The Value of Vulnerability (31 page)

“You
are not stripping. You are talking.”

She twined a lock of hair around a still-covered breast, much as he often did to her. “I’m thinking.”

“Stop doing that with your hair. Thinking about what?”

“
Petit mort
.”

His chest heaved. She stepped between his knees, and his silk-trousered thighs trapped her denimed knees. “I’m used to having my instructions followed, Erin.”

“Not with me, you aren’t.”

“Sometimes you do.”

“If it suits me. But maybe if you relaxed a bit, my . . . disobedience . . . would suit you, too.”

He chuckled, then schooled his features again. “I’m very relaxed.”

She scanned him. “That is not relaxed.” She tilted her head. “What do you think, Ford? Want to . . . obey me?”

The pupils of his eyes all but obliterated the amber, leaving a slim, tawny rim that glittered in the half light. “Why should I?”

“I think you have control issues.”

“I have no issues with my control.”

“Prove it.”

He ahem’d
. “What did you have in mind?”

“You know exactly what I have in mind.” She blinked at him, teasing. “I want to spoil you.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone needs to be spoiled every once in a while.”

The pressure of his legs on hers eased. “Most would say I am spoiled already.”

“It’s an illusion,” she whispered, sinking to her knees, palms sliding over his hard thighs. “You hate when people do things for you—unless you’re paying them to do it. I’ll bet that’s where that idea of handouts and hand-ups comes from. You
need
to do favours, to keep the ledgers balanced.”

That was met with typical Ford silence.

“And that’s why,” she said, voice still soft and no hint of censure—for it was observation, not accusation, “you’ve been so sweet these last days. You think you owe me for your Christmas present. But you’re not in my debt, Ford. I was thrilled to do it. So glad you enjoyed it—though you didn’t expect to, did you?”

A slight huff indicated that was so.

“People who are . . . well, couples . . . shouldn’t keep ledgers on the relationship.” She slid a hand over the bulge of his erection. “They do things for each other because they want to. Want to please. With no regard to keeping things equal. Only then,” she unzipped him, “do things come out even. When you’re not even trying. Because you’re both trying.”

As she took him into her mouth, a shuddering sigh left him and he tangled a hand in her hair.

Erin smiled around him. The recitation of this foreign concept of mutual generosity had fed the resistance emanating from him, but he
had
listened.

Of course, when it came to getting a man’s undivided attention, a blow job couldn’t fail.

***

The interior of the limo was dim and cosy, but Erin, sitting across from Ford rather than beside him, was feeling a bit put out.

“Do you own a car?”

“I own this one.” His eyes flickered across his laptop screen.

“I mean one that you drive.”

“Yes.”
Click, click
.

“Busy with work?”

“Always.”

She looked around. Crossed her legs. Sighed. “So why don’t you ever drive yourself?”

“I can get work done as I move. A mobile office.”

“Hm.”

Silence.

“Have you ever had sex in a car?”

That got a quick glance up and a hint of dimples. But he immediately returned to the screen. “Never any need.”

“Even as a horny teen?”

“I had my own place. There was no need for automotive experimentation.”

She re-crossed her legs. “So, car sex would be something new.”

He sent her an amused look. “I still have my own place. My own bed. Or yours.”

She sighed—dramatically aggravated—and switched crossed legs again.

He watched her legs.

“You should be willing to try new things.”

“My dear girl, there is not much I
haven’t
tried, and if you want to try new things with me, my bed—or yours—is the best place.”

She flushed a little. With him, there wasn’t a whole lot left untried there.

“So don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he added, dimpling.

She looked out the window. “Oh, I’m not wearing any.” She looked back at him. Re-crossed her legs again. Smiled. “Tight dress.”

Lustful concentration froze his features.

She kept smiling benignly.

At last, he glanced out the window, then hit the intercom.

“Give us ten . . .” He scanned her. “Twenty minutes more.”

“Yes, sir,” the speaker agreed.

He set aside the laptop and put out an imperious hand. “Come here.”

“Say ‘please,’” she teased, then shivered when he growled.

“Please,” he said.

She went to him, straddling his lap.

“Twenty minutes might not be enough,” he said, voice harsh as his hands slipped up her thighs, pushing the snug skirt
until it relaxed around her narrow waist. His knuckles brushed against her short, damp curls. “Or perhaps far too much.”

She laughed at the strangled tone.

Her computer dinged a warning at her of an impending meeting, and she scrabbled through papers to find the report she needed to reference.

“Is this a bad time?” Ford’s voice came through the BlackBerry she had tucked between ear and shoulder.

“It’s not ideal, but I always have time for you.” She chuckled. “Besides, you’re not much of a phone talker, so I know it’ll be a short call.”

“That is a far more accurate assessment. We didn’t make plans for the week.”

Yes, he liked schedules. “I’ve made plans with the girl-gang for tonight. Want to come along?”

Silence. Then: “Tonight isn’t convenient.”

“That’s too bad. They’re dying to meet you. If you change your mind, we’ll be at Zuzu’s around six or so.”

“What about tomorrow night?”

“Hells, I can’t. Work function. Morale-booster bash. And the quarter is looking good.”

“I’ve seen the reports. The company has a long way to go, but Ward—with your help—is putting it back on track.”

He couldn’t fool her with that bored tone. He was proud of her, and she loved that he appreciated her successes. “Thanks, Ford.” She heaved a breath, looking at the time. “Wednesday?”

