do as he says without thinking, the taste of myself on him new and exciting.

"Good girl," he says and takes his fingers away. "Now get dressed."

"What?" I whine, thinking this is just a joke. He's seriously not denying me an orgasm yet again.

"You come when I allow you to, not before," he says, a mischievous bordering on manic look in his eyes. And I realize this is hard for him too. So why is he fighting it? The whole thing just makes me mad.

"I'll tell the clerk to ring these up," he says and walks away before I can say anything more. Not that I was going to. I can wait, and I will. For now.

* * *

The driver is putting the last of my bags in the trunk when I emerge from the store. Mark's already sitting in the car.

"Where to now?" I ask playfully when I sit down next to him, deciding that's my best option right now.

"You're going home," he tells me curtly.

"Why?" The word is only halfway out of my mouth when I notice Lucy's manila folder in his lap. And it's open.

I'm struggling to say something, but nothing comes out.

"Trust. That's the only way this will work between us, Nicole," he says, his eyes black as he looks at me.

"But I do trust you…a colleague is working on this…she just forced the folder on me…I haven't even opened it yet."

"Working on what?"

"She's working on an article about your connection to the escort that was murdered," I tell him, looking down at my lap, because his eyes are so dark and cold, it’s like I'm staring into some deep underground cave.

He grips my chin and turns my face so I have no choice but to look at him. "I told you I didn't kill that woman."

"And I believe you," I mutter. His grip on my jaw grows painful.

"This tells me another story," he says, flinging the folder into my lap. "I won't have you keep secrets from me, and I won't have you lying to me."

He releases my chin, but the feel of his fingers on my jaw is slow to fade.

"I'm not lying, I was going to tell you," I mutter, but he's not even looking at me anymore.

The car's moving and we're already almost at my apartment.

"Please, Mark, don't do this," I whisper. "I do trust you."

He whips around to face me so fast I lurch back. "I'll let you think about what that really means for awhile."

I reach for his hand, but he snatches it back with a disgusted look on his face.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "It was a mistake not telling you about the article."

"Oh, I knew about it," he spits. "Your friend and half your fellow business reporters in the city are working on it. But I didn't think you were as well."

"I'm not…I won't…"

The car's stopped by my building, and the driver is already taking the bags from the trunk.

"Go now," he tells me, but I can't move.

"Will you call me?"

He hands me my bag and the folder. "Trust, Nicole."

And then I'm standing alone on the windy sidewalk, surrounded by all the pretty things he's given me. But he's taken away the only thing I really wanted.