Enthrall Page 6

  I ate in the lower level of my room, sitting on the sofa and gazing out over the wet fields of grass, trees and mountains in the distance. The landscape was made even more picturesque by the lake. I realized that before, I hadn’t the opportunity to just sit and take in my beautiful natural surroundings. I put my feet up on the ottoman and grew more relaxed as I ate and tracked all the political news of the day on my phone, looking for anything written about my mother. I was quite aware that I would have rather read The Dark Christmases, but in a few hours, I had a tour with this Martin guy I’d never met, and didn’t want to start reading, and then have to stop so abruptly.

  At some point during my reading, I learned about how my mother was initiating some useless vote that was a ploy to score political points with her base. My mother never stopped playing the game of politics, which was why she had been a congresswoman for nearly twenty-seven years, winning her first election right before I turned two. And knowing my mother, she must have had me, her only child, in order to appeal to working mothers. That was another thing about my mother—she was shameless, which was why I always searched to see if I was registering anywhere in her actions and schemes.

  When I was in college, oftentimes people would come up to me and say they didn’t know I’d endorsed a certain movement or law. After researching what the hell they were talking about, I would learn that my mom had used me to say that her only daughter made her come around on an issue that she couldn’t give two fucks about other than that it appealed to people in my age bracket and scored her some new votes. Of course, it was bull crap. She never asked about my political ideologies. She didn’t care which party I belonged to or know that every time I stood in the voting booth, staring at the ballot, I struggled with voting for her instead of one of her opponents. I knew that if she lost, my life would change for the better.

  I was glad to know my name hadn’t popped up in her politics, at least for that day. That was one reason why I was able to submit to my heavy eyelids and fall asleep.

  The doorbell woke me. I thought I was dreaming until I heard it again. My head groggy, I shot to my feet and checked my watch.

  “Shit,” I muttered. I had overslept. I was supposed to be in the foyer to meet someone named Martin twenty minutes earlier.

  I rushed to answer the door as fast as I could.

  Chapter Seven

  Spencer Christmas

  I shifted abruptly to scratch the back of my neck. It wasn’t itching, but I had to do something with the anxiety in my body. “I’m questioning my decision to hire her.”

  “Is her work not up to par?” Dr. Mita Sharma asked. I flew her in from Manhattan once a week for therapy.

  I sat up tall as I cleared my throat. “That’s not the problem. I knew she would excel at the job.”

  “Okay, then, why are you questioning your decision to employ her?”

  I sighed forcefully and scrubbed my face with both hands. There was no way of sugarcoating it. A man who was ready to take ownership of his wrongdoings shared them and took the penalty of being judged like a man.

  I looked Mita steadily in the eye. “I watch her sleep.”

  “Oh,” she said with a rise in her vocal pitch.

  I looked away from her gaze. “I can’t stop watching her.”

  “Okay…”

  “But it’s more than that.”

  She remained silent in the way that she normally did when she was giving me a chance to explain. The woman was a good listener, which was one reason I’d gone back after our first session. She hadn’t merely listened to me—she’d actually heard me. Her dark hair was shiny, and her copper skin hadn’t a blemish. Her dark almond eyes were more than sensual—they were deep, peering, and able to see within my soul. I knew myself. I needed her to be my therapist. I needed to respect someone who looked like her on a different level other than wanting to fuck. And I hated fucking—always had.

  I revealed this to her. I even told her about my first time, which had been with a prostitute. My father watched us. I was supposed to show him I knew how to fuck like a man. But I couldn’t keep my dick up or get off. My father then pushed me off the girl, who was probably my age—thirteen—and handled her as though she were trash, fucking her as if she was a rag doll. He made me keep trying with different prostitutes until I got it right. When I finally got off with some poor girl who probably had a hard time at home before she ran away and fell into the clutches of the old letch who was my father, Randolph shook my shoulder, congratulating me on finally becoming a man. It was the first time he’d ever commended me for doing anything.

  My reputation as a playboy used to make my old man proud. I dated lots of women—beautiful, famous, all the sort who thought their value came from how they looked and what was between their legs. I struggled through fucking them once or twice and then never again. They all wondered what was wrong with me. I made excuses, like I had work or was too tired to fuck. On many occasions, I would pick a fight or say something harsh to make them not want to have sex with me. When they finally had enough of my bullshit and broke up with me, I was happy. I didn’t like having my dick stimulated until the first year I came home from college.

  The memories made me shudder, so I quickly replaced them with the knowledge that my dick hadn’t gotten wet in years. It hadn’t gotten hard either. No porn, no prostitutes, no jerking off, and no fantasizing about my therapist—or any other woman, for that matter. For the first time in a long time, I felt free roaming in my asexual universe—and then Jada arrived. I was shocked that I was so fucking attracted to her. I’d seen photos of Jada before I hired her, but she made a hell of an impact in person. I’d also investigated her thoroughly. I knew everything about her parents, her last job, and why she’d been let go. I knew about her best friend, Hope Callaway, a lawyer in Manhattan and a damn good one at that. But I couldn’t find out whether or not Jada Forte had a boyfriend. A woman who looked like her in New York City had to have some guy jumping through hoops for her. I’d taken a chance and asked if she had a significant other. The fact that I cared also surprised the hell out of me.

