BEND

Preface

by

C D Reiss

Author JA Huss calls The Erotica Consortium my brain child, which gives me the image of my skull cracking open and writers dripping out of my head. But, I digress.

The Erotica Consortium was conceived because I had plenty of writer friends, but all were in different genres. Either they wrote hardcore erotica, or any other genre but romantic smut. Though this shouldn’t matter at all, I found that there were particular problems I kept running into, such as where to market my books, and how. I noticed there were some writers out there with whom I shared fans, yet I had no relationship with them at all.

This seemed somehow wrong.

I knew JA Huss was a badass. I’d been kind of stalking her since I read Tragic, only to discover she’d also been stalking me. So, in a “what the fuck” moment, I contacted her about starting a group to discuss our work. I figured she’d say she had too much on her plate already and no thanks.

But she loved the idea (squee) and suggested Shay Savage and Ella James. I blew through a couple of chapters of Otherwise Occupied and came back with an unequivocal yes to Shay. Ella was a no brainer, as Selling Scarlet had set the world on fire a year before.

Alessandra Torre had been introduced to me through a mutual Goodreads friend. I read the first book of The Dumont Diaries amazed at her deft character building and well…the heat.

KI Lynn taught me how to talk dirty, and Breach flooded my Goodreads feed for weeks. I’d wanted to be her friend for a long time and this was the perfect opportunity.

Andrea Smith and I had been communicating for months about the ins and outs of Amazon, and her commitment to her craft impressed the hell out of me.

We asked Kristy over late in the game, because she’s Kristy Bromberg, the most down-to-earth superstar on the planet. But I did, and I am very glad to have her on board.

Bend is the brain child of killer badass, JA Huss. I know each author here has written something they’re deeply committed to. I’m just blown away by the quality of work put together. Just…wow.

I hope you love these stories as much as I do.

*********

If you'd like to read this anthology with friends, current and future, you can do it on facebook

https://www.facebook.com/groups/GPwithEC/

Or goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/100271-c-d-canaries

We're also hashtagging twitter buddy reading #bendanthology

****

I cannot express the depth of gratitude owed Erik for his tireless work on this highly complex document. I think he bit off more than he expected to have to chew, but he did it with class, grace and diligence. I could not be happier with the result, and the seeming ease of this extremely difficult task, which was riddled with false starts and late changes. He's a formatter sent straight from heaven. Thank you from all of us.

BEND contents

Unraveled by K. Bromberg

Come by JA Huss

Red & Wolfe by Ella James

The Devil In Me by K.I. Lynn

Kick by CD Reiss

Worth by Shay Savage

These Men by Andrea Smith

Still by Alessandra Torre

bonus story

Beg by CD Reiss

UnRaveled

K. Bromberg

Dedication

To my V.P. Pit Crew:

Two immeasurable words:

Thank you.

Chapter

One

I wish that I’d never looked up.

I wish that I’d kept my head down and focused on the ice cubes floating aimlessly in my glass, a mirror reflection of how I felt. Living one day to the next, slowly fading into the surroundings around me, always there, but not really necessary. Only acknowledged when I do something wrong rather than the other hundred things I do right.

I wish I would have kept to myself, phoned my husband and pretended to care that he had been called away for a last minute work emergency on our tenth wedding anniversary getaway when all I really felt was indifference. Then I could have wandered down the cobblestone streets slightly buzzed but completely content. I would have gone up to our hotel room, snuggled with a blanket on the balcony under a Tuscan sky with my e-reader. I’d have devoured those books I’ve come to love—the ones that have helped me reawaken my sexuality. The books that have made me realize it’s okay to want more out of my sex life, to want my husband to push the envelope with me. Experiment with me. Demand more of me.

But I didn’t.

I looked up and into eyes the color of dark chocolate, sinful and delicious. Irresistible. Instant attraction sparked with a subtle nod of his head and a bite of my lower lip. I met him stare for stare, a smirk ghosting his mouth as his eyes scraped across my features – lips, cleavage¸ wedding ring on my finger – before coming back to meet mine. We continued to stare at each other, his eyes darkening with desire and tongue darting out to wet his lips. I suddenly became uncomfortable with the blatant proposition his eyes offered – and averted my gaze. And even then, I could still feel his eyes on me, the hair on my arms standing on end from the feeling of being watched, studied, and scrutinized.

From being desired.

I should have refused the drink the bartender slid in front of me with a murmured, “Compliments of il signore.” I should have let it sit there untouched instead of drinking most of it, only to stare at remnants and the melting ice cubes.

I should have.

I wish I had.

But I didn’t.

My body shivers from a potent cocktail of fear mixed with traitorous pleasure. The heightened sensation shocks my mind back to the present. To the here and now. To the gloved hand sliding a fingertip between my breasts, to the ragged breathing of the man I can’t see, to the unknown rifling through me.

And the deep-seated ache to be owned.

I should have never looked up.

His fingers slide between my spread legs and push apart my lips, wet and swollen, a result of everything he’s done to me thus far.

Resistance is long gone.

Shame has been obliterated.

Fear remains, a cold and callous presence. But so does the unexpected desire that barrels through my body like a freight train.

I cry out at the feeling of two leather-gloved fingers as they push their way into me, the texture of the material an oddly pleasurable feeling. I’m so raw, so over-sensitized, so used, that I don’t think I can take much more. I try to close my legs and my mind is so consumed and overwhelmed that I forget, I can’t. Forget about the unforgiving restraints holding my ankles apart.

My body begins to writhe, its need to sate the burning ache a sharp contrast to the warring emotions in my psyche. My only focus is on the slow slide in of his fingers and the pressure and friction against nerves unexpectedly reawakened. The tortuous withdrawal of leather not wet enough tugging softly on the most tender of flesh, causing a different but equally arousing sensation.

I try to fight it.

At least I tell myself I do.

I try to understand how this is possible. How an orgasm can rip me apart right now—again—when fear still holds my breath captive.

I should have never accepted the drink, never looked up to acknowledge him with a subtle nod of my head.

My body vibrates as the swell of white-hot heat sears through me, taking nerve endings hostage and overwhelming all thoughts.

I shouldn’t have looked up.

No.

I should’ve let his silent proposition fall by the wayside.

The question is, why am I glad that I did?

Chapter Two

Last night

The wedge of my sandal falls in the cracks of the cobblestones causing me to stumble. I laugh aloud at how ridiculous I must look to the patrons of the little bistro bar I’ve just left. Lonely, pathetic woman getting drunk while on vacation by herself. Using a few drinks to ease the sting of being chosen second best to work once again. I shrug away the true but unwelcome thoughts as a sharp pang of anger hits me because … they’re right.

And the sad thing is that if Anderson were here, I’d probably feel even more alone than I do now. We’d have sat at the bar and gotten buzzed without saying much to one another, both of our minds on the numerous things we needed to do when we got back home. We’d have thought about things that could wait a few more days instead of focusing on the whole reason we took this trip: to reconnect, to reprioritize, to recommit. So I’d have sulked in the silence we’ve grown accustomed to while thinking of what-could-have-beens and when exactly we stopped communicating. Eventually he’d have asked me what was wrong, to which I’d have replied the over-generalized, and my term of choice as of late, fine. He’d have looked toward my wrist to see if I was fiddling with the bracelet I wear and never take off—the surefire way for him to know I’m bluffing. Then depending on if I was or wasn’t, either an argument would’ve ensued where I’d be told to lighten up some or we’d go back to the hotel room where we would have some underwhelming sex.

The same sex we’ve been having for the last ten of our fifteen years together.

Uncreative.

Routine.

Predictable.

And because we would’ve been drinking, my body wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the task at hand—an orgasm. The miraculous aligning of stars that must occur to reach my release would’ve been unattainable. I’d just have lain there and moaned at all the right times with his alcohol laced breath panting in my face. I’d have taken his drunken, less than pleasurable love-making, and recall times when we couldn’t wait to ravish each other. The times we used to push limits that were considered taboo to this preacher’s daughter, and how he’d drawn this sexually modest girl from her bubble and dared her to try new things.

I snort out a laugh. How times have changed and roles have reversed. I’d give anything to try something new, push boundaries, explore the sexuality I’ve now found and accepted with age. Open us up to new experiences, new toys, and redefine new limits.

Jesus. It’s sad that I’ll give myself a stronger climax using my fingers to get myself off tonight than if Anderson were here. All I have to do is think of things I want to try, imagine him doing them to me, and coming is not a problem. The problem is I can’t spend the rest of my life deriving satisfaction from thoughts alone, but every time I’ve attempted to bring up how to spice up our sex life, he’s shut down the topic instantly. “We’re not in our twenties, our sex life is great, why change things?” the standard given response.

Does he not see how unhappy I am? How I need more sexually? My mind shifts to our last conversation on the topic. The one that happened a couple of months ago when he found the box of toys I had hidden in the bottom of my closet—the items I’ve secretly bought and kept with the hopes of one day showing and asking him to use on me. I recall how he walked up with the lid off and looked at me, brows furrowed and grimace of disgust on his lips. His disbelief stemming from the fact that I’d bought all of it without consulting him. I can still hear the refusal on his lips, the disconnect in his tone believing that I don’t think he’s not enough for me anymore, when that’s not the case at all.

My dissatisfaction has nothing to do with him not being enough, and everything to do with me coming into my own. Being a woman who’s hit her sexual prime and finally after ten years has the confidence and security to ask for what I want.

Nothing crazy, just … more: restraints, domination, anal play, adding a little pain to enhance the pleasure. Something. Anything. A slow ache coils in my lower belly as I imagine how hard I’d come if Anderson would use any combination of them on me.

God, I’m pathetic, but … it’s not too much to ask, is it?

I laugh again—the hollow sound of it ringing more pathetic than cheerful as I ponder if I’m losing it, talking to myself about the experimental, boundary pushing sex I’m never going to have with Anderson.

“Yep, you’re losing it all right, Lil.” My voice slurs some and sounds odd—off—as it hits my ears. I focus on placing my hand along the building beside me for support because I suddenly feel drunker than I should. And I wonder how sad it is that everything seems so much easier with him being called away to work.

The memories flash through my mind of our first five years together. We used to be fun, adventuresome, imaginative. We’d make sure no surface was left unchristened and orgasms were mutual. I smile forlornly, thinking of when I used to give him spontaneous blow jobs while he drove us home or how his hand would wander underneath my skirt at a restaurant and test if I was wet enough. And if I wasn’t, he’d order desert and sit there, draw out the meal, his fingers idly playing between the juncture of my thighs.

I stop for a moment and hold a hand to my stomach when it growls, the realization hitting that I forgot to eat dinner. That must be why I’m so buzzed from only a couple of drinks. And then I remember the box of chocolate covered strawberries the bellhop delivered to my room right as I was leaving. How I set the box down with the card unopened because I knew the gift was Anderson’s way of softening the blow of his absence. His usual throwback gift to remind me of those earlier, carefree times of ours, since we can’t seem to have any for the life of us these days. His way of saying hold-on, things will get better soon.

But how can they get better if he won’t let me explain how we can fix them?

I shake my head at tonight’s reminder: the night we ate chocolate covered strawberries and drank champagne. Our college days when we were broke so we indulged at his sister’s art exhibit before we snuck out and had sex on the venue’s rooftop. We’d fucked carelessly, hands over each other’s mouths as we tried to be quiet, the thrill of being caught an adrenaline rush all in itself.

When I saw the strawberries I wasn’t reminded of what was, but rather was forced to see what no longer is. How life happened. Kids. Corporate promotions and stressful jobs. Time never idle and exhaustion being the new norm.

The tears burn their way up the back of my throat and sting my eyes as my thumb reaches over and rubs my wedding ring. I love him. I really do. He’s been mine since our senior year in high school. He’s an incredible father to our boys, a hard worker, and treats me incredibly, but I sometimes wonder if this is all there really is for us.

We’ve fallen in a rut. Life has gotten in the way. Sapped the passion and recklessness. And this trip was our way to reconnect, our way to rekindle everything we once felt and find the “us” we know is there but has been snuffed out by the daily grind.

I sigh, suddenly feeling sad as I realize that I miss him. That I even miss his no surprises, always on cue missionary sex. The twice a week scheduled mattress time that in no way rivals the spontaneous, push you up against the door, rip your clothes off, carnal fucking within the pages of my books. God, what I’d give for Anderson to bend me over, pull my hair back, and make me take what he gives me.

I sigh. I must really be drunk. I would never admit this to myself otherwise, because once you admit truths, you have to face them. And right now, the only thing I want to face is a certain hot alpha racecar driver on my Kindle. A stereotypical example of the book boyfriends Anderson now teases me about, tells me I’d rather sleep with them than him.

The reality is, he’s right. The characters on the pages don’t fall in ruts or have sex that’s lackluster. They are fiery and passionate and so easy to get lost in.

“Here I come,” I mutter—or maybe I think it—I’m not sure, but I do know that I giggle at the double entendre. And then I have to stop a second to combat a wave of dizziness. I begin to walk again, but my head’s so fuzzy I can’t concentrate on anything other than the sound of my uncoordinated footsteps echoing off the cobblestones.

I reach a small row of alleys, one of which leads to my hotel, but I’m having trouble focusing on them long enough to decide which one to take. Another wave of dizziness assaults me, and I press both hands against the wall to steady myself. I drop my head down and try to breathe in as the blackness seeps into the edges of my vision.

“Bellisima?” The deep timbre of the accented voice startles me. I try to process the word, struggle to focus on why my brain tells my head to turn and look toward it, but my muscles don’t react. I hear some incoherent sounds and can’t comprehend why they sound like they’re coming from me.

I’m disoriented but I most definitely feel the hands that slide around my waist, know I’m being tugged back against the solid steel of a man. There is nothing in my body functioning enough that tells me to fight his hold. My sluggish brain tries to process resistance but fires unsuccessfully. Peppermint mixed with an earthy cologne infiltrates my nose, scars my senses.

I can’t make sense of anything, except for the peppermint—the scent of my childhood. Of warmth and home and fires in the fireplace during the holidays.

And then he speaks again.

Candy canes and the idea of comfort vanish.

His simple words change my world forever.

“No one has claimed you yet, no?” he says, pausing as a hand covers my mouth to prevent the scream I tell myself to emit but never really sounds. “Bene. You are mine, then.”

A shiver of terror ricochets through me and takes ownership of my every nerve. It permeates through the miasmic haze closing in on my consciousness, but it’s too late.

Darkness wins the battle.

Consumes me.

My world slips away.

Chapter Three

I hear my breath first.

Not the beat of my heart.

Just the ragged, stuttered rasp as I breathe in and then the uncertainty in it as I exhale.

My heart is quiet. Frozen with fear. Silenced by the unknown.

I’m concentrating, trying so hard to not move—to pretend to be asleep so that whoever did this to me still thinks I still am. I’m so focused on not moving that for a moment I don’t register the pressure on my eyes, don’t realize I’m blindfolded.

My thoughts scatter.

The only one I can grab onto is about the drink from the bar. The one the brown-eyed man bought for me. Then blacking out in the alley. Now feeling completely different than a hangover. The inability to think, to grasp complete thoughts tells me my mind has been altered. That I’ve been drugged.

My head is still in a haze of chemicals, but it recognizes one thing and one thing only—fear. Empty, panicked shouts ricochet around in my brain but cannot escape, cannot manifest themselves into a scream.

The bed beneath me is luxuriously comfortable. The thought flashes through my head, and I struggle to comprehend why in the midst of my chaotic emotions my mind picks to think about this, to concentrate on this. But I cling to the thought, hold onto something tangible to fixate on rather than the unknown that surrounds me.

My mouth is dry and my jaw feels sore, tired. I struggle and break through the fog momentarily, then frantically dive back under when thoughts connect, synapses fire, and realization hits. Something is lodged between my front teeth. I’m bound and gagged. Fear mixes with anxiety as my mind emerges from the haze. I immediately move my hands to remove it and realize I can’t. My arms are stretched out at my sides and restrained at my wrists, as are my legs.

A gentle strain on them from an unforgiving hold.

My heart thaws only to be overtaken by a new sensation.

Terror.

Unfettered panic begins to reign. Body wracking tremors attack my limbs as I begin to struggle, fear owning me, the need to escape overwhelming me. I try to yell for help but all that comes out is a muffled sound as I thrash my head back and forth. I buck and writhe my body, my head still groggy but my body on high alert, consumed with the unknown and the never-ending darkness I see. I struggle to breathe, to think, but all I can focus on is that I’ve been kidnapped. That I’m going to be raped, killed, and who knows what the hell else, but I’ve watched enough true crime television shows to know what happens to women in situations like this.

I struggle again, yanking against the restraints with all my might. The only results I have to show for my efforts are aching joints and muscles screaming just as loud as the despair in my soul.

Nothing gives.

Nothing gives except for my first strands of hope.

A tear leaks out. I wait for the feel of it sliding down my cheek, but it doesn’t because it’s absorbed immediately by the cloth covering my eyes. I attempt to swallow and gag on the bile wanting to escape, just like I do. I try to calm myself down, flee the mind-numbing fear that takes hold but I can’t. Not only have I been taken and held against my will, but so has my most important sense: my sight.

No one knows I’m here, wherever here is. Not a single soul.

Oh fuck!

It hits me—the direness of the situation and slams into me head-on.

The tears flow uncontrollably now, my body jarring from the vigor of my sobs. Hopelessness sets in momentarily. And then I get pissed. Pissed at myself for giving up when nothing’s happened yet. I try to calm down, attempt to tell myself there is a rational explanation for all of this. That this is all a mistake, a misunderstanding.

And then the hysteria bubbles up and its laughter catches in my throat as I realize how dumb that sounds. A misunderstanding? My laughter ceases immediately, my mind unable to pick one thing and focus on it.

And then I do.

The boys.

Oh god. My boys. Will I ever see them again? Will I ever hear their laughs and smell the scent of dirt against their skin after a T-ball game? Hear their deep belly laughs? Feel their pudgy hands on my cheeks as they tell me they love me?

My breath comes faster. Hard, sharp draws of air as I try to shove the sheer panic down, try to lock it up so I don’t draw those beautiful little souls into the abyss of darkness that I’m in.

Despair is overtaken by resolve and the will to fight—to survive whatever it is that is going to happen to me—rides shotgun right along with it. I buck and struggle against my restraints, the cool sheets on the bed beneath me growing warm with my defiance. Nothing budges. Absolutely nothing. My head hurts and stomach churns. Defeat settles over me as I try to calm myself, gather my wits, and figure out what to do next.

And then I hear a sound.

The creak of the floor as if someone is shifting their weight and I freeze; my breath, my heart, my body stops, but my mind races.

The floor warns of movement again, and I force a swallow down my throat. The fear is still there running rampant, but it’s the anticipation now that kills me. The need to know who is there, what he’s doing, what he’s planning on doing to me. So many scenarios flicker and flash and none of them are welcome.

I flinch violently when I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek and smell the peppermint again. He’s close, inches from me, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps, the chill coming from the inside. I strain to listen and without my sight I have nothing to rely on, which causes every single one of my senses to be amplified. And it’s this hypersensitivity that allows me to feel the chills race across my flesh, that allows me to realize what I couldn’t before in my fear-induced panic.

I’m naked.

Completely naked except for my blindfold, my gag, and my restraints.

I try to hold back the sob as his breath continues to heat my cheek, and I attempt to get a handle on the terror, but I fail miserably. I sob as I think again that I’m about to be raped. Raped and I don’t know what else. Then what? My kids. Anderson. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Get a grip, Lilly. Pull it together. I tell myself over and over as my blindfold is so damp with tears the fabric begins to cry itself. I focus on the peppermint smell, trying to pull up the comforting memories from the depths of my mind. The recollections an endless reel of images to lose myself in.

I gasp and become paralyzed, my memories cruelly snagged away as a finger trails over my collarbone. It moves purposefully from one end to the other and then slowly, tortuously back to its starting point. He makes no sound, no other movement, just a fingertip pressed to my skin so all that rages in my ears is my shuddered breaths mingled with my pulse.

Time passes. Seconds? Minutes? I’m unsure because it feels like an eternity sitting in this suspended state of the unknown.

He sighs into the room and it hangs there like a hand waiting to smother me.

“Bellisima, vuoi essere il mio amante?” His murmured voice hits my ears, a deception to my senses, because even though I don’t understand him, I know it’s sexual in content. I know his voice sounds seductive, but it’s what he’s going to do to me that stops any part of my body from reacting.

“Don’t be scared, sweet bella. I won’t hurt you.” He laughs, rich and amused, and I’m confused, trying to draw into myself and away from him because I know that laugh is a ruse to trust him. To not fight him when I’m sure he’ll violate my body. Scar my mind. Steal my soul. His laughter stops when I whimper.

“You think I lie? You think that I want to hurt this beautiful body of yours?” His voice is firmer now with a touch of anger, a result of my disbelief. The bed shifts as he gets off it, and behind my blindfold my eyes move as if I’m watching. My ears strain to track which direction he is going. “This body is mine. Your body is mine. I do not hurt what is mine.”

I start trembling again. My toes curl and then relax, the only movement I voluntarily make under his quiet scrutiny I can’t see but can feel. Processing his words is just too much—everything too much—because all I can focus on is I’m now at this man’s mercy.

His slave.

His next whim.

“I will give your body pleasure—take the pleasure you give me willingly—”

Like hell I’ll give him anything of me. “Fuck you.” The garbled sound is out of my mouth before I can think, and I realize my mistake a second too late.

Spikes of pain light across my right breast, pin pricks that sting causing my nipples to harden instantly. My breath hitches and I arch my back in reflex to the bites into my flesh, my only reaction to combat the unexpected pain.

And I start thrashing my head from side to side as the contradiction of his words and actions hit me. He’s not going to hurt me? Then what the hell was that? My body vibrates with trepid anticipation because the silence is killing me. I want him to talk again. If he talks then maybe I won’t be obsessively focused on the silence, on the creaks of the floor, on waiting for the next blow to strike.

His hand presses on my neck, covering the entirety of it, and forces my chin up. My mind races. My body freezes. His undetected approach reaffirms my unchallenged vulnerability. Silence screams between us, our only connection his hand pressed against my throat. My lips shock apart when I feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. And yet he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just remains there, reminding me of his constant presence.

An unknown amount of time stretches. When he finally speaks, there is an unprovoked bite in his tone. “Do not fucking question me. Do not talk back. Is that understood?” I can’t find my voice to answer because I’m focusing so hard on trying to find the breath that he’s robbed from me. “Is that understood?” I nod my head as best as I can with his hand still pressed there. “I will fuck you as I see fit. I will use you, own you, make you mine.” I feel his tongue slide down the line of my jaw to the lobe of my ear, and I fight the shudder of revulsion that riots within. His lips brush against my skin. “And when I’ve taken everything I want from you, I will let you go.”

My head startles at his last words. “What?” The word falls from my mouth but all I hear is an incoherent mess of sound. He’s going to let me go? The question is in what condition will I be left when he’s done with me? It doesn’t matter. I can do this. I can survive this—anything—if it means I get to go home to my boys.

My moment of skeptical joy is halted when his finger begins a slow descent over my collarbone. This time he stops when it hits my midline and starts to move down between my breasts. My body shivers at the feeling—at the coarse tug of my skin against his finger, and I realize he is wearing gloves. Leather gloves, I think. The material pulls on my skin, an odd contrast to the gentle nature of the touch causing chills to dance and disquiet to own my every fiber.

He stops at my lower abdomen, and although he leaves his finger there, the floorboards broadcast his methodical movements. I frantically track the sounds as he walks around the perimeter of my bed, my prison. My chest deflates and body freezes—fear firing anew despite his words promising relief. I feel the bed dip near the end by my feet and the anticipation of what is going to happen is almost as numbing as the fear that is now a constant.

His finger never moves, but I can feel it shake, the bed sway, as he adjusts his positioning, and it’s ridiculous because I can’t see him, but I swear I can feel his eyes scraping over every inch of me. Observing. Assessing.

I force a swallow over the fear that chokes me and mentally prepare myself for what’s coming next. The pain, the brutality, the loss of my consent. I try to control my trembling because I have to assume he likes the fight—is turned on by it—so if I don’t give it to him, will this be over that much quicker? Will he discard me and move on to someone who gives him what he wants? Because let’s face it, only sick fucks get off on shit like this, and if I don’t give it to him, won’t he want someone who will?

I garble a cry at the unexpected, my body and mind shocking to the present when the wet warmth of his tongue traces the seam between my thighs. I try to snap my thoughts in line, but his unpredicted action bewilders me long enough that I don’t even think to fight him. And because my body is still and my senses attuned, I can feel the softness of his tongue, the languorous, heat-inducing trail it blazes up to my clit, circling over it not just once, but twice, before sliding back down and deftly parting my folds down to my opening.

My breathing shallows, my teeth bite down on the gag, and I attempt to comprehend, assess, come to terms with what I’m feeling. How I can be scared boneless and yet still have that slow burning ache unfurling in my lower belly. I tell myself I’m crazy—that my mind is playing games on me, my subconscious shutting down so I can compartmentalize everything—but I know I’m kidding myself. I can’t even concentrate long enough to sell myself my own lies because it’s impossible to ignore, impossible to deny the traitorous warmth that spreads through my core and simmers there. Amidst the haze of desire that assaults me, my rationale tries one more attempt—one last ditch effort. It must be the after effects of whatever drugs he gave me because there is no way in hell I should even be remotely turned on by his touch on my skin, his tongue delving into me.

I shouldn’t.

But I am.

I adjust my hips some, tell myself it’s not real, but the ache doesn’t dissipate with movement. And in response to my squirming, his finger leaves my skin for the first time but is back instantly, this time in a different place. Hands grip my inner thighs and pin them immobile. I’m still gasping in the air from the sudden, bruising hold he has on my legs when his tongue plunges into me.

My cry is involuntary. The buck of my hips and arch of my back in response isn’t even a coherent thought but rather a reflex. I fight to ignore the blissful warmth between my thighs, rationalize that it’s my body’s natural reaction, that I won’t succumb to his persuasion of pleasure.

Pleasure that’s unwelcome.

Pleasure that is still pleasure.

His tongue slips in, wetting me, opening me up, manipulating me. My nerves ride a disloyal roller coaster as he plunges in, circles around, and then withdraws to slide up, circling my clit, sucking on it, igniting it, before moving back down and licking back into me.

The first moan that falls from my mouth startles me. My logic attempts to validate why my body reacts this way when I should be locked like a vice … but I can’t focus on anything because his tongue just keeps moving: up, down, in, out, around and around. A tantalizing assault that leaves my head reeling and my body humming.

My muscles tighten as his fingers dig deeper and his tongue laves more fervently. I can hear his panted breath. It disrupts the silence of the room, but the other sound I hear is even more disturbing: my own stifled moans as I try to fight the sensation swelling through me. Time lapses and warmth spreads, nerves ignite, and then my body detonates, splintering into a million pieces of pleasure.

I have no choice but to succumb to the tidal wave that hits and then drowns me momentarily. I can’t close my legs or relax my body as I normally would, so for some reason the exposure makes my orgasm seem more intense, more explosive.

More traumatic—emotionally and physically.

His hands hold me—my muscles still spasming against his possessive fingers—when I feel his lips press against my inner thigh. They curve into a smile against my sensitized flesh like a familiar lover would, and the contradiction hits me—the tenderness displayed in a situation so contrary—makes it that much harder to process what just happened. What I just succumbed to and derived pleasure from.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

What is wrong with me? How can I find pleasure from this man who is holding me against my will? What kind of sick, fucked up person am I? How can I even remotely be turned on?

The bile rises. I try to fight it, try to swallow it down. My head becomes light and my breath shallow as my body becomes starved for the air it needs. I begin gagging, coughing violently, trying to revolt against the object in my mouth. I can’t dislodge it. I yank against my restraints, buck my body as I seek my next breath.

In an instant his hands are at my head. I feel them tug and manipulate something. I focus on the peppermint again, use it to calm myself, but with the blitzkrieg of sensations and emotions hitting me, my connection to the scent is losing its effectiveness. My head dizzies as his mouth brushes up against my ear. “Bella, Bella, Bella,” he soothes with the deep timbre of his voice. “Calmare la mia bella. Breathe slowly,” he commands as I feel his body against mine, his hands at the corners of my mouth. “Calm down.”

Panic continues its smothering grip on my reality, and I shake my head back and forth trying to shove the gag from my mouth with my tongue. He holds my jaw firm, his heated breath against my hair. “Do not scream. I will remove this, but if you scream, I will put a bigger one in and then there’s no telling how much air you’ll get with your next panic attack. Capisci? Understood?”

My breath rattles in my throat as I try to gulp down air I still can’t draw. My thoughts elevating from the depths of despair in which they’ve fallen into momentarily at the chance to yell for help, but I forget them as my consciousness starts to fade.

“Say it goddamn it!”

His voice jars me from the darkness edging my mind, and I try to nod my head in response, but his fingers holding my jaw prevent the action. I know he wants me to say the words aloud, my voice affirming his position of control.

“Yes.” I garble.

The gag is removed immediately. I suck in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. My head dizzies again, but this time from the returning oxygen. I choke on the air as I suck it in, in greedy bouts. My mind feels like it can think relatively clearly for the first time since I’ve awakened into this nightmare.

He backs away to give me some space, but I can still feel his presence. Shouting at the top of my lungs is my first thought, but I can’t see anything. Is he pointing a gun at me? Does he have a knife? Do I risk the chance since I’m literally and figuratively blind?

I make a conscious decision not to scream. To choose to comply. And it seems stupid but everything else about this situation is out of my control so I grab onto the one option that he provides me.

Besides, I’m so thankful to breathe again that I don’t want to risk having the gag put back in my mouth. I dart my tongue out to lick my dry, chapped lips and work my jaw back and forth, my ears popping from the motion. “Why?” I croak the word out in a broken rasp. It’s all I allow myself to say, fear of repercussions holding the rest of my accusations hostage.

His chuckle is soft, but I can hear the rumble in his chest and my goose bumps return. “Oh, my beautiful Lilly,” he says causing my heart to thunder and my world to stop. My name rolls over his accented tongue as if he’s fucking it, and it’s an odd mix of derision and the unexpected that courses through me.

I remind myself that I’ve been unconscious for some time; he’s had time to rifle through my purse and find out things about me such as my name. But that means he’s also seen pictures of Anderson, my family, my boys.

And the shame immediately hits me. My husband knows my body better than anyone, so how can this person I just met and who is holding me against my will bring me to orgasm so quickly? I squeeze my eyes tight, the whole premise hard to swallow. I exhale a deep sigh as I clench and unclench my fists for circulation, giving myself a moment to control the civil war of emotions raging within. My moment of peace—if you can actually call it that—is short lived because he begins speaking again.

“My bella Lilly …” his finger presses down on the top of my right foot and trails a slow path up my shin much the same way he did over my collarbone earlier. It’s as if he wants every part of my body aware of his presence—as if it’s not already. “Because sometimes a person knows just what another might need even if they never utter the words. Your eyes speak truths you don’t. You are gorgeous, no? This body of yours tempts me, taunts me...” he continues the ascent of his finger up my thigh at a lethargic pace “...begs me to take it. And look,” he says as he slides his fingertip softly between my thighs. I tense immediately as he rubs his fingers up and back through my wetness before withdrawing, the cool air of the room a sharp contrast against my heated flesh.

My exhale startles out of me when his fingertip rubs across my lower lip. “What are—”

“You want me just as bad,” he says into my ear as he coats my lips with my own arousal. “You are drenched,” he murmurs as the bed dips beside me, and I try to move my head from his demonstration of my body’s blatant betrayal. He holds my jaw still, leaning in so I can feel his breath feather across my lips.

My mind races. Thoughts, threats, prayers combine into a potent combination of resolve.

“Why you?” he murmurs. I feel his lips brush against mine, and I squirm from the touch.

Come closer, I silently dare him as I clench my fists. Come closer and I’ll bite your tongue if you try to kiss me, you fucker.

“Ahhhh,” he sighs, tapping a finger against my curled hands. “The fighter in you returns, no? Why fight what deep down you know you want? I doubt your husband will ever fuck you like I will. I doubt he takes the time to make your body ache so much it hurts.”

His finger slides down the column of my throat before he presses his hand there. My pulse pounds against the pads of his fingers, a physical manifestation of the emotions rioting within me. His grip tightens as he leans in and uses his tongue to trace the outline of my trembling lips. When he finishes, he pulls away, but I can still feel him there, his presence so formidable he might as well be touching me.

“Does he know how turned on you are by being at my mercy? How your body craves to be violated, dominated, fucked hard, used at my every whim?” He chuckles low and deep. “I doubt he’s fucked every inch of your body like I will.”

My muscles tense, his threat causing my breath to catch in my throat, my mind visiting places I don’t want it to. Images flash of wants and desires too taboo in Anderson’s eyes, and I chastise myself for being turned on by this man’s words.

By my captor’s words.

Anger fills me and begins to consume my every fiber, but the most confusing part of it all is whom the anger is directed at. It’s not at him—no, it’s at me. Because as hard as it is to hear the words and the truths they cause, in the end, he’s right. My body trembles with the acknowledgement because as much as I deny it, this is what I’ve wanted from Anderson.

Dirty talk.

Provocation and domination.

Curiousity edged with a nervous excitement as we push limits.

I try to shut down my mind, attempt to ignore my body and recall the reserved woman I am, the one I used to be—because hell if I know who this woman is that wants this stranger to fuck her how he’s promising—and gain back an ounce of the fight and determination that I need right now. I shove the unwanted thoughts out, try to clear my head and it takes me a moment but I find it. At least my words say that I have, my mind on the other hand is still left to be convinced.

“Go to hell,” I grate out between my gritted teeth.

That laugh again. Amusement mingled with superiority rings through the room. “Bella, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to fuck you again. You’ll beg to suck my cock, to fuck your mouth. You’ll yearn to please me, crave my touch. You’ll cry when I leave you to go back to your everyday life.”

His words cause an intense, unfathomable ache to unfurl in my core. Blood swells the tender flesh there, and even though I have this man in front of me holding me against my will, the oddest feeling comes over me. I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to hurt me. I have no basis for this belief, just my gut instinct, but in some fucked up sense I trust him.

Now what does that say about me?

I divert my thoughts elsewhere. I don’t have the wherewithal to look closer at myself, a surefire way to fuck my head up even further. But all I can think is that this man captured me. He captured me and then brought me pleasure by licking me to orgasm. He hasn’t even penetrated me yet. He could have thrust into me with complete disregard to my readiness or my pleasure, as I assumed would’ve happened, and gotten off.

But he didn’t.

He hasn’t used me and tossed me aside how I’d have expected. I shiver as the air conditioner kicks off, and I strain to hear the sounds of life outside of the room. A car honks in the distance but not a single sound in the room. My thoughts run wild again, my attention so schizophrenic that I welcome their distraction. I hold onto that—the disorder, the confusion—so that I can lose focus, lose myself, in order to hold onto the hope.

And then the pain hits.

Chapter Four

Pain sears.

Fire ignites against my flesh.

I scream out, my body jerking, back arching, and nipples tightening, as something singes my chest spot after spot. My mind races—a flash of coherency between each bite of pain—and focuses solely on where I think the next place will be.

Hot wax.

My skin chills but then burns.

Drip.

“Pain can bring pleasure, mia bella,” he murmurs as another drop falls, and I hiss to combat the hurt. “Pain can make your nerves sensitive.”

Drip.

“Can make your body overcompensate in other ways.”

Drip.

I struggle to pull myself from the hypnotic fixation on where it will drop next. I want to scream at him to stop. Want to ask him how he can say no pain and then he does this. Why he lied.

My mind finally forms the words, my tongue readies to say them when they are knocked clear off my lips.

His mouth closes over my nipple. The unexpected move—the warm, wet feeling of him adding tantalization to my torment—has my back bowing and a strangled sigh falling from my lips. I relax some, relieved the drips of wax may be on hiatus¸ my mind focused for so long on the pain that the pleasure is unexpectedly heightened. The movement of his tongue, the contrast of sucking hard and then laving softly, mainlines an electric current to my core that I don’t have an ounce of strength to fight.

And the difference this time is that his body is against mine, pressing me into the softness of the mattress beneath us. The taut muscles of his abdomen rub between the juncture of my thighs when he moves up my body so his mouth can pleasure my right breast. His hand squeezes my other one, fingers pinching, manipulating, and then a pressure edging on pain closes around my nipple.

My mind is yanked cruelly from concentrating on his mouth, my breath hissing in, my head angling up as if I would be able to see what he’s doing. The sting is slight, but combined with the wax and his mouth, every inch of my body hums and rides on a high alert. His teeth nip and tug again before he releases my tightened bud, and then I feel matching pain there as well.

He pulls justly on whatever connects the two nipple clamps.

My breath catches in my throat.

Drip.

I cry out at the unexpected sensation when I thought it was over.

His chuckle resonates in the room, scarring its way into my memory just as the wax singes my flesh. His body lifts, my own easing up from the mattress without his weight on me. The bed sways and then stills.

And then nothing.

The silence hits again, smothers my mind and heightens my anticipatory fear. The floorboards announce his movement and something clatters onto the floor

And I wait.

The ice cold chill hits my skin, a gasped “ahhh” falling from my mouth.

“Silence,” he commands. And I fight the urge to gasp when he rubs the ice cube around my nipple. It hardens to the point of pain and the sensation mixed with the clamping causes a bewildering surge of arousal. He continues his tantalizing torture of the cubes around my breasts, up to the hollow of my throat and then back down.

He circles my navel and then lets it rest in the hollow of my belly button. The chill of the cube sitting idly begins to burn subtly, causing me to squirm.

“Ah, bella Lilly,” he murmurs, and I can hear the smile I remember from my glance at the bar in his voice. “Do not move. Do not let the water spill over. Not one drop. The only other thing allowed to be wet is this pussy of yours.” His fingers are on my opening, spreading my sex apart. I tense at the feeling—invading fingers on my most intimate parts—and I can feel the growing drop of water on my stomach fall over the dip of my navel and run down my stomach.

“Ah, you are dripping for me, no? You like fire and ice?”

My body trembles as he slips two fingers in me and bends them before pulling them slowly back out. My eyes roll back and a moan comes from deep within as he continues his assault, plunging into me and then curving to hit my g-spot perfectly on their way out. He draws sensations from me that are so intense, so powerful, that there is no way I can suppress them. I begin to writhe, begin to lift my hips for him, grant him access as my body begs him to sate the need he’s created.

“If it spills, you’ll be punished,” he warns as his fingers withdraw completely causing me to suddenly feel empty and dangling on the brink of release. “… You will make me go back on my word not to hurt you.” He tsks. “I don’t like to be forced to break promises.”

My mind registers his forewarning, but my body couldn’t care less when I feel something push into me. The water on my stomach, the heeded advice—none of it matters because all I can concentrate is the slow insertion of something ice cold, inch by thick inch into me. Chills race over my flesh. They are so severe I can feel the hardened wax pull from my skin as he begins to slowly pull the frozen object back out. I angle my hips, try to relieve the extremity of the temperature, when whatever is within me hits the soft nerve-laden spot within. I begin yanking my legs against my restraints. The intensity of the mixture—cold against sensitivity—is almost too much for me to bear.

The room fills with my cry and his chuckle—an odd juxtaposition of sound—as my body fights the sensations resulting from his machinations. His hand stills, the iced wand remains unwelcome but wanted within me, and the only sound in the room is the harsh rasp of our panted breaths.

“You failed.” That tsk of his is back, chilling my insides just as the ice does my outsides. “Now, Lilly, you weren’t a very good girl.” It’s all he says but the disappointment in his voice causes a random mix of emotions to swell within. Fear of the punishment, despair over the situation, self-loathing that I was so attuned to what he was doing to me elsewhere that I forgot his singular demand.

I suck in a breath as the bed shifts, unsure of what his definition of punishment is since he said he’s not going to hurt me. My mind frantically flickers in its schizophrenic haze, the deafening silence of the room only adding to my unrest. I try not to squirm at the cold between my thighs, but whatever it is, is thawing from my heat. The chilled liquid is seeping out and trickling down my perineum, dripping onto the bed beneath me.

“So many options,” he murmurs against my ear, his sudden nearness unexpected and shocks the hell out of me. I hold my breath at the same time his feathers against my cheek. His quiet scrutiny unnerves me, my eyes darting back and forth beneath my blindfold trying to sense his next move.

Trying to predict my punishment.

Punishment. Pain. A small thrill jolts through me right before I realize how seriously disturbing that is. My core clenches and tightens around the object as I try to rationalize the sick, demented part of me that is aroused by this all. And I’m not allowed to finish the mental chastisement because I feel him climb over my torso. I fall motionless as his muscular thighs press against the sides of my rib cage, his shaft rests between my breasts, thick and heavy.

I fight the forbidden desire that pulses through me at the feeling and try to focus on what he’d said. Punishment. Fear comingles with desire and causes my muscles to constrict with such vigor that I push out the ice within me. A deluge of cold water comes with it, but I fight the gasp because if he’s facing me, then he doesn’t know. And if he doesn’t know then that means that he might not require my penance for that too.

But why do I secretly want him to?

His peppermint breath is back on my lips, his erection squeezed between my breasts as he leans forward. My nipples harden, the swelling increasing the pressure between the clamps. “What I’d give to make you take my cock all the way to the back of your throat. Feel your wet tongue on my dick and suck me dry.” Saliva pools in my mouth at his words, my tongue darting out to lick my lips in reflex. His chuckle resonates again, and I can feel his scrotum tighten and release with its sound. “Ah, you want that, no? Well I don’t quite trust that your bark is worse than your bite just yet,” he says, followed by a quick tug on the clamps.

The release of pressure is sudden but then comes a searing sting as blood flow returns. His weight on my torso stifles my immediate urge to twist and turn as a means to absorb the oddly pleasurable pain tearing through me and manifesting into a deep ache in my lower belly. I moan out and yank my arms and legs against the restraints, trying to relieve the overwhelming sensation somehow, someway.

“You like that, no?” he whispers, his weight shifting so his mouth barely brushes against mine when he speaks. “You see, I need to punish you.” He traces his tongue over the seal of my lips. “I need to have my cock buried so fucking deep in that beautiful cunt of yours that when I punish you, it clenches around me. So that you tighten and tease and pull me over the edge with you.” I feel the bed shift some, his hips tilt up as he leans back and his fingers enter me hard and fast. Unexpected and invading. The startled cry is muffled on my lips. “I will own this. Your pussy, your orgasm, and every ache, breath, and moan in between.”

His fingers thrust in and out momentarily. The room fills with our panting breaths, the slick sound of wet flesh being manipulated, his soft grunts of effort and my pleasured moans as the friction heats up my frozen walls. A liquid warmth starts to spread through my body. The unique combination of my throbbing nipples, the inimitable scent of maleness as his cock thrusts closer to my face, and the claim he takes by fingering me causes my body to seize up and prepare for the climax I fear will rip me apart.

Pray will rip me apart.

“Oh god,” I moan out incoherently as my body floats in that suspended state before the eruption of bliss. My head angles back and lips fall lax, my breath hitching and mind stuttering over thoughts as I try to grab and let them go all at once because I’m such a mix of contradictions. The tremors of sensation slowly escalate toward a full blown earthquake when his fingers pull out, and before I even have a chance to respond, the wide crest of his cock is thrust between my parted lips. I’m so shocked from being denied the release my body desperately craves that I can’t even react fast enough to deny his thick shaft as it hits the back of my throat and pulls out.

The guttural grown he emits only adds pressure to the denied orgasm weighing heavily between my thighs. I’m turned on, desperate to come, and his musky taste overtaking me only adds frenzy to my fire. And just as quick as he fills my mouth and unintentionally blocks my airway, he withdraws before I can rationalize what he is doing or where my teeth should clamp down.

I gulp in a draw of air as he shifts from the bed once again. His body leaves mine, the slide of his dick across my nipple is oddly arousing, and I want to cry out for him to stop. To come back. To fuck me good and hard because my muscles ache and my need is unsated.

If denying me my orgasm is his punishment, then holy hell, I’ll take more wax.

I want to yell at him, insist that he finish me off, but I catch myself before the words tumble out. I realize that such a demand would be giving him exactly what he wants—exactly what I want—but under his terms. He has enough of an upper hand in this whole situation and I need to keep something. For what? I’m unsure, but the thought gives me enough gumption to keep my mouth shut despite the ever increasing ache.

His hands on my right wrist snap me from my daze of thoughts. The building ache is momentarily doused as he works at my restraint. Is he releasing me? My mind processes possible scenarios at a rapid pace as I hold my breath and don’t say a word trying to figure how to play this. My joints are relieved of the restraint’s unending tension momentarily before his hand is like a vice grip around my wrist. Even if I wanted to try something, my strength would be no match against his.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, the quiet warning from somewhere at my side as he forces my arm across my body and to the headboard opposite where it was originally. My hands are now near each other and my legs still spread apart on the bed when he starts working on the opposite wrist. And then I realize what he is doing. He’s turning me over.

A thrill shoots through me, followed by trepidation because if I felt vulnerable before, I feel even more so now when he finishes. He has loosened my restraints somehow so I’m able to be on my hands and knees on the bed. In this position, I can feel the cool air of the room against the now heated flesh between my thighs. My breasts hang heavily and the weight of them stretching against my swollen nipples is like a livewire to my core. The blindfold remains in place, and yet I can’t help but dart my eyes against the blackness as the floorboards creak toward the end of the bed where my backside is on display.

He groans out in satisfaction and I flinch when the palm of his hand smooths ever so gently over the curve of my ass. “Ah, Lilly. This ass is perfection. I want it pink from your punishment. I want it violated by my fingers. I want it filled while I fuck you long and deep with my cock in that willing pussy of yours.” My body trembles and sex moistens from his words, fear and desire a potent combination that is impossible to deny regardless of how hard I’m trying to fight it.

In the silence, my only focus is on the gentle movement of his hand caressing gently over my hips, my inner thighs, over my sex. I moan at the gentleness of his touch as he continuously strokes me, not quite hard enough to add the needed friction to my clit but just enough to have the blood engorging it to that fine edge of being painful.

The strike across my ass takes me by surprise, fooled naively by the gentle nature of his caress. I cry out, back arching, breasts jostling, pussy clenching as the flogger whips little bits of pain into my bare flesh. And as I’m trying to process and absorb the sudden assault—the forewarned punishment—he pushes into me in one slick thrust. My clenched walls give under his invasion but grip his dick so tight that his large crest hits every single attuned nerve within. This time the sound that falls from my lips is a strangled moan mixed with protest.

If I thought he had warmed me up to accept his girth, I was far off base. My vulnerable flesh protests against the stretch with an intense burn.

Pleasure and pain.

I don’t think I ever quite understood the magnitude of that phrase until now. Until he starts to move his iron hard erection within me, filling me, stretching me, taking me without asking. And then when he’s buried to the hilt, one hand gripping the flesh of my hips, the flogger strikes me again. The difference is this time when my body tenses from the tiny splinters of pain and when my pussy convulses around him, he pulls out so that his broad head drags against my tightened walls. Sparks of pleasure ignite from his unexpected withdrawal.

“Oh god,” slips from my lips as my body welcomes the contrast of sensations. And he doesn’t stop but rather keeps up a distinct rhythm, his hips slapping against mine while the flogger—what feels like leather with rounded tips—trails slowly over my back. He removes it and my body prepares for the quick flash of pain, and sometimes it lands smartly and other times it caresses in a gentle ruse, tickling my anticipatory flesh beneath it.

I am so focused on the flogger and whether its next movement will bring me pleasure or pain that I don’t realize my body vibrates on the cusp of my next orgasm. My back burns with the little licks that have assaulted it, and the muscles within my core ache from clenching so tightly around the thickness of his cock. My head falls forward, my arms weary from what feels like his endless machinations, and my mind is floating in pseudo-reality when my thighs constrict and back rounds.

The orgasm hits me like a runaway freight train: hard, fast, and unrelenting. It’s so powerful—so everything—that I try to pull away from him, try to press my hips forward to relieve the depth he’s penetrated, but I can’t. He grips the flesh on my backside harder, holding me still while he grinds his hips against my ass so just on the off chance he’s missed any interior nerves, he’s making up for it and then some.

But I can’t take any more. The force of the orgasm. The merciless onslaught of sensations barraging my system. “No. Stop. No,” I stutter in broken gasps, wanting to crawl away from him. I am able to get one knee forward, and he slips out of me some before his hands are back on my hips yanking me back to him. My yelp only gets louder when his hand wraps around my hair and tugs my head back. His mouth is at my ear, fury laced with a raw carnality that causes my posture to stiffen on the defensive.

“You don’t deny me. You take what I give you, bella, and right now, it’s me. Hard. Fast,” he demands as he slams into me from behind, bottoming out in the best way. In the worst way. I can’t process which way because my own climax continues to softly tremor through me, and the dominance in his voice and ownership in his touch spurns the release I just found to reignite. “Until I stop.” He reinforces his threat by tightening his grip on my hair as he continues his punishing rhythm, our bodies connecting with a jolt that reverberates through me and then back.

I begin to squirm again as everything increases and draws me toward what feels like the never-ending precipice of ecstasy. My fingers grip the sheets, my toes curl, and breath falters as the sparks of pleasure turn into a full-blown wildfire I can’t escape. Burned and bruised by the flames of desire, I have no option but to succumb to the heat pulsing within me. I whimper incoherently and shake my head back and forth as my body begins to collapse under the weight of release. My arms give and my face welcomes the cool sheet pressing against my cheek as he keeps my hips positioned to his liking.

His hips piston continuously for a few more moments, and then I hear the man who seems to always be in control groan out a guttural sound as his cock spasms inside of me. My shoulders push forward into the mattress while he draws out the last of his release. My eyes close, exhaustion overtaking me so that my only comprehension other than the lowering of my hips, is the kiss he presses to the space just above the swell of my ass. An oddly intimate action that normally I’d question, but my body sags and I succumb to the fatigue in my limbs.

I welcome the darkness the blindfold provides and allow myself to block out what his confusing display of tenderness says.

Chapter Five

I can hear him shuffling around the room. My head is groggy and my stomach is unsettled but my body is boneless, completely and utterly spent. I wait for him to tell me to get up or snap to, but he leaves me be. My back still burns subtly from the punishment he doled out, and the length of my sex is swollen and tender from his continuous usage. My hands are sore from clenching and gripping the sheets, my mind exhausted from trying to rationalize everything in my head. The contrast of feelings, the forced betrayal of my fidelity—everything—has me well beyond emotional overload.

I let the tears flow now, allow the guilt to pull me under as I try and figure out how I’m going to go back to being me when this is done. Because without a doubt, I know he’s going to let me go. I know he is going to get his fill and discard me. I don’t fear that he’ll brutalize me and leave me dead on the roadside somewhere, because even though he just put my body through the sexual wringer, he also did so with a misconstrued respect. Never going too far or stepping over what seems to be a predetermined boundary.

And he kissed me gently.

My head spins.

The merry-go-round of confusion is endless.

Since when does a guy abduct a woman, fuck her senseless, and then let her go? If I’m crazy for liking this, then he surpassed my lack of sanity miles ago.

Or orgasms.

The laughter comes now. Hysterical bouts of it that don’t belong in this room where consensual is not an option. It bubbles up and over. My mind and body succumb to the desperate sound in its tone, just needing a disruption from the exhaustive, unanswered questions.

And therein lies the problem. Yes he is holding me against my will—fucking me, pleasuring me, punishing me—but my God, I got off on it. What in the hell does that say about me?

I try to turn my mind off, try to allow myself a reprieve because I have no clue how long this is going to last and I’m spent. I just want to sleep, shut down the thoughts and questions I don’t want answers to right now. The answers that just might tell me I’m not the person I thought I was. The answers that might unravel the truths I don’t want to face.

Time lapses. I lose myself in trying not to think. And then I drift off.

I’m not sure for how long when I’m jolted from my slumbered state. A warm wash cloth runs over my inner thighs and then parts me gently, cautiously, cleaning me up. When he finishes, I’m chilled from the room’s air hitting my wet skin, but my attention is easily diverted to the dip of the bed and the feel of one of his hands whispering over my bare backside. I hold my breath immediately, the soft caress unexpected but welcome. A simple gesture of tenderness amidst his never-ending dominance. His hand trails languorously over my hip and then crosses over my back. My skin is still tender to the touch so I try not to flinch when he connects with the welts.

He murmurs something softly under his breath that I don’t understand. I tell myself to relax, to just accept his bewildering tenderness, but it’s hard to not anticipate another whip of leathered roses against my skin. I withdraw from my thoughts when his lips press against the indent between my shoulder blades, yet another show of affection. I work a swallow over the lump of confusion in my throat as the ache in my core flickers to life.

I try to fight it this time, tell myself that I don’t want this, want him or the burn that’s beginning to intensify as he laces contradictory kisses to the base of my neck. But my body has other thoughts. It betrays me when goose bumps chase in the wake of his tongue as it slowly slides down the length of my spine. I exhale audibly when he reaches the dimples of my lower back and keeps going.

His hands are suddenly on the curve of my ass, pushing me up to my knees so my shoulders press into the mattress and my hips are in the air. He unabashedly grabs the rounded globes and pulls them apart so that his tongue can descend with ease. I suck in a breath, my sex clenching tighter with every inch he covers. We both groan as his tongue licks around the rim. My muscles tense and my breath hitches as my nerve endings set ablaze from the potent combination of his touch and the forbidden notion of it.

I can feel myself becoming wet, can feel the ache intensifying as his tongue skims downward, his fingers firmly kneading my ass. I involuntarily press my hips backwards, a silent plea for more of what I’ve been told for a lifetime is dirty and wrong. A notion that I don’t care about in this moment because the hub of nerve endings he’s rimming begs for more—to be experimented and manipulated.

A chair scrapes across the floor on the other side of the room.

What in the hell? I’m jolted from the euphoric edge I can sense my body is climbing toward. My heart races and stops. His hands remain on me, possessive, but his face withdraws from the curve of my body.

“Ahhh, so you want to get a better view Marco, no?”

What? My pulse races, pounding a frantic tattoo as it roars through my ears. I want to tell it to shut the hell up so I can hear, so I can figure out who in the fuck is watching me?

Be forced.

Become pleasured.

“No!” I cry the word trying to process why my nipples harden and pussy throbs at the thought of being watched. Of having someone sitting there observing me be taken against my will. Why am I aroused beyond belief at the thought?

My captor chuckles low and mocking, and my every nerve stands on end. His hand fists in my hair, his voice an immediate growl in my ear. He pulls my head back so my neck is exposed and the heat of his body blankets across my back, seeps into any part of me that is chilled from the thought of an onlooker.

“No questions. No denials. Remember the rules?” His tongue traces around the shell of my ear—my surefire erogenous zone—and I fight the urge to shift my hips and relieve the pleasurable pain he’s relit. “Behave, mia bella.” The heat of his breath hits my ears, the brush of his lips such a stark contrast to the warning he delivers. “I’m going to fuck you. By the time I’m done, you’ll beg me to keep going. Then you’ll beg me to stop. Regardless, you’ll take what I give you—all of it—and you’ll enjoy every single fucking moment of it. And Marco is going to watch. Understood?”

The dominance of his words excites me. The notion that someone is going to watch evokes a potent mixture of uncertainty and provocation. I’m so lost in the idea of being taken, being fucked without preamble, along with the feeling of his hardening dick pressed against the crack of my ass that I don’t even realize I haven’t answered him. His hand closes over my exposed neckline and presses there, forcing my head back and snapping me from my thoughts.

I give an incoherent sound of consent just as I hear Marco move about the room. My ears strain and body attunes to the raw physicality of two men—one I can physically feel, the other I cannot—but both dominating nonetheless. My nipples tighten and skin chills under the scrutiny of eyes I can’t see but know are studying my body.

“Brava, ragazza,” he says to me, hand tightening ever so subtly. “This man handles your fate. He decides what happens next. I told you I won’t hurt you, that I’ll let you go when I’ve had my way with you … but if you disappoint him?” He makes a soft tsking sound. I try to swallow at this new development, but the angle of my neck makes it difficult.

A sliver of fear snakes through me.

The hand on my throat slowly slides down over my collarbone as my thoughts race faster than my heart. His hand finds my breasts and palms one of them pressing its weight up against my chest and squeezes.

“If you don’t make it worth his while,” he chuckles, low and deep. His hand retraces its path back up so that he can insert two fingers into my mouth, forcing me to taste my arousal from earlier. “Well then all bets are off.”

I cry out as his free hand slaps my ass hard. The sting reverberates through my body and into my sex with a resonating effect. My hands grip the sheets as his fingers press down against my tongue and hold it still. I feel him move, the bed shifts, the heat of his body leaves mine—skin sliding over skin—and then the mattress moves again as he brings his face close enough so that his nose bumps against mine.

If I thought I felt vulnerable before, it’s tenfold now. At least I know the man in front of me doesn’t really want to hurt me, but the man at my back? Now he scares me.

His hold on my mouth tightens as he tilts my head up some to what I can assume is the same angle as his. “I’m going to kiss you now. I’m going to see if this mouth of yours tastes just as sweet as your pussy does. You will not bite me. You will kiss me back.” He leans forward and presses a pseudo kiss to my lips, slightly hindered by the placement of his fingers. His breath feathers over my lips as he pulls back. “And then I’m going to prepare you for what you want but refuse to admit.” He removes his fingers ever so slowly, drawing them down so my bottom lip pulls down with their descent. When my mouth is unhindered, his mouth meets mine, firm lips with a soft tongue pressing between. I hesitate allowing him access, giving him something that for some reason seems so much more intimate than everything else he’s done to me.

I feel myself weaken, allow myself to kiss him back and welcome his tongue dancing intimately with mine. I suddenly crave this connection, need to feel like there is something more, need to feel like there is a justification for all of these unexpected emotions and unequivocal acceptance of the situation I’m in. I turn myself over to it—to him—because it’s easier to focus on him and the tenderness he’s showing me than to focus on my captivity or the voyeur watching us, waiting to stake his claim someway, somehow.

He loosens his grip from my chin, his rough fingertips rasping across the line of my jaw. I moan softly into the kiss, tears welling in my closed eyes at the irony in the reverence of his touch for just a moment before the guilt starts to eat at me. I begin to question how I can turn myself over so easily to another man—regardless of circumstances, regardless of the bindings holding me hostage—when Anderson has been it for me for over fifteen years. I start to drown in the thought when I feel a finger trace the swollen flesh between my thighs.

I yelp, startled and unnerved that this person who I’m told likes to watch, now appears to like to touch too. And my head is so messed up with everything that I don’t think properly, his unexpected touch pulls my thoughts and my mouth from our kiss. I try to scoot closer to the man in front of me. It’s almost as if I’m looking toward the man who brought me here to protect me from the threat I feel of Marco at my back. A hand lands sharply on my ass in reprimand. This time the force is much harder than before and the sting is sharp and distinct beneath his resting palm.

Hands suddenly frame my face as my captor kisses me again, but this time with a commanding desperation. His tongue delves, teeth nip, and mouth takes more from me. All the while Marco slides his hands back and forth over my backside. I try and concentrate on the movement over my still singing flesh, but my mind is overwhelmed from the claim being staked on my mouth.

Marco’s fingertips move—two fingers paralleling each other—sliding down the curve of my ass to the tops of my thighs. They stop and slide inward until I can feel them trace over the moisture at my entrance. My body tenses, my mind having trouble which sensation to focus on.

My captor relents his possession of my mouth, and I suck in a breath of air trying to gain some semblance of balance. And the few seconds I have to do just that are stolen when I feel the head of his dick press between my parted lips the same time as Marco slides his fingers into me. I gasp out at the feeling and his dick slips farther into my mouth predicated by his carnal groan from above me.

My mind flashes to the thoughts I had previously of biting him if he tried this. How he taunted me, told me I’d beg for this. His taste fills my mouth as he presses deeper into me, hitting the back of my throat before pulling slowly back out.

My captor’s hand fists my hair, holding my head still as he fucks my mouth while Marco’s hand grips the flesh on my hips and fingers me in a matching rhythm. My body rides this libidinous high as I’m worked into a frenzy, the sound of pleasure emanating from both men filling the room along with the slick sounds of my sex being worked.

I’m breathless, overwhelmed, and underequipped to process the onslaught of sensations wracking through my body. My thighs tremble above where my knees are pressed into the bed, and my hands are desperate for the freedom to grip his shaft. The men continue their ministrations, pleasure increasing and my body falling under the spell of unwanted desire. I feel him swell and harden to steel in my mouth, and he suddenly withdraws, the bed dipping as he drops down in front of me. His mouth on mine again momentarily as Marco’s fingers stop moving but remain idly inside of me.

My captor pulls back from my lips again as I adjust my hips to try and ease the need anchoring me. I can feel his breath on my face as if he’s staring at me, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s trying to tell me something even though I can’t see his eyes. He shifts, the bed sways, and his finger trails from my shoulder and down my spine in that way he has as he maneuvers himself behind me.

I suck in a breath, my conflicting emotions raging inside of me, and I can’t help but tuck my hips forward as anticipation suffocates the air around me. His fingertip stops and presses at the top of my tailbone, and a low hum of approval sounds in the back of his throat. Feet shuffle, Marco’s fingers withdraw from my wetness, and words are spoken softly between the two men that I wouldn’t understand even if I could hear them.

Two hands grip either side of my hips, my breath quickening and possibilities flickering through my mind. He spreads me apart and cool air comingles with the pooling moisture. “You want this don’t you, bella Lilly? Look at your pussy quiver and ass pucker in anticipation. Fuck that’s sexy. Makes me want to claim every single part of you,” he says as one hand releases my hip and his finger trails back down over every inch of skin to my clit and then back up.

I hear the click of a bottle and startle as I feel the cool liquid pour over me. My body vibrates with arousal and fear—of another thing that I’ve always wanted to try—and I bow my head and wait. I feel fingers spread the lubricant up and down the seam of my core and then stop. My breath shudders and my nipples tighten instantly when I feel the tip of his finger press against my tight rim and into me. My muscles fight to reject him and the slight discomfort his entrance brings, but he just holds still, allowing me to adjust.

“Ahhh,” he sighs as I feel like my breath has been robbed. After a moment he starts to move his finger slowly in and out, soft noises of appreciation emanating from behind me as I talk myself into relaxing. “I need to prepare you, bella. Open you up. And then you’re going to get fucked. Have you ever been filled? Have you ever felt two cocks moving inside of you? Rubbing against one another as they make you come?”

I moan out at the dark promise of his words and at the slight sting as he pulls out and pushes two fingers into me to stretch me farther. I’m just about used to the feeling when the head of his dick rests against the entrance to my sex, taunting me with possibilities of what’s to come. He leaves it resting there—a tantalizing torture for me to crave—before he begins to move his fingers again at a faster pace.

My head hangs down, my hair tickling my cheeks as it falls over the blindfold, and I absorb everything that’s being awakened within me. I’m not sure what I expected, but I don’t feel much, and then when he thrusts his cock into my pussy and his fingers begin to move again, two worlds of sensations crash together. His forward movements push his fingers in farther and the hum in the back of my throat involuntarily comes out as my muscles begin to loosen and accept.

He rides me in a slow and steady cadence that allows me to feel every ridge of his crest as he slides in and back against my slick walls. I lose myself—my thoughts, my guilt, my resistance—in the calming rhythm of his body owning mine. My breasts jostle forward each time his hips connect with the backs of my thighs and urges the ache to burn a little stronger, a little deeper.

His other hand smooths across my ass, but it’s the feel of a pointed tip of an object firm yet soft that pulls my mind from the haze of mounting pleasure. He runs the object slowly over one side of my buttocks and then rolls it across my lower back so I can feel the unmistakable shape of the plug before he continues down the other side. He then glides the point slowly up between my legs and around his cock and fingers buried within me, a taunting foreplay of what comes next.

My captor continues to trace imaginary lines with the plug over and over, my mind becoming so used to the feeling, the heightened awareness of its course that I begin to fall back under the rhythm of my building orgasm. And it’s when I do this, when I allow myself to succumb to the barrage of sensation within caused by his skillful cock, that he pulls his fingers out and pushes the plug inside of me. Because it’s a little larger, a little harder, it causes the abundance of nerves there to sing in resistance for a moment.

My body tenses at the lasting burn, earning me a tsk from him. “Relax. Don’t fight it, bella.” He stills his hips and presses the plug in even farther until it fits within my rim and my muscles flex around it. My eyes sting from the quick sear of pain, but before I can wriggle my hips away from him, his hands dig into the curves of my ass and squeeze possessively as he slams into me, the slap of skin on skin a mix with his guttural groan. I forget that there is someone else in the room, forget the threat to find pleasure and enjoy, because that option was a forgone conclusion the minute he thrust inside of me.

And this time as he works my pussy over and over, my muscles begin to clench around him and the overabundance of nerves stretched around the plug light everything on fire a little stronger, a lot more intense. The warmth begins to surge through my body, thoughts, desires, and pleasure—all colliding in a perfect storm of sensation that I’ve lost the fight to resist. My shoulders sag, my elbows give way, and my chest and shoulders press into the mattress beneath me, giving him one hundred percent control to manipulate my sex.

And even though I’d felt the buildup of my orgasm, when it hits me, when my body seizes with the catastrophic depths of pleasure that pulse through my core and reverberate through my every fiber, I’m stunned speechless at the unfettered intensity of it. My body writhes uncontrollably, my lips part with a moan, and goose bumps blanket my body despite the heat holding me hostage.

“So beautiful, so responsive,” he murmurs as he stills within me and caresses the curve of my ass. I slowly reawaken from my post-orgasmic coma and recognize the unmistakable sounds of Marco stroking himself beside me. I’m immediately on alert, my synapses firing despite still being drugged from the orgasm’s intoxication. The awareness of his presence, of the knowledge that he is here getting off watching us, leaves me feeling vulnerable, ashamed.

“Are you ready?”

My head jolts up at my captor’s voice, unsure which of us he’s speaking to. I exhale slowly, waiting in silent impatience as my captor withdraws from me. The sudden emptiness is unwelcome and unexpected, but I bite back the groan of disapproval because I have a feeling he is no longer the one in control, Marco is.

“What is your choice? Entrambi sono la perfezione.” His hands leave my skin, the plug still remaining, and I hear the floorboards creak as he steps back. His chuckle resonates in the room in a response I can’t see. “As you wish,” he says and I work a swallow down my throat as I wait to learn the ramifications of that statement.

I cry as my hips are grabbed roughly and jerked up in the air. I instinctively angle my head back to try and see what’s happening—my mind so occupied on what’s next, I forget the blindfold covering my eyes. I feel someone move between my parted legs, and my sight isn’t needed to understand what happens next. I’m forced up on my elbows as a body slides beneath me and up the mattress, bare flesh grazing just barely against my hypersensitive skin. I suck in a breath as he shudders one out when my nipples slide over his chest as he positions himself. I feel tugging at my ankle restraints and then feel the tension ease the strain on my legs. I pull my legs in closer, relieved to have more freedom and find them framing the torso beneath me. I flex my hips, the plug slightly uncomfortable as it remains within me.

Who is beneath me and who is behind me?

My mind works furiously trying to calm myself as nerves hum and anxiety ratchets to new heights. I know what is going to happen next, have always wondered what it would be like, but now that I’m here in the moment, I’m nervous. I never figured I’d actually talk Anderson into trying this, and obviously, I never expected if I did get the chance that I’d be bound and blindfolded.

Chills dance up my spine as my breasts brush against the chest beneath me, and I still as hands frame my jaw. “Are you ready?” my captor murmurs into my ear. I sag in relief, thankful again that he is the one beneath me, the one near my face, because Marco unnerves me. I’ve formed a misconstrued trust with my captor, but in this situation filled with unknowns, I know he may have started all of this, but he has also kept his word to me thus far.

I exhale a shaky breath and nod subtly as I feel Marco brush against me from behind. “Bella, do you have any idea how gorgeous you look right now? How jealous your husband should be that I get to fuck you when you look like this? Nipples tight, pussy dripping, wax hardened, and my marks on your back? Does he know you need this? Need to be tested? Dominated? Filled? Used? Fucked within an inch of exhaustion?”

A strangled sound comes from my throat—part sob, part desperation—when he refers to Anderson. I don’t want him mentioned, don’t want to be reminded of the kindhearted man I am betraying. No, that I’m being forced to betray. My body vibrates for more, but my head begins to win the battle, the guilt returning full force. The tears well and my limbs tremble as his hands run down the sides of my torso, rough calluses against my smooth skin.

He slides his hands down to my hips and guides them forward before releasing one hand. I immediately feel the crest of his cock swipe over my clit, separating the flesh there, and positioning himself at my entrance. Marco’s hands grab hold of my hips from behind, and slowly pushes me down so that my captor’s cock fills me at an agonizingly slow pace. My body shudders at the sensation, nerves raked over, and swollen muscles unable to resist the re-ignition of desire. Fingers reach down and apply lubricant gently around where we are joined and then back up to where the plug still remains.

“Are you ready?” he whispers beneath me as his hands guide my shoulders forward, my breasts now pressed against his chest to give Marco better access.

The wings of panic begin to flutter anew, fear fanning it as I feel his fingers grip onto the base of the plug and begin to remove it. The mewling sound I make is involuntary, my heart thudding—that potent mixture of the unknown and the wanting to know messing with my head more than it already is.

The plug slips out and my whole body tenses when I feel a generous amount of lubricant applied. I suck in my breath, emotions warring, body anticipating, and ache intensifying while I sit in that suspended state of time between fingers leaving my skin and waiting for the next contact.

The head of his cock presses against my forbidden entrance, and Anderson flashes through my mind causing a sob to tear through my throat. This isn’t how I want this. I mean, I want this—to try this—but with Anderson, my husband … not forced and …

My body tremors and the tears fall. I start to struggle away, start to try and fight against this, against him. My shout fills the room. Hands grip my shoulders and pull me tightly against my captor’s chest. His arms hold me there, my hips wriggling—pleasure I don’t want presenting itself as my clit moves against the length of his cock still within me.

“Don’t fight us.” His voice is a demand in my ear. “You want this. We want this.” I resist again as Marco presses against my unrelenting muscles. “We’re going to claim that virgin ass of yours. Going to fuck you, one hole for each of us. Going to make you realize just how good it feels to be that dirty little whore you want to be … you fight to deny.”

I begin to shift again but this time it’s because no matter how overwhelming the situation is—how much I don’t want to be at the mercy of two men I can’t even see—I’m dripping in moisture. My desire to continue more than evident as it slides out of me and over our connection.

I hold onto the inexplicable and misguided sense of trust that I feel with the man who began this whole bizarre situation. I grasp onto the now and not the why as Marco’s dick pushes into me. The searing pain assaults me when he forces his head through the tight ring of unforgiving muscles.

My eyes water and I shout out at the indescribable pain. My body bucks in resistance as both men use their hands to hold me still.

“Hold on. Once his head’s in, we’ll let you adjust,” he almost croons to me against the riot of noise filling my head. “Don’t make me gag you,” he warns when I don’t stop.

I bite my lip to turn the shouts to whimpers, and I’m so focused on the threat of the gag that it takes me a moment to realize that the sting is dissipating. I even out my breathing as the rest of the pain fades and I feel fingers applying more lube. And then Marco ever so slowly starts to move. He pushes farther into me and the breath I’ve just evened out gets stolen.

The orgasm rips through me at a lightning fast pace. I don’t have time to wonder if it’s the million nerve endings hidden within the ring Marco just pulled on, or the idea of doing something others had always called taboo, or if it actually feels good because the intensity with which my release hits rivals no other climax I’ve ever experienced.

I couldn’t fight the pleasure that violently rips through me even if I wanted to. My legs clench into the hips they frame, my feet curl, my mouth falls open, but I’m so overwhelmed with the overabundance of different sensations I can’t utter a sound. My breath is held hostage by the pleasure edged with pain, and I don’t even realize it, don’t even attempt to find it, as my pussy clamps down and muscles pulse rhythmically around both cocks filling me. And I don’t know if it’s being stretched—filled so incredibly full—but my orgasm rages on, my body tremoring and head lost to the orgasmic haze.

And then they start to move.

My breath comes back. The twinge of pain is still there, but my adrenaline is on such a high, the ache that should be sated is already ratcheting upwards. I think I moan, I don’t even know because all I smell is peppermint, all I feel is pleasure, all I want is more.

The push and pull of one dick moving in while the other moves out. The feel of them rubbing together through the thin interior wall between them. One pair of hands on my hips, the other holding me down. The pants of exertion and slick sound of lubed flesh being worked. Every single thing assaults my senses, drags me under yet has me on edge, waiting, wanting, willing to come again.

To take what I want for the first time in so very long.

Anderson flickers through my mind, and I push him away. I can’t have him here right now, can’t think of him while feeling all of this, because then I’d have to admit that this is what I want.

This is what I need.

That this is that little bit more …

Chapter Six

My head lolls forward, my forehead against my captor’s shoulder as his arms continue to hold and guide me. My body still simmers, still burns for more, but I don’t know how much more I can handle. I’m exhausted: physically, mentally, sexually. For a girl used to one orgasm at a time, my body can’t come any more.

I think the men realize this, but they don’t relent as they chase their own releases.

Time lapses and positions change.

Murmured words are spoken from my captor.

Fingers grip my hips.

Grunts and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Moans of release.

Sleep comes without thought.

The smell of peppermint awakes me way too soon.

I’m allowed to use the facilities.

Never alone.

Drink of water offered.

Refastened to bed for another round to begin.

On my back.

This time just Marco.

Still silent.

Presence still dominating the room.

The only connection is where our bodies join.

First him.

Then my captor.

Pleading with them to stop.

Can’t take anymore.

Saying Anderson’s name over and over.

Focusing on the peppermint.

Not the continuous onslaught of sensation.

Feeling like a rag doll.

But the orgasms still come.

Drowning in the unwelcome pleasure.

Body traitorous.

Mind escaping.

Drinking more water.

Wishing for the chocolate covered strawberries.

Head becoming fuzzy. Just like walking back to the hotel.

Darkness closing in.

Feeling free. Weightless, cradled.

Peppermint again.

Cool Air. Bright lights.

The ding of an elevator.

“My girlfriend.” My captor’s voice. A soft, knowing chuckle. “Silly American pride made her think she could handle our vino.” The warmth of a kiss pressed to my forehead. Polite laughter. Murmured good lucks.

The ding of the elevator.

Sinking into softness.

Cocooned in blankets.

“Ora sei libero,” murmured against my ear.

Blackness.

Chapter Seven

I shift restlessly in the bed, my head groggy and body aching. I roll over onto my stomach and feel a crackling over my chest. My mind snaps awake with awareness and I bolt up in the bed with a groan. The light hits my eyes and I raise an arm to shield them from its harsh rays. My heart pounds and once my eyes can adjust, they dart frantically around the room.

My hotel room.

I immediately grab the bedding and hold it to my chest in a ridiculous form of protection from the silence and the unknown. It takes me a second to catch my breath, to even out my pulse, and to really believe that I’m here.

Alone.

My mind rifles over everything, memories and sensations crashing together like a demolition derby. I immediately curl into myself—knees to chest—arms protective around them. And if I didn’t feel the ache in my limbs, the tenderness between my thighs, the wax dried on my chest, and the bites of pain along my back, I’d swear it was all a dream. The abduction, being fucked every which way imaginable, and then nothing until waking up here in my bed in my hotel room.

I choke back at the bile that rises in my throat when those images materialize into actuality. When I realize that what I’d hoped was a dream is actually reality. My body protests but I’m off the bed in a heartbeat and running into the bathroom. I can’t turn the shower on quick enough, can’t wait to rid my body of the reminders that still brand me: the feel of his fingers, his scent mixed with mine, the dried wax, the salt on my skin. Mentally scattered, I step into the tiled enclosure without thought. The shock of cold jolts my mind to the present, my voice crying out and echoing over the tiles is a disconcerting sound.

Why didn’t I yell for help yesterday when I was being raped and held against my will, but I cry out now because of something as menial as a cold shower?

The question circles in my mind, my body sagging against the chilled wall behind me, my conscience trying to disengage from the facts. The guilt. The doubts. The truths.

Why didn’t I fight harder, resist more? Did I allow everything to happen? Is this on me?

The temperature of the water heats in an instant. Cold to hot. Frigid to inviting. Was that me yesterday? Resistant and unwilling, then accepting and compliant on a turn of a dime.

I choke back the bile as the thought hits me. As I question myself and what I should or shouldn’t have done. Of the things I found pleasure in.

“Oh God.” The words tumbling from my mouth are like a repeated mantra as I stand mid-stream and let the scalding water burn lines down my skin. I grab the bar of soap with trembling hands and begin to scrub my body with vigor. The steam suffocates the small bathroom but is no match for the weight smothering my soul.

I reduce the bar to a sliver and immediately open another package of the cheap hotel soap and begin anew until my skin is pink, raw, and abraded. But it’s not enough. I’m still dirty, still tarnished—inside and out. I take my fingers and lather them with soap and slide them between my legs and inside of me, trying to wash every trace of him away as best as I can. I move in a frenzy. My swollen, torn skin stings when the soap hits it, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t seem to cleanse the claim he staked.

Tears fall. My body shivers. I open my mouth to let the scalding water fill it and burn my palate. I can’t seem to erase the taste of his kiss or the feeling of his dick sliding over my tongue. I start to gag at the thought, water spraying everywhere as I choke and cough and attempt to draw in air.

And I don’t know how long I stand there, the hot water burning welts on my skin, but I don’t care. I welcome the forced focus on the pain, the cleansing of my flesh, because it’s easier to concentrate on that rather than the doubts and questions and thoughts that overwhelm my mind.

The ones I’m afraid to look at closer, find answers to.

I stumble out of the shower after some time. I go through the haphazard mechanics of sliding on the hotel provided robe and pull it as tight as I can around me. I’m freezing. The muggy Italian weather permeates the room, but I’m so very cold. I walk the short distance to the bed, crawl back into it, teeth chattering and body exhausted.

But it’s now that I’m physically cleansed—that my eyes are closed and body is sinking into the mattress—that I can hear the cars on the street below and the sound of the vacuum in another room nearby. My throat constricts momentarily.

Is that where they had me? Held me against my will just a few rooms down from this one? I try to process the possibilities. I have no idea, and the panic hits me full force again, the thought an unexpected blindside. Was I really being held so close to here? Could I have screamed and stopped the course of emotional destruction I now find myself on. My heart thunders and hands tremble.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to focus on my surroundings. Everything seems the same as it did yesterday … or the day before yesterday. I fixate on that. On the normalcy of everything, hoping my mind can shut down for a few moments. I have no idea how much time has passed but it all seems the same, and yet every single thing in me has shifted, been forever changed.

I finally allow my mind to go there, to try and process what the hell happened: the whys, the what-fors, the answers for some reason I know I’ll never find. I reach down out of habit to twist my bracelet, my small form of comfort amidst this maelstrom and touch bare skin. I look down to my wrist, thoughts warring when I find my favorite piece of jewelry gone.

The anxiety returns as my mind tries to recall if I had it on last night. If I lost it during everything that happened. I urge my mind to fire, to break through the fuzzy memories, but the furthest I can recall is waking up bound and blindfolded.

I start to get up, want to look for it, needing that reminder of my family—my boys—to hold on to right now, but I stop when my eyes catch a glimpse of the faint red lines ringing my wrists. I pull them in close to my chest and rub them, my mind losing focus on what I was going to do. After a moment lost in thought, I hold them out and stare at them again. The funny thing is I know that when the marks fade, I’ll still feel them—somehow, someway—because what was done to me will be etched in my soul forever.

The question is, is it a nightmare or a memory?

I think of a kidnapper I trusted in some inexplicable, screwed-up way, who tried to protect me, praised me, showed me an unexpected and sporadic tenderness. How does someone wrap their head around that? Kidnapping, drugging, and restraints are in no way consensual, so how did he make me feel like it was my choice?

My thoughts flicker to Marco, the person who said nothing but whose presence owned the room with his mere silence. His cold demeanor and lack of tactility from his place at the end of the bed such a stark contrast to my kidnapper’s. The mysterious man who sat there watching without so much as a word, but who took something from me I’ve never given anybody else.

And then I think of Anderson. The sob catches in my throat as I focus on the betrayal and infidelity until the guilt wreaks havoc in my psyche. I scramble off the bed to the dresser where my cell phone lies and grab it like a life line, not understanding why this wasn’t my first thought when I woke up. There are ten texts from him asking if I’m alright, to call him back, that he’s going into more meetings. My hands grip it tightly, knuckles turning white as the tears return and course down my cheeks. I welcome the feeling, the shedding of emotions that weigh heavy.

Do I tell him? Do I go home and act like this never happened? Carry on life as usual all the while I’m reeling inside with … what? What exactly am I feeling?

Relieved.

Confused.

Sated.

“Oh God,” I whisper my mantra into the room. Memories stain my mind and unease reigns in my soul. One hand grips my phone—the platinum of my wedding ring clicking against it—while the other lifts involuntarily to cover my lips. I sag onto the bed and succumb to the onslaught of emotions I’m not quite sure how to handle.

I wasn’t harmed. I was put back in my hotel room. Is anyone going to really believe I was abducted, raped, and released physically uninjured? I blow out a breath, my fingers on my lips now beginning to tremble. I’m in a foreign country. Alone. I’ve just washed all traces of them from me without thought. If I went to the authorities, would they really believe me?

Indecision wars as time passes, the discomfort with each movement a subtle reminder of everything. Shadows shift across the room as the day wages on.

I cry when my cell rings. The sound seems so foreign in my echo chamber of thoughts. I fumble the phone momentarily, my hand sore from unconsciously gripping it all this time, and look down to see who’s calling.

Anderson.

I stare wide-eyed at his picture on the screen for what seems like forever but is really only two rings. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the ringtone as I swallow over the lump in my throat. I know it’s only seconds that pass, but it feels like hours that I stare at the screen. Indecision wars. And then once I choose to answer, I can’t get the phone to my ear quick enough.

“Hello?” I’m already sobbing the words out, breath hitching, desperation echoing in my voice.

“Lil? Lil, what’s wrong?” And it’s his voice—concern, comfort, everything—that undoes me. Unravels me. Hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath fast enough, can’t speak, because I’m overwhelmed by the truths I’m finally ready to face. To accept.

This man is my everything.

He has been for so long, how in the hell could I think of wanting anyone else? Sure sex might be a little boring sometimes, it might be predictable or scheduled to minimize the off chance of being interrupted by the boys, but is that really on him? Is the rut we’ve fallen into all his fault?

I’ve become complacent. I’ve taken his place beside me for granted. Aren’t I just as much to blame for this as he is? Haven’t I stopped putting our marriage first just as he has too?

“Lil, answer me! You’re scaring the shit out of me!” The urgency and fear in his voice comes through the connection loud and clear, jolting me from my thoughts. I can visualize him pacing in front of his desk, one hand on the phone, the other shoving through his hair.

“I’m okay,” I manage. “I’m okay.” I suck in a breath and will myself to calm down because I can’t answer the questions he’s going to ask, and the more composed I am, the less insistent he’ll be for a response.

