Release Me
Page 59
As soon as I’ve printed a copy, I dial Thom’s direct dial. “I know you just got my resume yesterday,” I say, “but I wanted to check and see if you’d had any nibbles.”
“I’ve had more than a nibble,” he says. “I’ve had a bite.”
“Seriously?” A sudden image of Damien asking why I didn’t just go work for him pops into my head. “Wait. With who?”
“Innovative Resources,” he says. “Familiar with them?”
“No,” I admit, sagging a bit with relief. I’m having a perfectly lovely time lost in my fantasy with Damien. But while silk sashes and blindfolds may get me hot in the bedroom, I don’t think I want to bow to the amount of control Damien would demand in the boardroom. “What kind of bite?”
“They want to schedule an interview. They’re short-staffed and they’re busy. They’d like to see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?”
“Absolutely,” I say, certain Blaine won’t mind. If I set the interview for two, that should be plenty of time to get in a full session, return to Studio City, get changed, and make it to wherever Innovative is located.
Thom promises me that he’ll set it up, and that he’ll pull some information on the company and send it over so that I can prep. I hang up the phone, drop the professional attitude, and do a wild dance out of my bedroom and out into the hall. I pound on Jamie’s door, but she’s not there, so I take my dance into the kitchen, pop the top on a Diet Coke, and go wild. Because it’s a celebration, I even dig into my secret stash and pull out the frozen Milky Way I keep hidden behind the ancient TV dinners.
Heaven.
I’m heading back to my room with my frozen chocolate bar sticking out of my mouth when I see the Monet still on the floor by the kitchen table. Jamie had promised she’d help me hang it—after making repeated lame jokes about needing to buy a stud finder so that it could get nailed—but so far we’d made no progress in that direction. I want it in my room, though, so I take it with me back to my bedroom. I clear a spot on my dresser, then prop it up in front of the mirror. Now, when I look at myself, I see me standing over an Impressionist sunset. Not a bad way to live, when you think about it.
In the mirror behind me, I see the reflection of the white box that Edward gave me. For this evening, he’d said. I turn to look at it, lift it, shake it a little.
I use a pair of nail scissors to clip the twine, then pull the top off the box. Inside, there is a piece of cloth and a strand of pearls. I peer at it for a second, confused, then hook a finger under the pearls. They rise, bringing the lace with them.
Panties.
A thong, to be specific. And the pearls are, well, in the thong part.
I leave them on my pillow and snatch up my phone. He’s probably buying the universe or something, but I text him anyway: Got ur present. V pretty. I wonder abt the comfort factor, tho.
His reply comes almost immediately: This from the woman who can’t walk in her shoes?
I scowl and type fast with my thumbs: U raise a good point. But shldn’t a man who can buy continents & small planets hve better sense?
I imagine his grin as his reply comes: Trust me. You’ll find my gift very satisfying. Did you read the card?
What? My reply is simple: ???
Under the thong. Read it. Follow it. Don’t break the rules.
And then, just moments later: Must go buy a large planet. Until tonight.
I laugh, grinning like an idiot as I toss my phone back on the bed and pull the box toward me. Sure enough, I find a card tucked into the tissue. I read it, and then I pick up the panties again. I run the strand of pearls between my fingers, breathing just a little bit harder than before as tiny beads of sweat gather between my breasts and my body warms all over.
I close my eyes, and I picture the words Damien wrote:
Wear this tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.
Cocktail attire.
You’ll want to touch yourself. Don’t.
That’s my privilege.
D.S.
23
I will never doubt Damien again.
I’m dressed by six-thirty. By seven, I’m so desperately turned on that I wonder how these panties can be legal. They’re most definitely not practical. I grab a sparkling water and sit on the couch trying to read, but mostly I just press the water to the back of my neck because every time I move, the pearls make me hot, and if I’m not careful I’m going to melt before Damien picks me up.
Or I’ll break a rule.
Except, dammit, simply breathing is making me crazy. I imagine Damien’s voice in my ear, telling me how hot I’m getting, how tormented he knows I am, how wet I’m going to be for him, and how I absolutely, positively cannot do anything to release this pressure growing inside of me.
Oh, to hell with it.
