Sophie Oak: Chasing Bliss

New York City

Gemma took a deep breath as she slid the key into the door. It had taken way less time to get the motions done and filed than she’d originally thought. They were now up to date on the case, and Patrick would be able to dazzle the partners. She’d told Patrick she would be gone all night. Now she could surprise him with both a brilliant presentation, guaranteed to get her the promotion she’d deserved for the last two years, and her own dark desires. She was going to talk to him, make him understand what she wanted to try.

Hey, a guy should like a little kink in his future bride, right?

She, Gemma Wells, was a little freaky, and she was getting tired of hiding it. She needed to just walk up to Patrick and find out if this thing would really work.

“Pat?” She set down her briefcase, a Chanel bag she’d scrimped and saved for. It was big enough to carry everything. Her laptop. The files she needed. The two thumb drives she kept on her at all times because she had to download Patrick’s work or he lost it. That bag was a gateway to her future, which was bright, so bright. It had to be. She was trying to follow the old “look successful, be successful” law. “I’m home, babe.”

Gemma turned on the light, illuminating the tiny, perfectly decorated living room. For Manhattan it was livable, but Gemma had been raised by hippies who had spent way too much time at outdoor concerts. She was pretty sure she’d been conceived to a Phish song. Cramped. So cramped. Sometimes she felt like she couldn’t breathe, but this was the place to be, so she was here.

Gemma stretched and thought about taking off the silk shirt she was wearing. It was deeply confining, and she was always worried she would wrinkle it, but it was designer and appearances were everything. Patrick had taught her that.

She sighed. Was he already asleep? He tended to be a night owl. Maybe she should have gone back to her place, but Patrick’s was damn near perfect. She should know. She’d been the one to work with the designer. She’d hitched her wagon to Patrick’s three years before, and she hadn’t let up. Not when he’d been promoted over her. Not when he’d taken credit for her work. They were a team. She would get her reward in the end.

The only trouble was she was starting to wonder if she should really marry him.

Gemma kicked off her Jimmy Choos. The shoes were gorgeous, but god, they hurt after twelve hours. Even as tired as she was, her heart was pounding a bit. She needed to know.

Patrick would either be in or she would be out.

She walked to his bedroom door, building her courage. Up until now, their sex life had been harried and a bit circumspect. She wasn’t entirely sure what he would say when she told him what she wanted.

There was a large mirror just outside the bedroom door. Gemma caught a glimpse of herself. She wasn’t unattractive. She was fashionably slender, with a chic blonde bob she’d paid a fortune for. Sure, she’d always preferred her hair longer and less platinum, but this was truly professional looking. And her makeup was flawless. She was a designer version of the girl who had grown up eating tofu and listening to lectures on being cruelty-free. There was no such thing. The world was cruel, and it paid to understand that little fact of life.

Gemma made sure she looked cosmetically perfect. She tried to forget that just two days ago Patrick had mentioned that a lot of women her age were already getting Botox. It wasn’t bad. Not yet. Just a few lines. Shit. Maybe she should get a little. Just in between her eyes.

Deep breath. She would walk in and wake him up in a very sexy way and then she would say… Fuck. What would she say?

“Patrick, I want you to see a sex therapist with me. I’ve been reading a lot about power exchange in the bedroom, and I think we should talk about it.” There. That was perfectly reasonable. And when he asked what she meant? “I would like very much for you to take command of me in the bedroom.”

Since everyone thinks you have command of me professionally, when we both know I tell you what to do, say, and wear. Since we both damn well know that you couldn’t get your head out of your own hot ass long enough to have an actual professional thought, it might be nice for you to take charge somewhere.

Yeah. She wasn’t going to say that last part. Not out loud. But it was implied.

She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her Marc Jacobs blouse. If this worked out, then maybe she could move in. He’d said he wanted to wait for the wedding, but that was so old fashioned. And impractical. It was time they behaved like the two-income, upwardly mobile couple they were. And she wouldn’t mind leaving her craptastic, roach-motel Brooklyn studio behind.

She was going to be successful. She was going to get what she wanted because she had worked her ass off and gone to the right schools and made all the right plays. She’d picked the right man to marry because he had a plan, too. Eventually, after their careers were fully set, they would have perfectly planned children. Yes. Willpower was all that was needed.

She put a hand on the door and then heard a little squeak.

And a moan. And that huffing noise Patrick made when he was either working out or having sex. And Patrick really didn’t like to work out. She had to force him to get on the high-tech treadmill they’d bought together but kept at his place, as they did with almost every expensive purchase.

So if he wasn’t exercising, he’d better be masturbating.

Gemma opened the door and felt her blood pressure go straight through the roof. The hallway was dark enough that neither of the figures on the bed seemed to notice they were no longer alone. Patrick groaned and his naked ass clenched as he came, and then he immediately rolled off his partner.

“That was nice.” He was using his sex voice, a low growl that reminded her of a house cat with a head cold. “You’re quite good, Christina.”

Christina? Christina Schiller? The dumbass, just-out-of-law-school brunette with the fake tits and the faker brain? She’d graduated from some Podunk college on the West Coast more known for churning out film editors than lawyers. She’d gotten hired because the partners thought she was hot and her dad was loaded. Everyone knew that.

“That’s ‘junior partner Christina’ to you,” she purred. There was a slight pause and a rustling of sheets. “Have you told her yet? I want to make the announcement soon.”

Patrick groaned, though this one had nothing to do with sex. It was the sound he made when someone wanted him to do something he didn’t want to do. “Babe, you know I need a day or two. We have the presentation on the Tremon Industries trial coming up. I need her to do all that research shit for me. And you know no one writes an opening argument like Gemma.”

Yep. That was what she’d been doing. She’d been up all night working while he was fucking Christina Big Tits and apparently promising her Gemma’s job. Her heart was pounding. She knew she should move, but her feet felt stuck to the floor. It couldn’t be happening. She’d worked her ass off. She was smarter than either one of the people in that bed.