The Businessman's Tie (The Power to Please, Book 1) (13 page)

In the sitting room, The Businessman stood by the bar,
knocking off the last of an amber liquid from a tumbler. He thumped the glass
down then glared at it as if it were to be blamed for thumping.

Apparel-wise, he was immaculately attired again, jacket
donned, tie re-tied. He, unlike me, looked no worse for the wear. He was manly
and sexy; I was tired and plain.

He glanced at me, then up at the clock on the wall. “I
apologize that I have to leave so soon. I planned to have dinner with you, but
my appointment is unavoidable. Are you okay?”

I nodded, headed to the sofa and sank into the soft
cushions, welcome on my sore rear. Let this be over soon, I thought.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked.

I shook my head. Not hurt, if you didn’t count my pride.

“Good. I’m glad you’re okay.”

I stared at my hands and waited.

“I left my card on the table. It’s my private cell number.
I’ve decided I’d like to see you again.”

I wasn’t sure what to feel. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted
to see me again. I failed the interview. Impossible to think otherwise.
Besides, now that I understood things better, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to
see him again.

I wasn’t exactly angry at him. He hadn’t lied to me or hurt
me too badly. He had, in fact, given me the mind-blowing orgasm of my life. But
that didn’t factor into my feelings, not at that moment.

I said nothing, just leaned down and picked up the card. In
simple black lettering it read, “Gibson Reeves,” and underneath that, a phone
number. There was nothing else on the card.

Gibson. His name was Gibson. Finally, a name.

“Call that number,” Gibson said, “if you decide you wish to
continue our association. We can discuss then what I have in mind for us.
Understand that if you do call, you can’t also accept Weston’s offer.”

He didn’t wait for a response. “I’ve got to go. Don’t feel
like you have to hurry away. The suite is yours for the night. They have an
excellent restaurant here, as I’m sure you know. Order whatever you want and
they’ll charge it to the room. Don’t worry about the mess in the bedroom, or
putting anything away. The staff will take care of it.”

He stepped up to me, leaned down and kissed me gently on the
lips. I returned his kiss, because it was expected of me. He tasted like
bourbon.

He stroked a thumb down my cheek. “Nonnie, I realize it
seemed harsh in there, and I didn’t actually intend to ... never mind. That’s
not important. Just know that I think you’re beautiful, and sexy. You please me
in many, many ways.”

“Good night,” he said, and he headed to the door.

I’d been idly turning his card around while he spoke and I
noticed a handwritten scrawl on the back of the card. It was familiar to me,
identical to the scrawl on the bottom of the note I found when I arrived.

Gibson was opening the door when I asked, “What is this? On
the back of the card. I can’t read it.”

“Oh, of course. It’s my name, or rather, the only name for
me that you’ll need, should you decide to call. It’s Sir. For you, my name is
Sir.”

And he left the suite.

I stared at the back of the card. I recognized the word in
the bump and slash of the pen strokes. Sir. Yes, it was there if you looked
hard enough, and already knew what it was.

I felt like I’d been in the hotel for ages. How long had it
been, really? I checked the clock. Not much past eight. Little more than an
hour since he arrived. It didn’t seem possible.

I spent the rest of the evening trying not to think. I
showered then soaked in the bathtub, adding the scented oils I found tucked
away in one of the vanity’s drawers, undoubtedly the toiletries the hotel
usually offered guests, not the plain unmarked ones Gibson left for me. I
washed my hair with the hotel shampoo. It smelled of citrus and cleanliness and
I needed the smell of clean in particular.

I fixed my hair, put on some makeup, mainly just mascara,
the way I usually wore it. When I was digging in my purse for the mascara, I
found The Businessman’s, well, Gibson’s, tie. I’d planned to return it to him.
Nothing to be done about it now.

Regardless of what Gibson told me about the staff, I tidied
up the bedroom and washed the latex toys, then returned them to the black bag.
I wanted them out of my sight. Put away.

