Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter20 (v.1) - The Explanation

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: June 02, 2015

Reads: 1062

Comments: 4

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: June 02, 2015

A A A

A A A

Why did she feel so shitty? He’d barely touched her, the scenario had been bizarre but mostly painless, and it wasn’t like she’d never failed at getting off before. But her whole body ached with fatigue. Her heart felt as ripped open as it had after therapy. She needed to be wrapped up snugly and held in strong arms; she didn’t want Andre to do it, but he was the only one here.

“I’m cold,” she croaked and was rewarded with a second blanket, this one super fluffy and bright white and big enough she could cover her face in it without looking like she was obviously trying to escape him. With her nose covered, she couldn’t smell him so much. That was nice.

There was no music in Heaven this time, though—only the strum of his heartbeat. Certainly nothing unique to Andre, but his was the only one she knew. She had to escape it, and the best she could do was twist away enough that she could lay her head down on the arm rest. It was comfortable even as a pillow, which wasn’t unexpected. Everything in Heaven was soft, even Andre.

But she didn’t want him.

He traced the line of her side through the blankets. “I should have told you about the drop,” he said, his voice a low hum that rumbled through her body.

She tried to reply but could only sigh.

“I swear I meant to tell you before that this might happen, but you’re really bad about distracting me.”

There was a laugh in his voice. She wanted him to be quiet so she could sleep away this gross feeling.

He continued to stroke her side. Thankfully it was more the absentminded petting of a sleeping cat than any sort of foreplay. “You’re going to feel like this after Hell sometimes. Tired, cold, disoriented. Maybe empty or hollow. So before we leave Heaven, it’s my job to make sure you’re both physically and mentally sound. And everyone is different. I’ll do my best to address your needs, but you do have to tell me if I’ve missed something.”

Breathe in, breathe out.

He gripped her bicep enough to bring her attention back to him. “Please respond to me, Ima. Anything at all.” There was a hint of urgency in his tone.

She curled up a little more. That was kind of like a response.

And stupid, stupid Andre leaned down, wrapping his arm around her shins to keep her up and resting his cheek on her shoulder. When the sob escaped her lips she buried her face further in the blankets, but there was no way he couldn’t feel it.

“Was that really hard on you, too?”

“Isn’t that the point?” she whispered. “Keep changing things up so it’s always hard on me?”

He kissed her shoulder through the blankets. “No, I meant this one was difficult for me, too.”

Liar. It brought her back to irritated, though. She didn’t feel the ache in her chest so much. She tipped forward just a little more and rolled her shoulder back, making it clear she didn’t want him touching her.

So he scooped her right up, forcing the recliner back far enough she couldn’t roll away easily and settling her along his side. She struggled away, and he tightened the seemingly casual hold he had on her waist.

“Fucking hell,” Andre snapped. “Will you let me pretend for ten goddamn seconds that I actually am the dominant one here? Please?”

“What are you talking about?” She pulled the blanket away to glare at him properly. “Last I checked you’re not the one getting spanked or calling me ‘master’.”

His lopsided grin was far too charming. “Oh good. Pissing you off also gets you out of your snits.”

“It wasn’t a snit,” she pouted, although having him call it as such made her question herself. Definitely not a snit. A funk. A malaise. A momentary lapse into the void of which she always lingered on the precipice. Definitely not a snit.

“How much does it bother you calling me master?”

She gave in to that base urge to cuddle and relaxed back down. And since she was already here, she unearthed her hand from its blanket cave, unfastened the third button on Andre’s shirt, and slid her hand into the gap. The smooth warmth of skin, the curly bristle of chest hair, the rapid tempo of his heart out of synch with the slow rise and fall of his breath. Of course she wanted it to be Andre holding her. She was just being irrational before. “Mmm, a little. But if you like it—“

He squeezed her hand. “I do. And you’ll get used to it. And as defiant as you are, I’ll break you yet.” When she jerked in alarm, he clarified with, “Like a wild filly. And you’ll make a magnificent show pony.”

Imogen flushed brightly and buried herself back under the blanket. Andre ripped it away immediately. “I’m not into the cosplay stuff,” she protested.

Andre laughed loudly. She didn’t want the sound to make her feel better; she wanted the remnants of her snit-which-was-absolutely-not-a-snit to linger enough that he felt obligated to snuggle and maybe grovel, but she couldn’t resist. She placed her hand back on his chest and closed her eyes.

