Seven
Amelia
It’s Sunday, and the apartment feels too quiet after the week I’ve had.
I try to get some work done, looking over the catalog for my art gallery, but give up after an unproductive half an hour. I can’t focus.
Maybe I should take a bath, or read my book.
Neither option appeals, but before I’ve made a decision, my phone dings with a message. It’s Scott, and I almost delete it unread. Then I grit my teeth and swipe it open.
I’m sorry I treated you badly. I’m sorry I haven’t been honest with you. I’ve come to realize that I’ve acted very poorly, and you’re better off without me. Hope everything goes well for you. Scott.
Okay.
Weirdest breakup message ever… and also my first, by text at least.
And what does he mean he hasn’t been honest with me? In admitting this wasn’t a relationship at all, but just an easy way of getting occasional sex?
I shrug and delete it, blocking his number for good measure. At least it’s now official—we’re done. That’s a part of my life I won’t miss.
I’m single again, and it’s like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I’m young and free, yet I’m sitting here on a beautiful fall afternoon, working. I should be taking long walks arm-in-arm with someone, smiling at cute passing children and kicking up leaves.
I haven’t opened my dating app in a while. When I do, there are a few hundred messages and an assortment of dick pics to choose from. After five minutes, I close it in disgust.
Out of desperation, I call Christine. We haven’t spoken in weeks and we’re not that close, but we’re still friends and she’s always going to parties.
It’s not my usual scene, but it appeals far more than responding to app messages with low-effort pickup lines.
Worst case, it’s a short-term distraction.
That’s what I need right now.
“Amelia!” She answers with her usual exhausting extroversion. “What’s happening?”
“Not much, just saying hi. Doing the good friend thing.”
“Awesome! Want to hang out? There’s a party tonight. Are you free?”
“Uh… sure.” That was easy.
“Great! I’ll text you the location. Drinks at nine, and a club afterward?”
“Looking forward to it.” Could I say that with any less enthusiasm? I try again, with a bit more effort. “Sounds good, see you then.”
“Wear something sexy! Bye!”
I set my phone down with a shudder. Okay, that was impulsive. I’m regretting it already.
But who knows, perhaps it’s the best thing for me. It’s just one night. I’ll try to have a good time and pretend I like people.
Christine texts me the name of the bar. Cocktails then a club that’ll be loud enough that conversation requires leaning in too close, and I’ll leave with a headache.
Is it too late to back out?
Come on, Amelia. This is what you wanted.
Resigned, I putter about my apartment for a while, even reading my book for a bit.
Make some dinner even though I’m not really hungry, but I’ll need something in my stomach for all the tequila Christine will push on me.
Then I run a bath, laying out my go-to little black dress. How long has it been since I wore it?
I lie in the bath for a long while, reflecting on my life.
As usual, my thoughts go back to the terrace.
It’s been five days, long enough that the shock and outrage have lessened, and it takes conscious effort to feel anger for what happened.
That’s not acceptance, it’s perspective.
Instead, my mind focuses on other things.
The promise he made to keep Serranto away.
The words he used. The choices he gave me.
His hands on me.
His body, his cock, the feel of him.
It’s not healthy fantasizing about that encounter, I know it isn’t. But I’ve made it mine: my memories, my mind, safe in the knowledge that it’ll never be repeated.
Part of me regrets that.
Reaching for my razor, I spend some time making sure I’m smooth everywhere that matters, then get out and pull the plug.
I braid my wet hair on the way through to my bedroom; by nine it’ll have dried into waves I can’t get any other way.
Then I stand there, eyeing the black dress I’ve laid ready.
I’m still not sure this is a good idea, but what the hell.
It’s still early, barely past eight.
I let the towel fall to the floor and lie on my bed, hands roaming, thoughts circling.
His voice in my head.
“You can apologize and beg for me to spank you, and then I’ll fuck your pussy. Or you can be recalcitrant, in which case I’ll take your ass.”
“Pussy,” I murmur again, the same choice, even though since then I’ve thought of him taking my ass. One hand slips between my legs, the other caressing my breast.
I take my time, teasing myself, biting at my lip. My hips lift, wanting more than just my fingers. There are toys in the nightstand, but I don’t reach for them, deliberately keeping my touch light. Drawing it out.
The bath oils have made my skin soft, my razor made me smooth, and it all feels more sensitive. I let out a moan, and as soon as I do, his voice is in my head.
“That’s beautiful to watch.”
If only he could see me now.
What would he do, I wonder?
Fantasies are safe, the reality very much not. And it doesn’t escape my attention it’s Van Wyk that fills my thoughts, not Scott, not the main character from the romance I’m reading.
Spreading my knees wider, I slide a finger inside myself, avoiding my clit. Pinching my nipple harder than I usually do, imagining the feel of the terrace table beneath my breasts, my ass raised up. Maybe I should—
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and my eyes flick open.
Now? Really?
The only people I’ve given the building code to are my sister and Scott, and it won’t be him. A neighbor, maybe?
Muttering, I push myself up, pulling my silk robe from the back of the bedroom door. Slipping it on as I pad through the apartment, belting the sash.
Some goddamn package delivered to the wrong address. That’s what it usually is. Lucy hasn’t told me she’s coming. Maybe it’s her, and something’s gone wrong.
Shit… maybe she’s heard from Serranto.
I open the door.
He’s standing there, holding his phone with some video playing on the screen, but he looks up, sliding it into his pocket. “Good evening.”
Blood rushes through me, and my pulse pounds in my ears. For too long, I’m frozen in shock, unable to move.
Then I slam the door in his face.
He slaps his palm against it before it can close, and forces it back open.
“Now, now,” Van Wyk says. “None of that.”
I step back in reflex, retreating down my hallway. He walks in like I invited him and closes the door. He’s wearing a tailored light blue suit over a crisp white shirt, black shoes polished to a shine, everything immaculate like he’s dressed for the boardroom or a dinner, not a home invasion.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, like the answer isn’t obvious. “How did you find me?”
“I missed you,” he replies, voice soft. He walks in, looking about himself, taking in my apartment.
I see it as if for the first time, wondering what he makes of it.
The sofa before the TV. My armchair, large enough to lose myself in while I read.
The open-plan kitchen. The doorway to my bedroom, my black dress visible on the bed. The duvet crumpled where I just lay.
At least it’s tidy.
Fuck, Amelia. ‘At least it’s tidy’?
“I don’t know why you’re here, but I need you to leave,” I tell him, my voice as steady as I can make it. Not very.
“I’ve only just arrived,” he says, coming on slowly, straight toward me.
“I’ll scream.”
His eyebrows lift a fraction, but he doesn’t slow his advance. “Will you?”
My back hits the wall, jolting me. He’s two paces away. One. Close enough to smell his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot. Far too damn close.
“Yes, I will,” I declare, going for a bravado I don’t feel.
“I don’t think you will,” he says. “And I don’t think anyone will care if you do.”
He’s right, damn it. Around here, couples fight all the time. No one pays any attention. I could scream fire, and even if they heard me, no one would blink until the floor got hot.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
The unexpected command has me blinking. “What?”
“Face the wall,” he says, lifting one hand, showing me what he’s holding.
A pair of thick cuffs in dark brown leather, a few inches of chain between them. I hadn’t noticed. I’d been too busy staring at him.
I’ve noticed now.
“What the hell?” I press into the wall. “You can’t be serious!”
“Turn around,” he says quietly. “I won’t tell you again.”