Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (3 page)

“Please let me look at you,” I whispered. More than anything in the world, I wanted to see him.

“No.”

A minute later he pulled away, got up off the bed, leaving me alone in the center of it. I turned on my side and curled into a ball. I was still partly dressed, the top of me, anyway.

“Will you unbind my hands?” I asked.

“Yes. Just before I leave.”

“Now, please.”

“No, because the first thing you’ll do is take off the mask so you can see me.”

He was right. I would do that.

“Are you someone famous?” I asked. “Some famous politician, or movie star?”

“Yes.”

The way he said
yes
, I knew he was lying again, yanking my chain, shoving my desire to know him back in my face.

“Whatever,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care. What does it matter? What does anything matter?”

“Are you PMSing? Shut up.”

He was such an asshole, such a jerk. So good in bed. I hated him. Hate, hate, hate. I lay there honing my hate, hoping he wouldn’t want anything else from me now that he’d come.

The bed dipped and he was back, lying behind me. He was dressed again, smelling of understated but yummy cologne. I felt his lips against my nape.

“How am I going to go home without a skirt?” I asked.

“Shut up.”

“I can’t just traipse naked through the W Hotel lobby and out onto the—”

His hand closed over my mouth, firm fingers muting me. Big hands. He was either a big person, or he seemed big because he was so aggressive and mean.

“You’re mean,” I whispered against his fingers.

He kissed my nape and my earlobes, and my shoulders, and my spine. His lips were warm and strong, and his face was smooth, just a hint of stubble. I hated him, but this was kind of pleasant after all the violence. His fingers massaged my hips and ass.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

I couldn’t say thank you, since one hand was still over my mouth, and I couldn’t return the compliment, since I couldn’t see him, but in my mind W was dark and seductively handsome. In the twilight of my orgasm, my whole body relaxed. I think I was half asleep by the time he leaned away and said, “I’m going.”

Going...no. “I need clothes,” I said.

“I’ll send up clothes. Next time, bring something to change into. And you can have this room for the night, if you want to stay here.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“And there’s not going to be a ‘next time.’ Forget it. No way.”

He made a soft, mocking sound. “Was it that bad for you?”

Was it? No. He was the bringer of violent and shimmering orgasms. But... “You cut up my favorite outfit.”

“Jesus Christ.” It was the first time he’d really raised his voice, and it startled me. “Your fucking outfit. I’ll bring a replacement to our next session.”

“You won’t be able to find a replacement. And we’re not having another session.”

“I know where to find one, even if you look shitty in that color. Come on.”

He hauled me off the bed and guided me across the room, and left me there. I heard a few more sounds while I stood, blind and shivering, trying to see his actions in my mind. Shoes on? Snapping a briefcase? The whisper of a necktie? I jumped when he touched my arm. His other hand wrapped around my neck as he held me against him.

“Listen, Chere. I like you. You’re reckless and conflicted. Your body is perfect and your breasts are real. I want to see you again.”

I leaned as far away from him as I could. “No.”

“And next time,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “you will bring the eye mask, and extra clothes.”

“I’m not going to see you again.”

“The correct answer is
Yes, Sir
.”

I stood very still with my lips clamped together. After a moment he put his hand against my cheek. He’d slapped that cheek—twice—but this was a caress. “Don’t be an angry hooker,” he said. “I adore you.”

I felt metal against my wrists, and my hands were cut free.

“Don’t touch that mask until you hear the door close,” he said. “The fantasy’s better, anyway.”

What fantasy? He shouldn’t flatter himself, but I stood where he left me and did as he instructed. I didn’t move until I heard the door’s latch click into place. My fingers reached up to the mask and then fumbled behind my head at the buckle. I wanted it off, but in some way I was afraid to take it off. I didn’t know what I’d see. Shreds of my clothing? The walls drenched in blood?

No, none of that, just a clean and empty luxury hotel room. The bed was made and my shoes were arranged neatly beside it. My skirt and panties were gone. I pulled the two sides of my blouse closed. He could have just unbuttoned it. Asshole. At least my jacket was in one piece.

Jesus, what had just happened?

