I wake to the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. Cole keeps all his windows open on the north side of the house. I smell salt and iron, the scent of the bay. Fog drifts into the room, swirling around the posters of the old-fashioned bed.
I slip out from under the heavy coverlet, naked, my nipples stiffening in the cold. The fog condenses on my warm skin, making me slippery as a seal.
Cole has left a silk robe for me—the kind a vintage film star would have worn. It swirls around my body, heavy, sumptuous, and ridiculously extravagant.
He left slippers for me as well, but I ignore those, preferring to pad across his thick Turkish rugs in my bare feet.
Walking through the halls of Seacliff is like walking through Versailles after hours. It seems outrageous that I’m even allowed inside this place, let alone that I live here.
I could never have imagined what real wealth looks like, what it feels like to the touch. Palatial, empty, echoing space. Priceless art hung in distant wings where months or even years could pass without a single person viewing it. The aesthetic perfection of every last faucet and doorknob—each made of the finest materials. Patinaed with age, but never becoming broken or run down.
Motion sensors are everywhere. He already knows I’m awake.
Cole is the most observant person I’ve ever met. He uses technology to enhance what he can see, what he can hear, until he’s god-like in his reach.
Inside this house, he could always be listening. He could always be watching.
I want him to be.
I’m safe from the rest of the world when I’m under his eye, under his protection. No one can hurt me, no one can touch me.
Except Cole himself.
I walk down the wide, curving staircase to the main level, the long train of the robe trailing behind me like a wedding gown. I haven’t belted it. I see the hunger in Cole’s dark eyes when he sees my bare breasts slipping in and out of view within the folds of the liquid, shimmering silk.
He’s already dressed for the day, the soft black waves of his hair still damp from his shower. Freshly shaved, the sensual curves of his mouth and the sharp line of his jaw look impossibly youthful. He’s ageless. Eternal. Beautiful in a way that hurts me, that grabs hold of my heart in my chest and squeezes hard.
He holds out a double-walled glass, the layers of espresso, milk, and foam seeming to float in space.
“I made you a latte.”
He must have started it the moment I opened my eyes. Perfectly timed to the minutes it would take me stretch, slip out from under the covers, pull on the robe, and pad down the stairs.
His precision terrifies me.
In the same breath, I feel deep admiration for what I—distracted and impulsive as I am—could never hope to accomplish.
I could never be this calculated, this patient, this effective. He really is superhuman.
And he’s not even trying. It’s just a game to him.
A game to hand me this perfectly prepared latte, exactly the way I like it. He already knows this, too: the temperature I want, so I can sip without burning my mouth. Sweetness enhancing the flavor of the expensive beans, but not obscuring it. Extra foam, thick and rich as whipped cream.
I trail my tongue through it, unembarrassed. I lick it off my lips. Because I’m learning too: he likes to watch me enjoy things. It gives him more pleasure to watch me lap up this foam, to lick it off my fingers, than it could ever give him to taste it himself.
I saturate my mouth with the delicious flavor, and then I kiss him so he can taste it on my lips.
The coffee makes my mouth warm and sensual.
That’s why he made it for me.
This is all calculated so I won’t walk over the fridge and start rummaging. He wants to select what I eat, what I drink, what I wear. He wants to choose better than I could choose myself, so I won’t fight him, so I’ll submit to him.
Each time I accept one of his choices, I see the glint of triumph in his eyes. This is how he intends to tame me.
I’m not an easy pet.
I’m wild and feral. What I want is capricious, it changes every moment.
“Do we have any more of those peaches from last night?” I say.
I see the flame flicker up in his eyes, irritation that he failed to anticipate this.
“You ate them all before bed.”
“You didn’t think I’d eat six at once?” I say, that light edge of teasing both infuriating and arousing him. He grabs my wrist, pulling me toward him.
His rough growl swipes up my spine like sandpaper: “If we were on a ship stranded in the ocean, and all we had left was one bar of chocolate, you’d eat the whole thing in five minutes and lick your fingers afterward.”
I smile up at him, unrepentant.
“I don’t want to be hungry while I get that ship working again,” I say.
