The Eight Hour Deal
Jareth convinces Sarah to spend eight hours with him. How shall they spend their time? With sushi, alcohol, hotel suites, and sex of course. Rated M for language and sexual situations. Quasi dark Jareth. Fluffy-ish.
She's at the bar of a popular restaurant in the Meatpacking District. One of those warehouse type places that's been renovated to a super trendy restaurant. Complete with a Michelin Star chef. She's sitting with two men—one, the quintessential Wall Street asshole and the other, a CEO of a tech startup that boomed suddenly. One would assume that Mr. Tech would be less of an asshole than Wall Street, but she's old and experienced enough to know that's not the case. Mr. Tech the 'nice guy' thinks women of the world owe him a favor because he's, well, a nice guy who made it big. She sips her martini, trying to feign some interest.
"So Brexit—buy now, Sarah. Now." Wall Street guy seems extremely enthusiastic about the market plunge. He's happy. Stocks crashing down means he's going to buy some grade A stocks at rock bottom prices.
"I hate New York." Laments Mr. Tech. Coincidentally, he lives in San Fran, like most other tech guys. "Fucking stocks. I miss waking up in the morning and running, you know. Just running and breathing fresh air."
Sarah stops herself from rolling her eyes. "You can run in New York. Your hotel is two minutes from the park." What is his name again? Neil? Neel? Were those pronounced differently? Probably.
Mr. Tech sighs. "It's not the same."
Wall Street has enough. "California's overrated, especially San Fran. If I had to live in Cali, I'd choose LA."
"I say Frisco. San Fran's dated."
She is going to beat them both with…well, she doesn't have anything to beat them with. She feels a nervous breakdown coming. She wonders what it would be like to quit her job as a management consultant in a major consulting firm and move to Montana. Live in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, Unabomber style.
"Sarah?" Wall Street notices she's lost in thought.
"I'd never move to California," she joins the conversation, hoping they're still on the topic of East versus West. "Wide open spaces freak me out."
Mr. Tech takes that into consideration. "You'd choose a cramped studio in a concrete jungle to a house on the beach?"
She laughs. "San Francisco rentals are about as high as Manhattan's. I'll be in cramped studios in both places. But if I had an unlimited amount of money?" Both men await her answer. "Yes, I'd still choose a small apartment in New York. Maybe a house in Brooklyn."
Wall Street looks triumphant. "Fuck you and fuck San Fran," he says, loud enough for the entire bar area.
Mr. Tech holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay, I know I'm outnumbered. But you have to admit, sushi is much better in San Francisco."
She's so damn bored, she feels like downing her drink. And so she does, signaling the waitress for another one. She downs that one too.
"Slow down, Sarah." Mr. Tech looks horrified. He's on his first bottle of artisanal beer. Whatever that is. "People drink like fishes up here."
Wall Street shrugs. "Sarah can handle her liquor." He's on his second Glenlivet. 21. He's the type who wants everyone to know it's a 21 and not an 18.
Sarah feels like laughing but she controls herself. Wall Street dick has no clue whether she can handle her liquor or not. She's only met him once before and she's fully aware that he probably wants to get her drunk and get in her pants.
"If you'll excuse me boys, I have to use the ladies room," she says, swiftly standing up.
She heads to the coat check window.
She walks outside the restaurant, inhaling and exhaling deeply to get rid of the feeling of utter suffocation, contemplating her life. She has studied economics and data analytics for her undergraduate studies and has a Master's in Business Administration from one of the top five universities in the country. She has a job with a major consulting firm.
She has no life.
Travelling Monday to Saturday, she hardly sees her exquisitely decorated, but oh-so-small studio in UES. She hardly sees her father and step mother. She has hardly talked to her brother in the last few years. She has no time for a long-term significant other of any kind. Not that she wants one, anyway. Come Monday, she has to fly out to Hong Kong. Then Singapore. Then Sydney…Beijing on the way back.
She knows Mr. Tech or Wall Street will happily take her home if she lets them. She contemplates it before shaking her head. No way. She couldn't have sunk that low, could she?
Wondering if she should just hail a cab right then and there and get the hell away from both of them, she takes out a slim, menthol cigarette from a silver case. She knows it's a filthy habit. But hell, she has to work around the clock six days a week. She's allowed some vices, isn't she?
Taking a few drags, she stamps out cig. Wall Street was right. Fuck San Fran. She has to move a great distance away from buildings if she wants to smoke there. She steps forward on the sidewalk to hail a cab, thinking she'll text both men that work called. They'd understand that—work came first.
