The Contract Read Free Page A

and talked to Ricco. I didn’t call him later in the day, either, though I was tempted. I don’t know what it is about him that sets everyone else off, but it doesn’t happen to me. If anything, he relaxes me. Well, when I put aside how talented and famous he is.
    I’m feeling very out of control. I need to figure out what is wrong with me. I have a dream job. This is what I’ve always wanted. I need to snap out of whatever is bugging me, and I’m hoping the weekend will give me time to think.

Saturday, February 26, 2011
    Evening . . .
    I decided what was bugging me was the contract, and my constant distraction due to the ideas it represents. No matter how tempting the man, the agreement is simply a deal breaker, and I think its being up in the air is influencing how I react to everything. Saying no to this contract is a good thing. This man is barely in my life and he’s already taken it over. He can be in my life without taking it over if I take this off the table.
    So . . . I emailed him the instant I got home, before I could talk myself out of it. The subject line was: Contract is a deal breaker. The content of the email read simply, “While you are more than a little tempting in all kinds of ways, I’m not slave material.” That was an hour ago, and I keep checking my email—which is telling, isn’t it? Clearly I don’t want this to be over, or I’d consider it done now.
    Someone just knocked on my door. It’s eleven o’clock at night. Who the hell is here?

Sunday, February 27, 2011
    I could barely believe it when he showed up at my door in response to my email. I just stood there, staring at him, wrapped in a robe and horrified that I had on my ugly fluffy pajamas underneath.
    “Invite me in, Rebecca.”
    Obediently, I stepped back and let him inside. He shut the door and locked it. Now he just stood there, staring at me, and curiously, I thought I spotted a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He’s not exactly what I would call uncertain. He’s not exactly what anyone would call uncertain. That I could make him feel such a thing told me what I needed to know. The outcome of what was between us wasn’t simply a contract to him. I didn’t realize until then how much I didn’t want to be that to him.
    “Let’s sit,” he ordered, no uncertainty left in his voice or his expression.
    I wet my lips, his eyes following my tongue, and my nipples tightened and my sex clenched with the small, sensual act. With all the things that happened afterward, you’d think that would be the last thing that I’d keep replaying in my head. But it was that, along with the instant of uncertainty I’d seen in him, that told me he wanted me as much as I wanted him. These two things set the scene for what was to follow.
    “Sit, Rebecca,” he ordered again, and I was jolted from his spell and walked to the couch. My tiny box of an apartment embarrassed me; it’s a shack compared to his gorgeous place. If he noticed, though, which of course he did, he didn’t show it. He was looking at nothing but me.
    He sat down on the couch, leaving the middle cushion between us free, and I got the impression he felt that I needed that space. He was right. I needed it—but I didn’t want it. I wanted to be close to him. I wanted him to touch me. I always do when he’s nearby.
    “The contract was to be negotiated,” he reminded me. “I told you that when I gave it to you.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Yet you simply said no.”
    “It felt overwhelming.”
    He considered me for such a long moment, I was about to go nuts. “You want this,” he finally said.
    “I want you,” I surprised myself by admitting. I just couldn’t live with the terms required to have him.
    “Then you have to trust me with your pleasure.”
    “That contract asked for far more than my pleasure.”
    “And why is that bad?”
    “You want too much.”
    “How do you define too much?”
    Sharing me . “The unknowns,” I said, which was still an