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On birth control, doctor says it’s for cramps. Never pregnant. No STDs on record.
Good.
I keep reading, and then I find out the answer that I’ve been looking for—she is planning on going to Paris, and has already booked a flight. I note the dates down for my executive assistant to flank for my private plane.
No. I will fly the same flight. First-class. I cross out the private plane reservation and note the airline. She’ll be surprised. I can see her eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. But she’s a pro. She’ll keep her mouth shut.
I start skimming when the answer I’ve been looking for as to why she seems so familiar hits me like a punch to the gut.
Of course. That’s where I’ve seen her.
I click on my computer, and wonder how the hell I didn’t realize it before. Jordan. Of course.
This complicates things. It makes her a completely different person than I had thought.
“Jordan,” I say out loud. “I want you to be mine. Mine only. I want you for my own.” My cock strains at the zipper. “For me.” I’m almost lightheaded, the blood rushing to my cock so quickly like this. I press a button under the desk and the door to my office locks with a hearty but discreet click. I’ll never get anything done now that I know this.
But it only makes me hungrier.
Jordan, you are mine, says that voice in my head. The malevolent voice that I try to silence.
Mine.
Chapter 3
Jordan
“Excusez-moi, Madame?” says the barista in her perfect, slippery, elegant French.
“Um,” I struggle to remember the words I was just practicing in my head over and over. “Café?” is all that comes out. I see a small curl form in her lip.
“What can I get you, miss? You would like a coffee? What size?”
She’s impatient.
“Medium,” I say, cheeks flaming. Goddammit. I thought that coming to France was going to help me be more brave, but instead I’m feeling stupid and helpless.
“We don’t ‘ave medium,” she says flatly.
“Large.” I have no idea what they have.
She turns and draws a couple shots of espresso out of a large silver maker, as I regard the case with all manner of pastries.
“Here you are, deux Euro, s’il-vous-plait,” she says.
I hand over a bill and she look
s at it with scorn.
“Nothing smaller?” she asks, and shares a look with her fellow barista who is waiting to ring in his customer. I shake my head quickly. If Kelsey were here, I’d have someone to share a look with, myself. If Kelsey were here, she’d be the one ordering for both of us. It’s probably why I’m so fucking useless, because she used to do everything for me.
Kelsey was the one who, when we were just kids, pulled me out onto the playground and made sure I was friends with the others. Sure, she didn’t like it much when I got too close to this one or that one. Then I’d pay for it. But for the most part, being with Kelsey was like having a ticket to the popular kids, to birthday parties and later, to boys. She was always a bridge to other people, but sometimes she blocked that bridge when she got angry or felt like I might be getting too independent. I realize that now. I thought she was opening me up to new experiences, but I realize she was just providing herself with some kind of safety net.
“Merci,” I choke out.
Don’t see this a failure, Jordan, I tell myself sternly, but inside I’m cringing. Hard.
“De rien,” she says but she’s already turned away. I resist the habit to count my change. I don’t know anything about this currency and the people behind me are grumbling.