"Leaving so soon?"
Her breathing stills. It couldn't be him…could it? Of course not. She turns back slowly to see the figure of a lean man standing against the wall. "Were you speaking to me?"
Just like that, he is not there anymore. He's disappeared into thin air.
Her heart rate sky rockets as newly pumped adrenaline brings down her alcohol buzz.
"Of course I was, precious." He whispers in her ear.
She jumps.
How did he get so close? "Jesus fucking Christ. Stop doing that."
He laughs a lazy, rumbling laugh. "The mouth you have on you." He moves enough to give her adequate personal space. "I have so many lovely uses for your mouth." His tone is absolutely obscene.
"Why are you here?"
She is weary, too weary. Part of her is shocked that she's having a conversation with her childhood King of Nightmares (that's what she called him) on the sidewalk. In the Meatpacking District of all places. A more rational part of her thinks one of the douche's slipped a hallucinogen in her drink. She stares at him for a few moments, drinking in his image—he looks the same as he did fifteen years ago. With wild untamable hair and a beautifully angled face. Harsh, bow shaped lips that seemed to be stuck in a perpetual sneer. His clothes are different though, he's wearing form fitting jeans and a black leather jacket.
"For various reasons, precious," he leans into her again, making the tiny hairs on her neck stand up.
"Such as?" she raises a brow. She's not a fifteen year old brat anymore and she wants him to know it.
He laughs again. "Perhaps I'm here to rescue you from your…companions inside."
She rolls her eyes. "I can do that myself."
"In that case…" he stares her down, eyes blazing, taking in her form from head to toe. "I am here to carry you away to my castle, where I shall chain you in my dungeon and spend many, many hours entertaining myself."
Her heart stops and her breathing slows down before rapidly picking up. She is terrified. "You can't be serious."
He looks at her for a few excruciating heart beats before throwing his head back and laughing in malicious glee. "I'm not."
Her legs give out and she almost falls…but he holds her, right before she hits the ground. Her skin sizzles even though she's wearing a thick winter coat. His dual colored eyes peer into hers, as if he's trying to look into her soul. "What do you want from me?" she whispers. "Revenge?"
He flashes her his trademark smirk, sharp teeth peeking out from under his lips. "Would be fitting, wouldn't it?" he asks, rhetorically. "That I would seek revenge outside an establishment labeled Vendetta."
She doesn't answer. She doesn't even know what she's supposed to say, nor does she understand what he is saying. "Let me go," she pleads.
He swiftly puts her on her feet and rolls his eyes heavenward. "I'm not here for revenge. You can stop with the theatrics."
Sudden anger takes over her as her fear starts dissipating. "What the fuck do you want, then?"
A sidelong glance. "Perhaps I want to spend time with you."
It's her turn to laugh. "Not in a thousand years. A thousand lifetimes. Hell, eternity." She adds the last part for good measure.
"Eternity is a very long time, precious, for you to decide you do not want my company."
Not remotely, she wants to say, but she doesn't engage him further. It doesn't look like he's going away any time soon. She sighs. "If I spend time with you, do you agree to leave me alone for the rest of eternity?"
An anticipatory smile. "How much time, precious?" He always does this, answer a question with another one.
She thinks about it—it's Friday. She has both days off this weekend and an early morning flight on Monday. "Tonight."
"Say your right words, Sarah." He says her name slowly, luxuriously almost.
"Four hours tonight."
"Ten." He counters.
"Six."
"Eight. That's my last offer, precious."
"Fine." She relents. Eight hours, eight hours and he would be gone from her life forever. "By eternity I mean until I die…and if reincarnation exists, the agreement carries on to the next life."
"Of course," he smiles, the image of politeness. If politeness came with wolfish, jagged teeth. "Shall we head to your apartment?"
"No." She says, too soon and too loud. "No," she repeats, "I'll take you to dinner."
"Allow me to hail a cab."
She sits across from him, surprised to see him use a set of chopsticks with ease as he samples various kinds of sushi rolls.
He notices her looking at him and smirks. "As one of your…friend's was saying earlier, precious, I much prefer eating sushi in San Francisco."
Two thoughts occur to her simultaneously. One, the Goblin King knows enough about sushi and two, that he'd heard her earlier conversation. She wonders if that means he spies on her. And how often? She forces her anger to die down…there is no point getting angry about the past. Seven hours and thirty minutes later, she will never have to deal with him again.
"Why did you show up today?" she asks him, curiosity getting the better of her.