I ordered an expensive meal and ate it on the balcony, wrapped
in my bathrobe, comfortable in the cool night air. The lights of the city
streets stretched to the dark horizon.

When I finished eating, I got dressed then returned to the
sitting room. On a whim, I opened my wallet and took out Michael’s card. I laid
it next to Gibson’s on the coffee table.

So strange, those two rectangles of paper. Odd enough that I
was expected to choose between two men. But the cards were strange in and of
themselves. They seemed formal and old-fashioned in this age of cell phones and
texting. They could have simply input their names and numbers into my phone.
Instead, they handed out cards.

Michael’s card was of a good thick stock, pure white, with
black print. The only adornments were a border of shiny gold, and a barely
visible watermark, MW, his initials.

Gibson’s card was also of a good heavy stock, also with
black print, but the color of the paper was a creamy off-white. There were no
adornments of any kind. Even the font was plain.

I stared at the table. Two different cards. Two very
different men.

Two offers.

I couldn’t have them both, Gibson said. I had to choose.

The Playboy or The Businessman.

One or the other.

Maybe neither.

I scooped up the cards and dropped them into my purse. It
was time to go home.

Chapter 9

For more than a week I debated my decision. At work, when I
should have been thinking about hiring new temps for the accounting department,
I daydreamed about Michael and the sting of his belt striking my ass. When I
should have been contributing to a discussion about limiting office waste, I
remembered Gibson’s eyes on me while I masturbated in front of the mirror. Not
exactly thoughts conducive to career advancement.

When I drove, when I shopped, when I cooked, when I showered
... there wasn’t a time which wasn’t interrupted by a memory of Michael or
Gibson, and by speculation about what might happen in the future. How far would
I go?

Michael wanted five nights, five opportunities to explore
the sensuality he and The Businessman had introduced me to. Beyond those five
nights, who knew? My instinct counseled that Michael didn’t commit himself to
anything for long.

Could the same be said of Gibson? I didn’t even know what he
was offering. He only said he wanted to see me again, and this was after he
thoroughly humiliated me with his interview. Whenever I thought of that night,
my skin grew hot all over again and I longed for an escape from the memory of
my mistake. Horrible.

Part of me hated Gibson Reeves. The rest of me remembered
what it felt like when he was inside me, so the hate got smothered under the
memory of his perfect assault.

Michael or Gibson? I couldn’t walk away from them both. As
much as they unnerved me, they also fascinated and tempted me, luring me
further into titillating and forbidden territory. It was impossible not to
pursue their lead.

Eventually, I decided I needed a second opinion. Since I
couldn’t speak with any of my usual friends, what with not wanting to
permanently scandalize them, I considered calling one of the two women I
recently met, Lilly Smith and Elaine Hoyte.

I wasn’t sure how far into the BDSM scene Lilly actually
was. It was likely that she hadn’t been totally honest with me the night we
met. I believed that she had pretended to know less than she actually did,
hoping that I would accompany her to Private Residence. I didn’t think she had
any sinister motives, just that she thought a fib was her best chance to
convince me to go with her.

So, chances were good that Lilly knew more about BDSM than I
did. I suspected she knew something about Michael as well.

Elaine definitely knew Michael, had been kind to me, and
appeared to know a great deal about BDSM. From what I saw of her and her
husband, they were pros, if there were such a thing as professionals in sex
play, which I doubted even as the notion amused me.

I took a chance and called her. I thought it might be
awkward at first, reminding her who I was, and so forth. However, she quickly
put me at ease.

“Nonnie? Of course I remember you. The cute little thing
Michael was so mean to.” The way she said this, though, made it clear that
being mean wasn’t so terrible a thing.

I couldn’t help but smile. “That would be me.”

“You still mad at him?”

“I don’t know.”

She chuckled. “It’s hard staying mad at such a sexy guy. I
oughta know. It’s that way with me and Ron.”

I had no idea how good-looking Ron might or might not be,
what with the hideous hood covering his entire head when I saw him. It struck
me how bizarre that was, and the surprise of it nearly made me end the call
right there.