“What’s going on?” His voice softens some but concern is still prominent.

“I just—I just miss you.” I hiccup the words, biting my knuckles to prevent another sob from falling out as the die is cast.

I can’t tell him.

I know I’m sealing my fate to Hell by lying, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t shatter that innate male instinct he has to protect me. I’m okay. I’m unharmed. The damage done to me is far less than what it would do to him. He would never look at me the same. His empathy—one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place—would lead him to coddle and handle me with kid gloves. The fact that everything happened—he’d look at it as a failure as a man, as a husband to protect me—would gnaw at him until he self-destructed.

Do I destroy the man I love to assuage my own guilt?

“Hun, you okay? Why are you crying?”

His words break through my thoughts. The tone of his voice almost shatters my resolve. The confession is on my tongue, but I close my eyes and force a swallow. Internalize my own pain to prevent his.

“Nothing. I just got sick and … and I can’t wait to come home. I miss you, the boys … home.” I press my thumb over the speaker on the phone so he can’t hear the telling sound of my hitching breath.

“Are you sure, Lil? You don’t sound good.” I’m silent. I don’t trust my voice just yet. “I’m flying out there.”

“No!” The words are out of my mouth, his declaration causing mine. A desperate plea. My epiphany so simple yet so daunting all at the same time. He can’t come see me because I need today and the next to compose myself, to absorb everything that happened, heal some of the physical marks, figure how to cope with the emotional reminders. To allow me the time to accept this experience has changed me and figure out the words to tell him I need a little more out of our sex life: experimenting, dominance, variation. To be able to express our marriage or him being enough for me isn’t the problem, no, but my need for him to give me something more in the bedroom is.

The answer I need to figure out though is, will that admission hurt him as much as me telling him about the rape? Blindside him when he thought we were happy and I’m far from it? Make him feel inadequate?

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to change my flight to tomorrow sometime and come home early.” I unfist my hands gripping the comforter and hold my breath waiting for his response.

“Lil, I don’t like—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I stumble over the words, but I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure him or me. “I’ve already looked at flights … I was just picking up the phone to call you and tell you.”

One lie upon another.

What a tangled web we weave.

“Lil …” His voice trails off, the unasked question falling into its silence.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and wait for the questions, the inkling that he knows what happened—guilt screaming loud like my own personal tell-tale heart.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have told work to go to Hell. I should be there with you, taking care of you.” I can hear the regret, the evidence that he’s beating himself up over choosing his career over us. My God, I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he really knew what happened.

“Ander—”

“Lil …” He blows out a long breath. “We need to … we’ll talk when you get home, okay? Text me your flight info when you change it and … get some rest, okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnects but I hold the phone to my ear for I don’t know how long, my decision warring against my rationality. And the only thing that breaks the endless spiral of guilt is when the words float through my mind like a distant memory.

Ora sei libero.

I can hear his voice say them, feel his breath heat my lips, but can’t remember anything else he said. I lower the phone from my ear and type the words in. My hands shake and I misspell them a few times but finally Google gives me the answer I am looking for.

I blink my eyes a couple of times and shake my head in what has to be misunderstanding of the words, their meaning.

You are now free.

Chapter Eight

“What’s brought all of this on?” The look of confusion on Anderson’s face worries me. Is he going to tell me no? Again? Reject me and my even-keeled plea?

You are now free.

I hiccup back the guilt—a heavy presence wanting to tell the truth—and lower my eyes to stare at my hands fiddling in my lap. Thoughts flash through my mind of earlier. The relief I felt seeing Anderson at the airport. The unfettered love that coursed through me when he wrapped his arms around me. The calm that came over me mixed with the feeling of safety, comfort, acceptance, loyalty with just the smell of his cologne and security of his arms. How I cried like a baby in the middle of the terminal as he held me, whispering reassurances to calm the outpouring of emotions he didn’t understand.

Driving home. Rapid-fire chat about what the other has been doing. And I tell him everything … everything but what I want to tell him the most. Apologies from him. How he screwed up, should have told work to take a hike, and put me first, put us first. How he’s thought about his priorities and where he’s gone wrong. How being all alone for a week—with nothing but your own thoughts—will do that to you.

I accept his apologies and then make my own—for the same reasons and for ones he’ll never have a clue about. The tears fall. Hope renews and murmured promises are made for the changes that need to be made.

And then we come home to a lonely house. My boys won’t be back from my mom’s for another day. Panic becomes hysteria; the thoughts I had those first few minutes after I woke up blindfolded flood back with a vengeance. I start to ramble, tell Anderson we need to get the boys now. Right now. I need to see them, kiss them, inhale their little boy scent as I hold them tight.

I begin to cry. Think of what I could have lost. Anderson calms me down, tells me travel arrangements are already made for tomorrow and too late to cancel. That we need to enjoy the one night we have together for our anniversary. Make the most of it. Start proving everything we just said to each other in the car.

I calm myself and stare at him for a moment before taking a deep breath to say what it feels has taken me a lifetime to confess. I ask that he doesn’t speak until I finish. I tell him I love him more than anything. I express to him that in losing the us that we once were, we also lost that spark in the bedroom. The want to please the other, the desire to be spontaneous, try new things, step outside of the box.

He nods his head at me, granting my request for silence as I gather my last thoughts together. The feelings evoked from the hotel room flood back tenfold and crowd the room around us, giving me the courage I need to finish what I need to say. We sit like this for some time, no words exchanged but our eyes speaking volumes: willingness and trust. Acceptance and understanding. But for some reason, the silence we sit in doesn’t seem so lonely anymore. It’s filled with a spark of what’s been missing for some time.

And so I add fuel to the spark, hoping it catches fire.

You are now free.

Instead of hinting at things I want as I have in the past, I flat out tell him. New positions, toys, anal, sex-swings, light bondage. Nothing earth-shattering to many these days but life changing for me. I say each sentence, pay particular attention to each word, and watch his reactions. I reassure that I love him, that I’m happy, that he’s more than enough, but that with age, with confidence, I want more. I need more.

And I want to find that more in him, with him.

I exhale loudly into the silence I’ve asked for. My nerves hum and I jostle my knee as we continue to stare at each other, his silence a slow torture to me. I need him to respond, need him to tell me that I’m not asking for too much. That he can give this to me.

But he doesn’t say a word but rather stands up and disappears from my sight. I bite my lip to fight the tears that threaten and the predicted rejection that lodges in my throat. It doesn’t matter how many times he rebuffs me, each time is just as devastating as the first. I squeeze my eyes, the gamut of emotions overtaking me as I hold everything in: Anderson’s dismissal after our promises earlier, the guilt and shame riding a close second.

The bed shifts and Anderson places his hand on my thigh, squeezing it when I refuse to open my eyes. “Lil?” There is a gentleness to his tone that pulls on so many things within me that I open my eyes to meet his. He reaches out and frames my face—his thumb brushing away the lone tear I couldn’t contain—and the tenderness in his touch almost makes me lose my hold on the reminder of them.

He repeats his question again, pulling me from my thoughts. “What brought all this on now? Is it because of these?”

He bends over to pick something off the floor beside the bed and I’m surprised to see the box from my closet. I stare at him as he takes the lid from it and sets the container between us. My eyes flicker back and forth, trying to gauge the expression on his face juxtaposed to the quiet ache that the sight of some of the toys create.

Because now I know just how much they can enhance my pleasure.

My cheeks stain red as I stare at them and silently, guiltily recalling those sensations while Anderson watches me—the weight of his stare as he waits for an answer flusters me.

“Yes. No. Yes …” I blow out an exasperated breath and look up from where I am fiddling with my fingers to meet the clear brown of his eyes. “I just …” My voice trails off for the first time, losing my confidence. I take a moment and when I look down and see the invisible lines on my wrists, they give me what I need to be honest. “This time apart has made me realize how much I love you, but that I’ve been unhappy, resentful … that for some time, I’ve been jealous of the old ‘us’ and I don’t want to be that way anymore. That’s a horrible place to be. We’ve let life get in the way … put everything else first, and I think this—discovering new things together—will make us find that trust in one another, rekindle what we used to have.” I shrug, tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t know. At first I thought the toys might help … but now ... All I know, all I care about is that I miss … us.”

Anderson gives me a measured nod followed by a full blown smirk. The one that fifteen years ago captured my heart when he walked past me in his football uniform during lunch in the quad.

“After this week, us being apart because of work, once again … I realized I miss us too,” he says with a nod of his head. He reaches in the box and moves items around with an obvious unease, but at least he’s looking. He quiets for a moment before looking up and meeting my eyes. “I’ve been stubborn. I’ve been so wrapped up thinking with my ego and not my dick that I’ve completely missed the whole point.” I suppress the burgeoning hope I feel, afraid to believe too quickly that Anderson has finally heard me. “Without you here, I realized that it’s lonely as hell … and that I need to stop and listen to you sometimes, really hear the words you’re saying. And you’ve been saying that these toys don’t mean that I’m not enough, but rather you just want a little more variety.”

I close my eyes, the tears leaking out because he finally gets it. I hiccup back a sob as relief finally finds its place within me.

With eyes steadfast on mine, he leans in and closes the distance between us. “You know what I think?” he says, an eyebrow raising and desire darkening in his eyes.

“Hmm?” I can’t speak. It’s been forever since I have seen that cocky look on his face and in a sense, he just gave me my answer without saying a word.

“I think that we should start with this.” Anderson holds up a Lelo vibrator from the box and I groan out softly at the thought. “Well then, it’s settled. I’m going to go grab a quick shower, and when I come back into the bedroom, you better be on the bed. Naked.” He presses a kiss against my lips. “And ready to get fucked.”

I startle my head back to look at him, the Anderson from fifteen years ago looking back at me. “So, you’ll …”

“Five minutes.” It’s all he says as he stands up and starts to walk from the room, my pulse quickening, and the tingling that’s been gone for so long when it comes to Anderson rushes back like a flash flood. My eyes track him as he pulls his shirt off on his way toward the bathroom. Disbelief and desire surging within me.

He passes through the doorway, stops, and turns around. “Hey, you never told me, did you get my anniversary present?”

My fingers still on my blouse where they are unbuttoning, and the chocolate covered strawberries flash through my head along with the unopened card I couldn’t bring myself to read because of the guilt. “Yes, thank you,” I gush, a little too fervently, before controlling my emotions so he doesn’t know I’m lying. “I forgot when you called to tell you … they were so satisfying. Just what I needed.”

He chokes out a cough, covering his mouth to physically stifle the violence of it.

“Hun, are you okay?” I begin to scoot off the end of the bed to help him but he just holds his hand up to stop me.

After a moment, he recovers and angles his head to the side, staring at me with confusion etching his features. “Just what you needed?” The inquiry in his voice has me explaining further.

“Yeah. The chocolate covered strawberries … so delicious.”

“I didn’t send you … they … those were courtesy of the hotel for our anniversary.” Anderson stumbles over the words, bewilderment etching his features.

Now it’s my turn to be confused. I shift my eyes back and forth as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Huh …”

“Nothing else came to the room?”

“No … was it … I wasn’t there much. Maybe …” I don’t finish my thought, worried my excuses may tell too much and that maybe something was delivered while I was being held against my will.

“Hmpf,” he says with a nonchalant shrug that contradicts the beseeching look in his eyes. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he just stares at me a bit longer before shaking his head in an amused defeat.

“What was it?” Now I’m curious. His conflicting posture and demeanor have me wanting to know what I’m going to miss out on.

“No worries.” He smirks. “It … it definitely wasn’t chocolate covered strawberries.” He chuckles with a shake of his head.

I go to ask for more of an explanation but the look in his eyes stop me as he stalks towards me in a predatory manner “I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you. Make sure I’m just what you need.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my mouth, tongue delving between my lips to dance intimately with mine. And just as abruptly as he started the kiss, he turns and heads back in to the bathroom, throwing, “Five minutes and counting,” over his shoulder.

I stare at the now empty doorway, my heart swollen with love, and my conscience a little lighter. Wow. I’m kind of in a state of disbelief. Over his apologies, his revelations, his acceptance of wanting more.

I pull my shirt over my head and unfasten my bra as I digest it all. I flop back on the bed and laugh aloud. Our tenth wedding anniversary. Who would have thought that not being together might have been the best thing to help us find each other again. Completely fucked up, but incredibly true.

I close my eyes for a moment. Images I never saw but can’t erase run through my mind. I startle when the phone on the bed rings. It’s Anderson’s, and I never pick it up. I usually just look at it and then tell him who called so that he knows.

I reach out for it and sit up when I see the phone number. The Italian country code. My mind immediately thinks the hotel is calling because they found whatever gift Anderson sent me.

“Hello?”

“Ciao. This is the Mauro from Hotel Mulino di Firenze.”

“Hi, yes. What can I do for you?” I ask, toeing off my shoes as I wait for the response.

“You recently stayed with us in our presidential suite, si?”

“Yes but not in the—”

“We found a bracelet under the bed when the room was cleaned that we think belongs to you.”

“Bracelet?” Relief flows through me. I completely forgot about my bracelet, my mind so overwhelmed with processing the last seventy-two hours. But now that I’m reminded, I’m relieved they found it. Now I don’t have to worry about having to explain to Anderson that I lost it. “Thank you so much … but … uh … I was in room two hundred something, not in the Presidential suite?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have called the wrong number then. Let me—”

“I did lose a bracelet. Just, I didn’t have a suite,” I quickly correct him, thinking the language difference might be the problem in understanding, desperate to get my bracelet back.

“Scuzi … let me check.” The line is silent for a moment, filled only with the click of a keyboard. “No, I’m sorry. The bracelet was most definitely found in the suite and it does have this phone number as the occupant …”

My pulse begins to race as adrenaline starts to surge and awareness begins to break through the haze.

I hear more typing. “… ah yes, here it is. This is the correct number for Marco, si?”

“Yes,” I whisper into my husband’s telephone. Marco’s telephone. The hotel clerk’s voice now a distant sound in my ear.

My mind fires to process.

Understand the magnitude of what has happened.

Accept that fact that he’s already given me everything I just asked him for.

Already given me just what I needed.

I guess I received my anniversary gift from Anderson after all.

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author K. Bromberg is that reserved woman sitting in the corner that has you all fooled about the wild child inside of her—the one she lets out every time her fingertips touch the computer keyboard. She’s a wife, mom, child rustler, multi-tasker of all things domestic and otherwise. She likes her diet cokes with rum, her music loud, and her pantry stocked with a cache of chocolate.

K. lives in Southern California with her husband and three children. When she needs a break from the daily chaos of her life, you can most likely find her on the treadmill or with Kindle in hand, devouring the pages of a good, saucy book.

On a whim, K. decided to try her hand at this writing thing. Her debut novels, Driven, Fueled, and Crashed of The Driven Trilogy were well received and went on to become multi-platform bestsellers as well as landing on the New York Times and USA Today lists.

http://www.kbromberg.com

https://facebook.com/authorkbromberg

http://www.goodreads.com/Kbromberg

http://pinterest.com/kbrombergwrites/

@KBrombergDriven

COME

A Dirty, Dark, and Dangerous Prequel

By

J A Huss

Chapter One

JAMES

Even if I wasn’t looking…

Even if I wasn’t watching…

Even if I wasn’t obsessed…

There’s no way in hell I could miss her.

The beach is packed. It’s Saturday afternoon. And even though it’s been a hot June, today is Orange County perfect. Seventy-eight degrees at eight PM and just enough wind to make her golden tresses dance around her heart-shaped face. The waves are just big enough to keep the surfers entertained as she eats her fast-food dinner from the steps at Pier Plaza. The sunset, a red mixed with orange that lines the horizon far off in the distance, sets a scene with warm light that falls across her bronze body.

It’s the perfect evening. But this girl is the only thing I see.

I’ve watched her for three months. She comes to the beach twice a day. Once in the early morning, just before Huntington Beach Pier opens. She does some crazy routine that probably does zero for her conditioning, that’s how easy it looks. Not easy for most. Easy for her. This routine—it’s probably something she’s been doing since she was a kid.

She comes out again each evening. More fast food, eats on the Pier Plaza steps. More sea-watching. Even if there aren’t surfers out there to entertain her, the Pacific Ocean is what occupies her mind.

She pays attention to everything. Everyone who walks by. She never talks to anyone. If the skaters on the bike path hanging out in front of the steps get too close, she leaves. If they engage her, she turns her head. They call her names sometimes, but she’s either deaf or very well-trained.

She’s not deaf.

I know she’s not deaf.

I know where she lives.

I know she’s hiding.

I know I’m the last person she wants to see.

I know she sleeps in boy short underwear and a tank top.

I know she has anxiety issues because she keeps a bottle of pills in her bathroom.

I know she never takes those pills. I count them. But every time I check, the bottle has been moved. So I know she thinks about them often enough to want to hold the bottle.

I know she has a phone. But I also know she never uses it. I’ve checked the minutes. It never changes. I know how much money she has, what’s inside her fridge. I know she touches herself at night sometimes. And she moans as she comes, her back arching for a second.

I know she’s sad and she fights it off. I’ve read her journal pages. It’s not really a diary. She writes the pages each night, then goes to bed, wakes, reads them. Then burns them in the kitchen sink before she starts her AM routine.

They always say the same thing. Please hurry. Please come to me. Please find me. Please don’t forget me. Please, please, please, do not leave me here all alone.

I know a lot about her but I don’t know her name. Or who she’s waiting for. I have an idea, but that might be wishful thinking. I don’t know why she’s here. Or why I’m here, for that matter. I’m as unsure about all those things as she is that this absent prince will come save her.

But I’m certain of one thing.

This girl?

She is mine.

I’m the one who came to her. I’m the one who found her. I’ll be the one to keep her.

Chapter Two

HARPER

“What’s your name?”

The voice startles me because I had no idea anyone else was at the end of the pier with me. The waves are large this morning and they crash hard enough against the pillars below to envelop me in a mist of seawater. I don’t turn to face him. He has a smooth rumbling voice that tingles my insides and for a moment, I sense I’ve heard it before. I picture the kind of man attached to it. Someone big. Someone young, but not as young as me. I continue to scan the horizon, staring out at the Pacific Ocean, waiting for the sunrise. It’s mere moments away and I hate that he’s interrupting my sunrise.

“Hello? Name?” he asks again.

He’s someone used to getting an answer when he asks a question. He’s someone with authority, but not a cop or a sanctioned soldier. Cops have that it’s-nothing-personal-and-you’re-boring-the-shit-out-of-me-so-just-give-me-answers tone. Soldiers who get paid by legitimate governments would not give a shit about me. So he’s not in the military. I grew up listening to voices of authority, taking note on the ones who inspire, the ones who cower, and the ones you need to fear. This guy’s voice says he never cowers.

He’s one of us. I know this immediately, with only those few words, I know. This is it.

I give none of this away, simply continue with my quest to see the blue line where the sea meets the sky when the first light of day hits it. Why can’t people just leave me alone?

“Woman,” he growls at me as he takes a few steps closer. He’s barefoot, I can tell by the way his feet scrape across the concrete pier as he walks. My heart flutters for a few seconds and I wonder if he’ll hurt me. Would he be allowed to hurt me? I’ve imagined my capture happening a million ways, but not this way.

Am I ready?

A hand rests on my right shoulder, gripping slightly as if to turn me around. This is a trigger for me. I don’t want him to see my face.

I grab his wrist with both hands, bend over, and reach back with my foot and wind my ankle around his. I heave and do a very sloppy toss because he’s far heavier than anyone I’ve practiced this move on. He sorta tumbles off to the side instead of actually being flung over my shoulder, but that extra moment is all I need.

I climb the railing of Huntington Beach Pier and dive into the mist.

I hit the dark sea with a small splash and then the muted underwater sound of crashing waves fills my head. I continue the arc of my entrance through a powerful swell, and then somersault and circle back, kicking off my shoes as I go. I resurface underneath the pier, get rag-dolled by an incoming wave, and crash headfirst into a concrete pillar.

The pain shoots through my head and my body shuts down to take a moment to deal.

My instincts are slow, my hesitation a mistake I might not live to regret, and then I open my mouth and take a breath before I can stop the reflex. I choke underwater, taking in more liquid, and then shoot upwards to the small glint of light in the approaching dawn.

A hand grabs my ankle and I swallow water this time instead of taking it in my lungs. I kick, but my body is overwhelmed and confused trying to deal with multiple life-threatening situations. I give in and allow myself to be pulled back towards him.

If this guy came off the pier after me, there’s no way he’s letting me go, and there’s no way I’m able to fight him underwater. I’ll drown myself.

His hand leaves my ankle and grabs my upper arm instead, tugging me up to the surface. I break through gasping for air and choking on seawater. Adrenaline races through my blood, a primal reaction to the situation, a true fight-or-flight response. Every muscle tingles as energy is shunted through my body. And as strange as it sounds, my only thought in this moment is how exhausted I’ll be if I live.

Then I snap back to reality. I won’t live if I don’t deal with the hunter.

I scream. His hand cups my mouth, hard, tight, like I just pushed him over the edge.

“Quiet,” he commands into my ear as he flips me over on my back, his other hand reaching under my flailing arm, grasping my chest. “Relax, woman.”

Woman? I’m just a girl. Can’t he see that? Can’t he see I’m just a girl?

He swims towards the shore, dragging me along with him. Every few seconds the Pacific swells, saltwater pours into my mouth and nose. I swallow, choke, and then the man lifts me up out of the choppy sea so I can gulp some air before it all starts again. After several minutes of struggle his feet find purchase in the shifting sand and he stands, lifting me up and cradling me in his arms.

This is my only chance, so I kick my legs up, flip and twist out of his grip, and make us both fall backwards into the crashing waves once more.

I wriggle and he loses his grip on me, but just when I think I can throw him by swimming back out to sea, his hand clamps down on my ankle again. He yanks me back and a pain shoots through my knee as it overextends from the jerk. My shirt rides up along the sandy bottom of the ocean, billowing around my face. Can my luck be any worse today?

I cough and claw at the fabric that threatens to smother me, and this time, there’s no gentle attempt to ease my fears. He flips me over and drags me up the beach until we’re just out of the water, and then he collapses on top of me, his hot breath in my ear. His heaving chest on top of mine. Our heartbeats synchronized with fear or adrenaline or pain, I’m not sure which.

“Please!” I moan as his full weight rests over my small body. “You’re crushing me!”

He doesn’t move, just continues to breathe, his chest drawing in air, making his body move against mine in a way that suddenly feels more intimate than it should. I claw at his back, pushing against the thick muscles of his shoulders.

“Stop,” he says after a few seconds. “You’re bleeding and this struggle will just make it worse.”

“Get off me or I’ll scream,” I growl back at him.

“Scream, then,” he says calmly, his breath not as labored now. “You’ll be arrested for jumping off the pier. I’ll say I saved you. That you were trying to kill yourself. If you scream, life gets complicated very fast. So go ahead. Tell the fucking world you’re down here with me, lionfish. I could care less.”

His rational words, coupled with the pet name he just gave me, are a complete contradiction. I’m suddenly very unsure of myself.

“What do you want?” This time I’m not growling, because he’s right. He must know I can’t afford the attention a scream will bring. “And you didn’t save me, I was not trying to kill myself.”

He laughs, causing his hips to grind against me for a second. My breath hitches and a small whimper comes out. This moment of weakness makes him prop his upper body up on his elbows and the seawater rushes in around my face. I panic and squirm, closing my eyes and my mouth, desperate to keep the water out.

Strong hands slip under my head and lift it out of the danger zone, but it’s too late, the adrenaline is too much. The fear takes over and I begin to shake and cry.

“Open your eyes.”

I do not open my eyes. “Just get off me!”

“Open your eyes and look at me.”

“No, just do it. If that’s why you came, then just fucking get it over with!” And now I really do cry, because I just started a fight with a very big guy, jumped off the Huntington Beach Pier, got crashed into a support pillar, swallowed water, almost suffocated, and I’ve been caught. By this man who… who… who is making me feel things I have no business feeling.

He does nothing. His breath is completely back to normal now and I wish I could say the same thing about mine, but I can’t. So he just waits me out as I come to terms with my situation.

I stop crying and laugh instead.

Did I ever think it would end this way? Not in a fight but in total surrender? I am the weakest person alive. I am the weakest person who will—

“It’s funny now?”

His question stops the laughing. Because it’s not funny. “No,” I squeak out. “It’s not funny, but I’m scared.” My teeth are chattering from the cold water that relentlessly ebbs and flows. Covers me and then recedes, leaving nothing but the chilled air rushing in.

He waits.

I wait.

The waves come in, the waves go out.

His body is still and calm as it rests on top of mine and then his face dips down to my neck and he takes a breath as a wave recedes. “You’re bleeding. Does your head hurt?”

I answer with a slight shake and I continue to struggle with my panic, trying to hold my breath so the sobs can’t escape, but failing miserably.

His hands still cup my head, keeping the rushing water from invading my airway. After about a minute, my heart stops the wild rhythm and I settle into his hold.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod.

“Now open your eyes.”

I draw in a steadying breath and obey, blinking back the water for a few seconds as his features come into view.

“You don’t look like a killer.”

He’s repulsed by my words, or maybe shocked. For a moment, at least. Then his expression is impassive again.

I study it while he’s silent. His eyes are a brilliant green. And he’s so close I can even see all the little flecks of yellow and brown in them. I swallow hard and stare into his expectant gaze. “Now what?”

He stares back at me and the moments of silence make things uncomfortable. He’s on top of me.

And then, as if he’s reading my mind, figuring out that his touch is making me nervous, his leg changes position, his one knee drawing up against my hip. Then the other. I close my eyes and begin to cry again, because now I figure he’s gonna rape me and I just had random lustful thoughts about my rapist.

“Why are you crying?” He sits up, so he’s straddling my body, holding me down by the shoulders. But he’s not resting the full weight of himself on me anymore and that’s a welcome relief.

I open my eyes at the question because it throws me for a moment. Why is he asking me these things? “What are you going to do to me?” I sound like a stupid child.

He studies my face for a moment. “What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

“Kill me, rape me, torture me, take me back. Or all of the above, in reverse order.” I try to avoid his stare but I can’t help myself. His face is so beautiful. His features so perfect. His hair is short and dark, no beard, but the stubble on his chin and jaw is the kind that says I’m too busy attacking young girls on piers, so I have no time to shave daily. As stunning as his eyes are, they might not be his best feature, because those full lips are calling to me right now. God, what is my problem?

I change tactics. “Please, get off me, or just do what you came for.”

“OK,” he says with a smile. And that’s it, the smile, that’s the best part of him. It’s wide and genuine. And he has perfect teeth. Perfect white teeth that don’t look like the teeth of a killer. “Let’s get down to business. I asked you your name, I’d like an answer.”

What? “My name? You jumped off the pier and attacked me because I didn’t share my name?”

“I saved you, woman.”

My entire body goes flush with that word. Woman. Why is he calling me that? Surely he can see how young I am. I’m not a woman. Barely legal, as they say. And I feel like a very small child at the moment.

“The one your parents gave you. Don’t lie to me, I’ll know.”

I bet he will. Should I tell him? I turn away and sigh. It hardly matters now. He’s caught me. If he didn’t already know who I was, then why is he so interested? “Harper.”

“Mmmm.” He laughs a little. “Harper,” he repeats, like my name was a secret he was desperate for. “I like it.” He pulls me up to a sitting position and then stands, bringing me up with him. Before I can turn away or try any of my other killer moves out on him, he’s pushing me back against the concrete pillar. He presses his body against mine, his hands resting on either side of my head. “I figured you’d be an easy target, but I was wrong. You got a little lion in ya, don’t you. Some poison to go with it, right? Lionfish?” He smiles big now and dimples appear. One in each cheek. He’s quite adorable for being a killer. “I’ve got a bit of blue-ringed octopus in me, as well.”

What?

“I’m not typically surprised, especially by women. But I have to tell ya, Harper, the thought that you’d rather jump off a pier than be asked out on a date by me… well, it’s an ego bruiser, to say the least.”

A laugh busts out of me before I can stop it. “A date?”

“Most women,” he says, ignoring my question, “do not assume a guy is gonna rape her or kill her when he asks for her name.” He leans down into my face, and my eyes can only concentrate on his lips.

Is he going to kiss me?

Just as he gets close, he changes direction and his breath pours into the shell of my ear. “I was really only looking to get laid tonight if you said yes”—the wetness gathers between my legs—“and that was going to be the end of it. A few Coronas and some rolled tacos on the beach. Or if you’re the fancy type, a seaside restaurant with an expensive bottle of wine to complement the surf and turf. The night ending with a nice hard and dirty fuck at your place so I can disappear in the middle of the night while you sleep peacefully, content with the multitude of orgasms I gifted you.”

I swallow hard again and his palm comes up to my throat, his thumb caressing small circles against my skin. It stops on the thumping artery and it’s like he’s assessing my reaction by the flow of my blood. I hold my breath and he moves his hand, sliding it down to rest on my shoulder. “But that’s not how this is gonna go now, Harper.”

“No?” I whisper, my mind totally blown by what’s happening. What’s happening?

“No,” he says, his intent gaze pouring into mine. “I watched you all morning as you did your circuit. Pull-ups hanging off the railing of the pier. Running the steps that lead to the beach exactly fifty times. Sit-ups lying on the sand. And then the final cooldown walk out to the end of the pier just before dawn. And the entire time, your eyes were sweeping the area. Looking for people.”

“I never saw you,” I say, the panic back again.

“No, I’m not someone who likes to be seen, Harper. I’m someone who likes to do the seeing. But I figured,” he continues, changing the subject back to me, “you were just being careful. Maybe a bit paranoid. Afraid of getting mugged by a crazy homeless person looking for drugs. Typical shit, Harper.”

The way he says my name, God. Why is this man making me feel like this?

“So I was curious. Just an ordinary kind of curious. The kind of curious I feel when I see an unusual bug. But diving off a pier—great form by the way, did you take diving in school?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Diving off a pier, to avoid telling me your name? Now that… Harper, that shit is downright intriguing.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” His lips touch my ear this time. His tongue slides in and flicks against my skin. I hunch my shoulders and let out a moan. “I still want the dirty fuck. But not right now.”

“Oh God,” I whimper. “Just say it already, what do you want with me?”

He pulls away. His hand comes back to my throat, but it doesn’t rest there. No. His fingertips are prodding me to lift my head up and meet his gaze head on.

I obey. It’s I’m like stuck in a trance. He’s entranced me.

“I want to know you.”

And then his mouth is on mine, his tongue probing, pushing for entrance. His hand goes to that spot between my legs where it throbs wildly as he creates friction, calling forth more wetness. His other hand goes to my breast, the nipple hard and bunched from the cold water, my skin tingling with anticipation, fear, and want.

He tastes like salt and he kisses like the sea. Like a dangerous, killing, unforgiving sea that can do whatever it wants with my body. Toss me, twirl me, take me under and steal the breath right out of me. Make me powerless.

And that’s exactly how I feel.

His kiss becomes rough as he squeezes my breast and stimulates my clit at the same time. My legs are trembling so bad, I think I might fall. And even though no man has ever made me feel this way, and even though I want this more than anything—I make myself wriggle and pull away. “Stop!”

And that’s all it takes.

His support is gone. His body is no longer pressed against mine, holding me up. I slump down to the shallow water and draw my knees up to my chest, hiding my face with my hands.

And when I look up a few minutes later—he’s gone.

Like he was never here.

Chapter Three

HARPER

It takes me several minutes to gather myself together under the Huntington Beach Pier. The city is coming to life now. Dawn has come and gone while I was having a personal crisis and the streets are alive with foot and car traffic. Horns honk, people are laughing, bikes whiz by on the path. Even some early-morning beachgoers are present now. A game of volleyball is just starting up near the steps that lead to Pier Plaza.

I stand and start making my way up the beach, sand scratching my skin inside my wet clothes. I drag the tank over my head so I’m just in my sports bra.

That was not sexual. That was… an attack. That’s it.

It felt sexual though. He said some very sexual things, even if all he did was steal a kiss.

I take a deep breath and deal with my bare feet as I reach the cement. Having to walk the streets barefoot grosses me out to no end. I don’t mind no shoes on the sand, or the deck of a boat, or inside my own home. But anywhere else—gross. I climb the steps that bring me to street-level Pier Plaza, looking down Main Street.

I cross Pacific Coast Highway and head north one block, dodging bikers and early-morning joggers, and then turn right on Fifth Street, towards the police station. I live across the street. Well, not exactly across. The Mexican restaurant in front of my building is kitty-corner to the HBPD, but it’s close enough. And if my brother ever knew…

I allow myself a smile and a laugh. Even though my morning sucked and some guy sexually assaulted me—but you liked it, Harp. You know you did—my brother would die laughing if he knew I was living right across the street from the cops.

Cops in HB drive cars, sure. This city is more than the beach. But they have their share of shorts-clad hot men riding beach cruisers, too.

And there are several of them standing outside the station drinking coffee when I walk past. I make a point of ignoring them completely. I’m definitely not in the market for a cop and the last thing I need is for one of them to take notice of me.

Not that they would. I’m the invisible girl—except in the case of one very beautiful green-eyed man.

I try my best to be as unattractive as possible. My hair is never styled, pony-tails only. I never wear makeup. I’m tanned and my hair has bleached strands that make it look like I spend a fortune dying it in fancy salons. But I can’t help any of that. That’s just the natural me.

Mr. Beautiful is the kind of man everyone notices. Tall—my chin only came up to his shoulders. Dark, yes. But with those brilliant green eyes, it made his brand of dark more exotic than most. And he was hard.

I mentally shake myself for that Freudian slip. His muscles were hard. And thick.

But he was hard in that other way, too.

He was solid. And strong. And for those few moments when he was holding me there underneath him, gently cupping the back of my head to keep the rushing water from overtaking me as we regained our breath… he was everything I’m looking for. And everything I should run from.

I cross the street at the Mexican place, then walk to the side yard where a six-foot wooden gate stands guard for the building behind. I work the latch, which is some stupid rope contraption that pulls a lever on the other side, and then enter the walkway that leads to the hidden apartment building.

Only four people live back here. Two people live in the small studio apartments that divide up the ground floor. One older man lives in the second-floor penthouse—which is a relative term, since it’s only two stories tall, but whatever. And me. I live in the garden-level apartment. Better known as the basement.

Even though I’m the only one on this level, I share the space with the building laundry, so my place is small. Only a half-galley kitchenette, a bathroom, and the living room that does double duty as a bedroom.

If Beautiful had his way, he’d be fucking me here tonight.

God. Where did that come from?

He did get his way, Harper. He got your name.

I shake my head and enter the building, walk past the laundry and into the mechanical room where I keep my key. I carry nothing on my person when I leave here. No phone, no key, no ID. When I leave this building, I am nobody. I cease to exist.

It’s like that thought experiment—if a tree falls in the woods… If a girl is not noticed, does she still exist?

I grab my stashed key behind the hot water heater and make my way to my door. Zero is my number. For mail and stuff, my address. Zero is my spot in this world. And it’s so appropriate to be nothing, and not all in a negative way, either. I like being nothing.

I don’t mind being zero, because when I come home to this place, my little space of nothingness, I feel safe.

Being invisible. Being nothing—a zero. It’s good.

I’m not safe, of course. No one is ever safe. But I need the illusion, now more than ever. Because someone, after living here for eleven months—eleven long and lonely months of no friends, no family, and no hope of ever having a normal life again—someone wants to know me.

Not fuck me, although he did say that too. He ended the conversation with know me.

The apartment is nothing special, but it’s not infested with cockroaches so I count myself lucky. I looked for that before I moved in and paid my rent up front for one year. Cockroaches. No. That’s worse than bare feet on the street.

I have one more paid month and then decisions have to be made, because I’m out of money. This place might be small, have no ocean view, and be about the farthest thing from where I grew up. But it’s one block off PCH, one block from HB Main Street. It’s a five-minute walk to the sand. And it’s eighteen hundred dollars a month. The only way I’d be able to stay here after my pre-paid year is up is if I robbed a bank.

I’m not that desperate. Yet.

My phone vibrates on the counter and jolts me from my pity-party introspection. In a second my heart is racing again. Who the fuck? I walk over and pick it up just as the vibrating stops. ‘I know where you live.’

What? My heart is beating so fast, for a moment I think I might fall over and collapse. I stagger to a chair and sit down, gasping for air in short little bursts as the fear takes over. I lean over and put my head between my knees just as the phone vibrates again.

No. No. No. What’s happening?

But I can’t think straight. The only thing I hear are the staccato beats of my adrenaline-induced heartbeat.

The phone vibrates again and again, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with fear. I’m dead. I’m a dead girl. The phone vibrates again. I thought Beautiful was my killer, but he let me go. And now… this?

I rock. Back and forth.

I cry huge silent tears.

If they’ve found me, then my life is over.

I force myself to get up and stumble into the bathroom where I keep the pills. I haven’t used them in months. But that little white pill is calling my name. That little white pill is the only thing that will keep me from losing my mind right now.

The bottle shakes, making the pills clatter around inside, but I manage to get a few to fall into my open palm. I gulp a handful and then stick my mouth under the tap and slurp water to wash them down.

My phone is still ringing out on the counter, and even though I know the drug is not in my bloodstream yet, just the fact that I took the pills calms me. I breathe for stretches of minutes, and after some time, I am calm.

Thoughts of sleep jolt me from my slumped position on the bathroom floor, so I get up and walk into the living area where my bed is pushed up against the far wall to leave space for the chair and small coffee table. I grab the phone as I walk by and then fall on top of the messy bed, rolling around a little to get under the covers, and then close my eyes.

The phone rings and now that I’m relaxed, I can deal.

“I’m ready, motherfuckers,” I bark into the speaker. “Come get me if you know so much.”

“What?”

I sit upright as the voice of the beautiful man registers. “How did you get this number?”

“I’m the only one who’s coming, Harper.”

I press end on the phone and page through my missed calls. All him! That stupid asshole! They were all him! I go to the messages and begin reading.

‘Dinner’s at eight.’

‘Beach tacos or fancy view?’

‘Harper, I do not like to be ignored.’

‘I’ll just come over, I’m just down the street.’

That message was five minute ago. Before the call.

My phone rings again and I answer. “What do you want?”

“I asked you a question, I expect an answer,” he growls into the phone. I absently log the sound of people, cars, a siren that I can hear both inside my apartment as it leaks in from outside, and through the phone. He’s close by. Just outside my building, probably.

Is he one of them? I’m not sure. “I’m confused,” I confess, the anti-anxiety drug kicking into full force now, making me slur my words. My body falls back into the covers. My head is spinning and my eyes are heavy. “I’m so confused…”

“Harper?” Beautiful demands from my phone on the blankets. I reach down, fingertips feeling for it. My vision blurs as I bring it to my face and stare at the fuzzy keypad.

“Go away, Beautiful,” I whisper to the fading light. “You can’t see me. I’m invisible. You don’t want to know me. Because I’m no one. I’m zero.”

Chapter Four

JAMES

Her words stop me. I’m walking into her building, and her words stop me. Beautiful? And then the call ends with three quick beeps and I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it. She took those pills. Her words were slurring. I scared the fuck out of her and she took those pills.

I grab the key I had made and open her door. The place is quiet except for the mechanical hum of the air conditioning. I close the door and walk over to her bed. She’s curled up in a ball, clutching her pillow. Most nights this is how she sleeps. But it’s not night and she’s not asleep. She’s passed out.

I grab the bottle from the bathroom and count the pills. Seven missing. Fourteen milligrams. Not great, but could be worse. These pills are not easy to overdose on. I know this shit. Pharmacology is my specialty. My calling card when I need to take care of business. The poison I use tells my superiors what kind of job it was. Anti-anxiety drugs are worthless for killing people, so she’s not gonna die, but she’s gonna be out of it for a while.

I pull the covers back and she moans. Her clothes are soaking wet, she smells like salt, and her head is still seeping blood. “Harper?” I pull her to a sitting position and grab her face. “Harper?”

Her eyes roll a little as she slurs out an incomprehensible word.

I let her lie back and then reach down to unbutton her shorts. They are stuck to her skin, so I have to tug them to get them over her curvy hips. Her underwear drags down with them. They’re black, like her sports bra, and for a moment I imagine her in lingerie.

My dick is hard immediately.

Her pussy is covered in fine blonde hair. Trimmed and neat. It stops my heart for a second. God. I’ve wanted this girl for months. I’ve imagined her spread out on this bed naked so many times, this is like reliving a dream. I pull her shorts and panties over her ankles and then lift her to sitting again. “Hold still,” I whisper as she moans. I tug the bra over her head and toss it down on the floor next to the shorts. And then I lift her up in my arms and hold her close. Her breasts press against me and then her arms encircle my neck and she leans in, pushing her face into my shoulder like she’s snuggling.

Fuck. I want her so bad.

She is mine. She feels like mine. I have an overwhelming desire to touch every part of her toned and tanned body. I want to push her up against the wall and take her from behind. I want to fuck her mouth with my cock and her pussy and ass with my fingers.

I’ve dreamed of this for months.

Chapter Five

HARPER

Oh, God. The headache. I turn over in bed and smell… what’s that smell?

My sheets smell delicious. Like a summer meadow. Fresh.

I inhale and then remember why I passed out in the first place and sit upright, my heart once again beating wildly. I don’t smell like the ocean and my clothes do not stink of salt, even though I jumped off a pier. And my bed is not littered with sand. I look around, trying to assess what’s happening.

Or what happened. When I fell asleep.

My head is so foggy from the Ativan. I look over at my bedside table and spy the bottle. How many did I take? Three? Four? More?

Too many after so many months clean. Enough to mess with my memory. But I only took them because I was freaked out. I thought…

What did I think?

I try to remember back. The pier. I jumped off a pier. Hit my head… my fingertips go to my left temple where the throbbing is. There’s no blood, just a scab and… stitches? I flick my finger back and forth across the tiny knots and there’s a jolt of pain as this pulls the tender skin.

Someone stitched my head.

I withdraw the hand.

Beautiful saved me. He stitched me back up.

No, no, no! Oh my God! That’s not what’s happening here, Harper! He’s working for them! He has to be, how else would he get my phone number? And why was he following me in the first place?

I silence the inner voice. I can’t stand it right now. It needs to just go away and let me react. Things need to be simple. If ever there was a time to rely on instincts, this is it.

And the simple truth is, that guy attacked me, kissed me, and insinuated he was going to have sex with me. He works for them. I know this. I’m certain of this. I’m not sure what kind of game he’s playing, but I’ve met a few of the hunters growing up. He’s definitely one of them. All cocky, charismatic, and calm. He seemed very sure of himself.

Didn’t he?

But why didn’t he kill me? Or take me back?

I look around for my phone and spy it on the table next to the pills. I scoot across the bed and grab it so I can search my messages. But when I open the log, there’s nothing there. Empty. Just as it should be. No one ever messages me. No one has this number.

But… he did message me. He asked me… damn. I can’t recall what, but I jumped off the pier when he asked me something and then I walked home, panicked when I got the message—the one that’s not here—and I took the pills and went to bed to ride it out.

But… I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a pink tank top and white boy short underwear. I smell my skin. Nope, no trace of the ocean. I smell like soap. I must’ve taken a shower.

And changed the sheets?

Because there’s no sand in the bed. None between my toes. The shorts and sports bra I was wearing should be on the floor where I usually throw them when I undress, but they’re nowhere to be found.

I laugh as I get up and pad over to the kitchen to start some coffee. “I should get high on Ativan more often. Apparently stoned Harper is a neat freak.”

Or…

Beautiful came in, cleaned me up and stitched my wound, clothed me, changed my sheets, and did the laundry. I laugh at the thought.

Or…

God, I hate the incessant sub-vocalization of my mind. Why can’t it shut up?

Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Maybe there was no man on the pier? Maybe I took the pills and all that stuff was nothing more than an over-sedation fugue.

I really need to get out of this house. How long can one person talk to themselves before it’s considered a pathology? I have no idea, but I’m not into finding out. Maybe that guy was a dream, who cares. If he was here to take me back, I’d be back. I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing half naked in my kitchen making coffee.

Screw the coffee. I need to go somewhere. Anywhere. I check the time to see how long I was out and it’s seven thirty. On cue, a rumble erupts from my stomach. I haven’t eaten all day.

I grab a pair of cut-off shorts from my dresser, slip into a fresh bra, and shimmy into a white tank top. Hair is never more than a pony-tail, so I just smooth it over and pull it up.

My feet find my flops by the door, I grab my key and head out.

I stop by the mechanical room to drop off the key and pick up some cash. Just ten bucks. I have about eight hundred left to my name, but it’s hard to care when all I want is ten dollars and my stomach is beginning to hurt.

Since there are only four people who live in this building, the chances of me bumping into them at any particular time are low. I love that, because right now everyone is the enemy. I appreciate people when I need something. Like the guy at the Mexican place where I’m headed now. He gives me food in exchange for money. So I appreciate him for his taco-making skills.

But I don’t want to know his name and I don’t want him to know mine.

I want nothing to do with anyone. I just want to hang out in my strange state of limbo and chill. I’ve never talked to my neighbors. I know what they look like, I keep an eye out for weirdness, things that go against the grain. Different is bad. I like same. Same is good.

Except for the beautiful man.

There was no man. I dreamed that whole thing. Jumped off a pier! Ha. What a stupid move. But dreams are like that. You jump off piers all the time in dreams. And seriously, I will have really fucked up if he is real, because I gave him my name.

I walk down the sidewalk that leads out to Fifth Street, open the gate, and steady myself to join the world.

The restaurant is busy so I just get right in line, pretending to look up at the menu as I wait. I don’t eat here often, it’s too close to home to be a regular. But when I do, I get the same thing every time. Asada tacos, a side of rice, and a tea. Fifteen minutes later I have my greasy bag of food, some napkins and a plastic fork. The tables outside are full, so I head down to the beach to eat on the steps that line Pier Plaza. I pick a space against the wall and get settled. I come here every night for the sunset. The city put in these stadium-like concrete steps for sunset and volleyball-watchers.

Sitting here at sunset and waking up with the sun on the pier, those are the two constants in my life at the moment. The two things I can count on to keep me sane. It’s only eight right now, so I have a little wait for the sun to set.

I scarf the food. Once I start, I can’t stop. It’s like I haven’t eaten in days.

I’m just about to shovel the last forkful of rice in my mouth when my phone vibrates.

My heart thumps. Once. It’s a giant thump that almost sends me into another panic attack, but I calm myself and reach for the phone, a small stream of light leaking out from the screen on the concrete seat next to me.

‘Tacos on the beach. Check.’

I stand up and whirl around, just as the phone vibrates in my hand again. I ignore it, still searching. He’s not here on the steps. I hop up on the concrete barrier that partitions off the various seating sections and scan again.

How would I even know him? I don’t know his build, or his gait, or his height. I know his eyes. And the touch of his lips, the dance of his tongue. And none of that is helpful from a distance.

My phone vibrates again so I jump down and check the screen.

‘You only see me if I want you to.’

‘But you can see me any time you want?’ I text back.

‘I want to know you, and I always get what I want. BTW, I love the shorts, Harp.’

My hand flies to my chest, as if to protect my heart from the immediate hurt that floods me when I read the name. Harp. How dare this man insert himself into my life and pretend like he’s got a right to know me. How dare he interrupt my routine, take me out of the bubble of comfort that I’ve wrapped myself in.

I grab the remains of my dinner, jog back up the steps, and dump it in the trash. Then I jaywalk across PCH, feeling a little like Frogger in the rush-hour traffic, and turn the corner at Fifth to walk home.

See? See, Harper? This is why you stay the fuck inside.

I half walk, half jog all the way back to my gate and then let myself in the back. God, that thing is not very secure. Anyone can come up and pull that stupid piece of rope. I find my key and let myself into the apartment, closing the door behind me, locking it up tight, and then lean back against it so I can slump to the floor.

This guy is a creep. He’s stalking me. Watching me, taking note of what I’m wearing, what I’m eating. My phone vibrates behind me and I jump.

I’m going to have to go to the police. There’s no way this can be anything but bad. No way. I will have to go to the police. What if he’s not one of them? What if he’s just some crazy rapist?

Another vibration.

I pick up the phone and turn it over to read the messages.

‘What day is it?’

What?

‘Do you even know?’

I huff out some air. ‘Wednesday,’ I text back.

‘Better check that calendar again, Harper.’

No nickname this time. Why? He saw my reaction out there on the beach? How? How could he know the name was what made me react?

‘Day, Harper. I hate having to ask you to do everything twice.’

I check the date on my phone, but that’s no help. I never keep track of the date. So I go into my calendar app and my eyes almost bug out of my head.

Friday.

Well, that explains the line at the Mexican place. And my hunger. I was asleep for three days.

‘I’m waiting.’

He can wait all he wants. He’s playing a game with me and I just quit.

‘Do you remember the bath I gave you after you took the pills?’

I can’t remember shit, a common side-effect with Ativan when you take too much. And someone had to stitch my head, change me out of my clothes, clean me up, wash my saltwater-soaked garments, and put me to bed.

That someone really was him.

‘I enjoyed it. Every second.’

The tears fall down my cheeks as I consider the implications of what he’s telling me. I message back. ‘I’m reporting you to the police for rape, asshole!’

Chapter Six

JAMES

Rape.

She has got to be fucking with me. It makes me laugh, but seriously, this girl, after everything that’s happened, thinks I’m a rapist?

I’m two yards away from her building door, but I take a little detour out to the alley to think this through.

Rapist. I roll the possibilities over and over in my mind and only come up with one explanation.

She has no idea who I am.

I run my hands through my hair, pulling a little. She’s driving me crazy and all these months of watching her, all that pent-up want and desire, is clouding my thinking.

If she has no idea who I am, then…

Chapter Seven

HARPER

A pounding on the door makes me jump up from the floor.

“Harper?” the beautiful voice says softly through the door. “Open up, Harp.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say back. “You have no right to call me that.”

“Open the door, or I swear to fucking God, I will kick it in and break the locks.”

“I’m dialing the police.”

“No, you’re not. You’re on the run. It doesn't take a guy like me to see that. Open. The. Door. I need to set you straight. Right now.”

I pause, thinking.

He kicks the door and the wood around the lock begins to splinter.

“Stop!”

“Open,” he commands.

I reach over and flip the deadbolt. As soon as it clicks, the door flies open and he’s in front of me, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like it was that day under the pier. Only now, he looks furious.

And it scares the fuck out of me. I back up, my hands out to ward him off. But he continues forward, kicking the door closed with his foot, forcing me against the wall.

“You think I raped you?” His eyes are blazing with anger as he stares down at me. They dart back and forth, looking me straight on, but not able to settle on one eye or the other. “Answer me!” he bellows.

I jump a little and immediately I lose control and the tears start to well up. I cover my face. “Go away! Just leave me alone!”

He yanks on both wrists, flinging my hands down, and then he cups my face and leans in closer. As close as he was the other day under the pier. My whole body begins to tremble. “You think,” he says, softer now, “that I raped you, Harp?”

“Please don’t call me that. Please, please, please don’t call me that.”

He lets out a long breath of air and removes his hands, turns, and walks away. I cover my face again and peek through my fingers like a child, watching him struggle with me, running his hands back and forth through his thick, wavy hair. He’s wearing a light blue t-shirt that hugs all the thick muscles of his back. The faded jeans look very old and there’s a hole in the ass that lets his checkered boxers peek through. On his feet are a pair of classic Vans that look like they were born sometime in the eighties.

He’s clearly dangerous, so this fashion contradiction makes me laugh at his implied harmlessness.

He whirls around, puzzled. “Funny?” he asks me, his eyebrows up into his forehead with suspicion. “This is funny?” It’s his turn to laugh, but it’s clear he does not think it’s funny. “You have a strange sense of humor, Har… per.” He adds in the last syllable and tilts his head a little to see if I’ll react to the name again.

I lower my hands and press myself back against the wall as he makes another approach. This time he does not touch me, simply presses his palms against the wall on either side of my head.

I take a breath and look around, trying to avoid his stare.

“Now, answer. Do you think I came in. Found you drugged and unconscious. Bleeding from your head.” He flicks his fingertips along my stitched wound, and I wince. “Cared for you.” His voice lowers at this. It’s barely a whisper. “Cleaned you up. Sewed you back together. Dressed you in the sweetest things I could find in your meager assortment of clothing.”

I swallow hard as I picture this in my head. His hands on my body. His eyes on my body. Choosing my clothing and dressing me.

“And then wrapped you up in a blanket and slept next to you for forty-eight hours as you came out of your pathetic overdose of benzodiazapams—”

“I didn’t overdose, I’m just not used to taking them anymore!”

He places a hand over my mouth. “Shush! That was the second crazy thing you did that day,” he stresses. “So you think I came and did all that, and then raped you?”

I look away, embarrassed.

“Is your cunt sore?”

I snap my attention back at the vulgar language.

“Is it?”

I shake my head no.

“Well, then you can be sure, Harper. I did not fuck you. Because I don’t do anything half-ass. And if I was gonna fuck you, believe me, you’d feel the effect of my cock in your pussy for a week and the only thing on your mind would be when I’d come back and do it again.”

Oh God! I’m throbbing from his words. I turn my head to hide the blush but his fingers slip under my chin and force my attention back to him.

“Look at me.”

I raise my eyelids and take a hitched breath from the crying. He stares back at me for a moment and then he leans down. Slow this time, not the crushing madness of heat we had under the pier the other day. His lips graze against mine, just a soft flutter of a kiss, and then he pulls back before I can react. “Did you think about our kiss under the pier afterward?” I blush and try to look away, but his fingertips are back on my chin, urging me to look him in the eyes. “Answer me, Harper.”

“Yes.”

“Was it good?”

I can’t help myself, I laugh. This makes him smile and those dimples appear.

“Was it everything you dreamed? Because I can do better. I can do so much better if I disappointed you, Harper.”

I blush again. “No, it was fine.”

“Fine? Kissing you should be so much more than fine.”

I look him in the eyes this time and tell the truth. “It was… spectacular.” I get more dimples at that admission. When I look up at his eyes, I’m entranced. He’s… hypnotic. “I’d like another,” I whisper, not even sure where that just came from. It’s true though, so I don’t take it back. I just stare at him.

He leans down into my neck and nips my earlobe. “Would you?” he breathes into me.

I can only nod this time. My capacity for speech has left. My whole body erupts in chills, and not the creepy kind. The kind I’ve never experienced before.

“Right now?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I answer back, just as soft.

“Well,” he says in his regular voice as he pulls away, “I think you have an appointment at the beach, maybe we can reconvene this”—he laughs—“whatever this is, afterward?”

“What?”

He takes my hand and leads me towards the door. I grab my key off the floor where I dropped it when I came in, and stuff it in my pocket. I’ve never left the apartment with another person before. It throws me off my safety routine.

He holds my hand all the way to the wooden gate and then guides me through with a pat on my ass. I close my eyes and gasp at that move, but I don’t say anything because his unauthorized touch is gone a moment later. He resumes holding my hand. Like we are boyfriend and girlfriend just out for a Friday night walk.

“This is weird,” I say under my breath.

“What’s weird?” he asks back.

I look up at him as we walk and he absently grabs the dark shades hanging off the collar of his t-shirt and slips them over his eyes. I miss his eyes immediately, but it’s almost sunset and we’re heading west, so the orange glare of the sun blasts down on his face, illuminating his skin like some bronzed god in a muscle-hugging t-shirt and holey jeans.

He raises our clasped hands. “Holding hands is weird?”

“Yes, but…” I trail off and he lets it go because we’re at the light at PCH and Main now. We wait with a crowd of people heading to the steps for the sunset and it dawns on me. “My appointment is with the sun?”

He looks down at me and smiles. “Is it? I always figured it was with the dusk. And the one in the morning is with the dawn. But it’s the sun, huh?”

“You’ve been watching me.”

He nods as the light changes and the crowd of people shuffle forward together, taking us up in a wave of momentum.

When we reach the steps in Pier Plaza, there’s almost nowhere to sit. Friday night sunset-watching is very popular in the summer. I usually get here at least a half hour early on the weekends.

“We’re late,” my new partner says as we approach. He bolts off to the right, tugging me behind him as he goes. And then he finds a seat for us, squished up against a pillar. He sits down first and I look dubiously at the small space left for me. He pats his knee. “Sit, Harper.”

He draws me towards him until I plop down in his lap.

As if I had a choice?

When he wraps his arms around me and leans against the concrete pillar, I tense up immediately. I’m just not sure how I’m supposed to act right now.

He leans into my neck. “Relax,” he says softly.

“I can’t help it,” I say back. “I don’t even know your name and you’re hugging me in public like we’re engaged or something.”

“Later, Harper. Just enjoy the show. It’s about to start.”

I give in. He makes me want to give in. And the inner independent and strong-willed girl inside me wants to object.

But I don’t. Because I like it. He feels so familiar. He feels like an old friend instead of a stranger. For the first time in over a year, I feel safe. And since the one lesson I learned early was that safety was a gift, I decide to accept it.

I lean back against his chest and I feel our heartbeats. Mine, then his. Then mine, then his. And after a while of this, they beat together. Everyone around us is talking and joking. Babies cry. Skaters do tricks off the wall on the other side of the bike path. But we remain quiet. Our world is slow and satisfying.

The fiery orange ball of flames dips to the horizon and everything darkens. And then, like the sun was taking its time crossing the sky the entire day but is suddenly in the biggest hurry, it disappears.

People clap and kids cheer. They do this every night. Some of them I even recognize, that’s how regular they are at the sunsets.

I spy an older woman I see all the time, looking at me. She shoots me an approving wink and I blush. She thinks this stranger and I are together. And why wouldn’t she? I’m sitting in his lap, his arms are hugging my waist, my head is resting against his chest. Our hearts beating in synchronicity.

We remain like this until everyone around us drifts away. “Now?” I ask.

“Do you want my real name? My associate name? Or my fake name?”

“All of them,” I say through a long yawn.

“Just one tonight. Pick.”

I have a very bad feeling about this. “And the associate name is…?”

“A code.”

Oh. This is great. “What kind of code?” I already know, but I ask anyway because I need to be absolutely sure.

“For what I do. A calling card, so they know it’s me.”

“I have one of those too.”

His chest rumbles with a laugh. “I bet you do.”

“Do you want to know what it is?”

“First mine, then yours. Pick.”

“Real name.”

“James Fenici.”

“James,” I repeat in a whisper. “I like James.”

“I like Harper.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“I’m only eighteen.”

“I know.”

He knows. Hmmm. But the look on his face as my age hangs between us captures my full attention. “Does it bother you?” He waits a few heartbeats before answering and this is my clue that yes, it does bother him. “It doesn’t bother me,” I add.

Fingertips guide my chin so my head turns towards him and then his mouth is on mine, his tongue probing, asking me to open, I do open. And this time I touch my tongue to his. He flicks against it and it feels… so good.

He ends the kiss and stands up, holding me in his arms for a moment before setting me down. “It doesn’t bother me either, but you’re tired. So I’ll walk you home.”

He holds my hand again, changing sides when we get to the highway, putting himself between me and the traffic like a gentleman. But we finish our walk to my building in silence. When we get to the wooden gate we stop so he can pull the rope and open the latch. “What’s your code name, Harper?” He looks over his shoulder at me, like he feels guilty for asking.

I stare at him, suddenly uneasy. Is this a trap? “You want to know this because you have a target?” It’s a bold question, but justified. If he’s here to kill me, I’d like to know. Even if he is wavering on whether or not to fulfill his contract.

“You’re not my target, OK?” But he doesn’t look me in the face when he says it.

“You first then.”

He smiles and holds the gate open for me and we walk down the path to the building, then head downstairs. I get my key out and I’m about to push it inside the lock when his hand rests on mine.

“Tet,” he says. “My code name is Tet.”

I look up at his face to try and figure out what he’s thinking. “Why did you tell me that?”

“What’s yours?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“You’re here for me, aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. “No, I swear it. I’m not here for you. But I need to know where you fit in. Code name?”

“I’m no one. Someone’s daughter, that’s all.”

“Code name, Harper.” His eyes are still soft, like he hates to ask, but he has no choice.

I swallow hard and bow my head. “Come. My code is Come.”

He lets out a long audible breath of relief. A small chuckle follows. “That’s a dirty little name for such a sweet little girl.”

I ignore his innuendo. “I could’ve been your target.” It unnerves me. The reality of what that means.

“You’re not,” he says sternly. “You’re not and that’s all that matters.”

“But I’m someone’s target.” He takes the key from my hand, but this time I put my hand on his and it’s me who stops it from entering the lock. “Where do you fit in?” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. It’s so taboo. We could both be killed for these few words. But just like he needs to know where I fit in, I need to know his place too. Come is a verb. A verb code name means I’m a nobody. But Tet, I’m not sure what that stands for. I know all the ranks, but I’ve never heard of a Tet.

He lets out a long breath and looks down at his feet, like he doesn’t want to tell me. “Number Six.” I shake my head and turn away, but he catches me by the waist and pulls me back. “Please don’t turn away.”

“Six?” I cannot even comprehend it. “Six,” I say again.

The organization my father is married to, indebted to for life—the same one he sold his children into when he joined, the same one that will take my children as well, should I live long enough to have any—is deeply compartmentalized. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a code. There are thousands of members all over the world. Most are innocuous. Verbs like mine. Come. Dance. Ride. Skip. They’re endless.

The higher-ups have nouns. There are hundreds of them. Bear. Desk. Claw. Grass. The names are meaningless, just a label to put you in perspective.

My father has a rank. The Admiral. There are twelve members with ranks.

But only ten people have a number.

The assassins.

Chapter Eight

JAMES

“Why do you look so familiar?” she asks. “No, wait, that’s not the right question. Why do you feel so familiar? Is it because you’ve been watching me?” Her eyes scan mine, searching for the truth, but at the same time second-guessing whether or not she actually wants to know it.

“What’s your brother’s code?”

The slap cracks across my face before I even have a chance to react, but once I do I take her out like any other threat. I grab her arms, twist them behind her back, push her forward with a knee to the ass, and take her down to the hard concrete floor.

She struggles beneath me, slips out of my hold and does a half turn, just enough to thrust her foot into my abdomen.

I grab her ankle, but she twists again, elbowing me in the neck. “Fuck!” I grab her foot, twist her body until she’s forced to roll and then hold her with an arm across her thigh and a hand on her calf.

“You better snap my knee, James,” she seethes, her breath coming out in long gasps, matching my own from the sudden effort of the fight. “Because if you let me up, you’ll regret it.”

I lean into her a little harder, making sure she’s pinned good and tight to the concrete floor. I’m not quite sure if she’s serious. I know she’s capable. I’ve heard all about the mistakes they made with her upbringing. It was drilled into us in the debrief. She’s dangerous. Do not underestimate her. Never turn your back.

Watching her all these months, the severity of the little warnings diminished as the days grew longer. She never got angry. She never raised her voice to anyone. She was no more intimidating than any of the other young girls on the beach.

But the venom in her voice right now jars my memory and the warnings are back in full force.

“Harper—”

“No,” she snaps. “You’re here to kill me? Take me back? Then what the fuck are you waiting for? Give it your best shot.” She wiggles again and I lose my grip. Her knee comes up and almost connects with my jaw. But I’m the one who twists this time and she slides out from under me and bounces to her feet.

She’s fast. And young. And angry. And cornered.

I’m up a fraction of a moment later, but I back up and throw her the surrender hands to ease her down off the ledge. “Whoa, OK? I’m not here to do any of that.”

“Why did you ask about him?” she snarls. “You—”

“Harper, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead, honey. I’m a dirty killer, I get the job done and get the fuck out of Dodge. I’m not here to hurt you.”

She just stares at me, shaking her head. “You’re trained to say that. You’re trained to make me believe you, to lie about anything and everything to get what you need. You’re trained to make me vulnerable and needy and weak—”

“And so are you, Harper,” I bark, cutting off her rant and snapping her back to attention. “So. Are. You. You’re just as ruthless. More maybe. Because you plotted this for years, didn’t you? Maybe you’re playing me?”

“Maybe I am,” she retorts.

“You say they call you Come? And maybe they do. But that’s not your code, so don’t feed me that bullshit. At least I was honest. Do you really think I’d give you my number if I was here to kill you?”

She swallows and I know I’ve won.

Chapter Nine

HARPER

I turn away quickly so I don’t have to look at him.

“Harper?” he asks softly.

I have no words. I just have no words.

“Harper?” He touches my shoulder this time and I shrug him off.

“Don’t.”

“I swear to God, I’m not here for you.”

“Where were you last?”

“I can’t say.”

I already knew that. So I change the question slightly. “Where were you last year?” He pauses and I turn so I can see his face as he makes his decision. He looks like he’s thinking hard, counting back the months, maybe. But they are trained to do that, aren’t they? “I’m waiting.” I tap my foot like a petulant child and his eyes drop down to my flip flop and then he looks up at me and smiles.

How could this man be one of them? I don’t understand how anyone with those dimples could be a killer.

“I was fucking up a friend’s job over in a small, nondescript European country. Which is where all my trouble really started.”

“Not in the South Pacific?” I ask warily. Like he would tell me.

“No. I don’t work that side of the world. Haven’t been back in there since I was assigned when I was sixteen.” He watches me as I process his words. Since he was sixteen. He’s been killing people since he was sixteen. “OK?” he asks, breaking the silence. “We good?”

I shake my head and lean against the wall. He comes towards me and puts his hands on my hips and plays with my belt loops. “Harper,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m not walking away from you. You need to understand that. Accept it. I’m here now and I feel like I’m doing the right thing for the first time in my life. I want you. I want to be inside of you. I’ve waited patiently for so fucking long. And this was a stroke of luck. Being sent here and finding you.”

I shake my head at this. “No, it’s a trap.”

“Maybe,” he says, continuing his soft whisper. It disarms me and I want to give in, I really want to give in to him. But deep down I know what he’s capable of. I know because I was taught all the same tricks. “Maybe it was a setup. But I swear to you, I’m not in on it. I won’t ask about your brother again.”

When confronted by the mark, placate them with any and all possible concessions. It’s a textbook example and yet… I’m so falling for it. I want him to stay with me and never leave. I’m so lonely and needy and he has to know this.

His hand cups my face and then his lips brush against mine. “Harper,” he pleads as he takes his mouth back to my ear. “Trust me, I’ll take care of you, Soldier.”

I force myself not to react but it takes every ounce of training not to.

“I know that’s what they really call you, Harper. The Little Soldier. A baby name, right? Since childhood. I know you and you know me, don’t you?”

I pull back, forcing him back at the same time. I need to look at him. He is so familiar. I had to have noticed him on the beach or something.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just leans in and nips my lip until I squeal.

And that’s all it takes. I melt. He senses my surrender and crashes his mouth against mine, hungrily, like he’s been waiting for this moment for years. “I want to fuck you right here in the hallway. Bend your ass over and take you from behind.”

Jesus, I’m throbbing almost instantly. He pushes his thigh between my legs and presses. This time the throbbing turns into wetness.

“I never—” I dip my head down, embarrassed.

“I know.”

“What do you want?” I look up at him now. His green eyes do that searching thing again, where they dart back and forth, trying to read me.

“I want you,” he says.

“But why?” I fling my hand in the direction of the beach. “There’s a ton of women out there on the beach you can have. Why do you want me? I’m a kid.”

“You sure look all grown up to me.”

His rough characterization of me on the beach comes back. He called me woman. “I don’t feel like a woman. I feel like a child.”

He rubs the back of his fingers down my cheek and I frown and twist my head away. But my body responds to his touch. I can feel myself flush with heat.

“You’ve been here alone for months. I’ve watched you. I’ve been in your apartment. I found your key and your money in the little mechanical room over there.”

My eyes dart up with these admissions. “You’re creepy, then. You’re a creepy stalker. And if that was the end of it, then OK, whatever. I’d just move on and forget about you. But you’re not just a creepy stalker, you’re my creepy stalker. A girl who’s got a target on her chest. And you’re a guy whose only purpose in life is to eliminate the target. So what am I supposed to think? That this is just some coincidence?”

“We’ve got history, Harper.”

“Not the kind of history that counts for much, James,” I shoot back. “This is the kind of history that makes you want to change your name, move away, and start over.”

“Is that what you did? Is that how you ended up here?”

I let out a long breath and purse my lips together. “I’m not telling you anything. You’re trying to confuse me. Make me trust you. Then you’re gonna use me to do whatever it is you’re really here for. If they didn’t send you to kill me, then they want what they think I have. Or they want me to help you do something bad. Or…” He waits a few seconds. A longish pause, to see if I’ll continue. But it’s too real. I can’t say the last part.

“Or what?” he prods. “Or turn you into something else.” I look up and he smiles. “That’s it, right? They might turn you into me. You have skills, little lionfish? Is diving off piers and fighting assassins just another day to you? Your code name might be Come, but you wanted to be Soldier, and look… now you are. All grown up. Dangerous. Lethal, they called you. They told me you were a lethal little soldier and I should stay far, far away. Call for reinforcements.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I snap.

“Because you are not my target. I’m not here for you.”

“Then tell me why you’re here.” I challenge. “I want to know now.”

He smirks at me and shakes his head.

I snatch the key from his hand and unlock the door. When he doesn’t stop me, I twist the handle and open it. Then I look over my shoulder. And that hesitation is my turning point. Because his mouth finds mine. Not hard and rough like an assassin, or soft and sweet like he’s caring for a child.

But something in between.

A man kissing a woman.

I turn into him and his arms go around mine, his hands inside my clothes before I even know what’s happening. One hand slides down the crack of my ass and pushes between my cheeks, while the other heads north to grab the back of my neck.

“I’m here for you, Harper. I want you.”

That spot between my legs wants him too. But my brain is scared out of my mind. I push him back. “No.” He sighs and removes his hand so he can step back a few paces. “I’m not ready.” His chuckle irritates me, like he already knew that. Like I’m just a girl who teases men and then gives them nothing. “I’m not like that,” I say aloud, building my case for his silent accusation. “I’m not a tease. I just…” I have nothing. So I demand the one thing I know I can’t have to cover for my insecurities. “I need to know you better first.”

I get a crooked smile in response. “You want to know if I like it rough? That answer is yes. If I take you, I’ll take you my way.”

“What? No!” I let out an uncomfortable laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You really want to know why I’m here?” He crosses his arms and leans back on his heels a bit.

I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I need that info or I can’t be with you.”

He laughs at my childish demand. “Of course, little lionfish. You are the pretty girl with the poison daggers poking through her skin. You ask for the one thing you know you can’t have to send me away. Right?”

My lips are sealed.

He grabs hold of my waist again and pulls me into his chest. My arms go around his neck automatically, like I already belong to him. And then he leans into my ear and whispers, “I killed my brother, Harper. I killed Number Five. I shot him in the head and then I poisoned a man to settle a debt for fucking up that job I mentioned in Europe. I’m allowed to kill people if I need to. And I needed to kill both these people. But my bosses were not happy about it. They said I failed the psych evaluation when I came in for the debrief. They said I’m a danger to them, myself, and the world. But since they’ve spent the past twenty years training me to kill, they can hardly blame me for a one-time indiscretion. As long as it was just a single incident. They said I could unwind at the beach. They wanted to see if some downtime would help—take the edge off.”

I turn my head and look him in the face. His expression is hard even though his words stayed soft. His eyes are squinting, the frown lines on his forehead more pronounced, his jaw tensed as he waits for my reaction.

“Is that what you wanted to hear, Harper?”

I nod up at him. “Yes. Thank you.” He pushes me away and starts walking down the hallway. “Wait!”

He doesn’t wait, just turns the corner at the little mechanical room. My feet are in motion as I chase after him.

“Wait!” I pull on his arm and he stops outside the open door to the laundry room. The dryer beeps, signaling that someone’s load is complete. “Where are you going?” My heart is suddenly beating fast at the thought of him walking away.

I get a sideways glance this time. Not his full attention. The glance that says I’m leaving. “I shouldn’t have told you that, I’m sorry.”

He pulls away but I grab him again. “Just stop, please.”

He sighs and does a few little headshakes, like he’s having some kind of internal debate. “That night you took those Ativan, I was on the phone with you?”

He waits, so I answer with, “Yeah?”

“You said, ‘You don’t want to know me… I’m no one.’” He turns to face me head-on now, his expression blank, his mouth a flat line. His eyes impassive and empty. I can see it now. This is a killer’s face. The dimples are hiding underneath the frown. The emotionless facade of a hardened assassin. A man who sees death as nothing personal, just a job to be completed.

“But you’re wrong, Harp. I’m the invisible one. You’re a beacon in the dark as far as I’m concerned. I’m the unknowable one. And if you were my contract, I would kill you.” He stares down at me with those impassive, cold, businesslike green eyes. “Just as sure as I did my brother. Because that’s what I do. That’s who I am. You might have all the moves, but you have none of the venom, angelfish.”

He turns to walk away but I grab him again. “You wouldn’t kill me—”

His hands grab me by the waist and yank me to his chest. “You think you want me? You think you want to know more?” He leans down and breathes into my neck for a moment. “Would you like me to take you, Harper?”

Tingles erupt throughout my whole body and the throbbing between my legs is begging for more contact. More skin on skin. More conversation, more soft, whispered words. More of everything. I want more of everything.

“Because I will. I’m that kind of guy. The kind who’ll seduce a little girl and fuck her wild just because he can make her think she wants him so bad, she’ll spread her legs and do as she’s told.”

“I’m almost nineteen. I can handle more than you think.”

He laughs. “A baby who has no idea what to do with a cock in her mouth.”

I’m ashamed to admit it, but instead of embarrassing me, his words hurt.

“I’m not interested in the babies, Harper. I just take what I want. And you were right to demand to know me before you let me fuck you. Because you reminded me of what I am. Why I’m here.” He yanks his arm from my grip and turns again.

My leg reaches forward and tangles with his, making him stumble, and then I grab his arm and twist. He reacts faster than I can plan the next move, and two seconds later he’s got me pinned to the concrete. Straddling my waist, hands holding me down, hunched over and leaning into my face. “You want me to stay?”

I can’t answer because I’m not sure.

He rises up on his knees a little bit, and then his hands release mine and begin to unbuckle his belt.

I lie absolutely still.

Once the buckle is out of the way, he makes quick work of the button, then the zipper on his pants.

I swallow hard.

“You will take my cock in your mouth.”

I lick my lips and the killer dimples appear in both cheeks.

“I’m gonna take your throat first, Harper. Then your pussy, then your ass.”

I’m not even sure what all that means, other than I’m gonna have sex.

He takes out his dick and pumps it a few times, pulling it up towards his stomach, exposing the long vein, pulsing with blood as it fills and becomes hard and thick. “Put your hand around it, Harper.”

I reach up and gently place my hand around his thickness. Immediately the wetness between my legs is back. I look up at his face for more directions, unsure of what I’m supposed to do. “Stroke me,” he says in a softer voice. “Harder,” he demands when I am timid. I squeeze harder and stroke up and down. Finding a rhythm like our heartbeats out on the beach.

Is this the same man?

I pump faster, and that makes his eyes close to half-mast. “Your little hands on my big cock, Harper. I love it. Now open your mouth.”

I freeze. Staring at him. Deciding.

“Open,” he says again.

I obey.

“Wider,” he whispers as he places his hands on either side of my head and crawls up my body. The tip of his dick touches my lips. “Should I tell you how I like it, Harp?”

I swallow and then force out a small laugh. “If you want it to feel good, you probably should.”

He smiles and I relax a little. I’m not sure if I like him. James or Tet, whatever he wants to be called. He’s unstable. He’s a killer. He killed his own brother. But he and I are not that different. That’s the nature of this life we’ve been born into. I’m not even sure I want to do this, but I’m craving that intimacy he showed me earlier. I need the touch. So, so bad. And maybe he’s a sick fuck… but so am I. Really… we’re perfect for each other.

Being force-fed his dick on the floor in front of the laundry room is not my dream first blowjob. But being left in this hallway, alone again—I can’t take it. I need a connection, even if it’s based on control and psychological manipulation.

He eases forward. “Open wider.” I do, and he flicks his dick against my lips. I instinctively close my eyes and my mouth. “Open, Harper. And don’t close again until we’re done.”

I nod and open my mouth but not my eyes. His tip is warm and smooth.

“Lick it,” he commands.

I twirl my tongue around a little, and then he pulls back and thrusts forward, hitting the back of my throat. I gag and he withdraws again. “Get on your knees for me.” His voice has changed now. Lower, rougher. And for a moment I’m scared, but then his hand finds mine, and he pulls me up to a sitting position as he himself stands. “Knees, Harper.”

I scramble to my knees and before I even have a chance to settle he’s back in my mouth. Both of his hands go behind my head and he pushes himself inside me again. I gag and my hands grab his dick and push him away.

“Hands on your thighs, Harper,” he commands.

I obey and he stuffs himself in farther, his dick pleading with my throat to go deeper. I cough a little and this makes the killer moan with pleasure. I swallow and get the same reaction, only it’s too much all of a sudden and I begin to choke.

“Breathe through your nose,” James says, petting my hair.

I take deep inhaling breaths through my nose.

“Now, flatten out your tongue in the back of your mouth.”

I gag again, but his tip is still seeking out my throat. It pushes forward, then withdraws slightly. Saliva is pooling in my mouth to the point of overflowing, and the next thrust sends it dripping down my chin.

The next time I gag his hands grab my hair and pull my head back so he can go deeper.

“Oh, fuuuuck,” he groans, and then I feel the warm rush of release slide down my throat.

“Swallow,” he whispers.

I gulp until the warm salty liquid is gone and the pulsations in his cock subside.

He withdraws and my head falls forward. I sit back on my butt, wiping the spit off my face. I’ve never felt more humiliated in my life.

His zipper goes back up and then there is nothing but silence.

Chapter Ten

HARPER

The drier buzzes again. A signal that someone should be coming for the clothes very soon. James taps me on the shoulder but I don’t look up or acknowledge him. All I see is a long, sticky strand of saliva that is dripping down the front of my tank top. He taps again. “You can go away now,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry for keeping you.”

He bends down and grabs my hand, then urges me to stand.

I do. But I keep my head bowed in shame. I can’t believe I just gave my first blowjob to a stranger in a hallway. I’ve never had any illusions about my life. I’ve never bought into that whole knight thing you read about in girl magazines. I’m not the wannabe princess. But this?

I snatch my hand from his and turn away. I stare at my feet the whole way back to my door. His hands grip my shoulders before I can actually enter the apartment, and then he twirls me around. “Just go,” I say, ready to cry. “I’m over it. Thanks for the good time.”

His fingers dip under my chin and try to force me to look at him. But I’m done. I’m in shut-down mode. That pliable girl who opened for his dick is gone. I’m pissed.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

I nod, but keep my eyes on his shoes.

“I hope you have a nice life, Harper. I won’t tell them I found you.”

My head shoots up at that admission. “You are here to kill me!”

“No,” he says back, his green eyes betraying a lost and desperate person inside. That person who hides behind this beautiful face and god-like body. Behind the man who walked hand in hand with me to the beach and pretended to like me so he could get oral sex from an amateur or whatever the hell it was he wanted.

I stare up at him and he moves a little so that the light from the hallway above his head turns him into nothing more than a dark hovering shape. The symbolism is so appropriate. “Is that what we are?” I ask him. “Just dark shapes with no features? Is that all I’ll ever be?”

He says nothing and I have my answer.

“When you were little did you have a dream?”

“No,” he says, turning his head so the light comes and goes. He’s human one moment, the dark amorphous killer the next. Then human again as he steps back and shifts his body, no longer facing me.

“Well, I had one. We had one.” He turns back when I say we and it hurts me so bad that he knows what that means. “We were gonna escape in the tender boat and say fuck them all. And we were going to live a new life.” I wait for some kind of acknowledgment. Or maybe an apology. For what? I’m not sure. He’s not responsible for what happened to us.

“And now I have no we, James. There is no us. And I guess if I had been the one to pull the trigger, if I had been the one to make that decision to pull the trigger… like you did to your brother”—this gets his attention, but by the way his lip curls, I know immediately that’s not the kind of attention I want from James Fenici—“then I’d have nothing to be so pissed about. But that’s not what happened. I had a dream, James. And they took it away. So I dreamed a new one all alone. And if you get in my way…” I straighten my back and tip up my chin—accepting who and what I really am in this defining moment. I wait for him to look me in the eye. “I’ll kill you.”

He gives me a little nod. A professional courtesy, perhaps. Or maybe it’s a ploy to keep me calm as he considers his options. “I know who you are,” he says. “All ten of us were briefed last summer. I know what you did. I know what happened to make you run. And I know what you have, even if I didn’t find it in that little room with your money and your key.”

He pauses to see if I’ll react, but we come from the same place. We were poured into the mold as children and then popped out as adults. We’re the same, maybe not equals, but still the same. So I know when to hold the cards tight. He’s gonna wait a long time for that reaction.

When I don’t give him what he expects, he continues. “I’m supposed to turn you in, but I won’t.”

“Why?” I laugh. “Because you’re an assassin with a heart? You fancy yourself a good person deep down inside?”

He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not a good person, deep or otherwise.” And then he turns and walks away.

“And that’s why you just did that to me?” I call after him. I don’t want him to leave. This small taste of human interaction is like a drug and it’s been so long since I had a companion. “Is that why you humiliated me like some worthless whore?”

He stops, shakes his head, and I can hear a small chuckle before he turns back. He’s smiling as he walks the few paces back towards me. “You think I humiliated you back there?” His head jerks to the end of the hallway where it turns the corner to the laundry room. “You have no idea, do you?”

I force a shrug. “No idea about what?”

He reaches for me. Slowly. Like a hungry person trying to steal a bone from a starving dog. I allow him to pull me close one more time. I’d probably let him do anything to me right now, that’s how badly I want his touch. Even after he stuffed his dick in my mouth and came down my throat… I still want to be near him.

“Harper,” he says quietly as he leans down into my ear. He takes my hand and places it on the front of his zipper. He’s hard again. His dick is long and thick, even through his jeans. “When my cock was in your throat. That moment”—he breathes into the shell of my ear, the warm air does a little dance with the sensitive touch receptors and I almost go wild—“right before I came in your mouth…”

The throbbing and wetness between my legs is threatening to overtake my senses at the moment. I’m not sure how much longer I can last before I combust from the fire building inside me.

“… when I was groaning with the pleasure of your tongue and the warm, wet muscles in your throat as you desperately tried to give me what I craved… that, Harper, is humiliation. Because in that moment, you owned me. All I saw was you taking my cock. Letting me do whatever I wanted to find my release. And you owned me. You had all the power, lionfish. Not me.”

His hand is suddenly between my legs, pushing against my shorts. He pulls them aside and slips his fingers into the crease. “Has anyone ever touched you here?” The softness is gone and in its place is a demand. A low rumbling, and almost angry demand. “Answer me,” he says, pushing his fingers further into my folds.

“No,” I whisper. My body is out of my control right now. My head is spinning as his fingers dip deeper, and then withdraw, only to flick against my most sensitive spot.

