Protege (3 page)

“Some would consider you a baby.”

She shrugged. “They can consider me whatever they like. It doesn't change the fact that I've had enough of doing things the traditional way.”

He frowned, disliking the implication that she was there because she'd given up. Most people came there aspiring to do better. “Being a member of Fernweh does not come without work, Ms. Banks. Some of our members are single for decades before reaching their potential. Perhaps online dating would suit—”

“With all due respect, sir, I'm not interested in placing my safety in the hands of a stranger I met online. You hear stories.”

Intrigued, he sensed he'd misread her. This sudden shift in her attitude wasn't the result of his rejection. On the contrary, she seemed to be refuting his decision, fighting it with logic as if pleading her case could somehow alter the rules of admission. “Yet you'd put your trust into a company you found online.” He arched a brow, anticipating a decent rebuttal.

“Well,” she drawled, a cocky twist to her full lips. “There is all that math and science.”

Stifling a chuckle, he dryly agreed, “There is that.”
She's a bit of a smartass.

She sighed and leveled her gaze on him. “Mr. Duval, I know what I'm up against. I'm just done. I don't know any other way to put it. I can't go back to my old job, and I need to start looking for a new one. My life can start anywhere. I'm willing to start it where I have the best probable future. I needed a change. A big one. I think this is it.”

Steepling his fingers, he eased back and studied her. “You're a stubborn little thing.”

“I can be.”

He considered her for a long moment. As the minutes ticked by, she fidgeted under his scrutiny. “Mr.—”

“No talking.” Her mouth snapped shut and she blinked, taken aback. But she'd had enough fun in her attempt to hijack his authority. In truth, her unexpected effort to get him to reconsider gave him pause. “I just want to look at you for a moment.”

Her lip curled under her teeth as her eyes flicked nervously from side to side. She was clearly uncomfortable with his close examination, which made it all the more pleasurable for him.

Without thinking, he reached into his drawer and removed a blank application. “Let's start at the beginning. Spell your full name, Ms. Banks.”

She smiled, her eyes wide and full of surprise, and he immediately realized his mistake. There'd be no denying her now. She wanted this, and he—for reasons he couldn't understand—wanted to grant her this wish.

“Thank you, Mr. Duval. Thank you so much.”

“Your name, Ms. Banks.”

He already had the information written before she finished spelling it out. Collette was a unique name, one he appreciated for its feminine qualities and found difficult to forget. As the founder of Fernweh, he had leverage, but he also had a partner to consider. There was no harm in gathering enough information to make an honest assessment.

Though she couldn't garner a traditional trial membership, he could discuss the possibility of her case, perhaps find a loophole. The members would challenge his decision, but he only had to disclose the minimal amount of information regarding her tentative approval. If they didn't take a liking to her he would reevaluate his decision, but he didn't think he'd have an issue once the others discovered her.

She certainly had a charming personality and a pleasing, if not slipshod, appearance. Someone needed to get her a barrette for those curls. Either that or show her how to braid all that unruly hair into some semblance of order.

“Do you recall your measurements?” When she didn't respond he glanced at her only to find her blushing. “Ms. Banks.”

“I may have fibbed a little on the measurements.” She pinched her fingers in the air to demonstrate the smidge she'd embellished.

He arched a brow, his eyes calculating the dimensions of her generous curves. “Very well.” He reached into his middle drawer and pulled out a tape measure. Snapping the drawer shut, he stood. “Come here, please.”

She hesitated, her lower teeth showing as she gawked at him. “You keep a measuring tape in your desk?”

“I keep a lot of things in my desk, Ms. Banks. Stand up, please.”

Helping her along, he rounded the desk and took her hand. She stood and he examined the tape, swiftly locating the end he wanted. “Remove your shirt.”

“I beg your pardon!”

He folded his arms across his chest and arched another brow. “Had you not lied on your first application, this wouldn't be an issue. We require absolute honesty among clients. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can put this application with your last and you can find your way out.”

