Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement by Kyra Davis Page A

swiveling back and forth in my chair. This chair offers more support than my last. Its design keeps my posture straighter. It suits my mood. “Do you have a problem with Daemon being your superior?”
    “No,” Asha says. The word is clipped, her anger evident.
    “No what?” I ask.
    Yes, she’s blushing now. I can see it. Who would have thought the malicious could blush.
    You blush all the time. A little voice says. It’s my angel, speaking through the gag I’ve placed in her mouth. I squirm slightly at her implication but Asha is too caught up in her own humiliation to notice as she answers, “No, I don’t have a problem with Daemon being my superior.”
    Now it’s Daemon who sits a little straighter. He smiles at Asha, his eyes impertinent, his gaze a little insulting. Asha turns redder still. I wrinkle my nose. I went too far and now the scent of this revenge is more sour than sweet.
    “We’re done here,” I say quickly. “Daemon, I’ll have someone from Maned Wolf call you with more details about the project.”
    “Of course, Miss. Fitzgerald.” His voice is deep with respect. I can tell he still wants me but he’s also a little afraid of me. He would never make a move unless I told him to.
    He doesn’t feel that way about Asha. She’ll have problems with him. I could help her with that . . . if I felt like it.
    I watch as they all file out of my office and wonder how it’s possible.
    How is it possible that I never fully appreciated the symbiotic relationship between fear and power? Not just the fear of those who have to follow me but my own fear that inspires me to lead?
    Fear motivates and encourages me like an admiring lover.
    Like Robert Dade.

CHAPTER 9

    I DON’T GO HOME. There’s no point, not when I can stay with him, in his home that is bigger than mine, in his bed that offers me pleasures and satisfaction. When I arrive, he’s wearing a dark suit and a thick white dress shirt with no tie. Formality and accessibility in one look. A beguiling contrast.
    But the rest of his preparations give me pause. His dining room table is covered in white linen. There’s a place setting for two and candles in the center of the table. It’s clichéd romance more appropriate for love marked with rose petals and midnight walks than one defined by power plays and sexual deviance.
    He reads the skepticism in my eyes and laughs it away. “We can have quiet moments of traditionalism on occasion. We can have anything we want.”
    This makes me laugh, too, as I pull nervously at the sleeve of my blazer. My confidence falters when it’s just the two of us.
    “Not that it’s necessary,” he says, “but would you like to change for dinner?”
    I look down at my white suit. Images of red wine and olive oil dance through my head. “Yes,” I say definitively, “I believe I would.”
    “I assumed as much,” he says, his laughter subsiding to a teasing smile. “I bought you something else today. A dress. It’s on my bed waiting for you.”
    I’m about to say something when I hear someone in the kitchen.
    “We’re not alone?” Even my question makes me tremble a bit. Memories of being ravished in that bar . . . it had been so intense, frightening, exhilarating. . . . I don’t know if I can do that two nights in a row. I don’t think I want to.
    But if he asked me to, would I? Is that what’s needed to maintain the balance? Must I submit every night?
    Yet when Robert reaches for my hand his touch is reassuring, not demanding. “It’s the chef and his assistant. I hired them for the night. They’ll cook for us; that’s all.”
    The relief is stronger than I thought it could be. I grab his shoulders and kiss his lips gently with only a touch of passion. “Thank you.”
    “Thank me for the dress,” he says quietly. “The night’s events are set by your moods as much as my ambitions. I’m just better at recognizing them than you are.”
    I’m not sure I understand his meaning but