Page 13

thirteen

Lucy

I’m walking out of Damien’s office and heading towards the main living area of the penthouse when a tall, lanky man locks eyes with me in the massive, contemporary style kitchen.

His hair is light, most likely bleached, but perfectly quaffed. His mustache is small and trimmed to his clear face, much darker than his styled hair. He wears a casual outfit, but it’s very…fashionable. Colorful. And he smirks at me when he swings a hand towel over his slim shoulder and pauses chopping some vegetables.

“Good afternoon,” I say, my voice shaky and unsure, because I can’t trust anyone that works for Damien Reed or is close to him.

The man looks me up and down, his light pink, manicured nails pearly and short as he turns on the long, iron faucet and starts scrubbing his smooth hands.

“And you are?” he asks, his tone both sassy and annoyed sounding. I feel scrutinized and out of place, but mostly embarrassed.

“I’m-” I stutter, but he cuts me off with a laugh.

“Relax, I know who you are. Damien filled me in,” he says as he turns off the sink and removes a pot from the double stove.

Did he tell you that I’m his ex-wife’s sister and that he’s holding me hostage?

“Shocked to meet his new fiance even though I never met his former wife,” he quips and it’s a burn, one that I feel everywhere.

“It’s okay though.” He winks up at me as he throws the vegetables in a bowl and drains the water from the pot, “I heard she was a complete bitch.” He shrugs and I sigh, because he has no clue.

“I’m Henry, by the way. Private chef.” He says, confidence practically oozing from him as he speaks.

“Lucy,” I say as I walk to the countertop.

“Pleasure,” he says as he tosses the vegetables and reaches up to open the glass door of the white marble cabinet.

“I swear, everything in this place is made of marble,” he says in astonishment, and I roll my eyes, which he catches as he brings down some plates with a raised eyebrow.

“Not your taste?” he says with a mock sneer, and I smirk.

“It’s extravagant and boring all at once,” I say as I look around, this entire house is all in black, white, grays and marble.

Sterile. Cold. Plain.

Except for his art, which is similar and also mildly horrendous.

Da Vinci has no place in a contemporary, modern home, but hey, I wasn’t allowed to go for interior design or art history when I went to school, so what do I know.

“What was that?” Henry asks and I shake my head, not realizing that I muttered that last part out loud.

“Sorry, just rambling I guess,” I say and he smiles as he puts delicious orange-looking pasta and colorful salads on some plates, which are also white.

“Go on. No art school for Lucy?” he quips as I take a seat on one of the iron barstools at the counter.

“No, my choices were either political science or medicine.” I sigh and frown.

“Surely there’s more choices than just those two careers. We’re in New York,” he says in disgust, and I shake my head with a smile.

“Wasn’t up to the school. My parents,” I say, and he gives a look of disgust, which I appreciate.

“Well they sound both extravagant and boring,” he says and I laugh as he slides me a plate, the smells circling my nostrils.

“Penne Alla Vodka and Caprese salad. Enjoy,” he says as he dries his hands on the towel over his shoulder, his bright green eyes locked on me in anticipation.

I take a bite and practically moan in bliss as he smiles with satisfaction. And I continue to devour his food while he cleans up the kitchen.

“So, what did you choose?” he asks as I look at him in confusion, my mouth stuffed full with pasta.

He rolls his eyes and I find that I like his personality.

“The degree. Medicine or-”

“Oh, right. I started with nursing school but never got to finish,” I say and he pauses, waiting for me to finish as I wipe my mouth and wave my hand.

“Long story, not important,” I say as I drink some water that he hands me.

“What would you do? If you could go back?” he asks as he leans forward and places his chin on his hand, eyeing me closely.

He feels…familiar in a way. Reminds me of a friend I once had in high school. A friend my father never allowed me to keep. They were too abstract. Too wild and rebellious.

They were free. Simply put.

“Probably Art Theory or Art History,” I say as he nods.

“What about you?” I ask, and he sighs.

“I came out of the womb cooking. The universe decided this for me,” he says, and I know exactly what he means, it’s how I feel about painting.

But the universe never got to decide for me. Or if it did, then the universe definitely hates me since it left my parents in charge.

“And would you change it? Would you rather do something else?” I ask as he picks at his salad.

“No, I love this, but I also love fashion. I’m going to stylist school part time. Thankfully, clients like Damien pay me enough to do so,” he says with a smirk, and I want to roll my eyes again, but I refrain.

“Yes, he’s very generous,” I say as I hop down from the stool and grab my plate, but he takes it from me.

“No need, it’s why he pays me,” he says, and I nod.

“Thank you. For everything. It was delicious,” I say, and he gives me another one of those cocky winks again.

“Pleasure was all mine. I’ll see you around sometime, Lucy. Don’t get lost in the boring extravagance here,” he says, and I snort as I walk away from the main area.