“But . . .”

“I have another appointment in thirty minutes, Ms. Banks.”

Her chest rose as her breathing accelerated. He suspected it was belligerence at being told to remove her clothing more than embarrassment about her size. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the proportions of her body. If she was uncomfortable with nudity, she was clearly in the wrong place.

“If you hand me the tape I can slip it under my sweater and do it my—”

He turned to his desk. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Banks. I'm sorry we couldn't work—”

“Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve and quickly released him as his eyes jerked to her grip. Lips pursed, she lifted the soft pink sweater over her head. Something clattered to the floor. Her clip. Mercifully, all that hair fell in wild disarray around her shoulders.

Her head tipped forward, her gaze fastened to the floor as her shoulders lifted with each breath. Her arms rested at her sides, her sweater choked tightly in her right fist as it hung by her thigh.

He'd seen just about every type of lingerie to ever be invented. Yet somehow her bra took him by surprise. It was a longline bra, the sort that reached the lowest rib. Her modesty enchanted him. Not a single shred of indecency showed through the satin material, as it was sewn of dark navy blue fabric and patterned with pale coral flowers. At the crest there was an overlay of lace, but the satin underlay kept her nipples hidden.

He presumed her to be about a 36DD. Her waist was quite trim, and it seemed absolutely imperative to discover if her panties matched this antiquated bodice.

Using his knuckle, his tipped her chin until she faced him, but her eyes remained closed. “Eyes on me, Ms. Banks.”

As those soft russet lashes lifted, he spotted such fire banked in the depths of those hazel pools, he grinned. “Your bra is very sexy and unexpected.”

Her lashes fluttered as her lips parted. He'd clearly surprised her. Stepping around her back, he lifted her arms away from her body and she gasped.

“Keep your arms out like that,” he whispered over her shoulder as he straightened the tape and slowly wrapped it around her chest. She breathed rapidly and it took some skill to keep the tape in place. Thirty-six, just as he assumed.

The tape dropped and he cupped her breast with his free hand, drawing another gasp from her. “Are you a double D, Ms. Banks?”

“I'm a C, sir. If you don't mind—”

He chuckled. “No, you're not.” He ran a thumb over the satin, just enough to have the satisfaction of feeling her nipple bead beneath his touch before his hand fell away.

Keeping her off balance, he swiftly wrapped the tape around her waist and returned to his desk to jot down her size. “Slide off your skirt, please.”

“What?”

“I need the measurement of your hips, thighs, and ankles.”

“Am I being sized for a unitard?”

“No, a partner. We're nosy. Strip.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her fingers went to the hidden zipper at the side of her skirt. Her clothes were not cheaply made, he noted, wondering how she afforded such things on a teacher's salary.

When the skirt lowered she quickly bent to fold it in a way that would prevent wrinkles. His cheeks tightened with a full smile when he noted her simple tan slip, complete with lace trim and slit. A hundred dollars said she wore old-fashioned stockings, too, for the simple propriety of it.

“Remove the slip.”

She huffed, but did as he asked after placing the skirt over the back of the chair. Beautiful. Blue satin panties to match the print of her bra. Nothing too risqué beyond the luxurious fabric. Her ass remained mostly covered and her front was disguised enough for the remaining mystery of her body to drive him crazy.

Slowly, he circled her, scrutinizing her attire. The stockings were trimmed with a thick scalloped lace that didn't require garters. How many times a day did she reach under her desk to adjust them?

As he dropped to a knee to better measure her hips, he breathed in the sharp trace of feminine arousal. His eyes closed, finding her unique scent a touch more tempting than others. Glancing up, he noted that her eyes were again screwed shut, and he smirked. She was a shy little thing.

Taking no mercy on her, he measured her hips quickly but then shifted gears. “Spread your legs, Ms. Banks. Those knees should never be touching.”

“That's not what I was taught.”

