Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

See, some women were into soft caresses and gently whispered endearments. Not me. And it wasn’t because I’d worked as a stripper and a call girl, or that I didn’t realize my value, or that I came from an abusive home and was somehow messed up in the head. It was because I was wired to enjoy violence, and Price was wired to enjoy giving it to me. His thrusts intensified, marking me, invading me, and then I heard him come too with the rough growls that signaled his climax.

I hated when it was over, because that meant he would let go and leave my body. The waiting would begin, the craving for his next possession. How was I supposed to go out there and keep working?

He squeezed my shoulder and I turned to do my task, cleaning him up with my lips and tongue so he could shove his cock back into his pants and return to work too.

“Go fix yourself up,” he said when I finished. “Then I need to see you out in the other room.”

I went into the powder room and did what I could about the jizz and juices dripping out of me. It was impossible to be someone’s sex slave and retain the full measure of your pride. There were a lot of indignities, bodily fluids and hurried cleanup sessions, and pulling your skirt down over your bare ass and pussy and getting on with your day. When I went into the other room, Price stood by my worktable looking down at the manacles.

“You promised delivery today,” he said. “Are they finished?”

“Yes, Sir.” I hurried over to show him, but he stopped me.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Sit.”

I sat in my desk chair and he pulled a second chair up right beside me. I wanted him to look over at the manacles and like them, maybe even compliment them, but he looked at me instead. I swallowed and clasped my hands in my lap, one hundred percent aware that this sinfully handsome man had been ramming his cock into my body not five minutes earlier. It might as well have been five hours ago. No more fun time.

This was going to be rough.

“We need to talk about your lack of progress,” he said.

Do we have to? my brain whined. My lips remained shut.

“What have you been doing?” he prompted, looking around my organized workspace.

“I’ve been making things.”

My studio smelled similar to the old metals lab at Norton, although I think this building had better ventilation. I slid a glance at the manacles, and showed him some earrings I’d been working on before then, with tiny, deep blue, speckled stones. He didn’t look that impressed.

“They’re pretty,” he said. “Who’s going to wear them?”

“I don’t know. I just like making stuff. I don’t feel comfortable pushing it on people.”

“Artists want their art to be seen. You’re making excuses. You’re being lazy.”

I grimaced. “Thanks.”

“I’ve introduced you to dozens of people in the last few weeks. You’ve had plenty of chances to sell yourself.”

It was the wrong choice of words, considering I’d literally sold myself for ten years, whored myself out to hundreds of clients. I blinked and stared down at my interlaced fingers.

“I gave you extra time,” he said. “I gave you until the end of August. You knew what I expected. One customer. One person interested enough in your brand and your talent to commission a piece. One fucking bracelet, Chere. A pair of gold studs. One fucking ring.”

Every word he said made me feel smaller. Ugh, why couldn’t talent and creativity be enough? Why did I have to sell myself? “I’d rather work for someone else,” I said. “I appreciate you setting me up here and everything, but I don’t want the responsibility of running my own company. I decided I don’t really like that. I mean, it was your idea.”

I chanced a glance at him. He regarded me with unsettling focus.

“I’m not a marketer,” I protested as the stare wore me down. “I’m not a salesperson.”

“Then learn how to be a salesperson, or hire some salespeople to work for you.”

“I don’t know how. We didn’t learn those skills at art school.”

“You saw me work with people during your internship,” he reminded me. “You sat in on countless meetings and watched me do dozens of deals. You watched me network and put projects together.”

“Yes, and you’re great at it. You’re great at getting shit done and convincing people they need your buildings and bridges. I’m making classic, elegant pieces of jewelry that no one’s interested in. I’ve got no hook. I’ve got no flair. I’m not a business person.” His eyes darkened with each denial. I could barely hold his gaze. “You can’t punish me for sucking at business.”

“I can punish you for being so fucking negative. I can punish you for anything I like.”