I’m wearing a black garter and black stockings, and as I lean my head back against the couch, I trail my fingers up my thighs. It’s only cheating a little if I pretend it’s Damien’s hand, right? And after all, it’s not like he needs to know.…
My fingers slide over the pearls, but I don’t touch myself. I only touch the strand. It moves, just like it does when I walk, and the sensation is amazing, like tiny rockets shooting through my body, raising me up. I’m so wet I can hardly stand it, and I imagine Damien’s hands on my thighs, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses up my leg, his tongue flicking gently over me.
I moan softly—then jump guiltily from the sharp knock at the front door.
“Coming!” I call, and the irony really isn’t lost on me.
I straighten my skirt, take a deep breath to hopefully smooth my face and hide my secret, then hurry to the door.
I open it to find Damien standing there, looking so sexy in a tux that I think I might just come without the benefit of pearls or fingers or anything except the sight of this man in front of me.
“You look amazing,” he says, then moves his finger in a twirling motion. I comply, spinning with enough force so that the skirt of my deep purple cocktail dress flares out. It’s a vintage dress that I’ve loved for years, with a fitted waist and a plunging neckline. Sexy, and yet at the same time it has a Grace Kelly kind of class. It makes me feel stunning, so it’s easy to smile and accept the compliment.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say as he bends down to brush a soft kiss over my lips—a kiss he punctuates with a not-so-soft squeeze to my ass.
“Careful,” I say. “Much more of that and we won’t be leaving this apartment.”
“Oh really? Why is that?” he asks innocently.
I smile sweetly, then grab my purse. I press a hand to his shoulder and lift myself up on my tiptoes so that my lips are right by his ear. “Because your little present is making me so hot that all I can think about is you inside me fucking me hard.”
I ease back, keeping the breezy smile pasted on. His expression no longer looks so innocent. With smug satisfaction I glide past him out the door. “Coming?” I ask from the threshold.
“Apparently not yet,” he growls, then follows me.
He’s brought the limo, and I swallow when I see the familiar backseat. My attempts to be cool may be harder than I imagined.
I nod to Edward, who is holding the door open for us, then slide in, the pearls moving with me. I can’t control the little gasp of pleasure that escapes me, but I settle into my seat and try to look nonchalant.
“I’ve had more than a nibble,” he says. “I’ve had a bite.”
“Seriously?” A sudden image of Damien asking why I didn’t just go work for him pops into my head. “Wait. With who?”
“Innovative Resources,” he says. “Familiar with them?”
“No,” I admit, sagging a bit with relief. I’m having a perfectly lovely time lost in my fantasy with Damien. But while silk sashes and blindfolds may get me hot in the bedroom, I don’t think I want to bow to the amount of control Damien would demand in the boardroom. “What kind of bite?”
“They want to schedule an interview. They’re short-staffed and they’re busy. They’d like to see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?”
“Absolutely,” I say, certain Blaine won’t mind. If I set the interview for two, that should be plenty of time to get in a full session, return to Studio City, get changed, and make it to wherever Innovative is located.
Thom promises me that he’ll set it up, and that he’ll pull some information on the company and send it over so that I can prep. I hang up the phone, drop the professional attitude, and do a wild dance out of my bedroom and out into the hall. I pound on Jamie’s door, but she’s not there, so I take my dance into the kitchen, pop the top on a Diet Coke, and go wild. Because it’s a celebration, I even dig into my secret stash and pull out the frozen Milky Way I keep hidden behind the ancient TV dinners.
Heaven.
I’m heading back to my room with my frozen chocolate bar sticking out of my mouth when I see the Monet still on the floor by the kitchen table. Jamie had promised she’d help me hang it—after making repeated lame jokes about needing to buy a stud finder so that it could get nailed—but so far we’d made no progress in that direction. I want it in my room, though, so I take it with me back to my bedroom. I clear a spot on my dresser, then prop it up in front of the mirror. Now, when I look at myself, I see me standing over an Impressionist sunset. Not a bad way to live, when you think about it.
In the mirror behind me, I see the reflection of the white box that Edward gave me. For this evening, he’d said. I turn to look at it, lift it, shake it a little.