“I saw Michael a few nights ago, and he mentioned you,”
Elaine said.

“I hope you kept my secret.”

“Your what? Oh, that one-way mirror business. Of course I
did, honey. Anyway, he told Ron and me that he made you an offer, and you
haven’t called him yet.”

“I’m not sure what I want to do. That’s why I called you.”

“Sure, sure. I getcha. Michael’s pretty hot and bothered
about you. Looked put out that you haven’t called. He’s not used to bein’ put
on hold.” Her laugh was a delightful trill.

“I wasn’t trying to get revenge for what he did, but if he’s
put out by me, it serves him right.”

Elaine laughed harder.

“What I called for,” I said, “was to ask you out for coffee,
or drinks, whatever you want. I have a lot of questions and I don’t have anyone
to talk to. You were nice to me and it’s probably an imposition, but —”

“Now don’t you worry about that. I told you to call me,
didn’t I? I’m real happy to help any way I can.”

I sent thanks out into the ether for kind women everywhere.
Elaine and I decided to meet the next evening after work at a quiet lounge she
said was near her home. She prodded me a few more times about Michael, then we
said our goodbyes and ended the call.

I considered what she said about Michael. He was thinking
about me. I couldn’t deny that I was flattered. I wanted to know more, and
Elaine appeared to be the one to tell me.

But there was an obvious place I hadn’t yet looked for
information, a place I’d been avoiding because I wasn’t sure what I was going
to do. It was time to search the web. I booted up my laptop.

I found a handful of Michael Westons in the city, and not
much information on any of them. After some digging, I thought I found the
right one. If I was correct, Michael was the owner of a company called
Spotlight Productions, which appeared to be involved in media somehow; it
wasn’t clear.

The company’s web site claimed to offer a variety of media
services, whatever that meant. I assumed it meant advertising, promotions, that
sort of thing. Mostly, the site was visually flashy but vague in content, using
phrases like “capitalizing peak exposure” and “maximum imprint value.” Sounded
like so much hipster-biz-speak to me, but what did I know?

As for his personal life, his name appeared in several
articles about local events, such as a charitable ball that he attended and a
wedding where he served as a groomsman. They were all several years old. Older
still, he was mentioned as a survivor in the obituary of Lyle Weston, which if
my identification was correct, would mean that Michael’s father had been
deceased for about seven years.

And that was pretty much everything. It didn’t tell me much.

If information about Michael was thin, then information
about Gibson Reeves was virtually nonexistent.

I only found two mentions of a Gibson Reeves associated with
the city. If this was the correct Gibson Reeves, then he was a board member of
a privately-held corporation called Roundtree Holdings. There wasn’t much
information about Roundtree, either. It appeared to be involved with
acquisitions and mergers. How large it was, I couldn’t say, since it didn’t
release financials. Its headquarters were in the city.

The only other mention of Gibson was in relation to a
six-year-old article in the newspaper about a local nursing home. Roundtree
Holdings had purchased the business and the residents were upset that it would
be closed and torn down to make room for new development. Gibson was
interviewed in the article and had only one quote in the piece, stating that
Roundtree had no plans to close the facility.

The article insinuated that there were further fears that
the level of care in the home would deteriorate under its new ownership. From
what I could see of the pictures accompanying the article, it didn’t appear
that the upkeep of the place could get much worse. It looked in shoddy shape,
with peeling walls and open fixtures.

And that was the sum of information about Gibson Reeves. Or
at least, that was all I could find.

I wished I were more savvy about Internet searches. At least
I was reassured that neither of them were dangerous convicts, unless their
records had been expunged. No point in thinking in that direction.

I closed my laptop and went to the kitchen. I stuck a frozen
dinner in the microwave and while I waited for it to heat up, I considered what
this lack of information might mean.

When I took into account the nature of both men’s sexual
predilections, it made sense that they would be private types. I believed that
what went on between consenting adults was their own personal business, but I
knew plenty of people whose opinions differed.