  Mita was still waiting patiently for me to spill all the shit that was going through my mind at that moment. How can I explain that Jada Forte is more than an attraction?

  I shook my head as if that could make the shit inside me go away. “I want to consume her. I know a lot about her, but I want to know more.”

  “What more do you want to know about her?” Mita asked.

  Like how she looks when I suck and lick her clit. I took a deep breath to expel the dirtiness from my mind. “I don’t know exactly. But I feel she runs deep.”

  My therapist remained composed, and not one iota of her expression gave away her thoughts. “Okay, so what about her makes you feel she runs deep?”

  I grunted thoughtfully. That was the easiest question she’d asked me that day. “She’s nice. No, kind. And for real, you know. She’s not fucking around about how nice she is. But she’s not a pushover either.”

  Dr. Sharma shuffled through the notebook containing all of our sessions since the first, four and a half years ago. She finally stopped at a certain point and shook her finger. “This is very interesting.” She raised her head in the way she did when she was on the verge of doing some of her best shrinking. “We have already determined that your spying was the result of your curiosity but also showed an underlying feeling of hope. You were essentially on the outside looking in at what was unattainable.” When she entangled her fingers on her lap, I knew we were about to go deep. “You said Jada Forte was kind and good. Are you aware of what you’re feeling when you’re watching her without permission?”

  “Shame.” I fought the urge to drop my head. I had some new fucking tools, though. “But I know why I’m doing it.”

  Again, she waited silently.

  “I always envisioned my real mother as the person Jada Forte is.” I jerked my head back, appalled at what I was saying. I had just connected the fucking dots.
“Shit, do I want to fuck my mother?”

  “Then you want to have sexual relations with Miss Forte?”

  I felt my eyes expand. I wasn’t supposed to divulge that. Lie, the old me said. “Yes.” I felt like choking on the truth I had just told.

  Finally, she sighed, picked up her pen off her lap, and finished flipping through the pages. “So, what I’m hearing you say is a young woman has entered your space, and you are sexually attracted to her, but you’ve found other traits about her that you admire”—she raised a finger—“and that’s the part that’s foreign to you. Also, you say she’s kind and good, much different from how you have previously described yourself.” She looked down at her notes. “In the past, you’ve said that you’d never had sex with a woman you liked. You also said you found women naturally unkind and self-centered. You said it was how God made them so they could ridicule men and suck the life out of them and either not give a damn about it or ignore the fact that they were doing it.” Her indifferent expression landed on me again.

  Did I say that? That sure as hell sounds like me—not now but at some point.

  I nodded, taking responsibility for what I’d said. She pressed her lips into a tight smile. She did that when she was sure I had done something right. It used to be difficult for me to accept accountability for my words and deeds. I used to believe the world owed me shit for hurting me, breaking my heart, and making life financially easy but loveless as hell.

  “We determined that you believed your sister, Bryn, and the woman who pretended to be your mother wasn’t kind or good.”

  I nodded sharply, smashing my lips together. She was going down a painful road, and instead of stopping her, I decided to continue with the ride.

  “Spencer, we did this work during our first year together. You already have a firm grip on the levels of judgment versus acceptance. Remember that?”

  I nodded stiffly.

  She sighed sharply as she narrowed an eye. “You expressed attraction to other women during our sessions in the past, but you’ve never been close to reverting back to old habits of skulking and spying, which was part of your behavior system from the ages of”—she frowned down at her notes—“eleven through twenty-nine.” Her gaze rolled around the room. “You never told me why you came all the way to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. You said your father used to own this ranch?”

  I sat up tall like a man. “I have to stop you here, Mita. You know I can’t tell you why I’m in Jackson Hole. But I find our discussion very enlightening.”

  “And how’s that?” she said, keeping her tone flat.

  An era existed when I’d felt the need to push back on any woman who didn’t know when enough was enough. But that was the old me, the part of myself Father had manipulated into existence.

  “I had a lapse of judgment. But I understand why it happened in this place, and it does have something to do with the reason I’m here.”

  She shifted abruptly in her seat. “I understand, but, Spencer, I must ask—you do remember the ritual, do you not? Stalk, seduce your partner into engaging in masochism, and then ultimately abandon her. Are you afraid that you’re regressing back to acting out that behavior with Jada Forte?”

  I breathed in deeply through my nose, pulling my shoulders back. “You know that it takes two consenting adults.” I narrowed my eyes at her, offended. “Clear consent before I engage in that fucking behavior. Not flirting by Post-it.” I told her about Jada and my back-and-forth and how hot it had gotten me. Jada wanted me, and I knew it.

  Mita nodded calmly. “I understand. As a professional, I had to ask.”

  I turned to face the wall to my right, and I saw myself standing over Jada’s bed, watching her sleep, fighting the urge to join her and the need to have her supple skin against mine. I wanted to lick every part of Jada Forte. I wanted to make her feel safe, not hurt her. I knew she would never beg me to hurt her, misuse her, and then toss her away like yesterday’s trash. And I didn’t want to treat her that way.