I gulp down the rest of the meticulously-prepared latte. “Rationing is for people who only want to endure.”
“I would have thought hard times would have taught you the value of planning,” Cole says, his other hand snaking around behind the back of my skull, gripping me tight, his fingers twined through my hair.
I tilt up my mouth to him.
“I don’t want to survive. I want to thrive.”
He kisses me like he does every time, like he’s eating me alive. He slips his hand inside my robe, cupping my bare breast. His sensitive fingers explore my body like a blind man: learning every curve by feel, not sight.
I try to resist the power of those hands, but it’s impossible.
I go limp, falling back against the supporting strength of his arm. The robe opens, giving him full access to the naked body beneath. I’m dizzy and swooning as that warm, powerful hand roams over my exposed flesh.
The ornate tin tiles of the kitchen ceiling fill my eyes with their silvery glow. His fingertips dance across my collarbone, before his hand closes around my throat. I feel his cock stiffening against my hip as he slowly cuts off my air.
“What were you dreaming about last night?” he murmurs in my ear. “You were moaning in your sleep …”
“I don’t remember,” I lie.
His fingers tighten until black spots bleed over the tin tiles and I can barely feel his arm beneath my body.
“You can’t keep secrets from me, Mara,” he growls, his teeth bared against the side of my throat. “I will break you down systematically, relentlessly, until you give me what I want.”
I turn my head, looking directly into his eyes.
“What do you want?”
He licks his lips, our mouths so close together that his tongue almost touches mine as well.
“I want all of you. Every single part of you. I want to know everything about you: all your history, and every thought that comes into your head. Every desire, no matter how dark or how perverse. Every fantasy, no matter how impossible it may seem. And most of all, Mara, I want to occupy your thoughts like you occupy mine. I want you obsessed with me, bound to me, dependent on me. I want you to live for me, not just with me.”
To me, this is a more terrifying prospect than when I thought Cole might murder me.
My whole life has been a struggle for independence.
Every person who was supposed to love me tried to control me instead. They tried to bend me and shape me to be what they wanted, so they could use me, so they could consume me like fuel.
I pull away from him, standing straight, closing the robe and belting it.
“I put my life in your hands. I never said you could take my identity.”
Cole smiles at me, unabashed.
“I’m not trying to change who you are. I’m trying to reveal it. A diamond can’t shine until it’s cut.”
I cross my arms over my chest, already knowing where this is going.
“And where do you plan to cut me today?”
He’s trying to hold back a laugh—never a good sign.
“Always so suspicious, Mara. It’s quite unjust, considering I’ve yet to make a plan for you that you haven’t enjoyed.”
“That’s a generous interpretation. Especially since the journey to ‘enjoyment’ tends to be nothing less than horrifying.”
Now he does laugh, a sound that flushes me with heat. When the devil chuckles, the world tilts a little on its axis, and somewhere, someone makes a fatal mistake.
“There’s nothing horrifying about me taking you shopping.”
“No fucking way,” I snap. “You promised to get my things from my old house.”
“And I have—your ‘things’ will be delivered this afternoon. Though I ought to have them fumigated first.” He sniffs.
“Don’t want my thrift-store jackets hanging in your immaculate closets? Don’t worry—I’m sure there’s some wing of this house you’ve never even seen.”
“Oh, I know every inch of this house,” Cole assures me. “There’s nowhere you can hide from me out in the world, let alone here in my own home.”
Locked in his dark gaze, I believe him.
Opposing Cole feels like standing in the path of a freight train.
Yet here I stand, staring down the headlights as the horn blares in warning.
“I like my clothes,” I hiss.
“You don’t have your clothes,” Cole says. “I do. And I’m not giving them back to you until you come shopping with me. If you don’t like what I pick out, then you don’t have to wear it. But you will accompany me … or you’ll have to go to the studio in that robe.” He grins. “Or naked. I’m happy with any of those options.”
I’ll wear this damn robe all week long to spite him. That would offend his sensibilities much more than mine. It’s only the chill gray fog outside the window that dissuades me—silk isn’t warm.
“Fine,” I say grudgingly. “But I mean it—I’m not wearing anything I don’t like.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Cole replies with irritating smugness.