He raises a laconic brow. "Why not?" Question for a question.
Her work blackberry buzzes in its usual, annoying manner. Like most in her profession, she carries two phones, a blackberry for work because apparently, it is the most 'secure' phone to have, and the latest 'in' smartphone for personal use. She has a Samsung Galaxy 7 but she may as well have a flip phone. She almost never uses her personal phone.
"I have to read this," she says to him, opening up the email from her boss.
Change in plans. Will send Kimani for the E Asia/ Aus leg.
Will keep you posted on new client. V important client.
Promotion on a job well done.
She leans back on her chair in relief.
"Good news, I take it?" he asks her.
She looks at him. She is weirded out by the absurdity of the conversation. "I can skip a crazy flight and work routine that was scheduled for next week." She sips on her plum wine as she eyes him. "You never answer any of my questions."
"Perhaps you're not asking the right ones, precious." He eyes her evenly.
She is exasperated, knowing full well that he will never answer her seriously. "So…don't you have a kingdom to run and babies to steal? You know, instead of spending time with me?"
Low laughter. "I will always have time for you."
She clicks her teeth. "Stop saying that, especially in that tone of voice."
"Why?" feigned innocence, thy name is Jareth.
"Because it makes you sound like a serial killer cum prince charming."
Loud, amused laughter reverberates around her. "You know me so well. It's a mystery why we haven't been friends all of these years. In any case, I'm a king, dearest, not a prince"
She is a fully grown adult, yet she feels like a child sitting across from him. "You scare the living shit out of me, Jareth. I'd never be friends with you." Never mind that she has no friends. Except the unlimited supply of people willing to go for after work drinks.
The Goblin King looks genuinely surprised, "I scare you?" It doesn't escape him that she has used his name.
She raises her brows, giving him a wide eyed incredulous look. In that moment, she resembles the child that bested his Labyrinth and he feels a twinge in his heart. "You threatened to torture me an hour ago."
He puts on a wounded look, "that was a joke, precious. Where is your sense of humor?"
She shudders. "I'm perfectly sure that you are capable of doing it—therefore, it's not a joke. You can stop with the 'who, poor little me?' routine."
He grins a vicious grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame. "I would never torture you, precious." She gives him a withering look. "I promise you that if I were to ever torture you, I'd make sure you enjoyed every sordid minute of it."
The plum wine tastes like acid in her mouth and her breath quickens. She is old enough to know that she finds this beautiful and terrifying being strangely attractive. That the things he says makes her hot and wet.
"Lose your voice?"
Oh how she would love to wipe that smug smirk off of his face.
"We're done with dinner," she states, contemplating what they should do next.
"So it seems."
"There's a rooftop bar at the M…that's walking distance from here," her voice trails off.
"I'm familiar with the place," he offers.
She wonders how often he hangs out around the city. She wonders if he has ever seen her. But she doesn't ask either question. "Shall we?" she asks, wearing her coat.
They walk on the streets, hand in hand. He has changed his clothes, magically of course. Instead of the jeans and leather jacket, he is wearing a navy blue, slim fitting Italian suit with brown, hand stitched shoes. His hair is slightly tamer. Only slightly.
Entering the sleekly modern lobby of the fashionable M hotel, she is dumbfounded when the hotel staff greet Jareth like he's a regular patron. Except they call him Mr. Prince. Jared Prince. So much for his 'I'm not a prince,' routine.
She rolls her eyes when they get directed to the private, 'fast' elevator and the steel box zips up to the seventy sixth floor.
"Trust you to get special treatment everywhere," she grumbles, taking a look at her watch. Two hours have passed. Six more to go.
"You've hurt my feelings, Sarah." He gives her an almost boyish grin. "One would think you're dying to get this over with."
She gives him a look. "Of course I am."
He gives her his wounded look again. This time, it makes her smile.
"Stop that." She says, still smiling.
They walk out onto the terrace bar kept warm with portable, heating lamps.
"Would the lady like a drink?" he asks, the lines of his face looking less sharp…more human.
"Beluga martini please," she states, "straight up." That's been her signature drink for a while. Though technically she can't tell the difference between Absolute or Grey Goose or Beluga.
They stand at a relatively secluded corner, marveling at the view of the city. He chats up the service staff who seem to worship the very ground he walks on. He's drinking a dark red liquid that looks like wine, but something tells her, it isn't.
"What's that?" she asks curiously.
A jagged smile "Not for human consumption, precious," he says.