“It was just a metaphor,” he said. “I only meant I think you’ll be a very good sub once you trust me enough to obey me unquestioningly.”

“If you want me so obedient, why didn’t you just tell me what was going on?”

He placed his hand over hers. “Because I shouldn’t have to. You should trust me to care for you properly, and I should trust you to tell me when you’ve had enough.”

“So reading that thing, that was a trust exercise?”

Andre pushed them upright, easing her off his chest just when she’d finally settled herself in there. His eyes fell to hers, boring deep enough Imogen struggled just to meet him. She liked looking at Andre, his handsome face and trim physique and smooth skin with its caramel tone nudging on milk chocolate, but her gaze was a casual appreciation. He was one of the beautiful people and she was his and she was just superficial enough that it made her feel good.

But his gaze was of a different beast entirely. Maybe it was the jewel-toned hazel or the thick eyelashes or the heavy lids, but no matter the situation, the intensity made her weak. It was as though her stared through her skin to the heart of her, and reflected it back onto her. And she didn’t want to see herself like that.

She didn’t have a choice, either. Andre gathered her hands into his, making a bond between them that kept their bodies separate. She couldn’t prove her trust and demur at the same time.

“On Friday, someone broke into the office and did all the damage listed in that report. Midas told me what happened, and I got so angry I broke my monitor and phone, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to break a person—like glass. If Amanda had been here, she would never have agreed to it. What I did to you was reprehensible. If you—“

“I liked it,” Imogen protested.

“It doesn’t matter. I took advantage of your naivety and ruined any trust you may have had in my system. And I’m telling you now, the one time you cannot trust me is when I am as angry as I was then, and you should never worry about punishment if you refuse to enter Hell with me when I’m like that. Now, at Cipex’s recommendation we’ve kept the break-in quiet. Law enforcement is conducting a discrete investigation and within LE, only Midas, Cipex, the two guards who were on duty, and I know about this.”

“And me.” She couldn’t help glancing down at their hands. Not because she needed to look away, but because she needed to see that physical bind. Dr. Thorn had said the quilt would mean less to Andre than it did her and implied this as a general statement as well. She’d agreed with that, but now Andre was sharing something he didn’t need to with implications far beyond these walls. Their hands were bound together by both flesh touching flesh and a massive secret.

“And you. Our relationship will not work if we don’t trust each other. Everything we do in Hell is contingent on our trust, so we’re going to figure that out before we go any further. Telling you what happened on Friday is the first step for me.”

Thankfully Andre didn’t protest when she went limp, forcing him to relinquish her hands and hold her. She could prove her trust so easily; she could tell him the truth about her and he would never question her again. Except she couldn't because she didn't trust him for a second. She trusted that piece of paper she'd signed, giving him a list of everything he could and could not do, and she trusted the faith he put in NDAs to carry over to that contract.

"It's okay,” Andre said. “I don't expect you to trust me now. One day you will, and you'll prove it. In meantime, it's getting late. We should probably get to bed."

Imogen looked over to the all-too-inviting duvet and mountain of pillows. That did sound better than this.

"That bed isn't for sleeping."

“Then where are we supposed to sleep?”

“You’re killing me, Ima.” He stood and set her on her feet. She pulled the blanket tightly around her, protecting herself from the chill in the air. “I sleep down the hall, you sleep upstairs. Just like always. I would like you to join me in the Time Machine for breakfast tomorrow, though.”

She was naked under the blanket, and even though her inner fire had cooled some, she still wasn’t ready for the night to be over. He’d driven her to a climax during a panic attack last time, so this one would be easy. And three orgasms in one week? Unprecedented.

She opened her mouth to voice this while Andre fetched her a bathrobe but couldn’t find the right words. It was crazy to expect it of him, but she was kind of crazy. She just didn’t want to sound desperate, either.

He returned with the robe but didn’t hand it to her. “I’m not giving this to you until you tell me whatever it is you want to say.”

She shifted her weight, willing herself not to blush. “I just thought we could…you know…”

He sighed and passed her the robe. “You don’t even trust me enough to say it. The first thing I told you was this isn’t about sex, and I wasn’t lying. So nothing like that is going to happen until we’re ready. In the meantime, you have hands; do it yourself. That’s what I intend to do.”