Taking my latte glass to the sink and setting it down a little harder than necessary, I say, “Let’s get this over with.”
Cole raises one black slash of an eyebrow.
“You need to shower first.”
My hand itches to snatch up the glass again and fling it at him. It’s never enough for him to get what he wants—it has to be exactly the way he wants it.
Instead, I slip out of the robe and drop it in a puddle in the middle of his kitchen floor.
“As you wish, Master.”
The tone is all sarcasm, but I see the flush of pleasure it gives him all the same. He picks up the robe and follows me like a dark shadow, silent and close.
I walk back up the stairs to the master suite. Cole’s bathroom is triple the size of my old bedroom. The sinks are massive slabs of raw gray stone beneath waterfall faucets. The bathtub, nearly the size of a small swimming pool, sits directly in the hardwood floor, right up against the window like an infinity pool. The shower is the size of a car wash, with dozens of nozzles pointing in all directions.
Cole turns them on for me while I send the playlist on my phone to his Bluetooth speakers.
The music echoes off the stone walls, bouncing around the space, melding with the thick steam of the shower.
“Why do you need music for everything?” Cole asks me.
“Because it makes everything better,” I say, stepping into the pounding spray.
Cole stands outside the glass, his eyes roaming over my wet body.
He has no shame in watching me. He does it openly, all the time. Not bothering to hide his pleasure.
It’s flattering.
I’m an exotic creature to him. Everything I do is interesting.
Cole’s gaze makes me more aware of what I’m doing. How I tilt my head back under the spray, exposing my throat. How the soap suds slide down between my breasts. How my skin flushes in the heat.
I shower slowly, sensually. Running my palms over my own curves. Rotating in place so he can admire me from every angle.
When Cole watches me, his eyes come alive in his face. He leans back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, the clean-cut muscle of his arms visible through the thin material of his shirt.
Every turn of my body sends a twitch down the tight line of his jaw. His eyes crawl up my thighs, my ass, over his own artwork running from my hip to my ribs, even over the ugly scars marking both my arms: he likes it all.
I lift the showerhead down from the wall so I can direct the flow exactly where I want it. I let it rain down on my face, eyes closed, mouth open so the droplets pound on my tongue. I run the water across my breasts, in slow strokes in time to the music.
Sitting down on the shower bench, I spray the water on the soles of my feet, squirming a little at how it tickles. Then I run the water all the way up my leg, first one, then the other.
Cole stands motionless, watching me. His endless fascination creates a voyeuristic energy that spurs me on to stranger and stranger behaviors.
Leaning back against the cool stone wall, I spread my knees apart, opening my pussy to his view. Now he steps forward, eyes darker than an oil spill, lips pale.
I point the shower spray directly at my pussy. It’s almost too hot to bear, so I splash the water lightly against my exposed lips until I’m used to it, until I can direct the pressure right at my clit.
My head falls back against the wall, eyes closed.
I’m not watching Cole watching me anymore.
I’m feeling it.
The water caresses me, sliding in and out of my folds, running everywhere. It’s warm and powerful. The closer I bring the showerhead, the more intense the sensation becomes.
“That’s right …” Cole murmurs. “Good girl. Don’t stop.”
The flush rises up my body, filling my breasts, crawling up my neck.
The heat is almost too much. I want to turn it down.
Sensing this, Cole steps inside the shower. He drops to his knees in front of me, closing his hand over mine on the showerhead, locking my fingers in place. He points the spray right where he wants it and holds it there as the heat and pressure rises.
His trousers are drenched, as well as his expensive Italian loafers. Cole barely notices. For all his perfectionism, Cole is a pleasure-seeker just like me. He wants what he wants, and he’s willing to pay for it.
Right now he wants to make me cum, and he doesn’t give a fuck what clothes he ruins.
“You’ve done this before,” he growls.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Is this how you learned to cum? In the bath, spreading your legs under the faucet?”
I press my lips together, hating how he uses sex to dig information out of me. Hating how arousal makes me weak.
