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“Four. Don’t call me ma’am. Oh, and five,” she said, “remember—no one forced you to do this. You could have walked away and let your parents deal with it, but you chose this.” She pointed at herself. “What did you choose?”
Arthur took a long breath before answering.
“This,” he said.
* * *
He followedher up the staircase and through a red door into the bedroom, which was splendid red and gold from top to bottom. The damask curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows, the wallpaper, the canopy on the enormous four-poster bed—all red and gold. Brass lamps with matching shades cast shadows all around.
He took in every detail, cataloging the room like he was doing inventory. It was all he could do to avoid thinking about what he was doing here, what was about to happen in this room.
Arthur didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel. Because if he thought anything, he might have thought about how drawn to Regan he was. If he felt anything, he might have felt something like excitement. Anticipation. Even, terrifyingly…relief.
“Stand there,” Regan said, pointing at the floor in front of the fireplace. He waited on the soft plush carpet while she switched one of the bedside lamps off, this one in the shape of a woman holding the moon. The room grew dimmer.
Outside the rain had picked up again and the wind blew hard against the windows. Regan drew the heavy drapes, but he could still hear the rain, only softer now.
“Are you warm enough?” asked Regan as she shut the bedroom door.
“Fine,” he said.
“Comfortable?”
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “And how are you?”
“Better,” she said, ignoring his derisive tone. “I’m surprised to find I like having you here, even if you are a brat.”
“I’d hope you would. It was your idea.”
“It was, wasn’t it? One of my better ones. Take your clothes off.”
He took off his shoes and socks, set them on the floor. Then came his trousers and boxer briefs in one push, like ripping off a bandage. And there she stood, watching him do it, staring at him like he was nothing more than a statue in a gallery.
“You have a perfect body,” she said.
“If you say so.”
“I’m never letting an old man touch me again. Nothing but younger men for the rest of my life. Lay down on the bed. In the center.”
He stared at the golden sheets and red pillows piled high, at the reality of it—undeniable now.
“Your great-grandfather used to fuck his whores in this bed,” she said, leaning against the post at the foot.
“Hope you’ve changed the sheets since then.”
“You’re making jokes because you’re nervous. You don’t have to be. You can put your clothes on and leave. Anytime. All you have to do is say the word.”
“What word?”
“No, of course. Lay down on your back in the center of the bed.”
The shame came rushing back again. If she would just kiss him or drop the ice-queen act for a few seconds… But no. This was what she liked, being in command, in control.
He might have been doing this for Charlie, but there were worse jobs in the world than letting an incredibly attractive woman use his body.
He didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything as he stepped from his shed clothes and onto the bed.
He lay on his back in the center, small pillow under his head. The counterpane was a rich thick brocade and the raised pattern of gold threading pricked against the back of his body. The silk tickled. The fabric was cool, though growing warm quickly. Regan’s eyes were on him, and he felt ridiculous, embarrassed by his erection, his penis hard and dripping, resting on his stomach for all the world to see. What was worse—being hard when you didn’t want to be or not being hard when you needed to be?