I lose my mind. My head falls backward against the wall and I moan. And then his mouth is on mine, his tongue dancing back and forth inside. I respond out of instinct, my tongue trying to mimic the dips and pushes of his fingers in my throbbing sex. He pumps hard and I gasp, but his mouth is back at my ear, whispering soothing things, soft things, comforting things. So I relax and let him do anything he wants. This is a pleasure I have never known. And I’d do anything to make it continue.

“Now I have the power, don’t I?”

I can only nod.

“And if you were ready, Harper, I’d fuck you hard. I’d do things you can’t even imagine. I’d lick your pussy and make you come on my face. I’d fuck you in the ass and tie you up and spank your cheeks until you screamed my name.”

I explode all over his fingers. Panting and heaving for more breath, my mind spinning and my legs buckling until I fall against his chest.

“Now I’m in charge again. You see that, Harp? When you’re on your knees, my cock in your mouth, you’ve got me, baby. You own me. Because the only thing on my mind is coming down your throat. When I’m rolling your clit between my fingers, I own you.”

I moan.

“Right?” he demands, twisting the folds between my legs and grabbing a fistful of hair. Yanking my neck back so I have to look him in the face.

I nod. “Yes.”

He withdraws his fingers and brings them to my mouth. “Suck, Harper.”

I turn my head.

“Look at me,” the killer in him demands.

I look up. He holds up two fingers, slick with my own wetness, and puts them in his mouth. He withdraws, then touches them to my lips. I open without being told. “Lick,” he says in his soothing voice.

I lick the tip of his fingers, tasting my own sweetness. He sticks them in farther, grinding his erection against my hips, and the pulsing between my legs is back. Just like that, I am ready again.

The laundry room light flicks on around the corner and he backs away, taking his hard dick and his fingers with him. My body feels cold and empty now that it’s alone again. My arms wrap around myself instinctively and hug.

A palm reaches across the space and cups my cheek. “You’re so pretty.”

I blush. After all that kinky stuff I just did, I blush at the word pretty.

“You don’t believe me?”

I shrug. “I don’t know,” I mumble truthfully. “I haven’t had a lot of feedback in that area.”

“But you have a mirror?” He laughs as he says it.

“Blonde hair, brown eyes, brown skin.”

He shoots me the dimples and my insides tumble around like I’m being tossed in a wave. “Your eyes aren’t brown, they’re amber. It’s striking to see them in the light of the setting sun. And your hair is streaked blonde from years on the sea. That gorgeous brown body is golden, like you own the definition of tanned. And you’re the perfect combination of hard and soft. Killer and lover. Sweet and deadly.” He reaches around and grabs my ass. “I’m gonna take that ass,” he whispers, making the wetness pool between my legs. “Next time, I’m gonna take your ass and your pussy.”

I swallow hard and stare at him, trying not to picture this right now. Because I’m so out of control, it scares me.

“When you’re ready, Harper. Come find me.”

And then he walks away and rounds the corner, calling out a, “What’s up, dude?” to the person grabbing their dry clothes in the laundry room.

Chapter Eleven

HARPER

The shadow catches my eye as I roll and I sit upright instantly, staring at the empty chair across the room.

Nothing.

I look over at the clock. It’s 3AM and I haven’t slept in two days. I haven’t left the apartment since my last encounter with James in the hallway. I haven’t eaten, or showered, or met the sun. I’ve simply… existed.

This guy. Never has anyone affected me like this. He’s all I think about. He seems so… familiar. And maybe it’s just because I’ve seen him out of the corner of my eye once or twice. He’s admitted to watching me. But that just doesn’t seem right.

There’s something else…

I kick off the light covers, get out of bed, and pad over to the kitchen where I’m keeping the pills. I’ve avoided them successfully these past two days, but I’ve had enough. It’s not safe to go without sleep. It messes with your brain. Makes you see shadows of beautiful men sitting in your living room while you sleep. It makes you wish for their cock down your throat.

Holy crap, I have problems.

I eat three pills, chase it with water, and then pad back over to my bed and lie down.

My heart and brain slow simultaneously. It’s a trick of my mind, I realize this. The drug takes a good twenty to thirty minutes to kick in. But I slow anyway. And it’s welcome.

My eyelids droop, then close. My shoulders relax as I turn on my side and let out a long breath.

Some peace is all I want. Just some peace.

And my brother.

But he’s gone.

So I’ll have to settle for my fake sedative-induced peace.

The dawn erupts with a burst of orange across the water and the day begins just like any other. My feet are rocking with the waves, a gentle sway of balance I adapted to before I could walk. I was born on this ship. I drank my first milk on this ship. Crawled the deck, slept in a berth, and learned the fine art of getting wet on this ship.

And even though my childhood was perfect—sun, sand, tropical islands, snorkeling and diving, exotic food and people and destinations—it all ends today.

Today we are eighteen. We have never spent a night apart in our lives, but we may never spend another one together again.

Because by the time the sun sets… only one of us will be left.

I jolt awake, the tears still in my eyes. I hate that dream, I hate that dream. Why do I have to relive that day of all days?

Nick and I were entwined in the womb together, so tightly embraced we killed our mother during childbirth because we refused to let go. He was all I ever had that was truly mine. We were all either of us had.

I was always the trophy. Not a princess, no. Trophy. Promised to a Company associate when I was six. I was molded and fashioned into this perfect thing. Something to look at, to admire, but not something that was allowed to have her own opinions about how she wanted to live her life.

Or the man she would be forced to marry once she came of age.

The training was an indulgence. I could not survive those hours Nick went away each day to train, so they indulged me. Every few years some uptight nanny would insist young girls did not learn martial arts and spend their days spear-fishing and I’d have to throw a fit. But the Admiral always gave in. I’d like to think it was because he had a bit of guilt over selling me off to an associate when I was a child. But he’s told me more than once that he never regretted that decision.

My twin brother, Nick, never had things so easy. He was expected to contribute in a big way. Even though we had physical training together I was never allowed to go with him to do the jobs. And those started when we were still very young. You can convince almost anyone that a nine-year-old boy is innocent of just about anything.

Every time he left the ship I’d stand on the deck and look out across the sea. Watching for his return. It felt like… like I was holding my breath until I saw him again. Every time he left I cried out of fear. And every time he returned I cried from relief.

He was not supposed to tell me about the jobs. But we are twins. Not identical, but we see ourselves as one. Not two.

So of course, he told me everything. Not right after the job. The ship was never a safe place to pass secrets. But we were in port or anchored off some remote island almost as much as we were out to sea, so there was plenty of playtime on the reefs and in the tidal pools of random beaches.

Since we were so well-behaved we were left alone. The crew ignored us completely. Nick’s trainers only paid attention when they were around, and since playtime on the beach is not a function of grown men hired for security, they never saw us crawl around on the rocks, or shimmy up a palm tree to gossip about our lives under the long fan-like leaves. The Admiral’s gaze swept past every evening at dinner with a smug smile at our manners. He was never around. Our care was entrusted to others.

We were, for all practical purposes, ignored.

It took them many years to realize their mistake.

And even though I feel a lot of satisfaction from overthrowing the Company yacht crew and making my escape, I’d rather relive those moments out in the hallway when James had his hands between my legs instead of that last day on the yacht.

I turn over in bed, my mind still groggy from the pills, my body still seeking relief from the exhaustion that’s been creeping in since my first real orgasm.

If I could only release again. Maybe I could relax?

My hand slides down my belly and pushes past the elastic waist of my panties. I hesitate for a moment. I want so much more than this life. I’m so tired of being alone. I’m so tired of being lonely. A tear runs down my cheek as I move my fingers the way James did. Pushing them inside myself. Pumping as I picture the way he undid his belt buckle and released his cock. I wish I had looked up at his face. I’d give anything to have seen his face when he came down my throat.

That thought is enough to trigger the release. But it’s small and unsatisfying. Only good enough to amplify my drug-induced drowsiness as I turn over.

I’m back in my dream. Only I’m on the beach, under the pier… under James. He grazes the back of his fingers down my cheek and then leans down and kisses each eyelid. “Sleep, Harper. You need to sleep.”

He’s right. I need sleep so bad. But when he pulls away I grab his arm. The waves are coming in and out, and with each cycle, James slips down the sand a little.

“Please don’t leave me,” I whisper, too late. He disappears into the dark water and I’m alone in bed again.

I wake with the worst headache. And my stomach is protesting the lack of… everything. I roll out of bed and stumble over to the kitchen sink, my eyes still half-closed. I open the tap and stick my mouth under, draw back to wince at the disgusting municipal water, then resume drinking until my stomach bloats.

I wipe my mouth and pull the refrigerator open. Empty, save for a few condiment packets left over from a recent trip to Rocky’s Burgers. I need to eat.

I slam the door and go turn on the shower, strip, wash quickly, and then realize I have no clean towels. I drip dry as I search for clothes. I drag the underwear up my wet legs and say fuck the bra. A couple of stacked tank tops—both white so I don’t stick out—and another pair of cut-off jeans finishes the job. I comb through my hair, brush my teeth and slip my flops on as I drag the door closed behind me.

My phone tells me it’s seven PM on Monday. I’ve lost six days of life since I met James on the pier. And really, this whole shut-down thing I’ve been doing is not very smart. What if he did turn me in? I was all drugged up on the Ativan, unable to react. I was barely functioning.

I walk past the Mexican place. I ate there last time so I can’t go there again for a while. I don’t want to become friendly with the food people. I don’t want to be a ‘local’ and have them wave at me as I pass by. So I walk east, the opposite direction of the beach, cross over Fifth and head up Main to find some restaurant I’ve never eaten in before. It takes me a while because I’ve lived here for eleven months, so most of them I’ve entered at least once. But I’m jumpy now. The idea that James could’ve reported me and I wouldn’t have been able to react has me on edge.

It’s dumb to be careless. Especially when I’ve come so far. I’m a success, right? I took something very valuable from a global criminal organization and eleven months later, I’m still alive.

Is it by design? If it was so easy for James to pick me out, how hard would it be for the Company men to find me? Have they left me alone for a reason? Did they send James to assess my state of mind?

I pick a random eatery and scan the menu. I hate Chinese food, so I order the most benign things I can think of. Shrimp fried rice and a large Coke. I need the calories because the walk over has almost done me in.

I eat alone and in silence as I gaze out onto Sixth Street. Chewing methodically. Thinking about life. James. His attention and the way it made me feel. His little speech on the division of power during sex.

I have to admit, it makes sense. It put that filthy act in perspective and the longer I think about him, the more intense the throbbing between my legs becomes. I slurp my soda and gather up my trash, tossing it in the can as I leave and head back towards the beach. I’ve got a little while before the sun sets, so I take my time. Looking in the small shops as I wander down Main.

When I get to Pier Plaza I walk right to the terraced steps and hop onto the first pillar, standing up to my full height. I shield my eyes from the sun and look north. Scanning for him. He said, Come find me. But how? He’s the one who found me. I turn slowly, dropping my hand from my face as the sun beats on my back. I scan the other side of PCH. Watching for men standing still, pretending to do things like look at a phone or window-shop. But there is no one who looks like my James.

I hop down just as more people start appearing and then make my way to the bottom terrace and park myself against a short pillar in front of the grass. A few yards off there’s a group of skaters doing tricks off the low wall that separates the bike path from the sand. I lean against the rough stone, my chin resting on my knee, and watch them.

They are my age. All blond, tanned, and shirtless. Handsome even. I don’t normally notice the boys around here. I’ve been too busy being invisible to take notice or worry about stupid teenager things.

But I’ve seen one of them before. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve seen him a lot. He surfs in the morning and skates at night. Like this beach is his whole life. His smile is easy and appears often, as does his gruff laugh.

I sigh as I watch him on his board. He makes it do all sorts of things that appear to defy gravity. He falls, laughs, gets up, does it again. His friends are all the same. Loud, energetic, beautiful.

He looks my way and I’m too sad to even try and pretend I haven’t been staring.

He waves. I don’t even blink.

He turns and starts talking with his friends and then they bump fists and he flips his board up, grabs it by the front wheels, and walks towards me.

I sit up straight and panic. Shit.

He walks up smiling. “Hey,” he says, dropping his board and sitting down next to me. “What’s up? You here alone tonight?”

“I’m always here alone,” I reply as I study his face, looking for intentions. God, are all boys beautiful? Or is it this beach? I’ve never paid much attention, but two in a week, that’s some good luck.

He puts out his hand. “Scott.”

My hand finds his automatically. “Nice to meet you, Scott.”

He smiles and his blue eyes lift at the corners. “Not gonna tell me your name?”

I pull my hand back and lean into the pillar, trying to make myself small.

He looks away, scanning the crowd to the left and right. Then the pier. When he’s satisfied, he drags his eyes back to me. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

I’m speechless.

“That guy you were with the other night?” he adds. “All curled up on his lap like a pet.”

“I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding his head and looking straight ahead. “OK. Well, then would you like to go for a walk? See the sunset somewhere else?”

I consider my options. Obviously he’s not interested in the sunset. So I guess I can assume this is an invitation to fool around. And last week I’d have said no thank you automatically. But this week… I realize now why girls chase boys.

And vice versa.

“Where’d you have in mind?” I ask, forcing myself to stare him in the face.

He gives me a crooked grin that is actually quite inviting, and then reaches for my knee and squeezes. “Girl’s choice.”

“I live down the street.”

He stands and extends his hand to me. “Let’s go, babe.”

He holds my hand as we cross Pier Plaza, chatting at me like we’ve been friends forever. “My bro Danny…”

I could give a shit about his bro Danny and how he cracked his skull doing some skater trick that sounds too ridiculous to be true, but what do I know about skater tricks?

I only feel his hand in mine. Just like James. Is this all they have to do? The beautiful ones? All they have to do is hold your hand to turn you stupid with lust? I’m certainly well on my way to idiocy, that’s for sure. I can only imagine how I’ll melt into a puddle of goo when I get what I came for.

And after that… I have no idea.

When I turn up Fifth Street, there’s flashing lights at the police station, so I turn left on Walnut and take the back way through the alley. I stop us outside the back gate, suddenly nervous about going inside.

“This you?” he says, nodding his head to my building. He pushes me against the garage and then his hands are on my hips, dipping behind me to caress my ass. His lips are descending on mine before I can even answer.

And then…

He’s ripped away and flung to the ground, his head bouncing off the concrete. James is staring down at him, clenching his fists, looking like he’s in professional mode.

“Stop!” I say, standing between the new guy and the assassin. “You have no right.”

James looks at me and narrows his eyes. My insides drop, like I just jumped off a cliff, that’s how terrifying he looks. He points to my new friend. “Really? This asshole? He picks up a different girl every night. And if you were fucking paying any attention at all, you’d have seen that!”

Skater dude is back on his feet, picking up his board, and already walking away. “I’m outta here.” He turns, walking backwards for a few paces. “And for the record, asshole, I asked her if she was yours. She said no. So you got some work to do.”

And then he drops the board, hops on, and a few seconds later he’s turned the corner, out of sight.

James turns back to me, grinding his teeth, clenching the muscles in his jaw. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

I raise my chin in defiance. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He grabs my shoulders and pushes me back against the garage. “You wanted to fuck him?” His eyes are darting back and forth, searching me, waiting on the answer.

“Maybe.”

His hand comes up and palms my throat, his thumb making little circles under my chin. “I give you a taste, then back off to give you room, and you take home the first asshole who asks for your name?” His erection presses against my belly and he dips his forehead until it rests against mine.

My heart is racing, but for once in my life, it’s for all the right reasons. I reach for his face, threading my fingers through his dark hair.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “I told you to come find me when you were ready.”

“I looked, but no luck. So I played the only card I had. And look at that.” I smile with satisfaction. “Here you are.” I tilt my head up and meet his gaze. The sun is gone now, only the light of the stars illuminates him. And still, I see everything so clearly. “I didn’t have to find you, James. All I had to do was make sure you found me.”

Chapter Twelve

HARPER

He turns away, but not before I catch the grin. His back expands as he takes a breath. Probably to tuck down his amusement so he can keep playing the pissed-off asshole routine.

All my life people have assumed I’m stupid because I’m quiet, I never interrupt, and I follow directions. But I’m quiet because saying less is always more.

I never interrupt because you always miss the parts better left unsaid when you don’t let people finish.

And I follow directions because it keeps things on an even keel, sailing pun intended.

I haven’t always felt this way about things. But back when we were little I once asked my brother why he was always so accommodating with the demands of the Admiral. We were about eight and I was spending my days that summer learning how to sail the ship to windward, while he was working in the galley, learning how to cook potatoes or something. But his answer that day has always stuck with me. ‘Pick and choose your battles, Harp.’

I thought about that piece of advice endlessly since that day. Pick and choose your battles. Accept that you cannot win every time, until you’ve got a sure thing. Battles are always a win and lose. Give and take. And ever since then I’ve been saving up my losses for the only battle that counts. The one that wins the war. So when the strong wind comes and wants to take me off course, I lower my sails and go with the current. I save that loss up for another day. But all these things are conscious decisions. I am attentive, but silent. I have come to terms with my life, but—hopefully—only for the moment.

“So you were trying to make me jealous.” He turns back to me, his expression a flat line again. But I already know he likes the devious side to Harper.

“I was,” I reply.

“Do you know what happens when I get jealous?” He steps towards me and puts both hands around my neck, his thumbs caressing my jaw in those little circles that will have me dreaming about them later. My body responds with the now familiar tingling between my legs and I am suddenly hot with want.

“No,” I say softly.

He stares at me for a few moments and then dips his mouth down to mine, resting his lips against my lips. “Who’s in charge, Harper?”

“You are,” I reply obediently.

He gently knocks his forehead against mine and huffs out a laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Being good. You want to be in charge, then be in charge. I’m not a control freak.”

He takes my hand and pulls me towards the building. I dutifully follow him in. We descend the steps to the basement side by side, and then he leads me into the mechanical room and gathers my key from behind the loose cinder block where I hide it. He shoots me a glance to see if I’ll carry on about him knowing where it is. But I don’t, so he leads me back out, opens my apartment door, and waves me through.

I stand there in the little entrance, waiting for his directions like this is his place and not mine. He stops and stares at the closed door before turning. Like he needs a moment to make a decision. When he turns his eyes are aflame with passion. He puts his hands on my arms and pushes me back against the wall. His thigh wedges between my legs, rubbing against that spot where I know all my carnal desires can be fulfilled, and I moan. He takes that as a yes to his unspoken question and his mouth finds mine.

He bites my lip and takes me by surprise. I whine at the pain and then taste the blood but before I can react to that, his tongue is licking it away, tangling with my own tongue inside my mouth for a few seconds, then he latches onto my top lip.

“Mmmmm,” is all I get out before he nips that one too. I raise my hand to push him off but he grabs my wrist and hoists it up above my head.

“Do that again and I’ll tie you up.”

I take a deep breath and look away. So very unsure of what I’m doing.

“Limits, Harper? You better say so now. This won’t be some romantic fairytale fuck you’ve read about in books.”

Shit. There have to be limits. Right?

“Do you trust me?” When I look back, his gaze is serious. So very, very serious.

I shake my head because this question is easy. “No, not really, James. I mean, I want this. I do. But what we have is like a… a… tenuous respect and nothing more. Like the way you respect a large dog you’ve never met before.”

His eyes dart back and forth. It’s his tell, I realize now. His darting eyes are weighing in on me, letting me know he’s formulating an opinion. Which is good, I guess. Either he’s reevaluating me or he never really solidified one in the first place.

He brings the hand above my head down to my side and kisses me on the nose. “OK.”

“OK?” God, please don’t let him change his mind! “James, I—”

He places his fingertips over my lips, then leans in and licks the one he bit and sucks on it for a second. “I need to know how you want it, Harp. Or I might go too far. And…” He cups my face in his hand and pulls me close, right up next to his hard thickness inside his jeans. “And I don’t want to do it wrong. It’s a big deal for you. Even I understand that. I might hurt you so I need to know what you want.”

What do I want? I want to have sex. And feel the pulsations of an incredible orgasm.

“I need to know if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” I say quickly. “I am, I swear. I want to and if you stop this now, I’ll go find that skater guy!”

He smacks my ass. Hard. I yelp and try to scoot away from his hand as it comes back for more, but he holds me tight and this time the smack hits my bare thigh.

I squeal loudly at that one.

“Say you’re sorry,” he says, staring me in the eyes.

“Sorry, I was just—”

“You were just trying to bait me, and I don’t like it.” He stares down at me, his eyes narrow and his jaw set.

He’s totally not kidding about that so I chew on my lip, taste blood, and then nod. “OK, I’m really sorry. It was a bad joke. I’m not interested in Golden Boy back there.” He eyes me suspiciously, but I can tell he’s more interested in being playful than angry. Even so, I nod and reassure him. “I swear.”

“So you’re ready?” His fingertips slip under my tank top and then his whole palm presses against the bare skin of my waist. His hands are a little cold and this temperature difference sends chills up my whole body. My nipples perk to attention immediately.

I put my hand around his neck and lean up on my tiptoes and peck him on the cheek. “I’m ready.”

“No limits?”

“Just… be nice.” I smile sweetly because I don’t know what else to do. I have no clue about any of this shit. Some of the things he’s said I don’t even understand. He thinks I’ve been dreaming about my first sexual experience growing up? Well, he’s wrong. I never read any books about how other girls experience a first time. I had one very clinical discussion about sex with a retired Company medic when I was sixteen. And it was not very enlightening beyond don’t do it until you’re married, because I was promised to someone back when I was six, and that promise dictated that I be a virgin when I was given away.

He growls into my neck. “Fuck, Harper. You’re driving me crazy. You gotta tell me what not to do, or I swear, I’ll do it all. I’ll just do it all.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I just want it to feel good. I just want you to touch me and make me feel good. Make this loneliness go away for a little bit. Make me…” I stop and look up at him. His attention is rapt. Like he’s hanging on my every word. “Make me feel wanted.”

He lifts my top over my head in one move. My nipples bunch up as the cool air touches them, and then his fingertips roll one back and forth. My heart begins to race inside my chest, my breath becomes ragged and uncontrolled. He palms my breast and his lips find my mouth, his tongue thrusting in this time. Not waiting for a response, just taking me the way he wants. He unbuttons my shorts and drags the zipper down. His other hand slips down my panties and finds my completely soaked folds.

“What do you call this?” he says, thrusting his fingers inside me.

I laugh. “What?”

“Pussy,” he whispers. “You call it your pussy next time I ask. When you want me to lick it”—oh God, I almost orgasm at the thought—“you say, ‘Please lick my pussy, James.’”

I can’t breathe. And I don’t think I can say that without exploding. His fingers begin a slow thrust and my knees go weak.

“Would you like me to lick your pussy, Harper?”

The way he says my name. The way he touches me. The way he does pretty much everything right now. I’m at his mercy. “Please lick my pussy, James.” I’m surprised he heard my words, that’s how low I speak them.

He picks me up in his arms and carries me over to my bed. He sets me down so I’m sitting on the edge and then pushes on my shoulders until I lie back. “Lift your hips.” I lift and he drags my shorts down my legs, stopping to kiss my inner thigh and then nip the sensitive skin there. My back arches and I feel slick between my legs. His mouth pulls back and his hands resume their task, pulling my shorts and panties past my knees, letting them slide down to my ankles. He removes them and tosses them on the floor. “Open your legs.”

I blush a bright red, I know it. Because my face is suddenly very hot.

“Open, Harper.”

Oh, God. I open my legs and close my eyes. The wetness practically gushes. He passes a few fingertips right down the crease of my slit. “Holy fuck. You are so ready. I like my women shaved, Harp. Since you’re so new at this, I’ll let it go. But later, once we get the basics out of the way, I’m gonna shave you.”

“What? No!”

He crawls up my body, stopping to suck on my nipple, then takes it between his teeth. I buckle my back and whine until he lets go and continues to kiss his way up my neck. I about die. “That’s not a limit you can negotiate. When we figure out what the fuck we’re doing you can get waxed regularly. But for now, this will have to do.”

I’m stuck on the word we for like five whole seconds as he crawls his way back down, placing his face between my legs.

We?

But my thoughts evaporate into nothing but bliss when his tongue touches my pussy. It flicks back and forth right on my spot and then he grabs me behind the knees and pushes my legs up and open, licking the entire length. “Ohhhhhmmmm,” I hum out as his tongue begins to do these little swirl patterns. I arch my back, making him lose his rhythm. His palm pushes down on my belly, hard enough to keep me in place.

A fingertip plays with that sensitive spot and I am about to lose myself in the ecstasy when everything suddenly stops. “No, Soldier. You may not come yet. Not until I give the command.”

“What—ohhhh.” His tongue is back, but then withdraws again. “What are you doing?” I’m flushed with excitement and my legs are beginning to tremble with the buildup.

“I said, not yet.”

“But why? That’s the whole reason—” His fingers withdraw and then dart up to my nipple to pinch. I squirm, but his palm is still firmly pushing down on my stomach. “Ahhh!”

“We can talk later, Harper, but for now be a good little soldier and do as you’re told. When I want you to come, I’ll let you know. Until then you fight it. Understand?”

I stare at his eyes. They burn bright with his desire. His mouth has traces of my wetness and I lick my lips. “OK.”

The squeeze on my nipple abates and then he reaches up to my mouth and traces my lips. His fingers smell like me. Like my desire. I open my mouth and suck on them, tasting my sweetness like I did the other night in the hallway.

James groans at this move and I feel a moment of power. He’s right. Sex is power. I have some power over him. This man who kills people for a living can be at my mercy if I listen to what he likes and learn how to please him.

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?”

He smiles when my answer is more sucking, more licking. I trace my tongue alongside his finger and then his other hand is at my entrance again. Rolling the little bundle of nerves between my legs in his fingers. I suck harder and he moans, letting me know I’m doing it right.

“I want your mouth on my cock again, Harper.”

“Me too,” I answer. And I do. I want to watch his face when he comes down my throat this time. I want to witness that power he says I have. I want to experience his release with him.

“Later, little soldier. I’m gonna fuck you hard first. Then we’ll shower and explore a little more.”

His fingers begin to pump inside me and my hands fly down to his head, pushing his face back to the v between my legs. “More, please,” I beg. “I want more of your tongue. I want you to lick me, James.”

When I say his name he growls and grabs my wrists in one hand. “Put them above your head, Harper. And don’t move them until I tell you.”

I obey immediately and I’m rewarded with his tongue against my clit. He flicks it back and forth a few times and then his whole mouth covers my pussy, sucking until I am close to the explosion. His hand returns to my belly, reminding me to control it and I throw my head back and pant as I look up at the ceiling. “Good girl,” he praises. “You’re such a good girl, Harper.”

“Hmmmmm,” is all I can manage to that. I’m so fucking close.

“I’m going to count. When I get to three you may release. Not two, not one, not four. Three, Harper.”

I nod enthusiastically. “Yes, three.” I push against his fingers, trying to push him farther inside me.

He pumps me hard several times, hitting a spot inside that makes me call out his name and grab the pillow above my head. “Ohhh. God.”

“One,” he says just before he lowers his face to my clit again. He sucks hard this time, making the orgasm slow with the sensation. I relax just as his fingers increase their rhythm and he removes his mouth to say, “Two.” This time his tongue swirls gently against my clit and the explosion builds again. Little by little, with each passing second, I begin to lose control. He doesn’t stop this time, but his palm on my stomach reaches up and twists my nipple to bring my focus back. I bite my lip and the tiny bite he made in my skin opens up again and I taste blood. I’m just about to be calm when he grabs my whole breast and squeezes. He thrusts his fingers inside me, his thumb brushes up against my clit and he takes it in his mouth to suck. I almost lose my mind with the build-up, and only his firm grasp of my breast keeps me focused. I wince and clamp my pussy around his fingers.

The sensations between my legs stop and before I understand what’s happening, his mouth is on mine. His tongue is both sweet and sour with the taste of myself. He pulls back a fraction, his fingers still pumping wildly as I writhe underneath him. “Three,” he whispers.

My orgasm comes with a long moan and then his whole hand is working my pussy as I ride out the wave, bucking myself against his palm, looking for more friction, more everything. I see stars and my world goes dark. My heart races and his lips kiss me over and over again.

“You did good,” he whispers. “You did so good. You’re perfect, Harper. You’re so perfect.” He continues to kiss me, his motions inside me slow now, but not completely stopped. When I finally relax he withdraws his fingers and I open my mouth as I wait for him to slide them inside and place them on my tongue. I lick and suck as he watches, his eyes filled with desire, his expression content with my performance.

He removes his fingers and then leans down and kisses me deeply. Slowly. He explores me. His hands on my body, rubbing up and down my thigh, then dipping into my folds again to flick my clit.

I moan. It’s still so sensitive.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

I open my eyes and look at him as I nod. “Yes.”

“Are you willing to give yourself to me now?”

I nod again. “Yes.”

“Are you sure you want me to be the only one you ever fuck for the rest of your life?”

My brow furrows in confusion.

“Because you’re mine. If I’m your first I’m going to be your last. So I need you to be sure.” He watches me as I process his words. “Are you sure?”

He’s so beautiful. My characterization of him that first day was dead on. His eyebrows raise at my silence, but I reach up and brush a stray piece of dark hair from his eyes. “I’m yours, James. I swear it, I’m yours.” And I mean every word.

“I know you are. You’re mine, you were meant to be mine.” He gets up from the bed and stands before me. “Undress me, Harper.”

The way he uses my name in his soft commands gives me a thrill. My whole body tingles as he waits. I stand in front of him for a moment, taking in his body. And then I grab the hem of his tight black t-shirt and lift, slowly dragging my hands over the rock-hard surface of his abdomen. His muscles ripple underneath. His body is tanned a golden brown like mine. I pull the shirt up to his arms and then he takes over, whipping it over his head and throwing it down on the ground.

“Have you ever—?”

I know what he’s asking, so I just shake my head no.

“God.” He stops and just stares down at me. Stares into me. “How did this happen?” My whole body is overcome with heat and I actually hold my breath. Because I agree… something about this is so… improbable.

But then he reaches for me, pulls me into a gentle embrace, and all my doubts evaporate.

My hands instinctively fall down his chest. His skin is taut and firm. Every muscle well-defined. He has no markings at all. No tattoos, no scars. “You’re absolutely perfect,” I whisper.

“It’s all yours. If we do this, I’ll be all yours.”

I smile at that. “You promise?”

He suddenly cups my face and leans in to kiss me. “Forever. If we do this, you’re mine, forever.”

That’s so confusing, but I’m not in the mood to think. I only want to react now. I kneel on the floor and look up. I want to remember him like this. Looking down on me with pure adoration. My fingers unbuckle his belt slowly and I catch the sudden intake of breath when my hand passes innocently over his hard cock beneath the soft fabric of his pants. I watch carefully to see if he likes my touch and his eyes are at half-mast. His hands go to mine and remind me what I’m doing.

I unbutton his jeans and drag the zipper until the length of him is visible beneath his boxers. I swallow, a little nervous. But then I pull his clothing down in one movement and his dick springs forward. I look up as I take it in my mouth, licking the tip.

His head falls backwards and his mouth opens when I seal my lips around him and suck. He palms my head, pushing me forward to meet his cock. I try to mimic the way he sucked on my clit—swirling my tongue and sucking on his smooth head. He growls, “Yes, Harper. Just like that.”

I open my mouth wider and try to take his full length, but he stops me with firm pressure on my head. “No, baby. I just want a little tease. I’m gonna come inside you, but not down your throat.”

Thoughts of birth control flit through my mind briefly, but he reaches down and picks me straight up into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist, his cock pressing against my belly. He turns us around and sits on the bed, keeping me in his lap, then kicks off his shoes and jeans so we are both naked.

His hand reaches between my legs and finds me as slick as I was when I orgasmed. “You’re ready for me. Lift up, put my cock in your entrance, and then ease down.” I swallow and look him in the eyes as he smiles. “Go as slow as you want. I’m not in a rush.”

I take a deep breath and nod. Then lift up a little, grab his cock, and rub it back and forth against my pussy until it’s very wet. The tip slides inside me easily, and for a moment I think that’s all there is to it.

But then I ease down and he fills me up beyond capacity, stretching me. I gasp as the pain threatens to overtake me, but James cups my face again and tilts my chin so I have to look at him. “Slow, baby. No hurry. Go slow. Enjoy me. Enjoy how I feel inside you.”

I swallow hard and lift up a little. Feeling his slick cock slide against my skin. I lower just a little bit, stop when it hurts, and rise up again. I do this over and over again, and with each time, James groans. “You feel so good,” he assures me. “You’re so tight,” he whispers in my ear. “Try to go a little farther now, baby. I’m dying to be inside you. All the way inside you.”

My body responds to his requests like they’re an order. I want this too. I want him inside me more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. I let him sink deeper into me, biting back the shock of pain and the gasp that wants to escape. I bury my head in his neck and pant hard. His hands go to my ass, urging me to move the way he wants me to. I give in to him.

I am his.

He lifts me up, almost to the point that his dick is threatening to escape my pussy. But then he slams me down on his lap and the pain shoots straight up my spine. It threatens to overtake me when I feel his fingers playing with my ass. They press against the tight muscles and I gasp, the pain from my disintegrating hymen forgotten as he explores me in a new way.

I moan into his neck, the new sensations almost too much. “Can I come, James? I want to come so bad. I want to come on your dick.”

“This is all about you, baby. If my cock inside your pussy feels good to you, then come all over me, Harper.”

My name on his lips sends me over the edge. My body arches as I throw my head back and moan out his name. “James…”

As soon as the contractions begin to slow, James wraps his arms around me and lies back on the bed, pulling me tightly to his chest. His hips begin a punishing rhythm underneath me, thrusting himself deeper and deeper inside me, his balls smacking against my ass so hard, reminding me of his fingers a few minutes ago.

We come together this time. We explode into an orgasm that makes me blind and helpless to think of anything but this perfect man beneath me.

Chapter Thirteen

HARPER

He scoots up towards the head of the bed, keeping himself inside me as we move together. He collapses back on the pillow and hugs me close. “Harper, God, I can’t believe we’re here.”

I scrunch my face up as I ponder that question. “What do you mean?”

He rolls, removing his cock from me, and then flips me around and pulls my ass up to his hips. “Sleep,” he says. “We’ll finish this in the morning.”

I frown as I lie here. Running all this back in my mind. His sudden appearance on the pier. The way he dove in after me. I guess it makes sense that he fingered me for the missing girl. But then… if he’s really Number Six, he would’ve called this in immediately. If he knew who I was, then he’s asking for a death sentence by not calling it in.

“Sleep, Harper,” he says with a little more authority. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” I wiggle out of his grip and get up. “Where—”

“The bathroom,” I say back defensively. I suppose it’s a bad time to actually start using my head. I mean, I just gave him my virginity. The Admiral will go ballistic. And if James is Number Six, then he knows this. Maybe he’s on the run too? Maybe he’s my father’s enemy?

I close the bathroom door and start the shower. I feel dirty all of a sudden. It felt good, hell yes, it felt good. But now that my need has been satiated and my mind is clearing—I have questions. I have a lot of questions.

Like… how long has he been watching me? He hinted at months. Months? That makes very little sense, really. He said he killed his brother, Number Five, and they needed him to take some downtime. Evaluate him. I can see that. You don’t kill another Company assassin with no consequences. And you certainly don’t kill your brother.

I would kill to have my brother right now. I’d do just about anything to have my brother.

I start the hot water and watch my naked self in the mirror as I wait for it to warm up.

Why am I still here? In this apartment? In this town? On land? Is it really possible that the Admiral has no idea where I’m at? I mean, I was careful when I left. I poisoned the entire ship. They were sick as dogs, even the captain, so we were dead in the water about sixty miles south of Tahiti. I might even have killed some of them. I have no idea, because our ship has a very nice tender boat. One of the nicest in the world, just like the super yacht that carries it. And since my entire life, from birth to that moment when I opened the garage door and lowered the tender out onto the sea, was spent sailing the oceans of the world on these massive yachts, driving it straight to the port all by myself was not at all difficult.

We’ve been to Tahiti lots of times. So many times I was recognized. And welcomed. Of course, I’ve never showed up alone before, but this was the day after my birthday, I told them with genuine excitement. The adrenaline coursing through my blood was making me jittery, but the local customs agent took it as nerves from being on my own for the first time.

I got everything in order at the dock, paid the fee. And took a cab straight to Faa'a International where I boarded a plane to Hawaii. I stepped off that plane Harper Tate and boarded the next one as Jillian Stewart. And when I landed in Los Angeles I was free.

I had one backpack, but it contained a key. A key my brother gave me the day before our eighteenth birthday. I have no idea how he got a hold of it, but I didn’t ask. Because that was our last day together and I was still in denial that he would leave without me.

It’s not like he had a choice. They took him. But he left behind the key.

There was an address and a number engraved on it. I took a cab to the UCLA Library, rode the elevator up to the fifth-floor quarter lockers. And found my future.

Thirty thousand dollars. A phone number. A phone. A flash drive in the shape of a fish. And a bottle of Ativan, with a warning on the outside from Nick not to take them unless it was absolutely necessary. It took us six months to wean me off them. It was a long process and even now, after being mostly clean for almost a year, I still run to the pills when things get overwhelming.

And then I took my money, called the number, took a cab to the address, paid the rent in full for one year, and sat down in that solitary chair in the living room and waited.

It took me weeks to settle in. I looked over my shoulder everywhere I went. I imagined my life if I had stayed one more day. Married off to some old man.

That’s what my father was planning. It was no secret that Nick and I would be separated on our eighteenth birthday, but they kept this little marriage deal quiet until I was sixteen. Then ever so slowly, hints would be dropped. Oh, Harper, you will make some lucky man very happy when you turn eighteen. Hints like that was how it started. But by the time I was seventeen they were overt. Which dress do you like for your wedding, Harper? the shoppers in port would ask me.

But I am quiet. I don’t interrupt. And I pick and choose my battles. There is no point in fighting until I can win the war.

Have I won? I have a beautiful assassin in my bed. I’m still free. He didn’t kill me—he fucked me. I’m falling for him. He makes me feel safe. I want to be next to him. Even now, I want him.

But maybe he’s just as good at picking battles as I am?

There’s a small knock at the door. “Harper,” James says quietly. “Everything OK?” he doesn’t wait for my answer, just turns the handle and opens the door. I smile at him. I can’t help it, he’s so damn beautiful. “Shower?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of the steaming hot water spraying down in the tub.

I nod and smile. He walks over to the shower knobs and adjusts the temperature, then pulls out the top drawer of my vanity and finds a new shaver. I raise my eyebrows at him. Not about the shaving. I believed him when he said he’d do it. But the fact that he knows where I keep the shavers means he’s checked out my entire apartment when he was in here stalking me.

“Does that creep you out?” he asks, like he’s reading my mind.

“Yeah,” I answer back, nodding. “Why were you watching me?” I try not to be accusatory, but that’s how it comes out.

He takes my hand and leads me over to the shower. He steps into the tub and I follow. He stands under the spray of water and closes his eyes as he drags his hands down his face and then he shakes his head, sending drops flying in my direction and messing up his hair in a way that makes me crave his touch.

He steps out of the water and gently maneuvers me in his place. I tip my head back and enjoy the pulsations and the stream flowing down the back of my head. I step away and drag my fingers over my eyes so I can watch his soapy hands massage my arm.

“Once I made you, I had to figure out who you were. I had a good idea. I’d seen the pictures they circulated a few months earlier. They knew you were here in the LA area, that passport fooled no one once they accessed the security footage. So I suppose that’s why they wanted me to take my time off down here in the OC.”

“Do they know where I am exactly?”

“I haven’t reported you,” he says simply. But that’s not really an answer.

“Won’t you get in a lot of trouble? For keeping me a secret? Won’t the Admiral be pissed when he finds out?”

“Maybe he doesn’t find out?” His hands move onto my thighs. Lathering them up with soap. Dragging his palms all the way down to my calves, then sliding back up and dipping between my legs to tease me. He gets my pubic hair filled with bubbles and then taps my inner thigh lightly. “Open your legs, Harper.”

He reaches for the razor while I spread my legs. I trim myself down there. It’s not wild and uncontrollable, so he places the razor at the apex and gently removes the hair from the front. His fingers probe between my folds as he continues, making me wet and wanting as my skin becomes smooth. He takes my hand and places it over the shaved area. “Feel it, Harper.”

I pass my fingertips across the area and enjoy the feeling. He places his hand on mine and we both move up and down my crease. He pushes my fingers inside me, then he kneels down, picks up my leg, and places it over his shoulder. His face dips between my legs and he licks. God, I just want to die. Just fall into a heap of nothing as I relish the pleasure he’s bestowing on me.

All thoughts of his secrets and devious ways evaporate. I’m at his mercy once again. I come almost instantly, this orgasm just as powerful as the rest. I slump against him as he washes my hair, then turns the water off and gently pats me down with a towel.

“We’re not done yet, Harper.”

I gaze up at him, in awe of his beauty. His ability to be gentle and soft with me, even though he counts as one of the most dangerous men in the entire world.

I might be falling in love with a killer.

He leads me naked back into the living area, stopping in front of the chair. “Bend over,” he says in that calm voice. I look over my shoulder at these words. He smiles and my fear begins to melt. “Trust,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” And then he pushes on my back until I bend over the chair, exposing my ass to him.

He begins a slow rub of each cheek, kneading my supple muscles and occasionally passing over the backside of my pussy. He kneels down and begins to lick again, his fingers joining in until I’m primed and ready once more. I’m sore from all the attention, but then he removes his fingers and probes at the little bud of my ass.

He slips a finger inside and I gasp. “Oh, that’s painful,” I say as he removes it.

“Relax,” he whispers into my neck. “I’m too tired to go slow right now. I’d like it hard and fast this time. So we’ll try new things next time.” And then he bites my shoulder and thrusts inside my pussy. I struggle under him, the pain ripping through me this time. He was not lying, it’s not gentle and it’s not slow. But his hands caress up and down my thigh as he whispers sweet things. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You drive me wild,” he moans as he pulls back and then thrusts again. This time the pain is less, and each time after, the pleasure overtakes it.

When he’s confident I’m OK, he stands back up, his hands on my hips.

And then he fucks me. Hard. Like a man fucks a woman and not the way a man fucks a girl. He makes me a woman. And even though it hurts, it feels so good. It feels so fucking good I can’t imagine not wanting him to take me like this over and over again.

He pulls out and turns me around, thrusting me to my knees in front of him, and then he comes all over my chest. I watch his face this time. He throws back his head and opens his mouth in a groan of pleasure.

And I see it.

I feel it.

The power I have over him is as real as the power he has over me.

He leads me over to the bed and lays me down. “Be right back. Stay still and I’ll clean you up.” And then he strides into the bathroom and closes the door. At the same time his phone vibrates on the floor and I look down. It must’ve fallen out of his pants earlier.

I don’t mean to spy, but it’s lit up on the floor, staring at me. I squint to see the words. It’s an address. I read it to myself and then commit it to memory. Another text comes in, making the phone vibrate again. All set, this one says.

The bathroom doorknob jiggles and I turn over quickly, grabbing the pillow and covering my face to feign sleep. If he’s bothered by the lit-up message on the floor, it’s not apparent to me. Because his step never falters as he makes his way over to the bed. “Harper,” he says as he pulls on my shoulder to turn me back over. I open my eyes slightly, smile, and then close them again as he wipes the warm washcloth up and down my breasts.

A few minutes later he climbs into bed with me and pulls me into his chest again. He kisses me on the head and leans in. “You’re mine now, Harp. You’re mine now. No matter what happens, you’re mine.”

Chapter Fourteen

HARPER

When I wake he’s gone.

There’s a note on the counter and a shitload of cash. I count out the bills as I stand there naked. Seven hundred and forty-two dollars. He carries a lot of money on him. The note says—Go grocery shopping. You’re too skinny. Be back soon.

That’s it.

Be back soon.

But tomorrow comes and goes. And more and more tomorrows come and go. And still James does not come back. I stare at my phone, willing him to call me. Why didn’t I get his stupid phone number when I was spying on his useless text messages?

I stand in the little mechanical room looking down at my stash of cash. I have fifteen hundred dollars now. And an address committed to memory. My backpack is stuffed with clothes and necessities as I leave my key and take my money.

Maybe I’m coming back, maybe I’m not. But I’m leaving nothing behind. I’m tired of waiting around for the people I care about to come collect me. I’m tired of wondering if Nick is dead or alive. And even though it’s only been a few days, I’m tired of wondering about James as well.

I’m tired of being invisible.

I’m tired of being quiet, and patient, and following directions.

But most of all, I’m tired of the endless pause my life has become. I’m going to find the men who took the one person in this world I can trust.

I’m gonna get back the brother I lost or I’m gonna die trying.

* * *

This novella is the prequel to the new Dirty, Dark, and Dangerous romantic suspense duet that I’m writing. The next full-length book is due to be released the end of June and the second and final book is due in late September.

Wanna get the inside scoop on all my projects? Sign up for the newsletter and never miss out on an upcoming event. Follow me on Facebook and you’ll get all the deets. If you want to hang out with my Street Team and me in my group called SHRIKE BIKES, just click here and ask to be added to the group on Facebook. :) We have a lot of fun in there.

If you’ve enjoyed the stories in this anthology, please, please consider leaving us a review on Amazon or wherever you purchased your copy.

Red & Wolfe

Part One

an erotic fairy tale

By Ella James

Chapter One

RED

Dear Grandma,

I’ve never written you before, so this is weird.

* * *

Dear Gertrude,

I know you don’t know me, but I know you. Aaaaand I sound like a stalker.

* * *

Dear Gertrude,

Hi, it’s me. Your granddaughter. The one you’ve never met. I know it’s been a long time. My whole life, in fact, but

* * *

Dear Gertrude,

My name is Red. I am your granddaughter. I’d like to meet you. I know you and my mom were estranged. She told me you didn’t want to see us when I was younger, but it would be nice if you would give me a chance. I’m a writer, like you. Okay, not like you per se. That would be something of a stretch. I haven’t won a Pulitzer, and I’m not a poet, but I worked for the Boston Journal until recently, when I was laid off. I was a courts reporter, then an art critic.

I don’t have any family except you. I need money. Or a friend. Or both. But I’ll get nothing, because I’m too proud to send this e-mail.

My rent is late. Like…really late. I’m eating ice cream by the gallon and over-using Mr. Happy, my huge, purple, LELO rabbit vibrator. That’s because my boyfriend left me…for a dude. Yeah, I know. It’s fucking weird. It sucks.

I wonder why the hell you and my mom were estranged. She didn’t like to talk about it. I can’t believe you didn’t come to her funeral. Or did you? I’m not even sure what you look like. I think your Wiki picture is about sixty years outdated. Maybe you could visit me in Boston and take a new one.

Wonder if I’ll ever really write you. I doubt it. I bet I get my pride from you, you old coot.

~Red

I slam my Macbook shut and race for the bathroom. The bathroom I’ve been using as seldom as possible, because I’m running out of toilet paper.

I leap over a pile of dirty clothes beside my tan recliner, dash past a three-foot tall stack of paperbacks in the hallway, and narrowly avoid tripping on a pair of ice skates before I punch through the bathroom door.

Pink. This small room looks like the inside of a Bubble Yum bubble. I drop down on the pale pink toilet, let out a sigh, and blink at my reflection. Me: naked in front of an oyster-shell sink, surrounded by pink tile. I look thinner. More like I did in college. And it’s not just the leanness. A few weeks ago, shortly after I lost my job, I hacked myself some brand new bangs. I’m wearing them longish, almost in my eyes, the way I did my senior year at Northwestern. The rest of my bright red hair is long like college, too. Past my shoulders, hanging just over the swell of my breasts.

They look pert right now, and full. I’m an apple, with more weight on my tummy than my legs, and my breasts are a generous “C” cup. I’ve been irrationally proud of this since I hit puberty the summer after eighth grade.

But there’s no point admiring my new, thinner figure or my bust. These boobs haven’t done a damn thing for me lately. Suddenly I can’t even stand to look at my naked body. I tear four squares of toilet paper off the roll and wipe quickly. I flush and look into the basket beside the toilet: six more rolls. That’s not so bad. With any luck, I can make that last three weeks. Maybe more like two. If I run out, I’ll sneak back into the Journal and steal more.

I tuck my hair behind my ears, frown at my freckled, blue-eyed reflection, and pick my way back into the little living area.

Boston is expensive, so when I leased this place two years ago, a studio was all I could afford. And even then, rent was $2,200 per month. My landlord, a ball-cap-sporting, glasses-wearing hipster named Dursey, raised it to $2,250 this past fall. At the time, I barely thought about it. Carl had moved in a few months prior, so I was only paying half.

Now I look around the hardwood den and kitchen area and wonder how long until someone else’s dust is piling in the corners.

I sink into the nest of pillows and blankets on the couch, where I’ve been sleeping since I sold my canopy bed, and ask myself if it was worth it, being ‘house poor.’ I never minded not having a lot in savings, because I never figured I would need it. Before January 30, I spent most of my money on clothes, food, and utilities. Just the basics. I’m not a very materialistic person, which is good, because I guess I’m not very good with money, either.

I glance at the coffee table, where my laptop sits, adorned with stickers I put there in college. I keep telling myself I might have to sell it, too, but honestly, I’m not sure I can. I kind of think I’d check myself into a homeless shelter with it hidden inside a blanket if I had to. I know I’m not a great writer—I’m definitely not famous like my grandmother, Gertrude O’Malley—but I love writing.

Whatever, though.

Enough moping.

I spent the morning job-hunting, the afternoon reading the latest Richard Powers novel, and the early evening typing up a meal plan, just to be sure I make the food in my pantry last as long as possible. I’ve got one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc left, and I’m thinking about downing it. Goes well with everything, even tonight’s dinner: a little bowl of insta-mac and cheese.

I hop up, slip into the red silk robe hanging on the couch’s arm, and walk into the kitchen to microwave the mac and cheese, when my iPhone rings.

I turn a circle, skimming my gaze over the granite countertops and mahogany cabinets, then dash back into the den, where it looks like the women’s section of a large department store has vomited everywhere.

“Damnit…”

I can’t find anything in this—

There!

I pluck the phone from between a cereal bowl and a copy of The New Yorker on my coffee table and see that “Katie Underpants Danger” is calling. My BFF’s name is actually Katie Stranger, but everyone from the Journal calls her Katie Danger, which makes sense because she’s a police reporter. Unlike my amoral self, Katie believes in never going without your underpants, so that’s how she got her middle name.

I press the green button. “Cat-yyyyyy!”

“Red!” Katie has a prim, little old lady kind of voice. She sounds like your grandmother crying out your name from the first row of fold-out chairs at the seventh-grade spelling bee. This makes it super funny when she curses.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, plodding back into the kitchen.

“I’m at the KSC.” The Kendall Square Cinema, a little mom and pop place in Cambridge. “Ronnie and Betsy and I. And you, if you can come.”

Shit.

Katie keeps inviting me out, and I keep having to tell her ‘no,’ because I can’t afford it. I bite my lower lip. I’m going to have to tell her something like the truth, or she’s going to think I’m dodging her.

I sigh. “I would love to come with you guys, but I’m running a little low on funds.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, figuring there’s no need to elaborate. I’ve been nine weeks without income. I’m footing the entire bill for an apartment I used to share. I’m also having to use a bunch of my unemployment money paying for an emergency room visit after spraining my ankle ice skating at the Frog Pond New Years’ day.

“Oh, okay. Well I see. I’m sorry.”

I shrug, adding water to my mac and cheese. “I didn’t mention it. And no problem. Is tomorrow Saturday? Yep, tomorrow’s Saturday. Come by on Sunday. We’ll go…I dunno. We’ll go walking or something. Something super cool. And tell Ronnie and B I’ll see them next week at Hugh’s.”

A few minutes later, I’m sliding the phone into the pocket of my robe and pouring cheese powder into my steaming noodles. I stop to pop the cork on my last bottle of wine before I even stir the powder in. It’s Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc: my favorite, which I used to buy maybe too regularly. I take a long swig from the bottle and pinch my lips together.

My robe vibrates. The phone. Katie again.

“Red, OMG, I forgot to tell you! True Crime channel, twenty minutes! Can you DVR for me? They’re doing a special on James Wolfe, and Rob told me they’re using some footage from the Times!”

“Sure.” I nod. “No prob.”

“Thanks, Red. And hey…we miss you.”

“Ditto. TTYL.”

I hang up before I can get all dumb and emotional. I see Katie at least twice a week, and the rest of the gang at our Wednesday night bingo game at Hugh’s. I have nothing to cry about.

Except that I don’t see them every day.

And this week, I realized I can’t even afford to go to the MFA to see a traveling collection of “W” paintings. A few months ago, I’d have gotten a private tour. Shit, I might have even gotten to meet the reclusive “W.” Okay—maybe not, but still.

I take a long chug from the bottle. Then another. I stir the powder into my noodles and swallow a few bites, followed by another gulp. It tastes so fucking good. God, I’ve missed drinking.

I miss getting drunk.

I take my bowl and bottle into the den and find the True Crime channel. I’m greeted by a close-up of an attractive guy with shaggy-looking dark brown hair; cold, dark brown eyes; and a mean jawline. Total serial killer material. Only I’m pretty sure this guy only killed his wife. Maybe her lover, too. I don’t remember. I was working here at the Journal when Katie worked this case as an intern with The New York Times. I didn’t know her until the next year, when she came on as the new cops reporter at the Journal.

I was hired first, and still, I’m the one who got canned.

“Who cares, Red?” I tip back the bottle to shut my bitter self up.

I sink back into the couch and listen to the sad story of one James Wolfe, a privileged upstate New Yorker who married a celebutant and longtime family friend. Her name was Cookie. Seriously—Cookie. I drink my way through the story of their debauched marriage: ménages, swinging, maybe a little bit of BDSM. Naturally, our murdering homeboy was the dom. I listen to college friends of both James and Cookie; officers who worked the crime scene; and the senior crime reporter for the Times. I think that guy was Katie’s superior.

I soak up details of the trial, reacquainting myself with familiar courtroom terms. When I hear the word “redirect,” I start to cry. It’s not logical. It’s silly. But suddenly I miss my old court beat. I pull my computer into my lap, and just to torture myself, I go to the MFA’s web site, where I scroll through “W.”’s breathtaking nature paintings. I cry a little more at ‘Self Portrait of an Owl.’ That one has really nice colors.

I slap a mental headline on my distress: ‘Canned reporter chokes to death on $20 wine’

A few minutes later, when I hear how James Wolfe walked free, I actually do choke. From there, I slip back into my crying jag. Why do some people have things easy while others don’t? Some people get murdered. Some people get fired. Some people starve to death. Kids get cancer. I hate life.

In this frame of mind, I open my computer.

Gertrude:

You have a granddaughter. Remember? I’ve never met you, and you’re getting really fucking old. This is me, inviting myself for drinks. I’ll bring the scotch. You send the treasure map to your swanky ass island.

~Sarah Ryder (known to people in the know as “Red,” on account of my fabulous red hair).

When I wake up with a terrible hangover, I’m not sure if I really sent the e-mail to the address posted on The O’Malley Foundation’s web site. But I know for sure I didn’t DVR the special on James Wolfe.

* * *

Checking my sent box and realizing I did, in fact, e-mail Gertrude brings a strange relief. I know I’ve cashed in my only chip. I can finally surrender myself to fate.

Sunday morning, I list my iPad, my flatscreen, my coffee table, and my antique chifferobe for sale on Craig’s List and I call my landlord, letting him know I still don’t have March’s rent money. He offers to let me make a half payment. I tell him I’ll move out in two weeks, and I’ll give him as much as I can when I hand in the key; the rest when I find a new job. I’m not sure where I’ll go, but it doesn’t really matter. I can’t stay here.

In the two hours before I meet up with Katie, I list the rest of my furniture, my rugs, my Mikasa dinnerware, two antique mirrors, and my collection of shoes and handbags on Craig’s List.

Minutes later, my phone vibrates with the first of what becomes many e-mail notifications. People want my shit.

While I stand in front of the mirror to get dressed, I realize it’s the first time in a while that I haven’t felt like I’m staring at a loser.

Maybe I’ll end up sleeping on friends’ couches, but at least I’ll know I did everything I could.

I dress in jeans, a thermal shirt, my puffy, navy blue jacket, and my favorite pair of pink and black Nike sneakers, and lock the front door with a growing sense of nostalgia. As I walk the snow-caked sidewalk, headed toward the shops at Beacon Hill, I check my phone. I’ve got $63.29 in my checking account and $344.02 in savings. I move all but $5.00 from savings into checking and slide my phone back into my pocket.

It’s a gray day, not unusual for March in Boston. The kind of day I never minded when I was working, because writing about art is dramatic and fun, and riding the rail to a museum or a gallery or a show or an auction was part of my daily commute.

Before I reach the cozy little business district surrounding Beacon Hill, I try to brace myself for Katie’s work talk. Katie loves being a reporter. She tweets about the stories she covers almost ’round the clock. She’d rather check out a crime scene than eat or sleep or fuck her boyfriend, Gage.

Thinking of Gage makes me think of Carl, and I do not need to think of Carl. Carl, who waited until the dim afterglow of some fantastically mediocre Christmas Eve sex to tell me he was leaving me for Sam. Blonde, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Sam from Denver. A ripped bartender with a forearm tattoo of a red-haired mermaid. Sam who wears a black apron and an emerald earring. Sam who has a cock.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat as I pass the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, a cute historical district just two blocks from my apartment. Down one of the streets is the Journal office. Down another, Hugh’s Bar, where we play drunk bingo. I’m headed for another Boston staple: the frozen Frog Pond at Boston Commons. I realize belatedly that I’ve forgotten my ice skates and wonder if I could sell them, too. I doubt it. I let my breath out in a steamy cloud. How pathetic is it that I just want to go back to my apartment and box up clothes for Goodwill? That I feel as if my time would be better spent begging for jobs at the shops here than with my best friend?

I follow the sidewalk past bookstores and coffee shops and sandwich shops and offices, moving quickly over the icy ground. A few more blocks and I’m in the snow-caked green space of the Commons. I pass couples holding hands, a woman smoking a pipe, a man in a trench coat, a mom with two young, coughing kids. And then there’s the pond: decked out with lights strung through the trees around it, dotted by skaters: people laughing, twirling, playing. I spot Katie’s short, curvy figure from fifty yards away and immediately feel warmed.

We share a quick hug behind the ice skate rental booth, then exchange five dollar bills for skates and sit on a covered bench to pull them on.

“How are you ya?” Katie asks as she tugs a boot off. Her eyebrows rise halfway up her forehead, near her blonde hairline.

“Still kicking.”

“We’re worried.” By ‘we,’ she means the Journal crew. That’s how enmeshed we all are. Were. Everything is ‘we.’ Damn, I miss that. I get my first skate over my thick wool sock and shake my head.

“Don’t worry. I’ll land on my feet.” And, because I know Katie and I know she’s a worrier, I dredge up my cheeriest voice and add: “I’ve applied for lots of good jobs in the last few days. A copy editor position at the New York Sentinel and a court reporting job at the Long Island Courier. Eight more jobs in the Boston metro area, including some nanny jobs. Those pay really well.”

Katie nods, wearing what she thinks is a poker-face, but what is actually a worried mom face.

“If all else fails,” I tell her, “I’ll wait tables at Hugh’s.”

She blows a stray piece of hair off her forehead. “If all else fails, we’ll murder Crissy—” the newbiest of the newbie reporters who survived the layoff.

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. She still texting her boyfriend all day?”

“Oh, you know it.”

Katie stands up on her skates and holds out a hand for me. We latch arms and hobble past a few half-frozen trees, to a little locker room where we pay fifty cents to stash our shoes. Then we push out onto the frozen pond. It’s cold tonight, so as I glide, the white cloud of my breath floats around my face. Katie is half a pace ahead of me, holding out her arms. She tips her head back, facing the sky, and I feel a pang of envy at how free she seems. Then I feel like an asshole for feeling envious.

A second later, she turns to face me and smirks. “Want to race?” She nods at the other side of the pond, and I glide out ahead of her.

“Ready, set, go!” I grin, looking at her over my shoulder, and she lunges toward me. She shoves me back and cries, “Go!”

“Bitch!”

Katie’s ahead of me, but she’s got short legs. I gain quickly. As soon as I find my stride, feeling almost happy for the first time in weeks, a little kid trips right in front of me and I almost slice his hand off with my skate. By the time we reach the other side of the pond, Katie has grabbed an older man’s arm in a desperate attempt not to wipe out, and I’ve bumped into a pregnant woman. What can I say? I was blinded by my bangs.

Katie beats me by a foot or two, and we shove each other a few times, both barely keeping our balance. We’re laughing and panting as we move toward the edge of the pond, looping a boisterous group of college guys.

When we reach a quieter patch of ice, I turn to her. “I forgot to record your thing.”

“Was I on it?”

I drop my head into my hand. “I’m a shitty friend. I fell asleep, so I don’t even know.”

“You dirty whore.”

“I know, I know. I suck big, hairy balls.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you have a lot on your mind.”

“No it’s not.” We skate side-by-side, and somewhere nearby, there is music; and all around us, people slide by wearing clothes they got from their dressers and closets, talking to people they care about, smiling because they are happy; and suddenly I know—I just fucking know—that things are about to change for me. Big time. I’m not sure how, and I’m too afraid to want to know, but I can feel it. I can sense my path diverging from Katie’s, even as we skate here, side by side.

My throat feels thick and tight. I think I’m going to cry. Not because I’m scared or sad for myself, but because I really will miss her and the gang from work. We will never be friends the way we were.

I need a distraction. “Do you think he did it?”

“Wuh?”

“James Wolfe.”

“Aaaah.” She shakes her head, blonde pigtails bouncing. “I never did.” We bump elbows as we move around the perimeter of the pond. “Mainly because of the whole voice thing. You might not have watched it closely enough to see all the evidence, or not evidence, but there were some pretty serious holes in the case. Most notably this bit about a butler who supposedly heard a man’s voice that didn’t sound how James Wolfe’s voice actually sounds. But as far as whether he actually did it, or ordered it done…” She shakes her head. “I guess I’m just going on a gut feeling.”

That’s all anyone can go on. James Wolfe hasn’t been seen in six years. “Where do you think he went?”

Katie shrugs. “Could have been anywhere. I’d get the heck out of the country if I were him.”

I think once more about the clean-shaven, hard-jawed man with dark brown eyes, and then I push him from my mind. I want to enjoy this night with Katie. So I do. We talk about work, gliding and twirling through the crowd. The head copy editor, Jane, just got engaged to her longtime girlfriend, and last night, Katie got called out to a big heroin bust. We talk about a controversial editorial in The Boston Globe. We pull off our skates and put on our shoes and walk to a coffee shop, where Katie orders a cinnamon bagel and a hot cocoa and I ask for tea; it’s only $2.10.

“Why aren’t you getting coffee?” Katie bugs her eyes out.

I smile proudly. “Gave it up.”

I’m a liar. But I make it home without having to tell her I’m giving up the apartment, without bursting into tears or freezing to death. I don’t even have blisters from the skates.

The first thing I do is check the job boards and my professional, Sarah Ryder e-mail address. I’ve got four confirmations from the job apps I put through yesterday, but nothing good. No call backs; mostly just spam.

I check my Red account, the one I used to e-mail Gertrude. No reply. Emboldened by my desperate circumstances, I send another e-mail telling her I was drunk but really would like to meet. Then I read some of her poetry. It’s beautiful stuff, with lines about flowers like solemn children and the terror of a lone cloud.

I wonder what she’s like now. I wonder if she’d remind me of my mother. It’s that particular curiosity that, first thing Monday morning, drives me to phone Strike magazine in New York City. Gertrude founded it in the mid-1960s: “a journal of enlightenment and issues” aimed at “the contemporary woman.”

I get an operator and ask for the managing editor, a woman named Zoey Cruella. I’m put through to her assistant, Thomas, a polite guy who seems a few years younger than me. I tell Thomas my sad story, starting with my single-mother rearing and ending with Mom’s untimely death, at 38, of pancreatic cancer.

“I was thinking of my mom today and I figured, why not try to get Gertrude’s address? I thought you guys might have it. She’s on the magazine’s board, isn’t she?”

Thomas confirms that indeed she is, but he says he can’t just hand it out.

“So there’s nothing you can do for me?”

“Just a moment.”

He returns and says, “I think my boss has found a solution. I’m going to quiz you.”

“Okay.” I chew my lip. “I’ll do my best.”

“What was your mother’s full name?”

“Georgia Anna Deckert.”

“And your full name?”

“Sarah Lynn Ryder.”

“Okay. You’re in business. Please don’t share this, though. It’s only a mailing address—not physical—but Ms. O’Malley values her privacy.”

An hour later, I’m walking to the mailbox with a good ole fashioned hand-written letter. My hungry stomach hurts with nervousness. Things are feeling more real now that I’ve got less than two weeks with a roof over my head. What if she never replies? What if she does, and she invites me to come see her? What if she could help me get a job?

I forfeit my pride and call Thomas back, asking if there are any openings at Strike.

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds annoyed.

On a whim, I call my landlord, Dursey. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to let you know— I wanted to ask if you know of any jobs and tell you I’d take almost anything. If you have any friends or anything…”

Silence stretches out between us before finally, Dursey clears his throat.

“For sure. I’ll let you know.”

But he won’t. I can tell.

The days begin to slide through my fingers. My eye starts twitching like it did after Mom died. I stop eating. I just can’t choke food down. I watch my phone and check my e-mail and apply for more jobs. I even go by Hugh’s and ask the owner, Benjamin, if he would hire me.

“In a heartbeat, honey. But I’ve got no openings right now.”

One night, in a state of panic, I look up escort services. I’m not super sexually experienced—no more than average, whatever that is—but I like orgasms, and I’m not ugly. I could maybe have sex with carefully vetted strangers if it meant I could afford a small apartment.

I check college apartment boards, hoping to find a situation where I’d be one of several roommates. Maybe I could get a low rent that way. I e-mail two girls, but get no response.

A week goes by, a week in which I collect an additional $264 from the sale of various belongings. A week in which I awake in the night, heart beating frantically, and check my inbox with sweaty fingers. A week in which I stand up the Journal crew for bingo.

On a Wednesday afternoon, I sell most of my clothes, adding a measly $43 to my sad sum. I go door to door again, hitting literally every business on Beacon Hill and the surrounding neighborhoods. I swallow the absolute last smidgen of my pride and frenziedly apply at a work-all-night janitorial service, at a Wendy’s, at a car wash down the street.

I wish I hadn’t had to sell my Kia to make rent last month. If I still had it, I could expand the door-to-door part of my job hunt.

On Tuesday, I take the bus to West End and Boston Commons; on Wednesday, Back Bay, and Cambridge. I spend both days walking as far as I can, grabbing job applications from every place with an opening and filling them out on the cold sidewalk, pressing my pen down on my wallet and trying to keep my trembling fingers still enough so my handwriting is readable. I get home at half past two a.m. Thursday, exhausted and trembling from hunger.

Katie pops up the next day and breezes right into the apartment, which is, accidentally, unlocked.

She looks around with horror on her face and puts her hands on her hips. “Red, what the hell?”

I’ve been found out, and I’m slightly mortified, but I shrug and play it off. “I’m moving.”

“Holy wow.” Her mouth lolls. “Just…holy.”

I twirl around the almost-empty living room with my arms out. “I’m trying to live simply.”

“Holy shit, you got evicted, didn’t you? Because Carl left you high and dry.”

“I didn’t get evicted. I’m moving.”

“In with Gage and I.”

“No way.” They live in an 800-square-foot flat and fight and fuck like a pair of rabid cats.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“Katie—”

“Then where are you going?” she demands.

“I’ve got plans.”

“You don’t, Red. Quit putting me off. You’ve been doing it for weeks now and I’m tired of turning a blind eye to this…to this crisis.”

I roll my eyes. “K, you’re totally over-reacting.”

She’s not.

My latest plan involves buying a bus ticket to Florida, where it’s always warm and I can sleep under a dock. I’ll use the free WiFi at coffee shops to apply for jobs. Maybe the Peace Corps.

So I’m surprised when I blurt out, “I’m going to see my grandmother.”

“Gertrude?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

This will be the easiest way to disappear. So Katie won’t worry. I’ll find a job in Florida, find a fresh start.

Over the next few hours, I convince Katie this is true. We read Gertrude’s poems aloud, and Katie orders Chinese food, which I devour so quickly I puke it all back up once Katie leaves.

Late that night, I’m curled up on a blanket in my empty bedroom, wearing the pink iPhone ear buds I used to wear when I wrote at work. I’m lying on my back, my face striped by the streetlight streaming through my blinds. I’m listening to Lana Del Ray, surfing the internet for what will be one of the last times ever on my phone; I’ve just sold it on Craig’s List for $90.

My leg itches and I reach down to scratch it. One of my nails is jagged. I scrape my calf just a little, and it stings.

I start to sob. I tug at my hair.

“How did this happen? What the fuck is wrong with everything?”

I rip the ear buds from my ears and toss my phone down. I jump up and tug my sneakers on without socks. I stab my arms into my coat and run toward Beacon Hill, where the bar crowd’s out in full force and creepers stand in alleys with their heads lowered. The air is so cold it feels like a corporeal thing.

I continue toward Boston Commons, and when I reach the pond, I spend five bucks on skates, because why the fuck not? I skate furiously in circles, until the dim stars that wink through spindly tree branches are nothing but a blur, and the faces passing by and the strings of lights and crying of a child and icy wind that slaps my cheeks seem like slivers of some dream.

This is not my life. It cannot be my life.

I skate until my feet are numb, and by the time I make it home, my hands are so frostbitten they burn terribly.

I take a hot shower and bundle up in my blankets. I check my Facebook, my e-mail, and feel the morbid compulsion to check my bank account. I do this fanatically now, sometimes like every five minutes. I’m not sure if I’m trying to motivate or torture or…holy shit.

The page has loaded. I blink. And blink. And wipe my eyes and blink.

My heart is pounding hard. Blood roars inside my ears. This can’t be right. It just…can’t be. But there it is. In simple, sans serif font, black on a white screen underneath my bank’s emblem:

$30,377.12

I can’t believe my eyes. I must be going crazy. I log out, in, and out again. Twice. Four times. Six.

My phone vibrates: an e-mail. gertrude@omalleyfoundation.com

She has written only one word: “Come.”

Attached is a photocopy of a hand-drawn map, sketched with an ‘X’ on one Rabbit Island, a blip about two miles off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. At the bottom is Gertrude’s e-signature.

I’m pretty sure my “FUCK YES! HELL YES! FUCK!” is heard all through my building.

I throw my snow-damp sneakers back on and dash all the way to Fred’s Coffee & Bagels, where I order a grande latte and four extra-fattening, buttery, cinnamon-crusted bagels.

I walk slowly home to my nearly empty apartment, thanking God and sleet and smog and dirty snow for what this night has brought me. I’ve made some stupid choices, but e-mailing grandma is not one of them.

As I climb behind the wheel of my new-to-me ’04 Camry the next afternoon, I’m beaming from ear to ear. I’m going to meet my mom’s mother, and after that—or maybe before if I’m extra lucky—I’m going to find a way to end this two month dry spell.

* * *

WOLFE

I leave the island four times annually—one trip inland for each season—and that’s mostly for Trudie. Was for Trudie. She needed things on occasion, and with her bum hip, it was easier for me to get them.

After she passed, I debated ever leaving the island again. No reason to. I’ve got food and supplies. I can get Bob, my cousin and my manager, to arrange a courier to get the paintings. Maybe pay him to haul his ass down here and do it himself if he doesn’t trust a third party. Not my problem. Keeping me anonymous is Bob’s problem. Has been since we started.

The only thing that made me second-guess confinement to the island was pussy.

When I first came here four years ago, I didn’t leave for months. I started dreaming of pussy. Smelling pussy. Even tasting it. So I found Clarice, a lonely young widow in one of the row houses by the water. She likes it like I do, and she never wants to see my face.

She’s a good enough fuck. But I have to go to her. I would never bring her here. I would never bring anyone here.

I could pay for pussy. Liplocked pussy. Motor boat some discreet escort to the island. But escorts are boring.

Even Clarice—predictable, submissive Clarice—could conceivably say “no.” She could fight me if she wanted. And I need that. Need to think that maybe one day, she’ll decide to twist around and grab my hair and look into my eyes.

Without that possibility, without the chance that it could all implode, it’s not fucking worth it.

So, no escorts in motor boats.

After I’ve had some time to digest Trudie’s death and my subsequent inheritance of Rabbit Island, I decide no more Clarice, either.

I’ll find another way to deal with my dick.

Peace follows my decision. Peace: the closest thing I’d found to happiness. I think Trudie would have been glad for me.

I celebrate my vow of seclusion by wandering the forest. Pines and oaks, cypress, swampland. The island is an eighth of a mile long, and I love every fucking inch of it. I leave my cabin for two nights and pitch a tent on the boulder on the northwest side of the island. Sit beside it with my feet in the sand and listen to the whip-poor-will, to the lapping of the waves. Watch cypress branches drifting in the salty breeze. And when I can’t keep my hands still any longer, I let myself paint. A gull in the water. A squirrel on an oak. Simple shit.

The next day, I call Bob. Set up the courier.

And then three days ago, when I’m up at Trudie’s cottage, archiving her unpublished poems, the phone rings.

Trudie wasn’t a lover of technology, and she especially hated talking on the phone. In her honor, I let her archaic answering machine pick up. I wonder who the fuck has her number. The old woman was more reclusive than even me.

A second later, a male voice fills her little office.

“This is a message for James Wolfe. I’m Michael Halcomb, partner at Halcomb & Mallory and Gertrude O’Malley’s new estate attorney. I need to talk to you about her attempted deeding of Rabbit Island to you.”

I sit there a moment, absorbing the echo of my name; resisting the urge to grab the phone. Then I pluck it off her desk. “What do you mean attempted?”

I can tell the lawyer is surprised to hear my voice. I’ve got a deep voice. Distinctive. Shit… It’s fucking infamous.

I’m fucking infamous.

Bet the bastard was hoping he wouldn’t reach me.

“Mr. Wolfe?” His voice sounds tinny.

“You mentioned a problem?”

He clears his throat. “Er…yes sir. I’m glad I reached you. There’s an issue with the deeding of the island. Nothing insurmountable—”

“Spit it out.”

“I’m afraid the attorney in charge of Ms. O’Malley’s final arrangements was a junior colleague. He was only on the—”

“Spit. It. Out.”

“The island can’t be deeded to you, despite your being temporarily in charge of her trust. In the event that no family member is helping govern the trust, conservation land like the island can’t pass hands. For ownership of the island to change hands posthumously, it’s got to be done via Gertrude’s family. There’s only one living descendant, according to my research. A granddaughter—”

“Sarah Ryder.” A redhead. Freckled and pale, from the look of her in the photo on Trudie’s desk. Despite some kind of family feud, Trudie kept track of the girl. Subscribed to the Boston Journal online. Even had me program Google to send Trudie an e-mail alert when it picked up the name “Sarah L. Ryder.”

In the last few weeks of Trudie’s life, I corresponded two times with her oncologist via e-mail. Which is how I found that little, red-haired Sarah lost her job. About a week before Trudie passed, Sarah e-mailed, wanting to meet up. Trudie asked me not to reply.

“I waited too late,” she told me.

Why hadn’t Sarah reached out to her until now? I did some checking around, had Bob call up a mutual friend from our Bridgewater days, and found out little miss Sarah was looking for a job. Looking unsuccessfully. Applications out all over Boston.

So…a moneygrubber.

“You’re right,” Halcomb says. “Her name is Sarah. She needs to take a position with the trust. She can then decide if the island should be sold to an individual. You. You’ll need to convince Sarah to get involved, and convince her to sell the island to you.”

“I hope your office intends to handle this. It’s your fuck-up. And I don’t leave the island. Ever.” That’s a stretch, but I’m damn sure not going to this bastard’s office.

“I can send someone out to help you—”

“Not someone. You.”

“Ah, well, I—”

“If you and I have to meet for any reason, you come to me. I don’t want to deal with an intern or some fucking first-year lackey.”

I enjoy his silence. Nervous silence.

He clears his throat again. The fucking pussy.

“Er…yes. Of course. Just tell me when and…well,” he chuckles, “I don’t need to ask where. Gertrude paid my firm well to be…considerate of her preferences. Her solitude. Yours as well, by extension, sir. But there won’t be any paperwork to sign, no business between you and me, until you contact Sarah.”

Fuck.

Chapter Two

RED

I arrive in Charleston in mid-morning. There are so many more trees than I remembered, many of them adorned with beautiful gray moss. Water spreads out around the city like an obsidian plate of glass. The historic homes—Federal style, Queen Anne, Italianate—are painted in pastels, and arranged in neat rows along lamp-lit sidewalks. The day is overcast, with dark gray clouds like rain, so some of the lamps are already glowing.

I drive around, reacquainting myself with iron-gated cemeteries and sprawling plantation homes. Finally, about 3:30 p.m., I stop at a little local produce store and ask about the Briar Bay boat dock, which I’m told is in a cove near Dill Creek, on the James Island side of Charleston Harbor. I head across the Ashley River, find a shrimp shack, and spend the next hour and a half eating and obsessively checking my phone. I fire off a quick e-mail telling Gertrude I’ll be the girl with long, red hair, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt.

When I got the call from my bank confirming that an anonymous donor had infused my account with new life, I renewed the lease on my apartment, but I didn’t have time to buy new furniture or clothes, so here I am, in my slightly baggy jeans and a Northwestern shirt I’ve had since...spring my junior year. So yeah, meeting grandma for the first time in a six-year-old t-shirt.

I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.

The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving in frenzied zigzags. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips. Mossy trees shade the deck and walkway, hanging over boats big and small. I run my eyes over the larger boats, wondering which one is my grandmother’s.

I pull my phone out of my cup holder and shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag and purse, lean against my hood, and wait.

What will Gertrude look like? I watch the docked boats, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a swift but muggy breeze.

There’s a luxury boat, maybe fifty feet, with a pelican’s post on the top. I wonder if she’s wealthy enough to own that. I guess she probably is. I cast my gaze to a smaller boat, this one blue and white, with the name Dirty Sammy scrawled across its back in cursive.

I’m holding my breath when my phone vibrates. ‘The boat name is Fog.’

My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start toward the dock. The big, square wood deck adjoining the parking lot is dotted with a few benches and an abandoned fishing pole. I take a left onto one of the long planks that runs parallel with the shoreline. Boats bob all along it, settled into little, wood-framed slots.

I walk slowly, glancing at each boat for Fog. Double Trouble, Choppy Cass, Stupid Does, Great Escape. I think the big beige and crimson sailboat a few slots down looks like a Fog, and am disappointed to find its name is Rammer Jammer. I pass a few smaller boats, the kind you might ski behind, as well as a massive yacht that looks almost too big for its allotted docking space.

The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips.

I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, glancing down the dock for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth, when I see him: a tall man blocking my path. He’s wearing a pair of loose, charcoal slacks and a battered-looking white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.

My cheeks heat up, as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy actually clenches like it’s saying “hey Hottie, right here.”

Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.

Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.

He must be a fucking pirate. A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard, as if maybe he’s clenching it. He’s got Elvis Pressley cheekbones, and his mouth, which twists when he sees me, looks made for naughty words. And his eyes. Holy shit, those eyes. They’re dark brown—intense and long-lashed—but that’s not what gets me. There’s something about them… About the way they sweep me up and down, as if assessing. Does he find me wanting? Find me satisfactory?

I can barely breathe. I forget to swallow and almost choke on my own spit.

My eyes flit to his mouth again as my finger twitches. Oh, how I’d like to touch those full lips.

I want to take a step closer and yank off his Mets ball cap. I want to run my fingers through his hair.

I notice I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m recovering from a panic attack.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He steps toward me and I lick my lips.

“You’re Red.” His voice is so low, I can feel the timbre of it in between my legs.

“You’re…not my grandmother.”

His mouth presses into a tight line. “Red,” he says slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news. Gertrude passed a few days ago.”

“She died?”

He nods once. “She did.”

He swipes his cap off his head, revealing short, black hair.

I stare at it as if it might help me comprehend. I waited a lifetime to meet my grandmother, longed for her since my mother died, and came this close to knowing her? How could she be gone?

My eyes water—from shock or disappointment? Maybe from the wind.

“When did she die?”

“Earlier in the week,” he says.

“So the money…? It’s an inheritance?”

His face twists. “So it was the money?”

“What?”

“You needed money.” His tone is harsh and judging.

“What does my financial situation have to do with anything?”

He makes a face that starts out as a wince and turns into an angry smirk. “That’s how I got you here. Money grubber.”

My stomach tightens. “I’m not a money grubber. What do you mean ‘got me here?’” It hits me like a cannon ball that I don’t even know who he is, this man who’s suddenly so angry with me. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Race. I was Gertrude’s assistant.” He folds his arms in front of him, revealing thick forearms.

I look beyond him, down the dock, where a group of men are unloading fish into several large, white coolers. If I need to, I can run.

“You said you got me here with money. What does that mean?”

His eyebrows narrow. “I deposited thirty thousand dollars in your account. Gertrude didn’t leave you anything.”

“What?”

“She left her island to me by putting me in charge of her trust. But it turns out the trust can’t transfer ownership of the island to me without you, because the island is conservation land, and conservation land can only be passed down within a family. I can’t have it unless you become involved with the trust and sign off on the sale of it to me.”

“If you want to keep the money that I gave you, what you have to do is simple. Sign on to oversee her trust, and decide the island should be sold to me. The money will go to the trust, but I’ll give you an additional thirty thousand dollars.”

I blink a few times. “Are you bribing me?”

He pins me with that awful look again. The condemning one. “Do you consider yourself above that?”

“I don’t know. Yes. You called me a money-grubber. That’s not a good way to get my help.”

A beam of sunlight pushes through the dark clouds, illuminating the man’s black hair. “So you’re saying you won’t do it?”

I rub my eyes, noticing as I do that my hand is shaking. “I don’t know if I will. I don’t know.” I draw a deep breath in. Force myself to look into his dark eyes. “I don’t think I would agree to sell her island to you. You seem like an asshole.”

“Do I?” He steps closer, and my chest and cheeks go molten hot.

I grit my teeth. “Yes. You are an asshole. I can spot one.”

“You’re a beggar.”

“How did she die?”

“Excuse me?”

“How did my grandmother die, asshole?”

His face hardens. “It was cancer. Do you care?”

“Of course I care!”

His sneer tells me what he thinks of that, but I ignore him. “Pancreatic cancer?” I ask.

He frowns.

“Did she die of pancreatic cancer?”

“Lung.”

I exhale slowly, feeling faint. “She didn’t want to meet me, did she? It was you who told me to come here.”

He nods, and my throat constricts.

“After your first e-mail, I did some digging. I found out about your financial woes. After she passed, I gave you a ‘gift.’”

“A bribe.”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s a gift. A token of my intent if you were to decide, on behalf of the trust, to sell the island to me. Her trust will get the money. A little under a million, if I’m correct about the island’s worth. You can keep the sixty thousand I give you, and I get to continue living at my home.” He holds his hands out, as if everything he’s said is totally logical.

