Damaged

Sophia

I’ve tried on every possible outfit I have. I don’t feel like I have anything good enough for a celebratory dinner out with a billionaire. I’m exhausted, going through outfits as quickly as possible. It doesn’t help that my apartment is a thousand degrees and my pits and bra are soaked after my whirlwind of outfits.

I decide to take a break and shower. I’ll come out with a clear head and realize I’m being ridiculously picky.

But dinner with James… We both know what he’s asking. My heart won’t shut up. My appetite is gone because my stomach feels like it’s been shrunken into this size of my fist.

Should I even go along with this? I’m a big girl. I can have casual sex and not fall head over heels for him.

Maybe I’m being presumptuous. This could be a business dinner. A thank-you for putting up with his shitty business associates and almost getting kidnapped by Russians.

But after that night on the beach near Casablanca, how could I think that?

The shower helps calm my nerves. I’m feeling calm, cool, and collected until I look at the time: 6:30.

Crap. I spent way too much time in my own head, and I still don’t have a proper outfit picked out for this.

I’m glad I didn’t wash my hair. I start tearing through my closet, when I hear knocking on my apartment door. I freeze. There’s something about the time between knocks that makes me know who it is.

I put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. What is he doing here almost a half hour early? And didn’t he say he’d meet me in the lobby?

For a brief second, I panic, thinking I heard him wrong on the phone, but I know I didn’t. My confusion turns into slight annoyance.

I walk toward my door. When I look through the peephole, all I can see is a green tie.

He’s too damn tall for his head to be seen.

I open the door a crack and stick my head around it so only my face can be seen.

“You’re early,” I say and then look down to the red box in James’s hands. There’s a black bow strung across the top.

“I wanted to get you something.” James smiles, and my little bit of annoyance evaporates as his eyes brighten. He could start a coup with that smile.

“I’m still not ready yet.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be. Can I come in?”

I take a step back into my apartment, and James comes in. I forget how big he is until I’m pressed up against him in this little entry hall. He’s towering over me.

When we reach the living room in all of three steps, he hands me the box.

“So, what’s this? Coffee cake?”

“You can’t wait a second to find out?”

I smirk and undo the bow. I don’t know what to expect. I’m half expecting some employee appreciation plaque. But the box is featherlight. I open the lid and move the paper and freeze.

The tag says Alexander McQueen.

“James,” I say breathlessly as I take the dress out. It’s split leg and gorgeous green, like his eyes. Like his tie.

Like I’m his.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“It does come with a condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“Put it on.”

“Oh, I’m wearing this tonight.”

James’s brow tightens. His eyes flash with daring. “I mean put it on now .” It’s like little lightning strikes under my skin. My heart beats so hard, it’s keeping the air out of my lungs.

I meet his eye. The sound is sucked from the room. It’s so quiet I can hear his watch tick. Is this really happening right now?

It has that strange, hazy unreality of a dream come true. The last week, I’ve hardly gone a minute without James barging into my mind. I thought it was over in Africa. I really thought that was the only chance I’d get, yet here he is.

I don’t respond to his challenge with words. I lift my arms and grab the back of my T-shirt near the neck.

I pull it off, ball it up, and toss it on the couch next to him. The apartment doesn’t feel so warm anymore. My nipples are sensitive and point towards James. He glances over my bare chest. His eyes draw my breath shorter.

“Your pants, too. Take them off,” he says in a low tone.

I stare into his eyes as I hook my thumbs in my sweats and pull down. I let them pool at my feet, and I stand there for a moment, completely naked.

I want him to walk over to me. Fuck dinner. Or maybe we just change it up so that’s the new order this evening.

But he stays leaning against the wall. His eyes appraise me hungrily. They settle between my legs, which is growing warm and wet from his gaze alone. He pushes off the wall to come to me, and as he does, my heart jumps too. I stay standing as he comes close and inspects my body.

He touches my hip and my breast. Warm, strong hands.

He pushes my chin up with a finger and runs a hand along my neck, down my chest and belly, stopping at my dripping entrance. Then he forces two fingers inside, and I let out a rattling gasp.

He takes his fingers out, sticks them in my mouth, and I close my eyes and suck. He takes his fingers out and takes a step back. “Now. On.” He points at the dress. I almost want to make a pouty face, but I am excited to see the dress.

He backs up while I put on the dress without underwear. I turn, and he helps me zip up. There’s no mirror in the living room, but I can feel that the fit is perfect, and I can tell from the look in James’s eye that it’s exactly what he had in mind.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, snowflake.”

“Thank you.”

“One problem I’m considering… You’re going to need some mobility tonight.”

“What?”

“Do you have a skirt and tights?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. The dress waits.”

“Are you just trying to see me naked again?”

“I don’t need to try,” he says and helps me out of the dress.

I go to change, making my butt sway extra as I walk.

“And …”

I turn towards him.

“No underwear.”

My heart pounds. I can’t get enough of his commands. I’m not sure he entirely understands what he’s asking. All my lady bits will be out when I sit. But I can wear a coat most of the time. “Okay.” I nod eagerly. “No underwear.”

James waits for me out in the hall while I finish getting ready.

