His Offer by Becky Turner

Author:Becky Turner [Turner, Becky]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-02-07T05:00:00+00:00

My prayers didn’t come true. I did wake up with a hangover, a killer one, in fact, but I wasn’t angry and I was still thinking about David’s touch. As I stumbled out of bed and began to take account of the night before, I noticed a business card lying next to my purse on the dining room table.

Picking it up, I had the vaguest recollection of the driver pressing it into my hand as I swayed and stumbled my way out of the limo. It was David’s, of course, with his number and e-mail address. Sighing in disgust at myself, I dropped it back onto the table and went to work trying to solve my main issue: being too hung over to see straight.

I decided I could afford to take a day off from the bar and went back to bed. As I lay staring at the ceiling, I thought about everything that had happened. I wanted to focus on the things that made me angry, but I found my mind kept turning to the things that had been…pleasant. The conversation we’d had before we started talking business, the way he had smiled at me, and, of course, his hands….

I tossed and turned, feeling myself getting turned on the more I thought about it. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to want him. I wanted to be independent and strong but…he had been right. He had known, even before I ever thought it about myself. How had he described it? Dominated…

I sat up, determined not to let my mind slip into some demented fantasy. Going back to bed clearly wasn’t going to work, so I got up and started to clean my house. But every time I bent over, I would imagine David standing behind me. Every time I lost track of my thoughts, I would begin to think about his touch. Cleaning wasn’t working, either.

The rest of the day went just the same. Try to keep busy; get distracted; do something else. I knew there was really only one way to get rid of the feeling, but I refused. I would not touch myself thinking of him. I would not call him. I would not give in. Somehow, I made it through the day and managed to fall into a deep sleep; the hangover helped that, I’m sure. But when I woke up, it wasn’t any better.

In fact, it was worse. And it didn’t get better the next day, or the day after. It didn’t help that I’d started getting flowers. Every day, after the first day, I received a single, blue rose. Sometimes they would be delivered at home, sometimes at the bar. On the third day it was waiting for me at the coffee shop. For a week, I lived in a tortured state of craving, with the constant reminder of a single blue rose.

I couldn’t work, I couldn’t focus; everything was too hard to keep track of when I was constantly re-playing that night in my mind.

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