At Mr. Cartwright's Command (20 page)

He adjusts himself, finds my entrance and thrusts deep inside.  My hands ball into tight fists, my body writhing beneath his hard, muscled chest.   My thighs clasp his hips as he buries himself inside me, harder and faster with every grunt.  This isn't gentle, tender lovemaking.  He fucks me like he needs me, or like he can't breathe without me.  He fucks me like it's the first time, and the last.

My body shudders beneath him, and even my own high pitched gasps sound as if they're coming from miles away.  His body goes limp in my arms.  I cling tight to him as we lay together in silence.  All I can hear is white noise and the faint sound of his breathing.  I can feel him inhale and exhale, slower over time against my chest, his lips softly brushing my collarbone for God knows how long.  Until finally he untangles himself from me and slides beside me.

“You're still going to leave me,” he says, pushing me on to my side and curling his body around mine. It's not so much a question, or even a realization; it's more like a resignation.  I let out a sound that's little more than a whimper. His hand slides under my arm, taking my breast and sliding over my nipple.  Just the feeling of him touching me like this is enough to make me clench and fidget in his arms. 

My hand comes to rest on top of his as he wraps his mouth around my shoulder.  He slides my leg forward with his own, and I feel him push into me again.  I let out a moan, his lips moving to the back of my neck as he rocks me into the sheets. 

*

Mr. Cartwright's lips move while he sleeps.  He lies next to me, on his side, his bare shoulders bathed in the golden light of dawn.  He looks so perfect, vulnerable and silently murmuring to me in slumber.  I watch him for a while, not wanting to stir or wake him until I have to.

I perch myself on the edge of the bed, stretching my sore muscles and gently messaging the kink in my neck.  I glance back behind me to make sure Mr. Cartwright is still fast asleep—his lashes flutter but he doesn't move a muscle.  With a deep sigh I carefully retrieve my clothing from the floor and pull them back on; underwear first, and then my skirt.  The bed creaks and moves behind me just as I attempt to pull on my top.

His hand is on my hip first, and then my bare waist.  He slides across the bed until he's kneeling behind me with his knees framing my hips.  His lips are soft against the back of my neck, brushing my skin like a feather as he encircles my waist with his arms.  He pulls me back into the warmth of his body, his mouth opening and taking in my skin.

How does he make me crave him, every single time, with something as simple as a touch and a kiss?  I breathe with him, letting my body melt into his.  He touches my shoulder with his lips, nearly devouring my skin as he makes his way up to the nape of my neck. 

“I have to go,” I tell him.  It's weak and unconvincing.  He stops but he doesn't let me out of his embrace.

He kisses my neck, and then my jaw, and then my cheek.  I turn towards him, ready to repeat what I said before, but when I look into his eyes I can't. They're different now— soft and quiet, and his gaze is unwavering.  He presses his lips against mine, his tongue slipping past my tongue, and he suckles my lip between his. 

Our foreheads rest against each others, as he plants another chaste kiss on my lips.  “Tamara, I love you,” he says.

Is it possible to physically feel your heart break?  I think so.  Hearing someone tell you they love you should be a joyful event. It's something I've yearned to hear from someone—hell, anyone—for far too long.  But now I wish he'd take it back.  He knows I can't stay.

I kiss him one last time, deep enough that we'll both feel it on our lips for days to come, and then I untangle myself from him.  I gather my things and adjust my clothes as I make my way to the door.  With my hand on the knob I hesitate.  I wish there were something I could tell him.  I could tell him the truth, that I love him too, but that would make things worse.  Or I could tell him I don't love him so that he can finally let me go, but that would be too cruel.

I turn back, but not far enough to actually look him in the eye, and simply say, “Goodbye, Mr. Cartwright.”

O
ne year later

“
T
amara. Tamara! Tamaraaaa!”

Oh God, what now? 

Marcus wailing my name is always a bad sign.  I swear, I love him like a brother but he needs to get his act together. He and I met two weeks to the day after I arrived in London.   He and his younger sister were first generation Nigerian Americans backpacking through Europe to celebrate her high school graduation.  I guess you could say it was our accents that drew us together in the shitty hostel we shared.  The three of us hit it off and spent a whirlwind three days together in the city, until he drunkenly let it slip that his sister would be going back home alone.  I was travel weary at that point, having trekked through Paris, Italy, and Germany.  Money was dwindling, despite the hole in the wall accommodations I chose.  It was time to set down some roots. And the rest was history.

I throw my books and coursework down on the dining room table and make my way down the hall,  passing my room and heading straight for his.

“You're still in bed?” I say when I find him wrapped up in his covers, windows blacked out with heavy curtains, and his arm thrown over his eyes.

“Yes.”

I glance down at my watch. “Its 3pm.”  Not to say I'm surprised.  Marcus is two years younger than I am, and his family back home was pretty conservative. He had to hide a lot of who he really was for many years, so I can't blame him for finding himself now. But maybe he could tone it down a bit on weekdays.