When I walk to the hallway in search of the library, I stop at the staircase near the elevator. I can’t help but think that it’s a bit odd for a penthouse to have a staircase leading upstairs, but Damien owns this entire building, so I’m sure every abstract renovation is his doing. Still, I can’t help but feel curious. Something is pulling me along each step as I climb the staircase now. I noticed it the other day and couldn’t help but wonder what is at the top of these stairs, but now, I’m going to find out.

And when I arrive, I realize that it his bedroom. His massive, designer, expensive-looking bedroom. I know I shouldn’t snoop, but this room is begging for snooping. It’s something out of a contemporary fairytale. Practically the only room inside of this place that has any style. And mostly because of the chandelier and light walls on either side of the king-sized bed, which also has a floating frame. I could spend all day here, but something else grabs my attention.

A door. A door with red light peeking out from underneath it. The only pop of vibrancy that this place has to offer and I have to inspect it. I have to see what’s on the other side of that door. And even though my blood is running with curiosity, nothing could ever prepare me for what I find once I open this door.

Not only is this room vibrant, but it is…otherworldly. And as I step inside and look at the four poster bed, when I look at the dark walls with light fixtures and chains, when I look at the random contraptions, unique furniture, and glass display cases filled with…toys, I realize this is the most vibrant room of the entire place.

Because it is a sex room.

My jaw practically drops to the floor when I take it all in, and even though it is both intimidating and downright terrifying, I can’t help but walk further inside of it.

I run my hand along the contraptions, some leather, some steel, all black. Some have chains, some have bolts and loops. And it’s the same with the walls, especially the main, upholstered wall that houses many different toys including paddles, whips and even rope.

I walk past the four-poster bed that has even more straps and loops to gaze at the wall full of toys. I have no idea what half of these are used for, but I know a lot of this equipment definitely induces pain. So why doesn’t that knowledge terrify me? Why doesn’t the sight of this place make me want to run for the hills? Why am I intrigued?

I run my hand along the rope that’s dangling from the wall, my fingers twisting around it as I stare at it in fascination. And I wonder what it must feel like when it’s tied tightly around the delicate skin of my wrists.

“Find anything interesting?” I hear Damien ask from behind me and I instantly jump away from the wall with a mortified shriek.

I stare at him now as he leans casually against the door he just closed, locking us in this strange space that my stupid brain is somehow enthralled by. But right now, I feel embarrassed. Because I got caught. Because I found something so intimate that not only belongs to him, but was created by him. For him. For his pleasure. To fuck women that are not me.

And right then, I feel another stupid emotion trying to poke through.

Jealousy.

“I’ll be going now,” I say as I walk away from the wall and towards the door, my head hung in shame.

When I reach him, he doesn’t move to open it. In fact, he blocks my only form of exit entirely. I want to tell him to get out of the way, to look up at him, but I find that I can’t. My face is so hot and red that I know if I do, he’ll either mock me or berate me, which will not only make it worse, but it will make me want to crawl into a hole and never return.

“Look at me,” he orders, but I shake my head.

He knows what he’s doing and I can’t play along with him right now. I can’t be submissive here in this moment. Here in this space.

I’m not the woman this room was designed for. I’m not the woman he even wants in this room to begin with. I’d like to be, which is fucking absurd. It’s absolutely insane that I want to be the woman he binds with that rope. It’s sick that I want to feel his hand mark my skin even harder than last night in the shower.

And it’s not only absurd, it’s irrational.

Because even though I would like to be seductive. Even though I want to bring him to his knees and make him give into the desire that I know we both feel, I can’t. Because in reality, I’m nothing but an amateur. I’m nothing but a fraud. I’m playing the role of a woman that I have no idea how to be.

“I said, Look. At. Me,” he growls, his finger traveling beneath my chin before he pushes it up forcefully, making me gaze into his eyes.

His brilliant eyes that are filled with so much lust, so much want that it staggers me. That it not only makes my face heat up, but causes a wildfire across my entire body.

His face is so close to mine and his scent is wrapping around me like a fierce hug, pulling me into him even further. I’m lost in him now. In his darkening gaze and rich scent, in his everything quite frankly. I’m a moth to a flame and he knows it.

“Do you want to see how it’s used?” he asks, and I don’t question him.

I know exactly what he means.

He’s talking about the rope. The thing I marveled at. The thing I imagined him wrapping around me. And even though I should say no. Even though I should be turning away or running far from him, I don’t.

Because I’m forced to be this man’s wife.

Which means I need to know all of him.

And sadly, I want to know all of him. All of his wants, his needs. All of his darkest desires and tendencies.

I want every single bit of it.

Even though I shouldn’t.

“Yes. Please,” I whisper finally, staring into the eyes of a man that intends to swallow me whole.

I will never be the same after this.