Home > His Turn (Turning #3)(3)

His Turn (Turning #3)(3)
Author: J.A. Huss

He called me a challenge. Like I’m a game. Like I’m just a piece of a puzzle he’s trying to put together.

And he wants us to play the game with Elias Bricman.

I’ve seen Elias around the Club. He’s the owner, or part-owner. Manager. One of those three. I have no idea. So last night, when Jordan came over to my apartment and ordered me to dress up in the clothes he brought me, tied a gift tag onto my wrist, and told me to go meet Mr. Bricman at his second-story bar inside the Club, I went.

He instructed me not to speak, so I didn’t.

But he never told me to have a good time.

I smile at that. Stupid asshole. He should know how to play his own game by now.

Of course, the joke’s on me. Because now he’s pissed off and I’m expected to satisfy his friend tonight. Again.

“What are you smiling about?” Matthew asks.

“Oh, nothing,” I say, chuckling to myself. “Just a guy.”

Matthew smiles back and winks. I don’t know him well, but well enough. I get up before he can pry into my personal life and he sings out after me, “I’ll get that story, Nadia. So don’t think walking away will help you escape.”

I’m really not trying to escape. Escaping is easy. I’m practically an escape artist. I never choose the easy way out.

I love a challenge.

I can take it. I can take anything the world throws at me. So if Jordan thinks his little game will break me? He’s wrong.

Many have tried.

He won’t succeed.

Classes end at four, so by the time I finish up everything at the school and walk through my apartment door, it’s almost five-thirty. I throw my keys down on a side table and I’m just walking over to the comfy chair I like so I can relax for a few minutes when I spy the present on the coffee table and stop in my tracks.

It’s a pretty box. Light pink with a white chiffon ribbon. There’s a single pink rose lying on top next to a card.

I allow myself a smirk as I walk over, drop my purse on the table, pick up the card, and open it.


Sorry about the shoes today.


The ribbon falls off the present like water when I untie it, and then I lift off the lid.

Brand new pair of black ballet slippers.

See, this is the thing about this relationship I have going with Jordan. He’s a dick, but it’s an act. He’s actually a nice guy. I never said a word about having to walk out into the snow in my slippers. I never even looked down at my feet, so he didn’t pick up some subliminal clue from my expression.

He just knows. He knows because he cares enough to pay attention to me. This is a great quality in a dominant/submissive relationship. Like, number one on the list kind of quality.

But it’s going to be his downfall.

I pick up the rose and walk over to my big chair, sinking down into the cushions as I lift it to my nose and take in the sweet scent. My phone buzzes in my purse, so I lean over, fish it out, and tab accept. “Hello?”

“Can you be ready by six?”

“No,” I tell him. “I just got home. And I’m enjoying my rose at the moment. So no. Not by six.”

I can feel Jordan smile on the other side of the phone. “I’ll be there at six. And you will be ready.”

The call drops and now it’s my turn to smile. I like this game. A lot. I like the power play we’re doing. The push and the pull. The give and the take. Most men like Jordan like to take. Taking is easy. But giving in is a lot harder.

We both have trouble with that.

So it goes on like this. I’ve only been in this relationship a few weeks, but I’ve got him all figured out. He’s not the mystery he thinks he is. He’s a player, for sure. Not an amateur, but certainly not at a professional level yet.

I might not be at the top of my game either, but I’m farther along than he is.

Thirty seconds have gone by now and I’m on a timer. So I run to the bedroom, taking off my ballet skirt as I go, and when I get to the bathroom, I slip out of my shoes, my tights, and run the water for the shower.

I’m washed, dressed in a robe, hair still piled up on my head in a bun, two minutes after that. Make-up takes five minutes. Way too long. Then I unpin my hair, let it fall over my shoulders, and brush it out so the long waves are shiny and brilliant.

Five more minutes go by.

I choose a dress from the closet. It doesn’t matter which one I put on. Jordan purchased all of them, so he’ll like whatever I wear. I choose black because it feels like a dark night coming.

It’s low-cut, so I skip the bra and then decide to skip the panties as well because… what’s the point?

At five minutes to six I’m fastening the diamond necklace around my neck—yet another gift from Jordan—and slipping my aching feet into a pair of black five-inch heels.

When he walks into the apartment at exactly six o’clock, I’m sitting on the couch, legs crossed, leaning towards the door, holding a glass of wine.

He smiles at me because he knows what we’re doing too.

It’s a game. A very fun game.

And even though calling him ‘sir’ makes me want to roll my eyes and spit in his face, I do it because the payoff is all that matters. The expression on his face when I disappoint him is almost as delicious as the expression when I surprise him.

He’s not surprised tonight. He knew I’d be ready.

I stand as Jordan walks over to me. He takes my hands, leans in, and kisses me on the cheek. “You look nice,” he whispers into my ear.

“You as well,” I say, wanting very badly to check him out thoroughly, but not daring to take my eyes off his as he leans back.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says. “We’re going to dinner first.”

“I’m famished,” I say, purring the words out. “And thank you for the shoes.”

He shrugs off the gratitude and walks over to the coat closet, chooses a black cape, and throws it over my shoulders with a gentlemanly flair. “Ready?” he asks, holding out his arm for me.

I nod. “Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve for tonight, but all this polite talk is my first clue that it will be challenging.

That’s OK with me.

I just love a challenge.

Chapter Three - Bric

My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I lift up my head, confused as to whether it’s morning or night, then decide I don’t really care and let it drop back onto the pillow.

The phone stops buzzing, goes to voicemail. But a few seconds later it buzzes again.

I make a grab for it, miss, and it slides off the table and drops to the floor.

“Fuck,” I grumble, reaching down to pick it up again. I read the screen. Jordan. “What?” I say into the phone.

“We’re coming up.”

“Who?” I ask, still confused.

“Are you… sleeping?” he asks.

“Who?” I say again, ignoring his question.

“Nadia and me,” he says. “We’re just finishing up dinner. Be up in ten.”

He ends the call before I can say anything else, so I just stare at it for a second, trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

I roll over, sighing heavily, and check the time. Seven-thirty.

I slept all goddamned day.

I close my eyes, not caring.

Pounding on my front door wakes me again. “Goddammit!” I yell. Can’t I have a fucking day to myself without people demanding attention?

But the pounding continues. Relentlessly. I swing my legs out of bed, walk out to the front room half naked, and pull the door open. “What the fuck?”

Jordan is standing there with the girl from last night. “Jesus Christ, man,” Jordan says, pushing past me. “Pull yourself together, Bric.”

He leaves Nadia at the door.

We stare at each other. Her eyes dip down to my bare chest, then slowly come back up to meet mine again.

I stand aside to let her in, and she enters. Silently. Just like last night. Bitch is playing with me, I can tell.

“Did you go to work today?” Jordan asks as he pours drinks into two cut-crystal glasses at my bar.

“I live at work, asshole.” I’m pissed off for a dozen reasons right now. He woke me up, twice. He’s drinking my best bottle of brandy, and he brought that game piece to my apartment. Not to mention that they are both dressed and I’m wearing—I look down at myself—pajama pants and nothing else. Add in the fact that I don’t like this girl, he’s brought her here for us to share, and I’m not in the mood for sex, let alone sharing sex, and yeah. Plenty of reasons for me to be pissed off.

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