Don't Ever Stop: A BDSM Billionaire Romance (11 page)

‘I can tell you want this,’ he said gruffly.

‘I’m not sure I…’ I stammered. ‘Maybe we should talk a little more…’
Why are you saying that?
My bad conscience began to curse at me, desperate for his lips on mine, but I knew I couldn’t let myself surrender this easily.

‘Of course,’ he said, looking around at the people straying across the plaza, not exactly noticing us, but giving us so much space that it seemed like perhaps they were avoiding becoming part of the confrontation. ‘We’ll go somewhere more private.’

Finally, his hands let go of me, and I grabbed my wrists, rubbing them to relieve the soreness, but strangely intrigued by how much pleasure it gave me to feel a part of my body in need of this immediate care. It felt good to be looked after, even if it was me that was doing it.

I turned to Mr. Cooper. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘My place,’ he answered, walking quickly ahead, so that I had no choice but to run after him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Home Of The Satyr

The cab pulled up to a tall hotel, with a beautiful, wrought-iron sign saying ‘The Athena’ above the elegant art deco awning. Mr. Cooper reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wallet full of hundred dollar bills. I was too embarrassed to stay and watch him pay, so I got out of the cab and walked up to the hotel entrance. A smartly-dressed doorman in a maroon and gold-embroidered uniform, with a peaked cap, bowed at me. I felt terribly awkward, and gave him a small curtsey back, then felt silly.

Mr. Cooper got out of the cab and we walked up to the doors together. ‘Good evening, John,’ he said to the doorman.

‘Good evening, Mr. Cooper,’ said the doorman.

We walked into the reception area and I almost lost my breath for a moment. It was incredible. The biggest, most iridescent chandelier I had ever seen, along with a marble floor, marble countertops, and plush Persian rugs. I felt like I was walking in to a fairytale. ‘You live here?’ I gasped. Mr. Cooper just smiled.

We got into an elevator, operated by another man, this time a younger one, but in the same maroon and gold uniform. Without asking Mr. Cooper for his number, he pressed the number forty-one. The building only had forty-three floors, so we were going to be really near the top. I hoped I wouldn’t faint again.

As the elevator rose in silence, I became aware of the overpowering scent of my boss’ aftershave. He smelt of musky eastern spices; the smell seemed so intoxicating in the tightness of the elevator that my mind felt foggy, relaxed, like I could easily be lulled into a deep, dreamy sleep. Fortunately, the doors opened, jolting me awake, and Mr. Cooper led me out into a smart hallway. There was a very short corridor here, and I could only see one door.
Number One
. ‘You live at number one?’ I asked. ‘Yours is the only apartment on this entire floor?’

Mr. Cooper put his key in the lock. ‘I live on this floor, yes,’ he replied. ‘And the two above it.’

At that moment, he opened the door, revealing an astonishingly magnificent sight. The entrance foyer was in itself a work of art. It had a high ceiling, with a huge, twisting staircase, leading up to the next two floors. The floor and steps were again made of marble (hand-laid African St. Laurent, Mr. Cooper told me when I asked him about it), and there was a marble statue of a young, naked girl at the bottom of the stairs.

‘That’s Artemis,’ Mr. Cooper told me as I walked towards it.

I longed to run my hands over her smooth marble skin, but didn’t dare touch something so perfect.

‘She’s the goddess of wild animals and the hunt, among other things.’

‘What other things?’ I asked, marveling at the delicate curls of her hair, her strong slender neck, her determined eyes.
Perhaps she is preparing to hunt.

‘Virginity,’ he replied softly.

I noticed an arrow, clutched in one of her hands.
Perhaps she has already locked eyes onto her pray.

‘Let’s go to the sitting room.’ Mr. Cooper began climbing the marble staircase, and I went after him. I wondered what was behind the many doors we were passing by. How many bedrooms this place had. How many bathrooms. Whether this was one of those luxury penthouse apartments you’d see advertised in the newspaper as in ‘triple mint condition’. I wondered how many zeroes were on the end of the price for this place. At least six, I figured. Maybe seven.

