At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Three

I was thinking of ordering a Cosmopolitan, but okay. Whatever the bossy man wants. I nod and thank the waiter. "That would be wonderful."

When the waiter walks away, I shoot daggers at my would-be-boss.

"Isn't it polite to ask me my drink preference, Mr. Black?"

"Please. Tonight you may call me Tristan." He shrugs. "The gin and tonic's famous here. I thought you'd want to try it."

I let out an annoyed grunt. You may call me Tristan. Pfft.

He clears his throat, and I can't help but notice how he keeps glancing at my mouth. How old is he, anyway? Thirty-five? Forty?

"I'm glad you reconsidered my offer. This will benefit you immensely."

My shoulders lift into a shrug. "I'll be honest. I came here hoping we could talk about putting me in a different position."

He shakes his head. "I know you're the perfect author for this."

I sigh. "Why don't you tell me what you have in mind and I'll let you know if I'm perfect."

I'm not right for anything, but I don't say that. As pessimistic as I am, I'm also not crazy. The man is offering five million bucks so I should listen to his full proposal. That he's so handsome, and that I get to watch him speak for a little while is a bonus, I suppose.

That small, maddening smile plays on his lips. "I've had this idea for a while. I think it's quite alluring and erotic."

"Okay. Let's hear it." This is probably some clichéd steamy romance plot, or something hackneyed. One that only a man would think of. Cheerleaders, or pillow fights. A glorified Penthouse Forum letter. Or, knowing this guy and how stuffy he is, a fantasy about an opera singer and a Shakespeare in the Park actor — exactly what won't sell.

"The story is about a writer."

"How unique."

His eyes narrow. "Are you sassing me?"

"Sassing? Who says that other than a five-year-old?"

That earns me a glare.

"Okay. Fine. Just giving you my opinion."

"Well, save it until I'm finished, please."

"Yes, sir."

"That's better." He clears his throat, and I swear, his gaze drifts to my body. Specifically my legs. Then it snaps back to my eyes. "The story is about a writer who enters into a contract with her publisher. She agrees to live in the publisher's house."

I screw up my face. "Why? Doesn't she have a home? Is she homeless? That makes no sense."

Then it dawns on me. "Ohhh. Is this a maid fantasy? Or slavery? Something taboo? Sorry. I'd never write any of that. I only write consensual stories. Well, wrote."

He blinks twice. "Slavery? What kind of person do you think I am?"

The kind who would propose something like this to a total stranger. "Dunno. But you're not inspiring confidence here."

He chuckles. Low and rumbly. It's a wonderful sound, and I almost dislike myself for enjoying it so much. "You're quite amusing, you know that?"

Why is he suddenly looking at me like that, all tender and sweet? I grunt again.

"What I'm suggesting is completely consensual."

My stomach turns into a brick. What, exactly, is he proposing? I'm not getting what he's saying. I tilt my head, and he continues.

"The writer, in this instance, you," he pauses and smiles wolfishly, "agrees to allow the publisher — in this case, me — to do anything he wants with her. Sexually. This is enthusiastic and consensual on the part of both parties."

My jaw hangs open, but he barrels right on.

"They agree for a set period of time, say, a week. Or a month. Whatever is mutually decided upon. And then she writes about it. Chronicles their sexual journey."

Is this guy for real? Or is this one of those prank reality TV shows? I glance to my left, and then to my right, without moving my head. Where are the hidden cameras?

Then I lick my lips. "Um."

"Don't you love the idea?" He leans forward and I swear this is the first time he's looked anything but bossy or annoyed. He looks... excited?

"Well. I... Hm. It's an interesting concept."

The wicked smile on his face grows larger. Oh, wait a minute. I think he wants me to... have sex and write about it?

This man is insane.

"Yes! It will be like 9 ½ Weeks, the original version. A chronicle of a woman's erotic and emotional descent into the unknown of pleasure."

My hands are shaking, so I rest them on my knees. Then squeeze my knees.

"Well, it's an unusual proposal, Mr. Black," I say weakly.

"Tristan. Call me Tristan. I enjoy hearing my name on your lips."

It's impossible to look into his eyes because of the filthy fantasies running through my brain.

I'll spend time with this man...having sex? Then write about it?

Oh God Oh God Oh God

Just then, the waiter appears with our drinks and a little stainless steel bowl of corn nuts. Relieved, I dive for the nuts, grab two and toss them in my mouth as the waiter walks away.

"Naturally, this will entail you relocating to my home."

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