Help Wanted [*Complete*]

9

"Sir may test their submissive from time to time to gauge their loyalty and adherence to their personal rules."

Traveling to London was strange for me. Not only was it my first intercontinental trip, but it was also my first time in a private jet. Mr. Emery slept during the flight, but I found it impossible to fall asleep. I didn't have a fear of flying, it was something else entirely. My attention fixated on Mr. Emery who slumbered in the master suite with the door open. His features slack with sleep reminded me of one of the memorials of Percy Bysshe Shelley; they both had that artful look of distress and ecstasy. However, with that look coupled with his disheveled hair and shirt rumpled from sleep he looked like a perfume ad.

As the plane touched down at Heathrow and Mr. Emery changed I realized I hadn't really made up my mind yet even though I said yes. I wanted to be his, but I also wanted more than he offered. It was strange, I was almost over his coldness but after having Lacy throwing what Heath did in my face now I wanted closeness; or more busy work, or sex to distract me until I forget all the old unpleasantness again.

An hour after leaving the airport we were at South Bank Tower, Mr. Mr. Emery's London home. Stepping off the elevator into the brightly lit penthouse I found myself shocked.

It looked like someplace a movie star would own. I couldn't get enough of the view. I didn't even put my bag down. I went right for the window. I could imagine Mr. Emery standing before it, sipping a scotch and smirking down at the city below.

"Natalia." He spoke my name softly, drawing my attention.

"I'm sorry, Sir." I shook my head and turned.

"It's alright, the view is lovely." Though he didn't smile, there was something about the way he said it that made me think he wasn't talking about the city. Blush colored my cheeks as I followed Mr. Emery up the curving staircase.

Every inch of the place looked like an architect's wet dream. There was a massive, ornate glass light fixture that hung from the second floor in some abstract geometric pattern that took up most of the ceiling. Modern art dotted the walls and random sculptures of twisted metal stood on pedestals throughout. All the paintings shared the same washed out color scheme, most being of the abstract expressionist variety.

"Your room is here. Think of it as home away from home. If you wish to decorate it, you may." He opened a door revealing a small room with a queen-sized bed in the middle. The room had a cold sterile feel to it. The bed spread was white lacking any sort of embellishment. As my eyes traced over the empty dresser and table tops a dark thought flit into my mind that made me turn to Mr. Emery.

How many other women have slept in that bed? How many others have been more than just a Personal Assistant?

After a moment, I set my bag down on the bed and he walked over to the closet, opening it to reveal a full wardrobe. I blinked in surprise.

"So what number am I?" The words came out soft and slow as I stared at the wardrobe.

"Do you really want the answer to that?" He spoke into the closet, not turning to face me, fingers trailing over the sleeves of various blouses and dresses.

"I'm not angry, I just see the fact that I'm nothing special."

Closing the doors to the closet he turned and gave me that blank patented million-yard stare.