This snaps her out of her reverie—she's been acting like she's on a date and not with the Goblin King, her King of Nightmares.
"Something amiss?"
She gives him a sidelong glance. "You."
He widens his mismatched eyes, trying to imitate an innocent look. It doesn't work. "Perhaps you've had one too many of your…martinis," he says, as if martinis were some pink sugary drink that she scoffed at.
She knows that she's walking into a trap. But she doesn't care. "I can handle my drinks."
A raised brow. "No need to be touchy, dearest. Drink your martini in peace." He uses the same derogatory tone for the word and takes a sip of the red liquid
"This is a potent drink, Jareth." She seethes.
His eyes are alight with amusement. "I'm not disagreeing with you, precious, don't get angry."
Glaring at him, she grabs the drink in his hands and takes a massive gulp, yelping as the liquid burns down her throat.
"Sarah!" His voice is different. Cold, authoritarian, perhaps even angry. "What part of 'not for human consumption' did you not understand?"
"That's what you get for making fun of my drink," she says as she feels a wave of alcohol hit her bloodstream, warming her up. "What the hell was that?"
He chuckles. "Goblin wine."
She chugs a bottle of water. "That feels like something they would serve at a frat house."
"Perhaps they do."
She laughs at that. "Where to next?"
A raised brow. "You tell me." His tone is suddenly serious, his voice low. He knows exactly where he wants to go and what he wants to do.
"Burritos." She clasps her hands in glee.
That certainly isn't what he wants. "Burritos?"
"Yep. I know a place in an alley right by here. Hole in the wall."
He eyes her suspiciously. "Why would we dine in an alley in a 'hole in the wall' as you say?"
"Because it's really good and highly addictive." She smirks. "I'm convinced they lace them with heroin, cocaine or something else equally addictive."
"As excited as you seem, precious," he says, not impressed, "I would rather avoid the place."
"What do you suggest, Your Highness?"
He smiles, making sure the sharp edges of his teeth are concealed. He doesn't want to frighten her. "I'm fairly certain the room service menu in this hotel has burritos…if not, the staff would be more than willing to get one for my special guest."
She laughs with abandon. "That is not going to work. I'm not getting into a hotel room with you."
"I usually book the presidential suite when I'm here."
"Of course you do," she says, a smile still on her face. "The answer is still no."
His eyes get dark, "you could always invite me into your apartment, Sarah."
She suddenly becomes serious— hearing him say her name that brings her back to reality.
-"Turn back, Sarah, turn back before it's too late."
"That's definitely off the table," she says, considering his offer about the suite. The presidential suite here is probably five time the size of her studio. She knows she would much rather be in a large space with him than a smaller one. She steals a look at her watch, three hours have passed. Five hours remain.
"Are you reconsidering the suite?" he asks, knowing full well that she is, indeed considering it. Fifteen years later, he still reads her like a book. She knows it.
"Five hours," she says, looking at him with a devilish smile of her own. "Let's see what you can do in five hours, Goblin King."
He smiles wide now, showing a full set of animalistic teeth. "How I love a good challenge."
She is reconsidering her bravado once she's actually in the suite—which, as she had imagined, is massive. There are three bedrooms, four bathrooms, a dining area, a massive living room, and three balconies. On the sixtieth floor. The view is fucking spectacular.
Pulling off her boots, she wonders how often he comes here. Judging by the staff, it seems like it is very often. "I notice that you have a personal fan club here, so I know you come here regularly," she says, nonchalant. "Yet you've never stopped by to say hello."
He raises a brow. "Jealous?" he asks, helping her out of her coat. Ever the gentleman.
"A little," she admits, sitting on the leather sofa and taking off her work blazer. She is wearing a cowl neck, sleeveless white blouse with a form fitting grey pencil skirt. The outfit looks amazing with her knee high boots. She supposes she should wear pants during winter, but she loves skirts too much to give them up. She's happy her long, sable colored hair isn't all staticy today.
He catches a trace of her perfume when she takes off her blazer—he trembles. He knows the effect she has on him, but he is never prepared for it. "Wine?" he asks, voice lower than normal.
Smiling mischievously, she shakes her head. "I've had way too much already. I'd like to remember tonight." She looks at him through her lashes, "for posterity."
Throwing his head back, he laughs. "So serious, my heroine." There's a touch of bitterness in his voice.
