Her lipstick marks the cup.
My cock stirs.
This is where we should be. No crowd, no pretenses, no strings.
Her body under mine. Her nails in my back. Her lips on my neck.
"Why?" She swallows a sip. "Why do you want to marry me?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course," she says.
I have to look away. So I won't give in to my urge to touch her.
This is the best corner office in the building. One window across from the Hudson. The other looking up to Midtown.
The bright blue sky, the dark water, the steel and glass of the city.
She's a New Yorker, through and through. She loves the city. This view must entice her.
But that isn't enough. It's not even a start.
"Why would I marry you, Ty?"
"You're about to lose the apartment."
"How do you know that?" she asks.
"It's easy information to find."
Anger flares in her eyes.
She’s proud, strong, stubborn. Money isn't enough.
If she needs to understand why I'm asking her—
I can do that.
"Since Rory left, I've gained a reputation." I sit next to her. "One I can't afford."
"So you need a wife?"
"Yes."
"What about volunteering? Issuing a public statement? Claiming you're a sex addict?"
"How much do you want?" I ask.
"I'm not going to marry you, Ty."
"You need the money," I say.
She shrinks back, hurt. "Even so."
She's too proud. But she needs help. And this isn't a handout.
It's a deal.
"What are you going to do if the bank forecloses?" I ask. "Do you want to smile at rich arseholes all day?"
"That's none of your business."
"Do you want your sister following in your footsteps?"
Her cheeks flame.
I'm pushing her too far, too fast. She's protective of her sister. She doesn't want me intruding.
But this is the best card I can play.
"I have work." She stands. "I have to go." She takes a step toward the door. "Thanks for the tea."
I reach for her. "Please."
She stops. Looks up at me, studying me with those ice-blue eyes.
"I need you."
"You need someone."
"I need you."
Her gaze moves down my arm. To the place where my fingers are wrapped around her wrist.
Fuck. I release her. Take a deep breath. Get control of myself.
It doesn't matter that I want to throw her against the wall and fuck her.
I need to convince her first. "I won't take no for an answer."
She shakes her head as she moves out the door. But she only makes it halfway to the elevator before she turns back to me.
She doesn't want to marry me.
I understand that.
But she'll do anything for her sister.
And I understand that too.
Chapter Three
Indigo
My body stays tuned to Ty until I'm on the four train, on my way to Midtown.
I want you to marry me.
It's absurd. Beyond absurd.
Even if there's a certain logic. A Ty kind of logic. His heart is broken. His reputation is in shambles.
Why not marry someone he enjoys fucking? Even if he'll never love her.
I don my headphones. Will Amy Winehouse to erase Ty from my mind.
Her gorgeous, deep, throaty voice fills my ears. Then the jazzy instrumental track kicks in and I'm lost in a world of pain and self-destruction.
The pain of Ty leaving.
The self-destructive impulse to say yes to his proposal.
Or maybe it's my need to say no.
Which is more dangerous: My urge to invite him into my life, even though it killed me last time he walked away? Or my desire to run from a solution to my problems?
Money doesn't buy happiness.
But not having money really fucking sucks. And I know that as well as anyone does.
When the train arrives, I pause the music. The cool air steals my attention. Then it’s the noise of the city. Taxis, tourists, businessmen on meetings.
Afternoons in Manhattan are always busy. Especially in midtown.
With two hours until work, I don't have time to go back to Brooklyn for quiet. So I find respite in a coffee shop a few blocks from Rick's.
I order a black tea, find a seat by the window, will the steel and glass of the skyscraper across the street to sort my thoughts.
But my cheap dress shows in the window's reflection.
The shop is too loud.
The tea is oversteeped.
This is nothing compared to Ty's office. Nothing compared to his life.
He always wants the best. Of everything.
I was shocked when I qualified.
Three years ago, I was working at a different fancy cocktail bar. Wearing black boots and tight dresses as I fetched drinks for rich men.
He was a customer. A regular. He was staying nearby for the summer.
He already had all that power and presence and intensity.
Only there was a softness too. A softness he tried to hide.
For a while, that was it. He was friendly. He tipped well. I meant it when I smiled.
I didn't enjoy the job, exactly, but it paid well, and I had time to myself. Time for playing my guitar, writing songs, going to shows.
My life was good. Maybe nothing special, but mine.
Then I ran into him.
I was at The Museum of Sex with a friend. And he was there. Taking in what the States had to offer.
It was beyond embarrassing—this handsome, aloof guy catching me blushing at pornographic pictures. Pictures of bound wrists and ball gags.
But then he made a joke, and I laughed, and I felt at ease.
He offered to buy me a tea.
My friend insisted I go. He's so handsome. And British too. When are you going to meet another hot British guy?
I said yes.
We sat at a modern coffee shop, sipping our drinks, trading stories about life in New York City.
Then we had dinner. Went to his apartment. Talked all night.
And that was it. I was smitten.
Our first kiss was something out of a fairy tale.
Fireworks. Actual fireworks.
Then he asked me about the pictures. If they interested me. If they showed something I wanted.
I said yes and we got into specifics.
Did I want to be tied up, gagged, spanked?
Hurt?
Did I want to beg?
I didn't even realize I craved a rough touch until I met Ty.
He read me like a book. Knew exactly what I needed, when I needed it, how and when to push me.
I trusted him in a way I'd never trusted anyone.
With my heart—he understood how it felt to lose a father, to struggle to support his mother, to balance ambition and duty.
With my body—he knew I came when he put his hand around my throat, knew I wanted to be tied to his bed, knew I craved control.
He was only staying for the summer. And I was, am, nine years his junior. There was no way our lives would ever intertwine.
So we agreed.
Three months together. Then he'd go back to London and I'd stay in New York and we'd part with our Casablanca moment.
We'll always have Manhattan.
I believed it. That it was better to love and lose. Not that I loved him.