Because He Torments Me (4 page)

“Stop,” he said, his tone unforgiving.
 
“No more.”

The expression on his face was hard as stone.

“Why did you do this, Callum?” I asked, feeling
the tears start to prick at the back of my eyes.
 
Do not cry in front of him.
 
DO.
 
NOT.
 
“Why did you really
bring me here?”

“I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Sorry?
 
For what?”
 

“For only giving you that one night.
 
It was obvious you wanted more, and I
should have known you wouldn’t have been able to handle an arrangement like
that.
 
I shouldn’t have done that to
you.”

I almost laughed at the absurdity of what he
was saying.
 
“You’re kidding me,
right?”

“No,” he said.
 
 
“I’m not.”

“You came to find me,” I said.
 
“You got me a job interview, you
followed me out of that job interview, you insisted I come to lunch with
you.”
 
My voice was becoming raised,
and a group of women sitting on a bench, their babies in front of them in
brightly colored strollers, looked at me with concern, and I could tell they
were about one second away from coming over here and asking if everything was
okay.
 
“And you did all of that to
say you were sorry?”
 
Either he was
lying, or he was seriously fucked up.
 
Who went out of their way to see someone again just to tell them they
were sorry they couldn’t see them again?

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You wanted to make sure I was
okay?”

“Yes.
 
You seemed fragile when you left me,
Adriana,
you were obviously emotional and upset.
 
You’re young, you’re new to the city,
I
wanted
to make sure you were okay.”

“And that’s why you followed me all over the
city, that’s why you insisted on setting me up with a job I never even applied
for, a job where you
knew
you’d be coming into contact with me?”
 
I couldn’t believe the bullshit I was
hearing.
 

He nodded, his blue eyes serious.
 
“Yes.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine, Callum.
 
In fact, the only thing I need to be
protected from is you.”

I gathered up the rest of my uneaten food and
dumped it into a trash bin as I began hurrying out of the park.

I heard him calling after me.

But I was done playing by his rules, was done
letting him be in charge of everything, letting him decide exactly what he
wanted and just expecting me to go along for the ride.

He was a control freak, used to being in charge
and getting his own way, but he wasn’t going to get it with me, not at the
expense of my own feelings.
 
I was
done being one of his puppets.

I hurried out of the park and ran across the
street against the Do Not Walk sign, dodging the vehicles that zoomed along
Columbus Avenue.
 
The sun, just a
moment ago hidden behind the clouds, came out of nowhere, its bright light
bouncing off the pavement, temporarily blinding me as I reached the curb.

The high heels I was wearing weren’t the most
practical shoes for walking away from a man who was trying to fuck with my head,
and as I hit the curb, my heel slipped and I fell forward toward the pavement.

I stuck my hands out to break my fall,
anticipating the scrape and stinging pain that was about to come to my palms.

But a pair of strong arms wrapped around my
waist, breaking my fall.

“I’m fine,” I protested, but Callum kept his
grip on me, pushing me across the street and under the awning of a building
until my back was pressed up against the window.

“Let go of me,” I said, but he didn’t.
 
He put his hands on the glass behind me,
jailing me under him.
 
“Why are you
doing this?”
 
I asked again, my
voice breaking.
 
“Why, Callum?”

He looked at
me, the
desperation and confusion
evident on his face.
 
He shook his head slightly, like he
couldn’t believe it himself.
 
“I
don’t know,” he said, and then his mouth was on mine, his lips owning me, his
hips pushing hard into mine.

My body sagged and my knees weakened.
 
He was just so big, so strong,
physically, yes, but also in his stature and the effect he had on me.
 
I was powerless to resist him.

It didn’t help that my instinct, my deepest
desire, was to surrender to him.
 
I
wanted to give myself to him, in whatever way he required of me –
sexually, emotionally, spiritually, giving him possession of my body and mind.

His kiss intensified in its passion, his hands
roaming over my ass, awakening the stinging that was still there after the
beating he’d given me at his mansion in Florida.

And then, suddenly, like a strike of lightning
in an otherwise blue sky, I remembered Kiersten, my new boss, and what she’d
said.

If I find out there’s something unprofessional
going on between you and Callum Wilder, if there’s even any hint that the two
of you are engaged in anything inappropriate, I will fire you immediately.

“Callum,” I breathed, pulling away from
him.
 
“Callum, I can’t…”

His mouth found my ear, nipping at my ear lobe,
his hands gripping my ass tighter at my protests, his nails sinking into my
flesh until I hurt.

“Callum!”
 
I pushed him away with all my might, my strength completely ineffectual
against his rock hard body.
 

But my tone must have snapped him back to
reality, because he took a step back from me, looking dazed.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins.
 
His lips were swollen from our kisses,
his hair mussed, his tie loose.
 
He
looked so sexy.

Hell, another night with him might be worth losing
my job.

But it was my hormones talking, and that was
why he was so dangerous.
 
One kiss,
one look, one touch from him, and I would sacrifice everything.
 
