Cristian Dries is a world-renowned architect who designs magnificent concert halls and museums around the world. A maestro in his field of work, he rose to fame at an incredibly young age. As a result, he has a hard time compartmentalizing his priorities. The man is all work and nearly no play. Which is where I come in.
A little play.
“I need to learn when to say no,” he’s said to me before. “I’m only one person. One mind. There’s not enough time in a day to design everything this universe demands from me.”
Cristian likes to fuck where his design models are in sight.
I like it, too. Not because the sex is anything but typical, but his designs are truly remarkable. It gives me something to admire while he uses my body for his pleasure.
“What do I have to do to get you to come to me more than once a month? Name a price.” he asks, dragging the back of his finger down my bare arm.
He’s articulate, sharp, and a little full of himself. Cristian expresses the offense he takes to my busy schedule every time we’re together, as if I should drop my clientele to service him and him alone.
“When would you have time for all of this?” I ask, motioning toward the large table of scale models in every stage of development. They convey precisely how light will illuminate space, magnify textures and colors, and translate pride in the design before they’re built on a larger scale.
Cristian presses his lips to the top of my shoulder. “My team wants to create our models on the computer, but I love building them with my hands. It’s more rewarding than watching my design 3D printed in plastic. The computer software makes it impersonal.”
“If you did that, you’d have more time to build other things, like relationships,” I say with a small smile on my lips. “You could have a woman in your bed every night.”
I like the idea of Cristian in his office at all hours, building tiny museums with clay, wire, and wood under a bright desk light. He’s the manic artist type. Not the socialite.
“I only want you in my bed, Cara,” he says.
Turning in his arms, I work to unbutton his shirt and say, “You’ve never had me in your bed. You’ve had me against the wall, on the floor, and over your model table, but never in a bed.”
“You’re all I want.”
I push his shirt over his shoulders, exposing his bare chest. “Surely, that can’t be true. You travel the world. I can’t be the only woman you’re sleeping with.”
Cool air blows from the vents above us, helping a girl out and hardening my nipples. Cristian thinks it’s because of him, and his eyes darken with craving. He’s easy to look at, and I’m not repulsed when he touches me. Our conversations never stray from the current topic, and I know it’s the chase that he desires most. If one day I promised to give it all up for him, it wouldn’t take long for him to grow bored with me. An hour every four weeks is just enough to keep his interest—and keep me paid.
I’m pleased when he bends me over the model table this time. As he gently kicks my ankles apart, I take the opportunity to inspect the tiny landscapes around his buildings. When he enters me, despite the moans and cries of pleasure I release, I’m solely focused on how detailed everything from the tree bark to each individual leaf is. I focus on everything but what’s happening to me.
Then Talent’s face comes to mind.
I squeeze my eyes closed, but he’s there, too.
In an instant, tree bark and leaves are one-dimensional. Nothing but my memory of Talent’s dark hair and thick eyebrows hold light or texture. I can still hear the sound of his heavy breathing over the sighs coming from the stranger behind me and the fake noises I’m paid to make. Clenching my teeth, I fight back against the recollections of the fire Talent set inside me.
I’m powerless against the flames.
“Cara,” Cristian moans. He grabs my hips and ups his tempo.
My skin crawls as self-control escapes the far, far corner of my mind where I go to feel nothing. Assaulted by revulsion, sadness, and the overwhelming need to get this man out of me, I push myself up on the palms of my hands and press my lips together to keep from crying out. My partner gets the wrong idea and brings himself closer to me, pressing against my back. His breath is warm on my neck, and his fingertips press into my skin too harshly.
“Is that all you got?” I ask in an attempt to get him to hurry.
He chuckles. “You’re feisty today.”
Feisty.
What a disgusting fucking word. What a gross way to be described. I want to chew the word—break it between my teeth and destroy it—wreck it for the rest of all time. I don’t want to be called feisty or sassy or spunky, or any other pet name these horny pricks think sound cute. I do what they want. My body is theirs to command. But I won’t be called … feisty.
I turn around just to put my hand over Cristian’s mouth. “Shut up and fuck me.”
Confusion drains from his expression, replaced with excitement. He lifts me from my feet and places me on the table, knocking the roof from one of his models. I keep my palm over his mouth to guarantee his silence. When he slides inside of me again, I close my eyes and tilt my head back until it’s over, clashing with images of Talent Ridge.
When my time with Cristian is up, I make a trip home to shower and wash the repulsion from my skin. My next appointment is with a newspaper editor with a foot fetish, who’d rather kiss my toes for an hour than see me naked or penetrate me in any way. If I need to double up appointments in one day, I like to have him on my schedule because I know exactly what to expect.
I wear the tallest pair of heels I own and leather pants that expose my ankle. When the editor calls me back to his office, he stares at my feet in the shoes he can’t wait to rid me of. My pretty face comes second to my pretty toes.
“Good afternoon, Cara,” he whispers as I walk by.
He closes the door and locks it before pulling the blinds down around his office. There’s a chair in the corner of the room meant for me. Beside the seat is a small side table with a bowl of red grapes he likes me to eat during our time together.
Everyone’s kink is different. I’m not here to judge.
I settle into the chair, and he sits on the floor at my feet. He loves designer shoes and only has eyes for my Jimmy Choos, per his request.
“Can I take them off of you?” he asks.
He’s a decent guy. We’ve seen each other in this office four or five times. Nothing he does insults me. What he likes isn’t perverted or menacing. He’s polite, asks for consent, and is careful. But for some reason, I want to slam the heel of my thousand-dollar shoe into his eye.
The sorry bastard might like it.
I lift the bowl of fruit to my lap, ignoring his request as I pick a grape from the vine. Crossing my legs, I roll my ankle in front of his face as I pop the grape into my mouth and bite with a crunch. Sweet juice fills my mouth and I moan dramatically. He looks away from my foot long enough to watch me lick my lips.
“Do you want to guess what color I painted my toes?” I ask. I press my toe to his crotch to feel his erection.
“Yes,” he says softly.
“We should make a wager. A bet.” I drag my shoe along his hard cock through his slacks.
Heat spreads up his neck and across his cheeks, reddening his light skin. My appointment swallows hard, but he knows better than to touch me before I allow it.