Losing Control(80)

“No more of that, or I’ll be late and I’ll have to whip myself again for taking advantage of you.” He presses his lips to my temple and then, for good measure I guess, traces a path over my ear and down the side of my jaw.

“Please,” I moan, half in pain and half in arousal, “take advantage of me.”

“We’ll see how you are after lunch” is his implacable response. Deciding that a retreat is in order so I can enjoy being ravished later, I burrow under the covers.

A ringing brings me out several hours later. It’s my phone, and I can see by the display that it’s nearing noon. I’m not able to unwrap myself in time to answer, but the missed call message reveals that it’s Ian and it’s followed thirty seconds later by a voicemail message.

Text me a smiley face if we’re still on for the meeting with Tanner. There’s an outfit for you in the bathroom.

Sending Ian an emoji isn’t too difficult for me. He sends me a return image, one of a smiley face and one of a sandwich. I guess he wants me to eat. The idea of Ian hunting through dozens of little tiny pictures to find a way to remind me to have lunch puts a smile on my face and a warmth in my belly. The way he’s so easily adapted to my issues with reading and writing is pretty darn incredible. In the past, I’d always avoided telling guys I’d dated I had any problem. It was easy to see that they’d texted, so I’d pick up the phone and call them back, preferring to talk instead of respond with a written message.

The text messages remind me of the one that Rich had sent. I pull up his contact and see several messages, one with a picture attached of him lounging on a rooftop patio and making the call me sign with his fingers. I send him back a smiley face for lack of a better response and resolve to speak to Ian about it later.

In the bathroom there are a pair of wide-legged navy blue slacks and a white linen top with tiny white raised dots. Next to the clothes are white lace boy shorts and a lovely strapless white lace bra that is banded on the bottom with a one-inch strip of white silk that ends in a bow between my breasts. When I pull it on, I see the bow covers two hooks that hold the bra closed at the front. Again, I’m struck by Ian’s thoughtfulness. My left shoulder is still sore and not having a bra strap riding on it all day will make it a lot easier on me.

The shirt has a lovely Peter Pan collar edged in navy and the small puff sleeves end in a cuff with the same trim. I can see my mother’s impeccable taste in these clothes. The shoes are nude and have a fairly low heel, which is good for me today. Ian’s even provided me with a small clutch. Or his personal shopper has. Either way, it’s a nice touch. It’s not the most professional outfit but I’ve never been to an interview with security consultant before.

On the counter, there is also an assortment of makeup, all unopened. I’m not as good at this as my mom would be, but I do my best to cover up the bruise around my eye. Inside the refrigerator, I find a tightly-wrapped sandwich filled with roasted vegetables and a big portobello mushroom.

When Steve arrives, I’m washing down the last of the sandwich with a glass of water.

“Ready?” His tone is a little gentler today but not by much.

“You have a girlfriend, Steve?” I ask, picking up my clutch and phone and follow him down the stairs to the alley.

“Yeah.” He sounds wary, as if I’m trying to trick him.

“Do you ever say more than two-word sentences to her?”

I pull open the front passenger door and slip in before Steve can even respond. Besides he’s busy engaging the lock and a dozen alarms.

He gives me a sour look when he sees where I’m situated. “Passengers ride in the back,” he grunts, but I ignore him because I know that he’s not going to forcibly remove me. I don’t think Ian would like that very much.

“Not this passenger,” I respond. Today, we’re driving in the Bentley. “Why’d Ian buy this car?”

“Couldn’t say,” Steve says.

I tap a few of the dials to drive him crazy, but since I’m in no shape for a real fight, I retreat to my seat and let him deal with the Manhattan traffic in peace.

“Where’s Tanner’s office?”

“West side.”

Again with the near monosyllabic responses. “What’s Tanner’s business?”

“Security.”

I give up. We ride the rest of the trip in complete silence. Steve doesn’t even turn the music on.

Jake Tanner’s office is the bottom floor of a twenty-foot-wide townhome three blocks off the Hudson River on the west side near the Museum of Natural History. Steve illegally parks in front of a fire hydrant and tells me to stay put. Despite the fun I had earlier poking Steve, I decide to do what he says because Ian might be watching, and I don’t want Steve to get in trouble with his boss. When he helps me out of the car, I thank him nicely but he gives me an impassive stare in return. I wonder briefly who his girlfriend is and whether he ever smiles at her. Poor girl.