They were varied. They were imaginative. And if there came a time when they were carried out, both of them would enjoy them. It was just that Stellan would do this throughout and Simone would only do it eventually.
He was considering this when he walked into his assistant’s office. An office that was the bastion of defense protecting him from the tedious minutiae of office politics, gossip, petty grievances, weak excuses for poor performance and false claims of illness that people used to get out of the work he paid them to do.
An office that was outside his own.
The minute he walked in, her eyes came direct to him.
They were wary.
His assistant Susan had been with him for over seven years. Outside of her honeymoon and bi-yearly vacations, during the work week (and the not-rare weekend), she’d only not been at her desk for seven months, six of those being the amount of maternity leave he gave his staff as policy, the last one he gave to her because she was Susan.
He was godfather to that child.
And considering Susan’s own father was an extreme asshole, in their time together she’d given Stellan one other honor.
That being dancing with him, just the two of them, on the dancefloor at her wedding reception to the song that played after the first she’d danced with her then brand-new husband, and before the song that played when her husband danced with his mother.
Stellan didn’t often take his foul moods out on his team, definitely not Susan, but that didn’t mean they didn’t sense them.
Especially Susan.
And the wary in her gaze shared his current mood had been sensed.
“Stellan, there’s been—” she began.
“You can brief me later,” he interrupted her, not breaking stride on his way to the gleaming wood double doors to his office, finishing, “I’ve some calls to make.”
He opened one of the doors, strode inside, swung the door shut behind him and stopped dead when his eyes hit his desk.
On the corner was a large cream pottery vase, and spiking out of it was a profuse spray of palm fronds mingled with copious dripping orchids the extraordinary color of azure blue.
From business associates to women in his life, he’d been given bottles of Scotch or vodka, Belgian chocolates, Cuban cigars, Tiffany cufflinks, Robert Talbott ties, and the like.
Not ever had he been sent flowers.
He walked to the arrangement, removed the small envelope from what appeared to be a holder made of a notched stick of bamboo, and saw on the outside it had a handwritten “S.”
He opened it and pulled out the card.
Inside, also handwritten, and not, he was certain, by a florist, it said: S～
Flamma is magnificent.
～S
PS: Spoke with Amélie. See you tomorrow at 1:00.
Staring at the card, Stellan took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then for the first time in two and a half days, he allowed his lips to curve up.
He dropped the card on his blotter and circumnavigated his desk, shrugging off his suit jacket. He took his phone out of the inside pocket before he rounded the jacket to rest on the back of his chair.
He sat and twisted his chair to the side where there was a wall of windows that ran the length of his office that afforded the entirely not picturesque view of downtown Phoenix.
That view was one of many things Stellan loved about the city he’d chosen to make his home.
Phoenicians were living in a modern-day Wild West.
That was to say they didn’t give a shit about anything but freedom to do and be whatever the fuck they wanted to do and be.
There were no airs in Arizona, unless you wanted to have them, and if you did and someone didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves.
Phoenicians needed no impressive skyscape to stamp their mark on a nation.
There were Cardinals games to go to.
Stellan had traveled widely. There were many places he’d been to that he’d enjoyed greatly.
However there was and always would be only one home.
He engaged his phone, went to the text screen, and entered a name that was attached to a number he’d acquired months ago but never used.
He then sent the text, The flowers are beautiful.
After he sent that to sweep through the global telecommunication system, he typed, But you’ve ignored my instructions, darling.
He sent that.
Finally he typed, Consequences.
And he sent that.
Knowing he’d receive no reply, he tossed the phone to his desk and looked out the window, his lips still turned up.
She was intrigued.
She was also afraid.
She was further titillated.
And completely terrified.
She saw the possibility of a future that included having something.
Anything.
A concept that was entirely foreign to her.
And that made her scared out of her fucking mind.
Therefore no.
He’d receive no reply.
But she would show the next day.
She might not have anything but a Cayenne and what appeared to be a death wish.
But she also had her pride.
It was an understatement to say he’d been stunned that the instant he’d claimed her, she’d orgasmed. Her eyes growing unfocused, her lips parting, she’d climaxed at his first touch as her Master, and she’d done it instantaneously.
Stellan sat turned from his desk, not seeing the view, allowing himself to start to grow hard remembering it.
He’d taken a risk, a hefty one, called the shot, took it, and found he’d been right.
She was a switch.
She needed power.
But she craved being powerless.
Months of precision planning to get her ass where it belonged, in her throne by his side, had culminated in her immediate submission the moment he’d claimed her as her Master.
It was more than he’d hoped for.
By far.
It couldn’t have gone better.
Flawless.
“Christ,” he whispered, swiveling in his chair back to his desk, his gaze moving to rest on the flowers.
Another surprise. That was not Sixx.
Mistress Sixx did not send flowers. If in the mood, she gave or gasms, but only if extremes were met and they were earned. To friends and acquaintances she gave time and attention, in a remote and seemingly surface-only way, not realizing that she poorly hid the fact that she gave a significant shit under layers of frost that only thawed with those she held in her heart.
But he’d seen her look at Leigh and Olly. Mira and Trey. Penn and Shane.
She was thrilled that they’d all found each other, fallen in love.
And she was envious.
And he’d seen how she was with Aryas.
Devoted.
Now Simone …
He studied a fragile bowed stem adorned with azure orchid petals.
Apparently Simone sent flowers.
This gracious act reminded him that it had taken huge amounts of effort not to follow up on all that had happened on their first night together and do it immediately. From leaving her at the driver’s side door to her Cayenne instead of taking her directly to his home to finding an excuse to seek her out every moment in between.
But he knew.
Stellan knew.
He knew everything.
It was dangerous what he was doing, and that danger centered entirely on all that could be lost.
He’d played a game once where the stakes were the highest they could be.
He hadn’t lost because you couldn’t lose to someone who didn’t know she was in the game.
He’d still lost.
With this …
With Sixx …
No.
With Simone …
It could be nothing but a game.
A game it was essential that he win.
Because if he didn’t, it would still be Simone who’d be the loser.
As promised, when Stellan had asked Branch Dillinger to get him everything on Mistress Sixx, Dillinger had delivered.
So Stellan knew.
He knew Simone Marchesa was treading water, failing in her efforts not to go under, and not much caring if the current pulled her away.
So the game had to be played not only so Stellan could drag her to safety.
But so he could lift her up.
Then at his side he’d take her to the highest peak.
And once he got her there, she’d never, not fucking ever, look back down.
She’d been held down long enough.
The door to his office opened, his gaze went there, and he watched Susan walk in.