Because He Torments Me (2 page)

“Great.”
 
She pushed her chair back and stood up, and I did the same.
 
“I’m looking forward to working with
you, Adriana. Do you remember the way out?”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.”

Kiersten reached across the desk to take my
hand, and this time, her handshake felt firmer somehow, and she held my hand
for a beat longer than was necessary.
 

Then her eyes turned slightly colder than they
were before, and her voice got steely.

“One more thing,” she said.
 
“If I find out there’s something
unprofessional going on between you and Callum Wilder, if there’s even any hint
that the two of you are engaged in anything inappropriate, I will fire you
immediately.
 
Do you understand?”

My mouth went dry.
 
Did that mean Callum and I would be
working together?
 
Is that why she
was warning me?
 
  
And if so, how the
hell
was
I going to be able to handle that?

But something told me if I asked questions or
got defensive, it wasn’t going to go over well.

So instead I met Kiersten’s eye.

“Of course,” I said, keeping my tone even,
determined not to show even one ounce of weakness.
 
“Of course there will be nothing
inappropriate taking place between me and Mr. Wilder.”

“Good,” she said, and the energy in the room
shifted back.
 
“Then I’ll see you
tomorrow.”

**

Outside, the city was alive and buzzing with
the energy that only New York had.
 
Women in high heels and business suits hurried to meetings, cell phones
pressed against their ears, dodging men with Armani briefcases as they all
competed for cabs or rushed down the steps of the subway.

Tomorrow I would be on my way to my own office,
would start to have my own daily routine.

I had so much to do.
 

I was definitely going to need new clothes.

The women at Archway were smartly dressed and
professional -- my collection of Old Navy skirts and GAP sweaters wasn’t going
to cut it.
 

I decided to head to Bloomingdale’s.
 
I would splurge on a couple of nice
suits, and hopefully those, coupled with whatever I could scrounge up from Nessa’s
closet, would hold me over until I got my first paycheck.
 

Crap.
 
I hadn’t even asked what the starting salary was going to be.
 
I was sure it was peanuts –
entry level
publishing positions were known for paying next
to nothing.
 
Not that it
mattered.
 
They could have told me
they were compensating me with McDonald’s vouchers and Knicks tickets and I
would have accepted the job.

Excitement thrummed inside of me as I walked
toward Third Avenue, my shoes clicking against the sidewalk with a purpose.

 
And
yet something was there, deep inside of me, muting my good mood just a tiny
bit.

Callum.

He was there, his presence in my mind a
constant companion as I traveled down the sidewalks of the city.

Why had he done that?
 
Why had he called Archway and told them
to hire me? Was it because he was hoping to see me again?
 
Or had he done it because he felt bad
about making it clear he didn’t want to see me again after what had happened in
Florida?
 
Was this his idea of a
consolation prize?

The thought was bothersome and irritating, and
it opened up a whole new set of questions, ones I wasn’t sure I wanted to find
the answers to.

Was it wrong to take this job, knowing I’d only
gotten it because I’d slept with him?
 

Anger and frustration singed my soul from deep inside.
 
Damn you, Callum Wilder, I thought.
 
This was supposed to be a happy moment
in my life, my first real job, something to celebrate.

Instead, I was thinking about him.

My ass burned from what he’d done to me, those
stinging slaps he’d placed on my skin, over and over again, harder and harder,
his palm crashing into me as he worked out whatever aggression lived inside of
him.

I could taste his mouth on mine, could feel his
big hands holding my hips as he pushed inside of me.

By the time I got to Bloomingdale’s, he was all
I could think about.

I walked to the women’s clothing department,
thankful it was cool in here, hoping the air conditioning would slow my rapidly
beating heart.

My phone buzzed, and I reached into my bag.

One new text message.

From Callum.

My breath caught in my chest.

I’d deleted his number from my phone, not that
it mattered -- his number was branded into my memory.

How was your interview?

My fingers hovered over the screen, unsure if I
should reply.
 
My instinct told me
not to, that it would just invite more contact, would just give me false hope.

On the other hand, I didn’t want him thinking
that I couldn’t reply to a simple text message, that he’d left me so weak and
wanting or mad and upset that I couldn’t even be in contact with him.

Who is this?
 
I typed and hit send.

The reply came swiftly.

The man whose handprints are still on that
pretty little ass of yours.

I flushed.
 
He was right.
 
The outline of
his hands were still on my ass, a reminder of the ownership he’d taken of my
body.
 

I’m sorry, but the contract I signed forbids
this kind of contact.
 
If you have
something to say to me, you’ll have to go through my lawyer,
I typed.

I didn’t know you liked rules so much,
Lemon.
 
You sure didn’t seem to care
about rules when my dick was buried in your pussy.