I use a pair of nail scissors to clip the twine, then pull the top off the box. Inside, there is a piece of cloth and a strand of pearls. I peer at it for a second, confused, then hook a finger under the pearls. They rise, bringing the lace with them.
Panties.
A thong, to be specific. And the pearls are, well, in the thong part.
I leave them on my pillow and snatch up my phone. He’s probably buying the universe or something, but I text him anyway: Got ur present. V pretty. I wonder abt the comfort factor, tho.
His reply comes almost immediately: This from the woman who can’t walk in her shoes?
I scowl and type fast with my thumbs: U raise a good point. But shldn’t a man who can buy continents & small planets hve better sense?
I imagine his grin as his reply comes: Trust me. You’ll find my gift very satisfying. Did you read the card?
What? My reply is simple: ???
Under the thong. Read it. Follow it. Don’t break the rules.
And then, just moments later: Must go buy a large planet. Until tonight.
I laugh, grinning like an idiot as I toss my phone back on the bed and pull the box toward me. Sure enough, I find a card tucked into the tissue. I read it, and then I pick up the panties again. I run the strand of pearls between my fingers, breathing just a little bit harder than before as tiny beads of sweat gather between my breasts and my body warms all over.
I close my eyes, and I picture the words Damien wrote:
Wear this tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.
Cocktail attire.
You’ll want to touch yourself. Don’t.
That’s my privilege.
D.S.
23
I will never doubt Damien again.
I’m dressed by six-thirty. By seven, I’m so desperately turned on that I wonder how these panties can be legal. They’re most definitely not practical. I grab a sparkling water and sit on the couch trying to read, but mostly I just press the water to the back of my neck because every time I move, the pearls make me hot, and if I’m not careful I’m going to melt before Damien picks me up.
Or I’ll break a rule.
Except, dammit, simply breathing is making me crazy. I imagine Damien’s voice in my ear, telling me how hot I’m getting, how tormented he knows I am, how wet I’m going to be for him, and how I absolutely, positively cannot do anything to release this pressure growing inside of me.
Oh, to hell with it.
I’m wearing a black garter and black stockings, and as I lean my head back against the couch, I trail my fingers up my thighs. It’s only cheating a little if I pretend it’s Damien’s hand, right? And after all, it’s not like he needs to know.…
My fingers slide over the pearls, but I don’t touch myself. I only touch the strand. It moves, just like it does when I walk, and the sensation is amazing, like tiny rockets shooting through my body, raising me up. I’m so wet I can hardly stand it, and I imagine Damien’s hands on my thighs, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses up my leg, his tongue flicking gently over me.
I moan softly—then jump guiltily from the sharp knock at the front door.
“Coming!” I call, and the irony really isn’t lost on me.
I straighten my skirt, take a deep breath to hopefully smooth my face and hide my secret, then hurry to the door.
I open it to find Damien standing there, looking so sexy in a tux that I think I might just come without the benefit of pearls or fingers or anything except the sight of this man in front of me.
“You look amazing,” he says, then moves his finger in a twirling motion. I comply, spinning with enough force so that the skirt of my deep purple cocktail dress flares out. It’s a vintage dress that I’ve loved for years, with a fitted waist and a plunging neckline. Sexy, and yet at the same time it has a Grace Kelly kind of class. It makes me feel stunning, so it’s easy to smile and accept the compliment.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say as he bends down to brush a soft kiss over my lips—a kiss he punctuates with a not-so-soft squeeze to my ass.
“Careful,” I say. “Much more of that and we won’t be leaving this apartment.”
“Oh really? Why is that?” he asks innocently.
I smile sweetly, then grab my purse. I press a hand to his shoulder and lift myself up on my tiptoes so that my lips are right by his ear. “Because your little present is making me so hot that all I can think about is you inside me fucking me hard.”
I ease back, keeping the breezy smile pasted on. His expression no longer looks so innocent. With smug satisfaction I glide past him out the door. “Coming?” I ask from the threshold.
“Apparently not yet,” he growls, then follows me.
He’s brought the limo, and I swallow when I see the familiar backseat. My attempts to be cool may be harder than I imagined.
I nod to Edward, who is holding the door open for us, then slide in, the pearls moving with me. I can’t control the little gasp of pleasure that escapes me, but I settle into my seat and try to look nonchalant.
