CHAPTER FIVE – THE REAL ARRANGEMENT #2
“So that’s it?”
“For now,” I say in a low tone. “Why don’t you get some sleep? We’ve talked enough about what I need for now, so get some zzz’s and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Kat gets up to clear the table, but I wave her off.
“I’ll get this. You go rest up. You’ll need the energy.”
Her cheeks go hot again, and she vanishes up the stairs, a blur of hips and hair and nervous energy.
I stand at the sink, letting the water run over my hands until they go numb, and stare out at the woods.
It’s not about the sex. It never is, not really.
It’s about a woman losing it for you, her utter submission.
It drives me crazy every time, and I think I can get there with the innocent blonde upstairs.
I dry my hands, kill the lights, and wonder if this is the time I finally find someone who breaks me, instead.
Dishes done, I head for the sofa in the great room.
The air is honey-thick with woodsmoke and anticipation, and I’m quiet because I want to give Kat time—enough to stew, to get curious, to wonder if she should be afraid.
I want her to think about what happens next, because the best prey always runs a little before giving in.
I kill the overheads and light the fire in the great room.
The logs are thick, slow-burning, and within minutes the whole space is bathed in a golden flicker, every surface alive with shadow.
I pour myself a finger of whiskey, neat, and let the glass hang from my fingertips as I sit in the big armchair, facing the fire.
I wait. I listen. Even with Kat’s bedroom door shut, I can hear her pacing upstairs.
Soft steps, then a pause. The creak of bedsprings as she sits, maybe stands again.
Then, a long, trembling silence before she finally pads down the stairs.
She’s changed clothes. She stands at the edge of the living room in a tight black t-shirt, no bra, and a pair of flannel pajama shorts.
Her bare legs are smooth and ivory in the firelight, and she’s got a death grip on her phone, as if it’ll do any good.
I motion her forward with a flick of my glass.
“Sit,” I say, and she does—cross-legged on the sofa, not too close. I take a sip and give her a moment to get comfortable.
“I thought we should talk,” she says, and I nod slowly.
“Shoot.”
She glances at the fire, anywhere but my eyes. I lean forward, elbows on knees, and merely wait.
Kat takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eye.
“So what does the acting entail?” she asks in a firm voice. “Reading lines? Gestures? Expressions?
I smile, then set the glass on the table with a soft thud. “I’m writing a romance novel. An erotic one because there’s a lot of money in the genre these days. But this shit needs to be as true to life as possible and that’s where you come in.”
Kat swallows, the movement visible all the way down her throat. “So we’ll be acting, like we’re in a movie.”
“Not just act them out.” I let the words hang, watching her face bloom with color. “I want to use your body to test every line, every action. I want you to feel everything so I can describe it. I want you to react honestly, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.”
The beautiful blonde tries to meet my gaze but can’t quite manage it. Her breathing’s quick and shallow.
“Okay,” she says, the word so tiny I almost miss it.
I don’t let her off that easy. “That means you do what I say. When I say it. If I ask you to get on your knees, you get on your knees. If I tell you to strip, you strip.” I pause, to let that sink in. “I need to know you can handle it, Kat.”
The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. She’s biting her lip, knuckles white on her phone.
“What if I—what if I’m not good at it?” Her voice is all nerves, but there’s an undertow of curiosity that makes me want to kiss her before tearing her apart.
“You’re perfect,” I say, and I mean it. “All I want is for you to be honest. I’ll handle the rest.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “That sounds like a threat.”
I smirk. “It might be.”
I sit back, stretch out, make myself at home in my home. I want her to see how easy it is, how natural. She’s trying to keep up, but her brain is running in five directions at once.
“Why me?” she asks.
“Because you have no idea how attractive you are,” I say. “You don’t know how to weaponize it. Most women your age do. You don’t.”
She flushes, blinking fast. “That’s… I mean, that’s flattering, but also kind of—”
“Condescending?” I offer.
She nods.
“Maybe. But it’s true.” I lean in, let my voice drop low and steady. “You’re exactly what I need. Unfiltered. Fresh. Not jaded by years of men telling you how to behave. That’s what Sweet Lies promised me. That’s what puts the word “Sweet” in their name. Fresh and innocent is their trademark.”
She shifts on the couch, tugs the shorts lower on her thighs. “Okay, but you know, I can leave. I can walk out.”
