This Man (This Man 1)

Dragging myself out of my dumbstruck state, I shift all of the drawings that are littering my desk and pull my diary over. ‘When are you free?’ I ask. I know I sound highly unprofessional and terse, but I don’t care. He’s taking his power trip too far now.

‘When are you?’

I look up, finding a green, satisfied stare. I lean in. ‘I’m not talking to you. ’ I spit, rather immaturely.

‘What about screaming for me?’

My eyes widen in shock. ‘Neither. ’

‘That may make business a little tricky. ’ he pouts, his lips dancing at the corners.

‘Will it be business, Mr Ward, or pleasure?’

‘Pleasure, all the way. ’ he answers darkly.

‘You do realise that you’re paying for me to have sex with you,’ I whisper on a hiss. ‘That, in effect, makes me a hooker!’

I watch as a flash of anger passes over his face and he shoots forward in his chair. ‘Shut up, Ava. ’ he warns. ‘And just so you know, you will be screaming later,’ He leans back again. ‘When we make friends,’

I sigh heavily. It would be better, all-round, if I dropped this contract, right now. Patrick will keel over with shock, but either way, I’m totally knackered. Continue like this, I’m bound to be rumbled. Then he really will get to fuck me when he pleases. I’m losing control here. Losing control? I laugh to myself. Have I ever had control since this beautiful man trampled into my life?

‘Is something funny?’ he asks seriously.

I make a meal of flicking though the pages of my diary harshly. ‘Yes, my life,’ I mutter. ‘When shall I pencil you in?’

‘I don’t want to be pencilled in anywhere, pencil can be erased. ’ His tone is smooth and confident. I look up from my diary and find a large, permanent, black marker pen being waved under my nose. ‘Every day. ’ he states calmly.

‘Every day? Don’t be so stupid!’ I blurt a bit too loudly.

He gives me his roguish grin as he removes the lid from the marker. Reaching over, making a point of brushing his fingers over my hand, he pulls my diary away from me. I shiver, and he gives me that knowing look. Turning to tomorrow’s page in my diary, he coolly runs a line through the middle, writing “Mr Ward” across the page in big, black letters. He then skims past the weekend. ‘You’re mine then, anyway. ’ he muses to himself.

What? Am I? Who says?

He arrives at Monday’s page and finds my ten o’clock appointment with Mrs Kent. Locating an eraser from my desk tidy, he slowly rubs it out, looking up at me when he leans down to blow the fragments of rubber from the page. He’s really enjoying this, while I’m sat back in my chair watching him trample all over my work diary, at the same time trying to gage how serious he is. I fear he’s completely serious.

He proceeds to put a big, black line through Monday as well. What is he doing? I glance around the office, noticing my colleagues have got bored of the Jesse and Ava show, knuckling down with some work instead.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask calmly.

He pauses, looking up at me. ‘I’m making my appointments. ’

‘You’re not happy enough controlling the social aspect of my life?’ I’m surprised at how calm I sound. I feel completely ram raided. This man has untold front and confidence. ‘I thought you didn’t make appointments to fuck me?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ he cautions me. ‘I’ve told you before, Ava. I’ll do whatever it takes. ’

‘For what?’ My voice is barely a whisper.

‘To keep you,’

He wants to keep me? What? For sex or more? I don’t ask that, though. ‘What if I don’t want to be kept?’ I ask instead.

‘But you do, by me. This is why I’m having such a hard time trying to figure out why you keep fighting me off. ’ He returns his attention to my diary and sets about putting a line through every day for the rest of the academic year.

When he reaches the end, he slams it shut and stands. His confidence knows no bounds. And how does he know I want to be kept by him? Maybe, I don’t. Christ, I’m trying to lie to myself now. I’m going to have to buy a new dairy. I mentally applaud myself for backing up my appointments on my email calendar, a precautionary measure in case I lost my diary, not because some unreasonable control freak might erase them all from my planner.

‘What time will you be finished work?’ he asks.

‘Six-ish,’ I can’t believe I’ve just answered that without a second’s hesitation.