Cole brings the showerhead closer, until it’s only an inch from my pussy, until the pounding spray is almost unbearable. He wraps the rope of my wet hair around his hand and jerks my head back, growling in my ear, “Admit it, you dirty girl. You were taking baths to cum, not to get clean.”
“Fuck being clean,” I snarl. “I’ll sleep in a dumpster if I feel like it.”
Cole’s chuckle is what tips me over—rich and wicked, vibrating down to my bones. “I know you would, you little psychopath.”
The orgasm is as hot and pounding as the shower spray. My lungs fills with steam. My skin blushes redder than rose petals.
When I’m panting against the wall, limp and loose, Cole orders, “Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.”
I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Cole exits the shower to retrieve something from his drawers. He’s not rummaging—his toiletries are so perfectly organized that it only takes him a moment to gather what he needs.
He returns seconds later, carrying shaving cream and a straight razor.
“I can shave myself,” I inform him.
“Not as well as I can.”
It annoys me how true that is. Even though I’m pretty fucking good with my hands, I still can’t match Cole in precision. He’s a machine, if a machine had a soul. Or part of a soul, at least.
I lean back against the wall, thighs open, pussy swollen and flushed from the hot spray. It’s deeply thrilling to offer him access to my most vulnerable parts.
My heart races as he flips open the razor, clearing the gleaming steel blade from its bone handle.
“Hold this for me,” he says, pressing the handle into my palm.
I close my fingers around it, looking at the cruel edge of the blade, thinner and sharper than any knife.
Cole kneels before me. He squeezes a puff of shaving cream onto his palm, then gently massages it over my bikini line. His cheek is only inches from the razor, his neck exposed as he tilts his head for a better view.
I could cut his throat right now.
Cole spreads the shaving cream all across my pussy and upper thighs. It feels thick and cool after the heat of the water.
“Are you wondering what it would feel like?” he says in his smooth, low voice.
I grip the handle so hard that it bites into my palm.
“You’re wondering if you could do it quick enough to surprise me. Could you cut me deep enough that I couldn’t fight back? If you got me in the right place, one slash would be enough …”
I shake my head so vigorously that it bumps against the stone wall.
“No. I wasn’t thinking that.”
Cole closes his hand over mine again, but this time he’s forcing me to grip the razor instead of a showerhead. Forcing me to brandish it between us. He looks up into my face, his dark eyes locked on mine.
“When the time comes … don’t hesitate. You’re never going to be the biggest or the strongest in the fight. You have to be the most ruthless. You’ll only get one cut, so make it count.”
Who does he imagine I’m going to be fighting?
Shaw … or him?
I twist my wrist away from Cole, dropping the razor on the shower floor.
“I told you—I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
Cole ignores the razor, only looking at me.
“Oh really? And what do you plan to do about Shaw, then?”
“I don’t know,” I say through gritted teeth. “Find some evidence. Get his ass tossed in jail where he belongs.”
Cole makes a contemptuous sound that hits me worse than a slap.
“You’re not going to find evidence. You go near Shaw without me right next to you, and all you’ll find is your head on a beach.”
I glare at him. “You want me to think there’s only one way this can end.”
“No. There’s two ways: Shaw dies, or we do.”
Cole is trying to drag me down this path I don’t want to travel. At the same time, I can’t help feeling perversely comforted that he said “we” instead of “you.” Cole thinks we’re in this together. And honestly, nothing terrifies me more than the thought of facing Shaw alone.
I want Cole right next to me. But I can’t see how we’ll ever agree on what we should do.
Plucking up the razor, Cole makes a tsking sound.
“Now I have to sharpen this again.”
He returns to the counter to bring out his leather strop. He moves swiftly, aggressively. Snapping the leather taught and drawing the blade down the grain with a vicious purr. The steam ebbs out of the shower. A chill runs down my spine instead.
Cole returns, kneeling before me, the blade gleaming bright in his hand.
He looks up at me, full lips curved in a smile. “Hold still. Don’t make me cut you.”
The touch of the blade is colder than ice. It slides over my skin like a whisper—cutting so close that my flesh looks strangely pale, stripped of shaving cream and every trace of hair.
Every place he bares becomes instantly sensitized. I feel the cool air on my pussy lips, and his warm breath.
