He pounded into me, to the rhythm of the song. He filled me, covered me, inundated me. I was gasping, panting, coming.
As I shuddered and groaned underneath him, he also shook, and then he quickly pulled out and came on my stomach, his eyes closed and face twisted.
We both stopped moving, and I heard the lyrics of the song—an old eighties song by Joan Jett, Now I Wanna Be Your Dog.
My insides were still shivering, but my feeling of bliss turned to something dark. One last spurt came out of him and landed on my stomach.
I said, my voice fiery, “Are you f**king kidding me?”
Smith opened his eyes and grinned down at the icing he'd left on my bare skin.
“This song,” I said. “You manipulated me into coming up here, as your dog?”
“Come on, Tori. Don't pretend you didn't plan this all day.”
I grabbed his shirt from the chair next to the bed and wiped my stomach as I climbed off the bed.
“Aw, not the shirt,” he said.
I gave him an angry look and finished up by wiping the shirt between my legs.
“Fine, we'll call this one a draw,” he said.
I stomped to the door. Something smacked into my butt, so I wheeled around. My hairbrush lay at my feet.
“You forgot your brush,” he said, grinning.
I picked it up and stomped all the way down to my room. I pulled on my clothes and started packing my things into my backpack. It was mid-afternoon, and if I hiked into town right away, I'd probably be able to catch a bus. I could be home that night, safe in my own bed, away from Smith Fucking Wittingham.
He knocked on my door.
I yelled at the locked door, “I quit! You're twisted and you're … old!”
Something pushed under the door—an envelope.
“Too late for apologies,” I said as I opened the envelope. Inside was a cashier's check, for the full amount I'd been promised for the typing contract.
“That's for you,” he said. “You did your job, and there's your pay.”
“What about the cell phone?”
He pushed another check under the door, this one hand-written, for another thousand dollars.
“The phone wasn't that much,” I said.
“Keep it.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back against the door.
“Do you really want me to leave?” I asked. “Who's going to be your typist?”
“I'm thinking I might scrap the book.”
I yanked the door open, to find a startled-looking Smith, completely naked.
“You can't scrap the book,” I said. “It's going to be a great book, maybe your best one.”
His shoulders slumped and he stared down at the ground. “I think I'll start something else, maybe in a few months.”
“Don't be stupid. You have to finish this one.”
“I can't do it without you.”
I was wary of him, wary of this depressed-author vibe he was giving off. It was probably just another one of his games, but what if it wasn't?
I grabbed his hand and pulled him into my room to sit down on the bed. I sat next to him, my packed bag waiting on the floor.
“I'll call the agency,” I said. “They can send someone else. Your new typist will be here in a day or two, and you'll be right back at it.”
“Nope. I can't stop. Not even for a day. I lose all my momentum. It's only been hours since we were working, and already it's like drying paint. It'll be sticky, even if I start back up tomorrow morning.”
I tucked the checks into my pocket. “Sorry, Smith. That sounds like a personal problem. In other words, not a Tori problem.” I got up and grabbed my backpack.
“Stay,” he said.
My anger had dissipated quickly. He sure had a way of getting me all riled up, and then calmed back down again, which scared me.
I should leave, I thought. Even my own mother, who was a huge fan of his, would want me to leave. If she ever found out I'd played obedient doggie for him, I'd just die of shame.
“You've got the check,” he said. “I'm not going to stop you. In fact, there's a motorbike parked in a shed behind the cabin, and I'll give you a ride into town if you want.” He looked up at me, his gold-brown eyes dim, like a campfire the morning after.
“I'd rather you stay,” he said.
“I don't know.” Shaking my head, I turned and went to the door, my backpack heavy on my shoulder.
His voice was so soft, I barely heard him as he said, “Tori, I need you.”
My heart broke for him. Here he was, a grown man, with all the money in the world, and he had nobody else. In the three days I'd been there, he hadn't made a single phone call. I didn't have a lot of people to call, either. I'd be headed back to an empty apartment and a pile of laundry, to apply for jobs I'd never get. The big check in my pocket would help, yet it wouldn't change my life.
But I could stay. And I could help this man write his story.
I turned around to look at him, naked, in an unflattering, slumped pose. His face was hopeful.
I dropped the bag to the ground.
“Fine,” I said. “But no more games.”
He smiled and rolled onto his back on my bed.
“Come, cuddle with me,” he said. “Let's take a nap together.”
I hesitated, still standing at the door.
He waved me over. “Come on, nap now. It'll recharge your energy for tonight.”
I walked over and lay on the bed next to him, resting my cheek on his outstretched arm. “What's tonight?” I asked. “Are you going to be my dog?”
“I thought you said no more games?”
I rolled my eyes. “Like that's even possible for someone like you.”
He sighed pulled me in closer. I felt something unmistakable poking into my side.
I said, “You have no intention of napping, do you?”
He pulled me on top of him and started kissing me.
“What about writing?” I asked, my question muffled by his lips. “The drying paint? The sticky words?”
He grunted and pulled my mouth down against his, then rolled me onto my back.
I had no idea what was going on, but I had another eleven days of it coming.
* the end of part 1 *