As we reached the top of the stairs, I was stunned to see that this level was all open plan. The floor space was massive. There were no brick walls either; just like at the office, everything was glass. From where I was standing now, I had a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city.

‘Come on,’ said Mr. Cooper. ‘Over here. Take a proper look at the view.’

I swallowed nervously, terrified of another fainting attack, like the one at the office. But fainting at the office was an entirely different matter to fainting in my boss’
home
.

Oh god, I’m in my boss’ home
, I suddenly thought.
Why am I here? Why did I agree to this?

‘It’s okay,’ Mr. Cooper smiled. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’ He walked past several plush sofas, past another statue, of a young man this time, and he reached the glass. He stood with his back to me. ‘Walk over here to me,’ he said.

I began, very slowly, to walk towards him, focusing on the objects in the room. The statue, I saw when I was closer, was not of a man, but a satyr. It had hooves, a horse’s tail, and horselike ears. And I couldn’t help but notice it had an erect, horselike phallus too.

‘Satyrs are Dionysian creatures,’ said Mr. Cooper, who had noticed my footsteps coming to a halt behind the statue. ‘Sensual and spontaneous. They love wine and women, and physical pleasures.’

I felt a strange tingle of disgust (was it disgust? or excitement?) looking at the bulging phallus, and then I continued walking, up to the window. I didn’t step quite as far as Mr. Cooper, right up to the edge. I stood half a meter or so behind it, and focused my attention on the immaculate polished floor.

‘If you follow my instructions,’ said the firm voice to my left, ‘you won’t be afraid of being up this high.’

I doubted whatever he was about to say was going to work. I’d suffered from this fear my entire life.

‘First of all, close your eyes.’

I was happy to oblige with that part, so that I didn’t have to look out of the window.

‘Now take a deep breath in through your nose,’ he said. ‘And then a nice, long steady breath out of your mouth.’

I did as he said.

‘Feel the pressure in your chest, falling away, feel the soles of your feet rooted firmly on the floor.’

I imagined the soles of my feet growing roots, imagining that the floor was the earthy ground of a forest, that I was growing into it, becoming a part of the wilderness. I liked that feeling.

‘Next, I want you to open your eyes, very slowly, and as you do, I want you to remember to take a deep breath again. Don’t focus on anything when your eyes are fully open; just let them watch the air in front of your face, nice and soft.’

I continued to do as he said, and found that the process of listening to his voice, so soothing and direct, so confident and strong, was in itself making me feel less afraid. Being told what to do felt sort of relaxing. Took some of the pressure away from me.

‘Now let your eyes fall upon something outside. Remember to take a deep breath in and out as your eyes focus. Now keep you eyes there and take a few more deep breaths. That’s good.’

I looked at an aerial on top of a building and felt fine.

I’m fine! I’m looking out of the window on the forty-second floor and I’m fine!

‘That’s amazing,’ I said, growing in bravery and letting my eyes move around as the adrenaline seeped away. The city looked stunning. It was dusk’, the lights had started to go on, and the last remaining light of the day was disappearing behind several tall skyscrapers, staining the sky behind it blood orange. I could see the dark mass of Central Park beneath me, dotted with lights and evening activity. I’d never seen a view more wonderful. I’d never
been able
to look at a view like this so calmly before. ‘How did you learn to do that?’

‘I didn’t,’ Mr. Cooper said. ‘I was just guessing.’

I almost gave him a playful push but remembered my place. And then I remembered what he’d said to me earlier and felt a rush of anger coming back to me. ‘Why did you invite me here?’ I asked, stern all of a sudden. ‘What more do we need to discuss?’

