Cowboy Casanova - Lorelei James [34]
And that knowledge had shaken her very foundation.
She prided herself on being a logical woman. But what she’d experienced with Bennett defied logic. A smart, independent, capable female ceding all control, in essence saying, here’s my body, do to it what you please, don’t let me think, just make me come.
Did that make her a mindless slave to pleasures of the flesh?
No. Ainsley knew it wasn’t that cut and dried. Logically she understood the difference between giving control and having a man take control away. What amazed her was that she hadn’t felt powerless at any point. All she’d felt was relief.
Which gave credence to Bennett’s claim: the submissive had all the power in the situation. The dominant was restricted only to the amount of power the submissive relinquished. But that didn’t answer the question of why she’d trusted Bennett so easily? So quickly? Which led to the next question weighing on her mind: would there be a next time?
She had until Friday to decide. And heaven knew she’d dissect this scenario and potential outcomes a hundred times before then. The image that kept popping up when the doubts plagued her was Bennett’s face and the intense way he studied her. He wanted to know her, inside and out. Her every gesture, her every laugh, her every facial twitch and her every word were memorized and filed away for his future use.
And if she was totally honest with herself, she was less spooked by that than she was immensely flattered.
Tapping on her car window startled her. She glanced at the intruder, slicked up, anal-retentive, nosy Turton Ingvold, the man she’d secretly dubbed the turd. Because boy howdy, did the name fit him. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a total brown-noser—to everyone except her. Turton treated her with an air of derision. He’d expected to land the bank president position after the man who’d initially been tapped for the job last spring had been abruptly reassigned. But she’d been offered the plum job for this new branch office, making Turton her second-in-command.
She managed to smile at him after she exited her car. “Morning, Turton.”
He walked beside her—right beside her—up the sidewalk. “I trust you’ll handle the situation with Rita this week?”
No hello, no good morning, no surprise. Half the time she wondered how Turton had reached management level because he had zero social skills and practically no tact. “Yes. I believe she works tomorrow.”
“Good. Because I’d hate to think you were showing favoritism and we’d have disgruntled employees—”
“I said, I’d handle it, so can we please drop it?” She felt him breathing down her neck as they walked single file into the bank lobby and it creeped her out.
She stopped for a minute and took stock of the space. The lobby paid tribute to Wyoming’s western heritage. Stacked slabs of native stone, exposed wooden beams, rusty barbed wire used throughout in unique ways. Even the chairs were covered in cowhide. The corporation had invested in local artists for the rest of the décor, large bronzes, painted scenes with cowboys and Indians, as well as a large mural depicting the spectacular and desolate landscape in the Sundance area. The brand new building had only been open for business two weeks and Ainsley already thought of the place as hers.
Evidently Turton had been trying to engage her in conversation, or treating her to a thinly veiled comment about her incompetence, and when she hadn’t responded, he’d stormed off to his office.
She ditched her coat and briefcase in her office before heading to the employee break room for a cup of coffee. Leslie, the lone loan officer, sat at the break table, dunking a teabag in hot water while she flipped through the newspaper. She glanced up and smiled. “How was your weekend?”
Enlightening.