Free Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning) by Cecilia Tan Page B

I right?”
    “I don’t expect it to turn into a relationship,” I said. “But I think I might learn something from him. And a weekend at an expensive hotel seems like it ought to be fun.”
    “Ah, chérie, I wish more young women had your attitude,” Michel said. “Your eyes are wide open. You see him for what he is. Go. Have fun. Be open to the experience.”
    Paulina, though, was looking out for me. “If you need us to come get you, you know, just in case you don’t like him or you feel like you can’t stay, text or call us, eh? We’ll pretend to be your parents.”
    “I’d like to think that if I need to leave there I could honestly say to him: ‘This isn’t fun. I want to leave.’” I tore off a piece of Indian bread and took a bite.
    “But you’re not so naive as to think that’s always the case,” Paulina said. “Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do to keep yourself safe. We’ll come get you. Promise.”
    “You’re so sweet! I’m pretty sure I can handle myself, but thank you.”
    It was very nice knowing someone had my back if it turned out Damon George was not what he seemed.
      
    The hotel Damon had picked was near yet another famous place I had read about in books: Charing Cross. When I had first arrived in New York to start grad school, the same sort of thing had happened to me in the city. Broadway, Wall Street, Times Square, Madison Square Garden, these were like mythic place-names I’d heard all my life. Once I got used to being a New Yorker, they turned into mere addresses again. Here in London that feeling was even stronger, though, everything more historic, more ancient.
    The summer sun was setting as I made my way across Trafalgar Square. Tons of people were milling about, including lots of tourists taking photos of a big statue of a guy on a horse. I didn’t attempt to get close to the statue, concentrating on figuring out which of the streets leading away from the park I should take.
    The hotel entrance faced the plaza in front of the Charing Cross train station and had various flags flying. I breezed past the main reception desk, and in the hallway beyond it was greeted by the flickering of tiny candles in glass jars all along the marble floor and on every stair of a grand staircase spiraling upward. Damon, I mean, Mr. George, had texted me the room number. I climbed the stairs, the candles making everything seem surreal and magical. On the second floor I found the elevators and up I went.
    At the door to the suite I saw a small envelope taped next to the door handle. Please don’t make this another wild-goose chase , I thought, as I peeled it free and opened it. Inside was the room key. Okay, at least it wasn’t instructions to go to some other hotel. I checked inside the envelope to make sure. Wait, there was a note.
    Printed in small, neat letters:
    If you are willing, unlock the door, come into the room, close it behind you, and strip. Leave your clothes in a pile by the door, along with your overnight bag. Crawl to where you find me. When you demonstrate your willingness, you also demonstrate your trust and your understanding that I will not harm you. If you do not trust me to keep you safe, leave now.
    I paused to think about it. Did I trust him not to hurt me? Yes. Did I trust him to keep to the society’s rules? Definitely. But did I trust him beyond that? Not a chance. Damon George had his own agenda, somewhere underneath it all, but that wasn’t really all that relevant to me. I had my own agenda, too, after all.
    I’m doing this for you, James.
    I slipped the key card into the lock and the door opened. I closed it behind me. Looking around the room, I saw it was a spacious parlor done in rich eggplant purple and cream colors, with a sitting area to one side, a small dining table, and then through a wide entrance, the sumptuous bedroom with windows overlooking the plaza.
    I could see the back of his head. He was seated in an armchair, looking out the