There was no way to stop the blood from rushing to her cheeks.

And despite no one else being in the room, Andre leaned down close to privately whisper into her ear, “One day, you’re going to watch me jerk off while I watch you finger yourself, and it’s going to be fucking magical.”

She was pretty sure he bid her good night before walking away, but she couldn’t hear it over her utter mortification.

~..~

With the groundwork in place, Imogen took well to her submissive role. With the proper motivation, she quickly became obedient and docile. Her questioning became so infrequent Andre brought more reading material into Hell so he could hear her talk. Like her eyes, her voice was a balm—as was the pliancy of her body. In addition to the books he stocked sketch pads for himself. It had been forever since he’d spent any time figure drawing, and Imogen was an excellent model. When he commented on her flexibility and stamina, she didn’t blush. Instead she told him of the yoga classes she occasionally sat in on at the center where she took self-defense classes in college.  He made her promise to return to the studio and show him every new position she learned.

Naked, of course, which she was also growing more comfortable with. He’d tamed his rope work some, removing as much of the sexual element as possible. No more innuendos, no more teasing, no more roughness. Trust first.

It helped him as much as it did her. There was still a burn within him, but it wasn’t nearly so demanding. Remembering Imogen grinding herself into his pant leg still stoked the fire pretty damn well, but mostly he felt the pleasant warmth of contentment.

Which was great, because the theft turned out to be a much greater nuisance than Cipex had predicted. First the Christmas bonuses went through early. It didn’t do much harm to the company—just some accountant overtime—and Andre played it off as a treat for anyone who didn’t want to save their shopping until the last minute, but it showed how fragile the system was. More grief came within Terreign, where some loot tables were altered to give players inferior gear from difficult fights. The problem was fixed and restitution was made before the situation got out of hand, but it was amazing how much hate mail Andre could receive in two hours.

When faced with the choice to spend the day stressing about what would happen next or plan what he would do in Hell tonight, he happily chose Imogen. They were so close now, he just had to come up with a way for Imogen to prove her trust in him. That could be tonight. Or he could go for fun. The holidays were approaching, he could get her an elf’s—

Fuck.

He pulled up his personal calendar. She was good today but had already requested her next session to be her personal day. After that was his day with her hair, and then everything got crazy. He had a conference in New York that weekend, then four holiday parties in a week, two of which fell on their nights together—Imogen might not be in the mood, and he wouldn’t argue that. Especially since one of those parties was being hosted by her family. That was the 21st, followed by Christmas Eve. His family was coming up from Macon, but it was unlikely he’d be able to pry Imogen away for a few hours.

The rest of the month was chaos. Tonight had to be special.

“Cipex is here to see you,” Matthew said through the intercom.

Andre pressed the button. “Send him in. And I need you to get me dinner reservations and tickets for something tonight. Something early.”

“That’s not really my thing, Mr. Lachlan.”

“Just figure it out! Jesus, don’t you have a wife? One who’s way hotter than I’d expect from a guy like you? Obviously you know how to put a date night together.”

Matthew deliberately held the button down so Andre could hear him sigh in frustration. “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Lachlan.”

“Sweet. Also, figure out where Ms. Zelenka did all her shopping the day of the Piedmont Auction and have them send over an outfit for this evening. Dress, shoes, understuff.”

“Okay, but I’m putting something shiny for my wife on your personal card.”

“Ooh! Get one for Ms. Zelenka, too.”

He felt better immediately. Imogen would like a formal evening out that didn’t involve being scrutinized by southern socialites. A glass of champagne to loosen her up a little—no more than that or she’d pass out in the car—and casual but meaningful touches on the way home to warm her. Imogen had a romantic streak Andre didn’t mind exploiting. A gentle but intense session in Hell and she’d melt for him.

As much as it was his fault, his rules, he missed the way she came so readily for him.

“What is the point of coming here if you’re not gonna listen to me?” Cipex huffed.

“I’m listening.”

“Really? Because I feel like I’ve been talking to myself for the last two hours. Not to be a dick, but I’ve seen your last few girlfriends; Imogen isn’t nearly as hot as them. So unless her pussy can tell you how to keep your company from being destroyed, I suggest you actually join this meeting.”

