MATCHMAKER (A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance) (22 page)

During the session, he’d lost his cool a couple of times. But he remained powerful. I saw him looking at my legs. I imagined him spreading them, touching them. I imagined bending over my desk while he pounded me from behind. Goosebumps ran up and down my skin. I nearly swallowed some water as I lost myself more and more in this fantasy.

“I know you’ve already figured it out
,” I imagined him saying.

“How’s that?”
answered Fantasy-Me.

“You know I want to take you. Right on your damn desk,”
Fantasy-Bill answered.

“I do. Fuck, I do,”
Fantasy-Me gasped.

I smiled, enjoying my coy dialogue. I was a master at making myself come. I put the toy inside myself and moaned, not caring who heard me, knowing very well the walls were thin. Right now was my time to be bad. Right now, I could be whomever I wanted. I could indulge myself in this fucked up fantasy, and it wouldn’t harm anyone. I was as ready to be rid of it as I wanted it to last, wanted to feel it in excruciating detail.

Every moment of touching myself in that tub filled me with both shame and fulfillment. I wondered what his cock looked like. I could tell, based on his demeanor, that it was a big fucking cock. He was ‘cocky’—pun intended. I had a talent for being able to tell how big someone’s dick was. All of my friends were awed by it. There was something about the way men held themselves that told me. His must be big. Not too big, but big enough that he had another significant reason to be confident on top of his success.

I moved the toy in and out, my free hand tightening on the edge of the tub. I imagined him with me right now, his rough lips all over my neck. I imagined his voice, hot and rough, tickling my ears as he fucked me. The familiar feeling of orgasm began to rush over me. I moved my head back and forth, closing my eyes. My mews of pleasure became louder and louder until I exploded, my body convulsing in the water, my mind never leaving the thought of his eyes.

After, I scrubbed my skin, feeling like I had committed some wrong. The relief that followed, however, left me in a kind of calm twilight I couldn’t deny. This toy—I couldn’t burn it, but I could throw it out. I entered the dark kitchen and threw it carelessly in the trash, noting how dumb it looked mixed in with vegetable peels and plastic wrapping.

Before I settled into bed, I turned on the TV to a main news station.

“No way…” I said to myself. “No way.”

It was him again. I might as well have been facing him in person. I pulled the covers up over my neck, wanting to hide from the humiliation of my fantasy. He was doing the interview. That’s right—the billboard had read that there would be an interview…

I had broken one of my rules, unable to pry my eyes off the television. A well-known news anchor shook his hand as they began.

“So what’s it like to be you?” he said.

“It’s a ride. A fun one. Sometimes bumpy, but fun.”

A woman sat near him, a redheaded woman who looked to be my age. My stomach churned with jealousy and curiosity. Who was she?

The anchor wondered, too. “And who do you have here tonight?”

“Fiona, my fiancée.”

“What the fuck am I thinking?” I asked myself out loud. It didn’t matter that he had a fiancée, because he was first and foremost my client.

“Millions of people want to know—what is the key to your success?” the anchor asked, moving on.

“The key is that there is no key. You just have to work hard. Actually… That’s a lie. I’ll be honest and say that the key is to know the right people. You have to work smart. I know a lot of guys who go in working hard and end up with nothing,” he explained.

“So working hard isn’t a good thing?” the anchor joked.

“It’s good for you, but don’t let anyone fool you into thinking that hard work alone means money. It doesn’t.”

“Wise words. Now, tell me more about this lovely woman you have here.”

This was too much for me. I shut off the TV, not understanding my anger. I’d just met him, he was my client, and I’d promised myself it was over. I wasn’t one to bask in my own torturous love psychosis, either. I was weary of it, love that most of us delude ourselves into when we meet someone exceptional who, despite our efforts, we have no real chance with.

Once someone became my client, I could never be anything but their counselor. This filled me with hope. I began to separate myself again. He was my client, so it didn’t matter who he was with. It didn’t matter at all…

Something came over me. I got up and fastened my robe. I went downstairs to the garbage and rummaged through it, thankful no one could see me. My hand grasped the dildo. I put it in the sink and washed it
thoroughly.

No need to waste a good dildo,
I thought. I felt powerful taking it back. If a girl didn’t have control over what sex toys she wanted to keep, then what did she really have any control over?

I took it upstairs and put it gently back into the toy box, which was filled with various toys, restraints, and condoms. I refused to have a boring sex life. As a teenager and younger adult, I had been promiscuous. I did things I shouldn’t have done, things that had come to hurt me.

High school had been hard for me. I lost my mind when I was nineteen and slept with every man I could find. No amount of sex could fill the hole, though. I managed to scoot through my psychology courses with just over a B. I shone in grad school, when some of my raunchy behaviors were left behind. Behaviors born of pain. I never wanted to return to that part of myself.

I got my tea from the bathroom and sipped it. It was cold but still tart and good. I walked into my office, and my shelves looked a tad barren. I regretted not getting a book at the shop, but it was good that I saved the money, at least. I powered on my laptop and sat at my oak desk, looking at the assignment due this week—the main structure of our doctoral thesis.

I had mine all mapped out. On a cork board above my desk was my thesis, plastered with papers and sticky notes.

The Boundary Point,
it read at the very top.

“The importance of keeping ethical boundaries with clients.”
I read out loud to myself, my own words sounding fake in my mouth.

I’d created the boundary point, the point of no return. Once a therapist crosses it, they’re done. My thesis intended to clearly map out the stages of the boundary point so that a counselor can avoid reaching it at all costs. Once a therapist crossed it, his or her license was at risk, as well personal dignity.