His fingertips press against my flesh, spreading my lips apart so he can shave even the most difficult and delicate areas.
I keep expecting the bite of the blade, some slip of his hand, but he’s too careful. It doesn’t even scratch me.
He shaves down, then in, then up, touching me with his exquisitely sensitive fingertips, re-shaving any area that doesn’t meet his standard of perfection.
He’s intensely focused on the work, his face inches from my pussy, examining every part of me, inside and out.
Maybe I should be embarrassed. Maybe it should feel clinical.
It doesn’t.
Instead, I find myself shivering under his touch. Hardly able to hold still when I’m dying to press my clit against his palm, aching for him to rub the ball of his thumb across it. I want his fingers inside me. His cock inside me.
Cole lifts the showerhead once more, rinsing the last remnants of shaving cream off my skin.
My pussy gleams, as smooth and soft as a fresh spring peach.
Cole can’t take his eyes off it.
“Feel that,” he says, taking my hand and placing it on the silky soft mound.
My fingers glide over the skin, ten times as sensitive as it’s ever been. It feels like I was made this morning. Like nothing bad has ever happened to me. Venus, rising from the sea-foam.
Putting his hands on my knees, Cole pushes them all the way apart.
He leans forward and trails the tip of his tongue across my pussy—tracing the path of the razor back and forth, up and down. Testing his work with the most perceptive part of himself.
I let out a groan, thrusting my hand in his hair, pushing his face into my cunt. I grind that smooth little pussy all over his face, shivering with the sensation of his soft lips, wet tongue, and the barest trace of stubble. I feel it all like I’ve never felt it before, and I melt into his mouth, starting to cum before I even realize what’s happening.
I ride his tongue, the softest part of him against the softest part of me. The warmth, the bliss, is intensely intimate. I’ve never had oral from a man who wants it more than I do. He’s tasting me, smelling me, lapping me up. So hungry that I could never satisfy him, even while he’s gorging me with pleasure.
When the second climax passes, I almost feel guilty. I reach for him, wanting to return the favor.
“Let me suck your cock.”
“No.” He pushes me back down on the bench, still holding the razor in his left hand. “I don’t want a blowjob.”
“What do you want, then?”
His right hand rests on my thigh, holding me in place.
“I want to taste you.”
That’s what he just did—my wetness is all over his mouth.
Then Cole lifts the razor over my thigh, and I understand.
My heart skips. Every time we cross another line, the edge of what I used to know retreats in the distance.
“Do it,” I say.
He makes one thin slash on my inner thigh, so quick and sharp that the pain flares and vanishes all in an instant, before I even register it. Blood wells up, darker than wine. He catches it on his tongue, lapping the shallow wound, and then closing his mouth over it. I feel his tongue sliding across raw nerve, and then the gentle sucking as he latches on.
His mouth soothes me.
I lean back against the wall, eyes closed, fingers slipping into his thick, soft hair once more.
I scratch my nails gently against his scalp while he sucks at the cut. When he pulls back at last, I’m no longer bleeding.
I look at the mark, thin and clean. I know from experience this won’t scar.
It’s the ones you cut deep, the ones that are ragged, the ones you make over others that are still healing: those stay forever.
Cole rises, pulling me up with him. He kisses me on the mouth. I taste the sweet musk of my pussy and the metal of my own blood. Neither feels wrong. In fact, it’s a combination so perfect I might have come up with it myself, given enough time to experiment.
The orgasms have made me placid and calm.
“What do you want me to wear?” I ask Cole.
He drives us to Neiman Marcus on Geary Street. The venerable stone building stands on the corner, its layers of glass display windows impossibly chic and imposing even from a distance.
“Can’t we just go to Urban Outfitters or something?” I grumble.
Already I’m regretting the cooperative spirit that prompted me to climb in Cole’s passenger seat. I don’t want to go in some stuffy store where the sales ladies are sure to give me the kind of side-eye employed on Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. They can tell when you’re poor, when you don’t belong.
“Or better yet,” I say, “I can keep wearing your clothes.”
Cole let me borrow a pair of his old-money woolen trousers and a cashmere sweater. He even punched a new hole halfway down one of his belts to keep the pants up. It’s all way too big for me, but I like baggy clothing.