I put on my warmest navy wool coat and step out of the apartment. James smiles at me again. His expression says it all—he didn’t think I could look any better than I did in the living room.

He brushes my coat out of the way and then lifts my skirt up to see that I’m following the rules. No underwear.

“So,” I say, swallowing. Trying to keep my cool and not become a little blubbering puddle. “Where’s dinner?”

“That’s a surprise, too.”

“You have a messed-up hobby of keeping girls in suspense.”

“No. Just you,” he says, and I smile.

We take his car south towards the Financial District, and the next thing I know, we’re in another elevator.

“I don’t know of any restaurant here,” I say.

“It’s like a speakeasy, but instead of martinis, they serve the best pasta in the city.”

The doors to the elevator open, and there’s an older hostess with her hair in a ponytail and her hands clasped behind her back, smiling at us.

“Good evening, Mr. Callaway,” she says in a heavy Italian accent. “Right this way to your table.”

She bows a little, and we follow into a dimly lit restaurant seventy floors above New York City. It borders on too dark. At least for walking. The tables are well lit by candlelight, but I have to navigate the floor by looking at my feet. They have little lights they’ve placed, making a path like those on the stairs in movie theaters.

We stop at a small booth made for two. It makes the atmosphere a little more private. It’s a little more intimate not being able to see the diners in front of us. We’re against a window, and below, the city glistens in the winter dark. From up here, New York is something it rarely is—quiet.

“So, how’d you swing this reservation so late?”

James shrugs. “I’m a good tipper.”

I look left and right. “Aren’t you a little afraid of being seen out with me?”

“You’re not something I’m ashamed of.” He reaches his hand across the table and holds mine. “Why don’t you think I’d want to be seen with a woman as beautiful as you?”

“Because I work for one of your investments.”

“Everyone works for one of my investments. If you worked for Apple, is it a conflict of interest because I own twenty million dollars of their stock?”

“James… You know it’s a little different. We email each other.”

He takes his hand away. Maybe I should’ve just shut up. Why am I talking like this? Why am I trying to figure out what we are or what we’re doing? I should just shut up and enjoy the evening.

“I’m sorry,” I say, almost at a whisper.

“It’s fine. I guess I haven’t really been thinking. I did fire you. Let the record show.” James smiles, and I do, too. “So, if anybody asks, this is just me trying to make it up to you.”

“Is that so? Dress and all?”

“The dress and all.”

“Darn. Here I thought you were hoping to get in my pants.”

“You’re not even wearing pants. Or underwear for that matter.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He tilts his head to one shoulder. An expression that says, guilty as charged.

James orders a bottle of wine, and after I’ve had a glass along with a couple pieces of focaccia that melt in my mouth, I feel confident to start to get deeper than small talk.

“That night in Morocco… Why didn’t we finish what we started?”

“We’re about to,” James says in a deep voice and runs his hand up my leg under the table. Electricity. Heat.

Pop rocks jumping in my stomach.

I have to take a deep breath to keep talking. “It took you some time to change your mind.”

James goes quiet for a moment. Curse this wine. I need to learn to just keep flirting. But I want to know more of this man’s mind. It’s not just his body and face that drive me wild.

He licks his lips. “Listen to me, snowflake. I’m not simply into sex.” He grips my thigh closer to my crotch. My breathing stops completely for a moment.

“If we do this, you’re mine. Do you understand me? Not another man’s. Not on the market. Until our relationship runs its course, you. Belong. To me.”

“Completely and utterly,” I whisper. “Yours.”

“Good.”

The waiter comes by, and James gently releases his hand and slowly sets it back on the table.

“Are you ready to order?”

I’m too turned on to speak, but James seems to know this.

“Yes. She’ll have the pappardelle con funghi, and I’ll have your tagliatelle.”

“Excellent, sir.”

James hands the menus to the waiter. The pappardelle was exactly what I wanted. Yet I didn’t mention it. Did he see where my eyes lingered on the menu? Did I even mention that I like mushrooms ever?

Maybe it was just a coincidence. I don’t want to act impressed. I don’t ask how he did his trick. I’m not even surprised.

It feels like James Callaway being able to read minds wouldn’t be that shocking. What more talents could the man have? I think he’d have to fly or turn invisible for my jaw to drop.

The food comes out quickly, and as delicious as it is, I try to focus on getting my thoughts straight. Do I want this? To be James’s? Of course I do. My body does at least. Just sitting across from him is like I’m holding on to an electric fence. My skin, pulse, and breath are all so sensitive to his lightest touch.

But I can’t help but feel like my feelings are deeper than his. It’s why he didn’t go further in Morocco. He knows he can’t love me like I love him.

It’s this fact I’m grappling with. I wish I could turn my feelings off for him. Be as stoic as he is when it comes to sex. But how could I want another man?

I grimace as I have another sip of wine. To lose him… To go back to men who have sinks full of dirty dishes and can’t keep their fingernails clean… To go back to boys… Maybe that’s what I’m risking. Seeing just how greener the grass can be.

Is it all worth just a good night of sex or two? To be his item for as long as he wants until he tosses me out?

I’m not sure, but at this point, I’m no longer certain I have a choice. I’ve given control to my impulses.

I’ve given control to James.

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.