I shake my head.“Just because you were dumb enough to deposit money into my account—under false pretenses, might I add—that doesn’t mean I have to agree to sell the island to you. How could I do that, anyway? If you’re one of the trust’s administrators, wouldn’t that be like…illegal?”

“I’d have to remove myself first.”

“Why do you care so much about this island?”

He shakes his head, as if he speaks another language. As if he’s lost. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft. “It’s my home.”

“Only if I decide to give it to you. So far, I haven’t thought of a single reason why I should.”

“What if I told you the money is gone unless you do?”

I snort. “Are you a magician?”

His eyes harden.“The money is gone, Red. It’s been gone since this morning. I had it removed.”

“W-what do you mean?” My voice is squeaky.

“Your check for car you bought won’t bounce. I removed it after that.”

I start to tremble, shoulders first, then chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Is this a fucking joke?” I fumble for my phone and he steps closer. “Go ahead and check,” he says. “You’ll see.”

I can barely get to the bank’s web site, my hands are shaking so badly. When I see the balance, I nearly vomit: $245.13.

“I don’t understand. Why did you do this?”

“I needed to get you here.”

“I would have probably come if you’d asked like a normal person!”

He shakes his head. “I needed a guarantee.”

I grind my jaw together as hard as I can and put my head in my hands. I haven’t felt this screwed—this utterly and totally fucked—since mom was diagnosed.

I feel his hand touch my shoulder, and I slap him off. “I can’t believe this shit. I can’t believe—”

He holds up a check, and I go quiet.

My name is in the “to” space. The dollar amount is $60,000.

Suddenly, my lungs work again. It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it’s raspy and weak. “How can I trust you? If you can deposit and remove money from my account one time…” I shake my head. “How did you even do that?”

“It wasn’t easy. It’s not something just anyone can do. I doubt I could do it again, for what that’s worth.”

It’s worth nothing. “I’ll never trust you.”

I take a step back, and his hand closes around my arm as his black eyes find mine. “I’m sorry I did things this way. I really am. I’d like nothing more than to hand this check to you—and I will. As soon as you sign the island over to me. Come with me, Red. Just for a night. Give me a chance to talk you into this. You can see where your grandmother lived.”

I look at the blue and white sailboat beside us. It’s got two benches in the middle, two motors on the back, and a steering wheel podium near the front. I shake my head. I’m not getting on that boat with him. “God, this is so my luck. Some asshole poses as my grandmother, and now you want to steal her island from me. You’re like…the big bad wolf.”

He blanches for just a second before he turns his face into something more neutral. “Get into the boat, Red. I promise you’ll be glad you did.”

* * *

WOLFE

Surprises.

Fucking hell, I’m rocked by her surprises. For starters: the little redhead makes my dick hard. The righteous outrage. I’m glad I pissed her off. How fucking sexy is that mouth when she’s using it to slap me around?

As she stands there with her hands on her hips, glaring at me like she’s she knows how big and bad I am, I’m shifting to try and hide my erection.

I can’t keep my eyes from returning to her breasts. They stretch her long-sleeved gray t-shirt. I run my gaze down to her curvy hips and wonder what she’d do if I grabbed her ass right now.

I can’t believe my reaction to her. The way my dick salutes her. The way my balls draw up like she’s tickling them with her tongue.

It’s not because she’s classically beautiful. She’s got a strange look: long, straight, red hair; red lips; pale skin with a smattering of freckles on her nose. Her blue eyes are big and wide. If I had to paint her as an animal, I’d make her a fox. Sleek. Striking.

I roll my gaze down her small, lithe body, lingering on her hips, encased in jeans. I wonder what her cunt would taste like.

Strawberries, I bet.

I imagine thrusting two fingers into her slick, pink flesh; working my pinkie into her tight asshole.

I’d love to see those legs sag open for me.

I want to hear her moan and pant, feel her writhe under me.

“This is a really terrible thing to do to someone,” she says, hands on her hips. “You’re using my financial issues to manipulate me.”

I arch a brow. “I’m offering you an easy chance to drive off tomorrow with a check for sixty thousand dollars and an opportunity to net much more for your grandmother’s foundation.”

“Really? Because it looks to me like you gave me thirty thousand dollars, then snatched it away in order to control me. I’d rather be poor and homeless than manipulated by an ass like you.”

Christ, she’s sexy.

I struggle to suppress a smile.

“I’d like you to come and see the island,” I try.

“So I can decide if I want to give it to you?” She snorts. “I can tell you right now, my answer is ‘no.’”

“Reconsider.”

She bites down on her lower lip, and my dick pulses. I wonder if she’s red between her legs.

“Why should I get into a boat with you, wolf?”

I hate how she keeps calling me that—my real last name—so I’m a little terse when I say, “Do it because I asked.”

A little laugh, soft as the wind. “Are you sure you were my grandmother’s employee? Something about you feels really…lawyer to me. Lawyer or…hmmm.” She strokes her chin. “Maybe banker.”

I force myself to breathe. “You’ve got it all wrong, Rojo.”

I step down into the boat to give her the illusion of space. If she turns to leave, I’ll go after her, but she doesn’t need to know that.

I watch her look from me to the parking lot, so obviously considering her choice. I’m still hard, so I lean on the dock and try to find something about her I don’t like.

Freckles.

Never have liked them.

She has freckles.

Except on her, they emphasize just how fucking smooth and soft and unblemished the rest of her skin is. I wonder if she has freckles on her breasts.

I grit my teeth again, and when I look back at her face, I get this feeling like she might be checking me out, too.

Another surprise: The scrutiny makes me squirm.

Squirming makes me angry. I’m not who I used to be, and most days I think it’s for the best. But this is pathetic.

I reach out and grab her around the knees, throw her over my shoulder, and set her down inside the boat. I snatch her bags from the dock and say, “Come on, Rojo.”

Her lips twitch. “Are you really calling me Rojo?”

I shrug. “I think it fits.”

I hedge my bets and turn away from her to finish breaking down the sail. I’m watching, though. She doesn’t run—not yet, anyway. By the time the sail is secured, I’m sweating like a hog over a pit, so I unbutton the top of my shirt and lean against one of the boat’s wood benches.

“Come see the place, Rojo. I have some poems for you, and pictures.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at the dock. “How long did you work for Gertrude?” she asks pointedly.

I can tell from her intense stare that my answer is important, so I don’t say ‘four years.’ It sounds insubstantial, which it’s not.

“We met in Madrid, at an art exhibit. Have you ever heard of ‘W?’”

I know she has. I’ve done my homework.

“He’s one of my favorites,” she confirms.

“I met Trudie at one of his first café shows.”

Her face transforms—a look of wonder; maybe even envy—and I’m irrationally pleased she appreciates my work.

“We both liked nature, and being by ourselves. I moved here to help her keep the island up.”

She bites her lip again, inspecting me from beneath her long eyelashes. “Tell me something about my mother. Anything you know. And you will know something if you really knew Gertrude.”

“Her middle name was Anna, and she liked butterflies and worked as a professor.”

She juts her chin up. “Where did she work?”

“University of Alabama at Birmingham.”

Again, with her teeth on that tasty little lip. My dick, which had been settling down, is all the way up again, and I want to groan.

“Okay, so you really worked for my grandmother. That doesn’t mean you’re not a manipulative asshole. I’m afraid I have no interest in helping you. I’d rather take my money-grubbing self and starve.” She grabs her bags and starts to climb out of the boat, and I’m on her; my hand on her elbow, fingers closing around her smooth skin.

“C’mon, Rojo. Just come see it with me. All I’m asking for is one night. How about this? If you come with me, I’ll pay you ten thousand. Either way. I promise.” I put my heart and soul into the word, because what’s left of them is anchored to that damn island. I can’t exist anywhere else. I jerk my gaze around the docks, suddenly terrified someone will recognize me and I’ll lose my chance with her.

Her mouth puckers. “I want to see your photo ID or I won’t even consider your ridiculous request.”

Fuck!

“I don’t have it on me.”

“Really. ’Cause that’s not strange or anything…”

“I don’t often leave the island.”

“Also strange,” she says. “Why is that?”

“I’m uncomfortable around people.” It’s the closest I can get to the truth, which reads more like I hate everyone.

That’ll win her, James.

As if she hears my thoughts, she says, “What’s your name?”

“Race,” I tell her. It’s my college nickname.

“Race what?” She’s frowning at me like she thinks I’m stupid.

“Race Hollister.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“Only that I can’t believe you. Without some sort of ID, I have no idea who you are. What the hell would make me go anywhere with you, let alone a deserted island where you could chop me into little pieces and feed me to your pet turtles?”

“Turtles aren’t meant to be pets; most animals aren’t.”

“Even posing as a humanitarian, I still don’t trust you.”

I take a step away from her, suddenly drained. “I’m not going to keep begging, Rojo. If you don’t need ten thousand dollars, walk away. If you do, get in.”

* * *

RED

My stomach twists when I think of the money he’s offering. Ten thousand dollars is enough to tide me over until I find work. Sixty is enough to take a year or two off. Enough to travel almost anywhere I want.

“You must really want this island badly.”

He rubs his forehead, reminding me of a tired child. “I do.”

Even now, standing close enough so I can see the sweat on his brow and throat, he’s beautiful. A handsome villain.

I sigh. “I can’t believe I’m desperate enough to consider this.”

“I’m sorry I called you a money-grubber.”

I meet his eyes and am surprised to find they’re softer now. Probably an act.

I look down at my bag and purse, then around, at the other boats, then out at the sea, which is choppy from the breeze. I drag my phone out of my pocket.

“Let me see if I’ve got service. The e-mail you sent had the longitude and latitude of the island. I’ll copy that and send it to a friend. Just in case you turn out to be a lunatic. Promise me you won’t turn out to be a lunatic?”

He nods, looking surprisingly serious. “Scouts’ honor.”

“Shit. That’s not enough. Just e-mailing my friend is definitely not enough to convince me to go with you. I need something more. I need…I don’t know. A reference. Or maybe I don’t…” I have a Taser in the bottom of my purse. I could always use that.

No—I’ve got a much better idea!

He turns away from me and moves over to the motors and I point my phone at him. With trembling fingers, I pull my camera up and set it on video mode. When he turns back toward me, I get a brief shot of his face and send it, along with a note and the island’s coordinates, to Katie.

He’s leaning back over the motors, pulling on the top of one of them so it rises slightly out of the water, when I notice the bulge in his pants.

Chapter Three

RED

This is a surprise.

Does he find me attractive? This man? I’m not ugly, but I’m no beauty—and I know that. And yet, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a hard-on for my brilliant personality.

All we’ve done so far is argue.

Maybe he gets off on arguing.

He looks up from what he’s doing and, again, I think he looks tired. Much wearier and more sympathetic than a blackmailer has a right to look.

I wonder how close he was to Gertrude.

I wonder why he doesn’t want to leave the island.

I’m a fool for caring.

He turns back around toward me, and a quick glance-over reveals he’s tucked his boner away. Or lost it. For a moment I’m dizzied by how good he looks in those slacks; how much broader his shoulders are than his hips.

Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s what he is. And an asshole.

“So, you ready?” The corner of his lip tugs up, as if he’s trying to smile and failing.

“Hmm.” I make him sweat it, because he deserves that much. Then, after I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit down on one of the benches, I tell him, “I guess so.”

A brilliant grin spreads over his face, confirming what I’d figured: He’s got a nice smile. It lightens his eyes, almost literally. They don’t look quite so dark-brown.

“Thanks for this. I’ll return you here tomorrow with a check.”

“You fucking better.”

I spend the next few minutes pretending to be absorbed with something on my phone. I have the wherewithal to be sure the GPS-tracking service is turned on, in the event he does turn out to be insane. But I don’t get that vibe.

A few minutes later, his big hand is pushing the boat away from the dock; he’s stepping over to the steering podium, and I’m shamelessly watching the way his shirt melds against the hard lines of his back.

I hunch my shoulders against the wind and watch him as he steers the boat, first idling through the cove, then pushing a handle up a few inches and increasing our speed until the boat’s nose rises out of the water, then the rest of it. The boat bobs and bounces as it flies across the sea.

I wonder if the money will be worth this ordeal. I hope I learn something from what I see of Gertrude’s home. I wish Gertrude was here.

This day has turned out to be so fucking weird.

I let my mind wander as the wind whips my hair out behind me.

I’m curious to know whether Gertrude liked the color blue, like Mom did; whether she was a fan of sunflower patterns and brightly colored kitchenware. Mom was the queen of neon orange and pink coffee mugs, of funky watermelon plates in summer. Did she get her style from her stoic poet mother? How far off base was I, when I would dream of meeting the great Gertrude O’Malley?

Maybe Gertrude was more like me. My favorite colors are green and pink, my favorite season fall. I’m a writer. Not a poet, but still a writer.

I gather my hair into one of my hands and wonder why I didn’t bring a rubber band. I guess I thought Gertrude’s boat would have an inside. I pictured it big. I pictured her on it.

Sigh.

Another glance up at Race’s back and ass, and I’m distracted by the bulge I imagine is still straining against his pants.

I’m practically twitching with nervous energy—nervous, sexually appreciative, emotionally irritated energy—so I decide instead of just watching him from my seat, I’ll join him at the pedestal that houses the steering wheel, the throttle, and a few keypads.

I hold onto the side of the boat as I move, feeling grateful I wore sneakers. Beyond the boat’s nose, the horizon line bounces; clouds bear down on the water, matching my mood.

I clutch the edge of the podium, and he looks over at me. He’s not wearing sunglasses, so his eyes are squinted slightly against the glare of the water.

I lean closer to him, and I swear I think I can feel him checking me out. Not simply looking at me; looking at me.

I lean back a little, trying to ignore the way my body calls to his, and raise my voice so he can hear me over the wind and choppy sea. “Why did she want you to have the island?”

He shakes his head, turning toward me, so his torso is an inch from my shoulder, and his lips are almost brushing my cheek. “Probably because I live there.”

We hit a bump, and my shoulder bumps into his chest, sending a starburst of sensation through me. I look into his face, wondering why it strikes me as familiar. There’s no way I’ve met him before.

“Are you a recluse?”

His eyes flick over to mine, then back out to the sea. His looks first annoyed, then amused. “Is this a quiz?”

“I think I have a right to quiz you. After what you did.”

One dark eyebrow arches. “Terrible thing, loaning you money to buy a car. That’s basically what I did, you realize.” That and offer to pay you ten thousand dollars for a night on an island.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You took advantage of me.”

“I wish you would stop saying that, Rojo.”

“I can’t pay for the fucking car! Broke people don’t buy cars.”

“How’d you get broke, Rojo?”

“Quit calling me that,” I say. “ It sounds like a man’s name, and the part that sticks out in my mind the most is ‘ho.’”

He smirks, and in that low voice of his, he says, “Are you a ho?”

I pinch my lips together to avoid a smile; his tone is clearly teasing. “No. I’m not a ho at all.”

A reluctant little half smile slips over his mouth, and my poor neglected vagina responds. I bite my lip to distract myself from the party in my jeans.

I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling a little weird about myself. This is hardly a normal response to finding out about the death of one’s grandmother. Then again, Gertrude was a total stranger. Her death is, for me, mainly just a disappointment. The end of some remote possibility that probably wasn’t ever possible at all.

I push my bangs over the top of my head, where they tend to stay, whipped back in the wind. Race’s lips twitch again, and I glare. “What?”

Why the hell am I feeling so warm and fuzzy? I’m like a high school freshman creaming my panties over the senior quarterback. I shouldn’t be so damn attracted to him—so I am. Of course I am. This is the way things go for me.

And then he tilts his head my way, gives me a full smile, and says, “You wanna steer?”

Total swoon land. Which is sad. So very, very pitiful.

I take a long, slow breath. “Are you being condescending?”

He shakes his head. Angles his body toward mine. In a low, scratchy voice that may just be the wind and my imagination, he murmurs, “Truth? I want to put my hands on you.”

Heat sings through me. “Did you really just say that?”

He grins, and I say, “You should keep your hands to yourself. I don’t need or want them.”

LIAR!

“If this is some kind of ploy,” I continue, looking into his eyes, “it won’t work. I’m not even attracted to you.”

If at all possible, his grin spreads wider, making him look wolfish. His eyes flit down the front of me, and before I can prepare myself, he reaches out and flicks my nipple gently. “Not attracted?”

Pleasure shoots in a direct line down to my pussy—so fierce I go all limp and almost lose my footing. I clamp an arm over my chest and laugh, because seriously, I cannot believe this asshole did that. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Believe it, baby.” Again, that smug smirk. “I don’t think you minded. In fact,” he says slowly, leaning so close his lips brush me near my ear, “I think you liked it.”

Before I can deny this, his arms are going around my waist, moving me in front of him, turning me toward the boat’s nose. I wait, lightheaded, for him to press my ass against his huge erection, and am dizzily disappointed when he simply places my hands on the wheel and wraps his hands around them.

He moves my sweaty fingers to a position that looks like nine and three. “Hold it here,” he purrs into my ear. He holds up one finger and disappears, moving toward the back of the boat.

I look into a little rear view mirror and see him pushing a button on the side of one of the motors. A few seconds later, their overpowering roar quiets a few notches. I look over my shoulder; the wind whips my hair across my face.

“What did you do?” I ask as he comes back to me.

“Shifted the motors to a different setting. Kind of like shifting down a gear.”

Now the loudest thing in my ears is the whipping wind. He stands so close to me we’re practically hip to hip, and then he wraps an arm around my back.

“Are you cold?” he asks. “You’re shivering a little.”

Omigod, I’m not shivering. I’m trembling. With lust.

I swallow. Shake my head. I try to step away from him, I swear I do, but my legs are frozen. He’s got me entranced. Not him. His delectable body.

“Quit acting like you care if I’m cold.”

I tighten my hands around the wheel, and for a second I swear I can feel his hardness against my butt. The sensation is gone as quickly as I notice it, but I’m so fired up now I can barely remember my own name, feeling sweaty and shaky and flushed.

His hand comes down beside mine on the wheel, tugging it slightly right. “Hold it there for a few minutes,” he says. The boat veers right a foot or two, and the current ripples around us.

For the next five minutes, the only sound is that of the motors, the splash of water under us, and the whipping wind. The sailboat never quite goes fast enough to completely level off, so the nose of the boat, where we’re standing, rides just a little higher than the back.

Little droplets of water fly into my face. We pass a large boat, flat and slow-moving, like a barge. Overhead, the sky darkens, threatening to spill.

We pass a group of three small, tree-covered islands on our left, and my heart pounds, wondering if one of them is Gertrude’s. Race doesn’t move, though, so I shift my eyes ahead, where I can already see something else in the water. Another half mile or so reveals an even larger island: this one sporting dozens of tall pines.

“Beautiful,” I murmur.

“Perhaps it could be yours,” he says with a funny little half-smile. “I can see if it’s for sale.”

“No thanks. If I need one, I’ll take yours.”

We zip over the ocean’s surface, rushing the gray sky that seems to hang low over the water; Race’s arm brushes mine, and I can feel us lose a little momentum.

And then I see it: the widest island so far, covered with so many trees, it looks like someone took a swatch of luscious southern forest and plunked it down in the middle of the ocean. I frown at all the trees inside the dark sand border: pines, oaks, cypresses.

“Gorgeous,” I whisper.

And then he rocks against my ass. I feel the hardness of his cock. I hang onto the wheel as my knees tremble.

* * *

WOLFE

I press my dick against her.

Reckless.

Instinctive.

Necessary.

I can almost scent her wet cunt; I’ve been with enough women to recognize the glazed eyes, unsteady feet, flushed cheeks, hard nipples. She wants me. She may not like me, but she fucking wants me just like I want her. She confirms this with a wiggle of her ass against my swollen, aching cock. My balls fist up.

I grit my teeth to avoid moaning. I wrap one arm over her shoulder, folding her against my chest because my cock needs to feel that round ass.

We near the shore; I flip a switch to pull the motors up.

As the wind dies down I hear her panting.

“Oh my God, you’re such a fucking asshole.”

I rock against her and groan my words: “Bad first impression, baby.”

She rubs her ass against my cock. “I’m not…your baby.”

I reach around and unfasten her jeans button, yank the zipper down, reach inside. I place my hand over her mound. I’m so jacked up I can barely see straight but I have to take this slow. Can’t just dip inside.

“I want you.”

“This is crazy,” she says.

I clasp her hip with my left hand and curl the pointer finger of my right hand, dragging over her soft, hot, panty-covered flesh just to see how she responds.

The waves knock the boat into gentle rocking as we creep toward the shore. My finger slides down toward her slit. She gasps.

I can feel her wetness through cotton.

“I want to slip inside you. Not my dick. My finger.”

I hear her exhale in a rush and I lift the elastic of her panties. I slide my hand inside—palm rough against her velvet skin. My finger strokes over her puffy flesh, glides into the silky moisture of her slit. She sags against me.

“Hate you…”

I glide my fingertip through the wetness, stroking down toward her core. She rocks against me, gasping. I cup her, placing my thumb over her clit, urging my middle finger down, inside.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Fuck,” she echoes.

I curl my finger brushing her G-spot; I gently rub my thumb over her clit. “I want to taste you. I would love to taste you.”

“I’d…hate that!”

“I want to see you hate it. Turn around. Like this.” I drag my hand out of her, guide her hips so she’s facing me. Her mouth hangs slightly open as I work her jeans and panties to her knees; I’m thrilled to find her just as brilliant red as I had hoped.

“So beautiful.”

I run my finger over her tight curls. I part her lips with reverence, inhaling deeply her sweet scent. I touch my mouth down on her as my finger finds its way inside. She sinks onto me. I balance her on my arm and guide her to the boat’s floor, where it’s damp with sea spray.

I move my finger in and out. With the tip of my tongue, I trace her up and down.

“Oh fuck! Oh God!”

“Come for me. Take your time, but you will come for me.”

I slide a second finger in. She’s lying down now, face toward the sky, legs spread. She tastes sweet, and I devour her like island fruit.

“Oh God… Oh no… Yes. Oh…fuck… Oh yes.”

Her hips rock up to meet my mouth. My tongue rolls gently, softly over her.

“That feels so good.”

I push my fingers in as far as they will go.

“So full…” she gasps.

I’m not surprised at all when she jerks her hips up off the floor and comes with a guttural shriek.

But I’m shocked that I come with her.

Chapter Four

RED

I fall back to earth in pieces, with the rain. Cold, hard rain. Stinging rain. He pulls my pants and underwear up and lifts me underneath my ass and back, putting me over his shoulder like one might a child. I open my bleary eyes and realize that we’re touching sand. The boat sits sideways on the shore, knocked here by the tide.

He grabs my bag. My purse. I cannot move. Can only stare. The trees are tall and mossy. Thick. Untouched.

I don’t know if I think the dark, overgrown forest just beyond the beach is beautiful or frightening. But I’m here.

I’m here, and the rain is falling harder every second.

The Devil In Me

by

K.I. Lynn

Chapter 1

Lying on the bed of my childhood room should have been a nostalgic experience. Instead, I stared up at the ceiling, boxes in my periphery and the alarm blaring next to me.

What the fuck happened?

I rubbed my face, then swung my legs over the edge of the bed, slamming my hand down on the alarm as I stood. There was very little room to maneuver around the already small room, but I’d already filled up the basement and half the garage with all the shit I’d accumulated in my life. I cursed when I slammed my toe into the wheel of the suitcase on the floor, giving it a swift kick before grabbing some clothes out of it.

The house remained quiet as I made my way to the bathroom. I sighed as I looked down at the boner curving my cock up. Pissing with one annoyed the crap out of me, but had become a daily thing since sex for me was non-existent lately.

Once I threw on the random jeans and shirt I’d grabbed, forgoing styling my hair for now and doing the basic morning routine, I headed downstairs. The smell of coffee perked me up a little, and I grabbed a cup as I made a quick bowl of oatmeal before finding my mom sitting in the living room.

“Morning.” I kissed her forehead and sat down on the couch, placing the oatmeal in front of her.

She smiled at me, and the sight depressed me, but I tried not to show it. Her face had become a shade of sickly yellow, there were dark circles under her eyes, and every bit of her hair was gone. I hardly recognized her as the woman I’d known my entire life.

“Good morning, sweetie.”

“How are you feeling?” I reached forward and grabbed the multiple pill bottles sitting on the coffee table.

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

I dished out the four pills for her morning dosage and handed them to her along with some water. Her face scrunched up.

“Jared, I don’t think…”

“Mom, don’t fight me on this. Not again.”

“I’m nauseous.”

“And one of these will help with that, but you have to get it and that oatmeal in you.” I handed her the bowl and stared at her as she took a tentative bite.

She’d lost her appetite with all the treatments and drugs. The biggest fear I had was of her giving up. I wasn’t about to let that happen, especially not with my sister pregnant.

“I have some clients at one, but I’ll be home by five. Cassie’s off today. She has a doctor’s appointment this morning, and then she’ll be by.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m fine by myself, you know. I’m not an invalid.”

I stood up and grabbed the phone, setting it on the table next to her. “No, you’re not, but this is always the rough day. I’ll be back soon.”

Her expression dropped—a contrast to her words. She didn’t really want to be alone, no matter what she said. “Where are you going? I thought you didn’t have to work until this afternoon.”

“Just running an errand. I’ll be back soon.” I picked up her Kindle from across the room and set it next to the phone. “Read something today. TV will rot your brain.” I winked at her.

She rolled her eyes and swatted at me. “Get out of here, stinker.”

I beamed at her and headed out the door and onto the street. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and a warm breeze blew—

About fucking time. It’d been the longest winter in my thirty-one years.

It was a great day for a walk down to St. Joan of Arc, a Catholic church a few blocks from the 1920s cottage, in a historic neighborhood of Indianapolis, my parents purchased over thirty years ago. My parents were raised in two different religions, so we didn’t go to church that often—about once a month—but Joan of Arc was one of the more steady locations. I believed in God. Period. So, what did it matter what church I visited to talk to Him?

Stepping into the church felt a little odd—it’d been years since I’d been within its walls. The cumbersome weight of my head and heart slowed my walk down the aisle. I slipped into a pew about halfway down and folded my hands together. The place was empty.

“Hey, big man.” I sighed and fidgeted with my hands. “I know I’m not good at visiting, and I should come more often. People stare when I do, always assuming, but you know the truth.” I leaned forward, resting my arms on the back of the pew in front of me. “I have to ask—are you testing me? Because if you are, did you have to throw so much at me at once?”

I stared up at the altar, lit up by the sun shining through the stained glass windows all over the stone structure. No response to my question came—not that I expected one.

“I can deal with all of it, but Mom…” I took a deep breath, trying not to let her condition get to me. “Cassie was a wreck when she found out about the cancer. You took Dad three years ago, and I’m not sure Mom has the strength to fight this. She’s still heartbroken.”

I leaned back, my gaze tracing over Jesus on the cross, and got lost in my own head. In the time I sat there, still as a statue, a few people came and went. I didn’t look at them, but I felt their eyes on me as they passed. Most thought I worshiped the Devil or some shit like that because of the way I looked. Tattoos covered a lot of my skin, and my jet black hair, often in a short mohawk, gave off a taboo vibe to most of the church-going folk.

I could admit it—I had a nice body. Being a personal trainer meant I had to be able to do everything I put my clients through.

The nerves on my neck lit up, tingling down my side. It woke me from my trance, and I turned to find innocent eyes looking at me from one row up on the other side of the aisle. When our gazes connected, she didn’t flinch, her eyes didn’t widen, but a slight blush did appear on her cheeks.

The strange current continued to move through me.

I was caught, roped in, staring at her.

She seemed young—early twenties maybe. I went from studying Jesus to studying the woman who called to me. That was the only way I could explain the firing off of every nerve ending in my body.

She had large, blue doe eyes that bored into my soul. Dark brown, wavy hair curled around her smooth, pale skin and full cheeks. She nabbed her full bottom lip with her teeth before looking away, hiding from me.

It didn’t stop me from staring at her. I tilted my head to the side, forehead scrunched as I tried to figure out what the hell had just happened—and why my cock was so hard. It was just a look, but at the same time, it felt like so much more. A connection, and not that love-at-first-sight bullshit.

Base level between a man and a woman—a need that populated the earth.

Our strange interaction caused images of fucking her on the altar to course through my mind. Was she as untouched as her innocent face suggested? She looked soft, inviting, and corruptible. How would her full hips feel beneath my hands as I thrust my cock into her?

I turned back to the front and began to ask for forgiveness for the sinful things I was thinking about doing to her. My dick, however, continued to dream. A small groan slipped from my lips, and her head snapped up. I cupped my cock through my jeans, adjusting it so it didn’t press so hard against the seam. It twitched against my palm as she squirmed in her seat.

Fuck.

I sat still, staring at her profile. Her lips parted, skin pink, and she moved her ass again. I blew out a breath to calm myself. It was ridiculous. I was just horny because I hadn’t had sex since Monica gave me a break-up fuck three months prior.

After a few minutes, she stood and headed to the confessional. I couldn’t help but turn to look at her delectable ass as she walked. Soft curves called to me, begging me to touch them, own them.

As soon as she stepped out of sight, I ran down the steps to the restroom and locked myself in. I splashed some water on my face, staring at the image in front of me. Someone else stared back. My brown eyes were almost black, lids heavy with a force of lust I’d never experienced.

My teeth clenched, muscles coiled tight as my hips rocked, searching for her. I grabbed hold of the sink, my breath heavy and hard.

What is wrong with me?

It was overpowering. An internal battle for control waged as consuming need pumped through my veins. I popped open my jeans and pulled out my cock. It didn’t matter that I stood in the bathroom of a church—I had to get off before I went insane.

I shuddered as I wrapped my hand around my hard dick, the force almost sending me to the ground. It throbbed, overly sensitive, and I had a hard time keeping my focus on the task with each intense stroke. My imagination went wild with thoughts of touching her, of pulling her out of the confessional and bending her over a pew.

I wanted her with a primal intensity that consumed me. Fuck her raw. Make her need me as much as I was suddenly dying for her. I wanted to hear her screams bouncing off the stone walls, mark her with my come. Taint her innocence, then fuck her all over again.

A roar ripped through me, every muscle strained to the limit. My balls were tight, and with a few hard tugs, I exploded all over the mirror and sink. I couldn’t stop coming, my body jerking hard with each spurt.

My legs gave out, and I sprawled out onto the floor, trying to breathe again. Come continued to drip out of my dick.

Once again, I found myself staring at a ceiling, wondering what the fuck happened.

Chapter 2

A few hours later, I was in the gym, working out one of my clients and trying not to think of what happened earlier.

“Come on, Teri.” I held the sparring mitts up. “One, two, one, elbow, knee, roundhouse.”

She took a moment to catch her breath, then swung forward. The combination was repetitious, ten each side, her hits hitting in tandem with the blood pulsing through me.

My mind wandered back to this morning. I’d stayed on the bathroom floor of the church for a few minutes before sneaking out and back home. Mom was asleep, and I rushed upstairs, still confused as to what came over me. The feeling followed me home, and I busted another nut before heading to work.

I pushed my client more than normal, taking my confusion out on her with a wicked tough session. She wasn’t the most coordinated, but she enjoyed the boxing.

“Good workout.” I gave her a high five after pulling the gloves off her.

“You were mean today!” She lightly punched my shoulder and laughed.

I shrugged and smirked. “No pain, no gain.”

A little while later, I stopped in the break room for a drink, my last client gone for the day, and took a moment to decide if I wanted to work out on my own. Maybe that would calm my ass down. I scanned the room, head tilted back as I drank, and my eyes landed on a poster showcasing a woman’s before and after fitness program pictures. She had brown hair similar to the girl I’d seen, and soft curves. My dick twitched.

“Dude, you need to stop moping. You’re scaring the girls away with your brooding.” Dex reached into the fridge, pulling out a water before coming to stand by me and elbowing me in the arm.

“Sorry, man, it’s just…” I blew out a sigh. My eye caught a flyer for a boxing class on Thursday nights, one I knew nothing about, and it wasn’t me teaching it. “Fucking bitch!” I slammed my hand into the corkboard, knocking it off the wall and onto the floor.

Dex stepped back. “Yo, you need to cool it.”

“Did you know about this?”

“About what?”

I picked up the flyer and shoved it at him. His eyes widened. “Holy shit! She’s lost her fucking mind. I bet it’s that shithead Shone. I saw them getting cozy the other day.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

I began pacing the wall. “I don’t fucking care if that slut is banging that prissy asshole. I’m the resident boxing trainer. I teach all the classes.”

“Who’s the prissy one?” Monica called from the doorway.

I froze and slowly spun toward her. My stomach turned, and I questioned why I’d ever been attracted to her—fake blonde hair, fake nails, fake tan, overdone makeup, and a fake personality. Even her once-womanly body was gone, replaced with too many muscles. No softness in her at all. The transformation had occurred over the last two years. She no longer resembled the girl of six years prior.

“I see there’s a new class.” My jaw clenched. It wasn’t the first time in recent weeks she’d done something that set me off.

One of her drawn-on brows quirked up. “Yes, there is.”

“And some shithole who’s been here for less than six months is teaching it?”

“New blood.”

“New blood?” I stepped forward, looming over her. “I fucking started the program. I teach every class.”

“And now there’s someone to take some of the stress off you, especially with your mom’s condition.”

My eyes grew wide. “Don’t you fucking bring her up. This is about you being a raging bitch, for bitch’s sake. Which I don’t get, because you were the one who cheated on me and flaunted that shit in my face.”

She put her hand on my chest and ran it across my shoulder. I wanted to throw up.

“Ooh, I like this side of you, Jared. Are you jealous I’m sucking someone else’s cock now?”

“Go fuck yourself.” I snarled and pushed past her, heading to the locker room to get my crap. I needed to get the fuck out of what once had been my second home but now felt like my prison.

I slammed my fist against the metal door of my locker, cursing, not even noticing that Dex followed me.

“What the fuck is up with you?” He sat down on the bench behind me. “We’ve been friends for years, but I’ve never seen you blow up like that. I mean, I know you’re pissed at her, and she’s doing everything she can to push you out of here and sign over your part of the business, but still.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I really fucking don’t.”

“I think you do, and it’s not about her or your mom, so spill.”

“Those two have caused a lot of stress.” I looked around the room, making sure none of Monica’s snoops were within listening distance. “I can’t stop thinking about this girl I saw this morning.”

He stared at me for a moment before leaning over and laughing. “That’s not what I expected you to say!” He wiped away a tear from laughing so hard, which pissed me off more. “Dude, you need to get your dick wet. Take out some of your stress on a pussy.”

My eyes widened, and I stared at him. Something inside me rumbled, those scenes I’d imagined flying through my mind. Fuck, I wanted some girl I didn’t even know and would probably never see again. It was so strong that I didn’t want to just get in and get off. I wanted to decimate her to where nothing else mattered but her pussy wrapped around me.

“Shit, man, put the snake away!”

I looked down and sighed, adjusting my new hard-on. “Told you.” I pulled my bag out and grabbed my keys. “Is it a bad sign that a cardinal sin has taken control of me?”

Dex sighed. “I think you’re just going through a lot of crap and need a release. Let’s go out tomorrow night, get a few drinks and relax.”

“It’s Mom’s rough days.”

“Then see if Cass can help.”

I nodded. “I’ll call you later.”

--oOo--

The next day, I was no closer to figuring out the lust I had for her, my mysterious torturer. I didn’t even have a name to call out when I came. What I did have was a constantly hard dick and a grumpy attitude. All because a girl looked at me.

I’d lost my fucking mind.

Was it really that I hadn’t had sex in a while? Or was it the stress of my mom’s illness coupled with Monica screwing me over?

Six fucking years I wasted with her. I should’ve ended it, seen the writing on the wall long before finding out she’d been cheating on me. Instead, I was too busy looking at expanding our company and taking care of my mom.

“Oh, J, your lawyer called for you earlier.”

I stopped in my tracks to stare back at my little sister. “And you’re just telling me now as I’m walking out the door?”

She shrugged and ran a hand over her baby bump. “I’ll say it was pregnant brain.”

That got me to smile and shake my head. “What time did he call?”

“Right before you got home.” She pulled on her ponytail of jet-black hair that matched mine and tilted her head in that curious way she’d done her whole life. “What’s going on?”

“Exploring options to get away from Monica.”

She nodded. “Good. That bitch needs to go down.”

“I thought you liked her.” I peeked over to look at Mom’s snoozing silhouette.

“I did, but then she fucked with my brother. Honestly, she turned into someone else over the last few years. I couldn’t relate to her anymore.”

“You and me both.”

It was true. Cassie and Monica had been close in the beginning. Back then, they were a lot alike. When Cassie opened up her gourmet pet store, I thought she was crazy. Three years later, she had a booming business, married one of her customers, and happier than I’d ever seen her.

I pulled open the door, but didn’t get my foot over the threshold before she called me back. She padded into the entryway. “Give me a call if you need a lift, okay?”

I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Will do.”

A short drive later, I parked my truck in back of the restaurant right next to Dex’s.

As soon as I entered through the back door, eyes landed on me. Granted, if I’d walked into some place in Carmel, it would’ve been worse, but at Union Jack’s, in the heart of Broad Ripple, only my muscles made me stand out.

Not that I normally minded the attention. After all, I covered my skin with art and had a hot body. My full sleeves were highly visible with the short-sleeved shirt I had on.

My problem today was how fucked up I’d been lately. I didn’t want to deal with curious eyes and stupid chicks looking to hook up with a bad boy.

I found Dex at the bar and hopped onto the stool next to him. He cocked his head and pushed a bottle my way.

“Gonna be a few for a table.”

“Always is.”

Union Jack Pub had the best Chicago-style pizza in town. The downside? It took about an hour to cook. Then again, that left us lots of time for drinking, which I desperately needed.

The Reds were on one of the TVs and we sat in silence, watching the game and letting the alcohol work its magic. One or two minutes later, the pager went off, and we headed to the hostess stand. She led us to our seats, which were back in the bar area.

Fine by me—closer to the drinks.

My skin vibrated as we reentered the section, a shudder rolling down my back and through my legs before pulsing into my cock.

“Fuck me.”

It was the same feeling. The one that hit me the moment she walked in the church and never left me. The one that haunted me. She was there. She had to be.

I scanned the room, my eyes transfixed on a curvy figure a few feet away as I slid into the booth seat, and everything slowed down. I began to wonder if I’d really lost it. My torturer from the church pews was parading around in barely-cover-her-ass shorts and a vest that pushed her tits up and out, begging for me to bite them.

I prayed for her to be our waitress. At the same time, I was scared—uncertain if I could control myself with her so close.

Dex waved his hand in front of me. “Yo, Jared, what the fuck? See something you like?” He followed my gaze.

“That’s her.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the curve of her tits and ass.

“Her who?”

“The girl from the church.”

“The waitress? That’s the girl?” He glanced back at her. “Girl’s got curves. Definitely different from Monica.”

I rubbed my face and shook my head. “She could be so much trouble.”

“Would it be worth it?”

“I’d probably end up in jail.”

He held his beer up, then took a swig. “Go for it. Like I said, you need to damage a pussy.”

Worst nightmare or heavenly dream, I didn’t know, but she was headed right for us.

Chapter 3

“Hi, I’m Hope, and I’ll be your waitress.” Her voice was sweet and melodic, and I imagined it screaming my name. Her eyes scanned the table, a fake smile plastered on her face, but there was a flicker of recognition when her gaze landed on me.

Her breath hitched, pupils dilated, lips parting as I stared straight at her. The intense feelings that had taken all control at the church came surging back, and I gripped the edge of the table, jaw locked tight.

“Hello, Hope.”

Her eyes fluttered as I said her name, and she no longer seemed to be able to stand still.

“Umm, our s-specials today are the turkey melt, clam chowder, and two-dollar draft beer.” Her cheeks flushed. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

My cock got so hard, begging to be closer. What was it about her?

“You.” I couldn’t help myself. It was the truth.

Her eyes widened, and she nabbed her bottom lip between her teeth just as she’d done the other day.

Dex broke in, reminding us both where we were. “We have a tab going at the bar—can you get us a bucket of Dos Equis and some limes? That’d be great.”

She blinked and looked at Dex, who was trying not to laugh. “Right, will do. Are you r-ready to order?”

“Not yet.”

She stared, stuck for a moment. “Oh, okay, I’ll just… I’ll be back with the beer.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she walked away, and I almost launched out of my seat when she looked back at me.

“Wow. What the fuck was that?”

I turned back to Dex and flexed my hands into fists, attempting to keep myself in place. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for days.” I glanced back over at the bar where she collected our order.

“I’m beginning to believe your talk about deadly sins. You might die if you don’t get your cock in that girl!”

My jaw clenched. “Not funny, man. I’m two dick pulses away from finding her and fucking her right now.”

He held his hands up. “Sorry, sorry. You didn’t see it from my perspective, though. Talk about intense.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay… So, Monica?”

I twisted my head in an attempt to crack my neck. Even her name couldn’t subdue the fire. It only ignited another kind—hatred.

“She’s doing shit on purpose to piss me off. That boxing class isn’t the beginning, and I don’t see it being the end.”

Even his face dropped. “Yeah. She’s moved some of my clients as well. My girl is threatening my balls if I don’t start bringing in more money.”

An idea I’d been contemplating popped out of my mouth before I even thought about actually saying it. “If I leave, you’re coming with me, right?”

My sudden topic switch stopped him mid-sip. “You thinking about opening your own place?”

The beer arrived, but I didn’t even notice when someone brought it by because she didn’t deliver it. I downed the one I was working on, then popped the top off the next. It was half gone in seconds.

Dex didn’t say anything.

“Thinking. I can’t do it now, but when my mom’s better.”

He grinned. “You’re gonna decimate Monica, aren’t you?”

I finished off the second and pulled out a third. “Yup. I get a large portion of the money from those classes. If she thinks I’m just going to let her push me out, she’s very wrong.”

“You practically built that place. Hell, I was your client when you opened.”

I held my bottle up and smirked. “And look at you now.”

After the third one on an empty stomach, I started to feel good, and my muscles relaxed. That was when she returned—my siren.

She avoided me, looking at Dex instead as he ordered us an appetizer and pizza—the same thing we ate every time. The intense reaction I had to her crashed over me like it had never waned with her farther away. It crippled me. Every muscle tensed to keep me in place.

If she looked at me, there would be no way to stop myself.

From what?

That was the million-dollar question. All answers involved her skin against mine in some capacity—the more, the dirtier, the better.

Her hand shook as she scribbled our order, eyes looking down as they rotated toward me. She didn’t make it past the height of my chest before her lips parted and she stopped.

“The pizza will take about an hour, but I’ll get the appetizer out shortly.”

“Thank you, Hope.” My voice was harsh, thick, my dick twitching when she licked her lips.

I had something for her to lick. In fact, it had her name and hers alone on it.

The thought stopped me cold. Realization took hold, my fever for her burning me from inside.

She had to be the one to get me off. Only her touch, her lips, her pussy would do. Until then, I would continue down my maddening spiral into hell, lust consuming me until there was nothing left but a devil bent on taking her.

“You’re so fucked.”

I leaned forward and slammed my head against the table. “I think I need some air.”

“You need something, but air isn’t gonna help you.”

My eyes were glued to her as she moved around, noticing how she avoided looking in my direction. She recognized me from the church. Was she embarrassed?

Curiosity added to my already-insane attraction, and I wanted to know why.

Why was she avoiding me? Why did I need her so much? Why her?

Why couldn’t I stop wanting her?

By beer six, an appetizer, a passed hour, and my obsession avoiding me, I was pissed in both the British and American sense. I batted the newest empty bottle around the tabletop until Dex’s hand slapped down on it.

“We came here to drink, watch the game, and have a good time. Your moody, hyper sexed-up ass is fucking that up.”

“We also came to take a load off.”

“Not get a load off.”

I flipped him the bird. “Keep it up, and you aren’t coming with me. I’ll leave your ass with the bitch and the prissy boy.”

He smirked and passed me another beer. “Nah, you need me too much. I’m better looking.”

“Hell, no.”

“It’s true. The girls at the gym did a poll.” He flexed his muscles and grinned. Corn-fed Indiana farm boy with blond hair and blue eyes. Add in the body he spent too much time on and the tattoos, along with his ultra-friendly personality—he could be hotter than me. I’d never admit it to his ass though. It amazed me his girl put up with him.

“That’s because you’re always taking your shirt off and flirting with every female that walked in. Monica always got mad when I looked at another woman.”

“I still won.”

I shook my head. “I demand a recount.”

A shudder rippled through me right before Hope arrived at our table with our pizza in hand.

“She’ll settle this.” I pointed to her, shocking her enough to look up at me.

Her fucking doe eyes were a gut punch. I imagined them looking up at me with her mouth around my cock.

Dex shook his head. “Yeah, she’s not a good judge.”

“What?”

“Huh?” Her brow scrunched up, lost to the conversation I’d thrust her into.

Mmm, thrust.

My hips flexed, and I fought the incredible urge to touch her, to lean forward and lick her skin. Losing my inhibitions with her around was a bad combination.

Dex turned to her. “We’re having a debate on who’s hotter, but I already know who you’ll say.”

Her brow scrunched, and a clarity I hadn’t seen moved through her. “What does that mean?”

“Are you going to tell me you’d say me after the eye-humping that’s been going on between you two?”

Her mouth and eyes popped open as she stared at him. I wanted to give him shit for calling us out, but I’d become transfixed by her parted lips. The image of running my cock head against them before pushing into her hot mouth was squashed when she turned to me with an angry pout and attempted glare, then walked away.

“Thanks, man.”

He dished out a piece of pizza, grinning as he eyed it. “Truth is tough sometimes. Just seeing if your little obsession can handle it.”

I looked in the direction she went and sighed. “I don’t know if she can handle me.”

“There is that. You’re gonna have to fuck her before you can get to know her.”

I pulled a piece onto my plate and tossed some crushed red peppers on top. I sighed. “This didn’t turn out to be the relaxing night I’d hoped for.”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “That’s ’cause your dick isn’t being touched by that girl of yours.”

My brow furrowed. “She’s not mine.”

“Yet.” His smile fell, and he let out a hard breath. “In all seriousness, the chemistry is obvious. I wasn’t kidding about you fucking her before seeing if there’s something more permanent than the lust that’s pouring out of you.” He pulled the last beer out of the bucket and popped the top. “And instead of being the third bad thing to happen to you in such a short time, she could be the one good thing.”

Two questions went through my mind with his comments. Was he right about a good thing, and was I capable of handling all of that?

A half hour later, I patted my overly stuffed stomach and had a nice buzz going on. I texted Cassie to pick me up in about thirty minutes. There was no way I was going to attempt to drive. I knew my limit, and I hit it two beers and four pieces of deep-dish pizza ago.

Hope remained scarce while we ate, and refused to even look at us when she dropped off the check. I blamed Dex for embarrassing her.

When she reached for my credit card, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward me to whisper in her ear. “I’ll be back for you.”

A blush spread on her face as she looked at me. She licked her lips as she pulled away.

I continued to stare at her, my body buzzing. “I am so fucked.”

Chapter 4

The morning after seeing Hope at Union Jack’s, I awoke just after eight with a small hangover and dried jizz all over my skin and clothes. The memory of masturbating while thinking about her was clear, but I must have fallen right to sleep after I came.

After a shower, I headed downstairs. Cassie and Mom were playing cards on the dining room table. I smiled, happy to see Mom looking perkier than she had over the last few days.

“Morning.” Cassie smirked at me.

The devious tone in her voice set me on edge, and I narrowed my gaze at her before grunting in return. I poured a cup of coffee and grabbed a protein bar, then headed in to join the girls. Mom looked up at me, and I kissed her head as I walked around the table, making sure to ruffle up Cassie’s hair as I moved to take a seat.

Cassie slapped at my hand, scowling up at me. “Be nice. I left my warm, comfy bed to come pick your drunk ass up last night.”

“It wasn’t that late.” I peeked at the scorecard. The cards told me 500 Rummy, and the paper told me Mom was winning.

Go, Mom.

“No, but I was snuggled in bed with my husband.”

“Oh, you were gettin’ it on.”

She shook her head while Mom’s chuckle danced around the room. “So, you going to tell me about this girl?”

My brow scrunched up. “What girl?”

She rolled her eyes and set down a row of cards before discarding. “I had the unfortunate sight of a bulge in your pants when you got in the car.” She made a yacking sound.

“Hmm, that. Well…it’s complicated.”

“Good to know your equipment still works.” Mom didn’t even look up from her cards as she muttered under her breath.

Cassie and I turned to her with what had to be matching looks of horror on our faces.

“Eww!”

“I…I don’t know what to say to that, Mom. What the hell?”

She shrugged and laid down some cards, ending the hand. “Well, with what happened with Monica, I wondered if she might’ve given you something that made your wiener fall off.”

Cassie howled with laughter, banging her hand on the table and giving no care to the fact that she’d just lost their game. I couldn’t stop staring at my mother, who smiled as she tallied up their scores.

“And on that note, I’m outta here.” Cassie slid her chair back and stood. She leaned over and punched my shoulder. “Tag.”

I nodded and took a sip of my coffee. “Thanks, Cass.”

She mussed up my hair, getting me back for earlier. I glared up at her. She was lucky I hadn’t done anything with it yet.

“Later, cranky.” She hugged Mom and kissed her cheek. “Darren and I will be over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“All right.”

She waved goodbye, and silence filled the room. Mom looked around the room for something to do.

“You up for another game?” I motioned to the cards.

She smiled and began shuffling. Guess I had my answer.

--oOo--

Thirty-six hours after seeing her, I still had Hope on the brain. It was accentuated by the three-mile trek back to the parking lot to get my truck. Luckily, Dex checked for me, and it was still there and not towed.

I spent the entire day before with Mom, and completely forgot to have Cassie drop me off on her way to work. After all, her store was a block down Broad Ripple Avenue from Union Jack’s.

My attempt at running the distance was squashed by my hard dick trying to bounce around in my shorts. I should have put on some compression shorts instead of the boxer-briefs I wore. Hindsight was supposed to be twenty-twenty, but all I saw was Hope. I couldn’t stop—thinking about her, wanting her, needing her, and desiring her. It was too much. I knew where to find her, and I planned to see her again.

As I passed my sister’s shop, I banged on the window and stuck my tongue out at her, scaring some of her customers and their furry companions. She screamed “hoodlum” at me, but I pretended not to hear as I continued on.

I thought about going straight to my truck and getting to the gym, but I wanted to see her. When I stepped into Union Jack’s, the hostess perked up, staring a little too hard at me. Her appreciation of me could be used to my advantage.

“Hi, how many?”

I smiled at her. “One in Hope’s section, please.”

Her posture dropped, and she lost the vibrancy she’d shown when I entered. “Hope’s not in today.”

“Do you know when she’s working next?”

She shook her head. “I’m not allowed to say.”

I leaned forward, giving her a good view of my arms. “What’s your name?”

“Adriane.”

“Adriane.” Her name rolled off my tongue, and she shuddered, giving the effect I wanted. “Adriane, it would mean a lot to me if you told me when she’ll be back. I promise I won’t tell anyone you told me. She was a really good waitress, and my friend and I were a bunch of drunk asses the other day. I wanted to apologize.”

She blinked at me. “Oh. Well…” She looked down at a piece of paper. “Looks like she’s scheduled tomorrow.”

I smiled and took her hand in mine. “Thank you.”

“Y-you’re welcome.”

I walked through the restaurant and out the back door to the parking lot and my awaiting truck. As I headed off, I formed a plan. Dex was right, as much as I hated to admit it—I had to fuck Hope, and soon. Only after, with a clear head, could I take her on a date. That was if she said yes.

I’d given up trying to figure out what was wrong with me, and gave in to the devil in me that wanted her flesh.

When I walked into the gym with a smile on my face, I felt good. The emotion swiftly vanished when I saw our receptionist and scheduler, Dawn, leaning over the front desk and whispering frantically with Aaron, our youngest trainer.

My neck tensed and my jaw clenched as I walked forward. Something was wrong. Dawn’s eyes widened when she looked up and saw me.

“H-hi, boss.”

I looked between her and Aaron—who looked so nervous he’d turned white.

“What is it?”

“Well, Monica had me come in today for a few clients.”

Dawn bit her bottom lip. “Andrew, Ashley, and Teri.”

I turned my neck, my whole body tensing up, my fingers curling up to a fist. “Those are my clients.” They both nodded, and Aaron turned pale. “Is she here?”

Dawn shook her head. “She’s off today.”

“Then she just caught a break, didn’t she?”

Aaron leaned forward. “Jared, I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

I held my hand out to him, and he slipped his in mine for a shake. “You’re good, man. Calm down.”

“If he’d been Shone…” Dawn trailed off.

I nodded. “That’s a different story.” I reached out for the week’s schedule. It was all marked up, many spots with my name crossed off. The following day was the boxing class, and I tapped my finger over the event.

“Dawn, I hired you, and you’ve been a great employee. That being said, I have to ask you where your allegiance lies.”

She wasted no time responding. “Monica talks down to me like I’m a fucking incompetent toddler. She’s always telling me I need to lose weight because I represent the gym.”

Aaron’s eyes snapped to her figure, and he slowly looked up and down the length of her body. Kid had it bad for her.

I stared at her and shook my head. Dawn was petite, five-two and maybe weighed 110 pounds soaking wet. She was healthy and looked good. Her brown hair and brown eyes added to the girl-next-door look she had going on. Many of our female clients saw her and wanted to look like her. They didn’t want to be like Monica.

I let out a strained breath. “Don’t lose a damn pound. You look great, and it’s obvious Monica and I no longer see eye to eye on what this gym represents.” She smiled at me and played with the zipper on her hoodie. I turned to Aaron next. “How about you?”

“I know I’m still a newbie and all, but you took me under your wing. I’ve seen the underhanded shit she’s done to you.” He held out his fist. “I’m all yours.”

I bumped his offered fist and nodded. “Okay, good.” I looked back down at that damn boxing class. “Do you have the list of people signed up for the Thursday class?”

Dawn nodded. “Yeah. There are six people, and most of them are new members.”

“Call them all up and tell them it’s been cancelled for Thursday and moved to tonight.” I looked to Aaron. “You up to teach a class?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You’ve been taking my class and helping me for months. Plus, I’ve been watching you with your clients. Time for the next level. Besides, it’s a small class—you’ll do great.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll be able to help out if you need me, and we can talk this afternoon if you need any tips.” I looked back to the schedule. Dex would be in later, along with Alexa. She’d had more than one blowout with Monica in the past, so I knew she would be on my side. By some luck, Monica’s followers were all off for the afternoon as most of their clients were in the morning.

“We’ll be good today, but not a word can be said to Candice, Jordan, Mike, or Stacie.” They both nodded. I looked up at the clock above their heads. It was almost noon, and Andrew wouldn’t be in for about an hour. “I’ve got to do some things in the office.”

I flipped the schedule around and pushed it toward Dawn before walking around the desk.

“Boss?” Dawn stopped me, and I turned back to her. “I know it’s been rough for you lately, and I’m pretty sure you’ve been thinking about your future here. If you leave, will you take me with you? I like working for you, but I’d have to quit if you left and Monica took complete control.”

Her words gave me a pick-me-up, and I smiled at her. “Deal.”

“Me, too!”

I rolled my eyes as Aaron raised his hand. “Back to work.”

I closed the office door behind me and collapsed into my chair. It felt great to have the support of my employees, and Dawn’s admission along with the support of some of my other employees had me thinking more and more about opening a place on my own.

The gym may have been Monica’s idea, but it’d been my skill that got it off the ground and gave it four successful years. With us no longer together, our working relationship had gone from strained to bad. Our business was suffering because of it and had become a sinking ship in my mind.

Dex had a large client base that Monica was shifting to Shone, and her degrading remarks to Dawn pissed me off. Dawn was the one to find and set up our scheduling software. She kept us a well-oiled machine. Alexa was not only a trainer but a nutritionist as well, and she and Monica did not mix well. Add in an eager Aaron, who was great with every member I’d seen him come in contact with, and they made for a great team.

I flipped through my contacts and pulled up the numbers for my lawyer, and my friend, Dave, who was a commercial real estate agent. It wasn’t the right time for it, but it was the necessary time to get things moving. For my own mental health, I needed to separate from Monica completely.

Chapter 5

Aaron did a great job teaching the beginner’s boxing class. So well, in fact, a few of his students signed up for personal training with him. He seemed so excited.

The call with my lawyer went well, and he started the paperwork to separate me from Title Fitness. Luckily, we’d been talked into a Partnership Agreement when we opened up, something I was very thankful for as it was going to make what would’ve been a messy separation so much easier. However, I wasn’t happy when he told me it would take about ninety days for everything to settle and that he needed to meet with both of us.

In other words, I needed to get a new place very soon. There was bound to be a shit storm when Monica found out I planned on opening my own place with half our employees.

We had signed a five-year lease, and there were only ten months left on the contract. She could hop along by herself in that time.

For the first time in months, I felt pretty good, and nothing was going to knock me down—not even Monica’s persistent phone calls. My phone rang again on the drive to the gym, and for the fifth time in a row, I hit ignore. I knew she was pissed about the cancelled class. Two could play her little game.

As soon as I walked through the door, she was on me. “What did you do?”

“Why, sweet cheeks, whatever do you mean?”

Her face dropped at my condescending tone. I wasn’t the beaten-down man she saw a few days ago. I’d come back with a vengeance and a devilish streak.

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re a fucking bitch.”

Her anger surged. “I set that class up for Shone.”

“Who doesn’t know shit about boxing. He knows what little he learned in my classes and the few attempts by you.” I leaned forward and glared at her. “He’s a gym rat, not a trainer.”

“He’s a great trainer.” Her jaw jutted forward.

I arched a brow at her and turned to Shone, folding my arms across my chest. “Where’s the sartorius muscle located?”

He gave me a blank stare. “Umm.” He looked to Monica for help. “It’s in the forearm, right here.” He gestured near his elbow.

“That’s the supinator or five other muscles in that area. The sartorius is the longest muscle on the body.” I drew a line with my finger down and around my thigh, then ended at the inside of my knee. “I figured it’d be pretty easy one to remember.” I shook my head and looked back at Monica. “Why’d you hire him?”

Her whole body tensed, vibrating from the force. “Shut up!”

“Shut up? That’s a terrible reason.”

She screeched and stomped off to our office, slamming the door. Objects crashed against the wall, breaking, and I was happy I’d gone through and taken any personal items and personal information home the prior day.

Dex walked up, complete shock written on his face. “Dude, what happened to you?”

I shrugged. “I gave in.”

“Gave in?”

“Gave up fighting everything. I’m going to have Hope and get Monica out of my life for good.”

“Have you talked to Hope? Did you fuck her?”

“No, but she works tonight.”

Dex slapped me on the back. “Good to see you again.”

I swung my arm to the side and punched his stomach. “Back to work.”

He rubbed his stomach and smiled. “Aye, aye, Capitano!”

I leaned against the front desk, smiling at Dawn. “Who’s on my hit list today?”

She reached out and gave me a high five. “Welcome back, boss.” She beamed at me. Was I really that far gone lately? “You’ve got Jason at two, followed by Sarah at three.”

I nodded. “Plenty of time for a workout. Thanks.” I patted the desk as I stepped away. “Yo, Dex!” His head popped up. “Workout?”

He gave me the thumbs-up and I moved to the locker room, a bit of a skip in my step that I didn’t even realize I’d been missing.

--oOo--

Cassie and her husband were keeping Mom company for the night, so I was in no rush to get home after my last client. It wasn’t a family dinner—those took place on Sundays—so I knew I wasn’t expected to be there.

I had someone to visit.

Still clad in my workout gear and my black t-shirt with the word “TRAINER” written across the back, I drove back to Union Jack’s to see the girl who made me crazy.

The hostess, Adriane, remembered me from the day before and sat me in Hope’s nearly empty section. I vibrated just knowing she was near. When she came out from behind the kitchen door, I shuddered and adjusted my hardening cock.

She stopped a few feet from the table and stared at me. “What are you doing here?”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from moaning at the view of her cleavage in her tank top. A ripple moved through every nerve in my body.

“I can’t have dinner and a drink?” I quirked my brow at her. Her movements were slow and cautious as she closed the last few feet. “Why are you acting so afraid of me?”

She slammed a napkin down on the table in front of me and glared. “What can I get you to drink?”

I smirked at her. “I’m not sure I can have what I want.”

She looked away, the buzzing heat between us increasing. “Dos Equis?”

I was pleasantly surprised that she remembered. “Water will do me for now.”

She backed up, nearly tripping on her own feet as she turned to head to the bar, an embarrassed blush flooding her face. She looked over at me a couple of times, and I stared straight at her. Last time, I was unprepared to see her again, but tonight, I was going to make sure she knew I wasn’t afraid of the intensity between us.

When she returned with my water and set the glass down, it slipped, tipping over and sloshing water onto the table. We both reached for it, and I barely managed to keep from touching her. The static current was still through the roof with how close we got. I couldn’t image how bad it would be when I actually got some skin-on-skin contact.

“Sorry.” She wiped away the spilled liquid with some napkins.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Hope.”

Her eyes fluttered as I said her name, eliciting the response I was going for. The muscles in her jaw tensed.

“Are you ready to order?”

“I’d like the spicy veggie wrap.”

“For your side?”

“Chips are fine.”

I handed her the menu, and she started to go, then stopped. “Why?”

I sighed, knowing exactly what she meant—the same thing I’d given up on asking. “Fuck if I know.”

She headed back into the kitchen, and I was left with a nearly empty area, nothing good on TV, and a water. Maybe I should’ve gotten the beer. Then again, the calories alone from the other night equated to about ten extra hours of cardio for my week. As much as I loved their pizza, I couldn’t handle it twice in one week.

I pulled out my phone, distracting myself from thoughts of touching her, of letting my cock loose on her. Anything to keep me in check. Puppies seemed like a nice, safe subject.

“Fuck.”

My eye twitched, recognizing the voice of my vapid ex immediately.

“Really, Jared? You didn’t ruin things enough today, so you had to fuck up my dinner tonight?”

The hostess sat them directly across the empty space from me. Shone walked in behind her, ever the lost puppy.

“I was here first. Ignore me, and both our dinners will remain intact.” I glared at her, hoping my death ray beams would work, but they were fresh out of laser gas.

Unfortunately, Hope was their waitress as well. I hated that she was subjected to their poison. As she placed a napkin on their table, it fluttered to the ground. Without thought, she turned around and leaned over, giving me full view of her fuckable tits.

I groaned and palmed my cock, pressing against the hard-on coming back like it’d never gone down when Monica entered the room. The sight killed me and ended way too soon, so I focused on her round ass and fucktastic curvy hips.

Yeah, maybe not such a good idea with the hell-bitch so close.

Once she got their drink order, she came back to check on me. “Refill?”

I licked my lips. “I can’t stop thinking about what I really want.”

She reached out and grabbed my glass. “And for now, that means water.”

I leaned out of the booth to watch her ass as she walked away. No reason to be shy about it.

“A chubby girl, Jared? Really?” the evil voice called out from across the room.

“She’s not chubby.” I turned to glare at her, teeth grinding together.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “She’s packing on a few extra pounds.”

I swiveled in the booth to face her. “Are you saying that because you’re a super-skinny, muscle-obsessed bitch, you can’t see the beauty and sexiness in a soft, healthy, curvy body? I remember back when we met—when you were human—you weren’t too far off from her.”

“I was never that bad.”

“No, you were never that good. She’s a fucking goddess.” I smirked at her and grabbed my dick. “Are you jealous that she can turn me on just by looking at her?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be home with your mommy?”

“Shouldn’t you be shutting your fucking trap before you piss me off any more?” I turned to Shone, who sat there with stupid written all over his face, staring at us. “Dude, her pussy isn’t worth the hassle—I should know.”

Monica jumped up, hissing, her face red and angry. “You wouldn’t know good pussy if it jumped on your dick.”

I remained staring at Shone, ignore her tantrum. “And how the fuck do you put up with her bitchitude? I mean, there’s got to be tons of dim-witted girls out there that would be a perfect match for you color of crayon.”

“Man, shut up. Stop pulling me into it.” Shone shook his head and looked at her. “Babe, sit down and ignore him.”

“You should listen to your pup.”

“He’s twenty-four, asshole!”

“And you’re thirty.”

“Shut the fuck up.” She snarled at me, shaking, and by the expression on Shone’s face, he had no idea.

“That’s your comeback?” I quirked my brow at her and then tipped my head back, a strained laugh coming from my chest. “Thank God there are only ten months left on the lease.”

And there it was—the first hint of what was going down. She’d find out next week anyway.

Her expression was priceless—wide-eyed horror. It shocked me to see, because she was smart. How could she not see the writing on the wall? We were done as business partners.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Her hand shooed at me. “Crawl on back to your mommy’s house.”

I stood up and faced her full on, every muscle tight. I was ready to fucking hit her, and there was no one to hold me back or calm me down—though Shone stood, moving to stand between us.

“Say another fucking word about my mom, bitch.”

“What? What will you do, dickwad?”

I’d become so lost in the blazing anger that I didn’t notice the surge of lust that suddenly pumped through me. It wasn’t until a scream echoed off the walls that my vision cleared and I saw Hope at their table.

“Oops,” she said, picking up a now-empty cup of soda.

“You idiot!” Monica’s screech could be heard blocks away.

“I’m sorry.” Hope remained calm and collected, nothing like when she was near me. A glance my way with a small smile was all I needed to understand she’d done it on purpose.

It was the first sign she’d given me to show she was interested in me for more than the strange, overpowering attraction between us.

Chapter 6

The manager came out and asked us to either calm down or leave. There was no way in hell I was leaving, and Monica didn’t back down either. Instead, in her soaking wet clothes, she finally stopped talking and sat back down. She and Shone stayed on their side and left me alone.

Peace at last.

Well, as close as I would get to peace with the fire that ripped through me every time Hope came back in the room. Serving more tables meant she swung by more, and the lust was compounded with each pass. All control was fast slipping from me—I wanted to tear her apart. My muscles flexed, begging to touch her, consume her and burn together. I wanted to take her on the floor right there in front of Monica.

“How’s your wrap?” She tipped the water pitcher in her hand, refilling my glass.

I finished up my bite and stared into her blue eyes, another shiver running through me, cock twitching. “I didn’t come here for the food, but the wrap is good.”

Her hand tightened around the handle, lip caught between her teeth again as she shook her head. “Stop.”

I grabbed hold of the pitcher, afraid of what I would do if I touched her skin. “I wouldn’t even if I could.”

She gave me one last look before turning and walking away. Something inside me got angry every time she left, but at the same time, I loved to watch her body move. Each stride of her long legs begged me to follow.

After she refilled my water and I paid the bill, I figured I’d worn out my welcome for the day, especially by the glares I got from the manager. There was always tomorrow. As I exited the bathroom, ready to jump into my car, her melodic voice filled my ears.

“Mac, I’m going to take a break. Table two has their check.”

She walked past the restroom alcove and out the back door. My cock twitched as I stood there, deciding what to do. Truth be told, there was no decision. I’d already started following her.

I knew what I wanted to do, what I needed. The devil was winning again, because I was going to get it.

She’d reached the edge of the building by the time I got out the door, my pace even, measured, letting the thirst for her fill me. When I rounded the corner, she was leaning against the brick wall, looking down at her phone and typing away.

She shivered, her gaze lifting to me, lips parting. “What are you doing back here?”

I stopped a few feet in front of her. “Are you saying I can’t be back here?”

Her gaze flitted around, trying not to look at me as she squeezed her phone. “No, but you should leave.”

The nervousness radiating from her only fueled the energy moving in waves between us.

“I was walking to my car, but I felt you calling to me.” I step forward and caged her with my arms. The vibration, the desire-filled excitement, skyrocketed.

So close.

Inches apart.

All sense was gone, replaced by a greedy hunger to touch her.

“You need to get away from me.”

“Why? Because you can’t control yourself?”

She reached out and pressed against my chest. A shudder rocked us both at the contact. Tiny, dick-twitching whimpers and a hitched breath had me moaning. The skin beneath her hand burned.

“Fuck you.”

I smirked and leaned in closer to whisper in her ear. “I plan to.”

“Oh, God.” She tilted her head, exposing her neck, fingers clenching against my chest as she fisted my shirt and pulled me closer. The heat from her body was hotter than the fires of hell where I was sure to end up.

“He’s obviously not here. I’m Jared.” I couldn’t get her to look at my face, but her breath had become labored. “You look fucking tasty in these little scraps of cloth. Tempting me. Are you trying to get a cock shoved up your tight little cunt?”

“It’s my uniform.”

I removed one hand from the wall and set it on her waist, groaning at the electric shock that burst through my body, firing off every cell in me. My fingers caressed her exposed flesh as I moved down to her hip.

“It’s a tiny uniform. Does it get you a lot of offers?”

She nodded, and my hand flexed on her hip, all soft women curves, succulent beneath my touch.

Her other hand fisted into the fabric of my shirt at my waist. “I like to feel their eyes on me.”

A small step forward, aided by her tugging grip, and the gap between us disappeared. My mouth dropped open, hips rocking my painfully hard cock into her stomach. “That’s a dangerous game, little girl.”

Her breath was hot against my neck. “I get so wet thinking about some guy hard for me. Fantasize about being taken against a wall, hard and fast.”

The skin on her neck pinked—I loved to see the flush of her skin. I leaned in closer, my lips ghosting against hers. "Is that what you want me to do?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” I growled out. My hand slipped around to the front of her shorts and cupped her pussy. “You’re not a good girl, are you? Underneath your innocent façade, you’re fucking naughty, is that it?”

She whimpered and pushed against my hand.

“How do you like to be punished? By my hand as it strikes against your plump backside? Or maybe by my cock slamming into you so hard you see stars? How about keeping you on edge, unable to come, until I let you?”

Her eyes were completely clouded over and heavy, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“As long as it means you’re touching me.”

“Only me?”

She nodded and pulled me tighter to her. “Only you make me feel this way.”

I popped the button on her shorts and pushed my hand into the small gap, groaning at the heat of her bare, wet pussy.

“I told you I’d be back to take what’s mine.” My lips crashed to hers, taking what I’d dreamed of for days.

The euphoric sound of her moans traveled between us, pushing me to kiss her harder as her arms wrapped around my neck, her nails digging in. My fingers slipped between her pussy lips and inside. She drew in a ragged breath, her hips flexing forward, pushing me deeper.

I rocked them in and out, my palm pressed against her clit. High-pitched whimpers moved from her mouth to mine and shot through my cock, forcing me to move. Shallow thrusts against her relieved some need while her tongue sucked on mine and her nails dug into my skin. She almost had me coming in my shorts.

I wanted to get her off, watch her come undone from my hand, before I shot off.

“So fucking soft and tight. My cock can’t wait.”

An unknown voice called out for her from around the corner, and I groaned.

“Fuck!”

She whimpered, pressing harder against my hand, rocking faster.

“Back to work, little girl. You have customers that need servicing.”

I pulled my fingers out and looked into her eyes as I stuck them in my mouth. Fuck, she tasted good, and I groaned, lapping up all of her. She let out a strangled cry, her head against the brick, lids heavy as her hips rolled, thighs clenching together. Neither of us was going to get off right then.

So close. I had her on the edge.

I stepped back and adjusted my near-bursting hard-on. She licked her lips, her gaze locked on my bulging tent. I grabbed hold of it, making sure she knew what waited for her.

“We’re not done.”

She licked her lips. “Fuck, it’s big.”

I smirked at her. “It’s what you have to look forward to.”

Her boss called out for her again, and without breaking eye contact with me, she called back. “Coming!”

“Almost, but you will.” Instead, she’d have to suffer through work turned on and wanting my cock.

I hated watching her walk away, but loved that she looked back before disappearing.

A heavy breath left me, and I leaned against the brick exterior for a moment to calm myself. It didn’t help, so I pulled my keys out and headed to my truck. The second I got in and closed the door, I reached in my shorts and pulled my cock out.

“Fuck!” My poor cock.

The head was purple and stiff to the max, leaking a trail of pre-come. I moved my fingers along the underside, hissing when I hit the extremely sensitive edge. It would only take a few swipes like that for me to explode. It still amazed me that I hadn’t when I’d been pressed against her with her lips on mine.

I stuck my fingers in my mouth, tasting any last bits of her that remained while I stroked my cock. Every muscle tensed, built up from hours of frustration in her presence. My mouth dropped open, hard breaths coming out before a hard shudder rocked my body and my cock began firing off.

I looked down to watch each spurt land on my black shirt, wishing it was all over her skin or deep inside her pussy. That was where it needed to be.

Chapter 7

When I arrived home, I found Mom asleep on the couch, the TV on some home show, which reminded me I needed to mow the grass in the morning. As I entered my room, I threw my shirt into an overloaded laundry basket. I pursed my lips and sighed, walking over to it and picking it up, then headed down the hall to my mom’s room. With both her basket and mine in hand, I made my way down two flights of stairs to the basement.

I’d neglected the house chores over the last few days, thanks to whatever had taken control of me. There was no denying it—I wasn’t myself. The emotions boiling inside me shook my mind from my depression, but the lusted-out beast who craved a woman beyond sanity? He freaked me out.

After starting up a load, I headed back up the stairs. Cassie had cleaned up the kitchen before she left, reminding me my sister rocked. I walked into the den and sat down at the desk, sighing as I moved the mouse to wake up the computer. I picked up a stack of mail and flipped through it.

I threw medical bills to the side as I pored through everything else. I loved the ones with big bold letters “Patricia Lynch, you’re a winner!” Very important mail. I made sure to tear it up and toss it into the trash.

I stretched my neck out and logged on to the computer. The first thing I did was check my mom’s accounts, and I didn’t like the number I saw.

“Shit.” Her insurance couldn’t keep up with the costs of her treatments, especially with her being on unpaid medical leave. Between my dad’s hospital stay and now her illness, there wasn’t much money left. I logged on to my own account and hit the transfer button. I’d built up a nice savings in preparation to buy a house with Monica, and now it was going to help ease my mom’s financial stress.

“Jared?”

Looking over my shoulder, I saw Mom standing in the doorway. “Nice nap?”

She slumped down in the sofa chair and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “Cassie put me in a food coma.”

My lip quirked up. She was eating—a good sign. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired.” She sighed and looked over at the desk. “What are you doing?”

“Paying the bills.”

She pursed her lips. “Thank you.” Her head tilted as she looked at me. “There’s something different about you this week."

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between us.

“You going to tell me, or do I have to play twenty questions?”

I rubbed my face and lifted my arms up in a stretch. “It’s…complicated.” I sighed. “I met someone.”

She perked up, a smile forming on her face as she sat a little straighter. “And? Tell me about her.”

My face heated up. There was no way I could tell my mother about what had been going through my mind.

“Her name is Hope, and she’s pinup-girl gorgeous.”

Her eyes widened. “Pinup? That’s different. What else?”

I blew out a breath. “She works at Union Jack’s, and visits St. Joan of Arc.”

“And? You’re killing me here, Jared.”

I grimaced. “It’s because that’s all I’ve got. The truth is, I don’t know much about her, but we have this uncontrollable attraction.”

She arched her drawn on eyebrow. “Condoms are your friend.”

“Mom!” I stared at her in stunned disbelief.

“What? Do you want to have a child with a woman you just met?”

I held my hands up. “Who said I didn’t want to get to know her?”

She leaned back. “Why haven’t you yet?”

I sighed and shook my head. It wasn’t something I wanted to tell my mother, but now that she knew about Hope, she wasn’t going to let up. “Because every time I’m near her, all I can think about—all I can feel—is intense lust.” My jaw clenched, hands flexing into fists. “And it controls me.”

She nodded, staring at me for a moment. “Have you asked her out?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, don’t be an asshole.”

“Mom!”

“You keep saying my name like that.” She chuckled. “I’m not stupid. Plus, you’re over thirty now, and you lived with a woman for five years. I know you are very familiar with sex and how it works.”

I rubbed my face again and shook my head. “You’re not supposed to be so casual about it.”

She shrugged. “You’re an adult.”

“It’s just weird.”

“You think that means I’m going to continue to sugar-coat things for you?”

“No, it’ll just take some getting used to.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Cassie’s having a girl.”

I beamed at her. “Yeah? That’s awesome.”

For some reason, it was that bit of news that made it hit home—I was going to be an uncle. My little sister was going to be a mom. I was going to be uncle to a little girl and bound to spoil her rotten.

She nodded. “Now, you’re the oldest—where’s your contribution?”

My mouth dropped open. “Who just told me to make sure I use a condom?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I want grandbabies.”

“Unbelievable. Why didn’t you ever say anything before?”

“I liked Monica in the beginning, but she was very self-centered and turned out to be a lying, cheating whore. She wouldn’t have been a good mother.”

I leaned back in shock. Amazing how the truth came out from those close to you on how they felt about your girlfriend once the relationship was over. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“She used you.” She leaned back and settled into the chair, a mischievous smile spreading on her face. “Have I ever told you how your father and I met?”

I nodded and sat back as well, wondering where she was headed. “At a party in college.”

“That was where, but not the how.”

My brow scrunched. “Okay.”

“My sophomore year, my friend Beth took me to a party. From the moment I walked in, my skin crawled. Not in a bad way, but it tingled.”

I knew exactly what she meant—I’d experienced it at a growing rate for days.

“We made it into the kitchen, and my eyes locked on a gorgeous set of blue eyes, then bam!” Her eyes were bright before softening.

“I remember Dad saying he got caught in that moment.” The memory was a fond one, my father describing the emotion that came over him. When I was a kid, it was like a fairy tale for boys as he explained to me that cooties weren’t such a bad thing.

“There’s a lot he didn’t tell you. But I have to ask—did you ever feel anything like that, what you do with this girl, with Monica?”

I shook my head. “There was attraction, just like with every girl I dated before her.”

Mom was more animated during our conversation than I’d seen her in weeks or months. “That right there tells me there could be so much more with this girl.”

“Why?”

“Because half an hour after I entered the door to that house, I was in the bathroom having sex with your father, and I didn’t even know his name.”

My jaw dropped open. “Wait, what?”

“And his girlfriend of a year had come to the party with him.”

“Holy shit! Seriously?”

She chuckled. “No, but that’s the way I always thought it would’ve gone if he hadn’t been in a relationship.”

I blew out a hard breath. She was trying to kill me. “What did happen then?”

“He avoided me all night. At some point, I’d gone to use the restroom, and when I came out, he was walking down the hall. It was narrow, and being a gentleman, he gave me the right of way. Before I made it past him, his arm flew in front of me. The struggle was evident even as he caged me with his arms against the wall. I wanted him to kiss me, desperately wanted it. I thought I’d die if he didn’t.” She touched her lips with the tips of her fingers, almost like she could still feel it. “He was so close I felt the heat of his skin, the zinging spark between us.”

“How did he stop?” I’d become enraptured by the story, because I knew the struggle she was talking about.

She sighed. “Someone called his name, and he woke from his trance. He was so angry with me after that.”

“Why was he angry with you?”

“Well, he later admitted it wasn’t me, but himself. Two days after the hallway incident, he broke up with his girlfriend, and he blamed me for it. He had his whole future with that girl laid out—he planned to propose. When he saw me, everything changed.”

“Wait, I missed something. He broke up with the girl he planned to marry two days later?”

She nodded. “You know your father was a good man. It was love at first sight, though he didn’t want to believe it. Having those feelings for someone other than her, he knew then it wasn’t right with her. For weeks we bumped into each other on campus, and he became even more upset with each encounter. He said he couldn’t seem to get away from me.”

“How did that make you feel? I mean, what was going through your head?”

“It was an attraction on a level I only ever experienced with him. It was confusing, because I thought about him all the time—the worst crush ever. Three weeks after the party, in the middle of the night, he showed up at my sorority house. Three months later, you were conceived.”

“That was fast.”

She shrugged. “There’s a reason I wanted you to know all this. Times might not have always been easy, and though we knew we were soul mates, we were also human and fought. If any of what I’ve described is the feeling you get with this girl, don’t let anything stop you.”

I shook my head. “It was not love at first sight in my case.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because it’s lust. I’m not thinking with anything other than my…” I trailed off, almost blushing. The conversation was definitely out of the norm.

“And what happens when you catch your prey?”

“We’ll have sex.”

“And then?”

I threw my hands up into the air. Why was I talking about Hope with my mother? “I have no idea.”

She smirked. “Fifty bucks says you won’t be able to let her go.” I side-eyed her, and the smirk grew into a grin. “You don’t want to take that bet, do you?”

I sighed and rubbed my face. No, I didn’t want to take that bet, because deep down I knew having her once would never be enough.

Chapter 8

The next morning, I awoke with another raging hard dick. I stared at it and the tent it made in my sheet before reaching in and grabbing it. The sting of Hope’s touch still lingered, along with the feel of her lips and body pressed against mine. My mind conjured up images of her from the night before, fueling my fantasy.

A few quick tugs later, I exploded all over my stomach. One down, but I had a feeling it was the first of many for the day.

After I showered and dressed, I headed down to find Mom. She sat in her chair, eating something and watching the morning news. I contemplated making a big protein-rich breakfast, but opted for a protein bar and some of the juice I made the previous day.

I sat down on the couch and opened up my breakfast. “Take your meds, eat your breakfast, and when I get back, we’ll head out.”

Her brow scrunched as she looked at me. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just running down to St. Joan of Arc for a bit.”

She quirked a brow at me, a smirk forming on her lips. “Okay.”

I finished off my bar and juice, then kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be back soon.”

As I walked down the street, I buzzed with excitement. It was the official one-week anniversary since I first laid eyes on Hope. My plan was simple—have a talk with God. Then I would pray Hope stopped by on the same day every week.

When I walked in, a man sat near the front, but the rest of the church was empty. I didn’t let that deter me and slipped into a pew. I folded my hands in front of me and bowed my head.

“Well, big man, you found a way to get me here again.” I snickered as I looked to the altar. “As you know, a lot has changed for me this week. I can’t figure out if that’s you answering my prayers or giving me new challenges, but I feel more up for it.”

The old man at the end got up and walked slowly down the aisle and past me. A quick look around told me I was the only one there. The sun came out from behind the clouds and shined through the stained glass windows, bouncing color around.

“Mom’s doing better the last few days, and I found out I’m going to have a little niece. Can you take the cancer away so she can have time with her granddaughter? Please.” Tears began clouding my vision, and I swallowed hard. “She’s all Cassie and I have.” I wiped away the wetness and took a steadying breath. “Okay, Cass has Darren, but you know what I mean.”

The emptiness that had been missing for days washed over me again. I leaned forward and rested my head on my arms against the pew in front of me. The ache in my chest was crippling. When I thought I was going to burst, a tingling sensation moved down my spine and spread through my body.

I sat up and looked around, but there was nothing, no sound. Turning back around, I sighed and looked back up at the altar.

