Page 9 of Yield to Me

Owen handed me a tumbler with ice and amber liquid in it. He sipped his own, then sat down on the sofa behind me. I looked him up and down, wondering where the boastful attitude had gone in exchange for this. The muscles in his neck stretched as he lifted his chin slightly, tilting it in an angle, as if pondering silently. I imagined what it would be like to kiss him there; the stubble gently scraping my lips, tickling me, teasing me to kiss him more… Owen turned towards me, catching me in a full-blown stare, my mouth open. I looked away.

“Why do you work at the café on Broadway?” he asked.

“Good hours,” I said. The man downstairs now had a single tail whip in his hand; the crack of it barely audible in the library. Each time he swung it, the woman shook, even if he hadn’t actually hit her. “Good tips. Why do you ask?”

“There’s a restaurant about fifteen minutes from the Foundation. Similar late night hours, but a much higher class clientele. I imagine you’d be well compensated.”

“Don’t tell me you own it too.”

He laughed. “No, Miss Glass. I own many properties, but I haven’t yet purchased the Chez Tonton.”

“Yet.”

Owen smirked. I had driven past Chez Tonton a handful of times but had never considered it. Prices per plate were over three hundred dollars, and it was on the list of places where you had to know someone in order to get an interview there, and even then, they expected worldly, overly pretentious wait staff, or at least people who could pretend to be as stuck up as the customers. Even if it most likely had an awful atmosphere, I considered the hours and the fact that I could make more money with guaranteed tips. I didn’t like the idea of taking the offer, but I thought it might be worth checking it out, even if it was to show that I was grateful for the gesture. I could always turn it down.

“I’ve never even been inside,” I said.

“There’s a first time for everything.” One of his arms rested on the arm of the sofa, carrying his drink, the other on the sofa next to him. Was he subtly stroking the seat, beckoning me to sit next to him, or was I imagining it? It was awfully empty without someone sitting beside him. What was I thinking? I was definitely imagining things now. I blamed it on the long night.

“You can always say no, Miss Glass. I’m not going to stop you.”

I blushed. It was like he knew exactly what I was thinking, the hesitant anger turning into daydreams filled with lust. The way he stretched out formalities by calling me Miss Glass, made me feel uptight and judgemental, like I had been wrong about him all along. Perhaps I was the one being impolite.

“Please, call me Riley,” I said.

He smiled gently. “I take it you received the rose,” he said.

A warm rush ran through my body. “You sent it?” I asked incredulously. He nodded. The woman downstairs now was speckled in small red and purple welts. A single speck of blood ran down her back. I couldn’t even be mad at Michael for lying; the shock of learning the true sender was surging through my body. Even after I had dismissed him at the gallery, he had sent me a gift. What else did a red rose and a poem symbolize, except a token of affection? What the hell was this all supposed to mean?

“Beauty yields to no one,” he said.

“But herself,” I whispered.

Owen turned to me and offered his hand this time, not just his arm. I looked at it for a moment, questioning why he had taken such a sudden interest in me. I shook away the thought and took his hand, feeling a ridge of calluses right below his fingers, and he squeezed my grip, helping me up. Feeling his strength pulling me sent shivers through my body, as if he were touching me everywhere. I imagined what his hands would feel like, the rough lines in his palms exploring my body.

Owen released my hand as we reached the stairs. We walked slowly to the back of the dungeon, much farther this time. I looked at each of the couples and groups around us, this time unphased by what was going on. I was too distracted by Owen, if I could get him to touch me again, and why I cared in the first place. Was it his prestige that attracted me? The surprise that he owned an original Notre Dame artifact and seemed to truly care about art? The fact that his library was on the top floor of his sadomasochistic nightclub, as if the physical and personal layers kept building on top of each other, one after the other? Or was it the way his green eyes held me until it felt like I was floating?

“What do you think of this?” He waved to the room around us.

“What do you mean?”

“Does any of it interest you?”

A man was kneeling before another man in a robe, his eyes wrapped in a blindfold. The robed man was inspecting him as if he were a piece of art he had purchased, an object of high value. It wasn’t until he had circled back around to the front of the kneeling man that I noticed he was carrying a thick wooden club. The kneeling man’s hands were cuffed behind his back.

“I mean,” I said slowly, “it’s,” I paused, the smack of wood against skin interrupting my thoughts. I could feel Owen’s eyes holding me, even if I wasn’t looking at him. It made me flush. “...interesting.” I imagined kneeling in front of Owen, looking up at him as he circled me in the same way as the two men. “Does it interest you?” I raised an eyebrow.

He smiled, looked around the room at all of the activities taking place. “Do you think I would own this place if it didn’t?” I could feel his words all over my body, like they had infiltrated my blood vessels, pulsing with each thought. I blushed. “Not everything here is my taste. But the short answer is yes, Riley, it interests me.”

I crossed my arms. “What’s the long answer?”

“The long answer is that I enjoy showing a strong woman how low she can become, how she can be reduced to a writhing pile of pleasure and need, and how she’ll get off on it, on being used. I get off on showing a woman what she’s capable of, pushing her further than she thought possible. Sometimes it’s submission, pleasure, pain,” he paused, and I thought I saw a slight smile, “or control and force.” I could smell my own sweat, as if fear and excitement were getting the best of me, and I wondered if he could smell it too. “I enjoy seeing women at their worst,” he continued slowly, “When the look in their eyes says that they’re completely spent of everything they have, when they are reduced to one thought.”

He paused, waiting for my reaction. I was breathless. That was one hell of a long answer. It was prepared, obviously. “What one thought?” I asked.

“It’s something you must experience to understand,” he said. And there was that grin again. The thought of a man taking me like that, of showing me what he could do to me, made me hot. But the idea that I could show him how resilient I could be, and still be made to bend to both of our needs, made me feel prideful, like I wanted to prove exactly how strong I was. But it wasn’t any man; it was Owen, and only Owen, that I wanted to prove myself to. I wondered what it would be like, how cruel or kind he would be. But I hadn’t ever actually considered kinky sex like that, not in a serious way. My first boyfriend, back in high school, had used furry handcuffs on me once, but I hadn’t done anything like that since. I had to admit though, I did feel a magnetic rush when I imagined Owen pulling my hair during a deep kiss...

“What’s your long answer?” Owen asked.

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