I went to the window and looked out from the eighth floor, like I could pick him out from the people below. Nope. I could pass him on the street tomorrow and I wouldn’t know him, but he would know me. I found that idea horrifying.

I went into the bathroom and took a thirty minute shower, and washed all of W off me. Every slap, every kiss. By the time I got out and put on the robe, someone was knocking on the door. Thank God he’d come through with the clothes—a casual dress and scarf from a boutique across the street. The pale amber-beige looked perfect with my light brown eyes. I still had no panties. Fuck him. Good taste didn’t make him any less of an asshole.

I got dressed, put on my shoes, and took one last look around the room at the W Hotel.

And for some reason, I made sure the mask was tucked in my bag before I left.

I left the hotel and took a cab to my place in Tribeca. I needed my boyfriend. I needed normalcy and safety, and the knowledge that the date was really over. I needed home.

I didn’t usually let clients rattle me, but on the way up to our loft on the third floor, I admitted to myself that I was rattled. Nothing terribly bad had happened. He’d hurt my nipples, yes. He’d slapped me. He’d called me an idiot. He’d also kissed me and given me insanely strong orgasms. My brain was officially exploded. And my pussy...

“Simon?”

I put down my keys. The loft was dark, but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes Simon painted in the dark. Other times, he waited weeks for the perfect light to work on a painting. Maybe he was out with some friends.

I hated when it was quiet like this.

“Simon?”

I walked through the living room, past the kitchen and the big cement table a friend had given us last year. Simon’s studio was in the back, near the floor-to-ceiling windows. I found him sprawled on the low couch against the wall, a paintbrush still dangling from his fingers. A few fresh drips mixed with the history of drips on the rough concrete floor.

He was working on something huge, twenty feet long. All his works were huge, although some were huger than others. This one took up an entire wall. Dark ochre and aquamarine streaks mixed with black, a frenzy of heavy color on the canvas. It was striking, even if I didn’t get it. I’d never gotten Simon’s art, but I loved the artist.

I loved him enough to let him sleep. I watched him for long minutes, feeling my soul calm. He looked so innocent, like an angel. The first time I’d met him at a friend’s party, that’s what I thought.
He’s an angel.
Long, wispy black hair, coal black eyes, an aquiline nose, and dark brows that had arched skyward when he looked at me. All he needed was wings. He’d touched my white-blonde hair while I stared at his night-black hair. We’d stayed up talking that entire first night, and spent the following day in bed.

When was the last time Simon and I had spent an entire day in bed? Life. It got away from you.

I tried to take the brush from his fingers without waking him, but he stirred and smiled at me.

“Baby, you’re back.”

“Don’t wake up,” I said.

He stretched and looked at me. Blinked. “You look pretty.” He reached to touch my breasts, but they still hurt, and he was high. I nudged his hand away.

“Don’t wake up,” I said again. That had become our life, Simon not waking up. He said he needed the narcotics for his art, the pills, the coke, the syrup, whatever he was taking on any given day. I’d have to lecture him later, because he wouldn’t remember anything I said to him now.
You can’t change him
, my friends said.
You can’t fix him. You have to wait until he hits rock bottom.
The thing was, most of those friends were also operating in a drug-fueled haze.

His eyes closed. I stood and left him, and dropped his paintbrush in the solution with the others.

I went into the bedroom and took off the dress W had given me, balled it up and tossed it on the floor. I hung up the jacket, even though the matching skirt had been destroyed. What did it say about me, that out of everything W did, cutting up the skirt seemed the worst offense?

I hadn’t grown up with a lot of money, so I valued my belongings, especially my expensive belongings. I collapsed on the bed with a sigh, and scrolled through my contacts to Henry’s number. I had to call three times before he picked up.

“Yes, love. What is it? How did your date go?”

“Shitty,” I said.

“Hold on.” I heard him speaking to someone, heard titters and cooing. His bed was always full of girls. If Simon was an angel, Henry was a God, or at least a minor deity. Golden bronze, beach tan, beach body, even though he was more businessman than Bahamas.

“All right. Tell me,” he said when he got back on the line.

“He was an asshole.”

“Aren’t most of our clients assholes?”