“I have to know…am I possessed? Whenever she’s near, I become some monster with only lust on the brain. Every part of me wants to devour her, touch every part of her body with mine. Repenting won’t do anything for me, because I want her, and I can’t stop even if I tried. Is that why you put her in my path?”

Again, nothing.

I got lost in my thoughts and stared. After a few minutes, I snapped out of it and prepared to leave.

“Oh, and one last thing. Please give me the strength to resist bitch-slapping my ex, because she really deserves it. And let me get through the dissolution of our partnership without too much drama. I’d appreciate it.”

As I stood, the tingling burst into a full flame, and I fell back into the pew. It wasn’t my imagination or some phantom sensation. Hope had to be there.

Footsteps bounced around the walls, and my body came alive with each one. They slowed for a moment, but I didn’t turn to look at her. The pace picked back up, and she took a seat in the pew across the aisle from me.

My whole body tensed, muscles flexing. I turned a little bit to look at her. Her eyes were closed, fingers clasped together, head bowed. I shouldn’t have looked at her, because once I did, I was transfixed and couldn’t look away. What was in her prayers?

My gaze moved down her profile, and my dick took note that she wore a skirt. When I looked back up, she was peeking over at me. I stood up and walked the few steps that separated us, then slid in next to her.

Being inches from her was painful. My cock screamed at me to touch her—lower her down to the bench, pull up her skirt, and plow right into her. I reached up and pushed the strand of hair blocking the view of her beautiful face behind her ear. The expression on her face made me groan—so innocent and so inviting.

Her gaze moved back down, and the full lips that I wanted nothing more than to have on me in any way were moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. With hands still folded in her lap, I realized she was praying. Being so close, I ran the back of my fingers against her soft, pink cheek. The current became too much, and she shuddered.

With a small “Amen,” she looked up and turned toward me.

Her eyes held me captive, and I ran a thumb across her full bottom lip. “Why are you here? What sins do you need to be absolved from?”

She blushed and glanced at the ground. “Why do you come here?”

I shuddered. I wanted to tell her I come for her, not for church.

“I asked you first. Why do you come?”

She stared at me for a moment, her tongue running against her lips, wetting them. “Forgiveness for the sexual thoughts that run rampant through my mind. I think the Devil is playing with me. His fires burn me from within.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my hands to keep still. After such a confession, I wanted to turn the heat up on her fire.

“Why are you here?”

I thought on it for a moment. There were many reasons. “Hope and guidance, and recently, forgiveness for my desire to corrupt what appears to be an innocent soul with sexual deviancy.”

She nodded. “The Devil has you as well.”

“A deadly sin has me—lust. It makes me a devil possessed with the desire for a woman’s body to be wrapped around mine. You have me.”

She smiled. “Then Hope has you.”

“I need Hope in my life.” My voice was low.

Her eyes widened. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

I pushed her down onto the bench and trapped her body with mine, then crashed my lips to hers. My whole body shook, hands gripped tight at her waist. Her mouth was sweet, and I wanted to taste every inch.

“Oh, I know exactly what I mean. I want you.”

“Jared.”

My fingers dug in as I shuddered. The airy, wild way she said my name shot straight to my dick, rocking my whole body on the way down.

I nipped her bottom lip. “Say it again.”

Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me down to her as she arched up, eyes locked with mine. “Jared.”

I reached down and grabbed her thigh, pulling it up and spreading her legs to get between them. With a thrust of my hips, my covered cock pressed against the warm heat of her pussy. I groaned and took her lips as my arms pulled her closer.

Making out became dry humping in seconds. Her hands clawed at me, her body trying to meld with mine.

I reached between us and popped open my jeans. I needed her, was desperate for her.

The loud clang of the church door closing echoed around, and we froze. After a quick pause to listen, my head popped up over the back of the pew. There was no one to be seen, but the faint clack of more than one set of footsteps on the stairs alerted me to people being near.

Looking back down at Hope made me groan and press into her.

“Fuck, baby.”

Her eyes were heavy and dark, and her fingers played with the waist of my jeans, pulling me to her. I took hold of her hands and lifted her up, wrapping them around my neck until she was standing. When she stood on her tippy toes to kiss me, I didn’t have to lean down as far to close the half-foot height gap between us.

“Come on. Let’s find somewhere a little more private.” Fuck, I was going to explode if I didn’t get inside her now.

I scanned the huge room, looking for some place to hide away. There was always the bathroom, but my gaze landed on the ornate, carved dark wood of the confessional booth. I took her hand and yanked her down the aisle and into the confined space of the small confessional box. As soon as we were in, I sat in the chair and pulled her down so she was straddling my lap. My hand grabbed behind her neck and brought her lips down to mine.

I wasted no time running my hand along the inside of her thigh and against the part of her that’d been torturing me for days. The heat that radiated off her pussy was intense. I slipped my fingers under the edge of her panties. Her folds were slick, wet with her arousal, and I moaned into her mouth.

“I need in you, now.”

Her hips rocked against my dick, driving me mad. I kissed down her neck, sucking her skin in, biting and marking her as I got my cock out.

I pushed her hips down, impaling her with my cock. She drew in a hard, sharp breath that turned into a shuddering, guttural moan. The sound, combined with her tight, wet walls squeezing me, was overwhelming. I groaned, my eyes rolling back, head resting against the confessional chair.

Fucking perfection.

The fires of hell felt heavenly with her wrapped around me.

“Ride me, baby,” I whispered against her skin.

I dug my fingers into her hips and guided her up and down my cock. My grip moved around to her ass, forcing her down as I thrust up. Little moans and whimpers came from her open mouth as she bounced on me.

Every feeling was too much. I didn’t know if I was going to go insane or not before I came. I picked up the pace—harder, faster, pull, thrust. The booth shook around us, her pussy clamped down on me, and she threw her head back in a silent scream.

The pulsing waves of her walls milked me, and I wanted to give it what it asked for.

“Are you on birth control?” A little late to ask, but her answer would make a big difference.

She nodded, uttering a barely audible “yes” as she continued to move up and down on my cock, still shaking from her orgasm.

“Good, because I’m going to fill your pussy up.”

My muscles were flexing and tight, my cock harder than it’d ever been. My thighs were burning, tired, and my balls were high. The pressure was too much, and I let go, roaring as I pulled her down hard and pushed up, burying my cock all the way in. Jizz shot out and into her—exactly where it needed to be.

She fell against me as we relaxed, and her head nestled in the crook of my neck. Neither of us moved as we caught our breath. I kissed down her neck, licking and nipping the whole way, tasting her as my hand moved up and down her back. She felt so perfect in my arms.

“I’m not done. I want more. Can we go to your place?”

She shook her head against my neck. “My roommate is home.” I cursed, wishing she lived alone. “We can go to your place.”

I laughed, my dick not liking the lack of privacy. I wanted to take my time and consume her.

“I’m living with my mom right now.” My eyes widened, and I moved my arm to look at my watch. “Shit. I have to go.”

She froze, her face dropping. “Oh. Okay.” Everything about her became stiff. She started to get up, but I pulled her back down and to my chest, pressing my lips to hers. She sighed and melted against me.

“My mom has an appointment with her oncologist.”

She blinked at me and nodded slowly in understanding. “Is she okay?”

“Not right now.”

She trailed kisses down my neck, and I nuzzled hers. Somehow she knew I didn’t want to talk about it but needed comfort at the same time.

A few minutes passed, and I helped her straighten her clothes out before stuffing my dick back in my jeans. When she was done throwing her hair back into a ponytail, I opened the door, the old hinges creaking loud and reverberating around.

Hope slid out, then me, and I ran right into her back. She’d stopped just outside the booth. Multiple sets of eyes stared at us, including one of the priest’s.

I smiled and nodded to them, then grabbed her hand and walked out.

“Well, guess I’m not going back there,” I said as we ran down the steps.

Her cheeks were bright red, hand over her mouth in horror. “That was the priest who did my Confirmation!”

I pulled her close and pressed my lips to hers. “That’s a bit mortifying. Especially because you weren’t all that quiet.”

She swatted my chest. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who made me make those noises.”

I grinned. “Oh, I know, and I plan on doing it again. So, when are you free this week?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because I really want to see you again. And as soon as possible. Like tonight.”

She smiled and looked down at the sidewalk. Fuck, she was cute when embarrassed. Her eyes widened, and her mouth popped open as she looked down.

“Oh, no…” Her legs snapped closed, thighs clenching.

I groaned and grabbed her ass. “Fuck, baby, is my jizz slipping out and down your thigh?”

“Yes.” She whimpered.

“Good.” I smirked at her, my hand still in hers as we walked to her car. “I’ve marked you as mine.”

Chapter 9

Mom was right—one time wasn’t enough. Having Hope only made my cravings for her worse. Compression shorts became a constant part of my daily wardrobe—I had to contain the beast somehow.

Especially when she walked into my gym unannounced.

I licked my lips at her sexy hips swaying as she walked my way. She smiled at me and wrapped her arms around my waist, not caring that I was sweaty. I pressed my lips to hers, nipping at her bottom lip.

“Excuse me.”

I pulled back and sighed, looking over at Teri, who had her arms crossed and was huffing in annoyance.

Hope waved at her. “I’m just going to lean on your pole.” She motioned over to the support beam a few feet away.

I smirked, unable to resist. “You can lean on my pole anytime.”

Her mouth dropped open, and I couldn’t stop from laughing.

It’d been two days since we defiled the church. Even though we hadn’t gone on a date, one was in the works. Until then, neither of us could stay away for too long, which was one reason she was in the middle of the gym.

It also happened that my client, Teri, was her roommate.

“Oh, come on! This is my hour.” Teri smacked my chest with a gloved hand. “You two can fuck later.” She pointed to me. “But stay away from the kitchen! I spent an hour bleaching it this morning.”

My devilish laugh came out, and I turned back in time to see her face drop. She was in for it. “Oh, you’re in trouble now. Blitz!” Usually Teri punched ten to each side before switching, then taking a break, but she was going to hurt for that comment. “Again.”

She glared as me and muttered “fucker” under her breath.

“Come on. Push it! Harder!”

She pummeled the sparring mitts until her arms had little fight and she gasped for air.

“Okay, break.” I tossed the mitts on the floor and reached forward, removing one glove before pulling on the other.

Hope handed Teri a water bottle, and she attempted to drink between hard breaths. A few rounds later, we were done. Hope was still leaning on the pole, and as soon as Teri went off to the locker room, I closed the gap, pressing my body against hers. I pushed her into the pole as I wrapped my arms around both, trapping her.

“Hi,” I said, smirking at her and pressing my cock into her stomach.

She nabbed her bottom lip in the fuck-sexy way she always did. Her being coy drove me and my cock insane. “Hi.”

“Come here often?”

She rolled her eyes and fought a smile. “My boyfriend works here.”

I quirked a brow at her. “Boyfriend?” We hadn’t really talked titles… Well, we really hadn’t talked—mostly fucked—but we were getting there.

“Boyfriend.” She was firm in her word choice and gave me a little attitude with it. “Got a problem with it?”

I shook my head. “No, but, baby, let me be your boyfriend. I own the place.” And soon I would fully own a place, without Monica.

“Own the place? Well, then, you have an enticing proposition.”

I leaned in and kissed her neck, humming against her skin. “How about I offer up another enticing proposition?”

“All right, break it up.” Teri tapped her foot next to us. “Come on, Hope, we have to get to class.”

She looked to Teri and then back to me, a small pout on her lips. “Sorry.”

I groaned and gave Teri the evil eye.

“Don’t look at me like that, you devil.”

I bent down and gave Hope a last kiss. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She nabbed her lip and looked at me from under her lashes. “Maybe I can act out one of my fantasies.”

I smirk and pulled her closer. “What’s that, my naughty girl?”

Her lips were close to my ear, tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. “I want to service my customer.”

I groaned and squeezed her ass. She pulled away, blowing me a kiss before turning to catch up with Teri.

I knew the Devil and lust were in us both.

But if I was going to hell, the trip would be worth it with Hope by my side.

About K.I. Lynn

K.I. Lynn spent her life in the arts, everything from music to painting and ceramics, then to writing. Characters have always run around in her head, acting out their stories, but it wasn’t until later in life she would put them to pen. It would turn out to be the one thing she was really passionate about.

Since she began posting stories online, she’s garnered acclaim for her diverse stories and hard hitting writing style. Two stories and characters are never the same, her brain moving through different ideas faster than she can write them down as it also plots its quest for world domination…or cheese. Whichever is easier to obtain… Usually it’s cheese.

Kick

Songs of Perdition - Book One

CD Reiss

one.

My ankles were shackled. The chain between them clicked when I rolled over, and the steel bit my anklebones when I rested my feet together.

My brain chemistry had been set for arousal at the touch of hard metal edges on my skin, and even though I felt a growing swirl of lust when I pressed my legs together, I was preoccupied. Deacon hadn’t put the leg irons on me, nor had I squeezed them tighter than I should, just to feel them holding me while he played me like a musician at an instrument.

I didn’t know what had happened.

The last thing I remembered was rain.

No. The last thing I remembered was being in scene with Deacon and entering subspace, outside of myself, where pleasure and pain merged.

No.

Nuzzling Snowcone as he huffed and clopped his hoof on the stable floor, I held his bit. I thought, he’s slow, it’s over, he’s slow, he’s old, it’s over, he won’t take the bit, he’s slow. My thoughts repeated as if they were stuck.

The last thing I remembered was hanging from the ceiling, listening to rain on the windows. It never rained in Los Angeles—unless it did, and then it rained like a holy hail of fuck yous.

The last thing I remembered was wet thighs. Feeling so sore I couldn’t sit. Thinking about fucking. Finding someone to fuck.

There was so much fucking.

The last thing I remembered was snorting a line of flake off Amanda’s tits.

And then?

Nothing.

Anxiety sat in my chest like a kinetic weight, but I wasn’t scared. I knew I wasn’t thinking right, that I was little more than a jumble of emotions and half sentences. I thought in colors, and saw in bursts of silence. The aggressive white light above illuminated the angles of the corners. The tight space and soft white walls were the product of some kind of regulating entity. Was I in prison? A hospital? Was I even in the United States? When would Deacon come for me?

Soon.

He’d come soon, and everything would be in control again.

Until then, I’d submit to the fog of my half-formed thoughts and nothing would go wrong.

* * *

“Do you know where you are?”

His voice was so gentle in powder blues and jazzy notes, but he was a stranger. I’d never heard a voice like that—thick and soft as heavy cream, a satin sheet on a bed of sand. I opened my eyes to bright white fog and a charcoal blur that must have been attached to the voice. Not a cop. Not a lawyer. Not an ER doc.

“No,” I croaked.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. All right?”

I nodded. I didn’t realize how quiet it was until the noise of the sheet rubbing against my ear sounded like an electric guitar amp set to eleven.

“Can you tell me your name?”

It wasn’t loud, that voice. Like Deacon’s, it had its own kind of authority, but unlike my master’s, it was gentle.

I cleared the frog from my throat. “Fiona.”

“Hi, Fiona. My name is Doctor Chapman. But you can call me Elliot.”

My eyes cleared a little. The charcoal smear turned into a beige oval with two green-grey dots for eyes and non-committally colored hair. His skin wrinkled around the eyes, but his mouth was young. He was either in his late twenties, or forty-ish, like Deacon. Or maybe somewhere in between.

“Good,” he said, crouching to meet my gaze. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Where do you live?”

That was a hard question, with its own complexity.

“The first thing that comes to mind,” the doctor said.

“Number three, Maundy Street.”

He nodded, so my answer must have been satisfactory. “Get cleaned up, get something to eat, then we can talk.”

I nodded, and the noise in my ear was less shocking. He stood and went for the white door with the little window at eye level.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Westonwood Acres.”

* * *

They fed me in my room from a metal tray. I didn’t eat much. I was shown to a small bathroom, where I was expected to clean up and change out of one light blue jumpsuit into another. I had never been squeamish about germs or ickiness, but in the soft cotton of my mind, something seemed inherently wrong with the space, the room, the clothes.

Deacon would find me. He was probably in some office right now, demanding my release from the mental ward. He had a way of sniffing me out, even when I snuck away, as if he and I were connected by a vibrating fiber. No matter how far I went, no matter how fast, he knew. If there was anyone in the world I could count on, it was him. He was coming. All I had to do was behave long enough for him to arrive.

Just thinking of him, the bones of his wrist, the tendons tight on his forearms when he gripped my body, his growl—mine mine mine—sent a wave of pleasure between my legs.

I knew who I was. I was a celebrity without talent. I was an heiress. I was a whore. I was a party waiting to happen. I was an addict. I was his, and in that last definition—that I was owned by Deacon I knew my place in the chaos.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, the headache came like slowly tightening wrenches clamped to my temples and the back of my neck. As the pain bloomed, my mind cleared. Though I couldn’t remember shit any better than before, I gained the good sense to worry about it. I gained details. Cast-iron grates on the windows in a decorative pattern. No doorknob. Walls of suede microfiber. Cork floors. Soft wood bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.

There were people around me, but I felt more than saw them. Intuited their presence. How long had I been walking through plasma? Where was the other side?

The last thing I remembered… What was the last thing I remembered? It was Deacon in the kitchen of number three, sweatpants and no shirt, with his arms out. He was saying something. Pleading. He was telling me I had to kick. Kick? What did that mean? And was it the kitchen or the stables? Whatever space he was in was plagued by his raw pain. He was mad and resigned at the same time, two things I’d never seen from him.

Was that the last thing I remembered? Whatever it was must have landed me here.

There had been a dream with red and blue lights.

There had been a party, possibly before the lights, maybe after. I was on my hands and knees. I was high, so high, flooded with endorphins and knocking around subspace. My ache was dulled to pleasure, and I wanted something desperately.

I couldn’t put it all together. Maybe I’d gone just a little heavy on the flake. Deacon would be pissed. I’d apologize. We’d do a knotting, and I’d get better.

The last thing… Deacon had gone away. He’d put his face in my neck, and I was surrounded by peppermint and sandalwood. He’d gotten in the limo, and I watched it glide down the hill and past the gate of the private road, splashing in the rushing water of the drainage dip. Maundy Street. Left turn past Debbie and Martin’s place, and away.

Christmas. He said he’d be back for Christmas.

The house had seemed big, and I’d thought about spending the week at home in Bel-Air. Avoid Debbie. Avoid Martin. Their eyes and their temptations pressed against me. I could handle it. I could handle anything. I was strong.

Was that decision even worth remembering? What was the last thing that had happened?

I only remembered stuff from long ago. A knotting, the last one, my favorite. Deacon had laced me to hooks in the ceiling with patterns of knotted rope, turning my body into a work of art. I was upside down, naked, falling from the sky, and he crouched on the floor, caressing my head and shoulders. I always felt at peace when he knotted me, but that time, when he became part of the work, my very identity and all the anxiety that came with it melted away.

Something about a horse, but I must have been dreaming. I hadn’t touched a horse in months. Years, maybe.

And the last party. The knots of skin and fluid.

A stinging drip in my nose.

When? Yesterday? Last month? Never?

Now. Here. In Westonwood.

Fuck.

two.

Having eaten a meal in a tiny pale grey room, and walked down wide, pale grey hallway, showered in a white-tiled stall, and gotten into a stainless steel elevator, I found the office jarring. It could have been my headache that grew more potent by the moment, or it could have been the presence of actual colors.

Pale blue curtains drawn against the rain pounding the window. Green lantern. Rich brown wainscoting and desk. Burgundy carpets. I squinted. Even the light from the desk lamp felt intentionally painful.

“Thanks, Bernie,” Dr. Chapman said from the corner of the room.

He wore a grey jacket and a sage-green sweater over a white shirt. His voice didn’t hurt my head, though when Bernie, the orderly, clicked the door behind him, I felt as if someone had hit my temple with a crowbar.

“Headache?” the doctor asked. I nodded, and he sighed. “For what you pay to be here, you think they’d be on the ball with the analgesics.” He slid open a desk drawer and removed a bottle of over-the-counter medicine. “Let me get you some water.”

I held out my hand. “Don’t need it.”

He shook two into my palm. I kept my hand out then spread my fingers wider. He shook out two more. I kept my hand out.

“That’s plenty,” he said.

I threw them to the back of my throat and swallowed. One caught on the back of my tongue, releasing a wave of sour and bitter, but I took it all.

“Would you like to sit?” He put the bottle back and slid the drawer closed.

“Is that a question? About what I like?”

“It’s a suggestion phrased as a question.”

A padded leather chair in soft green and worn dark wood sat to my left. I touched the brass studs that kept the leather attached and sat down. Doctor Chapman sat behind the desk, settling his right elbow on the arm of the chair. I didn’t know if I was supposed to start with questions about what had happened or why I was there. I didn’t know if I should rattle off a list of what I remembered and didn’t, or ask just how much trouble I was in, or when Deacon was coming to get me out.

But he saved me the trouble. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

I stiffened. My mouth locked up. I couldn’t tell him. “When can I leave?”

“Do you think you should leave?”

“Do you think I should leave?”

“It’s more important to know what you think,” he said.

“It’s more important for you to know what I think, and it’s more important for me to know what you think. So you first.”

He rubbed his upper lip with his middle finger, an odd gesture, then dropped his hand. “You’re here for your own protection, at the great expense and effort of your family. I have seventy-two hours to report on whether or not you’re a danger to yourself or others.”

“How am I a danger?”

“You don’t remember?”

“You know I don’t.”

He put his elbows on the desk and looked right into my eyes. I wanted to know what he saw, other than what everyone saw—a party girl with a permanent smile and spread legs. A balls-to-the-wall princess with an entourage and two wrecked Bentleys in the garage. But more than that, I wanted to know how old he was. He looked so young and so wise at the same time.

“If I tell you why you’re here,” he said with that gentle voice, “I want to warn you, that you’ve probably blocked it because it’s painful to you.”

“Okay.” I didn’t believe him, but I let him think I’d blocked it. The reason I didn’t know was because I’d been drunk or high. Whatever sweet chemicals I’d taken had kept my neurons from connecting.

It must have been bad, and I could never feel guilty about it because I didn’t remember it. I’d had a drunk driving accident. I’d given someone bad pills. I’d been gang-fucked and dumped in an alley. I’d killed some random paparazzi. One of the entourage had turned on me. All the things Mom had listed as a fear and Dad had implied with his look.

“You’re making me nervous,” I whispered even though my headache abated.

“Do you know Deacon Bruce?”

I heard his last name so infrequently, sometimes I forgot he even had one. “Yes.”

“Do you remember what he is to you?”

“Yes.” I refused to clarify further. He was my safety. My control. The hub on the wheel of my life. Without him, the spokes didn’t meet.

And he was coming for me. All I had to do was stall.

“It would help if you told me the last thing you remember.”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Do you remember going to the Branwyn Stables yesterday?”

“I haven’t been to the stables in years.” As if the back of my face had a surface all its own, it tingled. A corset tightened around my chest. I was going to cry, and I had no idea why. “I need you to just tell me, Doctor.”

“Call me Elliot.”

“Fucking tell me right now!”

“Can you stay calm?”

I swallowed a golf ball of cry gunk. “Yes. I’m fine. Yes.”

Seconds passed. He watched me as if casually observing a churning barrel of worry.

“I’m fine,” I said. “You can tell me. I’ll be cool.”

“We don’t know what happened exactly. There are details missing. Mister Bruce isn’t well enough to be interviewed.”

I tried to hold myself together, but my fingers gripped the edge of the chair. He saw my knuckles turn white. I knew it, but I had nowhere else for the tension to go.

“Go on,” I said.

“There are some things that are known for sure, and some questions. If you remember any portion of what I’m telling you, please stop me.”

“Is Deacon okay?”

He cleared his throat and looked away before turning back to me. I realized he didn’t want to tell me at all, and that barrel of worry filled up with panic.

“You stabbed him in the chest.”

three.

I woke up strapped to the bed with a brain full of fog. Then they took me to a room with a balding doctor and a nurse whose face I couldn’t make out through my drug-induced lethargy.

The doctor clucked and groaned as he read things off to the nurse. I could barely sort through what he was saying, and I could barely remember what had happened a few hours ago. Had I attacked someone? The therapist? I’d apologize. He seemed nice. I hoped I didn’t hurt him. What had he said to make me freak out? Something about something I did. The reason I was here.

I was in incredible physical shape—I knew that because suspending a woman from the ceiling in rough hemp ropes took hours of work, days of practice, and stamina and strength from both parties. And Deacon, Master Deacon, did not fuck around. I had to get off the flake, reduce the alcohol, and sleep eight hours a day, even if they were when the sun was out. He’d had to watch me sometimes to make sure I ate right, stretched, and stayed off substances, but it was worth it.

Except I was here.

Had Deacon been away?

If he’d been around, I wouldn’t have done whatever it was I’d done to land in Westonwood. He’d come and…something. Something was wrong. Something about Deacon. I couldn’t find the specifics, but it was something huge and upsetting. My heart beat faster when I tried to think of it. I got impatient with the nurse as she moved my wrist and said a bunch of gibberish as if I wasn’t there. She was keeping me from thinking the things I needed to think. Facts lay a layer under the sand, and I was trying to dig them up, but the bitch kept taking my shovel.

The doctor looked at my teeth and poked a molar. A shot of pain cut through me, and I pushed him away so hard he crashed into a tray of torture devices.

Fucking meds. I was going to have to detox again. Once I was curled up in my bed again, I would get the itchy skin, the broken lethargy, the attacks of consciousness that cut into my thoughtless reflections on my sensory space. I’d spent a lot of time trying to get away from my thoughts. Most of my days, actually. I had it down to a science. I never thought about a damn thing.

Or more accurately, I thought plenty and drowned it however I could. When the therapist had told me I’d done something so terrible, such an anathema to me, and I didn’t have a substance or an orgasm to drape over the news, I did things without thinking. My determination to be good had gone out the window, and I’d lunged for that lying doctor. I remembered being hauled away screaming, strapped down, and I remembered the injection.

It wasn’t until I woke up secured to the bed in a mental ward that I knew what it was like to be distanced from my brain. I could separate the drug thoughts from the real-me thoughts. The drug thoughts were blank and foggy, and the real-me thoughts were black holes where information should have been. Things floated by as if someone was changing the station from a comedy to a thriller to a terror fest to colored bars that went eeeeeeee.

I’d stabbed Deacon.

No, it was a lie.

You know it’s true.

Not.

Yes.

Not.

You did it.

Never.

I turned my head. Nothing in that room could upset me, because the space was absent of stimuli. The room was still grey, still bathed in light, and in the corner, a silver disk got lost in the vents and alarms dotting the ceiling.

A camera.

If I screamed—and I believed I could—they’d know, and they’d come for me. Or not. I wasn’t ready to find out.

I’d been strapped to beds for long periods of time, usually with my legs spread farther than they were now, often with my knees bent. When I was left in that position, it was so I couldn’t press my legs closed and give myself an orgasm. By the time Deacon came in, I was wet with anticipation and ready for anything he dished out.

In the hospital, my ankles and wrists were bound so I couldn’t hurt myself. I was wet all over again. I tried to close my legs and couldn’t. And no one was coming to slap or fuck me. Not even one of Deacon’s friends. Not even Debbie. I wasn’t strapped down so I could stew in my own lust. I was strapped down because after Elliot had told me I’d stabbed Deacon, my mind had gone white hot.

Fuck.

Even as I got angry at myself over this forgotten thing, I felt the bloat of arousal.

You’re swelled, kitten.

Swelled didn’t mean horny. That was easy enough. Swelled meant I needed it. Sex. Hot and dirty fucking. Masturbating couldn’t stop a swell. Rubbing my cunt on the pillow, vibrators, dildos, eggs, none of them chased away a swell. Only penetration, anywhere, by a warm-blooded man, took care of it. Until that happened, I couldn’t function.

It had never been a problem. I took what I wanted, made no commitments, found willing participants wherever, whenever I needed it. I was on three forms of birth control, for fuck’s sake. I got tested weekly. I wrapped it up. Past that, my first priority to a swell was getting rid of it, and I was mindless in my pursuit. For Deacon, it became a challenge—to know when I would need it, predict it, and put me in a position where he could withhold penetration. He created the unique torture of being tied in knots, naked, cunt out, ready as he tugged the rope and I begged him to take me.

“I need to finish, kitten. How would it be to have people arrive to a party without the table set?”

He’d hurt me to forestall satisfaction, leaving my ass a deep shade of pink and my little tits sore, putting me on the edge and keeping me there for hours, until I wept.

Had I killed Deacon? My master? Why? How? Oh God, what had I done?

The holes in my mind closed, filled with the thick caulk of sex. I needed it. I needed to feel good. I needed my mind to go blank with pleasure for a second or two, to clear the pain out like a firehose. I could be in for a swell. I needed to feel good. Needed.

“Now!” I cried. “Bathroom!”

Bernie, a big, dark-skinned guy with a kind face, came through the door seconds later. “Hi, Miss Drazen.”

He smelled of man, and though he wasn’t the best looking guy ever, I was painfully aware of the cock under his blue cotton pants.

“Bernie.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Do you know anything? About my case?”

“No, ma’am.”

He unstrapped me. When his hands touched my wrist, the feeling went right between my legs. I tried to catch his gaze, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and I noticed he was trying to avoid touching me. It was as if he knew.

“Thank you.” Despite everything, I said it in my softest, most inviting voice.

He let me in the bathroom without another word or touch. When the door snapped shut, I stripped out of the jumpsuit and hitched my leg over the sink. The cold porcelain edge lay hard against my cunt, and I shuddered, clasping my left hand on the faucet, and my right on the edge in front of me.

“Let me come, Sir,” I whispered so it wouldn’t echo, and I called to mind our first knotting.

* * *

The twenty-two year old me, the taste of flake a bitter, recent memory, kneels on the wood floor of his loft with light pouring in the windows. I am naked but for simple panties. He says that when he ties me naked, he’s taking me. We haven’t fucked, though our relationship is intensely sexual. He’s worth waiting for, this delicious man with his scorching eyes and knowing smirk. I want to obey the rules for him. I feel right when I take care of myself for him.

When Deacon returned from Africa, he sailed, and when he sailed, he knotted mast ropes and women. He’d been led to what Westerners called shibari. In its ancient form, it was the art of binding prisoners to maximize pain and humiliation. In its modern form, it is the art of patterning rope around a subject for an aesthetic—drawing the lengths around the body to create patterns, to press against erogenous zones, to provide a sexual partner with a compliant, accessible body. The black and white photographs of his work are erotic and sublime, and I knew as soon as he showed me them that I wanted to be part of it.

He puts my hands behind my back and begins. He handles me roughly, moving my body to tie it. There will be no suspension today. Just me, on the floor. It’s too soon to risk suspension. I’m not practiced enough. And he won’t put anything through my nipple rings until he’s sure I can stay still. He’s still keeping it simple—teaching me how to hold my hands, checking my reactions, my ability to take instruction, my commitment to safety.

He touches me more than he ever has, and though I’d promised many men I’d be their fuckdoll, for the first time, I actually feel like one. My arms twist behind my back, hands clasping elbows, wrists facing away from the ropes, protected from the pressure. I’m to tell him if anything tingles or feels wrong, but so far, everything is exactly right.

He loops the rope around my ponytail, yanking it so the short rope can be tied to my ankles, and he’s done. I’m immobilized, calves to the floor, back arched, forced to look at the hooks in the ceiling from the pressure on the back of my head.

I’ve never been so aroused. From the tips of my toes to the beating of my heart, my tranquility vibrates with awakening. I feel him standing over me, cutting off the light.

“You doing all right?” he asks.

I open my eyes halfway. He’s down to his bare feet and trousers. Shirtless, magnificent Deacon. I can’t make words, but my smile answers in the affirmative. He kneels and puts his fingers to my lips. I part them, and he slides them in.

“I’ll gag you next time,” he says. “The cloth will go around the ropes.”

I wet his finger with my tongue. I usually have a ton of dirty talk at my disposal, but I’m so high from this, I can’t even speak.

“You’ll only be able to grunt, but I’ll understand you, kitten. You and I, we’re going to speak without speaking.”

Lightly, so very lightly, his fingers stroke inside my thigh. I feel my spit drying on them.

“I’m going to tie you and fuck you breathless.” He slides my panties aside and runs his finger along the length of my slit. “I’ve never seen a girl so wet. You really want to fuck.”

“I need it.” I whisper the only three words I have at the moment.

He gathers the wetness at my tingling opening and moistens me all over, asshole to clit. His pressure is perfect, delicate, gentle. He’s not trying to get me to come; he’s trying to get me turned on. He slides two fingers in my cunt so slowly, I feel my soul go to heaven.

“You like my fingers?”

I swallow in response. He pulls them out, slowly again, then touches the hood of my clit, shifting it slightly. The effect is hypnotic.

“Look at you,” he says, his face close enough to mine that I can smell his peppermint breath. “You’re a slave to me right now.” He runs his fingers back to my opening, and to my clit, with just the tip, in circles. “Your discomfort is getting crowded out by pleasure. You want to come so bad. This isn’t even pleasure. It’s the expectation of release. Do you know how long I can keep you going like this? Do you know what I can do to your body? As long as you need that release, I can take you to the breaking point. What wouldn’t you do for me?”

He circles a wet finger around my asshole then back to my clit, which feels explosive, engorged, hot to the touch.

“Show me what a kitten you are. Meow for me.”

I mewl, wiggling my hips to get a little more pressure on my cunt when he puts his fingers in me. But he and the ropes have complete control.

“Not like that. Don’t be saucy. Do it like a real kitten.”

“Oh God, just let me—”

He squeezes my clit, and I cry out, because it hurts, and it’s just about as close to an orgasm as possible.

He slaps the inside of my thigh. “Easy, girl. The more you demand, the longer I’ll keep you on the edge.”

I’m sweating, leaking fluid everywhere. I don’t have a brain. I don’t even want to fuck. I just want to come.

“Meow for me,” he says.

A kitten. What does a kitten sound like? A real mewl. No M sound, just a vowel. I make it. I mewl for him as he runs his fingertip over my hood, shifting it just enough. I mewl again. It’s humiliating, to make animal sounds while tied and bent over, but it gives me something to concentrate on. This isn’t the first time I’ve enjoyed being debased.

“Good girl. You’re such a good girl. Do you want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please. Please. God, let me come for you.”

With his free hand, he grabs the hair on the top of my head, yanking it against the ties to my ankles. “Don’t move. Just meow.”

He slides a finger in my asshole, and my mewl turns to a cry of pleasure. When he presses his thumb to my clit, hard, I lose my breath. He rotates the thumb, and I explode. My asshole pulses around him, my cunt tightens, and the rush of release comes out of my mouth in grunts that I can’t concentrate on enough to make the kitten sounds he likes.

His thumb drifts off me halfway then presses again, and I explode all over, wiggling in the confines of the ropes. The orgasm is eternal, like an electrical pulse arching my back, my fingers gripping my forearms. He does it again, leaning forward and shoving two fingers in my ass. My back arches farther, and the ropes press into my ribs.

Time happens for someone else, but not me. The orgasm goes on and on under this madass bastard’s hands.

I open my eyes, and I see him through my hair as he fucks me with his fingers again. His face is intense, as if he’s reining in a hotblood, and I gear up for another explosion.

I need to breathe. I need to think. It’s almost painful to come this much. But I can’t move. I’m going to die, and live, and crack into a thousand fleshy pieces.

“Stop,” I say. “Please stop.”

“One more, kitten,” he growls. And he gets it.

* * *

I rode the Westonwood sink on the tips of my right toes, sliding my wet pussy against it. I came in four pushes, legs tingling, back arching, mouth open. Knowing less than the sum of what I remembered and forgot, only blank, preciously empty but for pleasure.

four.

Margie, three years out of law school, was already boring. I couldn’t stand her, but I loved her for sitting in the visitation room in a pale green suit, her red hair in a sensible bob.

Before I even had my butt in my chair, she said, “He’s alive.”

“How alive?”

“He’s too weak to talk. You got the hoof knife between two ribs—”

“A hoof knife? My God—” Hoof knives didn’t have a point, though mine was sharp on the tip. How hard had I been at him to get that to even puncture?

“You missed his heart by an eighth of an inch and just scraped a lung. There’ll be a nice scar to show the grandkids.”

“Was it me? I did it? Are you sure?”

“You called the cops and said you did, and you attacked them when they got there.”

“I don’t… There’s no way I could have.” I was utterly baffled. Why would I do that? I’d done crazy shit, but stab Deacon? That was the craziest of crazyfuckshit I’d ever heard. “Where? We weren’t on Maundy Street. Couldn’t have been.”

“The stables. Then you tried to slit your own throat. You really don’t remember?”

“You think I’m putting it on?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past you.” She held her face firm as if daring me to get offended.

“You don’t have to represent me if you don’t want to,” I said. “I know you find me repulsive.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. You’ve never understood me.”

“That’s not the same as finding you repulsive,” Margie said. “Let’s face it. You don’t even understand you. The difference between us is that I happen to love you.”

I had no answer. I just fixed my jaw and felt like more of a recalcitrant child than I ever did in front of Mom.

“Fiona, do you want to talk about this? Should I come back tomorrow? Or not at all? Daddy’s trying to get me pulled off the case.”

“Why?”

“He says I’m not experienced enough. I don’t know the real reason.” She shook her head. “Point is—”

I grabbed her hand over the table. “It has to be you. Don’t leave me.”

“Tell me what happened. I know you don’t remember, but what was with you two? Did he cheat on you? Did he hit you? What would have made you snap?”

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. She didn’t understand us. No one would.

“Drazen pledge,” I said.

“I’m your lawyer. Anything you say is under attorney-client privilege.”

I held up my hand. “Are you opening pledge or not?”

“Fine.” She held up her hand. “Pledge open.”

I relaxed. Between myself and my seven siblings, six sisters and one brother, opening a pledge meant nothing said could be repeated and only the truth could be spoken.

“This is so hard to explain,” I said.

“It’ll get easier after the first ten times.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

She crossed her arms. “Start by not stalling. Assume I know you use drugs. Assume I know you’ve had more sex in the past three years than I’ve had in my life.”

“We had an open-ish relationship.”

“Okay.”

“The ish part is that…” I swallowed. “Up until a few months ago, my other partners were limited to people we knew, at parties he threw.” I didn’t mention the knottings. I wasn’t ready to tell her I had been a fuckable art object, because I’d have to explain that I’d never been in such control of my sexuality as I was in this open-ish relationship.

“And why did that change?”

There was a relief in her question, because it didn’t judge the excesses, only the switch to normalcy.

“We fell in love.” The blade of those words cut through the dullness of the meds, and snot and tears flooded my face.

“No,” Margie said. “You stop right now.”

I tried to tell her I couldn’t, but I was beyond speaking, beyond using my mouth for anything but breathing thick cry gunk. I could barely breathe without croaking—how could I speak a whole sentence? “I couldn’t have hurt him.”

“Fuck.” Margie had always been impatient with outbursts, yet she always knew what to do about them. She swung her chair to my side of the table as if she was flinging it in a bar fight and sat next to me, putting her arm over my shoulder. I fell into her. She said nothing and stroked my hair.

“He went away, and I couldn’t keep it together,” I croaked. “I have a hard time without sex. I need it. But he understands me. We worked on ways to make it work. Why would I stab him?”

“He’s not saying. Is it possible he came after you, and you stabbed him in self-defense? Maybe he surprised you at the stables?”

“I don’t remember. I swear I don’t. What I was even doing there? I haven’t been to Branwyn in forever.”

“You have a chipped molar. Do you remember when that happened?” she asked.

“No.”

“The exam showed nerve damage in your wrist. Did he ever grab you there?”

I shook my head as if I was emptying change out of the bottom of a piggy bank. Nerve damage to the wrist could be caused by an improper knotting, but Deacon would never, ever make that mistake, and I would have called it out if I’d felt a tingling.

“Margie, I’m so confused. It’s like my brain isn’t working right. I have to see him. I have to talk to him.” I didn’t know how I’d calmed enough to make sentences, but I had. I wiped my nose and smeared my tears over my eyelids with the backs of my hands.

“That’s the least of your worries,” she said. “You have to get released first. Your therapist has seventy-two hours to determine if you’re a danger to yourself or others. So no more lunging over the desk to kill the good doctor. If you do get out, you’ll get taken in for questioning or arrested, depending on what the DA feels he has and, to be honest, whatever Dad decides he wants to do. He’s got every judge in L.A. in his pocket, but the media loves rich girls and violence. If you walk, it’ll look like we’ve gotten away with attempted murder. And just so you know, we’ve got some problems at home.”

“What?”

“Jonathan’s girlfriend disappeared from a party at Sheila’s last night. His car’s gone.”

“He had a girlfriend?” I tapped my fingers against my thumb, counting. When did my baby brother turn sixteen? How long had I been high on flake and fucking? Shit, he was old enough to drive?

“Theresa’s friend Rachel.”

Theresa was my sister, and Rachel was, indeed, her friend. She hung around a lot. I’d never given her a thought.

As if reading my mind, Margie continued. “I didn’t know about her and Jon either. So that’s why I’m here and not Quentin.”

“I just want to talk to Deacon.”

“I know. But maybe what you want isn’t what you need.” She took my hand. “When we’re done here, you’re having your orientation meeting with the hospital admin. Be nice. Be good. Okay?”

“Will being nice get me out?”

“It’ll increase the odds.”

“Then I’m all over it.”

five.

The administrator smiled. She seemed genuine enough, but she was probably genuine with everyone, which made the whole act as fake as shit. Her brown hair was straight, but at the ends, I could see it was naturally curly. A little patch of eyebrow had begun to grow at the top of her nose. She wore a little wreath with a bell hanging from it on her lapel.

“I’m Doctor Frances Ramone, but you can just call me Frances.”

Apparently, we were all on a first-name basis in Westonwood.

“You can call me Miss Drazen.”

My joke had no effect on her that I could see. Being blind with a headache, who knew what was happening in my peripheral vision. On the other side of the glass walls, people played checkers and some asshole grumbled in a wheelchair. More windows decoratively barred against escape. Lightweight plastic chairs, great for throwing but not hurting. A television permanently set to beautiful scenes of nature, flowers, butterflies. And that was how rich kids disappeared into Westonwood. No TV. No internet. No phone.

“That’s fine, Miss—”

“I was kidding. Fiona’s fine.”

“Are you okay, Fiona?”

Was I okay? What kind of question was that?

“I have a headache, and I’m a little grouchy, if you don’t mind.”

“Your medication’s worn off.”

Was her smile smug? Or just a smile?

“I need you to hear this and retain it, so I preferred you have all your faculties. Okay?” she said.

“Okay.”

“You’re here so we can determine if you’re fit to be questioned for attempted murder, and if you had your faculties about you when you committed the act.”

Though my crying was silent and controlled, Frances flipped me a tissue. I dabbed my eyes.

“Allegedly,” I said.

“Allegedly. You have a lawyer you can discuss this with further.”

“Yes.”

She put a piece of paper in front of me. There was a list on it with little boxes to the left of each item, and she ticked them off as she spoke. “We don’t allow you to use the phones or fax except to talk to lawyers. Even family calls come through us. We have some rules here, and the rules are tailored specifically for you. Everyone’s comfort here is important. You will be provided everything you need from medicine to meals. You are not allowed any of your own. This is to prevent substance abuse. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She ticked one of the boxes with her pen. I pressed my legs together and jammed my hands between my knees. I was so tense. I wanted to be in the common room having a goddamn conversation with the backgammon set.

“You will have two sessions per day with Doctor Chapman. He’s agreed to keep seeing you, despite your attack this morning.”

I nodded. I didn’t like what I’d done. Not the attack on Deacon or Dr. Chapman. It wasn’t me.

“Violence won’t fly a second time. We don’t like to use our solitary rooms, but we will if we think you’re a danger to yourself or others. You’re a compulsory patient, but we can send you to a state facility.”

I looked her in the eye for the first time. Their color was indeterminate, somewhere between light brown and blue and green. She held my gaze.

“Is that what you told my father?” I considered telling her I’d go wherever my father wanted me, and if he wanted me in Westonwood, then that was where I’d stay. You didn’t cross Daddy. Period.

She changed the subject. “There’s a light switch in your room. It doesn’t work after lights out at ten. Most residents go to bed earlier.” Tick. “You will be given medication according to a schedule. You must take it as directed.” Tick.

“I’d like an Advil or something.” I needed a Vicodin, but I knew asking for it would get marked on my paper, and I wanted out, even if it meant getting questioned by the gestapo.

“After we’re done here, I’ll get you something for the headache.” She tapped her pen, asking for attention to her list. “You will not touch any of the patients or staff.” Tick. “Your bedroom door must remain open during the day unless your doctors or staff ask that it be closed.” Tick. “You must get to your sessions on time. We consider punctuality a sign of your commitment to the process here. Two late appearances mean you are not fully committed.” Tick. “And your performance in the bathroom this morning will not be repeated.”

“What performance?”

“Specific to you, there will be no masturbation.”

I laughed. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Next time we hear you through the door, we’re coming in. We are a private institution. Accredited, yes, but we do get to custom-tailor the Westonwood experience to each patient. In your case, sex is a distraction that is strictly forbidden.”

“Lady, I can make myself come by breathing a certain way, okay? And shame’s not my thing. Privacy isn’t a prerequisite; I’ll come right in front of you. So that rule is a fucking joke.”

“I assure you, it’s not a joke.” She slid back her chair. “Your meals are scheduled. Mark will take you to the dining hall.”

* * *

Mark, the orderly, was one of those guys who was trouble outside his job. He had on the same pale blue uniform as the rest of the orderlies, but his goatee was fingered to a point and his hair was shaved over the ears. The top flopped down, but I knew he made it stick up on the weekends. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn’t help it. He had an empty piercing hole in his nostril. He glanced at me, and I turned away.

I held my tray in the center of the dining room, trying to decide between seats that all looked the same. The room was done up in modern grey and white, same as everything else. Even the Christmas decorations were simple brushed-chrome snowflakes hanging from the windows. The linoleum shined, the paint scuffs were removed nightly, and the chairs were Scandinavian, but it still looked and smelled like a mental ward.

A group of three ate on the patio. It rained on the other side of the overhang. They laughed and smoked cigarettes as if they were at the Wilshire Country Club, not Westonwood. They were my age, more or less, with smooth skin and trim bodies. One girl saw me and waved me over. I stood in the doorway.

“Fiona Drazen,” she said. “Heard you were here.”

They all looked at me. I waved. Their faces seemed familiar. The girl in question had her bare feet curled on the chair and a lit cigarette in the fingers that rested on her knee.

“Hey.” One of the young men, with tight curly hair and a knowing slouch, raised his hand to me. “Good to see you again.”

I didn’t know him. Had I fucked him? Was I supposed to remember? I couldn’t even remember the last two days.

“Hey.” I nodded at him, then the rest.

The girl’s shirt buckled under her crouch, and I saw the curve of her breast. I remembered her. It had been a weekend in her mother’s time share—two days in an ocean of skin. I barely remembered their three faces from that party. Karen. Karen Hinnley. Her mother was a producer.

“Ojai,” I said. “Fuck, man. What a weekend.”

“It was…” She rolled her eyes as if at a loss for words.

“Beautiful,” I finished for her.

“Damn,” said the guy with the curly hair, “we should do it again.”

“Yeah.” Karen nodded to a boy with blond hair who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. “You gotta come this time.”

Everyone concurred except me. I couldn’t bear another minute. I didn’t know why.

“Nice and quiet here,” I said.

“Christmas,” Karen said. “Everyone gets sprung for a couple of days. Except I don’t want to go home to look at the buffet. Gross. After New Year’s, there’ll be a line for the tri-tip.”

Too-Young shook his head. Curly Hair laughed. Warren. That was his name. Warren Chilton, son of the actor.

“I’m going inside,” I said. “Call me when we’re all out of here.”

There was agreement, but no discussion about whether or not I would serve time, even though my situation must have been public knowledge. People like us didn’t serve time. Even the suggestion meant that my lawyer wasn’t connected well enough.

I wasn’t hungry, so I drifted into the common room, where the TV screen showed nature in all its high-definition glory. It was compelling in its way. I sat on the grey leather couch and watched, staring at daisies fluttering in the breeze. I felt too weak for a walk. Frances had given me a cocktail of pills for the headache, some of which I recognized, and they dulled the pain and the brain.

I’d stabbed Deacon. What would make me do such a thing? What could he have done? Beat me? I laughed to myself, because beat me was what he did on any given day. I rubbed my eyes as if I wanted to erase the lids and see what I’d done.

My body tipped a quarter of a degree when someone sat next to me. I glanced toward my right. He had short-cropped hair and pink lips, and he smiled and blinked slowly. I could fuck him. No reason not to, besides the no touching rule and Deacon, who wasn’t dead. I’d betrayed him enough already.

“Bellis perennis,” he said, tilting his head toward the nature show. “Common daisy, often confused with their more tightly petaled family members, Arctotis. You’re Fiona Drazen, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack Kent. Carlton Prep. I was a year below you. You were a celebrity even then. What are you in for?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer before a nurse came close, and Jack pointed at the TV.

“Arctotis stoechadifolia, nearly extinct in its native South Africa, and now a weed pest in Southern California,” he said.

“Attempted murder,” I said when the nurse passed, “but I don’t remember it.”

“Car?”

“Knife.”

“Wow. Trust you to do it big.”

I wished I remembered this guy half as much as he remembered me.

“No, wait. I remember you,” I said. “Nerd.”

“Not totally unfuckable, I think. But yeah.”

“What are you in for?”

“Being an embarrassment, unofficially. But officially, bipolar disorder.”

“Picked up in a manic phase?” I asked.

“Totes manic. I came up with a new way to process ricinus communis in a hundred forty-seven steps. No one in their right mind could get past the seventy-fifth.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I could. And the high? Woke out of it with my underwear full of jizz.”

I nodded. I knew how he felt.

“You voluntary?” he asked.

I shook my head. The flowers changed from yellow to pink.

“Fifty-one-fiftied?”

“Yeah. I supposedly tried to stab a cop. Resisted arrest. Turned the knife on myself. Yada yada. I’m screwed.”

“Who’s your psych?” he asked.

“Chapman.”

Jack puffed out his cheeks and released slowly, an expression of overwhelming sympathy.

“What?”

“Hardass.”

“Really? Seems nice enough.”

He shifted on the couch until he faced me, one leg bent on the cushions, the other with toes tensed against the floor. “It’s his job to be nice. Listen. Do you want out or in?”

“Out, of course. What person in their right mind would want to stay here?”

“The question kind of answers itself. But if you want out, you have to do it in the seventy-two-hour window, six therapy sessions, or shit gets indefinite. Like, they keep you in thirty-day increments and revisit, and it gets less and less likely you’ll get out unless your parents start making a stink. In my case, they won’t, so I can stay as long as I want.”

He didn’t look at me for the last sentence, as if he couldn’t bear the shame. I didn’t blame him. I’d be ashamed too, if I had any.

“I’ll convince him I’m sane.”

Which meant I’d face charges. If I convinced him I was nuts, I’d be stuck in Westonwood with their no touching rule and scheduled meals. If I faced charges, would I get to see Deacon? Or would I just be out and arrested and as separate from him as I was in the hospital? Only he knew what happened. Only he could say what I’d done and hadn’t done.

Staying in, staring at a flat screen of flowers with bars on the windows between Deacon and me, wasn’t going to cut it. I had to take my chances with the real world, which meant no more tantrums. No more attacks on the doctor or anyone else. For the next two days, I would be a model citizen.

six.

“How was your morning?” Doctor Chapman—no, Elliot—asked. He had a tiny scratch on his left eyelid. Otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.

“Fine,” I said. “Sorry about attacking you. I’m not usually like that.”

“You’re repressing a slew of emotions and memories. Stuff can only stay in lockdown so long.”

“Speaking of lockdown…” I curled my lip to the side. Elliot’s hands were folded in front of him, and his attention was fully on me. I didn’t know if anyone outside of Deacon had ever paid me such razor-sharp attention. “Is it even legal to have solitary confinement in a hospital?”

“I told Frances you needed an hour of restraints so you didn’t hurt yourself. I didn’t know how the tranq would affect you. Where did you get the idea of solitary?”

“She mentioned it. Like a threat. Not a fan of threats.”

“What about the thought of it scares you?” he asked.

“I didn’t say I was scared.”

“Okay. Why bring it up? I’m sure she told you plenty of rules. Why does that stick out?”

“Because it’s a legal issue.”

“Is it?”

“According to Amnesty International and a whole bunch of entities who think it’s wrong.”

“We’re a private institution serving a specific segment of society. We get some leeway,” he said.

“Meaning there’s enough money getting passed around that you can do what you want.”

“Money flows both ways. But if you need reassurances, and you might, it’s not something I’d sign off on for you.” He watched me, reading me, observing me like a thing in a cage.

I wiggled in my seat, as if that would throw him off, but it didn’t. The grip of his gaze only got tighter.

“You’re making me uncomfortable,” I said.

“You’re not here to be comfortable.”

How many times had Deacon said that when the backs of my knees bordered my face? Or when I didn’t sit right at breakfast and he straightened me out?

“I hear you’re a hardass,” I said.

“As long as you contribute to your treatment, you’ll have nothing negative to say about me. If you shut down or fail to participate fully, I will take note.”

“That’s hardassy.”

He smiled, and his face curved from chin to forehead. Somehow, those two words had either delighted him or thwarted his expectations. I didn’t know how to respond to his smile except to fidget and suppress my own grin.

“It’s the world outside your bubble, Fiona. What you call hardass, other people call real.”

“Where are you from, Doctor?”

“Elliot.”

“Elliot. Tough Loveland? Toobad City? A mile outside Hardscrabble?”

“Menlo Park.”

“Oh, sweet. Tech geek?” I asked.

“My dad actually knows how a microchip works. It’s fascinating and utterly boring at the same time. I ran as fast as I could.”

“To Los Angeles.”

I could imagine him on the train in the middle of the night, running from a world where people found practical applications for calculus. He’d fail as a writer/actor/musician and put himself through school as a therapist, finding a hidden talent, yet always yearning to spend his nights with that one creative task that fulfilled him.

“Pasadena,” he said.

“What’s in Pasadena?”

“I went to school there. Let’s get back to you.”

He was evading. It had been all over his face since he mentioned the city where his school was. Would he lie? Were therapists allowed to do that? I didn’t know if making our session about him would hurt my chances of release, but I wanted him to know if I could hold a conversation, act sane, function.

“Okay. Back to me,” I said. “I’ve been to Pasadena. I was screwing a skate kid who ollied the six sets at Cal Arts. Did we meet then?”

“No.”

“Pepperdine?”

“No.”

“Four Twenty College?” I mentioned the name of the pot school, where one could learn how to deal marijuana legally, with a lilt in my voice.

He took a deep breath then, as if resigned, said, “Fuller.”

“Fuller? That’s a seminary.”

“That a problem for you?”

“Did my father pick you personally?”

Elliot laughed again, rubbing the arm of his chair. “No. At least, I don’t think so. But I’m aware that your family is, if not religious, Catholic in a way that’s in the blood. I have no idea where you stand on it.”

“I’m a C and E.” I knew he’d know the term for Christmas and Easter Catholics.

“Why bother?”

“It’s nice to touch base twice a year. Jump the hoops. You know, show face. So you’re a priest? Or did you just say no to celibacy?”

“I’m Episcopalian, first off, so celibacy isn’t on the table. And I just haven’t been ordained.”

“Why not?”

“This is really all going to be about me, isn’t it?” he said.

“If you tell me why you’re not ordained, I’ll tell you something dirty I did.”

I felt the weight of my mistake instantly.

He got dead serious. “I know that’s how you’re used to being valued, but that’s not what you’re here for.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It came out before I thought about it.”

“That’s allowed. There was some discussion with the board about whether or not you should have a male therapist, but from what we could understand, it wouldn’t matter.”

“So I got the hardass, unordained priest who knows I’m bisexual.”

“You got the guy with the MDiv and PsyD who spent three years in a hospital chaplaincy in Compton. After that, I go where I’ll do the most good, not where I get the most authority.”

“Ah. Compton. You must have seen some bad shit.”

“Very bad shit.”

“Then why are you at the rich kids’ retreat?”

“I can do good here as well as there.” He wasn’t thrown. Not an inch. I respected that.

“I need you to do some good for me,” I said, feeling suddenly less vulnerable. “I want to go home.”

“To Maundy Street?”

Trick question? Maybe. Deacon was on that private road. Second house to the right. First house on the right, his shibari students. Only house on the left was where the parties were. Where the art was made. Where I surrendered to whomever my master allowed, and my hunger was sated for days at a time.

“I figure I’ll stay with my parents for a few weeks, then decide. I mean, unless the prosecutor decides for me.”

“Will you try to see Deacon?”

“Why?”

“It could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“I don’t know if it’s safe for you.”

How much longer was this session? Because it would take me that long to describe how fucking off base he was. Despite needing to get the fuck out of Westonwood, despite wanting to appear sane and stable, I couldn’t for the life of me let Elliot Chapman misunderstand my lover.

“I’m more afraid of you than I am of Deacon,” I said. “I’m more afraid of this chair. The sky would fall before he’d hurt me more than I could take. He is the only man, the only person in the world who has made me safe. And I mean, not safe from some boogeyman or earthquakes or random shit happening. I mean I had a place. I had things I had to do. I had rules. He was in control, and the only time things got fucked up was when I disobeyed him because I just had to fly off the fucking handle. And before you ask, and you will, he tied me up good. He gagged me and hit me. He made me cry a hundred times, and he wiped my tears and I thanked him for breaking me. I. Thanked. Him.”

I expected my speech to disgust him, to give him cause to judge me, call me sick and out of control. Instead, he waited, expressionless.

“Do you want to remember what happened?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

“You might not be ready to remember.”

“I don’t feel right in my head. There are black spaces where feelings should be. Like someone came and erased stuff. I don’t know if it was the drugs or the Librium you people put me on or what. I can’t put stuff together. It’s like I have the horse and I can see the track, but she’s bucking, and the tack’s in pieces all over the barn. Does that make sense?”

He sat back, putting an ankle on a knee, elbows on the arms of the chair. He rubbed his lip with his middle finger. “Have you ever been hypnotized?”

“You’re joking.”

“Best case scenario, you recall enough to release some of the pain you’re in. Worst case scenario, you create a false memory that includes a unicorn and Jim Morrison in drag.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. That was the most ridiculous thing, and anything more ridiculous than what was actually happening deserved a laugh.

“Do I have to sit on the couch?” I indicated the long, uncomfortable divan behind me.

“Yes.”

I didn’t move.

“Come on,” he said, standing. “It’ll be fun.”

“Are you going to make me cluck like a chicken?”

“It’s just a relaxation technique. No more.”

I took three steps to cross the room and sat on the couch.

He stood over me. “Lie back.”

I looked up at him, a twisted smile on my face. I could fuck him. It should have occurred to me sooner. I was suddenly ready for sex, all tingling skin and hyper aware. I could sense his cock, its taste, its scent, its pink skin sliding against the silk of my thigh as it found its way home. It would feel so good, and if anyone needed to feel good, it was me.

“Lie back,” he said again with a voice so devoid of desire, my own need collapsed.

I put my feet up and my head back. He sat next to me on the edge of the couch.

“I want you to recall the last time you were at the stables, okay?” He held up a pen, and I watched the angles of his fingers on the instrument. He didn’t have a wedding ring. “Now focus on the tip of the pen.” He moved the pen back and forth, and I fell into the rhythm of his breathing. His voice, a velvet mask of gentleness, said, “I’m going to count backward from five.”

* * *

I feel a pressure on my hand. It’s Deacon, slipping his hand into mine. The gesture, in its adolescent simplicity, creates a rush of emotions I can’t hold back. I run out to the empty patio. There are candles everywhere from the cocktail hour, still flickering their last heated breaths. I’ve been without him for a week while he was on assignment, and now that he’s back, he’s a scary jar of emotion with a poorly threaded lid.

“Are you all right?” he asks, closing the glass door behind him.

“I’m fine, it’s just…” I’m not good at expressing myself unless I’m angry, and I’m not angry. I’m just about everything else.

He takes me by the waist with his right arm. He’s so tall, so handsome. His body moves like a leopard on the African plain. “Tell me.”

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

He smirks. He knows I’m not serious. He knows I’m broaching painful subjects by running away first.

“I’ll be more than happy to blindfold you.” He brushes his lips on my cheek. “But my eyes stay open. I want to see you beg for me later.”

“I miss you when you’re gone,” I say. “I can’t take it.”

“Ten years ago, I’d have been gone for six months at a stretch.”

When he says things like that, he reminds me of our age difference. Ten years ago, I was thirteen and he was almost thirty. I’ve never asked him what he sees in someone so young, because that would imply we have something more than a semi-casual open-hot-regular-fuck.

“Deacon, I’m sorry. I think now is a bad time, with everyone here.” I push him off me and turn away from the strip of twinkling lights that disappears into the black of the sea. “We can talk later.” I collect myself to pull him back to the glass doors.

I want to do a hundred crazy things. I want to grab a champagne bottle and down it. I want to stand on the railing and play at falling into the canyon. I want to get into my car and crash the gates. But he inspires me to be better than my impulses, and that’s why I need him.

He yanks me back. “We talk now.”

“You have guests.”

“They don’t need me. I can take you to the studio right now and knot you up and they’d be fine.” His face gets hard. He becomes the man who spent years photographing the horror of central Africa, who took pictures and walked away. The man kept behind a rock for three months while he was negotiated out. That man, like a real face behind a mask, or a mask on real face, I can’t disobey. “Talk,”

He doesn’t have to threaten me. There’s not a consequence in the world that would be stronger than his simple command. I don’t fear him. He makes me strong. He makes me dare.

“I’m not one of those girls who’s going to ask you where we are in a relationship,” I say. “Because I’m not stupid. What we have is exactly what I want. I have you when you’re here, which is most of the time. But if I want to fuck someone else, I just do it, no questions asked.”

“As long as you stay fit and safe, kitten.”

“My problem is, I’m starting to feel guilty about it.”

He nods and looks down at our clasped hands. “I see.”

“That’s not the deal. We agreed. It’s all clear, and it all works. But when you picked me up tonight…” I press my lips together and look out into the sparkling black skyline. “I wanted to run into your arms. I wanted to promise you my body and soul. Forsake all others. Beg you to make a commitment. And I wanted to run the other way and get high. Call Earl. Call Amanda. Fuck anything that walked. Fly to China to search for real opium.”

“I can get you that.”

“But you won’t.”

“Never.”

“Why are we even this far?”

He laughs a little to himself then puts his eyes back on my hand. “You…” He looks back up at me, eyes lit from one side by the light through the door and the other by the candles. “I’m not a jealous man. I’ve seen too much. And you, it was always a choice to share you or not have you.”

“I know and—”

He cuts me off with a finger to my lips. “You did something to me. I was functioning, but I was in absolute despair. And you bang on my car window.” He shakes his head. “You breathed life into me again. You gave me hope that everything on this waste of a planet isn’t shit. You gave me permission to enjoy myself for the sake of it. I needed it. I needed you for that, and now, things have changed. We’d be crazy to pretend it’s the same as it was two months ago even.”

I know what he’s asking. I want to sit, just to relieve the ache in my heart that’s traveled all over my body, but I’m afraid to move.

“You want to do this?” I ask.

“Do you?”

Did I? What reason would I have to take him up on a promise of fidelity? What was in it for me, except him? “I’ve never been faithful to anyone in my life. I’m not built for it.”

He laughs. “You’re built for a lot of things, kitten.”

“I want you, Deacon. I want you so bad.”

“I think we need this.”

“I won’t fail you,” I say, believing it from fingertips to core. I believe I can be exclusive to him.

“I know.”

He leans in to kiss me, his breath a draft of mint and the floral bloom of gin. I melt into his lips. My face scrunches, and the ache in my body slams back into my chest. I’m thrown by a bucking memory.

Fucking brain. Goddamn brain won’t let me kiss him. I’m on my bed in my stupid condo, weeping uncontrollably, and my sheets stink to heaven of fucking.

Fiona. I’m not going to wake you. I’m going to count to three. On three, think of your happiest moment.

I claw at the sheets until they rip.

One.

He is not the indestructible Dom. He’s just a man. I want to destroy the sheets, the bed, the room. In the middle of my self-loathing, a weight between my legs grows, a siren call to forgetfulness and obliteration. I throw a leg over the bed’s footboard and ride it.

Two.

I cry out, and that cry is drowned out by the breaking dam of my orgasm.

Three.

I’m on a small plane, on my back. Charlie fucks me, and Amanda’s face is right before me. Her tits brush my shoulder, her blond hair in my face. She smiles. She is beautiful. I open my mouth because I’m going to come. Charlie puts his lips on my cheek, grinding his sweet cock. Amanda’s eyelids drop when I put my wet fingers on her clit. I’m high, on some delicious drug that lets me feel the connection between us three, our surrender, the tightening and expanding space between us, the puzzle pieces of cocks and cunts and asses, how we all fit together like one big universe forever and ever, amen.

* * *

I breathed as if my lungs had been vacuum-packed into my rib cage. Elliot moved to face me as I gulped air.

“I’ve never seen anyone have such an intense experience,” he said.

“That’s me. Intense experience girl.” I grabbed his hand because I still felt as though I was falling.

He brought his other hand over mine. “You still don’t remember.”

“No. I’m tired.”

His green-grey eyes looked at me as if they were peeling me open. “What are you feeling?”

“Tiredness.”

“Don’t shut down.”

“I’m tired, and I want to…” I took a deep breath.

“You want to use.”

“Yes. But I got it. It’s not a problem.”

“You’re so sure? You haven’t promised yourself this before? That you would stop using drugs or having sex to keep from feeling?”

“Don’t push me. Please.”

“It’s my job to push you.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. I shut him out. He may have said something. I felt his presence in the room, his breath, his existence, his virility, and I closed myself to it completely.

seven.

I didn’t sleep in the dark.

I didn’t really sleep, period.

I wasn’t a woe is me kind of girl, because it wasn’t as though I actually had problems. I didn’t pretend I was ever going to live under a bridge. I didn’t pretend bad shit didn’t exist. I didn’t pretend I didn’t live in some wider world. I got it. I had a television. I had the internet. But what was I supposed to do? Devote my life to serving the poor? Take away all the suffering in the world?

But usually the minutes before sleep was when the woe-is-me cantered in, and if it was dark and I couldn’t see something to focus on, they got bad. I hated them.

Your best friend died. You’re in a mental ward. You nearly killed the only man who ever understood you. Half your life floated in a grey blur. Big fucking deal. Buck up. Fuck everyone. There was nothing they could do to me I wouldn’t do to myself first.

Assholes.

Fucktards.

Animals feeding at a trough of fucking bile.

I didn’t even know who I was cursing anymore, but fuck them.

I was fine. And when I got out, I was going to bathe in hundred-dollar bills and cocaine just to prove it.

I crossed my legs and blacked into an orgasm that was flat and rageful and over too soon. In the aftermath, I wept, because my best friend died, and I was in a mental ward, and I’d nearly killed the only man who cared for me.

Fuck me.

eight.

“Your parents are in the waiting room,” Elliot said when I entered.

“Should I go see them?”

“After the session.”

“Making my dad wait?” I said, lying on the couch. “You’re a brave man.”

He seemed unimpressed with himself. “I want you to start with something pleasant,” Elliot said, getting into the seat behind me.

I wanted to turn and look at him. Without seeing his face, the calm, dusty timbre of his voice was without flaw, and it soothed me, which made me anxious. I didn’t trust my soothed, unregulated self. “I can just tell you about stuff. We don’t have to do the hypnosis.”

“Do you not want to?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“You have to make your own decision about how this goes.”

I didn’t trust my ability to make a decision. That had been my problem from the get-go. I could have just said that, but I was starting to think he didn’t trust me any more than I trusted myself.

“Can you tell me why you like the hypnosis?” I asked.

“You have an anxiety disorder. We’re medicating it, but the hypnosis backs up the relaxation without making you tired. And there’s a time limit on how long you can be in here. I think we need to do whatever we can to move this along.”

“I like all that.”

“Okay, you can stop any time you want by saying a word.”

“Like what? Like a safeword?” I wondered if he could see me smile.

“Sure. A safeword.”

“Pinkerton.”

“Pinkerton? The assassins of the old west?”

“The assassin of the 405.” I didn’t elaborate, because despite the slurry of medicine in my blood, I was going to cry.

“Okay,” he said after I sniffled audibly. “I’m counting back from five, and start with something pleasant.”

* * *

I’m horny.

The feeling hits like a freight train between my legs, before a scene or setting even comes into my mind. The swelling rush of blood to my clit begs for release. And then, the preoccupation. I have to get it. I don’t care where it comes from. I need arms and legs all over me. I need to smell sweat, cunt, and sticky sperm.

This is the last thing you remember? Can you take me back a minute or two? What happened before?

Elliot’s voice, in its pure perfection, doesn’t break the reverie, but the realization that I was speaking aloud about the bite of my arousal certainly does. I tell him no. I’m not going backward, because the smell of wet cock and the subtle sting of cocaine fills my face. At this point, I have no idea what I’m narrating and what I’m keeping to myself, and I have no feelings about it either way.

I’m sitting on a toilet in a tiny club bathroom stall. Everything is marble and glass, but a bathroom stall is a bathroom stall. I hear the thump thump of music. The Pompeii Room. I look up. Earl. He’s all right. Six-foot-four of pure stupid. Easy pickings. His dick is dusted with a fine powder.

“More,” I say.

“Greedy bitch.” He smiles and holds a baggie of coke over his erection. He taps a line onto it while I hold it level.

“I’m worth it,” I say before I snort the line off his cock. Ah, that’s just right, just that rush. The feeling of unmotivated pleasure exploding heart-to-brain-to-toes. I’m totally in control of everything in my line of sight, especially this fucker. “I’m going to suck your cock so hard your daddy’s gonna come.”

“Touch your pussy, baby,” he growls.

But I don’t. I won’t ever touch myself, and this dumbass never remembers. I swallow his dick before he can ask again.

“Oh, fuck, baby—”

The music suddenly gets louder as the bathroom door opens, smacking Earl in the ass.

“Excuse me,” the man in the dark suit says. He’s halfway to closing the door.

“No problem,” Earl says.

I look at the intruder in that fucking suit. He’s really not a problem. He’s more than good. More than tall. More than perfect. Dark hair and blue eyes. Rugged like a dock worker and refined like a prince. I have to stop him from leaving.

“Loosen that tie and get your cock out,” I say. “I’m enough woman for two.”

He smirks. “Sorry. I’m too much man for half a woman.”

The door shuts, and the music goes back to a dulled thump thump.

“Snap,” Earl says, aiming his dick at my lips again. “That was cold.”

I have two choices: finish sucking off Earl and let him get me off, or not.

“Suck it yourself,” I say, standing.

He grabs me by the neck. “Hey.”

I look him in the eye. “Don’t fuck with me, Earl. I say what goes and when. Jerk it off and make more.” I leave before he can object, pulling my shirt together as I pass a short guy washing his hands.

The club is thick with humanity. The dance floor stinks. The voices are like a bag of broken glass. The music is a throbbing heartbeat. And the man is gone.

I put my hands on bare, sweaty skin, pushing through. Amanda finds me, blond hair stuck to her forehead, lipstick fading. Her bodyguard, Joel, is two steps behind her with his dark glasses and firearm. She kisses me on the lips. I push her away.

“You see a guy in a suit? Tall? Hair like this?” I make a motion with my fingers.

“Hot?”

“Hot.”

She points at the exit with a wink. I smack a kiss on her lips and continue pushing through. She calls my name as I walk away, but I pretend I don’t hear her. I have a man to find.

Nothing like coke to make the impossible seem within reach, or to make it within your rights to shove, growl, and curse through a crowd just to get a look at some hot stranger. Nothing like that expansion of the ego to make it okay to push some squealing teenybopper out of your way when she screams “Fiona Drazen! You’re Fiona Drazen!” as if your name alone is front page fucking news.

Of course, they wait outside in a cluster, pressing against the red velvet ropes. Paparazzi don’t care about the weather, which is rainy and cold for Los Angeles. Lights flash. They call my name as if I even answer to it anymore. Let them get their pictures. I have him in my sights.

He hands the valet a tip and takes the keys to a black Range Rover.

He is a thoroughbred, and twenty assholes with cameras are between him and me, which is too bad, because I have to have him.

I put my knuckles out to them, both middle fingers extended for all they’re worth. I have rings on top of rings, and I know the lights will glint on them in the pictures. I’m going to look like a flashy rich bitch, and the coke tells me I don’t give a fucking shit what Daddy thinks.

I turn to the doorman, a skinny ex-cop with a pencil moustache. He looks at my chest then at my face. I know Irv. He’s a hustler. He keeps these assholes off us, but he takes their cash to let them know when Amanda and I show up.

“Irv! What the fuck?”

“I got it,” he says.

“Outta my way, cocksuckers!” I plow through them with Irv’s help.

They back off for him in a way they’d never do for me. I know they’d chew me up, spit me out, and photograph me crawling to the hospital. I get to the Range Rover and pound on the passenger-side window. It’s tinted. The car doesn’t move, and the window stays up. Do I have the right one?

“Fiona Drazen!”

They’re behind me, and I’m on the curb, out of Irv’s field of influence. If he comes to get me, he’s leaving the door, and that’s not cool. I pound on the window again. Bursts of light flash on it.

I’m about to get mobbed.

“Hey, asshole,” I shout.

The window rolls down so slowly, I feel as if I’m in a movie about falling.

And there he is. My heart jumps out of my chest.

“Hi,” I say, sticking my head in. I feel them behind me. I hear them calling my name, over and over. “You took something of mine outta the bathroom.”

“Really?” He’s older than I thought, and that makes him more attractive then humanly possible. “What?”

Fiona.

“My heart.” It’s a stupid come on, but I’m a girl. I can get away with it.

I’m going to count backward from three. At one, you’ll open your eyes feeling rested and relaxed.

“Ah. I thought maybe your shirt buttons.”

For the first time, he glances at my chest, and I feel that my breasts are chilled. My shirt is wide open, diamond-studded nipple rings glistening. Fucking Earl with his octopus hands.

Three.

“Don’t make me turn around,” I say. “They already got enough pictures.”

Two.

He takes a second to think about it, looking me straight in the face. A little smirk plays on the perfect line of his lips, and I think I just might die.

One.

nine.

I was barely in the Westonwood waiting room before Mom hugged me fiercely, all defiance and no affection. It was amazing how much strength was in that tiny little bag of bones.

“It’s fine, Ma.” I looked over her shoulder at Dad, his Drazen-trademark red hair just beginning to turn grey.

His hands were in his pockets and his shoulder was against the wall. I rolled my eyes at him, but he just turned to look out the window. He always tried so hard, and I always failed him.

Everything in the room was designed to avoid upsetting the patients and their families. Round table in pale blue Formica with matching water pitcher and three plastic glasses. White molded plastic chairs with chrome legs. The windows were barred in the same decorative pattern overlooking the expanse of the Topanga Canyon, which was covered in grey, misty rain. The seasonal decorations were non-denominational. The best seat in the house, for the benefit of the people writing the checks.

Mom squeezed me, and I felt something hard and breakable between us. She pulled back and handed me a wrapped gift. Dancing snowmen. Gold ribbon.

“I had it in case you came to the house.”

I popped the tape and unfolded the paper, revealing a framed photo. “Snowcone.” I pulled it from the wrapping completely. I stood in my riding gear, all of fifteen, next to my beautiful grey stallion. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Lindy says you haven’t been to the stables in a long time, at least not before the other day.”

I hadn’t ridden Snowcone in how long? Was it measured in years already? The last time I’d gone to the stables, I’d gone with two guys I’d promised to fuck on a hay bale. I was so high, Lindy kicked me out. Told me I wasn’t worthy of the labor animals. I cursed her, knowing she was right.

“We’re going to get you cleared of all this,” Mom whispered. She looked me in the eye, squeezing my shoulders. “Ten years ago, we could have made it go away. But the internet—” She shook her head. “You’re a good girl. Your father and I know you didn’t do this.”

Daddy didn’t look so sure.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”

“We’re going to get everyone on this. This man? This Deacon Bruce? We’ll get so much dirt on him, pressing charges would ruin him.”

“Eileen,” Dad said, “it’s not like pushing a button.”

She turned to Dad, giving him the fire-eye. The power struggle between my parents had always been epic. One day, one of them would die in a pile of crushed bone shards and twisted skin.

“What’s it like then?” snarled Mom.

“Quentin’s dealing with the other matter right now—”

“He can do both.”

“No.”

A staring contest ensued. I didn’t know if they were going to kiss or scratch each other’s eyes out.

“Guys?” I said, but I had no effect on their stare. “I’m going to get out in a few days. Can we—”

Without breaking their staring contest, Dad said, “Don’t bet on getting out.”

“But—”

“She’s getting out, Declan,” Mom said. “I’m calling Franco. And if it all goes wrong, you can look in the mirror for who’s to blame.”

“You won’t. She doesn’t need the kind of help you’re offering.”

I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I knew that if Mom wanted to call Franco, whoever that was, she was calling Franco. My part in the conversation was pretty much over. “Thanks, guys. Nice visit. Merry fucking Christmas.”

I turned on my soft, suede heel and strode out. Halfway down the hall, Dad caught up to me.

“Thanks for defending me,” I said. “I think.”

“Hold up.” He stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

The security guard stood from his station. My father looked at the two-hundred-pound refrigerator of a man, who carried a gun, and with just a look, made him sit the fuck back down.

Dad turned his blue eyes to me. “This pleases you? What you’re doing?”

“I’m not here to shame you.”

“The effect is the same, but I know that was never much of a concern for you.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

He held his hand up before I could finish. “Your life is out of control. You’ve wrecked more cars than I’ve bought. You’ve used your body shamelessly. I can only imagine what your blood is actually made of. And you’ve never faced a single consequence. You have a classic case of affluenza.”

I crossed my arms. I didn’t know if he was making a joke or not. “You’re saying I’m a bad person.”

“You’re dissolute, and you don’t care.”

“And you do?” I stiffened, and my extremities tingled. You didn’t challenge Daddy. You just didn’t. If I never faced any consequences in the outside world, inside his fiefdom, I certainly did. Yet there I was, feeling safe enough to do just that.

“I do. This family, Fiona, this ten-person unit, is all that matters. How we’re perceived is important. How we act is important. And if you don’t get control of yourself, I’m taking control.”

That was close, too close. I heard his words in Deacon’s voice, and I squirmed.

He continued, poking at my core insecurity. “Whether or not you ever leave here can very easily be up to me.”

“I’m of age,” I whispered, but I knew I had no way of enforcing my emancipation.

“Indeed you are. Something to think about. The dew is off the petal, and you’ve gone from wild child to aged curiosity. There are younger and wilder taking your place as we speak.”

Maybe my medication was wearing off or maybe I was raw from recalling my first meeting with Deacon, but something about him calling me old and washed up frightened me. Something about the look on his face, as if he’d stepped in a hot mess on the sidewalk. I respected my father, respected his opinions and beliefs even if I didn’t follow them. I had consistently thwarted his will, and he’d consistently bailed me out because I had such respect for him. What would happen if that respect went away? Would he stop protecting me?

“What about you?” I shouted, though he never flinched. “What about what you did? You shamed this family with Mom.”

“I married her. No one’s marrying you.” He didn’t bat a fucking eyelash.

The only reason I didn’t lunge for him was he was telling me the truth.

Instead, I walked toward the hall. Like a cat, he moved so quickly and silently, I was surprised when I felt a yank at the back of my collar. The security guard did exactly nothing when Daddy took my jaw in his hands.

He whispered in my ear, “When are we going to stop playing at this same drama, Fiona? It’s tiresome. And I don’t like disruption.”

There was only one answer.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“We understand each other then?”

“Yes.”

“You will get control of your life?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because if you don’t, I will. And you will not like it.”

* * *

I couldn’t bear the common room, the patio, the garden. Couldn’t stand a conversation. My parents confused me. I always left their company wondering what the fuck had just happened. So I took my meds as prescribed and went to lie down.

You’re controlled by your cunt. Who controls your cunt, controls you.

The ceiling of my grey and white little room was a dull shade of neutral. The shade was drawn over the open window, and when the breeze came, it slapped against the sill as if angry.

I control my cunt.

Deacon in his suit, smiling that godawful devil of a smile, looked at my face even though I was naked and tied to hooks in the wall. He didn’t believe me. He was right. In the battle for control of my life, my cunt won every time.

I’ll control it, kitten. And you’re welcome. He put the riding crop to my lips, and I kissed it. It’s three days. You’ll be good, or this is what you’re getting.

I put my eyes all over his handsome face, which I wasn’t supposed to do. I was supposed to look at the floor as a symbol of my submission. He drew the crop back and whacked the side of my face with it. The sting felt wet and deep.

That’s to keep you in the house. He said it without cruelty or emotion, then backhanded the crop over my breasts. That’s for looking me in the eye.

The next ten came down in a rain of blows over my belly, my hips, the tops of my thighs. Then, with an underhanded swat, he slapped my clit with the leather. I ground my teeth. I wasn’t supposed to scream.

That’s three days of control I expect.

I remembered the welts when he touched them, the way they burned as he unhooked me and threw me on the bed, lashing me face down to the bedposts so that the mattress rubbed them when he fucked me. I remembered the orgasm spilling out of me, and the welts bleeding over the next three days, reminding me of how hard I’d come that day. And how without him, I had no control over my cunt.

You can touch yourself if you want, but that’s it.

He smirked like Satan. I didn’t even address the joke of it, I was so aroused. I didn’t touch myself for pleasure, even when he tormented me by giving me that as my only option.

Thinking of him in my Westonwood bed, my clit felt like a hot, throbbing marble. I crossed my legs under the covers, listening to the rain in the palm trees outside. I played the memory over again and again. The pain all over my body, the sweat in the wounds as I danced at Dabney’s with who-even-knows. Earl’s fingers digging in them as he fucked me from behind. I took his friend Tammy’s pussy in my mouth, the sting of flake hot on my tongue. I knew he’d punish me when he got back.

When Master Deacon came home three days later, the beating had been relentless, and joyful in its way. He’d tugged and twisted on my nipple rings until I came, then made me come again and again. It was the beginning, and a game. Our hearts hadn’t dropped out of us yet.

Yet.

I pressed my thighs together, rotating my hips slightly. It would take forever to come, but I wasn’t going anywhere. My lips parted, and heat washed over my hips, my heart beat between my legs, and I felt that relief, that joy, that release.

ten.

Lunch.

I felt as though I was being fattened for the Easter feast. It was Asian today. Dumpling soup, fried rice, Korean beef, some lightly sautéed green leafy vegetable with a name I couldn’t recall.

“It’s low-sodium soy sauce,” said Karen from the seat across from me. She’d had her face buried in her journal while her soup got cold. “I guess they figure you’re on so many meds the sodium might spike your pressure?” She dumped a stream of soy sauce on her fried rice. Her hair was twisted up in a quick knot, and her swan-length neck had a fresh hickey blossoming on its base.

“You wanna cover up the suck stain?” I touched my neck.