  I avoided the urge to squeeze the sides of my head to relieve the pressure. Instead, I straightened in my chair, sitting strong, like a man who could have an adult reaction to a serious and valid question. “I understand.”

  She smiled as if satisfied and proud of my answer. “Good, Spencer. Listen, I believe you are soaring. You have the tools in your wheelhouse. You can’t be perfect all the time, but the fact that you’ve talked about it and shared your fears with me—and answered the difficult questions pertaining to owning your feelings and behavior—lets me know that you will never hurt this woman. I also know that you are indeed ready when it comes to being in a healthy relationship, be it with friends, family, employees, or a lover.” She reached over to turn off her timer, which flashed green light instead of chiming. She said the lack of sound was to not disturb any heightened emotion that could lead to awareness that may occur at the end of a session.

  I wanted to thank her for believing in me. I knew I would never hurt Jada, but I still wasn’t sure I deserved her.

  “Just remember, Spencer, even when you doubt,” she said. “You are good. You are strong. You are a kind, intelligent, and successful man, and as a human being, you have a lot to offer the world.”

  I didn’t know about that, but if she said so, then it had to be true. I walked her to her car, and to my fucking surprise, when we stepped out on the porch, Martin and Jada were standing there. Her big beautiful eyes shifted from my face to Mita’s and then back to mine.

  Chapter Eight

  “Good afternoon,” the beautiful woman with shiny black hair and hauntingly sexy eyes said.

  “Good afternoon,” I replied kindly, even though I could feel my confusion making me frown.

  I wondered who she was and if she was the reason I hadn’t seen him for the last two days. I tried not to stare as she walked down the steps. The woman wore a form-fitting black skirt suit, the sort that femme fatales wore in film noirs. She left a syrupy sensual sort of energy behind after each step. She was definitely Spencer Christmas’s type—seductive, exotic, and probably the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “Hey, keep up,” Martin said. To my surprise, he turned out to be the one who’d driven me from the airport to the ranch. He was a man of few words, but his accent, quick energy, and fast gestures were straight out of the Bronx. I’d met guys like him before. They were the type who hardly left the borough, which made me wonder why Spencer had brought him to the ranch.

  Spencer stepped up beside me. “Martin, I’ll take her.”

  Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you sure, boss? ’Cause I don’t mind.”

  Spencer’s frown intensified. “I said I’ll take her.”

  There was a lot I wanted to focus on at once. The beautiful woman got behind the driver’s seat of a burgundy car. Martin finished skipping down the stairs and continued along the front of the house. I tried to keep my focus on him and the car, but Spencer’s energy was overwhelming me. I could hardly believe he was standing beside me even though he’d walked out of the house with another woman.

  “Ready?” Spencer said loudly.

  I ripped my eyes off Martin and was suddenly unable to look away from Spencer’s face. “Who was she?”

  “She’s business.” He started down the steps with his head down. “We’re taking the golf cart. Let’s go.”

  I finished absorbing the moment and started off behind him. When I made it to the bottom of the stairs, he took my hand and guided me into the golf cart. My nerves tingled like floating glitter and rays of rainbows. Even after I quickly snatched my hand out of his, the sensation didn’t stop. Somehow, in my foggy haze of attraction, I plopped myself into the front seat. It was chilly out, and my face was already turning into a flesh-sicle. My coat was nice and thick, made for New York winters, but even it wasn’t keeping me warm enough. So I folded my arms and hugged myself tightly.

  Spencer curved his neck to look at me as he turned on the engine. “Cold?”

  I no
dded jerkily.

  He stabbed a button with his finger, which made doors fold down on both sides and the back. Next, he turned on the heater, and the lukewarm air blowing on me steadily increased its heat.

  “Better?” he asked.

  I yawned. “Better.”

  He paused to examine me. “You’ve slept well?”

  I pressed my lips, trying to control my second yawn as I nodded like a bobblehead. The cart had warmed my body so comfortably that it reminded me how exhausted I was.

  “But you’re tired,” he stated.

  “I haven’t really had time to chill out. Tomorrow’s Saturday, though. I assume I’m off on the weekends?”

  He clenched the steering wheel and pulled away from the curb. “Of course you are. You’re off for the rest of the day too. I want you to get the rest you need, Jada. I never intended for you to sacrifice your health for this job.”

  I turned to gaze at his beautiful profile. Gosh, he was so handsome. No man in the world should have been so good-looking and weird at the same time.

  “I’m fine,” I said in a syrupy tone. “I’m built Forte tough.”

  He shook his head adamantly. “Still, you’ll rest for the remainder of the day.”

  “But you’re paying me a lot of money to stay on top of this hefty job I’m doing. And I mean, it’s hefty.” I immediately wanted to take back what I’d just said. I didn’t want my new boss to think I was a complainer. No matter what, great mental capacity was needed to take meticulous notes during meetings while recording everyone’s concerns and questions and researching information to attach to summaries so that my boss could respond to his colleagues effectively. It was draining. As long as I did the job he’d hired me to do, I would be exhausted.