A Manhattan Couple

When the realtors sell these apartments, they go on and on about the floor to ceiling windows and expansive outlooks. “Great views,” they would say. “Great lighting.” And at the time Maddie ate that all up. After all, who wouldn’t want to see the sunset wrapped in comforters from their 60th floor bedroom? Watch it slip over the Hudson River, in reds and purples and yellows, from its arc over Manhattan into the bumps and dips of the mainland?

But Maddie was second guessing the view that the encroaching light would show her this morning. She groaned into her pillow. Yesterday evening was interesting, to say the least.

There was an investor conference. She was supposed to take notes. Hard to take notes while he sat across from her. In his unnecessarily prim suit, fitting for his name. Christopher Style.

He had avoided her gaze while she crushed the coffee sugar packets between her fingers. Wondering why he, a fellow junior banker working the other side of her deal, was spending time socializing when he owed her documents. She had demanded them on the phone every day that week. Had tried every trick up her sleeve, short of telling him she knew where he lived. And while she was getting “any updates?” messages from her boss, this unbothered man sat stoically across from her poking at his hors d’œuvres.

No, no updates.

Why?

Because Christopher Style was doodling into a notebook. Or folding his paper napkin into increasingly small squares while glancing, on occasion, at a presentation on the profit potential of buying out family-owned nursing homes. Doing everything except responding to her.

But then the event led to a networking dinner, and then post-dinner drinks.

And the drinks led to…

The morning sun eventually shone through her window and across Maddie’s face. In resignation, she pushed herself up in her bed as its rays curled around a figure resting on her couch, revealing a truth she wasn’t quite sure she was ready for. But as she examined him, something about his condition calmed her. Tape covered his mouth. Hands, still tied, rested on his chest. She was studying his features, the upward tilt of his nose, the curl in his tousled hair, when his eyes opened to meet hers.

“Mr. Style.” She gazed back. “Glad to have your attention.” She took in his pleading look. The way he scrunched his eyebrows. The question in his stare.

Maddie’s legs slid from the covers and her short night dress slipped up her thigh as she rested her feet on the chilly floor. After a lazy stretch, she walked to his curled form and, crouching down at eye level, gently peeled the tape from his lips.

“Maddie.” He breathed.

“Remember your safe word?”

“This is torture.” He whined.

She tutted. “And I thought you were here to please me.”

“Takeover.”

Maddie smiled. She cupped his cheek and peeled the rest of the tape from his overnight stubble. He grinned back at her, a little bit strained. Anxious. Over-eager. Nothing like the annoyed man over the phone.

“I’ve been bad, you know.” He whispered, watching her grab a small letter opener from the coffee table.

“Oh, I know.” The knife’s edge glinted in the light as she examined it. Maddie kneeled, resting her head against his broad, beating chest. His heart quickened as she trailed the steel across his jawline, pausing at his neck. Like little metallic kisses. “We discussed how bad you’ve been just last night.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Oh, Chris.” A low, pleased laugh. Her hand traveled to where he had grown excited, fingers circling the fabric. “You’ll see.”

He shifted and stifled a groan as she straddled his hips. The sun peaked around her bare shoulders from its perch over the river. The warmth of its rays prickling her back, highlighting now the carved hills of his stomach. The dips around his chest. The soft places between his ribs. The thin skin at the base of his throat. The easy flesh on his carotid artery.

Great views, she agreed. Great lighting.

Photo credit: Photo is mine.