She looked shocked then tried to look at her own neck, as if that was possible.

“There’s a mirror right over there,” I suggested.

“No, I got it.” She took her hair down.

Seeing her hair against her face and her forearms up, I realized how thin she was. Jesus, I must have been stoned on scrips yesterday. She fiddled with her fork and glanced at Mark, the orderly who moonlit as a nose-ring-wearing punk. I noticed from that he had a tattoo creeping onto his neck from under his collar. He looked at her and spun his finger as if telling her to get to it. She picked up her fork. I knew from the way she handled it that no food was landing in her mouth. I’d seen that particular twirl before.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make Amanda’s funeral,” she said. “There was so much going on. My sister was there. Tanya. She went. Said it rained. Like a movie.” She rolled her eyes.

“It’s all right. Nothing really happened. You know. Closed casket from the accident. She didn’t zombie.” I raised my arm and curled it at the wrist, making an ugly zombie face, because what better way to pretend I didn’t give a shit?

“I heard about the party after,” Karen said.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Wow. Days. It was the best sendoff I could have given her.” I felt bad scooping food into my face in front of someone who was obviously anorexic, but I was hungry. “We had a line of limos up the hill. Man, there was so much flake.”

I stopped chewing and pushed my tray away. The flake had been the problem. At that point, Deacon didn’t care that I’d had multiple partners. He cared that he didn’t know them. He cared that there had been drugs on Maundy Street, where he wanted things quiet and unimpeachable, and he cared that I’d taken them. He wouldn’t knot me until it was out of my system and then some. That week had been torture. Amanda’s death had weighed on me fully, and Deacon withheld every coping mechanism I had.

“I spent a week in the corner drooling after that,” I said as if it was a joke.

But it hadn’t been. I’d felt like the bottom was going to fall out of me until Deacon picked me up and knotted me from the ceiling. Things had changed after Amanda died. It was as if we needed each other, he and I. As if it pained him to see me take such poor care of myself. It wasn’t too long after that we decided to own each other.

“Hey,” Warren said, sitting across from me. “Rain just stopped. Creek’s flooding up to the bench.”

“There’s a creek?”

Warren and Karen glanced at each other.

She pushed her tray forward and shot a look at Mark before standing. “Let’s give Fiona a tour. Our tour.”

Warren looked me up and down, as if seeing my body through the light blue cotton uniform. “Can I trust you?”

“You can take your tour and stick it.”

“You want this tour,” Karen said. “It’s worth it. Almost as good as freedom.”

“I don’t need to prove I’m trustworthy. I ate you out in Ojai, and you”—I turned to Warren—“licked flake off my tits. That was my coke, and you never gave me shit in return but numb nipples.”

“Point taken,” Warren said as he guided me out the door.

The outside had been designed, manicured, and planted to the teeth. The verdant garden was dotted with wood benches—places to reflect on your mental sickness, eat yourself with regret, and chew on your shortcomings. Jack crouched over a bed of wildflowers, rubbing the yellow petals.

“Hey, Jack,” Warren said as he slapped the not totally unfuckable nerd so hard on the ass he nearly fell over.

“Ow!”

“Not cool, Warren,” I said, helping Jack up. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” He glared at Warren.

I brushed Jack’s shoulders even though there was nothing there.

“Sorry, man.” Warren made a fist as if to punch Jack in the arm.

Jack flinched. I liked Warren less and less with each passing second.

“We’re checking out the holes. You coming?” Warren asked.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Can we go?” Karen asked, walking backward toward the gardens. “I have a session in fifteen minutes.” She indicated the clock on the highest part of the common building.

Our personal effects had been taken, including watches. The clocks dotting the facility were the only way we had to keep time.

“Me too,” I said.

Warren jogged ahead of us and spread his arms. He looked handsome in the deep foliage, like a Greek god of abundance. “There are cameras everywhere.” He pointed upward.

I didn’t look directly, but with a sidelong glance, I saw the shiny glass at the crook of a tree branch.

“But there are some corners they don’t get to. Holes in their vision matrix.” Even in his silly mental ward uniform, Warren carried himself as if he was entitled to the known universe. He stood with his back to an old oak. “Like here. Hole. Right here. They might find you if they’re walking around, but the cameras can’t see shit until they prune this shit back. Follow me.” Like the docent of sneaky spaces, he pointed out three more places where a patient couldn’t be seen by the cameras.

“But they know where the holes are, too,” Karen interjected. “If they see you go out of range, and don’t see you come out, they come and check.”

“If they’re paying attention,” Warren said. “Which is a crap shoot. Let’s go to the creek.”

We walked down a winding path. I heard cars speeding somewhere past a hedge, but it didn’t sound like a major road. The sound of moving water added to the white noise, and past a line of trees, we came to a swelling creek. A chain-link fence separated us from it.

“Is that PCH?” I asked, referring to the water. I followed them along the fence to a hole cut into it.

“Not even close.” Warren pulled the cut fence open. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

We crept through. Karen put her journal on a fallen tree trunk and kicked off her shoes. She rolled up her pants.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Warren said as Karen stepped into the water. “I’m sitting this out.”

“Why?” I followed Karen’s lead, rolling up my pants.

“The thing with my kid brother.”

“What thing?” I put my toe in. The water was ice cold, even in the sun, and the bed was made up of small, rounded rocks.

“I waterboarded him.” He said it as if he’d helped the kid color or taught him how to play a video game. “They catch me in water, and my dad’s gonna kill me.”

“If it’s morning, they can’t see much once you’re in the water. The lenses get condensation on them, and the cameras get wet. If it’s just rained, the leaves are heavy and block the cameras.” Karen held her hands out and put her face to the sky. “I love the holes.”

“If you’re ever looking for Karen,” Warren called from the edge, “check the holes.”

There was something freeing about not being seen by the hospital staff, but with Warren’s eyes on me, I didn’t feel safe.

“What are you looking at?” I said.

“You got Chapman?”

“Yeah.”

Warren craned his neck to see the clock at the top of the common building. “Next set of sessions starts in five.”

Fuck. I hopped out of the water and got my cold feet back into my shoes.

“You know how to get back?” Karen shouted, but I was already past the chain link.

eleven.

Doctor Chapman looked tired as he closed the blinds against the sun.

“Why did you stop me last time?” My feet ached from the cold water, and I was trying to hide that I was winded from the run over. “There was a good part coming up.”

“The session was over.” He glanced out the window and back at me so quickly, I might have missed it if the Adderall hadn’t made me hyper vigilant.

“Really?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because we had five minutes of small talk after that. So, you know, I kind of left thinking about what happened after. In Deacon’s car.”

“You can tell me.” He rubbed his upper lip again.

I saw his watch peek past his cuff, hanging on his wrist. He had nice wrists, angled and wide. Masculine. I narrowed my eyes, willing his cuff back so I could see more.

“I don’t want to tell you now. Your loss,” I said.

“Your parents came to visit last night. How did that go?”

I shrugged.

“Your father’s an interesting guy.”

“How so?”

“He married your mother quite young.”

I sat ramrod straight, and I felt my hand want to go up, as if fending him off. That was sacred territory. He could psychoanalyze me all he wanted, but my family was off limits. “They’re still married eight children later. I don’t see the problem.”

He said nothing. As much as I wanted to scrape his pretty little face off for it, I wanted to prove myself even more.

“You going to hypnotize me again?” I asked.

“If you found it helpful last time.”

“You ever going to take a stand on something you want, Doctor?”

He stood. “Not in this room, no. In this room, you’re the boss.”

Well, if that was how it was going to be, I would take it. I could be the boss of this tiny, half-lit room. I threw myself on the couch. Elliot followed and sat behind me. I heard the rustle of him crossing his legs.

“Counting backward from five,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Five.”

* * *

His car is huge, and he smells like peppermint. He doesn’t say anything, and my chest winds up with tension. Is this a mistake? He doesn’t look like a serial killer, but maybe he’s not interested in me. Earl is a good enough fuck in a pinch; that would be better than nothing.

“Got a name?” I ask, trying to get my shirt buttoned.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Fiona.”

“I figured that out.” He turns his head a little. “I’m Deacon.” His eyes drift down to my exposed tits then back to the road.

“Should I bother buttoning up?”

“Yes.”

I shake as I finger the buttons. That wasn’t the answer I expected, and I’m suddenly ashamed. But when he flattens his hand on the wheel and turns it with pressure on the heel, my nipples harden through the white shirt, and the rings piercing them stretch the fabric.

“So,” I say, “where we going?”

“Away from a crowd of paparazzi.” He stops at a light and turns toward me. “How do you live like that? All these people around all the time?”

I shrug. “At first, I got upset when they misunderstood something or printed me kissing a Brent Ogilve when I was dating Gerald. That sucked. But then, Gerald was kind of a dick, so they did me a favor.”

I don’t want to talk about paparazzi. I want this guy. I put my hand on his thigh and slide it between his legs. He’s all muscle. He puts his hand on mine and moves it back to my lap.

“Are you gay?” I ask.

“No.”

“Look, if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. Just drop me off.”

“Take it easy,” he says, squeezing my hand before he lets it go.

But I’m uncomfortable, unhappy. The car feels too small, and this man expands like a balloon, as if his psychic space crowds me. Suddenly, I don’t want to have sex at all. Not with him, not with anyone. I just want to feel like I have everything under control again.

I open the door enough for the hood light to go on. We’re not going fast, and I know he’ll slow down. But he doesn’t. He stretches over me and pulls the seat belt across my body. His peppermint smell is layered with sandalwood, and I want to fall inside it at the same time as I want out of this fucking car.

Snap. He clicks the belt. “You’re in the arts district. It’s late, and everyone’s drunk. There’s no need to take unnecessary risks.”

I’m pissed. Really pissed. Because he’s right.

I look at him as he drives a few blocks. I hate him, and I’m attracted to him, and in my rage, I want to fuck again. I feel the swell between my legs as I remember shit I’m trying to forget—that windshield kiss, and me in the passenger seat inches from a dead girl’s pussy, and it smells like sex.

I’m not thinking about that.

I am not thinking about that.

Fiona, do you want to stop? You’re crying.

I say something. Something about Pinkerton never failing when Amanda drove. And no, I don’t want to fucking stop. I want to remember Deacon with this level of clarity and beauty. Something about the way he smells and the texture of his jacket in the lamplight. Something about his hands. The way they’re completely still when he isn’t using them. I’d forgotten that.

I feel Elliot’s fingers on my wrist and hear the soft curtain of his voice.

All right. You’re mixing things up. Amanda Westin died after you met Deacon. You don’t have to think about the accident if you don’t want to. You’re in control.

Deacon turns right then right again onto a cobblestone loading dock. We’re in an unlit alley downtown. He turns on the dome light.

“So,” I say, “what do you want? You going to tie me up and kill me?”

He laughs, and my anger melts off me.

“I’m assuming that wasn’t your boyfriend.”

I shrug. “Just a Thursday night.”

I undo the seatbelt to see if he’ll let me. He makes no move to restrain me again. I turn around and kneel on the warm leather, the small of my back to the dashboard, to get a good look at this guy. Older. Late thirties, early forties maybe. Little beard happening. Strong chin. Dark hair. Eyes blue and lit from within.

I know he can see my tits through my shirt. I go braless pretty often because I’m small, somewhere between an A and a B. I call it A plus. My light pink nipples are standing on end from him looking at me.

“You like what you see?” I ask.

“Yes, quite a bit. Do you always walk around half naked?”

“Only when I chase gorgeous men out of bathrooms.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Impulse and instinct. It’s how I do everything.”

“You’re very beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks, hon. You don’t need to flatter me to get under my skirt.”

“I’m still trying to decide if it would be worthwhile.”

“Oh, I promise…” I reach out to touch him, but he grabs my wrist.

“Put them behind you, on the dash.”

Oh. A bossy one.

“You came into the bathroom,” I say. “Do you still have to pee?”

“I’m good.”

“Uh, huh. I don’t know what you’re into, but I’ve done that.”

“You let someone piss on you?”

“It was a give and take.”

“And how was it?”

I shrug without moving my hands off the leather dash. “Scratched it off my bucket list.”

He takes half a pause before he laughs so hard and deep I can see his chest moving. I can’t help but smile. Pleasing him does something for me.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Old enough.”

He’s perturbed by that answer, and he snaps up my bag.

“Hey!”

“Hands on the dash,” he says while looking in my bag.

He flips past my packet of birth control pills and extracts my wallet. I’m nervous, like Sister Elizabeth is standing over me with a napkin and I have a wad of gum in my mouth.

“This your kink?” I say. “Looking in a girl’s bag?”

He flips my wallet open. “You seem quite willing to let me use your body, but you don’t want me to look in your bag. I don’t know if the boundary differences are cultural or generational, but the fact is, I want to keep myself out of jail if you don’t mind.” He rifles through the wad of hundreds to the stack of cards. The Amex Black has a quarter inch of white dust on the edge. He presses his thumb to my driver’s license and pushes it out. “Twenty-two.”

“My birthday’s Groundhog Day.”

He tucks my license back and puts the wallet back in my bag. “What else is on that bucket list of yours?” He tosses the bag aside.

I bite my bottom lip. “Getting nailed in an alley downtown.”

“A real one.”

I would have gotten bored with this shit already, but I want to impress him. I want him to like me. “Ride dressage in the Olympics.”

“Dressage? I would have taken you for a dancer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It wasn’t meant as an insult. You have a gymnast’s body, but the discipline that takes would keep you out of club bathrooms. So I went to dancer. Dressage wouldn’t have occurred to me, even if I knew you rode.”

“I was the only rider at Stanford with an Arabian. And I ride him Prix St. George.” My answer is defensive, not sexy. He’s implied that I’m an out-of-control little girl with a flat chest and muscular legs. Normally a man’s little insults are met with backhanded returns ending in ammunition for dirty hatefuck talk. But I want this man to respect me.

“Calm, forward, straight,” he says, putting his thumb to my cheek. “And submission to the bit.”

“You’ve ridden?”

“I spent a few years overseas with a certain crowd.”

I turn my head and take his thumb between my lips, letting it slip past my teeth and over my tongue. He smiles when I suck it on the way out.

“I’m going to be honest,” he says.

“Uh-huh.” I take his thumb again.

“I’m not looking for a sex partner.”

“Then what were you doing at Pompeii?” I take his middle and ring finger down my throat, all the way, and watch his face change. He may have just wanted to help a celebutante in distress, but his ideas of what to do with her are expanding by the second. I see it in his willing, wet fingers and the dilation of his pupils.

“Meeting the owner. We’re scheduling an event,” he says.

“What kind of event?”

“Something you might enjoy.”

And my brain, in its super-relaxed state, fell into his smiling blue eyes. At that event in the house on Maundy Street, I would be on my knees with an expert tongue in my asshole, a vibrating object in my cunt, and my mouth on a cock. So happy, content, satisfied, that when the orgasms came, I felt as if I’d transcended my own skin.

* * *

I woke with my back arched, out of breath, with Elliot pressed two fingers to the inside of my wrist.

“I’m sorry,” I said, panting.

“Don’t be.” He stared at his watch another second then put my hand down. “You’re taching at one-fourteen.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re going to have to work harder than that to make me uncomfortable.” His smile was so relaxed, I believed him.

I wanted to work hard enough to make him uncomfortable, just to see what he looked like. “I’ll remember that.”

“Just lie back and relax.”

We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I breathed slowly, trying to slow my racing heart.

“Was that your first encounter with Deacon?”

“Yes.”

“When did you see him again?”

“He invited me to that party through Paolo, the owner of the club. I wasn’t going to go, but Charlie heard it was at Maundy Street and went nuts. I figured I’d see Deacon again. Which I didn’t.”

“No?”

“He’s known for not showing to his own parties. But he found me, like, a week later at Lucien’s. Bought the whole table dinner from across the room then tried to slip out.”

“What did you do?”

I huffed a sarcastic little laugh. “Chased his ass. He was waiting for me in the parking lot, like he knew I’d come after him. And he wouldn’t let me touch him. Even back at his place. He said touching him was a privilege that was earned. I didn’t understand. I thought he was just being a dick.”

“Many dominants don’t like to be touched. At least not before there’s trust.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that. How do you know?”

“I’m treating you. I’ve stayed up late doing a lot of research.”

“‘Research,’ huh? With a box of tissues by the computer, I bet.”

He didn’t answer.

“Sorry,” I said.

“When did he let you touch him?”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking, if I stabbed him, he must have been tied down or something. But how? He’d been tied down in Congo, so he’s not turned on getting tied up. He’s anti-aroused. So maybe I ran up and jabbed him?” I shook my head slowly. “The last thing I remember is a jumble of shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Pills and sex. And some rope work. I think I was suspended for part of whatever it was. Which means Deacon was there, and I was the one tied up.”

“No one else ever tied you?” Elliot asked.

“I got tied up plenty, before we were exclusive, but the real rope work, the art, the shibari? That was all Deacon. He wouldn’t let anyone else do it. And that was from the beginning.”

“So in a way, you were exclusive from day one.”

“In a way.” I hadn’t thought of it that way, and I swelled with a childish pride. “Even Martin and Debbie weren’t allowed.”

“Who are they?”

“They live in number two. They’re his top trainees. Debbie’s great. She only ties men. She does beautiful things, and she’s really methodical, even for how young she is. Martin’s talented, but Deacon says he’ll never really get it.” I shrugged. “Even if I was so stoned I’d let them knot me, well, Debbie wouldn’t have disobeyed, and Martin was in New York. So I don’t know.”

Elliot shifted a pen on his desk as if it was a lever he needed to flip, then he shifted in his seat. Why was his every movement so interesting to me? Why did I watch him? It could have been because he had so much power over me, or it could have been because he expressed himself with his motions, as if a shade of what he was about to say existed in his body before it came alive verbally.

“I think we’re going to find out soon,” he said. “Mister Bruce has been found well enough to be interviewed. So if you have anything to tell me, the police, or your lawyer, you should do so.”

He was well enough to be interviewed. He was getting better. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Thank God.”

“You’re not afraid of what he’s going to say?”

“No.”

“He may implicate you.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“What are you worried about?” he asked.

“How long have you been working here?”

“That’s not relevant right now. Not as relevant as you changing the subject.”

“My point is, no matter what he says, we have lawyers. Our lawyers have lawyers. If Hitler needed to walk, Hitler would walk. What I’m worried about isn’t the law. Deacon is my law. He’s the only one I have to obey. I’m worried about what I did. How it affected him. Us.”

“You have a very strange sense of entitlement.”

“I’m told it’s affluenza.”

He smiled ruefully. “Session over. See you tomorrow.”

twelve.

I could have eaten in my room, but I wasn’t good at alone time, and I’d already had a bit too much of it. So when Jack sat next to me, I was relieved by the human contact. At the same time, I didn’t know what to do with it.

“Last day is tomorrow,” he said, breaking his artisanal bread and dunking it in his sweet whipped butter. “What’s your guess?”

“I think they’re going to let me out.”

“You’ll get picked up before you’re out the door.”

I shrugged. “They’ll set bail. I’ll go home, and then we’ll see.”

Split pea soup with hand-cut bits of ham. Grilled vegetables. Marinated tri-tip. All the meals had been like that, and by “like that,” I meant the very worst of what I’d ever had in my life, unless I was deliberately slumming or in a neighborhood south of the 10.

I pushed my tray away. “This food sucks.”

I wanted something, but it wasn’t on my tray. The roil of anxiety built in my chest. I had no relief for it, at least not in the pills they were feeding me. Not in the therapy or hypnosis. I had ways to manage myself, and they had all been taken away.

“They’re going to expect me to be sober when I get out, aren’t they?” I asked.

“Probably. But whatever. Just get someone else to drive, and they’ll never know the difference. No one gives a shit what you do as long as you’re not hurting some middle-class honor student. Then you’re up shit creek.”

The way he rubbed his bread around his bowl, as if he was just flipping off some commentary, should have told me he didn’t mean it personally. He wasn’t trying to jab at me. He wasn’t trying to twist my sore places. But he did, and I decided it was careless and cruel.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

He barely stopped eating. “Means we can get away with self-destruction until we hurt someone who doesn’t have anything. Then it’s off with our heads.” He drew his finger across his throat. “Seriously, I’m in here because I sold an ounce of sky gum to a teacher. The news was all about how much my dad made versus how much she made. And I’m like, seriously? I sold four grams to Rolf Wente, and I got crickets.” He stopped chewing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“People cared about Amanda.”

“No. You cared. The rest of them were slowing down to see the blood on the road.”

There had been plenty of it. Rich blood. Blue blood if you counted Charlie’s cut head. Amanda’s flowed with the webbed lines of windshield cracks as I sat in the passenger seat in a half daze. I thought she looked like a cartoon character sticking her head through a wall, and she’d just pull it out and make a goofy face. I put my hand on her ass and patted it, whispering, “Tight and sweet, baby. Tight and sweet. You’re going to be okay.”

“You’re not going to cry,” Jack said, incredulous. “You’re not allowed to have problems, sweet tits. Sorry.”

I didn’t know what was going on with Jack. Something must have been happening in his world, because he was ornery and defensive, but I didn’t care. The thought that no one had cared about Amanda dying, even though it had been in all the papers and her parents turned people away from the funeral, pulled at my heart. He was right. No one cared about her.

And how did you make people care? Amanda Westin died in a drunk-driving accident, and the driver walked away because his dad was a duke in some tiny European backwater, and the news vans came, and the flowers were imported from India, but how could I make them care? Tell them who she was? That she made me laugh when I was sad? That she loved her dogs? That she gave me the last of her flake when I needed it? Or that she stood by me the million times I bailed on her to get laid?

“She was a good person,” I said. “One of the best.”

“Sure.” He shrugged.

That little knot of anxiety grew into something bigger, something without boundaries. It was larger than me. Wider than the expanse of my chest, with an energy all its own.

It was that force inside me, but not me, that flung my tray. Flinging it felt good, because it made a little room inside me, a tiny corner without anxiety. I flung Jack’s tray. I swept my hand over the table and knocked over the condiments, and then I got up on the table. When I flung myself off it, the motherfuckers were already there to catch me. Bernie, good old Bernie, looked intent on not letting me fall, and Frances already had a needle.

thirteen.

I woke up strapped to the bed. Elliot sat by me, marking something on a chart.

“Oh, God,” I said, trying to put my hand over my eyes and failing.

Elliot got up and turned off the overhead, flicking on the soft table lamp over my photo of Snowcone. “Do you have any muscle pain or weakness?”

“What drugs did you give me? I can’t feel anything.”

“Do you promise not to get violent?”

“Fuck. You’re never going to let me out now. I’m stuck here. Why did I do that?” My face crunched up. I was going to cry right there in front of Elliot, every tear another nail in the coffin of my sanity. When he freed my right hand, I put it over my face.

“I’m not an MD, so I don’t dispense your meds, I only suggest. But it looks like you got a little too much slap and not enough tickle,” he said.

“What?”

He laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s late. My sense of humor shorts out when I’m tired.” He freed my left arm and went to the foot of the bed.

“Nice you have one that’s wired at all.”

He smiled as he unstrapped my feet. “I’ll contraindicate the Paxil.”

He got my ankles free, and I sat up. The world swam a little, and I gripped the edge of the bed. The room righted itself.

“Are you going to let me go?” I asked.

“I have another day of observation. You want to go?”

“Please.”

He sat next to me. “Deacon Bruce, by his own admission, fell on the hoof knife.”

“He what?”

“Fell on the thing twice, apparently.”

Any relaxation I’d gotten from the meds molted off me like a skin I’d never owned. “He’s protecting me.”

“The district attorney doesn’t believe him either. But in the end, it’ll be hard to make a case. You’re a lucky girl.” His green-grey eyes looked at me as if they were peeling me open. “You don’t look relieved.”

“I’m relieved.”

“Don’t start packing yet. Okay?”

“I don’t have much to pack. A picture, and I guess there were clothes? I mean, who knows with me, right?” I held my hand out for the picture, and like a father intuiting what his toddler wanted, Elliot gave it to me.

“You’re going to have to continue some sort of program once you’re out,” he said. “I know you guys have ways of getting around it, but for your own good, I hope this is the bottom for you.”

I barely heard him. I was looking at myself with my new horse. I’d gotten Snowcone as a surprise from Daddy, and my delight in my new black-and-white dressage gear was all over my face. Snowcone was pulling away from the odd, smiling creature at his feet.

“How old are you in that picture?” Elliot asked, sitting in the chair by the bed.

“I’d just turned fifteen. Mom didn’t want me to have him. She thought I was too irresponsible. I swore I was going to prove her wrong.”

“Did you?”

“I did, until recently. When Amanda died, I kind of left him to the stable. Fuck. He was mine; I trained him. He was so good. Perfect temperament, moving off my legs easily, finding the bit like a champ. And I just abandoned him as if he didn’t even matter. And I want people to care about me? Fuck, I am worthless.”

Elliot handed me a box of tissues, and I had to laugh through my tears.

“Fucking therapists,” I said.

“What?”

“Like the most important thing in the world is giving me a place to put my snot.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The most important thing is that, by doing that, I show you you’re not worthless.”

I blew my nose. I felt so bad, as if a rotting, twisting ball of blackness curled inside me was getting bigger by the minute. I knew how to push it back. I knew how to manage it, and watching Elliot’s fingers woven together between his knees, I started wondering how to get him into bed. When his hand touched my forearm, a blazing heat fell between us.

“You were out for the morning session. So our last one’s in an hour.”

He needed to stop touching me. He needed to back the fuck off. I had to swallow my reaction to him like a horse pill.

“Okay,” I said, not looking at him.

I knew his eyes would be warm and inviting, and his lips curved like a promise. He smelled of musk and desire. His fingers slid a quarter inch over my skin when he removed his hand. When he walked out, he took the air with him.

Oh God.

I was swelled.

I needed it.

If I went into Elliot’s office like this, I would do something stupid. I would lose control. Touch him. Get close to him. Show him my body. And that would be it. I’d be stuck in Westonwood, because despite the heat I felt in his touch, he was a professional. A therapeutic fuck wasn’t on the table. My brain might have been high on fuckjuice, but that didn’t make me stupid.

An hour. I had an hour to get unswelled. I was in a mixed-gender ward with sixty minutes to find willing, slightly sane cock. How hard could it be?

In two days, I’d gotten the hang of the schedule, more or less. I went into the rec room. It was off hours, meaning most of the residents had therapy or visits. Jack wasn’t in front of the TV cataloging flowers. Karen was outside, scribbling in her journal as if homework was due.

“Looking for something?”

I spun around. Frances stood behind me with her hands behind her.

“I was. Uh, Jack’s usually hanging around here?”

“You might check his room.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I stepped back.

“Miss Drazen,” Frances said.

“Yeah?”

“The doors stay open.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I scuttled off toward the hall that led to the rooms. After I made the first turn, I doubled back to the garden. The rain had disappeared for a full day, and rainy-ass Los Angeles was sunny-ass Los Angeles again. I looked for someone, anyone. I drifted over to the creek, thinking maybe Jack was picking up nettles or something. He wasn’t, but Warren Chilton was. His eyes cut through me from the other side of the fence.

“Hi,” I said. “Whatcha doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Jerking around.” I poked my head through the hole in the gate. “Want help?”

I came out on the other side just as Warren tossed a rock into the creek. It got lost in the rushing swells without even a splash.

“They kill you with boredom in this shithole,” he said.

“Got a cure for that,” I said, taking his hand.

I put it on my breast, which was usually a non-event, considering their size. But Warren, without missing a beat, grabbed the nipple and pinched.

“These were pierced,” he said.

“They took everything. You know that.”

He twisted. God, it felt good. I didn’t like the guy, but I liked how he was making me feel.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re going to have to stay here another ten years.”

“Get to it, preppy.”

He searched my face for a second, as if discerning whether or not I was looking to trap or double-cross him. I moved my hand to his cock, which was at least half hard. God, I hoped his meds didn’t make him unable to do it, because I had no time to work him. He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me against the fence.

“Wa…” I couldn’t finish the word, such was the pressure on my throat.

I didn’t like it, and I wanted to tell him to stop. When I tried to push his arm away, he ignored it and yanked at my pants.

“Keep still,” he said, fingering my cleft under the standard-issue panties. “Oh, you’re ready.”

His grip on my neck moved to my upper chest when he got his dick out. I breathed.

“No choking, Warren.” I pulled one pant leg down. “I’m warning you.”

“Sure.”

“Hey.” The voice wasn’t loud, just firm.

Fuck. A guard stood behind us. Warren jumped back as if his hand had been in the cookie jar, but I could have told him he hadn’t even gotten the lid off yet.

“What are you doing on that side of the fence?”

“It was her.” Warren pointed at me, the fleshy rod swinging from above his waistband making a lie of his participation.

“Chilton, get the fuck out of here,” the guard said. “Don’t make me write your ass up again.” He got out his walkie-talkie, observing the hole in the fence. “Hey, Ned,” he said into the radio. “There’s a breach at four-seven-two.”

Warren ran through the hole and past the grove of trees. The guard glanced at me after I’d gotten my pants up.

“Go on inside,” he said. “You get a pass this time. Go on.”

He indicated the building, and I hustled. I had forty-five minutes left. My clit rubbed on my inner thighs when I hustled back inside, swelled to pain and wanting release so bad it swallowed my brain. All I could think about was fucking. Fucking swell. I hated my needs. For the first time, they seemed more of a burden than an indelible character trait.

Warren was a dead issue. That asshole was going to mark me and get me in trouble. He must have been the source of Karen’s mark.

When I got back to the residents’ hall, I realized I had no idea where Jack’s room was. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Was he even in his room? And what if I couldn’t find him? I was starting to think about Elliot in ways I shouldn’t. Ways that would come out in hypnosis. He’d touch me again, and I’d say something like, “Hey…let’s—”

I ran down the halls, looking in each room. All the doors were open. Most of the rooms were empty, or being cleaned, or occupied by strangers. In forty minutes, I’d be in front of a man, and he had a dick, and I could maybe convince him to fuck me.

But I kept thinking about being tied to the ceiling, the knots in the rope rubbing my skin, and Deacon’s cock sliding against the back of my thigh.

Tell me how badly you want it, beautiful kitten.

Bad bad bad bad….

My ass. My poor ass as he’d paddled it, holding back the avalanche of need. I lost days to his ministrations. I needed him. I had no control without him.

And I’d stabbed him.

I didn’t believe his denials for a minute. His refusal to implicate me only meant one thing: I’d done it. I’d stabbed him.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

“Hi, Fiona.”

I spun. Jack was standing in the hall with a paper towel of yellow petals.

“Jack, I was looking for you.”

“Job well done, then. You found me.”

I stepped close to him so I could say something without being overheard. “You said you weren’t completely unfuckable.”

“I’d like to think so. Why?”

It was as if the cues and clues I’d given men my entire sexual life were a foreign code to this guy. Normally I’d reveal some part of my body, but we were on camera.

So I tilted my head and pressed my lips together before whispering, “I want to show you how fuckable you are.”

His bottom jaw went slack, and his eyes widened. He made a little tick in the back of his throat as if an attempt to swallow had failed. I took that as a good sign.

“Do you want to touch my tits? The nipples are hard already. I know places we can go to do it, where they can’t see. I can put your cock down my throat so deep I can lick your balls. And I’ll swallow your load, every drop.”

He didn’t say anything, and when I went to touch his arm, he dropped his paper towel, sending yellow petals adrift.

“Jack?”

He ran down the hall as if his ass was on fire.

I guessed I had that coming. It was a mental ward, after all. But talking dirty had made the swell worse. I had thirty minutes to release it, and I didn’t even have a damn vibrator. I was just going to have to take care of myself and hope for the best.

My room was a few doors down. I ran in and closed the door. The window was still open, and the shade blew in, slapping back against the window when the breeze went out. I went into the bathroom. Frances didn’t want to hear me, I got that. I knew I could be quiet. I’d done it for Deacon a hundred times.

Slipping out of my crazy-proof cotton pants and shoes, I eyed the sink again, its smooth texture and cold surface. It was good in a pinch, but this wasn’t a pinch. This was something else entirely. I wanted warm skin and a fullness, a filled feeling.

There were reasons I didn’t touch myself. Good reasons.

That pleases you, Fiona? What you’re doing?

That was old stuff. Dad catching me in the chair by the window.

Because it’s disgusting.

He’d been behind me, arms crossed, having watched the whole thing in the reflection of the window. I was spread-eagled on the chair, seeing how long I could make myself go. I was fifteen, and so unsure about the power of my feelings and my bursts of uninitiated arousal.

I knew one of you would be like this. Out of seven, the odds…

I hadn’t reached orgasm yet when he let himself be seen, and when I jumped up in the chair at the sound of his voice, I was still aroused.

Outside the bathroom, the shade slapped against that open window.

A hundred years ago, you’d have been married off before you shamed this whole family. But now? Now I can’t do a damned thing. I’d like to sew it shut.

I didn’t think about the other thing.

The thing where he was erect.

I couldn’t forget it, but I didn’t think about it. I kept it in some nether-place where it existed without me actually seeing it or letting it come to me in words.

I sat on the toilet and opened my legs, angling my body so the pressure of the lid rubbed on me. That wasn’t going to work. Fuck. I wanted my fingers, their warmth, their shape, their knowing touch.

I could put a tampon in without trouble, and I could groom and wash myself. But I hadn’t touched myself to orgasm since Daddy had walked out of the room, shaking his head. He’d never lectured me afterward, and I never found out if he mentioned it to Mom. Mom, as if sensing something was amiss, stayed close, and defended me from any and all consequences. But he could pit us against each other. I became the one my sisters should avoid emulating. The bad example. The dissolute one. I lived it joyfully, believing they all envied me.

But God, straddling that stupid toilet, I just wanted to fuck. So bad. And there was no one in this shithole. Elliot would know; he’d see the swell on me. I’d do something impulsive, and I’d have to stay.

But I needed it, and I wasn’t using the word “need” loosely.

I was about to get up and just go figure it out when I decided to give in to impulse. I slid my middle finger over my clit.

I gasped. The shade slapped against the window again, and something fell. I’d forgotten how good that was, how electric. My finger and my clit reacted at the same time, and I was blindsided by it.

The bathroom door opened. I jerked my hand up and opened my eyes.

Mark, the orderly with the tattoo, said, “Whatcha doing?”

“I’m in the bathroom, asshole.”

He stood there, taking up the doorframe. He had Jack’s paper towel in his hand, a few yellow petals poking out. “Bedroom door was closed.”

“Maybe you know why now?”

“Sure do.” He still didn’t move

My eyes drifted where they always did when I felt that constant throb between my legs. He had a cock, and if it wasn’t hard, I’d be a monkey’s uncle. I could take that thing. It would have to be a secret for all of how many hours? I’d go to my session, clear shit up, get rubberstamped, and get the fuck over to Deacon, aye-sap.

“There aren’t cameras in the bathrooms, are there?”

He looked me up and down, eyes lingering on my bare legs and the triangle where they met. “On the doorway. Everything up to the toilet.”

“Too bad. I was feeling like a fuckdoll.” Newly emboldened, I stroked my belly with an extended finger.

“Five minutes, pretty thing.”

“Three’s all I got.”

He winked at me. “Stay right where you are.” He clicked the door shut behind him.

I had twenty minutes. Maybe I could be two minutes late to the session. I had no idea who reported lateness or at what point they’d come looking for me. I wasn’t interested in getting found with Mark.

I sat back and let my fingers rediscover pleasure. I didn’t think about anything, just focused on what I was feeling. I teased the swell out so that when a real living, breathing cock entered the room, I could get the job done. I needed it, and with every pulse of need, I shifted my finger over my clit. Sweet, overwhelming delight. Thoughtless anticipation, the tremble of life, a precipice into the chasm of forgetting.

And he was back.

“What did you do?”

“My buddy’s at the monitors.” He closed the door. “Get down, psycho.”

He took me by the back of the head and pulled me to my knees. I yanked his waistband down and pulled out his cock. It smelled antiseptic and stung my tongue when I licked it.

“Oh God, yes, you little fucking whore. Take it all.”

I looked up at him, making my eyes big and wide. I let him slide his dick over my tongue and down my open throat. He held me there a second longer than I thought I could stand it.

I stood up. “Just fuck me. Use me. I’ll be your horny slut. Your fuckdoll whore.”

He turned me and pushed me against the toilet. I braced myself on the tank. He got a condom on while I stared at the tiles. I hoped he didn’t try anal. That was always nice, but I wouldn’t come without help, and I suspected he wasn’t a big helper. He jammed it in my pussy and held onto my hips, pumping in and out. I angled my body so his shaft rubbed my clit, and I felt the orgasm coming.

“Oh, fuck you, you little rich slut. You like it like this, don’t you? You like it when I fuck you like this.”

“I’m a whore. Fuck me like a whore. Yes, fuck me like a rich little whore.” I knew I was saying the right things. They turned me on, and they made him slam me harder. I felt the swirl of my climax.

Everything was there. Skin on skin. Tick. Prone, exposed to a stranger. Tick. No commitments, no intimacy. Tick. A little risk thrown in for good measure. Tick, tick, tick.

There was the thing I’d forgotten.

The boredom. The space between the hunt for sex and the orgasm, and even the orgasm, half the time. Tedious.

I wanted to come and get it the fuck over with. The seconds in between were not savored but reviled. They were an unworthy means to a worthy end. His grunts were annoying. His dirty talk held no meaning. I didn’t want to look at him, so I bent over. He thought I was a slut, so he called me a slut. Boring.

I pushed against him. “Harder, fucker. Bury it. Break it off.”

He slapped my ass and pounded me. “Shut up, bitch.”

His balls slapped my clit, and his dick plowed against it. I was going to come. I felt it in my muscles, and when they tensed and clenched, it was a release, not a joy. Just a job well done.

He came with an oof, and I rolled my eyes.

He stroked my back from neck to ass. “Baby—”

“Get out. I have shit to do.”

“Why’s it gotta be like that?” He got the condom off and rolled it up in toilet paper.

I stood up. “How else should it be?”

“You don’t want me to be nice?”

“You thought you were the one using me? Funny.”

“You some kinda weirdo?”

“You’re in a mental ward, dude. Come on. Get the fuck out of my bathroom.”

Condom stowed in his pocket, pants zipped, girl disinterested, he got the hint and opened the door. He was almost out, but being a man, he needed the last word.

“Slut.”

fourteen.

“Last session,” Elliot said. “How do you feel?”

He looked relaxed, clean-shaven, happy. I hadn’t realized how troubled he’d looked during our last session.

“I’m okay. Are you going to let me go?”

“I can only make a recommendation. After this session, I’ll type it up, and we’ll meet with Frances and your lawyer. Give me an hour after we’re done. Your mother and lawyer are already here.”

I sit on the couch. “Are we doing hypnosis again today?”

He shrugged. “Sure, if you’re up for it. I’d like to try to find more recent memories. Track back to the last thing you remember.”

I laid back. “We tried this before.”

“Maybe things have changed.” He sat next to me and got out his pen.

I wished I could have met him under different circumstances. When he was a seminarian, before I was a happy little fuckdoll, when things could have been kind of normal. That absurd sense of humor would drive me insane while my affluenza frustrated him.

“Things have changed,” I said, though I couldn’t define them.

“Keep your eyes on the tip of the pen.”

* * *

Are you relaxed?

I am. I feel a freedom I hadn’t felt before. I feel hopeful and generous, sweet and melancholy. Emboldened and encouraged, ready to start a new journey, a life after this incident.

I want you to think about the ride here, to Westonwood. Can you remember that?

I don’t. It’s not even a blur; it’s blank.

Go back a little further. To the stables. You were given a shot. Do you remember the pain in your arm?

The black goes grey, and I feel something in my arm, as if I’m being poked with a rigid finger. I feel something else, a pounding in my chest, a confusion that I’m separate from. I can’t tell what’s happening, besides the feeling of being restrained.

Go back further. Before the shot.

I don’t want to. I feel the resistance binding me to my forgetfulness, the comfort of not knowing. If I lean into it, just a little, maybe I can see what happened without feeling it. Maybe I can observe coldly, like a reporter noting facts for relevance, not profundity. If I let myself accept that fear, I’ll know. So I relax into where the rope of my fear pulls and binds me, dropping into some unknown graphite-colored place in my head. I expect to go back in my memory a minute, two minutes, half an hour, but intuitively, though I can’t tell the whens and wheres, I know I’ve gone back further.

His breath falls on my cheek, and a pain in my arm runs from my wrist to the sensitive side of my bicep.

“You did not,” he says from deep in his throat. He’s naked, stunning, the stink of sex and blood on him. He pins me to the wall, the friction screaming against the open skin on my ass.

Regret. Pounds of it. Miles wide. Regret to the depth of my broken spirit.

“I’m sorry.” Am I? Or am I just saying it?

“Why?”

My wrist hurts. He’s pressing it so hard against the wall, as if I’d leave, as if I’d ever turn my back on him. Yet I want to get away, to run, to show him that I can abandon him the way he abandons me.

I wiggle, but he only presses harder and demands, “Why?”

“Get off me!”

“Tell me why!” His eyes are wider, his teeth flashing as if he wants to rip out my throat. “Why?”

“I need it!”

The words come out before I think, and they’re poison to him. Before I expect it, he slaps me in the mouth. He lets me go, and I fall to the floor. When I look at him, he’s cradling the lower half of his face as if he can’t believe what he’s done. He’s slapped me plenty, but not in anger. Not without me halfway in subspace and high on dopamine. Never outside a scene.

But that’s nothing compared to what he does next. The ropes of my fear try to pull me away, back to safety, and I let them.

What is it? What does he do?

I must have been silent too long. I must have watched Deacon’s face, frozen in my memory, for a second too many. The sense that he is going to do something terrible is all I have, but I don’t remember what it is. When Elliot asks from the present what Deacon does, I stay to see it.

“I’m sorry,” Deacon says.

I don’t say anything. My face hurts, and I taste liquid copper. We stay like that forever, or time is stretched in my memory. This is the moment I can tell him it’s okay, or the moment I can be angry, or I can have a reaction that will make him not do what he’s going to do.

But I don’t do anything. Not a word or gesture.

He walks out.

I don’t know why there’s a finality to it that I haven’t ever felt before, but there is. When the bedroom door clicks behind him, that’s it.

I want to wake up. I don’t want to observe my emotions, even as a time-traveling bystander.

You’re fidgeting.

Pinkerton Pinkerton Pinkerton

Okay, on three, you’ll wake rested and happy.

Amanda’s next to her hot pink Bugattti. Pinkerton, before it became the assassin of the 405. She tips, holds herself straight, smiles at me. Oh, no. I don’t think so.

One.

I snap the keys from her and give them to Charlie. I open the passenger door in the front, even though it’s her car. Let her sit in the back. I don’t want her puking on Charlie when he’s driving.

Two.

I’m not in the mood to die.

Three.

* * *

“You associate those two things,” Elliot said. “Amanda dying, and Deacon hitting you.”

“He hit me all the time. It was a turn-on.”

“Hard enough to break a molar?”

I heard him shift in his chair. I wanted to sit upright, but my body felt like the inside of a broken egg.

“Did you usually sit in the back of Pinkerton?”

“If Charlie was driving and it’s Amanda’s car, I should be in the back. That’s just social mores. But Amanda got aggressive when she drank too much, and she was doing God knows what else. I just didn’t feel like worrying about her having a psychotic break while Charlie was driving, because it wasn’t like he was in much better shape.”

“And Deacon hitting you?”

“He left. That was the painful part.”

“Why did he leave?”

I sighed. It had been the sore point between us. Our thing. “He went away for a few days to hang a show in San Diego. And I swelled, so I needed to fuck, and I got it where I could. I tried not to. I tried to be good, but I failed, okay? And he found out, which was lying on top of cheating. I packed my shit and left. That was the last time I saw him. Until the stables, which I still don’t remember.”

“So you feel responsible for him leaving?”

“I was. We stopped sharing and fucking around. We agreed.”

“I think you need some therapy after you leave here. I don’t think you’ve worked through your feelings. We haven’t had time to touch on anything in your past.”

“Sure, Elliot. Sure.”

“And I know you don’t have access to the outside world in here, but the press is being unkind is probably the nicest way to put it. You’re going to need somewhere to go to talk about it.”

“I’m sure I can find someone.”

“It’s been nice talking to you, Fiona. I’m pretty sure I know what you think of yourself, but I want you to know that you don’t have to believe it.”

I twisted around until I could see him. He looked the same as always, relaxed and confident, middle finger on his upper lip as if he couldn’t think without it.

“Believe what?” I asked.

“That you’re useless.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re sensitive. You’re bright. You’re brave. Can you believe that?”

He pissed me off. He had no right to tell me about me, not after three days. But if I argued with him, if I put him in his place, it would be another reason to let me rot in that grey room.

“Thanks, Doc.”

He stood and opened the door. “I want you to remember that when you see your mother. She’s in visiting.”

fifteen.

Margie caught me in the foyer, on the way to the visiting room.

“Have you seen Mom?” I asked.

“I have no idea what she’s doing here. I told her to stay home. Jonathan’s a wreck over his girlfriend, and Theresa’s no better. They’re mad at Dad, but won’t say why, which is fucking typical Drazen bullshit. You sure you don’t want to stay in here?”

“I’m sure.”

“Between you and Jonathan, the press is going apeshit.”

“Fuck them.”

“I wish I could get myself committed. “ Her phone dinged, and she tapped it. “Hang on, this came from the prosecutor.” She scanned the email. “Provided you’re cleared to leave here, you agree not to contest the charge and waive the preliminary hearing. We accept aggravated assault. Community service. I’m inclined to tell him to fuck off. Deacon’s denying it all, so bail and a grand jury appearance is my guess.”

“What does the press want?”

“They want you turning on a spit.”

“Take the plea.”

“As your attorney, I wouldn’t advise it.”

I shrugged. “I’d rather not have this over my head. Or have Deacon change his mind after I see him and beg forgiveness. Just take it and be done. A little community service won’t kill me.”

“As your sister, I approve.”

I sneered at her playfully, and she hid her smile.

* * *

The garland and lights were gone from the visiting room, as if Christmas had been mentioned once and wiped away. Mom paced in front of the window, a wisp of a thing with a bent neck, tapping her finger on her chin.

“Hi, Mom.”

When she faced me, I knew she wasn’t there to join me for the therapist’s recommendation. Her eyes were on fire, her jaw set. She sat down like it was her job.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“How are you?”

“I’m f—”

“Did your father ever touch you?”

“Mom!”

“Answer me!” She slammed her palm on the table.

I held my hands up and sat back. It was too much. I needed time to think, to talk to people. To breathe, for Chrissakes.

“Fiona, tell me. I’ll protect you. I’ll put myself between you and anything. But just tell me. Did he ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?”

“No, Mom. He never touched me inappropriately.”

“Your sisters?”

“Why now? I’m twenty-three years old. What happened?”

She sighed then pursed her lips, a series of facial tics that meant she was holding in an emotion, any emotion. I said nothing. My heart was pounding too fast.

“There’s talk that he’d had a relationship with the girl who just died.”

“Jonathan’s girlfriend?”

“Previous to that, when she was a bit younger, but yes. Your brother didn’t know until recently, and he’s not happy with it. So.” She sat up straighter. “Did he ever touch one of your sisters?”

I wished for time, and my wish was not granted. The clock still moved. Things had been said in pledge. We’d held our hands up and made promises, and though I’d broken plenty of promises in life, I’d never broken pledge. None of us had. We had a code of silence, and inside of it sat our denials, our shame, our bonds.

“I can’t say,” I said. “Not directly.”

Mom’s face melted, constricting, as if her tears shrunk and crinkled it. I snapped up the ubiquitous box of tissues and put it in front of her.

“So it’s true,” she spit out before the sob choked her.

“It’s complicated, Mom. It’s not what you think, but I can’t say. It’s not my place.”

“You think you’re protecting someone, but have you thought that the way you all are… that you hurt each other with this wall you put up?”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

“What are you all afraid of?”

Afraid? I wasn’t afraid of being cut off from their money. I had more than I needed, and it couldn’t be touched. I wasn’t afraid of being cut off from my siblings, because we were strung together with strong twine.

I was afraid of Dad.

Dad had a way of making things happen. He had a way of using his relationships and his money to create chaos or order, as he saw fit.

But Mom was in distress, and how much worse could it all get? I was already up a creek; what would be the difference if I threw my paddle in the rushing billows of shit?

“You should talk to Carrie,” I said, instantly regretting it, yet feeling the release of something I hadn’t realized I was holding so close.

“It was Carrie?” she squeaked.

“Talk to her.”

She wiped her eyes, but her tears barely abated. “God damn that big house.” She folded and refolded the tissue. “God damn the corners. You can’t see what’s happening. You can’t hear. We avoid each other. Did you see how that happened? How we went to the far corners?”

“There were eight kids, Mom. You needed a big house. What were you supposed to do?”

“Pay attention. I was supposed to pay attention!”

Mom looked up and behind me. I followed her gaze.

Margie stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Mom thinks I’m a disappointment and a failure.” I may have been ready to break pledge, but I wasn’t ready to get busted for it. “Let’s get this done. You’re buying me dinner at Roberto’s. I’m hungry, and I need a drink.”

“You’re too young to need a drink,” Margie said, getting out of the way of the exit.

“Well, I need something.”

“How about a job?” she replied, putting her arm around Mom.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

sixteen.

We waited.

On the hard, squared-off modern couch in the common room, we waited. I imagined Elliot typing, his middle finger rubbing his upper lip. I waited for Mom to come back from the parking lot and throttle me into saying what I knew, which was nothing. I swear, I knew nothing except that Carrie had talked to Deirdre and Sheila about something in pledge. That was it. Nothing I could build a case on.

I shook a little. I was getting out. The press was out to skewer me and possibly my brother. My little coterie of fuckbuddies and hangers-on were going to steer clear of me and the media attention I dragged behind me. My relationship with Deacon was in a sick holding pattern. Amanda was still dead. I’d broken, or at least fractured, a lifelong bond of trust between me and my sisters and brother.

A little community service would go a long way to distracting me.

Bored, yet jumpy and upset, I went into the cafeteria. Dinner was starting. The staff placed trays of deluxe meals into the steam trays. I’d never see them again, those chattering people in hair nets, and I hadn’t even gotten to know their names. I said good-bye in my mind to the cafeteria, the patio, the holes in the camera matrix. I said so long to the grey painted over everything, the flat lighting, the sterile corners. Karen came in, all unkind angles and protruding bones. I excused myself from Margie, who waved me off, and stood next to Karen as she plopped her journal on the tray.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m getting my recommendation in, like, twenty minutes, then I’m outtie.”

“It was good to see you again,” she said flatly.

“You should call me when you get home. I mean it.”

“I don’t think I can do an Ojai again.” She poked through a basket of perfect yellow bananas as if unable to choose one, though they all looked the same to me.

“Yeah, me neither.” I said it, but did I mean it?

Deacon had kept me away from the life for months, but I didn’t know where he and I stood. He might be out of my world forever, and if that was the case, then what did I have left but more of what had gone before? I found I wasn’t looking forward to anything. I was terrified of speaking to Deacon, of being in my big empty condo. I didn’t care to see Earl or Charlie. Didn’t want to delve into what had happened with Martin or Debbie. But mostly, I wasn’t looking forward to partying. Didn’t want coke, but knew I’d snort it when I got bored. Didn’t want sex, but knew I’d need it when I got sad.

Karen got to the bottom of the basket. The banana at the end was black and soft. No one would want it. She picked it up and put it on her tray instead of all the firm, ripe ones.

I’d figure it all out once I was home. I might figure it out licking the base of some guy’s cock or tied to the ceiling like an enraptured side of flesh, but I’d figure it out. I just had to go deeper. Harder. Full throttle into whatever tornado I’d walked into. Yet when I spoke, something completely different came out.

“Something has to change,” I said. “I don’t think I can live like that anymore.”

“Yeah,” Karen said pensively. “If I knew how to stop doing this, I would.”

“It’s a problem. Me, I mean. I have a problem.” I said it with a little laugh, as if to disavow it even as I said it. I was taking a practice run at thinking I had something to fix. It was like an audition for recovery to see if I had the talent to pull off the role.

“Fiona,” Margie said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “We’re up.”

I hugged Karen. “Good-bye. Eat something, would you? You’re skin and bones.”

“I will. Good luck out there.”

Elliot and Frances entered through the glass doors, and I noticed that he was frowning. We walked in silence to the conference room. I said good-bye to the linoleum, the garden outside the window. Silently, as a prayer to people not present, I said good-bye to Jack who was completely unfuckable, Warren who was an act of violence waiting to happen, Mark who was one of a hundred or more.

I didn’t know what waited for me outside. I didn’t know if Deacon would take me back, didn’t know if the media would crush me, but I was ready to be out of Westonwood—that was for damn sure.

seventeen.

Mom didn’t come back. It was just me and Margie with Elliot and Frances. The table shined in all its lacquer glory under the horizontal shadows of the window blinds. A black spider of a conference call unit sat in the middle of the table, ignored. I tried to make eye contact with Elliot, and he met my eyes once we sat. I saw no reassurances in the gaze, but he was never one to let a crack in his professional veneer show.

I tucked my hair behind my ears. Had I brushed it? I was about to go back into the world, and I’d hate to do it ungroomed, sloppy, with scraggly red hair and no makeup. I already felt as though I had one foot out the door.

“Ms. Drazen,” Frances said to Margie, “can we get you anything?”

“Out of here?”

She smiled so disarmingly, Frances laughed, and the tension of the room broke a little.

“Well, thanks for coming.” Frances looked as if she’d applied lipstick fifteen seconds before opening the glass doors. “This conversation is being recorded for the patient’s protection.”

I almost laughed out loud but choked it down.

Frances continued. “Doctor Chapman and I will be issuing our recommendations to the judge and district attorney for the City of Los Angeles, in the case of Fiona Maura Drazen.” Frances folded her hands in front of her and looked me in the eye. “After careful consideration by the administration of this hospital, and the bearing in mind the counsel of Dr. Chapman, we’ve decided to recommend you stay at Westonwood or another accredited facility for an additional fourteen to forty-five days of observation, pursuant to Section 5250 of the California Welfare and Institutions code.”

I swallowed. “Excuse me?”

“What’s this about?” Margie demanded. “She’s functioning. She’s capable. I’ve seen far sicker people released on their own recognizance.”

“She’s had three violent outbursts while under our care,” Frances said.

I spun on Elliot. “You said the meds caused the outbursts.”

“I said maybe,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, but—”

Frances broke in, “And she still has no recall of the incident.”

“There was no incident,” Margie growled. “You can ask Deacon Bruce.”

“The judge thinks there was,” Frances said. “He’s concerned about letting a woman with psychotic episodes back into society.”

“We just accepted a plea deal.”

“From the prosecutor. Judge trumps lawyer.”

Margie was holding herself together admirably, but I could see her gears turning. I bet the two psychologists across the table could as well.

“Our recommendation is that she be kept here for her own safety,” Elliot said softly. He closed his little folder and stood. “I’m in session in two minutes. Excuse me.” He nodded to each of us and strode out.

I was left sitting in shock. What had just happened?

I had been so sure I was leaving. I’d said good-bye to the place, checked my room for personal items, looked at the cafeteria for the last time. Staying was worse than a defeat. It was a humiliation.

How was I letting that motherfucker walk out of there?

I spun out of my chair and dashed into the reception area. He was just beyond the glass doors.

“Elliot,” I called.

He slowed down, as if deciding what to do.

I ran to catch up. “What happened? Come on, you know I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

He shook his head. “It’s for the best.”

“I’ll have you in session tomorrow, and I’m not saying a word until you tell me what happened.”

“Fiona, I—”

“You can shove your little pen tip up your ass. I’m going to make your life miserable.”

He smiled ruefully and looked at the floor. “I’m not your therapist anymore. I’m going back to Compton.”

“Fuck you are.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be here. I think you’ll be just fine. You’re doing great.”

“Save the platitudes for the ones who need them.”

His neck tensed, and his eyes got hard. That was my gotcha moment, and I didn’t want it. His voice went from heavy cream to wire brush, and the stroke of every syllable drew blood. “Once you get out there with your cute little plea deal, you’ll get eaten alive. Maybe by the press. Maybe by that man you almost killed. Maybe he’ll kill you this time instead of breaking your teeth. The judge on your case is not out to help you, trust me. You don’t have the tools to handle life outside these doors. You’ll go back to using, and I’m not willing to wonder if I could have done something else to help you. I’m just going to do it. This is the only way to protect you.”

“It was your job to assess my sanity. Not protect me.”

He held his hands out, his clipboard clutched in his fingers. “That’s just tough, Fiona. This was the last real thing I did here, and I’m okay with it.”

“Fuck you.”

He nodded, making me feel like a tantrum-prone child. And now what? He was going to say good-bye and leave me? No. Not allowed.

“This is not done,” I said.

“Good-bye, Fiona. Meeting you was something else.”

I turned around and ran back down the hall before he could say a word. I didn’t know what I was trying to stop. Some freight train of my thwarted expectations before it ran me over? Maybe the moment where I would wake up and realize I’d failed, and I was stuck here? So help me God, I couldn’t be there, cut off from everything for another month. Something had to be done, and if no one would do it for me, I would do it myself. I slammed past the glass doors, out of breath.

Margie stood staring at her phone.

“You have to keep Doctor Chapman here,” I said in a breath. “Make them. He can’t walk away.”

Margie heard me, I knew she did. I was right there, but she wasn’t listening.

“I fucked up,” she said.

“How? You made a deal, they can’t—”

“Dad was right. I’m too inexperienced. I would have had my finger on the judge’s pulse if I’d known better.”

What she was saying hit me like a slap.

“No,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Fiona. I tried, but you need a better lawyer. It’s not fair to you.”

“Not fair to me? I’m here now with nothing and no one… I don’t have Elliot, and now you’re leaving? What am I supposed to do? Margie, how am I supposed to make it? Don’t leave me.” My hands were flying. I was screaming.

Margie was trying to grab my hands and shush me at the same time. “Calm down.”

“Stay, and I’ll calm down. Stay with me.”

“I can’t. It’s not the best—”

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

When I tried to hold her close, hands on me pulled and tugged. There was a floor under me, and shadows in the light, and voices in all kinds of timbres and shades of gentleness. There was a discomfort in my arm like a stiff finger pushing against me, and soon after that, the hands relaxed, and everything went grey.

To be continued…

Thank you for reading.

If you know me, you know about the cliffhangers, and the ending of Kick would have been of no consequence. If you don’t know me, well, I do cliffies, and that one was pretty bad. Kick is the first book of a story told in serial novella format, called Songs of Perdition. You can find out when the next one comes out by getting on the mailing list. It should be no later than mid-July, but typically, it’s 99c the first 24 hours after the mailing list notice goes out.

If you liked the writing, but fancy something complete, you should try the Songs of Submission, the serialized story of Jonathan Drazen, ten years after the incidents here. Seven novellas and three short stories about a kinky billionaire, an ingénue singer, love, sex, art and sin in the city of Los Angeles. Get the omni of books 1-3, or check out Book One, Beg. It’s free.

If you prefer full length reads, I’ve started a series called Songs of Corruption, about Theresa Drazen’s relationship with mafia capo Antonio Spinelli, wherein all her attempts at lawfulness and peace fail in the name of love. You can get the full length novel of Book One, Spin, here. There’s no cliffhanger.

Reading order and links are below:

My Goodreads fan group is called CD Canaries: join the group!

Facebook fan-run group, go here. Most fun, guaranteed.

Facebook fan page is here. I run this, and it's for official news and announcements.

I’m on Pinterest, Tumblr, Twitter and Instagram with varying degrees of frequency.

My email is cdreiss.writer@gmail.com.

****

Links and reading order below:

Songs of Submission, Sequence One

1) Beg (usually free on Amazon)

2) Tease

3) Submit

Songs of Dominance

Very short, optional read

3.5) Jessica/Sharon

Songs of Submission, Sequence Two

4) Control

5) Burn

6) Resist

Songs of Dominance

Very short, optional read between Burn and Resist

5.5) Rachel

Songs of Submission, Sequence Three

7) Sing

Songs of Dominance

7.5) Monica - a very short story, is the last of it, and you might need it after Sing.

If you prefer saving a couple of dollars, and feel ok committing to a few books at a time, the bundles might work for you.

Sequence One - books 1-3 Beg/Tease/Submit

Sequence Two - books 4-6 Control/Burn/Resist

Sing, and all the Songs of Dominance, are still separate as of this moment.

Worth

Shay Savage

I

The cart bounced, and rippling pain traveled swiftly up my side. It radiated from the point where a sword had entered my left side and then up to where my arm met the rest of my body. I felt need to vomit, but swallowed back bile rather than soil the back end of the rickety, horse-drawn cart.

I tightened my hands into fists and stared up at the wooden roof above me. A young man wearing his battle-scarred armor stepped into view and knelt beside me. His dark hair creased his forehead as he looked down upon me with concern in his eyes.

“Antonius, where the fuck are we?” I snarled at the young man. I looked down at myself, sans armor, wearing nothing but the tunic normally beneath it and a subligarium wrapped around my lower region. There was a long tear up the side of the tunic, and blood seeped into the woven fabric despite the bandages wrapped around me.

“Nearly there, Faustus,” Antonius replied.

“Nearly where, you cocksucker?” I clenched my teeth as the cart hit a rut in the road. Another pain seared through me.

“Mediolanum,” he replied. He gripped the inside wall of the cart to steady himself. “There is a hospital there with a good medicus named Sergius. He has skills as a surgeon. He can sew your wound.”

“Fucking Gauls,” I growled under my breath. Flashes of the battle and of the young Gaul who stabbed me took over my thoughts. I tightened my hand around the edge of the bench where I lay and remembered the feeling of my own sword cleaving his body in two—punishment for his grievance against me. “They know they can’t win, but still they fight like dogs for a bitch.”

“They do at that.” He smiled half a smile and raised an eyebrow at me. “There are far fewer of them fighting today, thanks to you.”

I huffed a breath out my nose, which caused further pain up my side. I closed my eyes tightly and willed the pain to pass, but it remained. I let my mind return to the battlefield where I commanded a Legion of Rome against the insufferable Gauls who still attempted to defy the emperor’s rule. I lost a few good men on the field today, but the blood of the Gauls was far more prevalent.

The cart jarred as it hit another deep rut in the road. I gritted my teeth and bit into my tongue to keep the scream from passing my lips.

“Not much longer,” Antonius assured me. He placed his hand on my forearm, but I shook it away.

“If the gods let me live so long,” I muttered before the cart again bounced wildly, and a scream passed my lips right before all went dark.

When I finally managed to open my eyes again, the first thing I saw was her.

She had flax-colored hair, as brilliant as the sun on a summer morning and eyes of dark blue nearly as dark as midnight with long lashes to frame them. Her skin was creamy, smooth and flawless. As she leaned over my body, the thin folds of her dress billowed to show the curve of her breasts beneath the fabric. The cold bronze collar coiled around her slender neck marked her as a slave.

It had been long since I had laid eyes upon a woman, slave or otherwise. Though there was a camp near the battlefield tents filled with whores for the taking, I did not deem it necessary to frequent the place. My thoughts were always of blood and battle, not the baser needs I prescribed for my men. I felt myself beyond such things.

However, the slave woman above me turned my thoughts from both battle and wound.

Even in my injured state, my first thoughts were of having her on her back in my bed, her thighs spread wide and her knees bent before me. I wanted to feel her skin in my hands, taste her sweat on my tongue, and feel her body give way to my cock. I wanted to hear her screaming underneath me as I plowed into her over and over again. I wanted to feel her insides clench around me as I filled her with my seed.

“Hold his arms.”

I blinked slowly and turned my head as much as I could to see a man crouching beside me, bent over my side. He was grey-haired, wrinkled, and ancient-looking. My tunic had been cut up from the side and removed completely. As the old man pushed my arm out and away from my wound, I felt slender fingers wrap around both my wrists as they were brought over my head and held tightly.

“Can you hear me, Tribunus Faustus?” the old doctor-surgeon asked. I looked to him and tried to focus on his face, which was framed by the dark wooden beams on the ceiling above him.

I swallowed once, closed my eyes, and nodded.

“Drink this.” I felt a cup being held to my lips, and I opened my mouth to take in the foul-tasting drink. I could feel it numbing my tongue before I swallowed, and I had to hold my breath to keep it down.

“You must stay still,” the man said sternly. “The more you move, the more pain there will be. If you are to heal properly, you must do everything I say.”

My head swam as I nodded again. I had been injured before; I knew what was to come. My best hope was to pass out from the pain, but the gods offered me no such solace.

With clenched teeth, I strained to keep myself from screaming aloud as the medicus removed the bandages around me, but there was no stopping the sounds from my throat. I could not lie still, and he stood to tighten straps around my shoulders and hips to hold me in place. The slave woman held my hands above my head as best she could and leaned her body over my shoulders to keep me pinned to the bed.

I felt a sharp sting as a needle pierced my side, and my body reacted against the invasion. I wrenched my wrists from the slave girl’s hands, but to her credit, she pressed her body tighter against my shoulders and kept me in place. I couldn’t move my arms down past her body, and instead, I found them wrapping around her as I entwined my fingers in her hair and held tightly.

With muscles too tense to do otherwise, I held her head to my shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut. I could feel her head turn toward me, and her warm breath crept over my skin. I held her head against me as she continued to press my shoulders to the cot below.

To his credit, the surgeon worked quickly to stitch my wound, and the woman did her best to speak in calm tones near my ear while he did so. I didn’t know what she was saying—the pain was too great to make sense of the words. I only knew her voice was reassuring.

With short, panting breaths and my arms around the slave, I endured.

“The worst is done,” the surgeon finally stated. From the corner of my vision, I could see him moving to gather something from a table full of bowls and potent smells. “The poultice will sting a bit.”

Sting it did though I managed to keep my cries to a minimum. Sweat dripped from my brow, and my body began to shake uncontrollably.

“Hand me the dressings.”

The slave pulled back and released my shoulders. Reluctantly, I unwrapped my arms from her and allowed her to move again. The slave woman reached to a table behind her and handed strips of cloth to the doctor. My head dropped back against the bed in exhaustion, and I closed my eyes, but still my consciousness remained as the doctor completed his task and bound my injury.

“It’s the best I can do,” he announced. “The rest is up to you and the gods.”

Forcing my eyes open again, I looked into the soothing face of the young woman above me. She turned her lips into a slight smile as she met my eyes.

“You did well,” she informed me.

I realized from her features that she must be from the western lands—perhaps even near the area where I had battled against the Gauls last year—though she had no accent I could detect. I looked into her dark blue eyes. They held intelligence and compassion, which was rare for a slave. The gaze of a slave was more likely not to meet a Roman’s eyes at all, for some would consider the act reprehensible.

I shuddered with a spasm of pain up my side and gasped for breath. My muscles stiffened as I held in a cry. The slave woman’s voice was smooth and soft, and she ran her fingers over my arm as she spoke words of encouragement.

As my eyes continued to stare into hers, I knew part of me became lost inside of them. Perhaps it was the pain of the injury I had suffered in war and my gratitude for the young woman who offered me relief, but I didn’t think so. It was the way she moved around me as she handed me a vial or cup full of whatever poultice the doctor deemed necessary to stop the deep cut in my side from becoming further infected. It was her reassuring voice and the curve of her lovely breasts as she leaned over to smooth the bandages.

She was beautiful.

“Tribunus,” the doctor addressed me, “are you comfortable?”

“As comfortable as I can be,” I said without taking my eyes from the woman.

“The wound is deep,” he said, “but I believe we got to it in time. The gods were with you, and none of your organs have been damaged, but there is still much risk of infection. You must rest now until you are healed.”

“How long?”

“Three, perhaps four weeks. If there is infection, much longer.”

Groaning, I shook my head. I glared at the medicus and hissed a breath between my teeth, but his look was determined and unyielding.

“It is the only way to heal,” he insisted.

“I have a war to fight,” I replied. “I cannot abandon my charge for the sake of a minor wound.”

“Minor?” the medicus scoffed.

“You said no organs were damaged,” I reminded him.

“That does not mean you are not seriously hurt, Tribunus.”

I continued to glare in his direction, but my ire was lessened by the slave’s gentle touch on my arm.

“For now, you fight your wounds.” The medicus stood and motioned the woman over as he walked to the far side of the torch-lit room. She stood and moved quickly to his side, and the skin of my arm chilled from the lost touch of her hand.

I tried to take a few deep breaths, but the pain was too great. Shallow panting was all I could manage. It was making my head dizzy, but the woozy feeling in my stomach was worse—nearly enough to take my mind from the pain in my side.

Nearly.

“Is that all you need from me, Sergius?” the young slave asked.

“Do you know who he is?” the doctor snapped at the young slave. His voice was low, as if he was trying to keep me from hearing, but the echoes in the room brought his words to me clearly.

“No, I have never seen him before.”

“That is Lucius Aurelius Faustus,” the doctor informed her as he leaned close. “Tribunus to the Emperor’s army in the west. He is a favorite in the Senate and very rich as well.”

“I have heard of him,” the slave said.

He glanced in my direction and pointed a finger at her before he continued in a quiet voice.

“If Tribunus Faustus dies, we will likely pay the price for it. Do not leave him for a second. Do anything he asks of you, provided it will not do him harm, and watch his wound. We cannot risk any infection. Do you understand me, slave?”

“I will do as you ask,” she replied softly. She dropped her gaze to the ground and nodded her head in deference.

The old surgeon moved back to my side, checked the dressings once again, and nodded to himself. He withdrew his wrinkled fingers from my side and nodded to me once more.

“Stay with him,” the doctor commanded the woman again. “Care for him as if he were your own, and retrieve me immediately if his condition worsens.”

“Of course,” she said quietly with another bow of her head. Her simple dress billowed out around her hips as she slipped quickly to my side. She sat on the small bench next to the bed where I lay and reached over to retrieve a cup of water and bring it to my lips.

The doctor took his leave, and the woman turned her eyes to mine as I drank. When she took the cup away, I ran my tongue over my lips to catch the last of the moisture. Her cheeks darkened in a blush, and she quickly looked away.

“Am I so terrible to gaze upon?” I asked with a slight chuckle. Though I was used to attention from women of many stations, I was surely not a pleasant sight at that moment. I immediately regretted the jest, for laughing shook my side and caused me to wince in pain.

“No, Tribunus,” she said as her blush darkened. “You should stay still, or you may pull out the stitching. Try to sleep.”

I examined myself as best I could, noting the crusted blood on my chest and arms. I wondered if it was from the Gaul who slashed me or one of his companions. It didn’t matter—they were all dead now.

“I despise sleeping on my back,” I growled. “It is most uncomfortable on a good day, and today has not been a good day!”

The slave woman cringed at my outburst. I closed my eyes a moment to center myself before I looked to her again.

“I will try, but I am in need of distraction.”

“Distraction?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “Speak with me.”

Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath, bringing my attention to the outline of her breasts through her dress. She sat up a little straighter and looked at my face as her lips pressed together in thought. She glanced around the room, which was lit with both candle and torch. There were openings along one side of the room to allow in daylight, but the light from the sun was obscured by thick clouds.

“How were you injured?” she asked.

“I was injured when a Gaul shoved his gladius in my side,” I responded dryly. “It was decidedly sharp.”

She smiled and glanced down to my dressing again. Her eyes remained dull, unaffected by the curve of her lips, my soldier’s humor lost on her.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Aia,” she replied, confirming her Gaul heritage.

“And how long have you served the medicus?”

“Two years,” she said.

“And before then?”

“I served in the house of the breadmaker in the market,” Aia said.

“What were your duties there?”

“As a child, I watched the bread as it baked and made sure it didn’t burn. Later on, I learned to mix and knead the dough as well.”

“When did you begin to serve the breadmaker?”

“When I was a young girl,” she said.

“And before?”

“I don’t have many memories from before,” she told me. “My father had many debts, I understand, and had to give me up to pay for them.”

It was a common enough occurrence but one that infuriated me. How could a parent be so careless as to incur such debt? My only child—a son—had died as an infant soon after his mother contracted a fatal fever. The idea of losing him through my own doing was abhorrent.

“Do you have siblings?” I inquired.

“None,” she said.

“Is the doctor your dominus?”

“No,” she said. “I belong to Appius Cassianus Germanus. He owns the hospital here and has many dealings in the marketplace.”

“I have heard the name,” I said with a slight nod. The movement caused me to wince, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. Cassianus was a powerful man in Mediolanum and known to be quite wealthy. He had family in the Senate as well.

“You should rest.”

“I rested enough on the cart that brought me here,” I scoffed. I tried to wave my hand dismissively, but the ache in my body betrayed me, and my hand shook painfully instead. “I’m tired of resting.”

I watched her as she brought her hands together in her lap and stared at them a moment. Her fingers twisted around each other, showing her nervousness.

“Do I cause you distress?” I asked, the answer obvious on her face.

“No, Tribunus,” she lied.

I chuckled again and once more winced as the skin of my side pulled against the rough stitching holding me together. Every movement seemed to bring more pain throughout my body though the injury was only in my side.

“You shouldn’t speak,” Aia said. She placed her hand on my bare chest to still me. “You must save your strength so you can heal and return to battle quickly.”

This time I restrained my laughter. She was a sly one; I could see that. She knew exactly what words I would want to hear to encourage me to do as she said. I continued to stare at her, and her blush returned.

“You speak, then,” I said. “Tell me of yourself.”

“There is little to tell,” she replied with a shrug.

I narrowed my eyes, reached over, and grabbed her hand in mine.

“Do you want me to be quiet and still?” I asked harshly.

“Yes, Tribunus.” Her eyes went wide as she answered me.

I swallowed once, knowing that anger—like laughter—was likely to cause more pain.

“Then tell me of yourself,” I commanded. “And since you are staring at me nearly cock-out, you may refer to me as Faustus.”

I was rewarded with another blush from the beautiful girl. It turned her skin such a lovely color, and with my anger forgotten, I began to consider other ways to bring about the same reaction.

She started to sit back on the bench, but I kept my grip on her hand so she couldn’t move from my side. When she leaned forward again, I laced my fingers between hers and held her hand to my chest. Her fingers were warm and soft on my flesh.

“I assist Sergius, the doctor, whenever he needs it,” she said in her soft voice. She stared at our hands clasped against my skin.

“So I have gathered.” I looked down to our entwined hands and noticed some of the blood from my skin had transferred to hers.

“I’ve learned much from him.”

“Such as?” I rubbed my thumb along the edge of her hand, wiping away the red streak.

“How to know when a wound is infected,” she said, “and what to put on it to help it heal. He’s shown me which herbs are good for helping with pain and those that are good for keeping a person healthy.”

“Do you treat many Roman soldiers here?”

“Yes,” she said. “I thought you were going to remain quiet, Tribunus.”

“I thought you were going to call me Faustus.”

“Apologies,” she replied. “Faustus.”

I liked the sound of my name on her lips and fought against the desire to have her call me Lucius. It would have been most improper for a slave to address me in such a way, but the desire to hear my first name spoken with her voice remained.

“You talk,” I said. “I will remain quiet.”

Aia nodded and her fingers twitched in my hand.

“I don’t know where else to begin,” she started, “so I will begin with what I first remember. My earliest memories were of a small house near a wheat farm. There was a terrible drought, and though I didn’t know what it meant at the time, the crops were failing, and my father was very worried. By the autumn harvest, there was little to gather in the fields. I remember a young man who served my father being given to an old man, who lived in a villa on top of the hill, in order to help pay for the things my mother and I needed.”

“The next spring, I woke to hear my mother and father arguing. I didn’t understand most of what was said, but I remember my mother crying and holding me tightly. Later that night, the breadmaker from the market came to the house, and I was taken away."

“You were sold to cover your father’s debts?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“That defies Roman law,” I growled.

She tilted her head toward the ground and closed her eyes, nodding slightly.

“I know,” she responded quietly, “but still, it happened.”

Inside, I fumed. I fought far from the Senate to ensure others upheld the law, and still it was broken in the very cities of the Empire.

Aia paused for a moment before continuing.

“I believe I was around six years of age at that time,” she said. “The breadmaker was a stern man, and he had me work from morning until dusk, carrying flour from the storehouse to the bakery.”

“Stern?” I commented. My heart beat faster in my chest as I considered the true meaning behind the word she chose. Slaves were most cautious about words chosen to describe their masters, even those who no longer owned them. The wrong word meant death. The one she chose was innocuous enough, but the potential, true meaning of it had the muscles in my arms and shoulders tensing. Anger rose from my stomach at the thought that she may have been mistreated by a fucking baker.

“He wasn’t a violent man at all,” Aia said, staring at me. Her eyes widened slightly as she took her hand from mine, reached out and ran a cool cloth over my arm. My muscles relaxed to the touch as she used the cloth to wipe some of the blood away from my chest. “He was merely demanding. I was never harmed by him.”

I blinked, realizing she had read me with highest accuracy, and looked away with annoyance at appearing so transparent. Water in a nearby bowl sloshed as she deposited the soiled cloth inside. A slight touch from her fingers drew my attention to my hand, which she picked up and held in her lap with both of hers.

“I served the breadmaker for several years,” she continued. “I learned how to mix, knead, and bake the bread. I even learned a little about herbs to bring about more pleasing flavors.”

“I would very much like to taste your bread,” I said with a wide grin. I raised my eyebrows as she looked at me and then quickly away again. Such a lovely gesture of shyness; it made my cock fill with blood as color filled her cheeks.

“Perhaps I will have the opportunity to bake for you,” she responded quietly.

More blood flowed to my cock as my thighs and ass clenched at the thought of sampling her…goods. I tasted my own lips with my tongue as I looked at her through slightly hooded eyes. There was something I needed to know.

“You are still quite young,” I remarked. “Has someone taken your maidenhead?”

Aia’s cheeks turned crimson. She moved her eyes to the floor before answering.

“Yes,” she finally said, much to my dismay. I would have enjoyed plucking such a flower, but it would have been near miracle from the gods for a slave girl to remain untouched for long, and Aia was a beautiful girl.

Even through the pain of the sword’s cut, I longed to show her the worth of my cock between her thighs.

II

“I cannot sleep like this,” I insisted. I fidgeted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it was impossible. Every time I moved, there was more pain.

“You must relax,” Aia said. Her soft hand touched my forearm as she shook her head at me. “Do not try to move.”

I growled under my breath, shook her touch away, and started pushing myself up with one hand. Pain rippled down my side, and my growl changed to a groan. After three days of lying on my back in the same position, every bit of skin that touched the cot below me was raw and sore, and my muscles ached. Between the pain of the stitched wound and the uncomfortable position, I was beyond tired and irritated.

“Faustus!” Aia exclaimed with hurried voice. “You must stay still!”

“I despise being on my back like a whore!” I snapped.

“You’ll inflame your wound,” she said. “How can you heal if you don’t lie still?”

“Assist me, then!” I ordered.

I saw her frustrated glance as she moved from the bench to the other side of the bed. I continued to try to move myself to my side, but the pain was too much. A loud grunt escaped me, and Aia reached out to put her hand on my hip to steady me. At the same time, I reached for her, and as soon as I gripped the edge of her dress with my fingers, her feminine scent was all around me.

Without thought, I grabbed her waist and pulled her down to the bed. My other arm went around her shoulders, and I pressed her young body against mine. For a long moment, our eyes remained locked together—hers widened in surprise and mine heavy with sudden desire. A slight movement was enough for the tip of my nose to brush against hers.

“Perhaps the healing I need can be found between your thighs,” I said quietly.

“Tribunus…” Aia’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. I watched her throat bob up and down as she swallowed, and I reached up to brush her neck with my fingers. She dropped her gaze to my chest, and I moved my hand back around to her ass to pull her closer to me. My hardened cock pressed against her, and her mouth opened with a slight gasp.

“So many months on the battlefield without a woman,” I whispered against her cheek. “Your scent is like strong wine, and I want to drink from you. You intoxicate me.”

“Tribunus…” Her voice trailed off again, and she looked away from me.

“Faustus,” I corrected. Again, the errant thought of her uttering my first name lingered in my mind. I took her chin in my fingers and turned her head toward my face.

“Faustus.” She moved her eyes back towards mine. Her desire was unmistakable, but there was hesitation. “Your wound; I fear you would harm yourself. If you lie quietly, I can still give you the release you need.”

“I may be willing to take the chance if it means burying myself inside of you.” I punctuated the words by pulling her stomach against my shaft. Her blush was my reward. Looking for more, I jerked my hips and pressed my cock further into her stomach.

My body seized up as I barely contained a scream. The pain up my side was excruciating, and as my body stiffened in response to the sudden pain, Aia pushed herself from my arms and immediately pressed her hand to the dressing. I didn’t have to look—I could feel the blood seeping from it.

“Lie back!” she said quickly, her voice ringing out a desperate tone. “Please, Faustus!”

With her hand on my shoulder, I was again placed on my back against the mattress. The muscles of my shoulders complained immediately, but it wasn’t as bad as the pain in my side. Aia pulled up the dressing for a moment and confirmed I had indeed ripped out some of the stitches.

“I’ll fetch Sergius.”

She was gone only a few moments, but in that time, sweat covered my brow and my breathing increased until I was panting to get enough air. My chest ached along with my side, and my head began to swim.

“What did you do, woman?” Sergius cried as he fussed over the bandages.

I looked up to her distressed face.

“I did it,” I growled through clenched teeth. Anger mixed with pain, and I found myself rising to her defense. “She tried to stop me, and I obviously should have listened.”

With the doctor’s wrath directed away from the young slave, she visibly relaxed, but the wariness didn’t leave her eyes. I looked from her to Sergius, trying to understand the dynamic between them, but I could determine nothing. Once again, Aia held me down as the doctor sutured the skin that had pulled away from the stitches.

“Do I need to strap you down, Tribunus?” the doctor asked.

I glared up at him, resenting his tone. It didn’t matter that he was trying to heal me; I still felt the desire to punish him for him impudence. I considered several options, including buying the hospital itself to keep him permanently under my thumb but knew such a thing would not serve Rome well. My loyalty was a singular thing, so I dismissed the thoughts in my head.

“You do not,” I replied.

He nodded succinctly, rechecked the dressing, and left us.

“Apologies, Tribunus,” Aia began as soon as he left the room. “I didn’t intend to-”

“Hush,” I commanded. “You did nothing.”

She remained unsettled until I reached out and took her by the hand. I smiled as best I could through the pain and pulled her closer to the bed.

“I have suffered far worse,” I told her. “This is not my first battle wound.”

Aia squeezed my hand gently before releasing it and moving back to her bench. She reached for a cloth and dipped it in a bowl of water and then ran the cool cloth over my forehead and down the side of my face. She continued, apparently determined to wash whatever remained of the blood of battle away from my flesh.

I closed my eyes and evened out my breaths as her ministrations lulled me. My shoulders still ached from the constant position against the bed, but I tried not to think of the discomfort. When I opened my eyes, I saw Aia looking down my body and couldn’t help but respond with a smile.

“Do you still think of it?”

Aia looked back at me.

“Of what, Faustus?”