“The curriculum's changed. Wider.” He slowly dragged his finger up the inside of her leg until he reached the apex of her thighs, and she let out a panicked squeak. Holding the tape he looked closely, breathing her in once more. Her scent was getting stronger.

He took his time with her ankles and thighs. Some of his clientele had very specific tastes; that wasn't to say one size was more popular than another. There were just as many who sought after petite women as voluptuous. All sizes were a commodity at Fernweh, because their specialty was finding counterparts.

As soon as the last measurement was taken, she let out a sigh of relief and reached for her slip.

“Wait,” he said, and she stilled. Her gaze was punishing as it collided with his. Maybe he should just let her dress. He almost chuckled. That wasn't happening.

“Well?”

He did chuckle then, not used to hearing that tone from the submissive clientele. “I suggest we finish the interview before you dress.”

“Is there another reason I need to be naked?”

“I enjoy looking at you. And you're far from naked, Ms. Banks.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn't tell him to go to hell. Interesting.

Shaking her head—perhaps even a bit titillated at the idea of being on display—she snatched up her slip and slid it over her thighs. His disappointment faded as she stopped there, ignoring the rest of her clothing and perching on the chair, arms akimbo. Who was she kidding? She obviously liked being partially dressed.

“Go on,” she directed, with an air of exasperation.

He arched a brow. “I believe it works better for everyone if I give the orders, Ms. Banks. Let's move to page eight.” He flipped the application to the back. “Date of your last clitoral orgasm.” Smothering the urge to see her shock firsthand, he kept his eyes on the paper, pen poised at the question. “I'm waiting.”

“You expect me to know the exact date?”

“Roughly.”

After a long pause, she sighed and muttered, “Yesterday.”

He silently chuckled as he recorded her response.

As his gaze returned to hers, heat tightened his gut. “And was this achieved individually or with a partner?”

“I was alone.” Her voice had turned small.

Her answer relieved his discomfort. “How frequently do you masturbate, Ms. Banks?”

“Whenever I can't sleep.”

“That doesn't answer my question?”

“Almost every day.”

“Almost?”

“Every day.”

“I see. And the date of your last vaginal orgasm?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Generalize. Years? Months? Weeks?”

“I don't think I've ever had an orgasm without clitoral stimulation.”

He marked down her answer. “That's not uncommon.”

“I'm aware.”

He stilled, not caring for her change in attitude. Setting the pen on the desk he leaned back. “Is there a problem, Ms. Banks?”

“You're doing this for your own entertainment. I've already answered all of these questions on the application you threw in the trash.”

“And we've established you weren't one hundred percent honest on that form.”

“I was on this part,” she argued.

Drawing in a deep breath, he met her gaze with unyielding challenge. Her willfulness might be a larger issue than her lack of endorsement. “Ms. Banks, I understand the instinct to challenge my decisions, but you're here because you asked to be. I do not appreciate having my choices questioned, nor do I often provide justification for my decisions. Fernweh is my business and it's my job to properly run that business. If this is going to be an ongoing issue for you, we can stop now.”

***

Mr. Duval was definitely not in a humorous mood. She'd either misread him completely or offended him. Contrite, she nodded. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not pointing this out to chastise you, sweet. I'm merely stating a fact. While willfulness can be amusing and admirable at times, brattiness is best suited for playgrounds and daycares.”

She gaped at him. “I wasn't being a
brat
.”

“You were sulking. You still are.”

She grimaced. Her lips pursed to prevent further argument, which really was a struggle. Had she always been a brat? Did other people see her that way?

“Shall we continue?”

Silently, she nodded.

“Name of your last sexual partner?”

She drew in a deep breath. “Zack Shifton. Can I ask why that's relevant?”

“You may. If you've slept together and you're not still with him, you're clearly incompatible. In the chance case that he might be a member of Fernweh, we like to do a background check.”

She supposed that made sense. But . . . “If he were a member, wouldn't it be against the rules for him to sleep with me being that I'm
not
a member?”