Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
When my panel is over, and the general throng of admirers with books to sign and questions to ask has dispersed, I see her standing toward the rear of the room trying to look nonchalant. She is not good at it. If there was ever an intense young lady, it is Laura Brown.
I walk straight up to her and take her by the hand, pulling her several inches toward me.
“Come with me.” I murmur the command in her ear, and of course she follows.
She came here to get my attention. She’s going to get it.
I take her to my suite in the hotel. It is well appointed and quite comfortable, though I have some ideas as to how to make it uncomfortable for her specifically.
“Proud of yourself?” I ask the question dryly as I escort her into the room, and close the door behind her. If she notices when I flick the latch to lock it, she doesn’t show any signs of it.
She stares around at the room. I notice she does that whenever she is taken anywhere remotely nice. She is impressed by wealth. I don’t think it is in a gold-digging way. I think she genuinely finds it fascinating, like a little mouse raised in a coal mine finding itself in a shining castle.
I let the question hang in the air as her mind takes the time to work out what I asked, and then remembers she’s supposed to hate me, and all the other little internal machinations that need to happen before she can respond.
She turns to face me, and I can see her working up both courage and anger.
“How dare you?”
“Vague question, darling. I will need specifics.”
She walks up to me.
“You know what you did,” she says. “You know what you interfered with. You had no right.”
“Still quite vague, sweetheart.”
My lack of response is winding her up. She came all this way for a dramatic confrontation, and she’s not getting what she wanted. Maybe she thought I would be unsettled by her actions. Unfortunately for her, people with my particular internal configuration don’t actually feel unsettled. Fear is something I rarely get to enjoy, and it is not being triggered by this little thing storming at me.
“You know what you did!”
“It’s a particularly odious female foible to expect men to guess at which one of their sins she is angry about,” I comment.
Her temper gets the better of her. She slaps me across the face. Her soft, sweet hand makes decent contact with my left cheek with a sound that echoes through the room, which is otherwise entirely silent.
The look of horror the very second she realizes she’s actually done it is more than worth the slight sting left in its wake. My gaze stays steady. Nothing in my facial expression changes. It’s like when a puppy bites. You can either gasp to show them that it hurt, and dissuade the behavior that way—the method recommended by trainers. Or you can show no reaction whatsoever. Sometimes this leads to a good gnawing. Other times it just scares the hell out of the little creature because deep down all social creatures know that someone who does not react the way they should is far more dangerous than one who reacts a little too much.
“Do that again, and I will fuck your ass without lube,” I say, my tone even and conversational.
Her eyes widen and her lashes flutter. She swallows the words that leaped to her tongue. She does not want to cross me, not really. She thinks she came here to confront me and make a point, but what she really came here to do is be put in her place.
“You’ve been fucking with my life,” she accuses.
“Laura, if it were not for me you would be facing jail time for reckless assault. Your way of thanking me for sparing you that fate is apparently coming to assault me here. Interesting approach.”
Her face falls because now she’s hit me, which makes her think about the fact she might be abusive, and because she feels ungrateful. This little thing is coming apart so beautifully right in front of me. I savor the moment as it all comes crashing down inside her, how she skipped school and dropped a shift at work just to come and behave rather strangely at a professional conference.
She’s wondering what’s happening to her. If she’s always been a bad person, or if, no, it’s my fault. I’ve done this to her. She’s right on that count, but she won’t accuse me of it again in this moment because it sounds too narcissistic. If she says that, it will seem like she’s not taking responsibility for herself.
Some men enjoy tying women up with ropes. This woman is tying herself up right in front of me without a word.