I nod. “I’d drive you to the bus stop myself.”
Kat glances at the fire again. “So if I stay, what happens?”
I think about it. “We start slow. I give you a role, a scene. I direct you. You react. We see what happens. If you want out, you say so. Otherwise, you do as I ask.”
She takes a long, shaky breath, and for a minute I think she might back out. Instead, she fixes her eyes on mine and says, “You’re a pervert.”
I laugh, deep and genuine. “Guilty.”
She smiles, a tiny crack in the armor. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“That’s my girl,” I say.
She covers her face with her hands and groans, but she’s laughing too, and the tension in the room snaps like a wire.
I watch her for another minute, the way she tries to hide her smile, the way her knees bounce with adrenaline. Tomorrow Kat will wake up and maybe want to run, but for now, she’s here. With me. And I can’t wait to see what I can make her do.
I pour another whiskey, then offer her the glass. She takes it, sips a tiny drop, and chokes a bit.
“God this stuff is strong.”
I smirk.
“I like my liquor, and the stronger the better.”
She smiles at me then, a real smile for the first time tonight.
“Anything else?” she says, meeting my eyes for the first time.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
She stands, gives me a shy bob of the head, and disappears up the stairs.
I sit there until the fire dies, my cock so hard it’s a wonder I don’t pass out. I could have taken Kat right then, but what fun would that be? The hunt is always better when the prey wants to be caught.
I finish my drink, and let the night close in. Tomorrow, we start for real.
My new PA is up before me, like a good girl. I hear the soft thud of her feet in the kitchen, then the hiss of the espresso machine, then a strangled little curse when something shatters.
I take my time coming down, but when I do, Kat’s standing at the window, phone in both hands, arm stretched out like she’s trying to get a radio signal from god.
The robe she’s found in the guest closet swallows her, but when she lifts her arms, it hikes up and the backs of her thighs are all soft, ivory skin, thick and luscious.
She’s muttering under her breath, probably inventing new curse words, and the way her hair is a tangled mess just makes her look more delicious.
“Looking for something?” I say, and she jumps a foot in the air.
She spins, cheeks bright red, but squares up right away. She’s getting bolder. I like it.
“I’m just trying to check in,” she says. “I haven’t been able to call or text anyone since I got here.” She holds up the phone. “Is there WiFi?”
I shake my head. “There is, but it’s been broken for ages, and the repair guy still hasn’t come out.” I let the weight of that settle, but not for long. “If you need to reach someone, I have a satellite phone. For work, mostly, but you can use it.”
She digests that, her jaw tight. “Do you always keep people this isolated?”
“Only the ones I want to keep.” I smile to soften it, but there’s no point pretending. She knows what this is. “You can use the satellite phone any time, Kat. I’m not holding you hostage.”
She nods, but she doesn’t believe me, not yet.
She pours herself a cup and sits at the island, legs swinging like a schoolgirl, eyes fixed on her cell. I watch her in the glass, the way her blonde hair tumbles down her back, the way she glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
“Do you regret your decision?” I ask, pouring my own coffee.
She shrugs. “No.” She trails off. “I just didn’t know I’d be so isolated.”
I walk to the table, open my laptop, and pull up a file I prepped last night: the new contract.
It’s written in plain English, no bullshit.
The offer is simple—$50,000 for two months of work, with very clear duties.
Sexual in nature, performance-based, filmed for reference but not for publication. Confidentiality absolute.
I print a copy, sign my name at the bottom, and set it on the table in front of her.
“Read it,” I say. “If you’re out, say so. You keep everything you’ve made so far. No harm, no foul. But if you’re in, I need your signature, sweetheart, because once we’re in, we’re in.”
Kat stares at the paper like she doesn’t recognize it. For a second, she doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. I can feel her mind racing—money, reputation, the fear of being ruined by this. I don’t interrupt.
After a minute, she picks up the pages, flips through. Her eyes dart over the lines, then up to me, then back down. I watch the way her hands tremble, but she keeps going. She finishes and sets the contract down. Her face is a war zone.
“Is this for real?” she says in a quiet tone. “Fifty grand for two months?”
I nod.
“That’s more than my mom makes in a year. You could feed a family on that money.”
I give her the straight line: “Something tells me you’re worth every penny, sweetheart.”