7. Sinclair
Sinclair
This is my gift—my reward for enduring this afternoon’s inane fuckwittery.
And, like all delights, it deserves to be savored, not rushed.
Like all delights, so much of the pleasure lies in the anticipation.
So I set the phone down on the bar cart in the corner of the room and pour myself a generous measure of scotch before settling into a comfortable wing-backed chair by the window.
This room at the front of the house with its huge bay window overlooks nothing but my stretch of lawn and the water, with absolutely no visual of Mom’s party, thank fuck.
I can hear it, of course—the shrill cacophony of overserved guests and the more pleasant strains of the obligatory string quartet—but it’s background noise more than anything else.
This moment is for me. Me and my salacious fantasies about a certain radiant young brunette.
And perhaps this timing is serendipitous.
Perhaps receiving this email hot on the heels of the most suffocating kind of social event and with the threat of so many more hanging over me—Are you going to the Fall Fashion Gala, Sinclair?
Will you marry me, Sinclair? Can I have your patrician babies, Sinclair?
—is the most perfect perspective I could have for quite what a breath of fresh air Elyse will be, even if, when I close my eyes, I can’t exactly see her face.
I can conjure up her sexy little figure, the dark hair, the irritating air of neutrality…
I can conjure up her vibe, but I can’t see her features, and for someone with a strong visual memory, someone at the helm of the goddamn beauty industry, for fuck’s sake, it’s driving me insane.
Why is her face so elusive to me? Why can’t I see it in my mind’s eye?
I blow out a breath before taking a healing sip of excellent scotch, letting it swirl indulgently around my mouth as my finger hovers over Katrin’s email.
Two words—she’s in—and I’m hardening already.
I can edge myself as effectively as I can edge my women.
She’s in. Was she shocked when Katrin made the proposal on my behalf?
Horrified, even? Or did she fold like a cheap deck chair at the prospect of that much cash?
Does she despise me for offering, and does she despise herself even more for accepting?
Most intriguing of all—what will she be like when she shows up: apprehensive? Cautious? Or curious?
She’s so implacable.
And I have so many questions.
I open the email.
Sinclair,
Elyse has agreed to your offer. Despite my many reservations, I have decided to represent her. You should know that my involvement is squarely for the purpose of protecting my employee.
Alchemy will require the fee in escrow beforehand (non-negotiable).
Attached are her terms and limits (non-negotiable). Please let me know if you have any requests or requirements for the session.
Send over your NDA and I’ll have her sign and return it.
Does 9-10pm next Weds work for you?
Katrin
It’s curt and reeks of barely concealed hostility—nothing less than I’d expect from the club’s imposing manager—but I couldn’t give a fuck. I don’t need Katrin to like me. I just need her to facilitate my needs. She’s a means to an end, nothing more.
Hell yeah, I have requirements. And hell yeah, next Wednesday works for me. If I have anything in the diary, it’s getting canceled.
You’d better believe I open the terms with every bit as much excitement as my younger self would have opened the newest PlayStation on my birthday. Like the PlayStation, these terms are a portal into another world. A better world. Only the content is a little more X-rated this time.
As I scan the list of terms, my smile grows broad.
It starts with general conditions around boundaries and recourse, undoubtedly mandated by Katrin and just as boilerplate as the Voss family’s NDA is, and contains a line that basically says I’ll kick you out of my club so fucking fast if you harm a hair on her head, you entitled douche and which I suspect Katrin added for my benefit.
But the actual hard limits? Sure, there’s an extensive list that’s been lifted straight from the online list that all members keep updated as our preferences change.
And sure, a large number of the corresponding boxes have been checked, especially the more extreme stuff.
It’s not like I was hoping for anal or wax play in my measly hour with her, anyhow.
Still, there’s enough here for me to work with.
Definitely enough.
Admittedly, I’m so fucking hot for this woman that she could probably just take off her clothes and it would be the best orgasm I’d had in months.
She has no clue how low the bar is. The fact that she’s left even the most basic boxes unchecked—oral both ways and penetration—is enough to make me come in my pants like a horny teenager.
I will take anything this woman has to give.
That said, I’ve been indulging in a very specific fantasy since I laid eyes on her, and nothing in this document precludes that in my plans for Wednesday.
Said fantasy requires an equally specific piece of equipment, so I’ll tell Katrin I require that when I reply with the NDA and my other “requests”.
Let’s just say it’s time to go old-school with props. Very old-school.