“No. Some of them are nice. This one wasn’t nice.”

“He tips well. Jesus, Chere, what did you do for him? He left you a hell of a gratuity.”

I waited. He waited. When he spoke he sounded kind, and concerned. “Did something happen? If I have to go after this fucker, I will.”

He didn’t mean going after him in a legal sense. He meant in a sense of calling his guys and making sure that W understood he’d behaved like an asshole. But that kind of action was reserved for extreme circumstances. W hadn’t really damaged me, not any more than I could bear, as he’d promised.

“He was just weird,” I said. “He wouldn’t let me see him. He wouldn’t tell me his name. It really bothered me.”

“About that...”

“Have you seen him? What does he look like?”

“I don’t know. He dated a few escorts through Prom Queen in Vegas, and they told me he was okay. Crazy about privacy, but okay. I’m sorry he was an asshole, and that the two of you weren’t a good match.”

“He was just...not my usual type of customer. I mean...”

Henry let a few moments pass before he prompted me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that he was really dominant, really commanding.”

“Maybe Nina would be a better match for him.”

Nina was our resident pain-slut BDSM enthusiast. She’d probably love W. He’d probably love her.

“I guess I’ll give him one more chance,” I said. I didn’t want him to date Nina, because then he’d be getting exactly what he wanted, and I didn’t want him to get exactly what he wanted. Jerk. Plus he still had to replace my skirt, not that I believed he was really going to do that.

“So am I to understand it’s okay for this client to schedule another date with you?”

“
This client
,” I repeated with an edge in my voice. “What’s so fucking special about ‘this client,’ that we can’t use his name?”

“I only have a pseudonym. Do you want it?”

Gah.
“No. Yes. Fuck it. Yes.”

“E. E. Cumming.”

“He’s hilarious.”

Henry made a soft sound. “He certainly seems to have captured your fancy.”

I hated Henry sometimes, for the way he saw through me, the way he intuitively knew all his escorts and what made them tick. He was like an uncomfortably sexy father, only half the age.

“He hasn’t captured my fancy,” I said. “But he apparently tips well, and he’s not boring.”

“Speaking of boring, Mr. Linguard is hoping to see you next Tuesday night.”

Mr. Linguard was incredibly boring and incredibly sweet. He was just what I needed after the W trauma. “Yes, book him. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m sure he’ll look forward to it too.” I heard the tap-tap-tap of computer keys. Another date, another dollar. “Chere,” he said when he finished, “are you absolutely certain you’re okay with seeing Mr. Cumming again? Nina would be happy to take him.”

I made some vague, ambivalent noise that Henry would recognize as a total front. “I already have his stupid blindfold, to protect his stupid privacy, so I might as well do the date.”

“I imagine that blindfold requirement won’t last forever. He’ll probably reveal himself once he trusts you.”

I snorted. “Why do I have to earn the ‘honor’ of looking on his magnificence? That’s bullshit. He’s the one paying me.”

“I know. Don’t let it get to you. It’s probably just an ego thing.”

Well, W had ego in spades. I hardly knew him, but I knew his ego went far beyond the usual size. Along with his cock.

I heard feminine voices in the background, and Henry’s muffled reply. “Sorry, Chere,” he said. “I have to go.”

“Have fun.” I hung up and buried my face in my hands. For the second time that night, I had to ask myself “What the fuck just happened?” I’d called Henry to complain that W was an abusive, asshole client, and instead I’d signed myself up for a second date. Only to spite him, I told myself. He would have liked Nina so much better. Fucker. He wasn’t getting Nina. He was getting me.

The Viceroy was one of my favorite hotels. So classy, so elegant. It felt wrong to show up there braless, in the casual amber-beige dress W had bought me. But if he was going to cut shit off me, it was going to be his own shit he’d purchased.

I mean, fuck, I shouldn’t have even been here. I should have let Nina come instead and do her thing. I could have handed off the eye mask to her. Instead I was fastening it onto my own eyes and knocking on the door. We were high in the air, nineteenth floor. Would have been nice to actually see the view, instead of dark leather blackness. Unlike the first time, I didn’t smile when he opened the door.