Chapter Thirteen
THIRTEEN
With the gala only two days away, Blake was a whirlwind of activity consuming Maggie’s attention.
He had a to-do list stuck to the fridge with a timeline.
Thursday: Pick up tux. Haircut. Practice presentation.
Final errands. Friday: AV Team. Laundry.
Practice presentation again. Maggie liked that glimpse into his task list and found herself circling back to it throughout the day.
Blake followed his schedule, of course, coming back at lunch with his tuxedo in an opaque bag and sporting a stylish new haircut.
He’d left it a bit longer on top but cleaned up the sides and back, and she tried not to stare too much at how good he looked.
She complimented him, making him blush—which was of course adorable—and he disappeared into his room (presumably for the “practice presentation” part of his list).
With Blake ensconced in his room, Maggie finally made herself face the task she’d been dreading: drafting the Pimpernel article.
She had been procrastinating long enough.
If she didn’t get a draft to Chauvel, he would surely confront her at the gala.
She swallowed down her anxiety and started to write.
Is Boston home to a predator? she began, then frowned. Yes, of course it was, like pretty much everywhere. She deleted it. When sexting with strangers, it’s easy to go too far, she tried. Nah, she didn’t like the use of “sexting,” and it felt like victim blaming.
Finally, she tried another option. On the internet, you can be anyone you want to be …
but so can everyone else. Here in Boston lives a man who calls himself the Scarlet Pimpernel, and if you’ve ever wondered about your submissive side, this online Dom will make you forget your boundaries.
It was a start. She bit her lip, rereading the opening lines, and kept typing.
An hour later, she had a passable draft.
She hadn’t lied, but she’d framed her writing to highlight how the Pimpernel was capable of manipulation.
She discussed the dangerous control he held over the women he played with.
She didn’t say he misused that control, but hopefully this would be enough to appease Chauvel.
It still gave her a sick feeling in her stomach. She liked the Pimpernel a hell of a lot more than she liked Arnold Chauvel, and with each passing day, each chat exchange, she increasingly regretted having taken the deal in the first place.
But then there was Cora. Chauvel was stringing her along with funding, giving her just enough to hold Maggie on the leash as well.
If she didn’t write this article, the funding would dry up.
Cora would lose her job, her independence, everything, and that wasn’t even broaching the idea of frozen or seized assets.
If this fell apart, she’d have to tell Cora, and Cora would worry, the way she used to worry in the first months after her parents died.
She used to climb into bed with Maggie, even though she was a teenager, and Maggie would hold her and reassure her that everything was going to be all right.
She didn’t want to relive those stressful nights again.
Maggie could deal with a lot, but she couldn’t deal with Cora becoming collateral damage.
Maggie shook her head to clear it. She attached her article draft to an email and sent it to Chauvel.
She was blessedly distracted from that line of thought when Blake came back into the living room toting the small, wheeled cart they used for groceries.
She looked up from her laptop. “Does ‘final errands’ mean food shopping?”
“You guessed it. Anything you want me to pick up while I’m there?”
“You don’t mind?”
“I mean, don’t ask me for more than I can carry in the cart.
” He got his grocery list from the fridge.
He had one of those long grocery list memo pads that moms used to have in the pre-internet days, the kind with a giant magnet on the back, and he always kept a running list of the items he was low on.
She didn’t even know where someone bought a memo pad like that these days.
Maggie checked her shelves in the cupboard and fridge and named a handful of items, which he dutifully scribbled down. “I appreciate it. I hate getting groceries.”
“Happy to help.” Blake gave her a jaunty salute. “I want to get everything done before the gala so the only thing I have to do after the gala is lie on the couch and relax.”
“Are you really stressed out?”
Blake added a couple of reusable shopping bags into the cart. “I’m nervous, but it’s more like, I’m tired of thinking about it and I want to go ahead and do it. Do you know what I mean?”
Maggie nodded. She was like that with a lot of things in her life.
Blake headed out with his list and supplies, and Maggie sat in the silence of the condo.
She’d been wanting to write to the Pimpernel all day, but she felt guilty with her article sitting in Chauvel’s inbox.
It wasn’t a bad article, though, not like the terrible exposé Chauvel probably wanted …
and yet, eventually, that article would get published and her time with the Pimpernel would be over.