“Absolutely not,” Cole says. “That was a desperate measure. One we’re about to rectify.”
Just walking through the doors makes me uncomfortable. We have to pass under the glare of two security guards, entrusted with keeping the homeless people out. I’d feel more relaxed in one of the many tents camped out in Union Square. I’d rather smoke a blunt with one of those dudes than cringe under the aggressive, “Good morning! What are you two shopping for today?” from a lipsticked blonde brandishing a perfume bottle.
“Good morning,” Cole replies, coolly ignoring the rest of the question as he sweeps past her, keeping his vice grip on my arm while he steers me onto the steep escalator to the upper levels.
Compared to the crowded streets outside, the ladies’ department feels oddly empty. I stare around at the pristine racks of clothing, organized by designer, bright and rich and appealing, but unseen by anyone else. We’re alone up here, except for a few scattered sales associates.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper to Cole.
“There is no ‘everyone.’ You’re shopping with the one percent—there’s not that many of us.”
The surreal silence unnerves me. I approach a rack of fall coats, gingerly lifting one sleeve. The material is thick and heavy, with elaborate embroidery along the cuff. Real elk-horn buttons are handsewn along the placket, and the fur trim on the collar is so rich and soft that it immediately makes me think of Arctic animals that burrow in the snow.
Flipping over the tag, I let out a startled bark of laughter.
“Eight thousand dollars?” I squeak to Cole. “For one coat? What’s it made out of—hair clippings from Ryan Gosling?”
It boggles my mind that someone could stroll around in an outfit that represents a year’s earnings for me. I mean, I knew expensive clothing existed, but I’ve never actually touched it before.
It feels different in every way. It smells different in here. I’ve stepped into another world—the world of privilege, where numbers become meaningless, and you just swipe your card for whatever you want.
Cole’s not even looking at the price tags. He grabs whatever catches his eye, laying the garments over his arm. Before I can blink, a saleswoman materializes, saying with unctuous politeness, “Can I start you a fitting room, sir?”
Cole hands her the clothes, already striding toward the next rack. He surveys each collection with a practiced eye, pulling out a mix of tops and bottoms, dresses and coats.
I don’t even try to help him. I’m intimidated and conflicted. I always wanted to make money, but I never really pictured myself using it. I have too much resentment for the rich to ever really believe I’d become one of them.
Besides, I’m not rich. I sold one single painting.
Cole is beyond rich. And apparently planning to splash out a lot more money on a new wardrobe than I was expecting.
I grab his arm, muttering, “This stuff is too expensive.”
He takes my hand, pulling me toward the fitting room.
“You don’t know anything about money. This isn’t expensive—it’s pocket change.”
That only makes me feel worse.
The economic chasm between Cole and me is far wider than any of our other differences. We both lived in hundred-year-old San Francisco houses, but mine was a moldering shack and his a literal palace. The more I step into his world, the more I see how little of it I understood from a distance. He knows everyone in this city, everyone that matters. They’re intimidated by him, they owe him favors.
He can accomplish things with a snap of his fingers that I couldn’t manage in a hundred years. Even people who don’t know the Blackwell name, like this woman waiting on us, even she falls under the spell of the effortless confidence that tells her Cole is someone of value, someone who must be obeyed.
I have never been someone of value.
Not to anybody.
Not even to my own goddamned mother, the one person on this planet who is supposed to give a fuck about me.
I’ve had friends, but I was never the most important person in their life, the sun in their solar system.
As fucked up as it sounds, the first person who truly took an interest in me … was Cole.
His attention can be coercive and selfish at times. But I want it all the same.
The man who never cared about anyone is fixated on the girl nobody gave a shit about.
In some twisted way, we’re made for each other.
And that really fucking scares me. Because I haven’t even plumbed the bottom of the dark things Cole has done. If we’re drawn together … what does that say about me?
I always suspected I might not be a good person.
I tried to do the right things. I tried to be kind and helpful and honest. It never seemed to get me anywhere. Maybe because people could see that I had to try, that I was never naturally, effortlessly good.