"You're not going to answer me, are you?" she eyes him as he sits on an arm chair. "How often do you come to New York? Why do you come to New York?" Her work phone buzzes again. "Hold on," she says, all eyes on her phone. Ugh. She can't blow him off, he'd be a good work connection some time or the other. It's Wall Street. He wants to know where she is and why the fuck did she leave him with Mr. Tech. She quickly types back 'work. Beijing client needs deck by tomorrow.'
He loosens his collar and cuffs languidly, and unbuckles his belt. "Would you answer some of mine?"
She shrugs. "Okay." Uncertainty shines in her eyes when she sees an all familiar gleam in his. What is that look?
"Why are you employed in an establishment you cannot tolerate?"
She shrugs again. "There are worse jobs out there. And I like what I do—it's just the hours that are crazy. At least I don't have to drink with clients till two in the morning and wake up at five thirty with a healthy dose of Dexedrine."
"Here I thought you could handle your liquor."
She laughs slowly at that. "Here's the truth: no one can drink like they're twenty one and those that do, will eventually lose that power to liver damage. The key is to nurse a drink and make it look like you've had your share." She eyes him slyly. "Watch people around you, look for mistakes, and record."
He looks at her, a hungry look deep in his inhuman eyes. "You turned out to be more cunning than I thought you would be," he pays her a genuine compliment. "You haven't answered my question."
She sighs. She has never asked herself this question so she doesn't know the answer. "I don't know," she starts, "I like the vibe of the city. The crazy work hours, the crazy party hours, the competition, the ruthlessness." She's surprised by her honesty, and so is he. "The sheer callousness with which people tear each other down and build themselves up," her jade green eyes are lost somewhere. "I think I've climbed well."
He pulls his belt and tosses it on the floor and moves on to removing his shoes. Leaning back on the arm chair, he tilts his head when he looks at her. "My heartless little princess," the bitterness is gone from his voice.
"Back to my question—how often do you come here, Jareth?"
He raises a brow. "Is that really what you wish to ask?"
Pursing her lips, she debates whether she should ask him the question that she wants to ask. She decides she will. Sarah Williams is not a pussy. "If you really come here that often, why have you never contacted me…before today?"
"Perhaps the sole reason I come here is to look at you."
She laughs at that. "And you stay in the presidential suite at the M?"
He laughs with her. "Fair enough," he's happy she's not some naïve, sentimental mess. "I do check up on you…now and then," he smiles when he sees her eyes widen. "But I can't say that I don't enjoy modern lifestyles of mortals every once in a while."
She thinks of wild orgies.
He eyes her suspiciously, "probably nothing as crazy as you've cooked up. But I have my share of entertainment."
She snorts. "You remind me of this prince from a particularly wealthy Middle Eastern territory who goes legitimately nuts in Macau." She makes an extravagant hand gesture, "like insane, nuts. I worked on a project for his real estate firm once and he was the epitome of charm." She smiles when he looks a little affronted. "But the stories I heard. Jesus take the wheel."
He raises his brows at the last sentence, a hint of amusement in his eyes. It is then that she notices he has opened his shirt buttons, showing his lean, muscular chest. "I'm sure I am far tamer than this prince of yours." His voice is a little huffy.
She laughs again and his breath catches in his throat. She realizes he is slightly jealous. "He's not my prince. I was the head consultant for his project." She looks at her watch. Four hours have passed. Four hours remain.
He shrugs off his shirt and stalks over to her slowly, eyes never leaving hers; he holds her upper arms and pulls her up to a standing position. For a few moments, he keeps looking at her, the way her chest rises and falls out of anticipation. The way her jade green eyes darken with lust. The way she parts her lips slowly. He lifts up her blouse and bra in one smooth motion, and unzips her skirt, letting it pool to the floor.
"Place your hands behind your back. Don't move them."
She does as he asks.
"Sarah." He whispers her name against her skin.
He kisses her on the neck, his fingers tracing patterns on her shoulder blades.
"Sarah."
He repeats her name, whispers it in her ear, his palms running gently over her nipples, making her arch into his touch. She throws her head back and moans softly. She can't help it—she's always been very vocal.
"Sarah."
His tongue circles a nipple and his fingers circle the other one. He waits for a few moments before nipping each rose bud softly. Her chest rises and falls as she arches into him, liquid heat gathering between her legs.
"Sarah."
He pulls down the thin scrap of fabric between her legs and spreads her legs.
"Oh Sarah."
He tastes her sex with long strokes of his tongue, holding her at her waist and behind her knees so she cannot move. He keeps stroking her, avoiding her clit and entrance. She moans louder this time, much to his pleasure. He circles her entrance with the tip of his tongue, teasing her. She moans again, desperate for more, but he teases her until it becomes unbearable. Right at that moment, he enters her with his tongue, and he presses down on her clit at the same time as her breath hitches in the back of her throat.