‘I want to put things right between us,’ he replied. ‘I want you to understand me better. I’m going to show you who I really am.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Asanawa

Mr. Cooper led me over to the sofa, and told me to take a seat. He walked over to a bar counter, some twenty paces away, and began opening a bottle of wine. I hated to admit it, but I liked watching him. His movements were so controlled, so precise. He seemed to have all the brute strength of a warrior, and the precision of a fine artist. He checked two wine glasses for smudges before pouring two neat servings of wine, then took in a deep inhalation of the wine’s bouquet in one of the glasses. ‘Nothing beats an Argentinian red,’ he said. ‘This one’s like drinking liquid velvet.’

He left the wine bottle on the countertop and brought the glasses over to us.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘I owe you an apology.’

He sat on the sofa beside me, clinking his glass against mine, and then drinking, letting the wine sit on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed. I did the same. He was right. The wine was very smooth, not acidic in the slightest, like the three dollar bottles I would pick up after my lectures at uni. It was delicious. I had another mouthful.

‘I can see that what I said to you in the restaurant must have seemed very strange,’ he said. ‘Disgusting, even.’ He seemed to struggle to spit out the word
disgusting
. I would have felt embarrassed for him, if it wasn’t for the fact he was keeping his composure so perfectly. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you about it. It wasn’t appropriate.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ I said quietly, feeling strangely warm and safe, sitting so close to this man, on the same sofa as one another, our knees just inches apart.

‘Now that I’ve said it, though, I can’t make it go away. Seeing how angry you were when I told you has made me determined to get this ironed out. I’m going to open up to you further now, Rose. If I go too far, tell you more than you want to know, you can leave. I’ll call you a cab whenever you want. Okay?’

I nodded. I don’t know why, but I wanted to stay. I wanted to see what he felt he needed to show me.

Mr. Cooper placed his wine on the coffee table, and walked away behind a marble pillar. I heard a drawer opening and shutting, and then he returned, holding a carved, ivory box.

‘Take this,’ he urged, handing me the box. I put down my wine and took the box onto my lap and studied the intricate design carved into it. Koi carp, mountains, and a tiger running out into the foreground. It was beautiful.

‘Now open it,’ he told me, and I lifted the lid.

Inside, there was nothing but a length of old rope. It looked about six meters long. Maybe longer. I couldn’t figure out what it was for a moment. And then I remembered.

‘This is what’s known as
asanawa
,’ he said. ‘Take it out. Hold onto it.’

I lifted it out of the box, as I might have lifted an injured bird, anxiously, delicately, afraid to break it, or afraid I might break holding it. I was surprised how soft it felt.

‘It’s made of jute,’ Mr. Cooper said. ‘Vegetable fiber. It’s incredibly strong, but also soft. I treat it with wax, to keep it at its best. The more it’s used, the more it matures. Becomes even softer.’

I moved it between my fingers, enjoying the sensation.

‘It’s less likely to cause rope burn than synthetic rope. It doesn’t heat up so quickly when you draw it across the skin.’ He took hold of a length of the rope and drew it quickly across the back of my hand. It sent a sharp tingle down my arm.

‘There are so many beautiful knots you can create with this. Each knot is in itself a work of art, but when you pair it up with the human form, it becomes magnificent.’

I tried to imagine the feeling of this rope, constricting my entire body, tangling me in its web, yanking my limbs into uncomfortable positions. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ I asked.

‘Of course it hurts,’ Mr. Cooper said, running the rope down the length of my arm now. ‘It hurts a lot.’

I grew aware of my breathing. How heavy it was getting. How quick my heart was beating. ‘Then why would someone let you do it?’ I asked.

‘Because it is beautiful,’ he answered immediately. ‘Pain can be beautiful too.’

‘Mr. Cooper,’ I began, clutching the rope tight under my knuckles. ‘Why did you ask me to let you do this to me? Why me?’ My voice was shaking. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

‘You have no idea,’ Mr. Cooper said, wiping a loose strand of hair away from my face, making me gasp, ‘how attractive you are, Rose. And I find
that
incredibly attractive.’