How dare you imply that I think I’m above the
law?
 
When I sign a contract, I make sure to
do what I’m told.

Oh, I’ll bet you do.
 
How did the interview go?

Fine.

Did you get the job?

Yes.

We should celebrate.

My heart fumbled and tripped, regained
its
footing and soared at the thought of seeing him again
before crashing back down to earth.
 
How could he run so hot and cold with me?
 
The man had made me sign a paper saying
that if I ran into him somewhere, I was to pretend
as if I didn’t know him.

And now he wanted to see me again?
 

The clicking sound his handcuffs had made
filled my brain.
 
I remembered the
feel of his dick in my mouth, how he’d held my head against him, filling me
with his width until my eyes watered.

My skin prickled with hot goose bumps.

“Can I help you?” a saleswoman asked, bustling
up to me.
 
She gave me a friendly
smile.

“I’m…
.Um
, yes, I think
so,” I said, shoving my phone back into my purse.
 
I felt discombobulated, almost like I’d
forgotten where I was.
 
“I’m
starting my first job tomorrow, and I need something to wear.”

She nodded, making a clucking noise with her
tongue before putting her glasses on and staring me down over the top of her
bifocals.
 
“Size ten?” she asked.

I
nodded,
amazed she
could known my size just from looking at me.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in a dressing
room, knee-deep in smart business suits and
dresses
, creased
linen pants and silky blouses piled up around me.
 
I took a breath and tried not to feel
overwhelmed.
 
Everything was
beautiful but expensive, and I wondered how I was going to decide on any of it or
even
afford
any of it.
 

I stripped off my clothes, deciding to start
with the pants and blouses, staples that could be matched with anything.

But before I could, there was a knock on the
dressing room door.

“I’m fine,” I called, rolling my eyes at the saleswoman’s
zealousness.
 
“I don’t need anything
yet.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you it was impolite to
ignore a text message?” a deep voice growled.

I froze, halfway into a pair of grey hounds
tooth dress pants.
 

Callum.

Callum was outside the dressing room.

What the fuck?
 
How the hell did he know I was here?
He knocked again.
 
“Open the door,
Lemon.”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m naked.”

“Even better.”
 
He reached out and jiggled the doorknob.
 

“Are you insane?” I hissed as I struggled to
get back into my clothes.
 
“This is
a women’s changing room.”

“So?”

“So you’re a man, and you shouldn’t be in here!”

“That’s sexist.”

“It’s not sexist, it’s the law.”

“It’s against the law for a man to be in a women’s
changing room?”

“Yes,” I said, but my voice sounded
doubtful.
 
I wasn’t sure.
 

“That’s discrimination,” he said, and the
doorknob rattled again.

I straightened my clothes and took a deep
breath, studying myself in the mirror.
 
I was blushing, my cheeks high with rosy heat, my hair a mess, my eyes
wide.

I fixed myself as best I could and then opened
the changing room door.

It was like a shockwave hit me.
 
Callum stood there, dressed completely
in black – black suit, black dress shirt, black tie.
 
His hair was brushed back from his face,
which was clean-shaven, his tan skin smooth.

“What are you doing here?”
 
I blurted.

“I came to get you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I followed you.”
 
He said it casually, no trace of shame
in his voice, like it was perfectly normal for him to be following me.

“Followed me?
 
From where?”

“From your interview.”
 
He glanced past me into the dressing
room, his eyes roaming around the piles of clothes.
 
“For your new job?”

I nodded.

He cocked his head to the side, and I could
feel my blush deepening under his steady gaze.
 
“Come on.”

“Come on what?”

“Come on, we’re going to lunch.”

I stared at him, my mouth dropping open.
 
“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

I shook my head, the shock of him being here in
front of me finally starting to wear off.
 
“Why did you do that, Callum?”

“Why did I do what?”
 
He sounded slightly surprised, the tone
of a man who was used to getting his way without being questioned.

“Why did you set up that interview for me?
 
Why did you think that was okay?”
 
I felt the emotion creeping into my
voice, and I hated that he was able to do that to me, hated that he was able to
make me care.

“I thought it would be nice.”

“It wasn’t nice,” I said, crossing my arms over
my chest.
 
“It was confusing.”

His face changed, the line of his jaw
softening, the cocky and demanding look losing just a bit of its edge.

“Come to lunch with me,” he said.
 
That was it.
 
He didn’t offer any explanations, didn’t
make any promises.
 
Nothing had
changed. I still had no idea what he wanted from me, or what he expected from
me.

All I knew was that I wanted to go with him.

More than anything, I wanted to go with him.

I hesitated. “Callum…”

“Say yes, Adriana.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding.
 
 
“Okay,” I said.
 
“Yes.”