You see? It’s an impossible situation, and I’m the one who suffers the most from it.
I don’t think Ian sees it that way, though. He’s plugging ahead as if someone named Colleen Woodrow hasn’t turned our lives upside down. Well, of course. He doesn’t have as much to lose as me.
Isn’t that how it always goes? I’ve been feeling this ever since I was old enough to realize that being a girl puts me at a huge disadvantage. Every day there’s some new reason for a man – or other woman – to put me down and make me feel like shit, all because the doctor said I had a vagina when I was born.
I felt it when I was a little girl who barely understood the world. You see, I was my parents’ only chance at a kid. They tried for years, and then finally had me. The pregnancy was so hard on my mother that the doctor told her that trying to have another would probably kill her, or at least kill the baby. Both of my parents wanted a son for all the reasons we rich people want a bunch of sons. Proof of fertility, passing on the family name, knowing that the fortune will “stay in the family” and a bunch of other asinine bullshit that doesn’t mean anything these days.
Still, even though my parents loved me, I knew they would’ve felt better having a son. They discussed adoption, but by that point their relationship was strained. They’ve never divorced, but I wasn’t surprised when my mother peaced out and moved to Europe.
Then I felt that shit at school. Boys harassed me. Teachers let the boys harass me because “boys will be boys.” I hated myself for having crushes on boys because I already knew how toxic they could be. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized I could control some of my destiny. Back then, that only meant sexually. I was a bit wild. New boyfriend every month for about two years. Would’ve been more, but I lived in such an insular world that I had to be careful who I boned while sowing my wild teenage oats.
Dealing with doctors and birth control. Being told that my goal in life was to be some guy’s blond trophy wife and have his kids. Everyone expected me to go to college, but nobody expected me to do anything with a degree. Bit of a shock when I decided to follow the family business. My father went along with it – I think he was relieved, actually. I know he’s often worried about what’s going to happen to his holdings when he goes. If his daughter is there to take over, he feels a lot better. What he thinks I’m going to do with my life on the other hand…
My family is the least of my problems. It’s the rest of the world. Nobody takes me seriously. When I fuck up, I’m rarely given a real second chance like men are. Nobody thinks I can really make it.
When I get hung up on these thoughts, I also get pretty down. I need alcohol. I need my friends. I need a man to kiss my boots and let me whack on his ego for a change.
So now I sit here, in this office on a Wednesday evening, looking at Ian across from me and wondering what the fuck I was thinking when I grabbed his dick and begged him to fuck me.
Ian’s not going to solve my problems. He’s going to exacerbate them. Even though he’ll never say anything about me or to me, he is going to stay silent on the other issues. He’ll hold up the status quo around me. He’ll never treat me as his real equal in the bedroom. At some point, he’ll break – and ask me to break for him.
As much as I hate being alone, it’s better than throwing myself at the feet of a Dom.
“You holding up over there?” He doesn’t look at me. He flips papers over, laptop lit up with spreadsheets. We’ve reached the point in the day where he whips out his reading glasses, a thick-rimmed pair that would look ridiculous on any other man, but not Ian. They’re square and sit nicely on his nose, framing those hazel eyes that I sometimes can’t help but stare at.
His sleeves are rolled up. His top two buttons are loose. This is how he looks by five every damn day, and every damn day I think about how nice it would be to finish undressing and lie on top of him. My bed is really comfortable. If only I had someone like him to share it with.
Shit, I’m pathetic.
“I’m fine,” I lie. My notes are a train wreck. Even I can barely read my handwriting.
He looks at me again. If he didn’t look so young, I would think he looks like a father, or a professor. The kind of man who judges you with one glare.
Ian whips off his glasses. “You wanna go downstairs and get a drink?”
I snort. “On a Wednesday?”
“We’re not coming in tomorrow. And tonight’s as good a night as any since we have to be ready on Friday morning to sell our souls. Let’s relax with a drink. My…” He stops. “My treat” doesn’t mean anything when the woman you’re talking to is almost as rich as you in her own right. “The bar in this building is pretty good. The stock is everything my father likes, but about half his tastes passed down to me, so…”
Sighing, I close my laptop lid and shove my notes back into their respective folders. ‘Sure. But no wine. We know what happened last time.”
A dry laugh fills the room. “I don’t think that was necessarily the wine.”
That’s all he says on the subject. Honestly, it’s all he has to say, because I know what he means. All the wine did was give us an excuse to relax and loosen up.
We pack up our things. This will be one of the last times I’m here, so I make sure that Anita is able to come in tomorrow morning and grab everything neatly before bringing them over to my place. After that, we grab our coats and jackets before hopping into the elevator and enjoying the long ride down in silence.
The bar is one of those abodes that works for either relaxing with a date or shooting the breeze with coworkers after work. I like those types of places because you don’t feel like you owe anyone anything. Hell, I would probably feel fine bringing work in here so I can have an Old Fashioned while finishing up the last of my projects for the night. Sure enough, I see a couple of middle-management guys with their tablets out. They could be reading a book or surfing the web, but it’s more likely that they’re putting in a final hour of work before heading home. Only one wears a wedding ring.
Ian and I sit right at the bar. People must recognize us, because they give us plenty of room, deciding to sit closer to strangers than anywhere near us at the bar. It feels weird at first, but then I come to thank them because I really need some room to breathe.
I order my Old Fashioned while Ian makes room for straight bourbon. “I like a woman who can appreciate whiskey,” he says to me. My drink is served first, and he eyes it with a bit of jealousy. Since getting a drink was his idea, I can only assume that it’s been on his mind all day. Can’t blame him. I have more to lose, but he’s frazzled as well. He’s also a lot like me in the sense that he would probably love to get laid to take the edge off. Too bad I’m not making myself available tonight.
We’ve crossed that bridge. We don’t need to go back over it.
“What can I say?” I sip my drink. Damn, it’s delicious. Smooth, too. Ian’s father must love whiskey too, because this is the good stuff. “My father raised me to appreciate the finer things in life. Like what you’re drinking.”
The glass appears before him, right on cue. “You want a sip?” He slides it in my direction. “Go ahead. I don’t mind the backwash.”
“Har har.” I pick up his glass and sample a taste. It’s almost as good as my drink. Almost. “You’ve had plenty of my backwash already.”
“Indeed.” Ian takes his glass back and has his fill in one gulp. Yup. The man wanted a drink. “Nothing sacred now.”
A part of me is relieved that we can joke about it. Another part of me wonders why we keep bringing it up. Haha, what am I talking about? We keep bringing it up because it’s the only thing we have in common right now… besides work.