"Well, maybe I don't need your money. Wait, wait, I said maybe!” — Friends. Episode, directed by James Burrows Summer Something buzzes next to my ear, and I crack my eyes open. Where am I? The large windows let in sunlight. The sun beams light on the wooden floors. My fingers catch on the soft fabric of the futon. I take in my surroundings. Oh! I'm stretched out on a bed. And it’s not a normal sized one. The massive bed seems to stretch from one side of the room to the other. Of course, I'm in Sinclair Sterling's house, in his guest bedroom. The buzzing sounds again. I spring up to sitting position, and reach for my phone that's plugged in on the side-table next to the bed. "Hello?" I clear my throat. "Ms. West?" "Who is this?" I frown. "It's Alia from 7 A Investments, this is your wake-up call." "Wake up call?" I blink. "Yes. Ms. West. Mr. Sterling wanted me to call you to make sure you make it to the office on time for the meeting at nine." "Meeting?" Was I supposed to meet him? Bet he set it up without giving me notice. Would be just like the alphahole to pull a stunt like this on me. "Wha.... what time is it?" "It's 8.15 am." "8.15?" I scramble towards the edge of the bed. "Good day Ms. West." The line goes dead. I glance around the room trying to get my bearings. After that conversation with Sinclair when I’d told him that I had returned to him because I needed his money... He had shown me to my bedroom and I’d crawled into bed and fallen asle ep. A-n-d, I hadn't charged my phone. Which means.... he must have done it. How the hell had he managed to access my password protected phone. Like that isn't stalkerish at all? I hunch my shoulders. And he was here in my room while I was asle ep? Did he watch me sle ep? Goosebumps pop on my skin. I should be cre eped out by it... exc ept... hmm... what had he thought of as he watched me? Had it aroused him? Had that beautiful bulge between the corded muscles of his thighs engorged further? My thighs clench; my nipples pebble. The hell is wrong with me? I hate the man, remember? I don't find him attractive, I don't. Exc ept I do. The meaner he is to me... the more I want to slap him and simultaneously snog him.
Lick him all over his sculpted pecs too, while I am it. Jeez! And he's not impervious to me either. Not the way he'd eaten me up with his eyes last night, gah! There's something between us, some strange unspoken chemistry, that hums and flows and seems to take up all of the air in the room when we are together. It's the reason I should have run from him when I’d had the chance. But I hadn’t. I couldn’t. I need what he is offering too much. It isn’t only my life at stake, and he is aware of how desperate I am. It’s why he lured me in, trapped me... The worst thing is, every st ep of the way he’s pretended to give me a choice. Choice, hah! The kind where you point a gun at a girl when she is poised at the edge of the cliff and say, choose now. Lean back and fall to your death, or come forward and I’ll decide when that death will come for you. That’s what he is going to be, my untimely fall from grace. And I am going along with it willingly. For now. I survey the room and spot folded clothes on the chair next to the bed. There's a note on top of them. Y ep, he'd definitely been in the room while I'd been sle eping. The hairs on my forearms rise. I scoot across the bed and snatch up the note. Office. 9 am. Same conference room. Wear this. You're welcome! That’s it? The note isn't signed, typical. He’d been angry last night. Oh, there had been no outward sign of his fury... exc ept for the flared nostrils. Oh yeah, and the vein throbbing at his temple. What had he expected, eh? That I’d throw myself at his feet and tell him how much I wanted him to kiss me, make love—no fuck—me? For that’s all it would be with this man. A complete, one-sided power struggle, which would end only one way. With my submission. He’d take me with no compromise, tear into me, and imprint himself in every one of my cells. He’d possess me absolutely, mark me and change me forever; and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it. Just as I’d been unable to beat him at his own game. I may have started that little contest yesterday, had thought I could hold my own against him, but he had turned the tables again. Like a good little soldier, I’d marched right back to his house, to my prison—a gilded cage where he can ke ep his bird captive. My toes curl. My scalp tingles. His little bird. Why does the thought of bending to his will seem so tempting? It has to be because I hate him, loathe the sight of him and everything he stands for. There’s a thin line between love and hate, after all, and surely, I am mistaking the signs of whatever it is that stretches between us. I have to get through the next few days, survive them as best as I can, and then I can walk away. Assuming he’ll let me go. Assuming there is something left of me that I can call my own. I glance at the face of my phone, "8:20 am." "Fuck, fuckity, fuck." I scoot out of bed so fast that I fall on my arse. "Damn."
I spring up and race for the shower. Only Sin-fucking- Sterling, douche-canoe of the first degree would pull a cheap shot like this. Leaving me to make my way through rush hour traffic. How the hell am I going to get there by 9 am? No way could a car make it through the traffic, not that I have the money for a taxi. Public transport is my best bet. Hell. Five minutes later, I'm out. I pick up the clothes, put them on, then survey myself in the mirror. A pencil skirt that clings to my thighs and comes to below my knees. It is a respectable length, actually, but the cut...? Wow. It enhances my curves, makes my voluptuous body seem almost... Sexy? The blouse has long sleeves that cover me all the way to the wrists, but it is made of lace. I prop my arm on my hip and my flesh peeks through the pattern. It’s coquettish and erotic at the same time. And the shoes... Okay, they are stilettos; but not very high, they're the right length needed to enhance the turn of my ankles. I look way too well put together. I seem different. Like someone who belongs here in this house, with him, under him. Stop it. I straighten my shoulders, grab my phone. I’ve begun to recognize his little glances, the crease that appears between his eyebrows when he is pondering something, the tight curve of his arse, the tented stretch between his legs. Hell, if that was permanent resting position, then how would it look when he was aroused, huh? I gulp, smash my knees together. Don't go there. Not now. I hum to myself under my breath. An old trick, to try and ke ep my mind occupied and out of the gutter... More precisely, out of Sinclair Sterling’s pants, which is where it would happily dwell given half a choice. The screen on my phone shows 8:35 am. Oh, hell. I pull off the stilettos, shove them in my bag and put on my chucks. No way am I running to the tube in those things. I grab my phone and bag, race down the st eps, and out of the door. I race up the quiet street, my skirt hampering my progress. Bet he planned all of this, to test my resolve. What had he said? He wants to break me down mentally and emotionally, huh? Well, we’ll see Mr. Sterling. Once I’m in the elevator, I change shoes. He doesn’t need to know. The doors open on the floor of the 7 A offices. I walk down the corridor, to the conference room I'd been to the last time I'd been here. I pull out my phone. I'm five minutes late. At least he’d set the alarm for 8.15 am... which had given me enough time to make it here despite the rush hour jam on the tube. Speaking of, why had he thrown me that little carrot? The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I shove open the double doors, st ep inside, come to a pause. At the head of the table is Sinclair, "You’re late." He glares at me. "As you planned." I st ep inside; the door snicks shut behind me. "Explain?" "This entire sabotage operation of yours is not going to work."
"Oh?" My knees wobble. I grip my tote bad, and lurch forward. "Ms. West?" I stutter. "Wh... what?" "Lock the door, will you?"