She should make the most of it now, while she still could. He wasn’t online, but he’d check his messages when he could. I’m glad it’s almost the weekend, she wrote. Mine is going to be busy.
She pocketed her phone and gathered her laundry. And since Blake was doing her grocery shopping, she grabbed his laundry too and added it to hers. Their clothes together would fill one load.
She had just pushed start on the machine when the Pimpernel’s message came through. Mine will be busy too, he wrote. But I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately.
A few feelings ran through her: excitement, but also guilt, thinking about her article once more. She tried to forget about the article. I’m all alone right now, you know, she wrote.
Are you asking to play, Rose?
She rolled her eyes. Obviously.
A long pause before his reply. You’re being cheeky.
Cheeky? Who the fuck said “cheeky” anymore? She smiled. Sometimes he was weirdly old-fashioned. I thought you liked cheeky girls.
I like to put cheeky girls in their place.
A thrill ran down her spine. You’re not here to put me in my place, though.
I could be, he replied. Are you testing me?
Maybe. She was, and she wasn’t even sure why.
Got any clothespins, Rose?
It was like he somehow knew she was standing in the middle of the laundry room. Did they even have clothespins? She rustled through a plastic basket of various items until she found a handful of wooden clothespins. She swallowed. Yes. Not sure how I feel about telling you that.
Put some clothespins on your nipples and leave them on until I tell you.
Maggie looked around in disbelief, even though she was alone. Was he serious? He sounded serious. The wickedness of playing right here in the open, in the condo, was enough to put all else from her mind except arousal. She slipped off her bra beneath her shirt.
The first clothespin pinch pulled a gasp out of her. Fuck, that was uncomfortable. She bit her lip and affixed the second clip as well. They hurt, she typed.
They’re supposed to, he replied. Do you like it?
He had a terrible intuition about these sorts of things.
She blushed as she wrote back. Yes.
Good, he wrote. Do you like it when I ask you to do wicked things, Rose?
She shivered. Yes.
I know, he replied. Now, go rub against the corner of some piece of furniture until you soak through those panties.
Holy shit. Maggie made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, but there was no one there to hear it. Was she really going to do this? Yes, of course she was. She loved doing the wicked things he asked of her. She could lean into the pure kink play of it all and not think about feelings.
Lies, the voice in her head said, and she ignored it.
Yes, sir, she typed.
Her face burned with embarrassment as she slid off her pants, standing in their living room in only her T-shirt and underwear.
Blake wouldn’t be home for at least an hour.
Unless he forgot something, she thought.
Unless he decided he doesn’t want to go grocery shopping.
It was unlikely, but even the unlikely possibility had her trembling with inappropriate excitement as she pressed herself down against the corner of the kitchen table.
Fuck, that shouldn’t feel good. She leaned forward, bracing herself on her palms on the hardwood table, and pressed against the surface.
The friction was perfect, exactly where she needed it.
Pleasure sparked all through her as she rubbed against the table.
It was obscene and humiliating and wonderful.
Her breasts rubbed against her T-shirt, pinched nipples brushing the fabric, slowly growing numb from the clothespins.
She could edge like this, maybe even come, but she knew he wouldn’t give her permission. Instead, she rocked harder and faster, letting that pleasure build, the promised denial somehow even sweeter.
Before she got to the edge, she stopped and forced herself to back away from the table. I did it, she typed.
What did you rub against?
The edge of the dining room table.
Are you soaked?
Her face burned. Yes.
If I tell you you’re a slutty girl, do you like that, or does that turn you off? he asked.
Another check-in. He always checked in with her. I like it right now, she said.
Good, because that was a slutty thing to do. What would your roommate think?
He’d be horrified, she wrote, smiling to herself.
Better clean the corner of that table. When it’s clean, you can take those clothespins off. Be naked when you do.
Maggie did as he asked, cleaning the entire table for good measure. Then she went into the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and unclipped her nipples.
Oh fuck. Pain raced through her, hard and sharp, and she fumbled the clips. That hurt far more than putting them on. What the fuck, she messaged. He sent a smile emoji in return.
Always more painful coming off than going on, he wrote.