“Fine. Goodbye.”

She laughed at his formality. “Bye, Ford. Miss you already.”

“Erin,” he chided this overt sentimentality. And disconnected.

She breathed a happy sigh. All the problems she had anticipated in having a relationship with him hadn’t materialised. He
wasn’t
a sociopath. Just unloved. Damaged. And therefore a bit guarded.

Early days. And aren’t sociopaths good at hiding their sociopathy?

That thought took some glow off her bliss.

***

The Xcess party was not like the lavish affairs of the past, but a boisterous night of pub-grub and beer at a karaoke bar.

“Share a cab?” Erin said to Stephanie as the event wound down.

Stephanie drained her pint. “Let’s. Good to go?”

“If I never see another karaoke bar again, it’ll be too soon.”
They gathered coats and bags, sorting scarves, checking for gloves.

“You weren’t that bad, Ere! You’ve got a great contralto.”

She shrugged into the melton cloth. “Oh, god. My best friend tells me I wasn’t ‘that bad’? That’s frightening.”

Stephanie laughed, fighting in a slightly tipsy fashion with her own coat.

“Loved the duet,” Spencer said, appearing behind Stephanie and helping her with an errant sleeve. “Didn’t Erin say there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to get her up on stage?”

“She
did
say that,” Stephanie agreed. “Good thing I carried the song, though, huh?”

Spencer grinned indulgently.

“I swear,” Erin threatened, “if we end up on YouTube, I’ll sue everyone involved. I
hate
singing. And I suck at it.”

“You kind of do,” Joe agreed, joining them. “I was so sure you were good at everything.”

She laughed good-humouredly. It
had
been fun, though embarrassing as hell. “Not even a little bit. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You girls sharing a cab? I’ll flag one for you,” Spencer offered.

“We’re good,” Erin said, at the same time Joe chimed in:

“I’ll get them o
ne,” and went to do so.

“Did you just call us ‘girls’?” Stephanie asked Spencer, clutching at his jacket lapel.

“Um, yes. Sorry?”

“Nah. ’S’okay. I’m a girl.”

“I noticed.”

Erin bit her lip to stifle a smile. Somebody had a little crush. And from such a man as Spencer, it was awfully cute. Stephanie
was completely oblivious, which was just as well, considering the working relationship.

Glancing towards the door: “Steph! Joe’s got a cab for us. Coming?”

“Uh huh. Bye, Spence. Great party. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Stephanie.
Erin. Thank you both.”

They left with another group
, also on the way out, everyone laughing and mocking the musically challenged, a.k.a. Erin.

“I’m never living this down
,” she complained to Stephanie

“Spencer’s a nice guy, huh?
Happy sort of guy,” was Stephanie’s responding non sequitur.

“He’s
certainly pleased with the new dynamics of his reduced and revamped team.”

Stephanie stared at her owlishly. “Who
are
you?”

A woman who hangs out too much with a guy who talks like that.
“Get in the cab, Steph.”

“Joe! Wanna share?”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Thanks.”

Erin didn’t object. Didn’t think to object.

They all climbed in, Stephanie in the middle, singing in her lovely if flawed soprano.

The cab dropped Stephanie first and headed for Erin’s. Joe chatted casually, lazily, as he always did, and she relaxed with him, smiling indulgently at his mild tipsiness. They didn’t work together often now, so she rarely saw him professionally let alone socially.

He seemed exactly the same to her, and she concluded that Ford’s assertions were insane.

Shoving money into his hand as the cab pulled into her drive and rolled to a halt, she reminded him to get a receipt.

“I don’t feel so good,” he said, handing the money to the cabbie, and got out behind her.

Sighing impatiently, she took a card receipt from the cabbie, who had lowered the front passenger window at her tap.

“You all right with him?” the cabbie asked, frowning.

“Sure. He just needs some air. I’ll call him another cab in a bit.”

Still frowning, the cabbie hesitated, looking from her, to Joe, and back again. Finally, with a shrug, he drove away.

Joe seemed markedly drunker
. She pushed him gently. “Sit down,” and sat beside him on the steps when he obeyed. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” he slurred, shaking his head a bit. “Erin, Cathy’s leaving me.”

“She told you that?”

“Nope. I can see it coming.” He patted her knee. “It’s all over but the cryin’.”

“Joe, go home. I can’t help you.” She pushed his hand away as patting became resting, and resting, stroking. She stood, silently cursing Ford as the first warning bells rang.

Hells. What was there to worry about? Joe—a little drunk and depressed about his marriage—was maybe thinking of making a pass at her. She could handle that.
No problemo
.

He looked up at her plaintively. “I need someone to talk to.”

“Talk to a counsellor.” Hesitating, thinking about the wisest course of action, she settled on the just-in-case path. “My phone’s almost out of battery,” she fibbed with only a modicum of guilt. “I’ll go up and call another cab for you. Just wait here.”

“Can’t I come up, too?” he asked, also standing. Now his stance seemed more intimidating than before, and with a flash of insight, she thought that perhaps Ford had been right about him not seeking consent.

“No.” She chuckled, staying calm. The crazy thing was, before Ford’s warning, she wouldn’t have hesitated to grant the request. Would have invited her
friend
to sleep it off on her couch. And now, Joe was all but a complete stranger to her.