Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

“I’m not going to see you again.”

“The correct answer is Yes, Sir.”

I stood very still with my lips clamped together. After a moment he put his hand against my cheek. He’d slapped that cheek—twice—but this was a caress. “Don’t be an angry hooker,” he said. “I adore you.”

I felt metal against my wrists, and my hands were cut free.

“Don’t touch that mask until you hear the door close,” he said. “The fantasy’s better, anyway.”

What fantasy? He shouldn’t flatter himself, but I stood where he left me and did as he instructed. I didn’t move until I heard the door’s latch click into place. My fingers reached up to the mask and then fumbled behind my head at the buckle. I wanted it off, but in some way I was afraid to take it off. I didn’t know what I’d see. Shreds of my clothing? The walls drenched in blood?

No, none of that, just a clean and empty luxury hotel room. The bed was made and my shoes were arranged neatly beside it. My skirt and panties were gone. I pulled the two sides of my blouse closed. He could have just unbuttoned it. Asshole. At least my jacket was in one piece.

Jesus, what had just happened?

I went to the window and looked out from the eighth floor, like I could pick him out from the people below. Nope. I could pass him on the street tomorrow and I wouldn’t know him, but he would know me. I found that idea horrifying.

I went into the bathroom and took a thirty minute shower, and washed all of W off me. Every slap, every kiss. By the time I got out and put on the robe, someone was knocking on the door. Thank God he’d come through with the clothes—a casual dress and scarf from a boutique across the street. The pale amber-beige looked perfect with my light brown eyes. I still had no panties. Fuck him. Good taste didn’t make him any less of an asshole.

I got dressed, put on my shoes, and took one last look around the room at the W Hotel.

And for some reason, I made sure the mask was tucked in my bag before I left.

In Between

I left the hotel and took a cab to my place in Tribeca. I needed my boyfriend. I needed normalcy and safety, and the knowledge that the date was really over. I needed home.

I didn’t usually let clients rattle me, but on the way up to our loft on the third floor, I admitted to myself that I was rattled. Nothing terribly bad had happened. He’d hurt my nipples, yes. He’d slapped me. He’d called me an idiot. He’d also kissed me and given me insanely strong orgasms. My brain was officially exploded. And my pussy…

“Simon?”

I put down my keys. The loft was dark, but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes Simon painted in the dark. Other times, he waited weeks for the perfect light to work on a painting. Maybe he was out with some friends.

I hated when it was quiet like this.

“Simon?”

I walked through the living room, past the kitchen and the big cement table a friend had given us last year. Simon’s studio was in the back, near the floor-to-ceiling windows. I found him sprawled on the low couch against the wall, a paintbrush still dangling from his fingers. A few fresh drips mixed with the history of drips on the rough concrete floor.

He was working on something huge, twenty feet long. All his works were huge, although some were huger than others. This one took up an entire wall. Dark ochre and aquamarine streaks mixed with black, a frenzy of heavy color on the canvas. It was striking, even if I didn’t get it. I’d never gotten Simon’s art, but I loved the artist.

I loved him enough to let him sleep. I watched him for long minutes, feeling my soul calm. He looked so innocent, like an angel. The first time I’d met him at a friend’s party, that’s what I thought. He’s an angel. Long, wispy black hair, coal black eyes, an aquiline nose, and dark brows that had arched skyward when he looked at me. All he needed was wings. He’d touched my white-blonde hair while I stared at his night-black hair. We’d stayed up talking that entire first night, and spent the following day in bed.

When was the last time Simon and I had spent an entire day in bed? Life. It got away from you.

I tried to take the brush from his fingers without waking him, but he stirred and smiled at me.

“Baby, you’re back.”

“Don’t wake up,” I said.

He stretched and looked at me. Blinked. “You look pretty.” He reached to touch my breasts, but they still hurt, and he was high. I nudged his hand away.