“My cock pressed against your belly.”

She looked away, but I could still make out the crimson shade of her cheeks and neck in the glow of the candles on the table. I wanted to reach out and grab her hand again, but she was too far away.

“I’m still in need of distraction,” I reminded her.

“I think you need sleep,” Aia rebutted. Her lips pressed together, and I was sure she wanted to comment further, but chose not to do so. I found my eyes drawn to the front of her dress as she leaned over me, partially exposing one of her breasts.

Despite the discomfort, my cock took notice.

“Distract me,” I commanded again.

“I think you know everything about my life now, Faustus.”

“Then distract me another way,” I suggested. I kept my eyes on her, and when she looked to me, I raised an eyebrow and smiled suggestively.

Aia turned to drop the cloth in the bowl, and I watched her eyes as she looked down my body. From my supine position, the state of my cock was becoming noticeable. Her blush returned, and she looked back to the bowl again. Her hand trembled slightly as she wrung out the cloth and hung it beside the table.

Reaching out, I took her wrist and guided her hand to the hard length of my cock.

“How long will it be,” I asked with lowered voice, “until I can fill you with this?”

Aia’s lip trembled, and her eyelids fluttered as she looked from where her palm rested back to my eyes. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and the swell of her breasts beneath the sheer fabric of her dress rose and fell with her breathing.

“Ten days,” she said in a near-whisper. “Perhaps two weeks.”

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath through my nose. When I opened my eyes again, I caught a glimpse of Aia’s tongue as it darted over her full lips.

“A long time,” I said, “to lie with stiff cock.”

I felt her pull at her hand to remove it from the bulge beneath my undergarment, but I held her in place.

“Are you not here to give me comfort?”

“Yes, Faustus.” She looked at me.

“Then do you believe my length not enough to desire?” Again I raised an eyebrow and granted her half a smile.

“No!” she exclaimed in near-panic. “You are…quite grand.”

“Then become better acquainted with my grandeur,” I smirked.

“Feeling your desire for me is most overwhelming,” Aia admitted. “The honor of comforting a man of your grandeur has me anxious. I worry I will not be enough for you.”

Her flattery did not go unnoticed. I saw it not only with my eyes but also felt it in both heart and the hardened flesh beneath my subligarium.

“Your mouth draws forth the most beautiful music,” I said. “I would hear it sing to my cock.”

Her tongue darted out and traced her lips as she looked from our joined hands to my eyes. I held her gaze, but she remained hesitant.

“I would find it most relaxing,” I informed her.

She took a deep breath as she wet her lips again. She blinked rapidly a few times and then reached over with her other hand and removed my fingers from hers. She laid my hand at my side, and for a moment, I thought she might refuse me.

I would never press a woman, not even an unwilling slave, but I felt my chest constrict at the idea that this one—this beautiful Aia—would deny me what I wanted.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she tugged at my undergarment, unwrapping the top layer and pulling it down, exposing me to her. Without hesitation, she took my cock in her hand and gently ran her fingers up the shaft.

“Mmmm…” I moaned.

“Will you lie still?” Aia asked quietly.

“I will try,” I replied with another half-smile.

She looked at me, and her eyes sparkled as she stroked me again. She slid partway down the bench and positioned herself over my lower body. With her eyes still on mine, she leaned forward and took me again, this time in her luscious mouth.

After six months on the battlefield, I didn’t know how long I would be able to restrain myself.

Her mouth was warm and soft on my hardened cock, and she used her tongue expertly to flick against the tip, up one side, and down the other. Her hair fell around her shoulders and partially covered her face from my view until I reached down and wrapped it in my fingers. I did nothing to change her pace but only held her hair away from her beautiful face.

Her eyes held me as tightly as her mouth held my cock. She was beautiful and glorious as she moved her head up and down in perfect rhythm. There was no hesitation in her expression. Indeed, there was nothing there but raw desire, and it captivated me.

She is only a slave.

I found the errant thought curiously disturbing.

She glanced at me once before rising from her seat and releasing my cock from her warm lips. She moved deftly to straddle me low over my thighs, and her head tilted first one way and then the other as she appraised me. Leaning over, she met my eyes as she coursed her tongue over her lips, and the moisture across her mouth gleamed in the candlelight as her lips again wrapped around the head of my cock.

She lifted her head and ran her tongue over the end of my cock and then took me deeply into her mouth again. I groaned and forced my ass to remain against the bed as I grasped the edges of the cot with my fingers. My side ached, and I didn’t care. All my focus was on her lips and tongue. I relinquished control and basked in the warmth of her wet mouth as she moved expertly over my shaft.

I stared at the ceiling and let her set her own pace for a moment as I reveled in the feeling of her soft mouth over my hard length. Another moan escaped me, and I caught a slight movement near the door.

As I looked to the far side of the room, I saw that the doctor had returned. His eyes widened as he looked at the scene in front of him, glancing quickly from my face to Aia’s position on her knees, bent over my cock. Narrowing my eyes, I raised my hand and flicked it out towards him, motioning him away. We looked at each other for a short time before he nodded slightly and backed away.

With my full attention back on the mouth surrounding my cock, I reached down to her and closed my eyes again. Twisting my fingers around Aia’s silky hair, I pulled her head down a little farther over my shaft.

“How much of me can you take in that beautiful throat?” I asked. I brushed strands of her hair from her forehead as I gathered it up in my hand.

Aia looked to my eyes, and I watched her relax her jaw and open her mouth to engulf more of me. She retreated as her reflexes betrayed her but quickly sucked more of me into her mouth again.

“Far enough,” I informed her, stroking her cheek. I didn’t want her to push herself further than she was able just to appease me. I was quite appeased already. “Use your tongue on me.”

Clenching my teeth, I strained to keep my hips still and not thrust forcefully into her throat. Her mouth and tongue continued to envelop me over and over again as I fought to stay still. When she trailed her fingers over my balls, I could resist no longer. With a light tilting of my hips, I grunted as the buildup of pressure found its release onto her tongue.

She didn’t stop but increased the suction against my cock until she had claimed all I had to offer. I growled in the back of my throat appreciatively as she swallowed down my essence. When she slowly backed away and let my cock loose from her lips, she looked at me with satisfaction and pride.

For many moments, I kept my eyes locked with hers while I remained in utter awe.

“You have my gratitude,” I finally panted.

“Will you now grant me your sleep?”

I smiled, chuckled low, and nodded my head as she pulled my subligarium up my body. She smoothed it back into place over my flaccid cock and then ran her hand over my stomach. She checked the bandage at my side before positioning herself back at her bench. She pushed a strand of hair off my forehead and smiled at me.

The worth of this woman tripled in my hooded eyes.

III

“What thoughts are in that beautiful head of yours?” I asked as I reached for Aia’s hand.

We had not touched other than the common contact of nursemaid and wounded soldier since she had taken me in her mouth. Over the past few days, Aia told me more of her life, cleaned and dressed my wound, and slept on the bench beside me at night, but we had shared nothing more intimate. I had provided her with constant innuendo because the look on her lovely face at such words often made me smile.

“Nothing of consequence,” Aia said, but her blush betrayed her.

“I know exactly what brings that look into your eye,” I teased.

“What is that, Faustus?”

“The memory of my cock in your mouth and the taste of my seed on your tongue.” I was rewarded with her blush and shy glance, but no other response was forthcoming. With another woman—a Roman woman—I might have found her actions to be coy, but there was nothing coy about Aia. There was youth and innocence despite her position but nothing coy.

Unlike women in Rome, including my late wife, Aia did not attempt childish games with me. She was forthright and quite honest when pressed, which was wholly the opposite of the Roman women I had encountered. It was refreshing.

And alluring.

“Your mouth gave me more healing than any of the salves prepared by the good doctor,” I told her.

“You flatter,” Aia responded with a half-smile, “but healing your injury requires rest, not activity of a more strenuous nature.”

“Then spread your legs over my thighs,” I suggested. “I would promise to lie still and let you do all the work.”

She looked away from my eyes again, but I could still see the corners of her mouth turn up. Releasing my hand, she picked up a clay jar of whatever salve the doctor had prepared for me and began to remove the dressing from my wound. I swallowed down a gasp as her skilled fingers worked the ointment into the stitches.

Aia applied fresh dressing over my injury and washed her hands in a small tub near the door before returning to my side. I watched her intently until her blush returned, and she averted her eyes.

“Why do you look away from me?” I asked.

“I find your gaze to be…too intense at times.”

I considered her meaning as she leaned over me to straighten the linens around my shoulders. The teasing nature of Roman women entered my head, but I knew Aia was not teasing. I wondered what she meant by her words and found it concerning.

“You fear me?”

“No, Faustus.”

My own sense of relief at her denial of fear surprised me. I was used to people fearing me, both men and women, but I did not seek her fear.

“Then what?” I demanded. “Speak plainly.”

Our eyes met once more, and she held her gaze steady as she spoke.

“When you look at me like that, I feel quite warm inside.”

I could not stop my smile or the response of my cock at her words. I longed to warm her insides, and to feel the length of my cock buried within her. I was pleased to hear she didn’t fear me and pressed the issue.

“I could warm you further,” I offered with a raise of my eyebrows.

“You must remain still,” she said with barely a whisper. She finished straightening the linen on the bed below me and stood straight at my side. “I have concern you will be further injured.”

Reaching out, I took her hand in mine and pushed it down my body, over my stomach, and to the top of my subligarium, right above my hardened cock. Aia moistened her lips with her tongue as she stared down to where her hand covered me.

“Then you warm me.”

She took in a long, slow breath as her look darkened in desire. I observed in her eyes the moment she relented and felt a smile cross my face. She gave me the smallest of nods, and my smile widened.

I released her hand, and she drew it back slowly. Her fingers outlined me from base to tip as she reached for the top of my subligarium and loosened the woven fabric at my waist. I lifted my hips slightly to allow her to remove the cloth from me entirely, exposing my needy flesh to her eyes.

Aia knelt beside the cot and laid her head against my chest. Maneuvering my arm around to her back, I held her loosely as her hand trailed across my stomach. She took my cock in her hand and slowly stroked it as I leaned my head back and closed my eyes at the feeling.

She claimed my flesh with her fingers and palm, running them up and down slowly at first and then with an increased pace. I fought against the urge to lift my hips and meet her touch with more force. I feared moving too much, for she might be inclined to slow or even stop her actions. I slid my hand down to her thigh, pushed the hem of her dress out of my way, and found her bare ass with my hand.

I opened my eyes just a crack to watch her skilled hand on my flesh. My arm tightened around her waist as my fingers squeezed her backside. I wanted her to turn her face to me so I could capture her lips with my own, but she kept her eyes focused on her purpose. With her mouth slightly open and the sound of her shallow breaths in my ears, she was a heady sight.

I could hold back no longer.

“Aia…” I groaned as I released into her hand and across my stomach.

She continued to stroke me until I went soft in her palm and then slowly untangled herself from my arm to retrieve the cloth and bowl of water. She washed me first and then cleaned her own hand of my seed.

I watched her efficiency in silence.

* * *

After more than a week at the medicus’ residence, I was finally able to lie on my side. The relief I felt in my sore back and ass was enough to make me groan with pleasure as I relaxed into a different position. The gash down my side still ached, but the pain was much less than before.

With my back now facing Aia’s usual place on the bench beside the cot, I couldn’t see her, and I found the realization distressing. I called her over to the other side of the bed, and she complied. Kneeling beside the cot, she took my hand in hers.

“Are you in pain?” she inquired.

“Nothing of consequence,” I replied. I dropped my eyes to the linens on the bed and judged the space there.

“Come,” I said. As I pulled her hand, I saw hesitation in Aia’s eyes. “Lie here with me.”

“Will you be still?” she asked quietly.

I nodded once, and she hesitated but a moment before rising from the floor and positioning herself on the cot at my side. I wrapped my arms around her small form and held her against me. She placed her hand on my chest, carefully avoiding the dressings around my wound.

For some time, we simply lay together on the cot, and Aia distracted me with more tales of learning to bake when she was young. Her stories had become so vivid, I could practically smell the bread with the warm, intoxicating scents of wheat, yeast, and herbs as it was removed from the oven. The contrast to my own childhood was not lost on me. It conjured forth memories of my father, a cold and unforgiving man. He was absent for most of my young life as he took his place on the steps of the Senate where he still spent most of his days. I had often been told I resembled him in attitude. There were also brief glimpses of my mother, whose social obligations left me to be raised by the slaves of the household. I barely knew her before she died. I had heard rumors of my father having her killed, and I did not doubt them.

As daylight began to fade, Aia brushed her fingertips over my shoulder and began to remove herself to the bench where she usually slept.

“Would you stay beside me?” The thought left my lips in the form of a question, and I found it odd I had phrased it in such a way. I could have commanded her to do so, but I realized I wanted her to desire it as much as I did.

“Of course, Faustus,” Aia replied as she settled back into my arms.

“This room is cold,” I said. Why I found it necessary to explain myself was mystery. I looked down her body as I ran my hand from her hip up to her shoulder. “You are warm.”

Our eyes locked over each other’s gaze, and we both paused. If Caesar himself had entered the room, I couldn’t have drawn my look from her deep blue eyes. I was a prisoner to them. My fingers twitched without order from me to do so as I moved them from her shoulder back to her side. I realized I had not drawn breath since our eyes had met, and I attempted to release the air slowly.

I still hadn’t looked away from her gaze. Her eyes grew soft, hooded, and the desire I found in them unmistakable. Her fingers traced the planes of my chest and then continued down to my stomach.

“You touch me as a lover would,” I remarked, “not just as my nurse.”

I smiled at her blush as she looked away.

“I think you desire my touch,” I teased.

“You are gentle.”

I widened my eyes at her.

“Gentle?” I huffed a short laugh through my nose. “I have not ever heard that particular word used to describe me.”

I watched her for a long moment.

“What do you know of me?” I asked.

Aia moved her eyes to my chest as she spoke.

“You command one of Caesar’s legions in the west, against the Gauls,” she said. “You had a wife and child, but they passed into the afterlife some time ago, and you have never remarried. Your father is a senator in Rome, and your family holds more coin than the gods themselves.”

She looked back to me.

“Or so I have heard.”

My mouth twitched in a grin, but it was short-lived. What she knew was truth, but it was not the knowledge she needed to understand with whom she had lain.

“I am a soldier,” I said quietly. “I’ve moved through your homeland, destroying everything I encountered—burning villages, killing men, enslaving children, and raping women before I slit their throats—and you call me gentle?”

I felt her body tense at my harsh words, and my stomach twisted. Oddly enough, it was important to me that she knew the black heart of the man she apparently desired.

“You are gentle with me,” was all she whispered in reply.

I suppose I had been, in my own way. I’d also snapped at her more frequently than not, but I did hold her in highest appreciation for her steadfastness. Yes, she had been commanded to tend to me, but the manner in which she did so was more than expected. Still, her description of me I found most inaccurate, and as I thought a moment, I wondered what young Aia may have endured at the hands of her Dominus that made her consider me anything but a brute.

“And your master?”

She tilted her head away from my gaze.

“He is…rough and quick.” There was more to her thoughts than her mouth revealed, but I decided not to press the issue. I didn’t want my own mind to wander in the direction of Aia in the arms of her Dominus. Considering how many business ventures Cassianus indulged, I doubted he spent much time at the hospital at all. I hadn’t laid eyes on the man since I had arrived.

“The doctor?” I inquired, and her lips turned into a tight-lipped smile.

“A brooding soul,” she said, “and one who prefers the company of men. He is quite harsh at times and quick to…to discipline.”

The idea enraged me.

What I said to her before was true—I was considered more beast than man when it came to my enemies. I cared not for the outcome of those I sent into slavery or to the mines and was more likely to order the deaths of my captives than bother with forcing them into servitude. Those who did not see the value of the Roman Empire and Caesar’s rule were irrelevant; their choice was to succumb or perish. They would either die at my hands on the battlefield or serve Rome in some other capacity until their untimely deaths at the hands of their masters or in the gladiators’ arena. The unfamiliar concern for how the doctor treated this young slave girl sat in the pit of my gut like sour wine.

Did my own slaves fare better?

No, they were often worse off at the hands of their betters in my household, but I cared nothing for them. They could all be replaced with a handful of coins. But Aia? She was different.

I trailed my fingers up her side and over her arm. When I reached her shoulder, my hand lingered and experienced the softness of her warm skin for a moment. I dragged my tongue over my dry lips as I cupped her chin and finally looked back to her eyes.

They were wide, deep blue, and they burned into me. I moved slowly as I changed my focus to her full lips, to her eyes, and then back again. Diminishing the gap between us to nothing, our lips finally met. I could feel my body’s desire to invade her mouth with my tongue as I would invade the lands of the savages fighting against Rome, but I restrained myself.

Gentle.

I pressed my lips firmly but slowly. I tilted my head first one way and then the other. She warmed my lips, and I felt her mouth part for me when I pressed my tongue to her. Moving my hand to the back of her head, I entwined my fingers in her hair and held her fast as I tasted her.

My cock took notice of the close proximity of her thighs, and made itself known to her. My hands traveled over the skin of her back, and her warmth seeped into me. I pushed the top of her dress away from her shoulders, exposing her firm breasts to my eyes. Needing more, I dropped my hand to her thigh and pushed the cloth of her dress up, exposing her backside. Reaching low, my hand found the sweet spot between her thighs.

She was wet with her desire, and I found the will to resist the pain in my side much weaker than the will to keep my cock from finding its way into her body. I pushed at the top of my subligarium, releasing my turgid shaft.

“Please,” Aia whispered as our lips parted, “let me offer you release as I have before.”

“I do not want simple release,” I said, shaking my head. “I want to feel your body give way to mine. I want to feel your flesh engulf my cock. I want to taste your sweat as we merge into one. Simple release is no longer enough.”

“Faustus…”

“Lucius,” I said as my mouth covered hers again,

“Lucius,” she repeated in a moan against my lips.

The thoughts in my head beat against my skull as a warhorse’s hooves beat the ground of the battlefield in pursuit of a retreating enemy. My heart pounded in my chest at the sound of my name. With my cock in hand, I pressed the tip to the apex of her legs, seeking entrance. The need to be inside her was overwhelming, and holding back no longer seemed possible.

I was not an emotional man; some would say to a fault. Perhaps it was the awkward position of needing her these past weeks that brought such feelings into my soul, or maybe it was just Aia—her demeanor, her deep blue eyes, and her soft, caring hands.

Breaking our kiss, I stared at her for a long moment. With my cock mere inches from its goal, I slipped my hand from her hair, traced a fingertip over her cheek, down her jawline, and finally cupped her chin. I kissed her again, and she again moaned.

“Lucius…”

“Beautiful music,” I said quietly as I traced my thumb over her lower lip. “Do you enjoy the taste of my name in your mouth?”

I didn’t wait for her response but pressed my lips to hers. I moved slowly against her, just barely touching her lips with my tongue. Her hot breath covered my face, and I again gripped my shaft and positioned myself to claim her.

She enveloped me, embraced me, and drew me in. She slowly raised her leg up and over my hip, careful not to brush against the wound at my side, and I pulled her ass against me to bury myself in her completely.

“Slowly,” she whispered. “Please, Lucius.”

I thrilled to the idea, holding her softly in my arms as I moved our bodies together. Her skin was like silk beneath my palms, and the sweet smell of her breath surrounded me. Taking her slowly was all too glorious a plan though my cock wanted its release. She felt magnificent…divine…right.

Aia moved with me, attempting to better the angle to ease my passage in and out of her warm channel. I could feel the heel of her foot against the lower part of my back as she pulled me into her in slow, peaceful rhythms. The action still pained my side, but I ignored it.

With my hand over her ass, I thrust deep inside her and stayed where I was, rotating my hips against her pubic bone in slow, rhythmic circles. Aia gasped, and her hand moved to clench my arm as she looked up into my eyes, and I captured her mouth.

She moaned as I moved, nearly crying out as my tongue searched her mouth and found the sweetest of treasures there. No amount of coin could compare with this. There was no price to be put on the feeling I experienced as we moved together.

Grinding against her body, I stayed deep inside of her and watched her face as she began to come apart. Aia tightened her leg around my backside as she gripped the tops of my arms. Her mouth fell open, and the sweetest, most incomprehensible sound escaped from it as her body tensed around my cock.

She nearly collapsed in my arms, and I had to move my hand down her back and grip her firmly as I continued to plow into her. Sweat covered my brow, chest, and back. The pain in my side increased, but it didn’t matter. With a grunt, I buried myself within her, retreated, and stabbed forward again as I tried to hold a scream inside my throat.

My thighs and stomach clenched and tingled as the swelling sensation began in my balls and refused to be held back any longer. With a final thrust of my hips, I emptied my seed deep inside of her.

With eyes clenched shut, my body shuddered as I held myself against her hips. I dared not move, because when I did, it would be over. I didn’t know if I would have another opportunity to lie with her like this again, and I dreaded the end of our coupling.

“Are you hurt?” Aia whispered quietly. She shifted to check my side, and my cock slid from her. I cringed from the cold air more so than the light touch of her hand on my bandages.

“It is of no concern,” I replied as I opened my eyes. “Each pain was worth the effort.”

We locked eyes, and again we seemed unable to look away. Aia’s fingers moved up to trace the edge of my jaw, and I leaned into her touch. My heart began to pound in my chest, and I wondered if she had any idea what she was doing to me.

With my arms holding her against my body, we both lay back against the bed and fell into sleep. My head filled with dreams of the young slave, cooking in the kitchen of my villa back in Rome.

I woke sometime in the night to find Aia still wrapped in my embrace. She was curled against my chest, and her slim fingers lay softly over my heart. Her dress was pulled down in the front, exposing her firm, young breasts, and the bottom half of her gown was bunched around her waist. I toyed with the edge of her clothing, rubbing the fabric between my fingers and then wrapped my arm back around her middle to pull her a little closer to me.

Her thigh brushed against my cock, and I closed my eyes. I breathed slowly for a moment to calm myself. Although the idea of having her wake with my cock in her body was attractive, I didn’t wish to disturb her slumber. Instead, I took the opportunity to study her carefully.

Her hair hung down her back and covered part of her shoulder in golden waves. Tilting my head, I examined her smooth flesh in the glow of the warm candlelight and the contrast of the pale skin tone with the cold bronze of the collar around her neck. I resisted the urge to remove the band from her throat to keep it from disturbing the transition of her form from neck to shoulder.

Closing my eyes again, I absorbed the feeling of her body against mine. Memories of my late wife entered my head, and I recalled times I would wake to find her in my arms in similar fashion. There had been little love between us, but my passion for her remained strong until the birth of our child, when my wife fell ill.

The turmoil inside me now, though laced with similar passion, was very different from the emotions felt for the woman I had married. The feeling seized me, called to me, and terrified me.

I should not feel so for a slave.

Even as the thought entered my head, I dismissed it. I was a Tribunus. I was used to taking what I wanted and dealing with whatever consequences might come later. Why should I treat my desire for a slave any differently than how I would treat my desire to conquer the western lands?

I would not.

I would take her as I have taken everything I’ve wanted.

Aia stirred in my arms. She hummed from the back of her throat before shifting her head and opening her eyes to look into mine. I smiled immediately, and she returned the expression.

“How do you fare?” Aia asked quietly.

“I fare well, waking to such beauty.”

Her smile turned shy as she looked away, causing my heart to race in the presence of her seemingly innocent expression, a strange look from one who had so recently serviced me so well.

“Do you know your worth?” I asked abruptly.

“My worth?”

I steadied my breathing to slow my heart as I stared into her eyes.

“You have skill with medicines,” I said, “but you are still nothing but a slave. The good doctor could train another to hand him his bandages and ointments.”

Aia blinked, opened her mouth slightly, but then closed it again without making comment.

“Two coins, at most,” I said succinctly. “I’d say one, but you are not without other merits which make you desirable.”

She turned her head from my gaze, but I could see the crestfallen look on her face. I would take it no further, the point driven.

“Aia, you mistake my intention.” Though it pained me slightly, I raised my body to prop myself up on one elbow as I looked down at her. “I wish to possess you…completely. I want you to be mine and mine alone.”

She shook her head slightly, her confusion apparent on her face. I fought with my tongue to find the right words to explain myself.

“I want you to bake bread,” I finally said, “just for me—here in this place, on the battlefield, in my villa in Rome.”

She turned her head back to me, her eyes searching for answers. She seemed in shock and unable to speak in response, so I made my intentions clear.

“I would give you worth,” I stated.

For a moment, I thought I saw her eyes swell with tears before she blinked rapidly, and they were gone. Her hands began to shake, and I wrapped my fingers around them.

“Aia—will you bake bread for me?”

Her beautiful lips parted and gave me my answer.

“Yes, Lucius.”

A noise off to my side informed me of the return of Sergius. I looked to the doctor with a scowl as Aia quickly pushed herself away from me and stood beside the cot, straightening her dress. The doctor glared at her as he approached and checked my dressing.

“You are coming along nicely,” he said. He stood and looked to Aia. “A word, slave.”

I saw her hands tremble at his command.

“I will have words with you,” I said quickly to the doctor. He paused and nodded. “My progress is sufficient, and I will begin to make plans to return to the legion camp.”

“You are not yet ready for battle, Tribunus,” he said. “Another week, perhaps two-”

“I’ll be returning to the legion camp in two days,” I informed him. “I can continue to heal from there. You will prepare all that I need to take with me to further my recovery.”

“If you insist, Faustus.”

“I do.” I sat up slightly and looked from the doctor to the slave girl and then back again. “I wish to speak to Cassianus. Bring him to me.”

“He is likely on his way to the gladiatorial games,” Sergius said. “Juno’s day approaches.”

“Upon his return then.”

“I will inform him of your desire for audience.”

I glared up at the doctor.

“You will inform him that he has been summoned,” I corrected. “I expect him here.”

“Of course, Tribunus.”

He again checked the dressing on my wound in silence, poured another cup of foul liquid down my throat, and took his leave, his plan to discipline Aia forgotten. I took the opportunity to continue my previous conversation with the slave.

“I would give you worth,” I told her.

“I don’t understand, Faustus.”

“I will buy you from your master,” I clarified, “and you will accompany me to my camp. You will continue to tend my wound and provide me with other distractions from the battlefield.”

Her eyes widened as she stared at me.

“Are you agreeable?” I asked. Her preferences should not have mattered to me, but still I inquired. My eyes bore into her as she looked at me with awe. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed and nodded her head.

“Yes, Lucius,” she said softly. “I would be most grateful.”

A slow smile spread across my face as I saw the truth of her words in her deep blue eyes. She wanted this as much as I did.

“Then it will be done,” I swore to her softly.

Her agreement brought a smile to my lips, and again her worth to me increased.

IV

“Bring Antonius to me.”

I clenched my teeth and stood on shaky legs as Cassianus watched me warily.

“Sergius tells me you are not yet fit for travel,” he said. “He says you need more time to heal. A few more weeks at the hospital will undoubtedly-”

“To further line your pockets for treatments?” I interrupted with a snort. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I fear you would be forced to make another long journey, forced to return here when your wound becomes inflamed,” Cassianus said with conviction. “By the gods, you must stay with us another week at the very least.”

“No.”

“A few days, then,” he insisted. “Allow my skilled doctor to continue to treat you. You are far too important to the Emperor to allow you to leave without proper care at your disposal. Sergius says you need many medicines still, and they must be properly administered to ensure their affect.”

I sighed outwardly. Inside, I felt nothing but the smug sensation of having him fall into such words so easily. I couldn’t have scripted his role with any greater accuracy than he offered me on his own. It was exactly as I had planned.

“I’ll take that nursemaid slave,” I said with a dismissive flick of my hand, as if the thought had just occurred to me, “the one who has hung about here like one of Juno’s tits just waiting for me to come up with the desire to suckle. She’s done more for my care than your doctor. I’ll take her with me.”

“Aia?” Cassianus asked. “She belongs to me.”

“Yes, a Roman citizen sold into slavery to cover the debts of her father,” I sneered. “You apparently support the breaking of our laws. Perhaps I should make that known to your friends in the Senate.”

He blanched as his eyes widened. As soon as I saw his reaction, I knew he had already been aware of her circumstances. I felt my muscles tighten and considered destroying the man in front of me. Had I been uninjured, I would have done so.

“What is her worth?” I said as I turned to stare him in the eye. There would be no backing down from this, and I wanted to be sure he knew I was quite serious in my intentions. I intended to make Aia mine, and it would be so. He would either agree without argument, or he would discover just how much wrath I could bring upon him and his household.

She will be mine.

“She’s a hard-working slave,” he said as he rubbed at his chin. “She’s learned much during her time-”

“So train another,” I interrupted. Again, I waved my hand at him. “I’ll buy this one from you for five coins—easily three times her price.”

“It is not in my plan to sell her,” he said. He set his jaw as he stared into my eyes.

Forcing myself to my full height, I stepped closer to the man and looked down upon him.

“I suggest a change of plans is in your interest,” I informed him. “You undoubtedly know my reputation for getting what I want. I suggest you consider your next words very carefully, or you’ll discover just how determined a man you face.”

He darted his tongue across his dry lips, considered for a moment, and then nodded.

“Five denarii,” he capitulated, and I smiled as I handed him his coin.

She is mine.

Sergius and Aia returned from the far room, and the doctor walked to his employer’s side. Before he could speak, Cassianus turned to him.

“Faustus shall be leaving us,” Cassianus stated to the medicus. He glanced sideways at me before looking to the slave. “Aia, prepare yourself. You will be leaving with the Tribunus.”

“Dominus?” she questioned as she looked to him.

“No more,” he said with a shake of his head. “You belong to Faustus now and will address him accordingly.”

She looked quickly from Cassianus to me and nodded her head.

“Of course,” she replied. A hint of a smile graced her lips as she bowed slightly in my direction. “Dominus.”

Within the hour, we were on the same rickety cart and headed north.

“Your plans to return to battle concern me,” Antonius stated as the driver of the cart shook the reins and the horses leapt forward. “Both the medicus and Cassianus expressed worry over your condition. They say you are not yet fit.”

“My worth as Tribunus cannot be measured from a hospital bed,” I said. “I must be with the men.”

“And how shall your worth be measured if you go into battle already hindered?”

Antonius and I exchanged glances, and I took a long breath.

“I return to my tent only,” I reassured him. “I can lead for now without fighting.”

Antonius looked to the slave woman wrapped in a blanket as the cart pulled us north. Her eyes did not leave the ground, but I was sure he saw her slight smile. He looked back to me with raised brow.

“As you desire, Faustus,” he said.

“I do desire,” I replied softly. I reached over and placed my hand on Aia’s thigh, gripping it gently as she looked into my eyes and held me there.

* * *

I pushed aside the entrance to the tent and made my way inside with Antonius right behind me. My side ached slightly though months had passed since I was first injured. I no longer walked with a limp, which was more important to me than any pain I still felt. Showing weakness to the men under my command would not serve me well.

A large table near the tent’s entrance displayed an exemplar of the battlefield beyond the camp. I reached for a handful of carved wooden horses and soldiers decorated with the colors of the Gaul’s flag and removed them from the map. Only a few still remained on the display, and they would fall soon.

“How many hauled back to camp?” I asked.

“Some three hundred,” Antonius said. “Many are decidedly unruly. They will not be easily contained for long.”

I considered for half a moment.

“Kill the prisoners,” I said, and Antonius nodded his agreement. “I have neither the time nor the desire to break them. What of those not captured?”

“The few remaining are in hasty retreat,” Antonius informed me.

Movement toward the back of my tent caught my eye as Aia rose from the place where she sat slicing fresh bread for our dinner. I watched her closely, her presence ever calming me as she began to light candles to combat the fading daylight.

“Aia—bring wine,” I ordered.

“Yes, Dominus.” Aia quickly retrieved a jug of wine and two cups from the far side of the tent and brought them to me. She laid them on the table and poured carefully, never spilling a drop. I watched her as she completed her task and retreated into the shadows, my eyes drawn to her belly for a moment before I looked back to the wine in front of me and brought the cup to my lips.

“Your slave appears…well rounded,” Antonius remarked with a low chuckle.

His words drew my eyes back to her form, and I surveyed her voluptuous ass and breasts before my eyes moved back to the slight swell of her stomach. Though still subtle, her condition would soon be well known to all who cared to observe.

“She does,” I agreed with a smile. Though it was not my intent, news of my child growing inside of Aia had been most welcome. She had been frightened to tell me at first, fearing my displeasure and possible command to rid herself of the bastard, but I would not give voice to such an order. I desired a child from her belly, and once she knew my position, she seemed quite pleased.

“An interesting conundrum,” he said.

“How so?”

Antonius looked at me.

“A child of a slave is still a slave,” he said, “unless you intend to give validity to their position?”

His tone was a question, but he knew as well as I that I could never do so. It was not a new thought to me but one I had been considering for some time now.

“Her station will not change,” I said quietly. “If the child is a son…”

I paused and sighed. I had no answer for my prefect, for my eyes could not see what the future held. I would be more inclined to acknowledge a son to continue my family line, but there were those in the Senate that would be displeased.

“I cannot predict where the gods will take us,” I finally said. “I shall endure what comes when the time is right. Dwelling will not change outcome.”

Antonius nodded, completed his report of the battle, and started to take his leave.

“Antonius, pause a moment,” I said.

“Tribunus?”

“I beg a favor,” I stated as I looked at him pointedly.

He returned my gaze and nodded his head.

“Your will, Faustus.”

I glanced at Aia and swallowed a lump in my throat.

“Despite healed wound, I was nearly cut again,” I told him.

“I observed,” he said with a nod. “I was close at your side; I would not have allowed you to fall.”

I inclined my head in silent gratitude.

“Still, there is always risk, is there not?”

“There is.”

I looked back to Aia where she busied herself with the fresh bread, oblivious to my words. The smell made my mouth water.

“I have concern for my slave,” I admitted as I looked back to him, “and the child she carries if I were to fall. I want your word that you would ensure her safety and care.”

“Clarify your meaning,” Antonius said.

“I cannot will either her or the child my legacy,” I said. “If I die in battle, they will have no protection or funds to provide for them. She would become my father’s property.”

“You speak truth,” Antonius agreed.

“I would have you take her,” I said as I grasped his forearm, “and the child.”

Widening his eyes, he straightened his back and raised his eyebrows at me.

“You are my oldest friend,” I said. “I would trust no one else with their care.”

Antonius blinked a few times before resolve settled in his eyes.

“I will,” he said simply. “You are my commander and friend. I would treat them as my own family as long as they live.”

I gripped his arm slightly before releasing him.

“You have my gratitude,” I said. I nodded towards the large trunk near my sleeping area. “I have placed inside my trunk the necessary documents for the sale of her and her offspring to you, along with enough coin to provide for them. If I fall, retrieve this immediately—before my father learns of my death. Move Aia to your tent and speak nothing of her unless pressed. It would be better for others to assume she had been in your hands for some time.”

“Of course,” he said. We clasped arms once more before Antonius retired to his own tent.

As soon as the flap of the tent shielded us from those outside, Aia was quickly by my side and began to remove my armor. She laid it expertly aside before retrieving a bowl of water, warmed by the fire. I watched her in silence as she took a soft cloth, wet it, and began to wash me. She appraised my body with her eyes as she went about her work, and the deep devotion I saw in them brought a smile to my lips.

It had been like this since the day we arrived at camp. Aia adjusted quickly to her surroundings and took joy in caring for me as if she were my legal wife. The others did not notice her as anything more than a common slave in my eyes, which served us both well.

With the washing complete, she silently tore pieces of bread from the loaf and slipped them past my lips. It was a silent undertaking and one I found most enticing. Once fed, I retreated to the bed and pulled back the coverings.

“Come lie beside me,” I commanded. “I’ve been cold and desire your warmth.”

Aia obliged, dropped her dress to the floor, and then curled herself against my body as I wrapped my arms around her. I trailed my fingers over the flesh of her stomach and breasts as she reached up to touch the side of my face.

“I feared when you did not return last night,” she said.

Watching her eyes, I saw her deep concern for my well-being inside of them. The conversation with Antonius played through my mind. I hadn’t considered how much she may have indulged in similar thought and wondered if it was something that worried her greatly.

“Have no concern,” I said to her as I stroked her cheek. “I will not fall.”

She nodded, for she would not disagree with me. I toyed with thoughts of explaining to her what I had arranged, but I could not risk it. If she were to tell anyone else, even the child after it was born, it could jeopardize the legality of their sale, and I would not risk such a thing. My father knew nothing of my slave lover, and I would keep it that way.

Moving to distract her from brooding thought, I brought my lips to her neck and kissed her softly. She responded with tilted head to grant ease of access and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I moved my mouth up her throat until I reached her ear.

“I desire the embrace of your thighs,” I said.

“Anything, Dominus.”

“Not here,” I whispered in her ear. She was always so careful when she addressed me, I wondered if she sometimes forgot my feelings for her.

“Faustus,” Aia corrected herself.

“No, not that name either.” My lips moved back down her throat and I nipped at her skin. “In this bed, I am always Lucius to you.”

“Lucius,” she echoed. She ran her hands up my sides and over my arms to my shoulders. She tightened her fingers against my skin as I continued moving down her throat with my mouth.

With practiced touch, I found the warmth between her legs with my fingers, and brought forth her moisture as her hips rocked against me. As soon as her breath turned to panting against my chest, I guided my cock to her entrance and delved into her body.

I moved slowly, not just to save my strength or for the sake of my exhausted body, but also to give her the full pleasure of my deep penetrations. Only she saw this other side of me—the gentler man who desired nothing more than her company and her warm sex—and only when we were alone inside the tent.

Moving my hips, I thrust deep inside of her, enjoying her muffled cries of pleasure against my shoulder. I continued back and forth until Aia arched her back. She pressed her head to the sheets as she gripped my forearms and cried out into the cool night air. I followed soon after, muffling a moan against the skin of her neck.

For many minutes, I held her tight against me. I listened to her breathing as it slowed and felt her light touch over my arms. She soothed me, and the memories of battle violence faded from my head as her touch consumed all thoughts.

“I want you to be mine,” I whispered in her ear as I trailed kisses up and down her throat. My hand graced over the swell of her stomach, and Aia laid her hand over the top of mine.

“I already belong to you,” she reminded me.

“Owning your body is not enough for me,” I replied. I moved my hand to the place right above her left breast. “I want your heart, for that is where your true worth lies.”

She looked at me, and her eyes shone with tears.

“It is yours, Lucius,” she said. Her voice broke slightly. “Since the day you first touched me, it has been yours.”

In my own heart, I knew I could never make it more than this—more than her in my bed as my slave and concubine—but I would do everything within my power to make her feel like more. With every touch, I would show her what she meant to me.

Her worth was mine.

~the end~

These Men

Andrea Smith

acknowledgements

Thank you to my Facebook Street Team - each and every one of you for your continued support and reminders that yes, I could write this story, because time and time again, I had my doubts!

To Ashlee Porte, who I can always count on to tell me like it is - love you!

To my comrades in The Erotica Consortium: C.D. Reiss, Shay Savage, K. Bromberg, JA Huss, KI Lynn, Ella James, and Alessandra Torre - you ladies are awesome and I totally love what you write! It was an honor and a pleasure to have my novella introduced as part of "Bend."

And a special shout-out to Author Kennedy Kelly, Janett Gomez, Nicole Duke and Kandace Milostan for beta feed-back! You ladies rock!

Cover Design: Louisa Maggio @ L.M. Creations

Editing: Janell Parque

Formatting: Tami Norman

playlist for "These Men"

"Sexual Thing" - Poison

"My Prerogative" - Bobby Brown

"I Want Your Sex" - George Michaels

"Money for Nothing" - Dire Straits

"Losing My Religion" - R.E.M.

"Waiting on the World to Change" - John Mayer

"Something To Talk About" - Bonnie Raitt

"Who Says You Can't Go Home" - Bon Jovi

"Dreams" - The Cranberries

"We Belong" - Pat Benatar

"I'll Stand By You" - The Pretenders

prologue

I'd been on the road for three days and, to be honest, I was tired of seeing green and white signs along the side of the road, charting my progress, or lack thereof, as the case might be, and staying in flea bag motels because of my strained budget. Traveling across the country sounded awesome until around the end of day two. Now, it was simply a matter of my being impatient to reach my destination.

Here I was, Paige Elizabeth Matthews, 22 years-old, leaving my parents' home in Napa, California to carve out a career and an appropriate life for myself—that was how my father had put it to me. In other words, I was being shoved from the nest for my own good.

It wasn't as if I hadn't been raised or educated properly, because I had. I'd graduated in January from Cal State with a degree that was of little use to me in Napa, but which would serve me well with some government agency such as say, the FBI? Yep, according to my father, that would be a perfect fit for me and my degree.

Yeah, I knew he'd been on the phone several times with my older brother, Trace, who was moving his way up the bureau ladder in D.C. I had relented and filled out the application for an administrative internship at my parents' urging. I assumed my brother had pulled the appropriate strings to get me selected for the program.

Sweet.

I was okay with it; I mean there was nothing to keep me in Napa. No love connections, no attachments with close friends. I'd never been much of the girly-girl who had a flock of BFFs that I shared everything with while we shopped or had our nails done.

In that respect, I was kind of a loner. Truth be told, I related much better with the male species than the female. It was probably because I'd been raised around vineyards, and the fact that vineyards employed a lot of guys made it just that much more convenient. And, to be honest? I enjoyed the attention of men. Actually, craved the attention of men might be more accurate.

Maybe too much.

I knew that was yet another reason my parents were kind of eager to send me off. They weren't always comfortable with my "appreciation" of the opposite sex. The fact that I had been dating several different guys simultaneously had seemed to cause them a fair amount of angst over the last several months, especially when they had gotten their names mixed up time and time again.

They would go on and on about how proud they were that my oldest brother, Easton - who I barely knew - had settled down in the U.S. with his new wife, Darcy, and their baby boy, Weston.

From there, the conversation moved onto Trace, and about how he too, had settled down…and how much they loved his wife, Lindsey, and how proud they were of their beautiful grand-babies Harper and Jackson.

They wanted the same for me—that was obvious. I just wasn't really sure if I wanted that; I couldn’t picture myself living that kind of a life—at least not for a very long time. I hadn't really had any serious relationships and my instinct told me that was because I hadn't found my demographic yet—if that makes any sense at all.

I pulled off at the next exit to fill my gas tank and give Trace a quick call on my cell, to let him know that I'd be reaching their place in another few hours.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me as I fumbled with the gas cap and got the pump going. It was damp and chilly; the remnants of winter were still in the air for the first of March in eastern Pennsylvania.

He answered his cell, recognizing my number. "Where are you?" he asked, as if he were worried.

"Somewhere in Pennsylvania," I answered, chewing on a nail. "I should be at your place before dark."

"Okay, Paige, we'll be here. Drive carefully, you hear?"

"Yes, Trace," I sighed, rolling my eyes. He could be caring I suppose, but I also knew he was doing this more for Mom and Dad than for me. We just were too far apart in age to be that close.

"We're looking forward to having you stay with us," he lied, "Lindsey's got your room waiting for you. I think you're really going to like the internship, Paige. I think it just might be what you need."

I sighed. "Thanks for letting me stay with you guys. I'll try to stay out of your way, I promise."

Silence.

"See you soon," he said.

chapter 1

I fumbled with the lock on the front door, trying to shift the bags of groceries I had in my arms to one side in order to turn the knob. I was kind of worn out and it was just past noon.

My lovely sister-in-law, Lindsey, had left me with a full shopping/errand list this morning, rousing my ass out of bed at seven-thirty. On a Saturday no less.

I'd been up fairly late, getting a lecture from big brother Trace, right before he left on some covert FBI mission. His lecture was all about earning my keep around here, acting responsibly, setting a better example for the babies. He felt that I could be a bigger help to Lindsey, when she had clients to visit with the little decorating business she and her mother Samantha had going, yadda, yadda, yadda.

"Paige," Trace had said, his voice carrying that serious, authoritative and slightly-tyrannical tone that he almost never used with Lindsey. "Lindsey and I talked about you doing a little more pitching in around here. It's not like you pay rent or anything, so how's about taking on some responsibilities and maybe curtailing some of the partying?"

"I don't mind helping out," I shrugged, "but what's the deal with my partying?" I questioned, eying my older brother warily.

"Hey, what you do and who you do it with is your business—don't get me wrong. I know you're only twenty-two and just now getting out from under Mom and Dad's roof, but we've got kids here—babies, and well…"

He was obviously uncomfortable with the subject matter, so I took the opportunity to interrupt. "Look, Trace, if it's a problem that I brought a couple of guys here for the night, I just won't do it anymore. But Christ, it's not like Harper and Jackson are old enough to know what's going on. I mean, seriously?"

"It's not just the fact that you brought a couple of random dudes home over the past few weeks, it's that you've shown a total disregard for the rest of us, you know?"

"No, I'm not following you, big brother," I semi-snapped. "It's not as if I fucked them on the spotless floor of your family room, while you and Lindsey were watching 'Criminal Minds.'"

His green eyes blazed an ultra shade of pissed.

"You're loud and disruptive when you…entertain, Paige. It makes Lindsey uncomfortable, and uh…me too. Lindsey and I would prefer that you not do that anymore. It'd be better if you stay over at your boyfriend's places in the future."

"Boyfriends?" I snorted with a laugh. "They weren't boyfriends, they were hook-ups. And are you seriously gonna sit there and act like you never had casual sex? That every chick you've ever laid was a girlfriend? Because if you say yes, then I'm calling you out on it."

I started to get up to leave the room, but Trace wasn't finished with the lecture just yet.

"Hold up, Paige. Look, I'm not one to lecture you on the moral fine points of 'hooking up' or having fuck buddies. And for the record, my sexual history is none of your goddamn business, and it's not part of this conversation, because I'm not gonna preach like that. What I am gonna tell you is that this is our home and you will respect the ground rules, or you'll have to move out. Got it?"

Fuck, he's pissed.

I shrugged, clasping my hands together. "Sure. I apologize, Trace. It won't happen again."

Right then and there I knew that my living arrangement wasn't going to work. Somewhere along the way, Trace had been domesticated.

Huh, who'd have thought?

It wasn't like I’d seen him a lot over the past say, twelve or thirteen years, but Holy Mother of Christ, I could see that my good ol’ big brother was indeed pussy-whipped. Certainly not the same guy that left Napa all of those years ago with a bevy of blondes mourning his departure.

My other older brother, Easton, was even more of a stranger to me than Trace. Probably because he hadn't been born to my mother. I had only brief, scattered memories of him growing up. He would stay with us during the summers back then. I had been in pigtails and braces at the time, but I had seen more of him over the past few weeks since I'd been here, than over the twenty-two years that I'd been on this planet.

His wife, Darcy, seemed like a pretty cool chick. She and Lindsey were tight, both being the same age and having been friends before they became sisters-in-law, but for whatever reason, I could relate to Darcy more than I could to Lindsey.

Yeah, they were like a little over a year older than me, but with having kids and all that, I guess it put them in a different maturity category; though, if I were a betting person, I'd say that Darcy had done her share of dudes, more so than Lindsey for sure.

I filed that away for future reference. If Trace and Lindsey were going to be so fucking uptight, maybe Easton and Darcy would open their huge house to little sister. I doubted that my craving for…male attention would be as off-putting over there as it apparently was over here.

Pfft!! Was Lindsey up-tight or what?

I was overjoyed that she'd taken the rug rats with her today. I don't think I could've accomplished everything she had put on my 'to-do' list while having to drag those two along with me. Harper was at least somewhat manageable at two and a half, but Jackson was another fucking story. I mean, I don't do diapers.

At all.

I knew that someday I would, because having a little rug rat of my own was in the plan—eventually. But that was a long ways off.

I'd been at Trace and Lindsey's for about six weeks now. I had started going through my P.T. at Quantico a few weeks ago. (P.T. means Physical Training for those of you not familiar with military lingo.) And let me add that physical training is a bitch under any circumstances, but for someone who hadn't bothered to condition before starting the program (like me) it was damn near suicide.

I gathered up the groceries, taking them into the kitchen and setting them on the countertop.

Fuck!

Lindsey had added yet another one of her pink post-it notes to the fridge.

What now?

She must've stopped home while I was out.

(Beotch.)

Paige - Forgot to tell you that I have a plumber stopping by this afternoon between one and two. He's to fix the shower in the master bath and leave the bill with you. - L

Okay, whatevs.

At least I didn't have to go back out. Trying to navigate around the metropolitan D.C. area was a bitch. Hell, I don't know how many times I ended up in Maryland instead of freakin' Virginia!

I had just finished putting the groceries away when there was a knock on the door. I opened it to a dark-haired, brown-eyed dude that had a fucking tool belt on.

Damned if he wasn't built, too.

"Hey," he said, and I noticed right off that his voice was deep and sexy. "I'm scheduled to check out a leaking shower faucet in the master bath. Are you Mrs. Matthews?"

"Hi," I said, flashing him a smile as I opened the door wider to let him in. "Actually, I'm the sister-in-law from hell," I joked. "But Lindsey did leave a note saying you'd be here. Come on in."

Now it was his turn to flash a smile at me, showing perfectly even white teeth. The name embroidered on his blue work shirt read "Jason."

"Well, Jason," I said, with just a hint of flirtation, "Let me show you the way."

Fuck, his hair was thick and curly. His arms and shoulders were muscular; belly flat. I was guessing he was late twenties, possibly thirty.

Did I mention he was wearing a tool belt?

Yep—definitely loved the tool belt, especially the way that it was slung low on his hips. It even made a sexy jingling sound when he walked.

He followed me upstairs and then down the hallway towards the master suite. I gestured my arm towards the bathroom door that was just off of their bedroom.

I couldn't help but notice his sexy swagger as he walked past me into the bathroom, bending over just a bit to place his toolbox on the tiled floor. This guy exuded sexual energy from every fucking pore. Trust me, that's something I pick up on within seconds of meeting someone.

"I'll just leave you to it," I called out, going back downstairs. "I'll be in the kitchen if you have any questions."

"Yep," he called back, already starting to assess the plumbing situation in the bathroom.

He returned downstairs no more than ten minutes later, wiping his hands on a rag. "Just needed a washer replaced and I had one in my toolbox. I went ahead and checked the fitting and it was fine, so I went ahead and re-greased it. Tested the shower head out and it's working fine. No more dripping."

"That was fast," I said throwing a bit of a double entendre into the remark. "I guess that's a good thing sometimes, huh?"

He gave me a good-natured laugh, his eyes glancing down to my legs in a subtle, but obviously not too-subtle way. I bit back a girlish grin as I watched him swiftly pull out the bill slip from his back pocket and jot some numbers down on it. Ripping the top copy from the pad, I caught the sexy-ass grin he tossed my way as he handed it to me.

Oh yeah. Game friggin’ on.

And before you go and get all judgy on me? I’m a woman who has an affinity for hotties with a Y-chromosome.

Sue me.

And I could tell that this guy wasn’t interested in anything serious.

The good news? Neither was I.

“You’re good to go,” he said with his grin still in place, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Replacing that washer must've given you quite a workout, huh?” I asked him, feigning innocence.

He looked back over at me, the smile stretching even further across his face. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you just look like you could use some ice-cold water,” I shrugged. “That’s all.”

“I’ll take some water,” he replied quietly, leaning up against the counter.

I broke the minor eye-fucking thing we had going there for a second, and made my way over to the cupboard and grabbed a glass. After it was filled, I hopped up on the same counter top that he was still leaning against and handed it over.

Jason’s eyes made their way down my tanned legs again as he raised the icy glass up to his full lips, drinking the offered beverage.

I rubbed my palms over my thighs for bonus points, masquerading it as a nervous gesture.

He replied with a loud swallow, breaking the glass-and-lips contact to give me an almost sheepish look.

“No worries, I’m a loud swallower too.”

That’s when he nearly dropped the glass. And before our flirtatious dialogue turned into something from a porn video, I decided it was time for a little action.

Hopping off of the counter, I made the entire two foot distance between us and took the glass of water out of his hand. Keeping eye contact with him the entire time, I took a long swallow from it.

I think this is what I loved about everything sexual: the control of it.

The power.

I thought of myself as someone who was comfy with my overall sexuality, and I also loved to tease a little bit. But with the way good ol’ Jason was looking at me now, he was ready to move past the teasing stage.

He stood up to his full height, his chest brushing the backs of my fingers as they maintained their hold on the glass. My eyes widened a bit as I watched him lean in, thinking that he was going for the kiss. I promptly closed them, and waited.

But his lips never did touch mine.

My eyes were still shut when I felt a hard suck on the side of my neck. Gasping and reacting, I took a step back and found my back up against Lindsey’s granite counter. Jason’s arms were now on either side of me, trapping me and turning me the hell on.

His mouth was now apologizing, as his tongue soothed the now-tender spot that was just below my ear. He then made his way to the underside of my jaw, nipping and licking.

I arched my neck to give him easier access, but apparently he was done with my neck, for now, because his hand reached back and very softly gripped my hair and tilted my head back down to eye-level.

Licking my bottom lip when he leaned back in, I fully expected an actual kiss this time. And still, he didn’t deliver. Instead, he kissed the corner of my lips.

I seriously loved the way his stubble felt on my skin, I’d decided. That was when I tried to take the moment into my own hands and went in for the kill.

I was almost to his mouth when his hand fisted even tighter in my hair, preventing me from closing the mere centimeters I had left. He pulled back, letting go of my hair, and looked at me with raised eyebrows and a confident smirk.

“Is this what you had in mind?” he asked.

I matched his smirk with one of my own and upped the wattage. “Well actually, what I had in mind was some lip-to-lip action. Know what I mean? So, if you don’t mind…”

“Well, had I known that,” he confessed mischievously, “I would have brought my tip jar.”

That’s when we both cracked up, letting the humor of it all wash over us. Finally, when we both managed to collect our wits again, I sighed. Clearly, the moment of sexual tension had come to a close and it was my cue to send this guy on his merry little way.

I turned away from him and fished out a pen from one of the drawers and signed my name at the bottom of the forgotten bill. Handing the slip back to him, Jason met my gaze with a heated one of his own.

“So, I’m officially off the clock, eh?” he asked.

I felt my eyebrows nearly reach my hairline. “Umm…yeah?”

“That’s good.”

Yeah, I wasn’t following. Until I watched his eyes travel to the button of my denim cut-offs and back up to my face, regarding me with a look that was asking me a question.

“Lip-to-lip action, you said?” The mischief was back. “May I?”

Sweet baby Jesus. He doesn’t mean…what I think he means?

He took a very unrushed step towards me. And there was pretty much nothing I was going to do in that moment to dissuade him. His fingers brushed up my thighs when he was back in kissing distance, making their way to the top of my shorts and skimming over the skin that was just right above it.

With one hand, he unfastened the button and tilted his head over to my ear and gave the lobe a quick nip. I felt my chest rise and rapidly fall as he pushed the denim down my legs.

I watched him kneel to the floor only to look back up at me, “You didn’t answer me,” he said.

“Yes.” I quickly replied.

He smiled briefly, and brought his face to my panty-covered pussy. I felt something wet and warm pushing against it from the other side of the material, and my head fell back as my arms braced my body on either side of the counter.

Using his hands to spread my legs a little wider, he began to suck hard on the damp fabric. I moaned when I felt his tongue push as far as it could go, only to retreat back into his mouth in exchange for a set of fingers. The fingernails of his other hand grazed my lower tummy as his talented fingers continued to lightly strum my slit.

“Tease,” I called him, not even knowing whether or not he heard me, being that it was quickly followed by another frustrated moan.

But he must have heard me, because those fingers rubbed a little harder, and I felt the tip of his tongue on my clit through my panties right before he asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

I looked down at him, and he chuckled softly as he took that specific moment to pull my underwear all the way down. Leaving them to pool at my feet, he didn’t waste any time at all before his tongue sank all the way into my wetness.

“Shit,” I whispered to no one in particular.

He pulled back only to take an entire lip into his mouth, nursing on it softly. Jason did the same thing with the other one before French-kissing my pussy for a second time.

My knuckles were completely bleached, as my hands clung to the counter, because I was pretty sure they were the only things holding me up at this point. The only sounds in the room were my hardening intakes of air and the wet noises of his mouth eating me.

My hips were now beginning to grind up against his jaw. I felt his hands cover mine on the edge of the counter, making sure I didn’t lose my grip.

He tongued my clit, and I was so fucking close.

“You have one minute to come,” he told me, licking up my entire slit.

I managed an airless laugh and whimpered as two thick fingers entered me, “Or…?”

“Or I make you come,” he replied quietly.

I loved being under pressure to come. There's just something about having constraints like that put into place that makes that pre-O sensation draw out even longer, which in effect, makes the orgasm blow that much harder when it is released.

This was one of those times.

I closed my eyes, my head tilted up towards the ceiling, and I let myself totally submerge into this pool of pleasure that Jason had created for me with his very talented tongue and his probing, thick fingers, which were giving my sweet spot the 'ol come-hither motion at that very moment.

I felt my core turn to liquid as I melted into the magical thrumming of his tongue and fingers in unison, on both my clit and my sweet spot, ready to give him exactly what he'd ordered just moments before. I moaned loudly, my hips starting to thrust upward to lessen his journey.

"What the hell?" I heard someone shriek…from somewhere.

Immediately, Jason's warmth left me. My eyes simultaneously flew open, the hazy fog of being 'almost there' quickly dissipated as I saw Lindsey's horrified face standing about six or seven feet away, aghast at what she had just viewed.

She had clamped her only free hand over Harper's eyes, her other arm cradled a still-sleeping Jackson against her chest.

"Get out," she hissed, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if she meant Jason, or me, or quite possibly the both of us.

Jason hurriedly stood up, grabbed his tool box and got the hell out as quickly as any man could, his erection still very evident underneath his navy blue work pants.

I slid from the countertop, bending over to pick up my panties and shrug them back on. Lindsey was still glaring at me, evidently too fucking pissed to have the good manners to give me some privacy. Harper was squirming around, trying to move Lindsey's hand away from where it still covered her eyes, but she couldn't budge it.

"Timing," I said, pulling my cutoffs up and fastening the button, "is fucking everything," I finished, brushing past her and going to my room.

chapter 2

It was my sixth week of physical training, but it felt as if it had been years instead of weeks. I stood in the weight room, at five-fifteen in the morning—that's right—five-fucking-fifteen, watching myself in the mirrored wall of the room, doing curls with free weights clutched in both hands.

Fuck, why in the hell did I get assigned this time frame for a personal work-out?

It was punishment, pure and simple. But it was required, and since I'd done a good job of pissing off my instructor, it was what it was.

I glanced around the large, carpeted room. There were only three other people in here, all guys. The thing was, I had to clock in and out, so it wasn't as if I could ditch it without getting busted, and then I'd be in more trouble, if that were even possible.

Neither Trace nor Lindsey were speaking to me and hadn't been for three weeks. I was, as they say, persona non grata at the Trace Matthews residence.

Kicking me out was totally their prerogative, I got that. But why the fuck had I been forced to endure yet another one of Trace's lectures?

He had even asserted that I had no fucking business being in the bureau, and that I had my head stuck so far up my ass, even he couldn't pry it out. That was, if he had a mind to, which he said he clearly didn't.

Oh. What. Ever

I looked at my reflection. As bad as Trace had made me sound, I didn't think that I really resembled the type of loser that he'd accused me of being.

Hell, I was in the best shape that I'd ever been in physically.

My arms and legs were toned nicely; my belly firm and flat. I was taller than Lindsey; that had to count for something, right?

My light brown hair was long and shiny; and my dark brown eyes resembled pools of liquid chocolate, or so some dude had once told me right after we’d shared sex and a blunt.

I wiped some perspiration from my neck with my towel, placed the free weights back into the slots in the rack, and grabbed the next heavier set of weights.

I planted my legs a bit apart just as Darin, my assigned trainer, had instructed. I started once again with the curls, making sure to inhale and exhale the way that he had recommended. It really did work. I used the oxygen to my benefit, just like he said that I should.

Okay, so things at Easton's and Darcy's weren't as bad as they had been at Trace and Lindsey's, but shit, I knew that Lindsey had filled Darcy's head with pre-conceived notions about me.

The good thing was that Darcy didn't give me pink post-it notes with daily chores scribbled on them. She at least had a housekeeper and gardener at her disposal, so that took me off the hook.

Still, it seemed that Darcy didn't want to hang out much, or really converse a lot. Easton was always traveling, but hell, at least I wasn't constantly being lectured.

I was getting an income from my internship, although it was nothing to brag about for sure. Trust me, I wanted nothing more than to be on my own and not accountable to anyone else, but that just wasn't going to happen any time soon. I had to bide my time and save money along the way.

I glanced up at the clock. It was nearly five-thirty. At six I officially had to clock out, take a shower and dress for my office job at the bureau that was part of my internship training.

Once my training was complete, I would have an opportunity to apply for a permanent position with the bureau, and receive a bump in my salary. But hell, that wouldn't be for another eight months.

I commenced doing squats with the weights, just as my mentor/trainer Darin came bouncing into the weight room.

"There's my girl," he called out, flashing me a smile.

Okay. That's…different.

I'd spent a good deal of time pissing off Darin Murphy. Now for whatever reason, he acted pleased to see me. This immediately put me on alert.

Darin Murphy had been with the bureau for several years. Most recently, he'd completed an assignment in Alaska, of all places. I got the feeling that he hadn't much cared for it. Now his assignment was to torture and humiliate interns, although he liked to refer to it as “coaching.” Though whenever he made said referral, I would always make sure to refer to him as "asscrown" in my head. And smile.

He was a hottie for sure, complete with an Irish temper that, unfortunately, I had been on the receiving end of more than once. He called me a 'slacker' amongst other things, and in all honesty, he was right.

"Cadet Matthews," he said, coming up closer, eyeballing me to make sure that I was in the correct position and really challenging my muscles. "Glad to see you made it in on time this morning. I think you were mistaken when you told me that you weren't a morning person."

He followed that with a sexy wink.

Sweet Jesus - he is flirting . . . kinda . . .

His teasing statement was because I had actually used that lame excuse when he had jumped my ass the previous week about clocking in late for my seven a.m. personal workouts. So, like I said, my punishment was being assigned to an earlier time slot for the next few weeks. Not only that, but it was also now on "my time," meaning I wasn't on the payroll clock like I had been when I was scheduled at seven.

I had to hang with it or get kicked out of the program, and as much as this part of it, and agents like Darin Murphy who loved to bust the chops of newbies for the pure pleasure of it, was clearly not my cup of tea, I was still determined not to fail.

Why?

Because that's what everyone expected me to do, my parents included. I sort of had a history of failure.

"Morning, sir," I addressed him, continuing my repetitions, inhaling and exhaling in timed rhythm.

"Hey, just wanted to let you know that Agent Carpenter said you're doing a good job in learning the database over in the lab. He said you're actually fairly knowledgeable with the analytical instrumentation as well. I have to admit, I'm surprised a little."

I looked over at him, quirking a brow as I finished the last repetition. "I do have a B.S. in Physics from Cal State," I replied, putting the free weights back into their empty slots in the rack.

"So I saw when I reviewed your file," he commented, giving me a boyish grin. "With a 3.87 G.P.A. to boot. Impressive. So, I gotta ask: why did you apply for the Visiting Scientist Program internship? Why not just apply for a job with the bureau and start making real money?"

I wiped the back of my neck with the towel. "Because I'm not twenty-three yet, Agent Murphy. I'm only twenty-two. But, by the time I finish this internship, I will be twenty-three. I guess I figured having the successful completion of the VSP on my resume just might bump me up a notch or three."

He cocked an eyebrow at me, and a devilish grin followed. "The operative words being 'successful' and 'completion,' Cadet Matthews," he retorted, turning and heading back. "That's totally in your court, babe."

And it totally was.

And I knew it.

But why did Darin Murphy care?

chapter 3

Apparently, Memorial Day was some sort of a customary celebration in D.C. I mean, yeah, I can recall growing up and having a long weekend to mark the start of summer. I even remember going to the local Memorial Day parade, but this holiday certainly seemed to be more than that here—at least with my semi-relatives it was.

"Hey Paige," Darcy greeted as I strolled into the kitchen a little after ten a.m. to get my first cup of java. "Want to help me with some of this food? I could use someone to make the deviled eggs."

“Sure,” I said, while adding a generous amount of creamer to my coffee.

I'd been up late, not getting in from Darin's until the wee hours of the morning.

Yeah, that's correct; I'd been doing my coach, which is probably not smart, but hey, there were no official rules against it at the bureau. It was simply that we had both ramped up the flirtations at work, and finally I could think of no good excuse not take Darin up on his invitation to stop by his apartment for beer and pizza one Friday night.

So far, I'd kept this quasi-relationship my own personal business, and thankfully, Darcy wasn't one to pry. But, things with Darin looked to be going from 'quasi' to 'possibly,' so having been apprised of the fact early on that Darin had been in kind of a serious relationship with my host sister-in-law, it was probably smart to clue her in.

My caffeine fix in hand, I made my way to Darcy’s side and watched her torture some tomatoes as she sliced and diced. “So, why are you the one making the food for this barbeque, anyway? I mean, isn’t that why you have Martha Stewart working for you?” I waggled my eyebrows at her.

She laughed good-naturedly. "Her last name isn't Stewart," she replied, "Although, I can understand how you might draw that connection."

"Yeah," I nodded, grabbing an onion that was next to the freshly-washed vegetables next to the cutting board, "Those blueberry scones she makes for the 'Lord of the Manor' are fucking awesome."

Darcy started laughing; wiping a tear from her eye that I was fairly sure was a result of the onion I was currently peeling, and not my reference to my oldest brother Easton.

"I swear Paige," she said, "You freakin' crack me up at times. I can't understand why you and Lindsey seem to rub each other the wrong way. My God, Easton is uber uptight and you seem to hold your own with him."

I was silent for a moment, contemplating what she'd obviously noticed. "It's because Easton has no expectations of me," I replied casually, peeling the next layer of skin from the onion.

"I don't understand," she said, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. "I mean I know the whole deal about him not being a blood relative and all of that, but you still consider him your brother, right?"

“Actually,” I looked over at her and found that I now had her full-blown attention. “To be honest, blood or no, Easton really wasn’t around all that much. And considering the age difference between Trace and me is eleven years, well there you have it. I just don’t share that many memories with Easton, but I mean…it’s more than that, Darcy.”

"Go on," she said, scraping her diced tomatoes into a bowl of drained pasta.

"Well, they both seem like brothers to me as far as that goes, but Trace treats me exactly the same way that my father does—did," I corrected. "I just never seem to make the mark with either of them. Easton? Well he just says what's on his mind, good or bad, regardless of who's in the audience. I mean, I don't think he's harder—or softer—on me than anyone else."

"I get that," Darcy, replied, tossing the pasta salad. "I'm glad you realize that Easton isn't a warm and fuzzy person by nature, and not to take it personally."

“And I hear that,” I replied, smiling. I gestured toward the onions, “Sliced or diced?”

"Hmm? Oh, diced please," she responded with a nod.

I started chopping away at the onions. "Darcy, I need to let you know something and now is probably as good of a time as any…it's kind of, well—uncomfortable."

"Go ahead," she said, watching me.

"Well, the thing is, I'm seeing someone and you actually know this person. I would've said something sooner except that I felt it was just, you know, a purely casual thing?"

She nodded, adding several dollops of mayo to her pasta salad.

"Well, the thing is, I'm thinking now that maybe it's getting to be more than just a casual thing with the two of us, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable with—"

"Say no more," she interrupted, a big grin going. "Lindsey is my best friend, but I'm here to tell you that I'm not nearly as provincial as she is. I appreciate that you haven't brought guys over—I know she and Trace had issues with it, but what the hell? This place is like a freaking zip code of its own. Easton and I have no issue with you having a steady boyfriend in your life, and having him sleep over here occasionally. So it's cool, okay?"

I looked over to where she was smiling as she tossed the rest of the seasoning into her pasta salad.

Well, that was a piece of cake.

"Wow, thanks," I replied. "But you need to know that the guy I'm talking about is…Darin Murphy."

I turned back to chopping my onions, wincing as I heard the glass bowl that was full of Darcy's pasta salad, hit the kitchen floor and shatter loudly.

chapter 4

Okay, so the Memorial Day barbeque had been just a tad…uncomfy. Once Darcy had regained her ability to speak, she told me in no uncertain terms that it was in Darin Murphy's best interest to never step foot anywhere near their 'zip code.'

She explained that, while she no longer had feelings for him, Easton was a whole different story. She even confided to me that she suspected Easton of having had something to do with Darin getting that sudden assignment in Alaska.

“I mean, I hope he treats you better than he treated me, Paige,” she told me, “But please, be really prepared if he doesn’t.” Darcy gave me a weary look.

I tossed that around in my head for a good second. "So, I guess what you're telling me is that, if I continue to see him, it needs to be kept a secret?" I asked.

She shook her head and reached over to give me the good ol’ friendly arm pat. “Not at all,” she said. “Just from Easton, that’s all. And if you don’t bring him to any family get-togethers, that’d probably be a great idea too.”

The good news about the barbeque was that I was introduced to Darcy's old roommate and still close friend, Eli Chambers and his live-in partner, Cain Maddox.

God!

Those had to be two of the sexiest, drop-fucking-dead gorgeous men that I'd ever laid my chocolate-brown eyes on!

And the funny thing was, they were like night and day, literally. I mean Eli was day: boyish charm, streaky blondish/sandy locks, fair skin, blue eyes, outgoing and funnier than shit. Cain was night: quietly serious—almost brooding, raven black hair, serious brown eyes, olive complexion and somewhat reserved—until you got to know him, which for some reason, I made it a point to do.

Maybe it was because I knew that both of the dudes were gay and I didn't need to put on the whole "sex-kitten, do-me-or-die" routine. I could just be me, however bland and exhausting that was.

Yeah—exhausting.

That had been my mother's favorite adjective for me during my teen years. I guess she thought she was done having kids after having my brother Trace.

Then eleven years later?

Congratulations—it's a girl!

Don’t get me wrong, I was never mistreated or neglected; it was more along the lines of my simply feeling invisible to them. My best guess was that's why I tended to sometimes do things for the pure shock value. I mean attention, whether positive or negative, is still attention, right?

"So how do you like D.C., Paige?" Cain asked, taking a bite out of one of the deviled eggs I’d made, and quickly dropping the remainder of it back onto his plate.

I started to reply, but he held up his hand, stifling a cough, and reached for his glass of lemonade, gulping it down. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, wiping his mouth, "How can someone fuck up deviled eggs?"

I felt myself flush, realizing my earlier suspicion had been correct.

"Sorry," I murmured sheepishly. "Actually, I think I might've sprinkled those with chili pepper instead of paprika."

"No shit," he grumbled, now starting to chuckle.

"I probably should take them back into the house and toss them," I said, starting to get up.

"Stay," he instructed mischievously, "I don't want to miss Eli's reaction when he bites into his." He nodded towards the other side of the patio, where Eli was standing next to Darcy, listening to her prattle on about something while taking the first bite of his deviled egg.

"Holy Shit!" he rasped, spitting it back out onto his plate. Everyone turned to look over at Eli, who was now taking gulps of his iced tea, and swishing it around in his mouth.

“Fuck, Darce,” he pretty much snarled, wiping away at his mouth, “I get that everything domestic isn’t your strong suit, but seriously?”

"Excuse me?" Darcy said, totally injured and confused.

"Shit, I can't let anyone else bite into those fire bombs," I said, giggling. "Be back in a few."

I hurried over to Darcy and Eli, explaining my faux pas with the eggs. We quickly went into 'damage control' mode, collecting the uneaten eggs off of everyone's plates, and took the platter into the house to be disposed of properly.

Once back outside, I resumed my place next to Cain. Eli had pulled up a chair and the three of us became better acquainted.

I explained to the both of them about my internship at the FBI academy, including my limited income, thus the reason I was freeloading with Easton and Darcy.

Eli shared that he worked at Baronton-Sheridan, the company owned by Darcy's father, and Easton. Cain was part-owner of a catering company in D.C. that was small, but growing steadily.

"So, how do you like living here with Easton and Darcy?" Eli asked, quirking a brow.

"You know," I replied, taking a sip of my iced tea, "They've been great, but I probably need to find a place of my own, if possible. I'm not sure what the cost of living is like here as far as rentals."

They exchanged glances.

"Honey," Eli spoke first, "I don't have a clue how much money you're making as an intern there, but I have a feeling the type of apartment you could afford would fit into one of Darcy's closets, and your roommates would be small…and furry."

"Eww," I said, wrinkling my nose. "The thing is, I have a boyfriend and well, Darcy made it plain that he isn't to stay over here, and we're not at that stage—or even close to being at that stage where we've discussed living together—"

"Wait a minute," Cain spoke up. "Eli and I have been tossing around the idea of getting another roommate to share expenses. We recently bought a home together in Silver Spring, and to be honest, we are a little financially strapped, what with the mortgage payment and all."

Cain looked over at Eli for input. "You'd have to pay for your own groceries, split the utilities and your rent would be $450 a month," Eli said. "And also pitch in with the housework. We don't have a staff like Darcy has," he added with a grin.

"Hmm," I replied, calculating it in my head. I still had a car payment and my pay at the bureau was really just a stipend at $1000 a month. It wouldn't leave me much to live on, but if I was frugal, I doubted I could do any better, or even as good trying to find a place of my own.

Cain could tell I was struggling to figure out whether I could manage it or not. "Babe, I gotta tell you that you can't touch an efficiency in D.C., or the surrounding area, for less than $900 a month. With us, you'll have your own room and bathroom, plus use of our fully equipped kitchen and laundry room. I mean, you don't even have any furniture, right?"

I nodded. "I've been saving up my earnings and planned on going to some second hand shops for the basics," I replied.

"So there you go," Cain continued, shrugging like it was a done deal. "And if you need a little extra money, I occasionally need help on the weekends with the catering business, so we could put you to work there, uh…as long as you promise to stay out of the deviled egg making," he finished with a wink.

I found myself grinning, not just because Cain gave me one of his sexy winks, but because my shoulders could finally relax as if an entire city had been lifted off of them. It was kind of a friggin’ crazy moment because one minute, I’m living with Darcy and Easton and the next…Cain and Eli are offering to bring me in as a roomie.

Holy shit?

I glanced back over at Cain who was nodding at something Eli must have just said.

“So,” I started with a huge non-resistant smile on my face, “Is this weekend too soon?”

chapter 5

I'd been living with Cain and Eli for almost two months now, and we had settled into a pretty comfortable routine. Living with dudes was different than I expected, and with those two, it was starting to feel more like family.

It had felt a little weird for the first week or so, but after that, it felt like my home too.

I loved their brick ranch-style home that was nestled on a tree-lined street in Silver Spring. The houses weren't far apart, yet not on top of one another either. They had a fairly large backyard with a privacy fence around it, along with a deck that was right off of the kitchen that had a kick-ass hot tub/Jacuzzi combination.

We split the chores up, and took turns cooking dinner. Both Cain and Eli were great cooks and had taken me under their wings in the kitchen. I figured getting a little domestic training, compliments of my roomies, was an additional perk in our living arrangement.

Eli was just getting home from work, still dressed in his office ensemble as I was packing up some ingredients. And I say ensemble, because with Eli? That’s exactly what it was. The guy dressed better than most brides do on their wedding day.

He came into the kitchen, loosening up his white tie, watching me as I put a box of angel hair pasta, tomato sauce, and fresh mushrooms in a box I planned on hauling over to Darin’s. Because tonight, I was cooking for my man, and I was eager to show him my new awesome kitchen skills.

"So, I see you intend to get to your man's heart through his stomach tonight, eh?" he teased. "Don't forget the Parmesan cheese," he reminded me.

"Yeah thanks, Eli," I replied, grabbing it from the fridge. "With any luck, you won't see me for breakfast," I said with a grin.

Eli scoffed playfully. "I'm betting you two don't make it through dinner with those tight little shorts you've got going there," he remarked, picking up the stack of mail I'd placed on the kitchen table and sorting through it. "Which, by the way, you rock," he winked, giving me some of his flirtatiousness that I'd come to enjoy.

"Trust me," I replied, smiling, "I won't be offended one damn bit if he prefers me to my cooking."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, shaking his head.

"I know you don't care for Darin," I remarked, grabbing the package of chicken breasts out of the sink where I had them thawing. "But so far, he's the closest thing to a steady relationship that I've had…ever. I mean, it's not just about the sex, you know?"

Eli sighed and looked up from the stack of mail.

“He’s a cheater, Paige,” he deadpanned. “He cheated on Darcy like it was easy. And I don’t like the fact that you’re going over there, getting all excited to play house for the night. Okay? There, I've said it.” He shrugged, “Once a cheater—”

"I know, I know," I interrupted. "Always a cheater. I've heard it before."

I tossed a bag of mixed salad greens into the box and gave Eli a peck on the cheek. "I love that you're protective over me. It's something that I'm not used to, I guess," I said softly, looking up at him. "But I need to explore this relationship because it just might be right for me, okay?"

He studied me for a second, and let out a soft chuckle while shaking his head.

“Where’s Maddox?” he asked, referring to Cain by his last name, which was how he always addressed him for some reason.

The fact that he had beat Cain home was pretty damn unusual, because Cain had mean ninja skills when it came to punctuality.

"Oh," he left a note on the fridge. "Playing racquetball with Steve and Lance. You're supposed to meet them at the club and make it a foursome."

“Ah shit,” Eli said, looking up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. “I’m fucking tired, and it’s Friday, and that means it's chill time for me right there in front of the television. Does he not know this by now?"

I giggled at Eli’s over-dramatic, sulky tone, closing up the box holding what was going to be a scrumptious meal.

“So DVR whatever it is you'd be watching, dude,” I said with a shrug. “I mean, you did hear me when I said ‘foursome,’ right? As in four sweaty guys alone in a fiberglass-encased room with nothing to do except whack at their balls with their…” I lowered my voice to a theatrical whisper, “rackets?”

Eli gave me a playful swat as I passed him on my way out. "Brat," he growled. "Drive safely."

On my way out through the door though, I made sure to turn around with, “Oh, and try not to dent up any hardwood floors with your balls. I hear that’s frowned upon.” I gave him a stern look.

He shook his head with a hard eye-roll, closing the door with one huge-ass grin on his face.

* * *

Eli had hit the nail on the head. Darin and I had just finished our salads when he followed me into the kitchen, where I bent over to check the Chicken Parmesan in the oven.

"Mmm," he said, coming up behind me, and rubbing my ass with the palms of both hands. I straightened up, leaning back against his strong frame.

"I can see those squats have made your glutes kind of epic there, babe," he whispered in my ear. I shivered as his lips brushed against my lobe, and then his tongue lightly flicked the outer edge.

"I'll take that as a compliment of the highest regard," I replied, "I have a very strict trainer, you see."

His arms encircled me, and I felt him nuzzle the back of my neck with his nose; he nipped gently at my skin. "How about you turn the oven down and we get a little exercise before the main course?"

I smiled against him, reaching over and turning the oven dial down to nearly nothing.

Darin lifted me up, and I immediately wrapped my bare legs around his torso, allowing him to carry me off to his king-sized bed where we enjoyed an hour of play that had very few boundaries.

We had just finished dinner, and I was loading the dishwasher, when his cell rang. He looked down at it.

"Gotta take this, babe," he said, taking several long strides out of the kitchen. I figured it was probably something with the bureau. Darin was so committed to the FBI and loved his new assignment as Intern Coordinator. He was a master of motivation; that was for damn sure.

I heard his voice raised a bit from the living room, just enough to hear him say, "I told you, Lisa, not tonight. I'm busy, babe."

Umm…?

My ears immediately went into 'eavesdrop' mode, a skill I had honed growing up, as a result of all the boundaries I had crossed with my parents. They were forever disagreeing on how to handle discipline where I was concerned. I tiptoed closer to the hallway, straining to hear his side of the conversation.

"Tomorrow then, babe. Yeah, I've got to go now. Uh huh…Okay…miss you, too."

What the hell?

I'm not much of a game player—with emotions, that is. I joined Darin in the living room right as he tossed his cell on the table.

"Who was that?" I asked point-blank.

He immediately looked over at me as if I had somehow crossed an arbitrary line with him.

"That was a friend of mine," he replied, without batting an eye. "You probably know her from the program, Lisa Benedict."

I did know her. Tall, blonde, big boobs. She was doing an internship at Quantico as well. She was another of Darin's coachees.

"So what? Are you fucking her too?" I blurted. "I mean, I couldn't help hearing part of your conversation," I said, feeling my face flush.

He looked at me directly, not masking his expression. "Hey, Paige, I mean, come on here. You and me? We're not exclusive or anything," he said, his tone clipped. "I don't nose into your business, and by the same token, I don't expect you to be nosing into mine."

I walked over to where he was standing, and made sure that my eyes met up with his.

“Huh,” I raised my shoulders and let them fall. “So you’re just my trainer who likes to keep it…physical. I get it. I mean, I kind of thought we had a little something going, but I’m so glad you took the time to clear that up.”

"Hey," he replied, his hands outstretched, as if pleading his case to me. "We've never discussed exclusivity, and…I'm not at a place right now where I even want to consider it. Well, I mean, not with you at any rate, Paige. I mean, you're a knock-out and all, babe, but I don't see me getting serious with someone at the bureau…ever. It's just not a good idea."

Oh, I was pissed now. Royally.

“Well,” I said, nodding my head slowly. “I can see why not getting into anything serious with someone at the bureau is a good idea. However, fucking everyone at the bureau seems like a great one. God, why didn’t I think of that?” I gave him my best clueless look, “I guess I must’ve been absent the day you went over that one.”

He shrugged and nodded. "I thought you knew the score, doll. I mean, it's not like I ever took you out on a date or anything. I figured you understood what this was about."

Fuck you.

"Why don't you call Lisa back, Darin? Let her know your schedule for tonight has just been freed up."

I grabbed my purse from the sofa, and he made no move whatsoever to stop me.

"Cocksucker," I breathed out on a harsh breath, as I pushed the door of his apartment open, taking the tattered remnants of my pride with me.

chapter 6

I was perched on the sofa in the family room, spooning the last mouthful of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream into my mouth, tossing the empty container onto the coffee table, where it joined its empty brother, 'Chunky Monkey' who'd gone first, when I heard Cain and Eli come in.

Shit! I just knew I was going to hear about eating up two containers of their precious ice cream. You see, I almost never indulged in that sort of thing anymore, which is why I never bought any for myself. Which is why, in crisis, I'd gotten into theirs.

You see, my boys were extremely territorial about their stuff and about my getting into it.

They had both mini-lectured me on using up their laundry detergent, borrowing their razors to shave my legs when I had run out of my disposable Lady Schicks (Cain had really been pissed about that one, knocking on my bedroom door with little bits of Kleenex tissue dotted with blood attached to his face, and chewing my ass out about it). So getting into their groceries was a major infraction for sure.

I braced myself for my next ass-chewing, as they came into the family room, having heard the television blaring some Lifetime flick I'd turned on. Lifetime's movie theme just happened to be "Eating Disorder Weekend."