“Stage one of the boundary point begins with a formal process of self-reflection. A counselor’s self-awareness is paramount to his or her other qualities. Once this awareness is established, examined, and documented, it is imperative to continue to monitor one’s self-talk. Internal dialogue is often the first place where the boundary point is crossed, and therefore must never be disregarded.”

Looks like you already crossed stage one. Now stop,
I commanded myself.

I felt more reassured after reading my notes. I could and would stop, especially since the fantasy was complete.

I pushed my chair in and turned out the light, ready to sleep this time. By the time I looked at my phone, it was eleven p.m. Kent had sent me two messages.

“Did you make it home safely?”

“Katie?”

Bill

Work had always been my safe space. I was the king at work. Even when I was stuttering and fucking up my most recent business deals, I found structure and order at the office—something I regretted needing, but knew that I did nonetheless.

This morning—about a week later—I’d taken a nice cool shower. I whistled to myself as Gretta picked Zach and me up. Fiona was already gone, shopping or something, as fucking usual. Gretta and I dropped Zach off at school. Also as per usual, he had barely looked up from his phone, even when I ruffled his hair and said goodbye.

“Kids these days,” I muttered dryly. Gretta giggled in response.

Gretta and I stopped at my favorite bagel place, where I got my usual, a plain bagel with cream cheese and freshly squeezed orange juice. I also got coffee—good, bland, black New York coffee. Nothing fancy. There was something so fucking amazing about simple things like that. Orange juice tasted amazing with a bagel and cream cheese, and washing it down with a hot cup of Joe… damn fine.

“Good Morning, Mr. Carson,” my secretary said, offering to take my coat.

I nodded politely as I handed it to her. “Today, let all my calls go to voicemail,” I told her. She nodded, though visibly confused.

I put my food on my desk and stretched, enjoying the amazing view of the city. The only person I planned to speak to throughout the day was Fiona. I had taken out a credit card in her name, and the nut wanted to increase the limit.

Women,
I thought to myself, rolling my eyes
. It’s never enough.

I enjoyed my bagel, alternating between bites and typing on my computer. I listened to all of my calls go to voicemail, knowing very well they could wait. In fact, if I wanted to, I could pay someone to do all of this shit while I ran the company from a distance. Might as well, right? Why did I even work, anyway? Besides the feeling of productivity and power, I had nothing to gain from it.

My day was going so well, in fact, that I nearly forgot about my Sophia-lookalike counselor. Chalk it all up to a bad dream, though I had a session with her again tonight.

I went to the bathroom at some point around noon. As I was taking a piss at the urinal, a guy walked in. I didn’t recognize him, which was odd, because I knew most of my employees. Or, I could recognize them when they passed by. I stood at the urinal, pissing, trying not to take my eyes off the wall in front of me. A familiar spike of anxiety shot down my spine, and my heart began to race. The man was quiet. He didn’t make any noise. People taking a dump sure as hell made noise, so why wasn’t he?

Beads of sweat shimmered on my forehead. I zipped my pants quietly and proceeded cautiously to the sink. I needed to get myself together. I bent over and splashed some cool water on my face. When I looked up, he was right behind me. I shouted and turned around to face him, my arms up in the air. He was visibly shocked.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was just letting you know there’s no more toilet paper in here,” he said, backing away a few steps.

I rarely felt embarrassed, but when I did, I expressed it as anger. “What the fuck do I look like? The janitor?” I roared. “Get the hell out of here!”

He left me alone in my silence. Water dripped off my face, mingling with the sweat. I hastily grabbed some paper towels out of the dispenser and dried my face. When I left the bathroom, the man was mumbling to some other workers. His face dropped when he saw me. He looked like he was about to cry. Only then did I realize he wasn’t too far from my son’s age—probably just started with the company.

I ignored my guilt. He shouldn’t have come up behind me like that. He was lucky I hadn’t punched his lights out.

“The bathroom needs toilet paper,” I mumbled to one of the secretaries and quickly exited the room.

I nearly barricaded myself in my office out of embarrassment and shame. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed counseling. I needed help. I was tired of living in fear and tired of being all jumpy.

I decided to leave work early. I didn’t want to be there anymore. The pressure that followed me around was hard to deal with right now. People looked up to me as a leader and would talk if their leader faltered. I was faltering. I had to admit it. I was forced to keep my door locked because whenever someone came in I would tense up—especially if it was someone I didn’t know. Sometimes, the noises outside would fill my ears and increase the anxiety, and I would have to shut the blinds, as if that could cancel out the noise.

I got a sandwich from the deli down the street. I didn’t need Gretta to drive me today. I could walk to the counselor’s office. By the time I got there, it would be time for the session anyway. I strolled briskly through the streets, munching on my sandwich. I hadn’t taken a walk in a while and enjoyed the day slowly fading into night—until I realized what night could bring. Nothing good. Nothing at all.

When I walked in, she was standing in the reception office. Her hair was down. My heart hammered.
Fuck
.

She turned around and saw me, and a shocked smile tilted her jaw. “You’re early,” she said. “Please, come in. Conveniently, the session before you has canceled.”

I nodded and walked in as though I were in a trance. Her office looked the same, but she looked great. It wasn’t my imagination: she was wearing a tighter business suit and a shorter skirt, showing off those legs. At least I could enjoy the view tonight, if nothing else, and some intelligent conversation. I didn’t really believe anyone could figure this out but me. I didn’t want or need anyone else.

She didn’t pull out her pad this time. I had full view of her lovely body, her long slender fingers around her cup as she sipped some tea. She began to put her hair up.

“No,” I said. “I like it.”

She put her hair up anyway, ignoring my request.

“How was your day? You seem rattled,” she asked.