“But I fucked up on the raspberry,” she points out with a smile as she lies on top of me, her hands resting on either side of my chest.

“The point I’m trying to make is that you and I do not have a conventional ‘sugarship’—I’ve got to get someone in marketing to change that name. It’s stupid as fuck.”

“Agreed,” she says.

“About ‘sugarship’ being stupid as fuck?”

“Well, yes I do agree with that, but more so about this not being very conventional.”

“So to bring this full circle,” I say as I put my hands under her armpits and drag her up my body a little higher. “I say we sort of make this whatever we want. If you want to do something nice for me, that’s awesome. If I want to take you to Vegas to show you the sights, that’s awesome too. Let’s sort of make this our own thing.”

Sela’s eyes get soft and I realize I’ve never seen her look so tender before. There’s always a part of this woman that I feel is held in reserve. She nods in agreement with me, but then brings me slightly back to reality when she says, “At least for the next few weeks until our agreement is up.”

I’m not sure how I really feel about that, but it’s not something to debate tonight, so I merely nod. “Until our agreement is up.”

Chapter 13

Sela

Even though I’ve been in the corporate headquarters of Townsend-North Holdings once before, I’m still a bit intimidated by the grandeur of the lobby. Townsend-North is the parent company that owns The Sugar Bowl. I’m not sure what else it owns, as I’ve never talked “business” with Beck, but whatever their empire encompasses, it makes so much money that it practically oozes up out of the marble flooring.

The other time I’d been here was to meet my “friend” Karla Gould for lunch. That was the day I’d gotten a peek inside JT’s office and imagined me driving a letter opener into his brain. Had he actually been sitting in there, I wonder if I would have been compelled to attack because that fantasy was so vivid. Just thinking about it now sends a shiver of excitement up my spine. Not the type of shiver I get from Beck. Not even close, actually, but it’s still a pleasant, tingly feeling that most certainly doesn’t turn me off.

I walk up to the receptionist station, which looks to be hand-carved from a light-colored wood that’s polished to a high sheen with muted brushed silver accenting. The black granite top with silver flecks matches the black marble flooring that my tennis shoes squeak against. As I look down to the noisy suckers, I think for a split second that perhaps I should have dressed up to come see Beck at his office.

But then I immediately discount it. I don’t need to impress him at this point, and besides…when he texted me about an hour ago inviting me to lunch, I was just finishing up one of my exams before fall break and didn’t have time to run back to the condo to get changed. He’ll have to accept me as is, although I did take a bit of time this morning to put a little makeup on. I find myself doing that more and more often, and only because I shamefully want to look pretty for Beck.

Shameful indeed.

Calling attention to myself like that.

Today is my 16th birthday.

I was raped.

I think I deserved it.

A shudder runs through me as I think about that entry in my journal, and I burn from the inside out with mortification. While I don’t remember much about what happened to me at that party—just memory flashes and, of course, medical records documenting my injuries—I do remember much of what led up to that party. The humiliation today is as strong as it was ten years ago when I realized that I brought it all down upon myself by trying to play big girl in a harsh man’s world.

I swallow hard, give myself a mental shake to get it together, and smile at the receptionist, who is stunningly beautiful with vivid red hair arranged in an elegant chignon and peridot green eyes that glow almost eerily. Those have to be contacts.

“Can I help you?” she asks crisply.

“I’m here to see Beck North.”

Clarista—I see her by her nameplate—slides her gaze down my body, taking in my casual attire and actually wrinkles her nose at me. “Let me just verify that with his secretary before I send you back. Your name?”

“Sela Halstead,” I tell her, trying to muster confidence within myself. I straighten my spine and even throw my shoulders back so she can perhaps see my fantastic tits—according to Beck—and that they are natural, unlike hers.

She actually turns her back on me, speaking in a low voice into the phone as she calls who I assume to be Beck’s secretary. I know her name is Linda because he told me last night that she’s the only person other than his sister who actually recognizes his birthday. He said she’s like his surrogate grandmother or something, and I find that fascinating that she works for a man who essentially peddles flesh—in a legal manner, of course.

Clarista turns back to me and flashes a tight smile as she stands from behind the desk. “Follow me.”

I walk behind her to a closed door with a security panel attached to the wall beside it. She pulls at a security fob attached to her waist that stays connected by a retractable chain, and holds it up to the panel. A small red light blinks once and then turns green. She opens the door, looks down her nose at me, and says, “You can head straight down this hall. Linda will meet you.”

“I know my way,” I say, and turn from her, now actually feeling a little bit of excitement about seeing Beck. I find it strange and fascinating over the ways in which he’s seemingly commandeered my attention. I’ve never been excited to see a man before. I most definitely have never enjoyed sex like this before.

And damn…last night…just sitting on the couch and laughing while we read trivia questions to each other; it was almost surreal. It was the closest I’ve ever truly come to maybe having a normal relationship with a man where conversation flowed freely and without effort.

Putting aside the fact that he’s paid me a great deal of money to sit on that couch with him, of course.

A woman of about sixty I’d guess steps into the main hall from an intersecting one, and I have to assume it’s Linda. She’s a little on the heavy side but is wearing a stylish pantsuit of navy blue with a blue, red, and gold checked scarf tied at her neck. Her hair is snowy white and her eyes a soft brown. She gives me a warm smile as I approach and holds her hand out. “You must be Sela. Beck told me you were going to steal him away for lunch today.”