“Yes, I know, I'm sick.”

I roll my eyes and say, “You're
drunk
, there's a difference.”

“I'm not drunk, I'm hungover.”

“In the middle of the week.”

“Monday's are a bitch, honey.”

I chuckle and reply, “Yeah, except it's Wednesday.”

He groans loudly, throwing his arm over his eyes,  “Can you get me some black coffee or some Gatorade or something?”

“No! I'm not your personal servant!”

“Pretty please, just one cup?”

“Alright, fine. One cup, but this is the last time,” I say as I exit the room and head for our tiny kitchen. I shake my head, thinking about how badly he needs to get his shit together as I prepare a mug of instant coffee for him, and return to his room with it minutes later.

“Here you go. Be careful because it's piping hot,” I say as I hand the mug to him. 

He pulls himself up until his back is propped against the wall, still grimacing from the pain with his eyes half shut.

“Thank you, baby,” he says as he reaches for it and carefully takes a sip.

“Hey, T?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“Could you maybe do one more little tiny favor for moi?”

What have I gotten myself into?  “No.”

He points to his closet.  “Could you take that dress to set for me today, pretty please?” he asked anyways.

I flash him a warm smile and reply, “You know I love you, Marcus, but no.”

“But it has to be on set in like, one hour, and there's no way I'll be up and able to function by then!  I'm going to be in so much trouble with Sarah if that dress is late!”

Sarah is Marcus's boss; she's a pretty successful stylist in London, and Marcus has been interning as her assistant for the past couple of months.  Something tells me that gig isn't going to last much longer.

“No! I can't keep picking up the slack for you.  Besides, can't one of your friends take it.”

“You're my friend, T.  You're my only friend.”

Now that is a damn lie.  “What about your boyfriend?”

He pauses.  “Robert and I broke up.  I told you that.”

“Again? I can barely keep track.” 

“Hah.  Funny.  Real fuckin' funny,” he replies sarcastically.

“I'm sorry,” I say, and I mean it because he seems pretty sad about it.  “Alright, fine. How far away is the set?”

He instantly peps up.  “Just a few stops away on the blue line.”

“And it's just the one dress?”

“You betcha,” he replied.

I let out an exasperated sigh.  “Alright.  But this time is the last time.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!  I promise I'll never ask for another thing from you as long as I live!”

Now that right there was a damn lie too.  “You don't have to thank me,” I reply with a chuckle.  “Just text me the address so I know where I'm going.”

*

Just a few stops on the blue line my ass.  It takes over an hour on the train just to get across town, and then a good 20 minutes of walking and searching to find the damn lot.  All with a heavy dress in tow, that only feels like it's getting heavier as each minute passes.  Never again, I tell myself.  I'll have a bone or two to pick with Marcus when I get home.

The actual shoot location is a huge warehouse that's rather tucked away in a desolate area. Not exactly safe, and not exactly the type of place I'd go alone by choice, especially since I'm still adjusting to living abroad.

I eye the surroundings and the door to the warehouse, making sure everything appears safe and normal. I can hear commotion coming from inside and I reluctantly push the door open, having no idea what I'm about to step into.

It looks like pretty much any other abandoned warehouse on the inside, except built up to be an intentionally dingy looking set for a fashion shoot.  There are giant studio lights everywhere making the place a hell of a lot brighter than it should be.  People and models are rushing by like there is a fire, and not one of them seems to have the time to pay me any mention.  I scan their faces as best as I can—I don't know Sarah, but Marcus has shown me her photo a couple of times; I'm pretty sure I'd be able to pick her out of a crowd. However, I'm not having too much luck thus far. 

A young girl just a few feet away catches my eye.  She has on a headset and seems pretty focused. 

“Hi,” I say as I approach her.

She looks up at me, eying me from head to toe.  “Model's changing area is that way,” she replies shortly, pointing to the other side of the room.

“I'm looking for Sarah, actually.  I'm here to drop off a dress.”

“Oh,” she says, clearly preoccupied with some other matter.  “Well last time I saw her she was back with the models so maybe you can find her there.”

“Alright, thanks,” I reply, heading off into the direction she points. 

There's a curtained-off area on the south side of the building, which I figure is the area she referred to, based on a number of half-naked models scurrying in and out.  I peep my head in and see a guy with glasses pinning a model into a dress. Great, he must be Sarah's other assistant.

“Are you here for the shoot?” he asks when he notices me.

“No, I'm just looking for Sarah. Any idea where she might be?”

He shakes his head. “Haven't seen her in a while. Last time I saw her she was up front with the photographer.  Maybe ask him?”

I suppress the urge to groan.  “Alright,” I reply as I back out with the gown slung over my arm. They sure do love giving a girl the run around here.

It's not hard to spot the photographer—there's only one guy standing up front and he's poised behind the camera.  I swear, if he doesn't know where Sarah is, I'm just leaving the gown with him.