"Jareth."
That's all the encouragement he needs as his tongue lashes hard and fast, licking her until she reaches the brink of orgasm. He pulls back.
"Jareth," she whispers, "I can't."
"Shhh," he says this as two of his fingers suddenly enter her and he simultaneously, presses down on her clit in a circular motion.
A series of short gasping moans escape her lips as she comes, harder than she has ever come before. His fingers prolonging her pleasure, helping her ride the waves. Her legs shake, almost uncontrollably for a few seconds. She sits down on the sofa, oblivious to the fact that she is naked.
He doesn't give her time to recover. Sitting down on the sofa next to her, he crushes his mouth against hers, tongue stroking the roof of her mouth and his teeth nipping her lips. She kisses him back with equal vehemence, running her tongue over his sharp teeth.
She only pulls back to get some air. "There are three bedrooms in this suite," she says, her fingers tracing the lines of his chest, barely touching his pink nipples. He hisses when she finally does touch him, fingernails scraping. "We could go into any one."
Placing his head in the crook of her neck, he moans as her hands stroke his length, his pants long gone due to magic—he normally makes it a point not to use magic when undressing for sex, but he didn't have the time, or the control required…only with her.
He pulls away to look into her eyes, his fingers trail every inch of her body. "I've had other people in each one." He scrapes a fingernail over a taut nipple, smiling as she moans.
"I don't care," she says in between breaths, his fingers now stroking her slit.
"But I do," his mouth is on her nipple, tongue flicking the dark red nub. He can feel sweat trickling down her spine. He knows the effect he has on her—she's close. She's vulnerable.
"Then take me here," she says, shivering as he places a long finger inside her. "Against the wall. Out in the cold balcony. I don't care," her breath is coming out in gasps, "fuck me, Jareth." He places another finger inside her, hooking them, rubbing them against the front of her walls.
"But where, precious." He knows how close she is.
"Anywhere," she hisses, "anywhere you want."
In a flash, they're on a bed—a large, non-fussy teak wood bed with brilliant white linen sheets and pillows. Her hands are on him, stroking him, feeling him twitch with anticipation. Placing himself on top of her, he looks at her for a few heartbeats, memorizing the lines of her face. And then he plunges inside her, his need almost driving him mad. They move in a frenzied pace, but they meet each other's rhythm. Two bodies coming together in rapture.
Her eyes are glazed as she throws her head back, fingers on his back, on his hair, on his legs, anywhere she can touch. He lifts her hips slightly, positioning himself to give them both maximum pleasure.
"Look at me, Sarah."
She does, fighting to keep her eyes open as the pressure builds up to unbearable heights. She moans again, deep and hoarse.
"Look at me."
She comes—her muscles contracting in an explosion of pleasure, her limbs light and floaty. He keeps his rhythm until he finds his own release seconds later. They hold each other until their breaths normalize before pulling away.
"That was out of this world." She says, her breath still shaky. "Jareth?" she asks, when he does not reply.
He looks at her, his eyes cold and calculating, a small smile on his harsh lips. "It was, literally," a telltale sign of teeth in his smile, "dearest."
Her eyes widen slowly as she understands the implications of his words. She knows instinctively that they are not in the hotel suite any longer.
"No."
A cruel smile. "Oh, yes."
"I have a life, send me back!"
Jagged, inhuman teeth and a malicious smile. "No."
"Jareth. This isn't funny."
"Oh but it is."
A mild buzzing interrupts their 'discussion.' She looks at the small black device that has landed on the bed, next to her. "You brought my work phone to the Underground?"
A nonchalant shrug.
"How the fuck does this thing work without cell phone towers?"
He raises a brow and looks at her like she has said something very stupid. "Magic."
Growling in frustration, she checks her email. It's from her boss.
Client, Jared Prince, says he is already in touch with you. Has a project that will last a month. Will arrange travel and accommodations, and provide a team to work with. Send me weekly updates.
She looks at him, smiling, finally getting his sense of humor. It is as cruel as can be, but she has no doubt he can also be generous. She takes off her watch. "Looks like we have more time."
"What shall we do, my heartless princess?" He pulls her to him, placing her head on his chest.
She smiles against his skin. She could definitely think of a few things.
AN: This ended up being longer than I imagined.
Also, I made up the hotel—modeled after W (very imaginative, I know).