And for what?
 
Certainly not true love – in fact,
not even a promise or a possibility of a real relationship.

“You have to leave me alone,” I told him.
 
“You cannot keep doing this.”

He took a step toward me again, but I held my
hand up.
 
“Stop!
 
I refuse to keep being put in these
situations with you.”

“What situations?”

“The situations where you end up saying insane
things to me, then pushing me up against a building and kissing me!”
 
Didn’t he realize this was the second
time he’d done this in less than a week?
 
Normal people didn’t push people up against buildings and kiss
them.
 

Normal people didn’t take someone away for a
weekend and make them sign a contract promising not to ask any personal
questions.
 

Normal people didn’t get someone a job after
tying them to a
bed post
and fucking them senseless.

Callum Wilder was anything but normal, though.

He was extraordinary.

He still hadn’t said anything.
 
He was just staring at me with those
ocean blue eyes, and I realized he was waiting for me to change my mind.

“We are going to keep this strictly
professional,” I said.
 
“If you see
me at work, we will treat each other as work contacts.
 
That is it.
 
You will not contact me outside of
work.
 
Do you understand?”

Tell me no.
 

Tell me you can’t stay away from me
,
tell me you want more
.

Callum swallowed hard, and then he nodded.
 
“Fine.”

“Good.”
 
I was dying a little inside, but I forced myself to stick my hand out to
him, and he took it, his big hand enveloping mine.
 
“I’m looking forward to working with
you, Mr. Wilder.”

His eyes burned bright at me calling him Mr.
Wilder.

I probably shouldn’t have said something so
deferential.

I turned and walked away from him, struggling
to hold back my tears.

And once I was around the corner, I began to
run.

***

His kiss stayed burnt on my lips all day.
 

I couldn’t stop thinking about him, his hands
pushing up my skirt like that right in the park.
 
What would he have done if we’d been
alone?
 
 
My pulse raced at the thought of seeing
him again at work, the anticipation made more intense by the fact that I had no
idea when that would be.

I was desperate to talk to someone about what
had happened, but Nessa worked until six, and then she was accompanying the
doctor she worked for to something called a Botox party, which as far as I could
tell meant she was going to help him inject people’s faces with toxic chemicals
while everyone drank champagne.
 
If
I were having a party, the last thing I would want to do would be to poke
myself with needles during it, but who was I to judge?
 
I’d spent my weekend tied up and bound,
getting whipped and cuffed and fucked by a man who was so much of a mystery it
made my head spin.
 

And then there was the subject of the contract
I’d signed.
 
It had said I wasn’t to
talk about our weekend with anyone.
 
But how could I explain what had happened today if I couldn’t talk about
the things Callum and I had done in Florida?
 
Did I even want to tell anyone those
things?

I took a hot bath in an effort to calm my
racing mind (it didn’t work) and then ordered Chinese food.
 
I turned on Netflix and decided to start
binge watching House of Cards while I waited for my General Gau’s to come.

When the doorbell rang ten minutes later, I
thought my food had come early.

But it wasn’t the Chinese delivery guy.

Instead it was a smartly dressed woman, her ash
blonde hair cut in a stylish bob around her face.

“Adriana O’Connor?” she asked sharply.

“Yes,” I said.
 
“That’s me.”

She motioned over her shoulder toward the steps
that led from my apartment up to the sidewalk.
 
Suddenly three men in suits were rolling
racks of clothes into my apartment, the metal wheels sliding across the carpet.

“Sign here,” the woman said, thrusting a
clipboard at me.
 
Clipped to the top
was a receipt.
 
Bloomingdale’s,
it said in swirly script across the top.
 
Personal Shopping Invoice.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head.
 
“I didn’t… I didn’t order any of these
things.”

“They’re bought and paid for, Ms. O’Connor,”
she said.
 
“All we need is your
signature.”

“But I –”

“Right here,” she said, her voice stern as she
tapped a fingernail impatiently against the receipt.

I took the pen and scrawled my name, and a
second later she was gone, along with the men who’d brought the clothes.

I stared at the rolling
racks
which now stood
in my living room crowding the small space, each one
filled with hanging black garment bags.
 
I took a deep breath and began opening them.
 
Each zipper gave way to a more gorgeous
piece of clothing.
 
There were the
things I’d been about to try on in the dressing room today and much, much more.

Luxurious cashmere sweaters in shades of
caramel and cream, crisp black trousers, wrap dresses in muted prints, suits
with matching blouses, pencil skirts and cardigans – all of it sophisticated
and elegant, the kinds of things I would have picked for myself if I had an
unlimited budget and a working knowledge of fashion.

The
bottom of the racks were
filled with shoes – high heels and flats and even pairs of leather
boots.
 
There was a heavier bag, clear,
and inside were accessories – chunky necklaces and diamond earrings,
bracelets and belts to match any combination of garments.

Taped to the front of the bag was an envelope.

One word was written on the front.