“Excuse me,” I say loud enough to be heard of over all the noise as I approach him.  He doesn't bother to turn around from the camera to face me.  “Um, I'm assuming you're the photographer?  I'm supposed to drop this gown off with Sarah and someone told me you might know where she is?”

He sounds agitated when he starts to speak.  “I have no idea where Sar—“

My eyes flare when he turns and I fully see him.  And he's speechless when he sees me.

“Mr. Cartwright?” My voice spikes.  I never expected to see him again; I sure as hell didn't expect to see him here, doing this.  What was he doing here?

He stares me down for a long time without speaking a word. He looks at me like I'm a ghost or some sort of phantom of his past, which I guess I am, when you think about it. 

“It's
Owen
,” he says softly.

It's been a little over a year since I've seen him and he looks the same, yet completely different, if that makes any sense at all.  His usual tailored suit and well pressed button down are gone in favor of blue jeans and a v-neck that clings to his chest all too well.  And a dark five o'clock shadow lines his perfectly sculpted jaw.  I suck in a breath as my mind goes to mush for a split second.  Mr. Cartwright—I mean Owen—somehow managed to get even better looking.

“I...what are you doing here?” I blurt out.

“I suppose I could ask you the same.”

And then it clicks. I suddenly realized what was happening. This was all a hoax. An elaborate hoax so that Mr. Cartwright could find me again, and Marcus was in on it.

“You know what? It doesn't matter,” I reply, feeling frazzled and my mind reeling with a million different emotions. I fumble with the dress and shoved it at him.  “Here's your gown,” I mumble before turning and rushing out of the building as fast as I can.  I think I bump into and brush past at least a dozen different people, but I don't care as long as I get out of there. And out of there fast.

The second I made it outside I am practically gasping for air.  Over the course of just a few minutes, my whole world has been sent into a tizzy.  Mr. Cartwright is the last person I expected to see, especially here, and I wasn't prepared to face him again.  I have spent an entire year getting over him and trying to make myself forget.  I thought I was pretty successful at it too, but now I feel as if that's all undone and my world is shattered.

“Tamara.”

I would know his voice anywhere, and I feel my whole body tense the moment I hear him say my name from behind me. 

I spin around, my hair whipping my face as I go.  “How did you know I was living in London?” I asked with an accusatory tone.

He approaches with hesitation.  “I didn't. Believe me I'm just as shocked to see you as you are to see me.”

I take a step back, my eyes narrowing as I go.  “Then what are you doing here?”

“I'm working.”

“Working? On a photo shoot?”

“Yes, I'm the photographer, in case you didn't notice the camera I was standing behind.”

My lips quiver but nothing comes out.  Mr. Cartwright never quite told me what he did outside of the modeling agency, but I know photography wasn't it.

I glance down and catch a glimpse of his hand and realize there's no ring on his finger.

“I didn't marry her, if that's what you're wondering,” he says.  “I couldn't do it.”

I look up at him with bewilderment.  “But why?”

“You're shocked that I didn't go through with marrying someone I hate?  Glad to know you have a lot of faith in me.”

“Can you really blame me?” I ask.

He raises his shoulders. “I suppose not.”

“And your inheritance?”

“Gone.  All of it,” he says, and he seems strangely proud.

It was hard to imagine him as anything other than a rich guy in a fancy suit.  As good as he looks now, it's still bizarre to see him this way.  It's like talking to a completely different person.

“So are you poor now like the rest of us?” I ask.

He laughs. “Not exactly,” he remarks cheekily. 

“And you randomly decided to become a photographer?” Something didn't add up.  The change seems too random and out of nowhere.

“The only reason I didn't become a photographer to begin with was because of my father. And I seem to remember a certain someone encouraging me not to let my father control me anymore.”

My mind flashes back to the first time we met in his penthouse, and how he told me of his love for photography.  The last thing I ever expected from him was that he'd actually pursue it. 

“So you aren't tracking me.”  I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed...

“No, Tamara.  You can sleep soundly tonight knowing a crazed billionaire isn't stalking you halfway across the world.”

Now I feel a bit silly; silly and slightly embarrassed.  “Oh. I thought you were...”

He shook his head. “I stopped chasing things that clearly don't want me a long time ago.”

My heart feels heavy in my chest when he says those words.  The hurt in his eyes is evident, as hard as he tries to hide it.  That's when I realize that I broke him.   I broke Owen Cartwright's heart, and a year, an engagement, and an entire continent apart hadn't put it back together yet.

Truth is, I never stopped thinking about him.  It was harder at first, but over the past handful of months I learned to make room for the pain and cope with the emptiness.  I successfully managed to ignore it and push it back to the recesses of my mind.  But it was always there.  Yet, for some reason, I assumed he forgot about me a long time ago.

I take a step towards him.  “Mr. Cartwright, I—“