Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
The painting depicts a female figure portrayed very elegantly. She looks out over the skyline the same way I was doing previously, a slightly coy expression on her face. She is wearing a collar around her neck. A dog’s collar. There’s no mistaking it. It has the buckle and the little D ring as well. Other than that, she is wearing a sort of faintly gauzy garment that hints at the outline of her body. There’s something inappropriate about it. Her eyes are big and brown, and they stare out of the image with a challenging expression.
Oh. I’ve just noticed there’s a bowl beside her feet. Is she about to feed a pet that isn’t in the picture? Is she maybe wondering where her little dog has gone? Hard to say. I snap a quick picture, feeling guilty as I do. I shouldn’t really be taking pics of people’s private art, but this is weird as hell and should be shared.
I jump back in surprise as the door swings open. I am caught in the dominant and enigmatic gaze of none other than Marcus Waterstone.
He is tall. Very tall. He has to be at least six foot three. I’m five foot six, slightly taller than the average woman, but suddenly I’m made diminutive. I dressed to the very best of my ability today, but now I feel like I may as well have thrown on a potato sack and brushed my hair with the nearest stray cat.
My first impression of him is his height, but that is quickly followed by an expensive haircut and an even more expensive suit. Everything about him is understated, and everything he is wearing is worth a good year’s rent—including his cufflinks. He oozes a kind of comfortable richness that is very different from the way a lot of rich men are rich. A lot of men like this are eager to be noticed. They flash their wealth with an arrogance that belies the desperate little boy inside them.
He doesn’t need to beg for attention. He commands it.
Now my eyes linger on his face. He has dark brown eyes, the kind that could be mistaken for black sometimes and in some lights, because they’re so close to the color of his pupils. He has thick dark brows that look like they’ve been shaped, and probably have been, but in a way that doesn’t diminish his masculinity one bit. He is perfectly groomed. His jaw is broad and square. Basically, he’s handsome. The perfect specimen of evolution. Darwin’s wet dream. Men want to be him, and women want to be in bed with him. There’s no end to the cliches that apply to his appearance.
I am reacting to him physically. I can feel myself transforming into a simpering mess.
That won’t do. I have to get a grip. I try to think of something that isn’t attractive, but I find my mind entirely unable to redirect. He is the kind of hot that completely hijacks my entire nervous system. I let it happen. Awestruck works.
“Oh! Hello!” I hear my voice crack into a little squeak.
“Hello, Miss Crown.”
His voice is like molasses and grit, deep and resonant, and with a quality that makes a warm feeling travel down my spine.
“I was just looking at your art. It’s very… striking.”
“The artist is a good friend of mine,” he says, in the way rich and hyper-connected people do. Everybody is a friend of theirs, in my experience. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it in the way normal people mean ‘friend’. I bet the artist who made this picture doesn’t call him to complain about the guy or girl they’re dating. I wonder if Marcus has friends in the cozy, pedestrian way I do, or if being who he is makes it impossible to truly trust anyone.
“Is there some significance to the theme?”
“What do you think, Miss Crown?”
“I think displaying a painting with a woman who is wearing a dog collar is fairly controversial, especially in an office where you take interviews with female journalists…”
Dammit, now I sound judgmental. I have to stop saying what I think the second someone asks me. Honesty is very rarely the best policy.
“Sorry,” I say. “That sounded… I don’t mean to judge, it’s just an interesting…”
“The human relationship to collars is a complicated one,” he says. “They can be used to subjugate and terrorize. Or they can be a symbol of ownership and caring. Quite often, they are both.”
Something in his tone makes me blush. I hate that you can’t fight a blush, really. Any other expression can be fought back one way or another, hidden in some kind of other response. But I can’t hide the fact that I just changed color entirely and now look like a lobster.
He smiles, pleased at having me off balance. Maybe that’s all the picture is for. Maybe it’s just there to make people slightly unsure of who they’re talking to. In the eighties, there were all sorts of corporate resources about positioning and power plays. The height of various chairs, the size of desks, body language, and yes, even decor came into it. It wouldn’t surprise me if Marcus was a master of all the old ways.