As soon as I went to school, I knew I was odd. It wasn’t just the too-small clothing or the fact that my lunch bag was a plastic grocery bag with the same bag of chips in it day after day. I never ate the chips, because then I wouldn’t have anything to bring to school in the bag.
Other kids were poor. There was something uglier in me, something that repelled the other children. That made them whisper about me behind their hands and avoid me at recess.
I always thought it was sadness. Or the stories kids told, the few times anyone came over to my house and met my mother, and saw how we lived.
Now, I think … it was just me.
Randall saw it the moment we met. I was only seven. A grown man shouldn’t hate a little girl so much.
“What’s wrong?” Cole says, zeroing in on my private thoughts with his usual eerie precision.
“I don’t fit in here,” I mutter. “This changing room is bigger than my apartment.”
“You don’t live in that apartment anymore,” Cole says. And then, because I’m staring at the carpet, he grabs my face and forces me to look into his eyes. “You deserve to be here as much as anyone. More than anyone. You’re talented, Mara, really fucking talented. You’re already a star. Everyone else doesn’t know it yet, but I do. You’re going to make art that makes people think and cry and burn with envy.”
If anyone else said that, I would assume they were only trying to cheer me up.
Cole doesn’t say things to be nice.
I loved his art before I ever laid eyes on him. It spoke to me, long before we met. His opinion matters to me more than anyone’s.
My eyes burn, my whole face hot. I can’t allow myself to cry because I won’t do anything that would make Cole think less of me.
All I can do is grip his hands and press them harder into my face until the pain brings me back to earth.
Cole says, “Now try on these goddamned clothes and enjoy yourself—feel the fabric, it’s gorgeous … you’ll appreciate it more than anyone.”
Pulling on the first dress, I discover that Cole is right. He’s always right.
The clothes caress my skin. They fit my body like they were made for me—some heavy and comforting, others light and floating. The richness, the softness of the material … the way it clings and stretches and flares around me like the garments are alive, like they’ve fallen in love with me … I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Cole has impeccable taste. He seems to intuitively understand what colors and silhouettes suit me best. He’s chosen rich jewel tones, mostly solid fabrics, a few prints. The embellishments are rustic embroidery or sumptuous draping—nothing that would scratch or irritate me. He hasn’t picked out anything that would make me feel like I was cosplaying as a socialite. It’s all bohemian styles with vintage influences. He knows me. He knows what I like.
I had only intended to let him buy me a few things, but piece after piece piles up in his arms, each so lovely that I can’t seem to choose between them. Mini dresses with bell sleeves, satin rompers, peasant blouses, leather skirts, embroidered bell-bottom jeans …
I, too, have to stop looking at the price tags so I don’t make myself sick.
As he orders the sales clerk to ring it all up, I turn to him, forcing myself to meet his eyes even though I’m deeply embarrassed. I never meant to take charity from anyone. I always told myself I was strong and independent, that I could take care of myself.
“Thank you, Cole,” I say humbly. “Not just for the clothes … for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Feeling grateful, are you?” he says, those dark eyes glinting wickedly.
“I was …” I reply, already regretting it.
“Then why don’t you do me a small favor in return?”
Oh god.
“What is it?”
“Don’t worry, this will be fun.”
Cole’s idea of fun terrifies me.
He’s leading me back inside the changing room, though I already tried on all the clothes.
I try to keep my heart rate within range of a light jog instead of an all-out sprint.
“What are we doing?”
“Calm yourself, little Caravaggio. I just want you to wear something for me.”
He holds up what looks like a small piece of rubber—soft, curved, and about the size of my thumb.
“What is that?”
“It goes right in here …” Cole pushes me up against the wall, slipping the little piece of rubber down the front of my underwear. It nestles in place between my pussy lips. I can feel it, but the softness of the rubber prevents discomfort.
I have no idea the purpose of this. Still, I go along with it. Cole is so odd that almost nothing surprises me anymore.
Obediently, I follow him out so I can watch him swipe his credit card for a sum that eclipses my entire net worth, including the painting I just sold.
Breathless, I say, “Well, I guess we should head over to the studio …”
“Not even close,” Cole laughs.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not done shopping.”