Andre leaned forward and smiled, but the only joy in it was a residual of the fantasy playing in the back of his mind. Imogen restrained to the bed with silk, enslaved to the sensation of a feather dusting across the sensitive crease between her leg and pelvis.

Instead of sharing this, he said, “And how would you like me to do that? Thus far today you’ve given me a catalogue of every single way you’ve failed me since Thanksgiving. You don’t know who’s attacking LE, you don’t know where they are, you don’t know why they’re doing it, and you don’t know how bad this can get. Considering what’s happened so far, it looks pretty fucking bad. You have one job to do, one I pay you obscenely well for, and right now you’re failing so badly that the only thing keeping me from firing you is the fact that I’m pretending you didn’t just call Imogen ugly.”

Cipex paled and threw his hands up in surrender. “Hey, man! I’d be lucky to score a girl as hot as Imogen. Not my type, but—“

“And what type would that be?” Andre had made his point, he didn’t need to push it any further, but he couldn’t quell his temper. Cipex had said far worse things about Andre’s companions in the past, but that was when he was doing his job and there wasn’t anything serious to deal with at work.

And it wasn’t Imogen.

Cipex slumped down. “I just like my girls smaller, that’s all. Imogen could beat the crap out of me with her tits alone. And it doesn’t even matter, it’s not like—“

Andre couldn’t help himself. At this point, he wasn’t even mad. He just wanted Cipex to suffer. “So then, what are you saying about my type? Do you think I’m only attracted to Imogen because I’m black?”

Cipex stared down at the floor. “Please don’t fire me.”

Andre sat back. “I’m not. Yet. And next time you see Imogen, you thank those tits you still have a job.”

~..~

A date night was exactly what Imogen needed, even if she didn’t realize it until halfway through the first act of Tristan Und Isolde.

The dress that had been delivered to her desk was one she’d dawdled on before but ultimately decided Andre wouldn’t like the long, lace sleeves and the accompanying velvet cloak. She’d been horribly embarrassed when she’d pulled it from the box and everyone in the Corral saw the corset underneath, but then she thought maybe Andre would let her wear it in Hell tonight.

Maybe he’d touch her tonight. She’d been so good for him this week.

Dinner had been amazing. Andre habitually picked pretentious, formal dining rooms with menus in foreign languages without accompanying prices, and she had to balance it with her favorite dives. The restaurant they went to this time was a beautiful compromise, with dim lighting and a pricey enough menu to keep small children away while maintaining an atmosphere casual enough Imogen felt comfortable laughing at Andre’s stupid jokes.

And the opera. Perfection. She’d never been before and had to reign in her awe over the spectacle. The show was a tragic one, giving Imogen an excuse to lean against Andre when he laced their fingers together. She gripped his arm with her free hand as the two enemies sipped the potion that would turn them into lovers.

He leaned down and said, “I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Tristan killed Isolde’s fiancé,” she whispered, trying not to irritate their neighbors. “The cup is his atonement. It’s supposed to be poison—Isolde is killing herself—but it’s really a love potion.”

Andre lifted his eyebrows. “You speak Italian?”

“German, and no. I just know the story. Now shh.”

He grinned and leaned back. His thumb slowly passed back and forth over her wrist, lulling her until she rested her head on the shoulder of his jacket. He lifted their hands to his lips and kissed the ring she wore on her middle finger. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the duet sung between the now-lovers fill her.

It was perfection.

And then she felt the buzz of his phone in his pocket.

He shifted slightly, doing his best to ignore it. She rewarded him by bringing their hands to her own lips. But then it buzzed twice more. He whispered his apology, but she smiled and untied her cloak, pulling it out from behind her and using it to provide cover so he could check the messages without disturbing anyone. In the filtered light, she saw him frown before typing in a response and powering his phone down.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “Do we need to go?”

“Absolutely not. Nothing for you to worry about.”

He stayed seated for the rest of the show, but his casual strokes and light kisses on her hair felt forced. The entire drive home he was engrossed in a texted conversation on his phone, his only interaction with Imogen a stern reprimand when she lay down to nap. He was agitated, obvious long before they got back to his place and he practically dragged her to Hell. Once inside he pulled her against him, not caressing or kissing, just holding too tightly.

Imogen hugged him back. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

He grabbed her ponytail and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. She didn’t mind it so much this time. Whatever was going on, she was happy if this calmed him.

“Do you trust me?”


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