Page 58 of The Rook’s Obsession

“Yes.” Louder this time. Raw.

“Very good. Start talking.”

He does. He lists his failures with the desperate urgency of a man who’s been waiting all week for someone to demand this of him. On and on he goes, like he’s been making a list. Allowing someone to speak over him in a meeting. Upsetting his wife by forgetting their anniversary—then being unable to perform later on, in bed, something he attributes to stress at work. He forgot to rinse the sink after shaving this morning. His company’s quarterly revenue didn’t go up at the rate he projected.

In other words, he goes from A to Z, listing every single mundane aspect of his life while I tap the end of the riding crop against my palm.

The whole time, Nick listens.

I let it go on for exactly as long as it needs to, and not a second longer. When my customer has run out of words, breathing like he just ran a mile, I ask, “And what about that useless thing between your legs? Is it hard now, for me? Or is it limp and useless?”

Nick’s breathing changes.

“It’s… hard,” the man admits, trembling. “Very.”

“Show me. Do not look at me,” I warn, sharp, and he jumps a little before fumbling for his fly. “Show me what little control you have over yourself, you useless nothing.”

“Yes. Yes, I will.” He’s breathing faster and harder than ever as he unzips himself, then withdraws what is by any standard an average penis. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Look at you,” I sneer, circling him again. “So excited by your own failure. I think you fail in order to get off. Is that what you do? Are you that fucked in the head?”

“Jesus,” Nick whispers.

“No,” the man insists.

“Don’t lie to me.” I tap the end of the crop to his tip, and he sucks in a sharp, pained breath—but his dick also twitches, harder than ever. “Tell me the truth, or this ends now. Do you keep a running list in your head of all your little failures because it’s the only thing that gets you hard?”

“Yes.” It’s a whisper, filled with shame.

“I can’t hear you.” With the crop under his chin, I tip his head upward until our eyes meet. “Repeat yourself. I want to hear you admit what a sniveling little nothing you are.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s why.” His eyes are watery, like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Pitiful,” I spit out. “You aren’t fit to lick the bottom of my shoe, much less to get off tonight. Why should I allow you to do that?”

“You shouldn’t!” he rasps, and now I understand what this is about. It isn’t about release. It’s about the torture element for him. I can’t pretend I’m not relieved. That’s exactly what I need in order to keep up the act.

“I agree. You don’t deserve it.” I tap his chin lightly with the crop before taking a step back. “We’re finished here. I want you out of my sight.”

He releases a shuddering breath but nods, tucking himself into his shorts, raising his zipper. “Get up,” I order. “Fix yourself.”

He does, fumbling with his cuffs, adjusting his tie. Strangely enough, he does look relieved now. Like there’s something deeper at play than simply coming. It’s fascinating, in a way.

“Get out of my sight,” I order. He wastes no time. The door closes behind him, and the room goes quiet, and I can finally exhale.

“That,” Nick says through the earpiece, “was the longest twenty minutes of my life.”

“Was it?” My voice is light, because I’m still acting. I’m not completely unaffected by what just happened, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I thought it went well, myself.”

“Ivy,” he growls.

“Relax. It’s over. Nothing happened.”

The sound he makes isn’t quite a word. Closer to a growl through clenched teeth.

I’m straightening the table, because a professional would leave it the way she found it, when the door opens again. This time, it’s one of the bouncers. Broad-shouldered, wide enough that he almost fills the doorway. “There’s a customer out front asking for a private dance.”

Jesus, this is turning into a nightmare. “I’m not interested.”