This knowledge kept me from talking to my friends about what
had been going on in my life of late. I didn’t know for certain that they would
disagree with what I’d done, or with what I was debating doing, but I didn’t
want to take the chance of losing friendships over something which might not
become a permanent part of my life.

Secrets are strange things. I didn’t like them, other than
the surprise birthday party sort. Secrets implied shame and guilt, wrongdoing.
I wanted to be done with shame and guilt.

I wondered about my friends. If I told them about Gibson and
me in the hallway of the bar that night, what would they say? If I left out the
part where Gibson tied my hands to the light fixture, and how he spanked the
hell out of me ... what then? What would they say? I’m sure they would laugh
and tease and call me a bad girl, but they wouldn’t be serious about the bad
part. They’d say good for you, have some fun.

But what if I didn’t censor the story, told them everything?
I didn’t know. However, I was positive that if I told them about what happened
with Michael at Private Residence, they would think I’d lost my mind.

Forget, also, any conversation about my second meeting with
Gibson. I thought of describing how Gibson tied me up and fucked me with a
massive dildo. In my mental movie of my telling the tale, I watched my friends
keel sideways out of their chairs, thudding to the floor in a catatonic state.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, but there was no
way to know what they might think. Not for certain. I couldn’t risk it. So I
had a secret. Did that mean I must feel ashamed, too?

The microwave timer beeped. I ate in the living room, on the
couch in front of the television, my usual routine. I was halfway through
dinner and a sitcom when it hit me. Tomorrow evening I would see Elaine Hoyte,
and she would tell me more about Michael. A thrill of excitement shot through
me.

I wasn’t standing still anymore. I was moving forward. To
hell with what others might think. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

Elaine was waiting for me when I arrived at the lounge. It
was one of those throwback places that hadn’t been remodeled in decades. It
looked today like it looked in the 1970s. And the recorded music playing softly
in the background hadn’t changed either; I was fairly certain that the singer
was Jim Croce.

Though the place was shabby, it was generally clean. The
lighting was low, so I could have been wrong about the cleanliness. I chose to
believe I was right.

Elaine noticed my scrutiny. After we greeted one another and
I sat down, she said, “Hope you don’t mind me choosing this old place. I love
it. Makes me feel young because it reminds me of the past. Doesn’t hurt that it
still smells like cigarette smoke. I quit forever ago, but I miss it to this
day.”

I assured her I didn’t mind and she waved over a waitress to
take my drink order. It was different seeing Elaine in street clothes, her
brown hair pinned back in a neat twist, her green blouse conservatively
buttoned all the way to the top. She looked like any other attractive,
white-collar female you might pass on the street, a total departure from the
amply-cleavaged, leather-corseted woman I met at Private Residence.

Elaine wasted no time and got straight to the heart of the
matter. “So, you’ve got me here. What do you most want to know? We’ll start
there.”

“Okay, what do you know about Michael Weston? How long have
you known him?”

“Ron and I have known him for maybe a year. Met him at a
friend’s party. He gave an exhibition on flogging. Had this gorgeous gal with
red hair all trussed up and, well anyway, you don’t want to hear about that
part.”

“That’s probably the part I should definitely hear about,
whether I want to or not.”

“Well, honey, he’s a handsome, single Dom, so he makes
tracks. There’s usually some woman or other ready to spend some dungeon time
with him. I’ve seen him with lots of different ladies in the past year. He
wasn’t serious about any of them, as far as I know.”

“Does he make the same offer to the women he, uh, dates?
Dates doesn’t seem like the right word. The women he does his thing with?”

Elaine chuckled. “Does his thing. Close enough. As to your
question, I can’t say. What did he offer you?”

“Five nights, a five-night commitment to explore whether or
not I’m really into the BDSM thing, into being a sub, whatever.”

Elaine’s eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say? Interesting. I’ve
never heard of him doing that before, but don’t read too much into it. It’s for
sure, though, like I said last night, he definitely wants to see you again.
Looked like he has it pretty bad. Don’t remember him being that way before with
anyone else.”