“What could you possibly—”
“Come on.” He grabs my hand, dragging me along.
So begins the second half of our shopping spree, wherein Cole attempts to clean out Neiman Marcus in a single afternoon. I tire of arguing with him long before he tires of swiping his card. He buys me earrings, necklaces, perfume, cosmetics, shoes, and a collection of lingerie so scandalous that it would make Joseph Corré blush.
I can hardly focus on the purchases because Cole is amusing himself in an entirely different way.
It starts as I’m sampling a selection of perfumes laid out by the willowy blonde who accosted us on our way in the door. She’s wafting a sample of Maison Francis Kurkdjian beneath my nose when I feel a sudden buzzing in my nether regions. I jerk upright, almost slicing off my nose via paper cut.
“What the hell!” I gasp.
I whirl around, finding Cole with his hands in his pockets and an artfully constructed expression of innocence on his face.
“Mosquito bite?” he says.
My face is burning and my knees are going wobbly beneath me. The buzzing has dialed down to a low thrum, steady and insistent. I see Cole’s hand shifting within his pocket as he manipulates the controls. The buzzing ramps up again, almost loud enough for the perfume counter lady to hear. I take several steps away from her, trying to squeeze my legs together, then quickly separate them again because that only makes it worse.
“Are you alright?” she asks me, her botoxed brow unable to wrinkle in concern.
“Could I … have some water?” I squeak.
I’m trying to get rid of her so I can yell at Cole.
Wheeling on him, I bark, “Turn that off!”
Instead, he turns it up.
I have to lean against the glass counter, cheeks burning and hands sweating.
“Stop,” I beg him.
He turns it off, giving me a moment of blessed relief to recover myself.
The perfume lady returns with a small bottle of water.
“Feeling better?” she says, handing it to me.
“Yes, thank you,” I pant. “I think the perfume was making me dizzy.”
“Try this,” she says, passing me an open canister of coffee beans. “It can help clear your head.”
I lean over to inhale their scent.
Right as I do, Cole activates the vibrator again.
“Oh my god!” I gasp, clutching at the countertop with both hands.
I’m helpless as the sensation thrums up and down my legs, churning in my lower stomach.
Cole has discovered a fatal weakness, one I didn’t even know I possessed. Vibration is my kryptonite, and Cole is employing it with Lex Luther levels of evil genius.
How the fuck did he even find one this small? He probably made it himself, that crafty bastard.
He’s ramping it up again, while I desperately try not to moan in front of the confused blonde.
“Do you need a doctor?” she says.
“She’ll be fine,” Cole assures her. “This happens all the time.”
That makes no goddamned sense, but Cole is so convincing that the blonde simply smiles and says, “We have a powder room if you need to sit down.”
Cole puts his arm around my shoulders, leading me away from the perfume counter, but not shutting off the vibrator.
I turn into his chest, holding him for support, hiding my face against his body as I start to cum. My legs shake like an earthquake, my arms wrapped tight around his waist. I’m making a muffled groaning sound.
When it finally passes, I gasp, “Turn that damn thing off!”
Cole complies, though I can feel him shaking too—from laughter.
I look up at him.
Cole is illuminated with the purest, brightest amusement I’ve ever seen. It lights up his whole face, making him beautiful on a level that awes me.
I can only stare.
Then I start to giggle as well.
Maybe it’s the rush of dopamine, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time, Cole and I are laughing together, at a secret that only we share.
“Why are you so awful?” I snort.
“I don’t know,” he says, with real wonder. “I only want what I’m not supposed to have.”
Me too.
Nobody wanted me to be an artist.
Nobody wanted me to achieve anything.
Until I met Cole.
He turns the vibrator on several more times while we’re shopping. It becomes a game between us, him trying to do it at the most inopportune times, and me fighting my hardest not to show any sign of it on my face, to keep talking and picking out mascara while my knees tremble and my skin flushes as pink as a baby pig.
Soon I’m giddy and over-stimulated, hanging off his arm because I can barely stand up. Cole carries all the bags for me, laden down like a Sherpa.
I’ve never felt so spoiled.
I’ve never had so much fun.
