Page 48 of Pierced

“I see that. What novel?”

She takes a breath and says, “You can go through, Ms. Steele.”

Ah. She’s not interested in my usual charming, get-to-know you banter. OK. That’s fine. I can appreciate a person who doesn’t trust me. Hell, I may appreciate them more than a person who does.

“Cool,” I say, smiling. “Catch you on the flip, Crabapple.”

“Crabtree.”

“If you say so.”

The huge gates swing open and I roll through. My heart speeds up a little bit as I make my way around the drive. I’ve never felt this way before. I’m almost a bit lightheaded. I’ve been sober for pretty much my whole life, so I don’t know entirely what it feels like to be drunk, but I’ve certainly seen it. And in my recollection from the one or two times I have been tippled, it was a little like this. Buzzy. That’s how I feel. I’m buzzy.

I’ve spent part of the day wrestling the thoughts that Eden put in my head earlier. The notion that somehow Myrtle has feelings for me. Like actual feelings. And, even more preposterously, that I have them for Myrtle. I mean, I’d like to think that I’d know if either one of those things was true. And try as I might, I just can’t envision it.

Myrtle and I have been flirtatious, sure. But that’s always just been fun and games. Playing the roles we were cast to play with each other. From the first time she came in to interview to be my assistant, I knew she was the kind of woman I’d want to have around me. Someone I could spar and parry with. That’s what I liked about her. What I like about her.

It’s why I was willing to do this whole thing in the first place. This peripeteia in our relationship. I’ll do what it takes, because I can’t lose her. I just can’t. Even if things are different than they were before, just knowing she’s around is enough to make me feel… comfortable.

But I’m not in love with her. That’s just… that’s just insensé.

I remind myself of this now so that I don’t confuse the surge of excitement in my beating heart and the flow of blood making its way to my dick for anything other than what it is: The thrill of discovery and the joy of release.

Last night was the first time I can remember when I wasn’t the boss. When I wasn’t the one in charge. When I wasn’t making the decisions and the calls and the choices. When I was just… doing as I was told.

It was thrilling.

And we only just got started. I can’t wait to find out what tonight’s going to bring.

I’m going to give her what she wants and then, when the weekend comes, I’m going to give her what she doesn’t know she wants. Under the guise of letting her dominate me, I’m going to seize control of our dynamic once more and then everything will balance and go back to the way it was.

I never actually got around to reading the second two Fifty Shades books, but I’m pretty sure they probably ended with Anastasia Steele running a men’s magazine and Christian Grey forgiving her for the fact that Ana had him publicly humiliated.

Feels like the direction the books were headed.

I hop out of my car and almost bound up the steps to the door. I ring the bell, once again expecting Kacy or whatever her name was to answer. Instead, Myrtle’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Uh… Myrtle?”

“Yes.”

I pause, waiting for more. When no more comes, I continue. “Uh, it’s Pierce. You wanna let me in?”

After another moment of silence, there’s a buzz and I hear the front door unlock. I push it open, carefully, to see the inside of the main hall is aglow in candlelight. Pedestal candles in glass hurricanes fill the space. It’s haunting, but elegant. It’s the kind of light that radiates seduction.

Looking around, I see no one. No people. No tigers. No serval/leopard things. Nothing. Music plays everywhere. Slow, melodic, but grinding and borderline sinister. It reminds me a little of the music that a girl I went out with a few times used to favor. She owns an art gallery in the TDH. Um… Serena? Shit, I can’t remember her name. But she actually kind of always reminded me of Myrtle, so this is a bit of déjà vu.

And that causes me to realize…

Huh. Every woman I’ve ever gone out with kind of reminds me of Myrtle. I mean no one is Myrtle. Certainly none of the women I was with ever had her wit and, um, moxie… I guess. But in the abstract, they all kind of remind me of her when I stop to consider it. I never thought of myself as having a “type,” but…

“Pierce?” comes an echoing purr throughout the speaker system in the house.

“Uh… yeah?”

“Come to the dungeon.”