And I'm not going to lie. Watching Meredith Baxter as some soccer mom with bulimia, shoveling ice cream into her mouth, as she placed her order for two large fries, a cheeseburger, a fish sandwich and two milk shakes at a drive-thru window was enough to get me into the mood for some comfort food.

They stopped short when they saw me, quickly assessing the situation.

"What happened?" Eli asked, standing in the entryway wearing nylon shorts and some kickass Nike’s. "Why are you home so early?"

I didn't have time to even respond to his questions when Cain spoke up. "And why are you binge-eating Ben & Jerry's?"

"Yeah, about that, guys. Look, I'll replace those when I go to the grocery, I promise."

"We're not fucking worried about that," Eli said, coming over and plopping down next to me on the sofa. "Is everything okay?"

Cain was standing there silently with his arms crossed, waiting for an answer.

"Everything's good," I lied. "I just don't think that Darin and I will be seeing each other socially anymore. No biggie."

“What did that fuck do?” Cain asked, a humming anger in his voice as he sat down on the other side of me.

His dark eyes seemed to get even darker as he gazed at me, waiting for some explanation that I really didn't feel like putting out there to them. It was actually kind of embarrassing.

"It's nothing like that," I replied with a shrug. "It seems that he's not ready for anything exclusive, which is fine. I just wasn't aware of the rules, I guess. And now I am, so hey, it's all good. No harm, no foul."

"Asshat," Eli muttered under his breath. "Are you okay, babe?" I felt his arm wrap around me, pulling me closer to him.

"I'm fine, Eli. I'm really fine. It wasn't as if I was in love with him or anything like that."

My words sounded empty, like maybe there was no conviction behind them. “Look, I’m gonna call it a night,” I told them, as I swept the empty ice-cream containers into one arm. “I’m still helping you with that reception tomorrow, right Cain?”

He pulled me away from Eli, forcing me to face him as he studied me. "If you don't feel like helping with that, it's okay, sweetie. I can get Debbie to come in."

"Don't be silly," I said, leaning over and giving his handsome face a Cherry Garcia-flavored kiss. "I need the extra jack, you know? I've got some ice cream to replace."

I turned from him and gave Eli a kiss on his cheek. "Night guys," I said, heading towards the kitchen. "See y'all in the morning."

Later in the privacy of my room, I quickly changed into my nightgown and brushed my teeth, not wanting to look at my reflection in the mirror.

The truth was that I was ashamed of myself for daring to let my guard down with a man. I very seldom had done that, maybe just once or twice before, and it had never worked out.

Why in the hell had I thought that Darin was going to be any different?

As I snuggled down under my sheets, I remembered what my last semi-boyfriend had told me when we parted. "You're just too hard to keep up with Paige. You want it all and I'm not willing to give it all just yet. You're not my idea of soul mate material. I'm sorry."

That had been Ryan; a guy that I'd known all through school, but hadn't dated until I got out of college. We had been seeing each other steadily for three months when he broke it off. He said I was getting too intense, whatever that meant. He had been the deciding factor in my coming to D.C. to find a career and, hopefully, a new beginning somewhere else.

It seemed as if my luck with men was destined to follow me wherever I went.

I didn't really understand it, though, because I sure wasn't big on the whole 'Let's get married' or 'Let's live together' thing. I was simply looking for some intimacy—a connection that was more than just good sex, something that complimented the sex, that made it more than just a physical thing, but not an ownership thing, either. Somewhere in the middle, I guess.

The best relationship I had going was the one I had with these men. How screwed up was that?

Eli and Cain were the closest thing to soul mates that I'd ever had, even though we hadn’t really been a threesome for all that long.

And the fucked-up thing about that was that they were gay and in love and devoted to one another. How could I possibly fit into that equation?

But somehow, they did make me feel as if I belonged with them; like they cared about me as a woman, not as baby sister like it was with Trace and Easton.

And that part of it was what helped me get through stuff like this. Darin the asshat…Eli was so on the mark with that one. I sighed, somehow feeling comforted by these men that I lived with.

chapter 7

Cain and I were unpacking all of the linens, china, crystal and silverware for the wedding reception that he was catering. This one happened to be in the basement underneath the church where the wedding was taking place.

"Paige, if you set up the tables, I'm going to get the coffee service going, okay?"

"Sure," I replied, straightening out the white tablecloth at the wedding party table. "Who's setting the bar up?"

"Dry reception," he remarked, as he backed through the swinging door to the kitchen, waggling his eyebrows. "Sorry babe, I know you love the tips."

That sucks.

I enjoyed working with Cain and the others at these receptions, but the most enjoyable ones were those that had a bar set up. Cain usually allowed me to work the bar and the tips were pretty substantial.

A couple of the other girls had pissed and moaned a bit because they were full-time employees, not a fill-in like I was when one of the other workers wanted a Saturday off. Cain had explained his rationale to them: He was the boss, and if they didn't like it, then fucking go somewhere else.

Bahahaha!!

Jake and Connie came in; rolling a cart that had the wedding cake and punch bowl on it.

"Damn," I said, wrinkling my nose, "How big is this reception? That cake looks like it could feed a hundred people."

I looked around and saw that the tables were set up for about forty people max, not counting the wedding party which was set for six.

"Hah," Jake snorted with a smile, "Just wait until you see the newlyweds." I shrugged and continued with arranging the place settings.

Cain returned with the silver coffee service, Styrofoam cups along with the cream and sugar packets. "This is going to be a hot and cold appetizer buffet, Paige. So when you're finished up with the tables, can you give Julie some help getting the food table set up?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," I replied, tossing him a smile.

I had worked enough of these things to know the signs by now. This was a 'no-frills' reception. First clue: Booze-less. Second clue: an appetizer buffet that consisted of miniature pigs-in-a-blanket, chicken wings, deviled eggs (sans Cayenne pepper) potato salad, baked beans and potato chips.

We had barely gotten everything into place and the punch bowl filled, when the door to the church basement opened, and guests started piling in. The wedding party was close behind and then I got it.

Oh dear Lord.

The bride and groom had to have a combined weight of over six hundred pounds. The rest of the wedding party wasn't far behind. Thus the reason for the 7-tiered wedding cake, I presumed.

Music streamed through speakers placed around the room from a Spotify playlist of traditional love songs for weddings. I watched as the bride and groom interacted with one another and their guests. I hadn't realized that Cain had come up behind me as I released a wistful sigh.

"Something wrong?" he asked, placing his hands on my shoulders, startling me a bit, and then massaging them back into relaxation.

I shrugged, and then nodded slightly. "Look at them, Cain," I said softly, "Their love for one another is so beautiful and, I don't know, it kind of makes them look beautiful to me, you know?"

"Well who would've thought that our Paige was such a closet romantic?" he teased. "Wait until I share this with Eli."

"Oh stop," I said, smacking him playfully. "I've got no ax to grind with romance; romance just seems to have an ax to grind with me, I guess."

"Why would you say that?" he questioned, pulling me around to face him. "Is this about that fucking idiot, Darin?"

His eyes were once again piercing through me. Cain was so freaking intense sometimes that it gave me chills. I shivered, and his hands were quick to rub my back and shoulders gently, but he was still waiting for an answer.

"No—it's not about him," I replied. "It's more about me. I mean, is there something about me—some sort of repulse pheromone I'm giving off? Never mind—you aren't exactly the demographic I'm looking for anyway."

Shit.

I saw the fire flash in his eyes at the comment. I hadn't meant it like that…exactly. I mean, what the hell? Posing a question like that to a gay dude wasn't exactly fair, was it?

"Outside, now," he ordered, taking me by the arm and pulling me alongside of him. "You and I need to take a break."

Once outside, Cain found a concrete bench off to the side of the church, in a grassy area that had a statue of the Blessed Mother behind it.

"Sit," he ordered.

I sat down, waiting for him to take a seat, but he remained standing.

"First of all, sweetheart, you need to shed some of your pre-conceived notions about alternative lifestyles. Contrary to what you seem to think, homosexuals and bisexuals all don't fall into one neat little category that is black and white, okay?"

I nodded, and started to speak, but he raised his hand, his index finger pointing at me to remain quiet.

"Secondly, you've been with Eli and me long enough that we've both seen what you're doing. We've discussed it amongst ourselves, to be honest."

I quirked an eyebrow, hoping like hell that he intended to clue me in on their assessment.

"Paige," he sighed, "You are bright and beautiful and sexy as fuck, don't you get that? But—what we see in you is the need you have to treat men as either total sex objects, with which to pleasure yourself at leisure—and granted, this information is second-hand from Darcy through Lindsey, but when you do try to focus on something more substantive, you select the type of guy that isn't game for anything but leisure sex. And that is first-hand knowledge from our own observation. Baby, you seem to set yourself up for failure all around."

I was thoughtful for a moment, reflecting upon his words, knowing that he was onto me. Eli too. They hadn't been fooled one little bit. I was a hot mess.

"So, babe, to answer your question in there? No. You're not putting out some 'repulse' pheromone. And whether I'm bisexual or not, I would know, just as Eli knows, you simply need to put yourself out there to the right guy and there won't be a doubt in that pretty little head of yours when it's right."

"You're bisexual?" I asked, swallowing hard. "I mean…does Eli know?"

He threw his head back and I heard his deep, rich laugh, something that was rare with Cain. "Oh yeah, he knows. He's fine with it. Well, he's maybe more than fine with it, to be honest."

My eyebrows once again traveled up my forehead.

Cain continued, "Eli's bisexual as well—or maybe I should say he's a closet bi," he said, giving me a wink.

"It kind of came out in 'couples therapy,' and I swear to God if you tell him that I mentioned couples therapy, I'll fucking hunt you down," he warned, giving me a faux stern look.

"Really? Couples therapy?"

He rolled his eyes in a very delightful way, almost shy-like. "Yeah, we went through some…shit a while back. It's all good now, but we needed to bring things out into the open to build up our trust in one another. Eli had never told me that he had been married—very briefly—the summer before he went to college. Shocked the hell out of me," he said, shaking his head.

"So, why do you say he's a closet bi?"

I mean, what the hell? I'd heard of closet gays, but I pretty much thought bisexuals were out with it, if they went both ways like that.

"Well, although he finds members of both genders sexually appealing, he's made a choice to have only one sexual preference at the moment. He said chicks are too high-maintenance," he finished, giving me a cocky smile.

Oh. What. Ever.

"As if anyone would ever categorize Eli as being low maintenance," I scoffed absently.

This brought a smile from Cain as he stepped forward, drawing me into his arms. His hand gently brushed through my hair, and I felt his full lips graze my forehead, as I relaxed into his warm embrace. It was comforting and it felt right for some reason.

"All I want to tell you, Paige, is to stop hiding behind your dual facades," he murmured. "If you stop doing things for attention, and you start being who you're meant to be, I think your need for romance and commitment will be satisfied. Sometimes, it's right there in front of you."

He gave me a peck on the cheek, and released me from his grasp. "Now, come on, babe. We have a wedding cake to start slicing."

I watched him as I trailed behind him, feeling a warm, fluttery feeling in the pit of my belly as I contemplated his words.

'Sometimes it's right there in front of you…'

Was there some hidden meaning in his words, or was I simply reading too much into his kindness and concern?

I would never do anything to hurt Eli, no matter how close Cain and I had become over the past couple of months. And then again, what had Cain meant when he said that Eli was 'more than fine with it'? Did that mean that Eli…?

Too many questions; too few answers. I was totally confused. I needed to hook up. I knew exactly what was going to be on my agenda tonight.

chapter 8

"That's it, baby. Good girl. Take it all."

I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, as Travis buried his long, thick, sheathed cock into me, backed out, and then plunged it in again deeply, grunting his pleasure.

Travis?

Maybe his name is actually Trevor…what the fuck. Who cares?

"Does it feel good, baby? Do you like the feel of Trevor's cock ramming into your pussy like this, huh?"

It's Trevor…right. Random Trevor, referring to himself in the third person. Lovely.

"Yeah, baby," I murmured. "You're the fucking best," I lied, wishing he'd get his nut, because I sure as hell wasn't going to get mine with this ass-hat.

The problem was, he totally had a Bud-Lite hard-on going, and I knew that meant it would be a while before he came.

"That's right, baby," he whispered, groaning and smothering my lips with wet, beer-flavored kisses. "You're going to scream when Trevor makes you come."

Seriously?

Aannd…that's a wrap.

"Get the fuck off of me," I finally said, before clamping my mouth shut and turning my head away from him. "Now," I said, louder.

He stopped his thrusting momentarily, as if my words weren't totally registering in his drunken brain. He didn't pull out of me though, and I was getting really pissed.

"Did you hear me?" I yelled, using my hands to push against his chest, trying to get his long, muscular frame off of me.

"What the fuck?" he asked, loudly. "I ain't goin' nowhere just yet," he remarked, shifting his weight so that my hands were smashed between the both of us as he continued humping me.

"I said stop!" I screamed as loudly as possible. "I want you out of me and out of here!" I yelled into his left ear.

"Fuckin' bitch," he growled, fisting my hair so that my head snapped back.

I thrashed around underneath him, my legs getting twisted up in the sheets, my fists pummeling against his bare chest.

"I said get off of me," I shouted.

Suddenly, I heard my bedroom door open and slam loudly against the wall, startling Trevor enough that his unwelcome thrusting stopped.

In seconds flat, his weight was lifted off of me, and he was slammed unceremoniously against my bedroom wall, where he slid the rest of the way down into a naked heap on the floor.

It was Cain. He was pissed…dark eyes flashing, his fists clenched at his side.

“You have about two fucking seconds to get the fuck out of here,” Cain growled out the quiet threat, “Before I reinvent the term, blue balls. Got me?”

Eli was there now as well, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and wearing nothing but cotton sweats and a concrete look of concern.

I scurried out of the bed, gripping the white sheets around my scantily-clad form and watched as Trevor ineptly got to his feet with no sheet and a deflated hard-on.

Eli, now entirely awake, helped him find his clothes by tossing them at him. And if denim could ever give a person a black eye, I’m pretty sure that’s what they did as Trevor not-so-successfully tried to catch his pants.

I watched as Eli gripped Trevor’s arm just as he was zipping up and began to lead him out of the room.

“Get the fuck off me, fag!” Trevor wrenched his arm free.

“Yeah…,” I heard Eli reply as he shoved Trevor through the open door, “Not goin’ to happen, asshole.”

Their heavy steps down the stairs and Trevor’s drunken insults were the only sound in the 2 a.m. house as I stood there still staring at the door, trying to process the rapid chain of events that just went down.

Hoooly shit!

I looked over at the other person in the room, “Cain, I’m so sor—”

“Give me a minute.” He cut me off, not even looking in my direction as his hands were settled on his hips, and he sucked in a deep breath, looking down at the floor.

My mouth immediately closed. I had never heard Cain yell, and never even once saw the guy lose his shit. So, the fact that he was looking a little like the Hulk standing there in his Metallica T-shirt and black-striped PJ bottoms, meant I’m pretty sure I would've given him the entire night to get his cool mojo back.

He looked up, and pinned me down with his dark eyes and a black look. Instantly, I shifted my sheet up a little higher. His eyes followed the movement, and I saw his jaw clench.

“That’s not going to help,” Cain said, warningly.

I shrugged, “Look, it’s not that big of a deal.”

He responded by giving me one hell of a wry look before asking, “Is this what you do?”

I stood up a bit straighter, “Excuse me?”

“Take guys home. Let them fuck you in your own bedroom, even when you tell them no,” he deadpanned. “Is this what you do?”

“No!” I exclaimed. What the hell was he talking about?

“Then what just happened,” he took a step towards me, “is a big fucking deal, Paige.”

“He just got carried away. I would have handled it,” I told him, probably trying to convince the both of us.

Cain was about a foot from where I was standing now, and he was just about to take another step forward when Eli came walking in.

“Okay, the trash has officially been taken out,” he announced, a bit ceremoniously.

Cain shook his head and began to retreat towards the door, but not before tossing back the words, “We’ll talk in the morning, Paige.”

I looked over at Eli for help. But he had nothing to give me except for, “Yeah, you fucked up.” He made his way over to an exit from this overly dramatic scene, “Bad.”

And with that, the door closed.

This…wasn’t good.

* * *

I felt as if I were back in junior high school.

Perched on a kitchen chair, Eli leaning back against the counter, arms crossed staring at me, while Cain was standing in front of me, hands once again on his hips, sort of glaring, while they both took turns verbally laying out the ground rules to me.

“Last night can’t happen again,” Cain started off, leaning in a bit to make sure I knew that he was dead-ass serious.

"Yes," I nodded, putting a bit of meekness into my voice for sincerity.

“Jesus, Paige, what was that?” Eli quipped in.

I met Cain’s gaze before focusing all of my attention onto Eli. Yeah, I already knew that my day was shot. Waking up to these two and having to go through drinking my coffee in utter silence was definitely not my idea of starting out a good day.

What really put the emphasis on the whole morning suckage, was the fact that I didn’t have an answer for either of them.

Should I have brought Trevor back here last night? Probably not.

Did I possibly have way too much to drink last night? Probably yes.

What would have happened if Cain and Eli didn’t come in with their super-dude capes? I didn’t even want to think about the answer to that one.

“Paige?” Eli said my name again, trying to regain my focus on the issue at hand.

“I get it,” I told the both of them, crossing my arms and probably coming off as a petulant child.

But, shit! These guys held all the cards right now, and this could all play out in a million ways. And I damn well wasn’t going to gamble by giving them an answer I wasn’t sure about.

Another moment of silence.

Clearly, when they saw I wasn’t going to give them the speech about how last night happened and why, Eli switched tactics. “It’s not about the sex.”

What?

“It’s about judging character,” Eli continued.

“Uhh…well, if you’re saying that I should have seen what happened coming, then—”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Eli deadpanned.

Okay. I was struggling with the decision of either giving him a WTF? look…or the finger. Because I, honest to God, didn’t know how in the hell I could have possibly known that Trevor was going to go all “The Accused” on me.

“Okay,” I said, getting up from the chair. “If you guys are seriously trying to convey that I asked for that last night, then screw you both.”

I started to walk off when I felt a hand on my arm. Turning around, prepared to give one hell of a verbal lashing, I was surprised to see that it was Cain who had the vise-like hold on me.

“That’s not what he’s saying,” Cain explained, meeting my gaze. I looked down to where he was holding me, and he let go.

“Then what is he saying?” I didn’t even spare Eli a glance as I kept my eyes padlocked to Cain’s.

“He’s saying that you should always pick someone who…takes care of you.” Cain took a step back, now looking over at Eli, who was nodding his head.

“I don’t follow.”

Eli tossed the remains of what was in his coffee cup into the sink before turning around to face me.

“Trevor Mulroney always has a breath mint and at least six condoms at hand. He doesn’t give two shits about the women he sleeps with, because all he can think about is getting some. I mean, the guy doesn’t even care if the women he’s sleeping with get off. It might as well be rape even if it is consensual because they're just a breathing pocket-pussy as far as he's concerned. Something to use."

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” I asked, my eyes darting between them both. Although in all honesty, wasn't that exactly what I'd gone after? I was used to being used; I was used to using right back. For whatever reason, I sucked at cultivating relationships. Being "used" was my comfort zone.

Eli was just about to respond, when Cain beat him to it.

“You should have taken the time to know that,” he said softly, like this was a conversation just between the two of us. "You deserve respect, and in order to understand that, maybe a little self-respect is what you need the most."

I nodded slowly, my eyes drifting down to the kitchen tile. I felt a gentle hand come up to my jaw, and raise my head up to meet a pair of russet-colored eyes.

“You have to learn to respect yourself,” Cain told me with gentle brutality, his hand still holding my face. “Sexuality isn’t a privilege or a lifestyle, Paige. It’s a person’s right. You can do anything you want to do with…whomever. But you have to respect yourself, and make sure that the other person damn well respects you too.”

I let those words churn over in my mind a little before I even thought about responding. Letting out a breath that I didn’t even realize I had been holding, I made sure to meet both of their gazes straight-on. He was right. They were right. I had a long way to go, but it wouldn't be any shorter if I continued on this self-destructive path.

“I’m sorry.” I genuinely confessed. "I know that you're both right. I'll work on it, I promise."

chapter 9

It had been nearly four months since that awful episode with Trevor and my men hosting their "come to Jesus" meeting with me. Since then, I had worked my ass off, both at the academy, and at home. And I had fought the temptation for any further random hook-ups, which I found was much easier if I wore myself out physically.

So that's what I did, both in the gym, at home, and with Cain.

Let me explain. I helped Cain every chance I got with his catering business. It was a win-win because not only did I earn some extra cash, but I stayed out of trouble. Little by little I started banking some self-respect along the way.

I was pretty sure that I had earned both Cain and Eli's respect in the meantime, if I hadn't had it before. I think they had been genuinely concerned about me—they cared about me and, in return, I had this unfamiliar need to please them. That was a first for me.

I paid off my car, and had some additional spending money, which I put to good use, sprucing up my wardrobe, and buying some decorative things for the house, determined that it would have my signature style right along with theirs. After all, we were all in this thing together. It felt good to belong somewhere, and I knew that I did.

I had kept a professional attitude where Darin was concerned. I mean, after all, he was still my superior and I needed to make sure that I kept everything above reproach.

Besides, I really had no ax to grind with him. Everything he had said to me that evening had been true. Any inkling of a committed relationship had been in my own mind. I couldn't hold him responsible for leading me on because he really hadn’t.

We were getting the house prepped for the holidays. Eli had made plans to spend Thanksgiving with Darcy and Easton; Trace and Lindsey were spending Thanksgiving with Lindsey's side of the family. Cain and I had been invited to Darcy's as well, but Cain had a major catering gig and I had offered my help.

And it wasn't as if Thanksgiving was that big of a deal to me anyway.

Now Christmas?

Yeah, that was another story. I had already brought up the artificial Christmas tree from the basement, along with the multiple boxes of decorations.

I had enlisted my men's help in rearranging the living room furniture so that our tree could be placed in front of the picture window, so all who traveled down our street could see it, once it was decorated, in all of its eclectic and electric magnificence.

My guys told me that once Thanksgiving had passed, we could get the tree and the outside lights that I had bought put up.

Cain and I got through catering the banquet at one of the local country clubs. Once home, we were exhausted, so we flopped down on the sofa for a breather.

"You did well tonight, Paige," he complimented. "You’re a damn good worker. I appreciate your jumping in to help out, being that a couple of my trusted employees called off last minute. I like that I can depend on you."

I looked over at him, my head resting against the back of the sofa. "It means a lot to me that you said that," I said with a sigh. "I'm not going to lie, though. It was a bitch today, Cain."

He nodded with a loud laugh on his lips and a silent one in his eyes.

It always took me completely off-guard when Cain laughed. I mean yeah, I knew that the guy was human…but when there was a smile on his face; he went from a brooding man to a boyish, sexy guy. It was friggin’ disarming, and I never fully knew how to react and keep the moment when it happened.

I didn’t even realize that I had probably been staring for a full-on minute when Cain looked over at me, a smaller smile hanging from his face. “You’re doing that staring thing again,” he teased.

My eyebrows crept together at that comment, “What staring thing?”

He let out another small laugh, and I kind of wanted to throw it in my pocket.

“That staring thing you do when you don’t think I’m paying attention,” Cain explained.

“Umm…I think someone needs to get his ego checked,” I nudged him playfully in the arm. “One, I don’t stare. And two, even if I did, what makes you think I’d waste it on someone who looks like they spend their spare time running over baby bunnies?” For bonus effect, I raised one eyebrow.

I watched his eyes widen as he looked at me, right before he threw his head back and let out a deep, rich laugh. He looked back over, “Baby bunnies? Where the hell do you even get this stuff?”

Waggling my eyebrows, I shrugged. “T.V.”

He snorted, and I turned fully so that my body was facing his entirely now. “No, seriously. T.V. can teach you a lot of things, my friend. For instance, when I was fourteen and I heard that Billy Jameson wanted to kiss me, I watched Beverly Hills 90210 for a solid afternoon.”

“And…?” Cain asked, with questioning eyes.

“Aaaand, not only did I learn how to kiss…,” I paused dramatically, before gesturing him to come closer, as if I planned on telling him my biggest, darkest secret. When he complied, I brought my face super close to his and whispered mischievously, “I learned how to French.”

Exuberant shock took over his features, and that earlier smile built a home in his voice as he asked, “And what did this Billy think?”

“Well,” I replied, tossing my hair back and having fun with this game we were playing. “He thought that I kissed way better than the sophomore girls.”

“Did he?”

It was such a quiet question. And for some reason, the low way Cain spoke those words were beginning to crack through the innocence of the moment we had just shared.

Our faces were still close together when I managed a small nod, a new kind of moment shocking through the lessening space between us.

His lips grazed mine first, and it was such a soft feeling that I knew if I had blinked, I wouldn’t have even felt it.

Until he gave me a second one.

This time, he ran his lips back and forth across mine, as if asking some arbitrary question. Looking back at that moment, I knew that I should've stopped it.

Ended it.

Started it on fire.

Torn it to shreds so that later, I could delve into the trash can and piece it all back together.

Instead, I sucked in a demanding breath and took his bottom lip between mine. Biting down lightly, I heard him softly growl right before feeling his hand lightly gripping the nape of my neck.

And that’s when he decided to throw gasoline on his next kiss.

Cain pulled my head back slightly, and then completely took over. His mouth softly worked at mine at first, until I took another breath, and he used that to his advantage, as his tongue stole in and caressed over mine.

Jesus, he tastes fucking awesome.

It was a mixture of mint and honey, and fuck me…I wanted a lot more.

Bringing my arms up to grip his biceps, I leaned in and took back the advantage as I found a new angle for his mouth. Kissing him and sucking hard on his tongue, I felt his hands grip the skin that showed above my low-slung pants.

And then I was being flipped.

I was on my back, and Cain now had the advantage again as he settled over me and brought my arms up above my head.

He looked down at me with heat in his eyes that was threatening to singe his eyelashes. I was practically panting as he leaned back down and nipped at my ear, right before quietly sucking on the sensitive skin behind.

“He was right,” he whispered.

I couldn’t help it, I giggled as I turned my head to look at him. “Better than a sophomore?”

He gave me a small smile before leaning in and kissing me with whole lot of sexual aggression, to the point where it was almost punishing.

“Better than anyone,” he practically growled, right before nipping the corner of my lips.

And that’s when we heard the sound of Eli’s car in the drive. Cain and I glanced at one other, and the shards of reality dusted over us as we immediately got as far away from each as the few seconds would allow.

Seriously, what the fuck just happened?

Just then, Eli came through the door, his arms full of Tupperware containers and foil-wrapped items.

"Got plenty of leftovers for my favorite peeps," he chimed in, clearly having imbibed in some holiday spirits. "Want to make sure you two got your holiday feast, being that you both spent the day serving it up to everyone else."

Cain jumped up from the couch, off-loading Eli of some of the containers, and following him into the kitchen. "Uh, Eli…did Darcy cook?"

I heard Eli's good-natured laugh float out from the kitchen. "Don't worry, it's all good," he chuckled. "Paige? Get your perky ass in here. I'm making you a plate," he hollered out.

I went into the kitchen where Eli was setting down clean plates and silverware. Cain was busy opening the containers of food, and putting them in the microwave to heat. I grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay from the wine chiller and dug for the corkscrew in the kitchen drawer.

"So how was everything over at 'Matthews Manor'?" I asked, twisting the corkscrew, anxious for any type of conversation to take my mind off of 'Kissing-Gate 2014' that had just gone down not even five minutes before. I so didn't want to relapse back to my skank days. I had too much to lose with these men.

"Big announcement this afternoon," Eli said, using his faux British accent.

He placed a folded hand towel over his arm, taking the open wine bottle from me, and filled my wine glass as a proper servant would. "Yes, mum. It seems Lady Darcy is in a delicate condition. She will be presenting his lordship with their second born next April. The Lord of the Manor has made it quite clear his preference is for a daughter this time."

I looked up into Eli's amused eyes. He was actually kind of good at impersonating Easton's accent. "Seriously? She's pregnant?"

"Yep," he said, his grin now fading. "They're pretty pumped up about it. Lucky them, I guess," he finished with a wistful sigh.

I looked over at him a tad confused. I noticed Cain had turned from the microwave to glance over at him as well. Our eyes locked briefly, before I turned my attention back to Eli.

"Aren't you happy for them, Eli?" I asked softly, placing my hand over his.

He looked up and painted a smile back on for my benefit. "What? Oh, sure I am. Just a bit jealous maybe. The closer I get to thirty, the more appealing the whole minivan-and-soccer-practice life looks.”

I hadn't considered that with these men. I mean, they were in love and as committed to one another as anyone could be—married or otherwise. It was natural, I suppose they might have the same dreams as any other couple with respect to raising children.

"Here we go," Cain said, interrupting my thoughts and the now-saddened tension in the room as he placed containers of warmed food on the table. "Dig in."

Later, as Cain and I finished cleaning up the kitchen, and Eli was taking out the trash, I brought the subject up. I had all but forgotten about the kiss as this new topic moved to the top.

"Do you and Eli want children, Cain?"

He looked over at me, caught off-guard momentarily. He shrugged and gave a small nod.

"Yeah, we've looked into it," he admitted. "You think that's fucked up, don't you?"

I shook my head. "No, not really," I replied. "I guess until I just now saw how Eli reacted to Darcy's news, I hadn't really thought about it. I've never heard you guys discuss it."

"Well, you're not privy to every conversation we have, Paige. You know, we do manage to have private discussions when possible," he replied, trying to throw some humor into his words. Clearly, it was his polite way of saying, 'MYOB.'

Cool. No problemo.

I turned to leave the kitchen, and felt his hand on my arm, pulling me around to face him. His eyes were warm and soft now, a hint of remorse lacing his expression.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he replied gently. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's kind of a sore subject, I guess. It's the one thing we can't give one another and it's frustrating as hell. We aren't on the same page with it, in all honesty."

"S'alright," I said with a nod, turning to leave.

"Hey you two," Eli said, coming into the kitchen. "Want to play some cards or something?"

I gave Eli a kiss on the cheek as I headed out. "I'm exhausted guys, rain check? This chick has a date with a long soak in a tub full of bubbles. Don't forget—tomorrow we start decorating inside and out."

I heard their manly grumbles as I retreated down the hallway to my room.

My bubble bath was delicious. I soaked for nearly an hour, and thought about the kiss Cain had given me. Maybe I was making too much of it. Maybe it was just something done without thought. I was inclined to believe that's all it was.

I mean, we all cared for each other; that was perfectly clear. We were all close, so maybe it didn't have to mean a damn thing. I wasn't going to overanalyze it. I probably needed to get out more. I'd kind of become a house frau and it was showing. I hadn't sworn off men for life, just the users. Maybe I was ready to try my hand at cultivating a real relationship with someone who had potential rather than just anyone with a hard dick.

After my bath, I climbed into my empty bed and pulled out the large plastic bag that contained yarn, knitting needles and the two work-in-progress wool scarves I'd been knitting in secret for a couple of weeks.

I was making a dark teal scarf for Eli; Cain's was a dark maroon, and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit when it sort of/probably looked an awful lot like something Draco Malfoy would wear. The colors were perfect for each of their palettes.

My Grandmother Townsend (my mom's mother) had taught me how to knit and crochet one summer when I stayed at her house in Oregon. I was probably eleven or twelve at the time. She lived in the middle of nowhere, so I had been happy to have something to keep me busy.

I had knitted potholders of every color, and crocheted hats for my parents and brother, proudly presenting them as gifts when I arrived back home. Only, I never saw my mother use that first potholder, and of course, the hats hadn't really been their style I was told.

The following year, my Grandmother Townsend passed away. When my mother returned home after her burial, she brought boxes of yarn, knitting needles, crochet hooks, and patterns with her and gave them to me.

Over the years, I had dabbled here and there with making things. It was a skill that had stuck with me, I suppose, and would serve me well in making Christmas presents for my guys.

I had found earmuffs on sale to go with them. My budget was still fairly tight these days.

I was knitting away, finding the sound of the clicking needles almost soothing. My grandmother had told me that many a problem had found a solution while she knitted. Maybe I'd have a better chance of finding a date if I wasn't sitting home knitting, I thought to myself with a smile.

I definitely needed to do something before New Year's Eve, because this girl, as mature and down-to-earth as she was trying to be, wasn't going to be a fucking wallflower on New Year’s Eve.

There had been a couple of guys at the bureau who worked in Accounting that had been somewhat flirtatious with me, but I'd pretty much been blowing them off.

I promised myself that, after Thanksgiving, I would make a concerted effort to strike up a conversation with one of them. They were both very nice guys, and not the usual bad-boy types I seemed to gravitate towards. That had to be a good sign. I'd start with Kenneth. He had the higher-level position of the two.

I smiled as I continued knitting. Granny Townsend was right. I had definitely worked out a practical plan while knitting, to ensure I was on the right path toward maturity, self-respect and cultivating healthy relationships.

chapter 10

We all had Black Friday off from our respective jobs, so I put the guys to work assembling the Douglas Fir artificial tree, and getting the white twinkle lights situated evenly. That had managed to get me several exasperated sighs and a couple of eye rolls thrown my way.

I admit, I was damn picky when it came to my Christmas tree decorating. My mother had always left it for me to do, once Trace left home, and I had taken the responsibility quite seriously.

"Much better, Eli," I praised, after I had instructed him to fill the gap where one string of lights plugged into the next.

"Thank you, Princess Paige," he teased, with a shake of his head. "Damn, I never knew how inept I was at this until you so graciously pointed out the multiple faux pas I made here." He gave a waggle of his eyebrows.

Cain came in from the garage just then with another rubber tub marked "X-MAS SHIT." He set it down next to the tree and took the lid off of it.

"Here it is," he said, with a big smile. "I knew we hadn't tossed this stuff out before the move."

He reached in and pulled out several home-made ornaments. Like maybe from his own childhood. There were snowmen and gingerbread men made out of colored felt, with sequins and buttons glued on, a Christmas angel that looked like it had been made out of a tampon, with a bunch of glitter adorning it and a gold pipe-cleaner shaped as the wings.

"These are precious," I said, my lips twitching to a smile. I had never seen Cain look like a 'kid at Christmas' which was exactly how he looked at this very moment. It was hard to even imagine him being a child, what with his serious nature and the passionate undercurrent I had felt first-hand the night before.

He looked over at me and our eyes met.

Damn, he was fucking complicated—or maybe it was simply that the longer I knew him, the less I seemed to know him. He could still surprise me with his sudden change of emotions, or the occasional peek into his psyche.

"I don't know why I've kept these," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "I guess it's the fact that they represent some happy times as a kid."

"Or because you're an insufferable packrat," Eli chimed in, as he started hanging Christmas ornaments. He didn't catch the one finger salute Cain threw up behind his back, giving me a wink.

I started putting wire hooks into some of Cain's ornaments, getting ready to hang them. "Where did you grow up, Cain?"

"Chicago," he replied. "Until my parents divorced when I was thirteen, then I moved with my mother to Baltimore. I didn't see my father much after that," he said, shrugging.

I knew Cain well enough by now not to dig any deeper. If he wanted me to know more, he would tell me when he was ready. Compared to Eli and me, just from the bits and pieces that Cain had shared over the past several months, his formative years didn't sound particularly pleasant.

We were nearly finished trimming the tree when Eli looked at his watch. "Shit, I'm fifteen minutes late picking up Darce."

"Huh?" I asked, looking over at him as he headed for the closet.

"Shopping. We made plans yesterday."

"You're actually going out with all of the crazies on the worst fucking shopping day of the year?" I asked incredulously.

Cain snorted. "You know better than to ask, Paige. Dude doesn't miss a chance to out-shop Darcy."

"Yeah, as if," Eli chuckled, zipping up his jacket. "I'll stop on the way home for some Chinese take-out. Sound good?"

"Fine by me," I replied, placing an ornament on the tree. "Be careful out there."

Cain and I finished the tree, making small talk about our Christmases growing up. I felt a bit uncomfortable, like something was hanging over our heads that we weren't addressing. I finally had enough nerve to mention it.

"Cain, I know you're a private person and I totally respect that, but you and I need to talk about yesterday…about the kiss." I was stumbling over my words, not sure what his reaction would be.

He slowly nodded. “I know," he said, softly. "I hope I didn't totally freak you out. I just couldn't resist," he sighed.

I sat up straighter as he appeared to collect his thoughts. I also made sure that there was a decent amount of couch between us this time.

“I’m drawn to you,” he said this like we were just two people talking about the weather. “Sexually…and emotionally.”

When he just tossed that out there, I probably looked like some sort of a fish in shock as I felt my eyes widen…

He continued, “Eli knows it. I told him last night about the kiss,” Cain let out a small laugh. “And he’s not upset; he’s not even surprised."

"I guess I'm confused," I murmured. "I don't want to cause problems between the two of you. You do know that I care deeply for both of you, right?”

He nodded, giving me a trace of a smile. "I do know that—we both know that. Hey, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable with that, Paige. I just needed to put it out there, because it's just who I am and it's how I feel."

I wasn't sure how I felt about it now, knowing that he had told Eli and, for whatever reason, Eli had understood. This was all very new ground for me. I opted to change the subject for now.

"You know," I said, "There's a guy at work that's kind of been flirting with me the past couple of months."

I saw Cain quirk an eyebrow, but he remained silent.

"Anyway," I continued, "You can rest assured he's not the…caliber I went for in the past. I've learned my lesson on that, thanks to you guys. So, would it be okay if I invited him here for dinner…maybe next week?"

Cain eyed me warily, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. "This is your home too, Paige. You don't need our permission to have a guest for dinner."

I flushed, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I know that," I responded. "What I meant was that I'd like you and Eli to be here for dinner as well. So that, you know, you can meet Kenneth? We're sort of like family, the three of us. Especially since none of mine even seem to be talking to me much these days," I finished quietly.

"It's fine, Paige," Cain replied softly. "Just let us know when and we'll make sure to become the Italian mafia where your boyfriend conquest is concerned, okay?"

I smiled, feeling better already. I wanted these men to like any man I brought home for them to meet. I needed their seal of approval, for some strange reason. What they thought about me mattered.

chapter 11

I gazed at the dining room table that was beautifully set. The water glasses were filled, the wine was breathing and my homemade lasagna was baking in the oven.

I returned to the kitchen, chopping up celery for my salad. I popped a piece of it into my mouth, just as I felt strong arms encircle me from behind, causing me to jump and let out a high-pitched shriek.

I heard Eli's playful laugh. "Sorry, sweetie," he said, releasing me. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"What the hell, Eli?" I said, trying to swallow the chunk of celery now lodged in my throat.

"You okay?" he asked, smacking me on the back. "Sorry, babe, the smell of your lasagna makes me do impetuous things," he winked.

"I'm fine," I said, rolling my eyes. "How about you put some of your energy into making the salad?" I suggested. "Where's Cain?"

Eli grabbed a paring knife and started peeling a carrot. "He's just getting out of the shower. Don't worry; I laid out clothes for him. Wouldn't want to bring shame to our best girl while she tries to impress Kevin."

"It's Kenneth," I told him for about the fifth time this week. "Kenneth," I annunciated.

"Got it, got it," he said. "So what's Kenneth's story?"

I checked the lasagna, and turned the oven down a bit. "Well, he's older than me, probably thirty-ish—"

"Ah-hah—geezers like us," he teased.

"Sort of," I replied with a smile. "Truthfully, Eli, he is kind of a serious guy, so maybe you can drop our usual banter down a notch or two? I mean the guy's an accountant, for Chrissake, so I think the word of the day is conservative."

"Conservative?" he quipped, "My fucking word of the day is 'mismatch'."

"Huh?"

"Why the hell would you pursue a relationship with a dude who you admit is a stuffy bean-counter?"

"I didn't say stuffy," I replied.

"It was implied, babe."

Just then, Cain came into the kitchen, dressed in the casual Dockers/Polo ensemble that Eli had selected for him.

"What the fuck smells so good?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"See," I snapped. "That's just what I mean." I tossed my hand up in the air in exasperation.

"Chill, Paige," Eli replied, and then directed his attention to the befuddled Cain. "It seems as though we need to act like we have couth and manners this evening, Maddox. Paige just described Kenneth as being…well, boring."

I grabbed the wooden salad utensils from the counter and started tossing. "I didn't say boring; I said conservative. I mean, come on guys, I don't want him thinking I live with heathens, alright?"

"Hey, this is your gig, babe," Cain said. "We'll take our cue from you, how's that?"

"Perfect," I replied, taking the salad bowl out to the table.

* * *

Well, to say that dinner went well would be…an all-out lie.

Fuck me.

What had I been thinking, inviting Kenneth over? And I won't say my guys didn't try to find some topic of interest to draw my date into some masculine conversation. I mean, my God, they had to have been exhausted by the time the meal was blessedly over.

First off, Kenneth had no interest whatsoever in sports—any sports.

He has no interest in music, traveling, the arts, television programs, or even current events—with the exception of the national debt, about which he rambled on non-stop for nearly twenty minutes.

He also had no tolerance for being referred to as "Kenny," which Eli managed to do several times, much to Kenneth's obvious chagrin.

Finally, Eli and Cain retired to their room to give Kenneth and me some privacy, which to be honest, I didn't want. The dude was flat out on my fucking nerves. In fact, he was running neck-and-neck with ol' Trevor Mulroney at this point.

"Would you like a refill on your wine?" I asked Kenneth as we sat staring at one another at the now-cleared dining room table.

"Certainly, thank you," he replied, holding his glass up.

I poured myself some as well, thinking maybe this guy would be a tad more tolerable if I were under the influence a bit.

"So, Paige," he said quietly, leaning in as if he wanted to tell me a secret. "Is it safe for me to presume that your…uh…roommates are queers?"

I nearly spewed my mouthful of merlot onto his crisply-ironed white oxford shirt. I grabbed a napkin, wiping my mouth as I managed to swallow it instead.

"Uh, Kenneth? Exactly who uses that word these days?" I asked, looking him dead in the eyes.

"I apologize," he replied, quickly. "Homos, then?"

Ah, fuck to the no…

"You know," I started, trying to choose my words carefully, "I guess I don't understand why the sexual preference of my roommates—who, by the way, are very close to me, would be of any consequence to you."

He looked a bit taken aback at being called out on his own ignorance and stupidity.

"Well, it's just that your living arrangement took me a bit by surprise. I mean, I've been trying to talk to you for months, but you didn't seem interested. Then, out of the blue, you invite me to dinner this week and introduce me to your roommates, whom you obviously wanted in attendance for our date. It just makes me wonder whether you don't feel comfortable being alone with me—or maybe if it's something else altogether."

What. The. Fuck?

"What do you mean by something else altogether?" I asked, not hiding my puzzlement at all.

I actually saw Kenneth squirm in his chair, and a blush appeared on his cheeks. "Well, uh, I am familiar with your reputation just a bit. I mean, well, Darin Murphy kind of likes to boast, know what I mean?"

I felt myself getting fired up at the mention of that douche's name. "Go on," I said firmly.

Kenneth was definitely out of his comfort zone now.

"Well, it's just that Darin kind of clued me in when I told him you had approached me for a dinner date at…your place. He told me about your roommates—and he may have asked something about my having experience with—uh…foursomes," he finished quickly. "I just want to tell you, right off the bat, that I'm not into any of that counter-culture stuff. It's got to be a one-on-one with you and me, okay?"

I was fairly sure my mouth was gaping open by this time, and my eyes were the size of saucers.

Yet still, he babbled on.

"I mean, when the time is right for you and me to have sexual intercourse, I would prefer that it be at my place—not here. I just don't think I could perform knowing that—"

So let me just stop right here and fast-forward.

Needless to say, Kenneth left our home before dessert was served. And when he left, there was no doubt in his mind that he'd never be back.

End of random date #1.

chapter 12

It was four days before Christmas, and here I sat at one of the nicest restaurants this side of D.C., across from Roger Falconer.

I'd gone all-out getting dressed this evening in a black knit dress, with heels and hose to boot. Both Cain and Eli had let out low whistles as I came out into the family room to let them know I was taking off.

"Wait a minute," Cain said, narrowing his eyes. "Isn't your date picking you up?"

I rolled my eyes, leaning over to give him a kiss on his cheek. "No, Dad, we're meeting at the restaurant," I replied. "After that debacle with Kenneth, I just couldn't put you guys through that again until I know if he's a keeper."

"Well shit, Paige," Eli piped up. "Don't you even know this dude?"

I leaned over and gave him his kiss, and failed miserably in keeping the smile out of it.

"Yes," I said, rolling my eyes. "I work with him. I told you that. But hell, I didn't think Kenneth would be such a freakin' idiot and I knew him from work as well. If we click, I'll make sure I bring him home for your seals of approval before it gets serious, okay?"

"Well, you definitely look hot, babe," Cain said, his eyes flickering over me from top to bottom. "Shall we expect you home tonight?"

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the fluttering in my belly whenever Cain got all flirtatious like that with me. It was…unnerving, and yet I enjoyed it.

Eli never seemed to mind it either, which was why I didn't feel badly about the belly flutters he gave me.

"Yes, I'll be home. I quit practicing skankery, or haven’t you noticed?"

"We've noticed," they both said at the same time.

"'Kay, then see you guys later."

"Be careful," Cain called out as I hit the door.

I turned back, giving him a smile, watching the intensity that he occasionally threw my way. I think my dating intrigued him for some reason; or maybe it simply bothered him a bit.

"Paige?"

"I'm sorry," I said, coming out of my thoughts to pay attention to my date. "What were you saying, Roger?"

"I said that I have to be totally vigilant when ordering off of menus. I have quite a few food allergies."

"Oh really?" I asked, looking up and over at him. "What kinds?" I figured I might as well know what they were, just in case I invited him over for dinner some time.

"Just some of the more common ones," he replied, giving me a smile. "Fish, including shellfish, poultry meat, nuts, including peanuts, wheat, soy, rice, chocolate and citrus."

Dayumm…

"Well, I'm sure there's something here on the menu that you can tolerate," I replied.

"The thing is," he continued, "I have to make sure that nothing is made using peanut oil. You'd be surprised how many different recipes call for peanut oil."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah," he replied, nodding his head. "One time I was at a restaurant in Norfolk, enjoying a dinner salad, when lo and behold, my lips swelled up and my throat started constricting. I was literally gasping for air. It seems that the house dressing was made using peanut oil, unbeknownst to me."

"Damn," I said, "What happened?"

"Well, thank God I had my atomizer with me. I never leave home without it," he replied, tapping the pocket of his jacket. I was okay after a few minutes, but it was a scary few minutes, I can tell you that."

"I can imagine," I replied, glancing down at my menu.

"So even with breads and rolls," he continued, "I have to make sure that they're gluten-free, on account of my wheat allergies."

As dinner droned on, so did the conversation.

But at least Roger had interests in things like sports and music, though he said as a child his allergies to dust, ragweed, and certain types of grasses and trees had made it impossible for him to play outdoor sports.

Roger loved to travel, so he talked about some of the places he'd been. I was genuinely impressed when he told me that he had been to forty-eight of the fifty states.

"So, when are you going to close the loop and hit Alaska and Hawaii?" I asked, as I buttered my dinner roll.

"Not in this lifetime, I'm afraid. I have a fear of flying. So my count stops at forty-eight."

"I see," I nodded.

Roger went on to talk about his job with the bureau, which was actually kind of interesting. He worked for the BAU as a research technician, tracking trends and movements of serial killings.

"You might know my brother," I said. "He's with the BAU, Trace Matthews?"

"Taz?" (My brother's nickname) "Hell yeah, I know him. He's a righteous guy for sure."

Okkaaay.

I could've kissed the waiter as he rolled the dessert cart over to our table to see if we wanted to make a selection. There was a gorgeous crème brulee custard that looked big enough for us to share.

"Can you caramelize the topping?" I asked the waiter.

"I have my trusty kitchen torch right here," he replied with a grin.

"Want to share a crème brulee, Roger?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. I got nothing but a blank stare.

"It's caramel custard," I explained, nodding toward the dessert cart, where the waiter was now torching the top of the sugary topping to make it warm, gooey and crunchy at the same time.

"Oh heavens no," he replied, fanning his face. "You go ahead. I've got a horrible phobia about touching anything sticky," he explained. "I think it goes back to when I was five or six years old, and my twin brother stuck his half-melted caramel apple in my hair at the county fair. My mother damn near scrubbed the hair right off of my scalp."

Dear God. There's another one out there like him?

I turned my attention back to the waiter. "No dessert for us. Check please?"

I insisted on paying for my portion of the dinner bill. I didn't want to give Roger any reason to think that I owed him a good-night kiss, let alone another date—which, by the way, he suggested, and which I politely declined.

I was too embarrassed to return home as early as it was. I didn't want to have to explain to my guys why the hell I was home at nine-thirty from a date that had started at eight.

I stopped at a neighborhood pub that wasn't too far from home and ordered a gin and tonic. I nursed it slowly, killing time until I could head home, making it look as if my second random date hadn't been the complete disaster that it was.

At ten-forty, I paid my tab and headed for home. They had left the front porch light on for me, and I half-expected they'd still be up, even though it was a week night. Cain usually stayed up until midnight. Eli was more regimented in his schedule, being that he got up early for work.

When I came in from the garage, I heard the television going from the family room. I tried to be as quiet as possible, so I could sneak by them without the third degree. I thought I had accomplished just that until I heard Cain's soft voice from behind me.

"How'd it go tonight, Paige?" he asked.

I whirled around to see that it was just him. Eli must've gone to bed.

I walked into the family room, taking my coat off and tossing it over a chair.

"Fortunately, it was nothing memorable," I replied, plopping down next to him on the sofa. "Because, trust me, I'd just as soon gouge both of my eyes out than remember tonight's dating disaster."

"Oh come on," he said, "It couldn't have been as bad as the fiasco with Kenneth, right?"

I gave him an eye roll, and proceeded to fill him in on the fine points of my latest date, complete with the list of Roger's allergies and his phobia of 'sticky things.'

I'd never seen Cain so entertained and amused. Maybe I'd have to continue going on these dating disasters, if only to see his infectious smile and hear his beautiful laughter more often.

"Did Eli go to bed early, or did you just decide to stay up later to make sure I got home safely?" I asked, using my teasing tone with him.

"Yes and yes," he deadpanned. "Want to watch a late flick with me?"

God…yes…

"Hmm," I stalled, glancing up at the clock and seeing it was just a couple of minutes after eleven. "Let me change into my PJ's, and brush my teeth, then I'll hang out with you for a bit. No guarantees I'll stay awake much longer, though. Tomorrow is a work day for me, too."

I went to my room and changed into a pair of flannel pajamas, threw my robe on over them and brushed my teeth. When I returned, Cain had flipped the channel over to one of their subscribed stations, and some terror flick was on.

He had moved down to the end of the sofa.

"Come on," he said, patting the long stretch of sofa next to him. "Stretch out and put your feet in my lap. I'll give you one of my killer foot massages."

Hot damn.

I did as instructed, and within ten minutes, Cain could've asked anything of me and I would've complied.

My God!

This man had some magic fucking fingers that made me glad my feet were nowhere in the vicinity of my pussy, because if they had been, I'd have come about five times by now. He knew every single pressure point and made damn good use of them. I heard myself moan a couple of times, I won't lie; I couldn't help it.

My eyes were closed, but he knew I was still awake.

"So, you're a moaner, are you?"

I opened an eye to look at him.

God, he was so gorgeous when he was intense like that—which was nearly all the time. He hadn't even asked the question in jest. He was dead serious.

"Sometimes," I replied, "If the pleasure is just that good, I mean."

He pulled my feet up and off of his lap, setting them beside him as he moved towards me, his one knee dipped into the cushion on the sofa, his hands supporting his weight rested on either side of me. He hovered over me; his eyes were deadlocked on mine.

"Cain," I started, but never finished whatever it was I’d planned to say, which at the moment, eluded me, because his lips were now brushing against mine, his tongue ever-so-gently tracing my bottom one.

I closed my eyes and went with it, imagining how it would feel to be totally encased by this man. His lips and tongue teased mine almost playfully, but slowly and sensually, as if he were tasting me, centimeter by centimeter.

I raised my arms up and wrapped them around his neck, relishing in the warmth that I could feel with his closeness. Our kiss deepened, and I opened myself up to him, pulling his weight down upon me.

His lips moved slowly to my cheek, planting soft kisses there, his tongue gently lapped at my earlobe. He released a warm sigh against my ear that sent a shiver through me. His tongue traced the outside of my ear, and gently flicked at the edges, as his hands were now framing my rib cage, and moving towards my breasts.

He kneaded my breasts through the double layer of clothing, which still did nothing to repel the heat of his hands on me. His mouth moved to the very sensitive area of my neck, right below my ear, causing me to shiver yet again.

I could tell that he loved making me shiver, and he was an expert at finding other sensitive areas on my neck and throat, taking his time and making soft moans escape from my lips, as his lips and tongue found new ways of pleasuring my skin.

Something in me was responding to him in a way that I'd never done with any other man. For that moment, I didn't care about anything else but melting into him.

My legs struggled beneath him until he raised himself up a bit, so that I could free them up in order to wrap them tightly around his hips.

I pressed myself into him, my legs as strong as a vise in pulling him into me.

I could feel his hardness against my groin as his lips now returned to my mouth, where he found new ways of positioning his lips and tongue, sucking gently on mine as a soft moan now escaped from him.

He thrust his hips gently against me, and mine instinctively rose up to do the same.

Shit…I haven't dry-fucked since eleventh grade.

Cain made no attempt to get underneath my clothing, which was good, because I actually think that no matter how good this felt, I would've stopped him from doing anything skin to skin below my neck.

We struck up a rhythm on the couch. I felt his hardness pressing and grinding against my clit, and that was quickly bringing me to a much-needed orgasm.

Our mouths were melded together, tongues swirling, breathing in one another's breaths. My skin felt flushed with the passionate heat that roiled between us like flames from a fire.

I couldn't stop now. I pressed myself up against him harder, as his hips swiveled against me; his hard cock beneath his jeans rubbed just the right spot, bringing my sweet orgasm to fruition.

I moaned against his lips as I came, trembling from the release that I hadn't had for such a long time, and loving the fact that it was Cain who had given it to me.

In that moment, I didn't feel as if it were wrong. I didn't stop to analyze it, or to even feel guilty about it, because it had nothing to do with anyone other than Cain and me.

Once my orgasm had subsided, I wasn't sure what to do.

I mean, it was kind of a conundrum. I'd gotten mine; he hadn't gotten his and to be honest, there wasn't anything further I was prepared to do to resolve that because of…Eli.

Finally, a bit of shame had sunk in. I moved out from underneath him, not really wanting to talk about it, or anything.

"I need to get to bed, Cain," I said, not really looking at him. I started to get up from the sofa, but he hauled me back down.

"You knew that this was bound to happen, didn't you?"

I was confused. I mean, I'd never planned on this happening, and since it had, I was now feeling like it was definitely kind of…wrong.

"I never meant for it to," I murmured like a repentant adolescent. "I don't want anything to come between you and Eli."

"It doesn't have to," he replied, taking a lock of my hair, and putting it behind my ear. "It can be about all of us."

"What?" I asked; the confusion very evident on my face.

"We have a unique situation," he commented, "But it's not insurmountable, babe. And it's not all that uncommon, given the right circumstances," he finished.

"Are you suggesting…uh," I stammered, looking for the right words.

"A threesome?" he offered.

I nodded my head.

"A threesome is an event," he replied. "I'm looking for much more than that, Paige."

"I can't think about any of this now, Cain. It doesn't…feel right to me."

"You go on to bed, and we'll talk about this another time, once you've had a chance to examine your feelings about me…and about Eli."

Eli? Eli couldn't possibly…

"Goodnight," I replied, not wanting to look back at him as I rose from the couch and hurried off to my room.

Much later, I was still lying awake in my room, thoughts and pieces of uncertainty and confusion taking up residence in my brain so that sleep wasn't an option.

From down the hall, I could hear the sounds from their room. I'd heard them before, but tonight it was much more pronounced as the headboard on their bed was rhythmically and loudly banging against the wall of their room.

I guess Cain was getting his after all.

chapter 13

It was Christmas Eve afternoon and I was trying to get presents wrapped before Cain and Eli arrived home.

They had gone over to Darcy and Easton's for lunch, and I had made an excuse because I knew Trace and Lindsey would be there, and I wasn't all that comfortable being around them. I occasionally ran into Trace in Quantico and it was still strained between us.

I didn't want to think about it. If my brother wanted to blow me off the way that he had, then it was on him, not me.

… And then there was my knitting.

I seriously had turned into some sort of a "knitting Rambo" over the past several weeks, and I really didn’t want to blame it on my sexual frustration, because personal denial had actually become one of my strong suits recently - or at least it had until the night after my last dating disaster. Ever since that incident on the couch with Cain, it was like sexual thoughts were coming out of the friggin’ woodwork!

I had done my best to avoid being alone with Cain, which wasn't easy because I could feel his brooding eyes on me from the other room.

It was this sexual vibe that had connected us ever since that night that didn't want to be denied. And it was starting to royally piss me off, because Eli had even commented that my knitting creations looked more and more like some sort of phallic symbols.

Pffft!!

They happened to be Christmas stockings for the three of us.

Phallic my ass!

Mine was white with a candy cane embroidered on it, Cain's was red with a gingerbread man on it, and Eli's was green with a snowman on it. I was damn proud of my workmanship. I think my roomies were a bit…puzzled by my newfound domesticity.

They teased me when I baked—six dozen Christmas cookies and a pan of fudge, packing the goodies up in decorative tins to give out to our mail carrier, newspaper delivery person, and our neighbors on either side of us.

Then, between the two of them, they had scarfed down the remaining two dozen cookies, along with the rest of the fudge in a day and a half. After that, Eli practically wouldn’t even let me have the T.V. remote because his pants fit tighter two days later.

I had to smile, because I couldn't remember feeling this content or secure, well…ever, I guess.

I no longer missed my random sexcapades, not that those had ever been that fulfilling to begin with. I had even stopped my search for an appropriate boyfriend. I mean who cares if I sat home alone on New Year's Eve? It was seriously over-rated anyway.

My parents had sent me a hefty check for Christmas that I had used to buy the rest of the Christmas presents for Cain and Eli. Because, quite frankly, I knew the two of them had gone hog wild buying for me.

Yes. I had snooped.

As much as I knew better than to go into their room and dig through their stuff, it had been just too freakin' tempting.

I had justified it by rationalizing that I wasn't going to be outdone in the gift department, despite my poverty-level income. So, yes, I had done what needed to be done in order to make sure that I wasn't totally humiliated on Christmas morning.

Sue me.

I had purchased a pair of black leather gloves for each of them; along with a new Armani tie for Eli and a rechargeable electric wine opener for Cain. I had bought each of them their favorite cologne scents, and with the finished scarves I had knitted, and ear muffs, their Christmas haul was now complete.

As I finished the wrapping, I discovered that I needed one more box for their ear muffs.

Well…shit.

I knew damn well that a box of any size or shape could be found in Eli's closet.

What the hell.

I closed my bedroom door and went into the living room to make sure that they hadn't pulled up yet. Checking up and down the street, twice, I saw it was all clear.

I scurried down the hall to the master suite, opening the door and heading over to Eli's walk-in closet. As I switched the light on, I gasped. There was a shit-load of more Christmas gifts that hadn't been put under the tree yet.

I examined the name-tags, finding four more gifts that had my name on them, which meant that they had done more shopping since my last sweep.

I couldn't resist.

I picked up the first one, shaking it to see if anything jingled. By the size and shape of the box, I was guessing it was some sort of jewelry, but damn - not a sound came from it.

I picked up another one that looked like a box that might have boots in it. I was secretly hoping those were the UGG's I wanted.

I mean, I sure as hell hadn't been crass enough to ask for them. But, I had left a catalog open on the coffee table in the family room, with the pair that I wanted circled in red for several weeks.

I smiled as I shook the box; pretty damn sure my boots were in there.

Hot damn!

I set the box down and put the smaller one on top, remembering why I had trespassed into forbidden territory to begin with. I searched the shelves over the clothes rack, finally seeing two shoeboxes that would be fine for the two pairs of earmuffs.

I stood on my tip-toes, and moved the bottom box, scooting it toward the edge of the shelf, and jumped back as it fell to the floor, spilling out a pair of Eli's shoes.

As I bent over to pick the shoes up and find a place for them, I heard Cain and Eli come in the front door, none too quietly.

Uh oh…

There was no time to make a quick, unseen exit as I heard their footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors of the hallway.

I quickly switched off the light in the closet, and pulled the louvered door closed; shrinking back into the corner and hoping like hell that Eli didn't need anything out of his closet anytime soon.

Why in the hell hadn't I just gone out when I had the chance? I could have explained the need for a box for a gift way better than if one of them found me hiding in the closet.

"She's probably taking a nap," I heard Eli say as they opened the door and came into their room. "She's been going at all this Christmas stuff with a vengeance," he chuckled. "Just toss those bags on the bed. I'll wrap them later."

"I hear that," Cain remarked. "She's really been on her game, too. She's a hell of a worker, keeps up her end of the bargain, and hell; she even makes this place more of a home for us. Kind of makes me fucking proud of her."

I couldn't see what they were doing, but the discussion they were having immediately piqued my interest.

"I think I know what you're saying, Maddox," Eli replied quietly. "And I want you to know that I'm okay with it."

"I love you, man," Cain murmured. "You and me, we're in this for the long haul, you get that right?"

Eli must've nodded.

"Okay then, so I want you to be more than okay with it. I want you to be a part of it."

I heard Eli draw a long sigh. I could even picture him doing it.

"I'm not sure I want to cross that line again, Maddox. I mean, I get that she's been around with dudes and all, but this is a bit more than even her experience has prepared her for, and she may just end up being a one-dude kind of chick. I mean, the sexually charged current between you two is pretty fucking obvious, but that doesn't necessarily mean she wants me to be part of the deal."

Oh God! Are they talking about…what I think they're talking about?

"Eli, this is more than just about sexual chemistry and you damn well know it. This is about a life choice for all of us. I love her same as you, but I need her, too."

"You need to take this slow, Maddox. Yeah, I love her, too. Not the same way that you do, but I think you already knew that. And I love you so fucking much, and your honesty about it all. I won't lose you, I swear. You let her know that you love her, because it's not fair not to. I'm down with whatever it is you need to make this work."

"Come here," Cain ordered quietly.

It was quiet for several moments. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and for a second, I was worried that they could hear it too.

I crept quietly over to the door of the closet. The louvers allowed me to see into their room. They were wrapped tightly in an embrace, kissing one another as only people in love kiss.

I watched, curious to see what it was like with these men. I mean, I'd seen them show affection with one another before, but nothing heavy—nothing like right now.

Their lips fit perfectly together as they kissed. Their rock-solid arms were wrapped around one another, and I watched as Eli cupped Cain's chin with his hand, pulling his mouth even closer, allowing his tongue to trace his bottom lip.

Cain kissed Eli the same way that he had kissed me. It was signature. It was custom, I realized, as Cain's hands clasped the back of Eli's neck, pulling him in even further, as if he wanted to devour him. It was almost savage, but it was love, and it was beautiful to me.

Seeing their mutual love expressed so passionately and so fucking willingly to one another, took my breath away.

I decided that I wanted to be kissed like that again. The same way that Cain had kissed me before. I wanted it to happen again. I wanted more to happen because now I was perfectly clear on his feelings. So was Eli.

Cain finally broke away, and I wondered if I was going to see more of their love.

"Come on, Eli," he said, giving him a few more soft, butterfly kisses on his lips, "We'll talk more about this later, for now, we need to get the packages out of the trunk that Darcy sent over and under the tree before Paige wakes up. She gets so excited every time she sees another wrapped package added to the pile."

"Darce sent quite a haul over," Eli replied with a laugh. "I think this is going to be the best Christmas yet."

As soon as I was sure that they had headed back out, I literally came out of the closet, and scurried down the hallway towards my room.

Once inside, I crawled on top of my bed, bringing my legs up to my chin, and rested my head on my knees. I reflected upon the private conversation I'd heard—the one I had no business hearing, even though I was the topic of it. I thought of the way it had made me feel.

I felt warm and giddy inside with the knowledge that I was loved by these men. And I was also humbled by the fact that Eli was sensitive to the fact that with Cain, it was a bit different than it was with him. And he was okay with it. Because that's just how Eli loved.

chapter 14

Just as I suspected—or should I say, as I was made aware of due to my relentless snooping, I hauled in quite a bit for Christmas. I chastised both Cain and Eli for going overboard.

Eli argued that he had received a nice Christmas bonus at work, while Cain said the catering business had been making major bucks over the holidays, and they had picked up several steady clients for continuing business.

All I knew was that I was officially spoiled this Christmas, and I was a little in love with that.

"My UGG boots," I screeched opening the box and pulling them out. "Oh my God! How'd you guys know?"

That had earned an eye roll from each of them, as I shrugged them on, grinning like a kid who just had their first taste of chocolate.

I also received a leather jacket, a Coach purse, two sweaters, two pairs of jeans, a gold chain necklace, and an assortment of music C.Ds.

Darcy had gifted me with several pairs of earrings, a sweater, hat, gloves and flannel PJs.

Cain rolled his eyes as I pulled out the flannel PJs that had built-in feet. "Those aren't any fun," he teased.

Both of them had loved my gifts to them, totally impressed with my skills at knitting scarves, and they tried them on to show me how they looked.

"You guys have really outdone yourselves," I remarked, looking at my pile of gifts. "This is the best Christmas ever—and it's because of both of you, and the way that I feel about you guys."

It grew quiet as I felt their gazes wrap me up in very secure warmth. I suddenly felt nervous beneath their perusal because they sensed there was more that I wanted to say, and there was.

But I needed to say it to Cain first. And now wasn't the right time. I needed to let him know that, although I loved him—and Eli too for that matter, I wasn't going to be the person who came between them.

We busied ourselves in the kitchen later, getting our Christmas ham in the oven. I watched the way that Eli and Cain interacted and it seemed different—not a bad different, just a subtle quietness that blanketed them and it was new. It was as if a decision had been made; or maybe, a compromise of some sort between the two of them. I was unnerved by it, somehow feeling guilty of something.

I couldn't stop thinking about the conversation I'd overheard and now I wished like hell that I hadn't. And even though they had no clue that I'd heard it, it still hung like a pall over all of us.

Once everything was in the oven, I gathered up all of the boxes containing my Christmas haul, and headed to my room to start putting things in order. Dinner wasn't going to be ready for a couple of hours and I needed some alone time. I sensed they might need some as well.

I'd gotten everything put away in my closet and had made up my bed when there was a light tapping on my door.

"Paige?" It was Cain. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," I called out, plopping down on top of my bed, drawing my knees up under my chin.

He came in, closing my door softly behind him.

"You okay?" he asked, studying me carefully.

"Sure," I said, with faux sincerity. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason. You just seem kind of quiet all of a sudden. Got the Christmas letdown?"

"What's that?" I asked, blinking in confusion.

He smiled. "You know, after the six week build-up and all of the anticipation that goes with it…Then on Christmas, the gifts are opened up and the mystery is gone and it kind of sucks the air out of all that build-up once you realize that it's over for another year."

I smiled weakly. "It's not that. I mean my Christmas was awesome and all. It's something else."

"Wanna share?"

I shifted nervously. "Actually, I was in your room yesterday when you guys got back from Darcy's," I said. "I was looking for boxes to wrap your gifts, and I…kind of panicked when I heard you come home, because I know you don't like me messing with your stuff…so, I uh…hid in the closet," I mumbled, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

"Go on," Cain urged.

"Okay, so I heard the conversation you had…about me; and how you both feel about…me, and it just sort of seemed…to me that maybe Eli was giving you some kind of permission, you know, to act on it…and, well—I don't know how to feel about that," I finished, finally allowing a sigh to escape.

Cain was still studying me…intently. My admission hadn't seemed to have caught him off-guard, or evoked any major change in his demeanor.

"Paige," he finally said, "You can't pretend that you didn't already know how I've felt about you for a while now. I mean, I think it's been fairly obvious…to the both of us. And I think you reciprocate those feelings, too."

I rested my chin on my knees, and rocked back and forth on the bed slowly. "It doesn't mean that it's right," I whispered. "So, yeah, maybe I have been crushing on you…big time. But you belong to Eli and I know my boundaries these days—I mean, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not the same skank you first met last May, right?"

His face softened; the corners of his mouth curled up into one of his magnificent, though rare, smiles. "I have," he replied, softly. "We both have and we love it. And you're right, baby. I belong to Eli, and he belongs to me, but I want you to belong to me, too. In every sense of the word. And Eli understands that about me and about you. He loves us both, you know?"

I shook my head back and forth. "I know he does," I squeaked, my voice full of emotion. "And it's because I love Eli that I would never feel right about…encroaching. I mean, how in the hell could that ever work, Cain?"

He pulled me from my sitting position, into his strong arms, and I let him. His hand brushed my hair back from my face, and his fingers tilted my chin upward, so that I was forced to look into his beautiful russet eyes.

"We'll just take it slow, baby," he whispered. "Because I have no intention of losing either one of you, got it?"

I didn't have a chance to nod, but I knew that I would have because I had no intention of leaving these men either.

Cain's lips claimed mine with purposeful intent, and I melted into him, responding with my own purpose to claim him right back. My tongue explored him, tasted him, and matched his every movement as my hands fisted through his thick, dark hair, pulling him into me with a hunger I didn't realize existed.

We stayed locked within one another's arms until I felt dizzy with the need for more, and if we didn't stop soon, there would be no stopping. Cain sensed it, too.

He pulled away, cupping my chin and planting, soft kisses on my lips, his eyes smoldering. "We’ll take it slow and easy, babe."

I nodded. He pulled away and stood up. I could see that he'd grown hard…for me.

"Eli's leaving in the morning on a ski trip for the next couple of days with some buddies from work. One of them has a condo somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley."

"You aren't going?"

"Have some catering to do. Eli's company shuts down between Christmas and New Year's. I guess it'll just be you and me for the next few days."

I felt myself shiver inwardly, nodding again. And then he was gone. Leaving me there to contemplate what he'd just told me.

chapter 15

Eli had left for his ski trip before I'd gotten out of bed the following morning. Of course, I'd been awake for a couple of hours. I was just too much of a damned coward to leave my room until I knew that I had the house to myself.

It was Saturday, so I didn't have to report back to work until Monday.

Cain had also left, leaving a note for me on the counter telling me that he'd be back before dinnertime, and making a point of letting me know that we would be having dinner together.

I busied myself doing domestic things, and trying not to think about this evening, when it would be just Cain and me. My stomach butterflies swarmed at the possibilities my imagination was churning out.

Eli hadn't mentioned anything before Christmas about a planned ski trip. This was so not like him. I mean, he’d plan his wardrobe in advance for an excursion such as this to ensure that his ski wear was coordinated perfectly.

This had been a last-minute decision; I knew that now. Eli was giving Cain and me time alone. On purpose.

But why?

Wasn't it obvious?

He loved Cain that much.

Maybe he loved me that much, too.

My heart was racing; jumbled thoughts were running through my head. I didn't think that I'd ever been this nervous—or excited.

I finished up with the house, and then took some steaks out of the freezer for dinner.

I took a leisurely bath, shaving, waxing and buffing my skin to a healthy glow.

I painted my nails, and selected some sexy new underwear that I had purchased as a Christmas gift to myself. I dressed in a pair of my new skinny jeans and one of the sweaters I’d received from Eli and Cain.

I brushed out my damp hair, blowing it dry and straightening it with my flat iron. Once I had applied a bit of bronzer and eye make-up, I studied my reflection in the mirror.

I knew what was going to happen this evening and for now, I was okay with that, because I knew in my heart, that it was what I wanted and what I needed.

* * *

I was in the kitchen, marinating the steaks and putting a salad together when Cain got home. It was damn near seven o'clock and I could tell that it had been a day for him. He came up behind me and my skin immediately goose-bumped hard.

"I was going to take you out," he said to me softly, his breath warm on the back of my neck. "Today's event was one disaster after another, it seems. I meant to call you before I realized how late it was. Sorry, baby."

"It's fine," I said, not daring to look at him while I continued chopping celery for the salad. "Let's stay in and have a quiet dinner."

"I'm gonna grab a quick shower, then I'll be out to help you, I promise."

"No, Cain. You worked today. I've got this, okay?"

He put his arms around me, and kissed the top of my head gently. "I won't be long," he said with a promise in his voice.

I shivered.

Dinner was quiet and intimate. The two glasses of wine I consumed had taken the edge off, and maybe had even served to give me some courage. We needed to deal with the elephant in the room before anything else progressed.

"So, have you talked to Eli today?" I asked, looking up from my plate.

"No," he answered quietly. "I don't expect to hear from him while he's away. He needs this time for himself."

"Cain," I started, but he quickly interrupted.

"It was his idea, Paige. Totally. He wants this for us and if I wasn't absolutely sure of that, I'd be with him at Massanutten right now. Do you understand that?"

"But—"

"It's what he wants, Paige. It's what I want and you fucking know that it's what you want," he said firmly, his eyes now flickering over me with an expression that left no doubt in my mind that he was right.

"What is it that you think I want?" I challenged, because I had to hear it from his lips.

"You want to know what it feels like when my cock is buried deeply inside of you, after my tongue has tasted every fucking bit of you first," he said, huskily. "You want to know that, when I'm inside of you that it's just me and you—and no one else, and that each and every time I thrust my cock into you—that it's for you and you alone, and when I finally come—it's because of you and what you do to me that made that happen—and that it's all yours and only yours."

My God.

My panties were damp because of his words; I felt my tongue sweep across my upper lip as I finally exhaled a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

"That's just fucking," I finally said, looking at him and tilting my chin up just a bit.

I saw a glint in his eye as he knew I wanted more.

"Oh yeah," he breathed, sipping his wine. "We're going to fuck for sure. And then we're going to make love, and then maybe fuck again before we finally sleep. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No," I whispered, my limbs turning to jelly right where I sat.

"Good," he said, "Because tomorrow is Sunday and we're both going to be resting up so that we can do it all again afterwards…and again."

Cain got to his feet, and circled around to where I was sitting. He pulled my chair out for me, and he extended his hand down to me. I placed my hand in his, and he pulled me up to my feet where I stood before him.

His hand went to my face; he tilted my chin up to look into the depths of his eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice every bit as intense as his eyes.

I nodded, keeping eye contact with him, making sure that he could read the message very clearly in my eyes: I was never surer of anything in my life.

"For the first time ever, I feel like I belong somewhere…with someone…with you," I breathed.

And what he did next, I'll never forget.

He gathered me up into his strong arms, and I immediately laced my arms around his neck.

"You're mine" he said huskily, as he carried me down the hallway towards the master suite.

I'm pretty sure everything in my body just…stopped what it was doing, so that my pulse, heartbeat and shallow breathing could just pay attention to what was currently happening.

He lowered me down to my feet once we were there; his arms now drew me up against him. Standing there for a minute that felt like two seconds in this man's arms, I felt his lips breeze across my forehead. He tilted my face upward to his, and sought my lips with his own as I melted against him.

I was dizzy with his nearness, his breath warm against my throat as he whispered against me. "God, you're so sweet, Paige. So fucking sweet."

My arms laced around his neck, my face was buried against his chest. I felt his heartbeat and it was strong, and steady. His fingers traced the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, and he gently fisted my hair, drawing my face back as his mouth now came crashing down on mine with clear purpose and intent.

His lips worked mine expertly, and I moaned with the pleasure of feeling his tongue exploring my mouth, capturing my bottom lip in a soft suck, and then tracing his tongue over my top lip, nipping gently at it. I felt heady with his taste and his scent.

His hands moved to my torso, where he pulled my sweater up and over my head, his hands eagerly moving to unclasp my bra so that he could access my breasts, fondling them with urgency, fingering my nipples and causing me to shiver against him.

I felt him unbutton my jeans, and I assisted, getting them lowered to my feet so that I could step out of them. And just like that, he'd discarded his clothing and his eyes took in every inch of my naked body. Mine did the same and he was magnificent. Just like I knew that he would be.

He was back to me, capturing my lips once again, as he lifted me up against him, and then gently lowered me down onto their bed.

There was nothing gentle about his kisses at the moment. The sheer intensity of that was mind-fucking-boggling, as he consumed my lips with his, and claimed my tongue. I felt his hardness against me and my body ached to feel all of him.

I thrust my hips up against him as he roughly fondled my breasts with his large, strong hands, before dipping his head lower, and pulling one into his mouth, nursing it as if it had always been his and no one else's.

I moaned in pure pleasure as I felt his teeth, nipping at my flesh, drawing my nipple in deeper, and then rolling it with his tongue until I thought I would come from that alone.

He moved to the other one, possessing it with his mouth and tongue, and I felt my legs wrap around his hips, drawing him closer, as if that were even possible.

"I need you inside of me," I moaned softly, my hand now fisting in his thick, dark hair. "Please, baby?" I whimpered.

"Patience, babe," his lips said against my sensitive skin, as he moved himself lower.

His tongue was now blazing a slow, sensuous trail down my belly, while his hands moved even lower; and his fingers gently plied the folds of my pussy apart. I felt myself rock against him as he inserted one finger, and then another into my sanctum, gently probing the depths as my wetness coated them.

His tongue flickered over my slit, lapping each sensitive fold of my pussy, and then plunged inside of my core, where it joined his fingers, as the heat of his touch slowly enveloped my senses into this moment in time. I never wanted this feeling to end.

I moaned audibly, thrusting my pelvis up against him, swiveling my hips so that every nerve ending in my core was being touched by him.

He continued loving my pussy, moaning to himself as he tasted my wetness and his tongue washed over my clit again and again, sending shock waves through me from head to toe.

He felt my trembling, knowing already that I was very near climax, so he slowed his tempo a bit, rising up from me to reach for the condom on the nightstand next to the bed.

All the while, his fingers continued their gentle probing of my sex, as he effectively removed the condom from the wrapper and rolled it onto his rigid cock with one hand.

He was on his knees, his eyes boring into me with a hungry passion that owned me.

"I want to fuck you this way," he said, grabbing a pillow and raising my hips up so that he could position it underneath my ass. "I want to watch you come with my cock inside of you."

I nodded.

All that I could think about was that, at this moment, Cain was mine. He was all about me. I didn't have to share. Every kiss, every thrust, every lick was for me and only me.

He grabbed my legs, and positioned them over his shoulders, leaning in as his hand guided his sheathed cock into me with a forceful thrust.

I moaned in pleasure, licking my lips as I watched his muscular thighs; he knelt between my raised legs, and rocked in and out of me with slow deliberation.

I was mesmerized by him in every way. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes and totally focused on his thrusting, his hands now cupping my ass, lifting me up just a bit and adjusting me for his fit.

His cock was teasing my G-spot, and that's when I felt my body take over; my muscles tightened around his girth; and I heard his sharp intake of breath as they did.

"Christ baby," he rasped, his eyes now coming open in surprise. "You're fucking going to milk me, aren't you?"

"Uh huh," I murmured, feeling myself contract once again around his swollen member.

"This is mine, Cain," I whispered. "This is for me. I want you to fuck me like you mean it."

"Aww…baby," he breathed, watching me as I was slowly being wrecked by this man, "You know I mean it."

Our tempo increased and, together, we spiraled into a perfect orgasm, our eyes deadlocked and my mind totally obliterated with the things that he made me feel, physically and emotionally.

Fuck.

I loved him.

Totally.

chapter 16

I learned quickly that Cain had not exaggerated one bit when he laid out our agenda for the weekend. We had alternated between fucking and making love all through the night.

I had never known just how totally electrifying having a man's cock buried inside of me could be until it was Cain's. I had moaned and mewled those feminine sounds at the pleasure he gave me, but for once they were real—not fake the way I had done so many times before. Because this was real and it totally rocked. Cain had made me his and I wasn't going anywhere. I knew that there was no way I could ever walk away from this—from him.

I was still curled up in his arms, naked and totally satiated from the night. His slow, even breathing against the back of my neck soothed me and made me feel so fucking secure that I never wanted to leave this bed.

But I knew that it wasn't possible. Because this was still their bed. And the guilt momentarily washed over me, so I gently moved Cain's arm from around my torso, and scooted towards the edge of the bed.

"Where are you going?" his husky voice asked from behind me.

"I…uh…I thought maybe a shower?" I said, putting it more like a question than a statement.

"We can do that," he said, rousting himself up. "But we're doing it together."

And that's exactly how our Sunday went. We did everything together.

We showered, we ate, we made love, we watched television, we ate, we fucked, we showered again and then we cuddled and I was thinking that cuddling with my man was pretty fucking awesome too.

I put the flannel PJ's with the feet in them that Darcy had given me for Christmas on after our last shower. I returned to the bathroom, dressed, to hang up my damp towels.

Cain was standing in front of the mirrored vanity, towel slung low on his hips shaving when he happened to glance over at me and then did a double take.

"Ah, hell to the no, woman," he barked, his brow cocked; a hint of amusement flickered across his face.

"What?" I asked innocently, looking down at my totally-covered-in-flannel body.

"You'll not be wearing that shit to bed because I swear I'll rip them off of you. Unacceptable, babe."

"Cain," I whined, "For Chrissake, I'm sore. Can we just cuddle for a bit?"

He turned back to the mirror, tilted his face upward so that he could take his razor up under his chin.

"We did that cuddling shit earlier," he replied, shaking the razor to get the shaving cream off in the sink full of water. "This is our last night together," he said plainly. "I want to make it memorable."

I had to smile. "On two conditions," I parried.

He looked at my reflection in the mirror, quirking a brow again and waiting to hear my conditions.

"First," I said, "We sleep in my room tonight, okay?"

He nodded and waited for me to continue.

"Secondly, uh…can you be extra gentle?" I asked hesitantly because, the truth was, my crotch was, in fact, sore from all the attention he'd been giving it for the last day and a half.

"Why do you think I'm standing here removing my face stubble, babe? You think I can't see your reddened skin?"

I felt myself blush, of all things. Where in the hell did that come from? This man had seen and licked every inch of my body, including every crack and crevice, the truth be told.

I stifled a giggle and left the bathroom, pulling off all of the sheets on their bed and throwing them into the washer.

I re-made their bed with fresh sheets and blankets.

"Why are you doing that?" Cain asked as he came out of the bathroom, wearing a white T-shirt and low-slung pajama pants.

I shrugged. "I just don't think I want Eli to come home to sheets that…you know?"

"What? Smell like our sex?"

"Yes," I said, quickly, tossing a bit of a glare into it.

"Don't you think that I would've had the good sense to do that?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, Cain," I sighed. "This is just…new to me. I don't think I'll know how to act around him when he comes home."

I was tucking in the top sheet when he came over and pulled me around to face him.

"Stop," he said firmly. "Eli knows what's happening with us this weekend and he is fine with it," he said, annunciating the last six words.

I turned from him, and continued making up the bed. "He's fine with it because he loves you," I said, a hint of exasperation in my voice. "And he would allow this before he'd ever want to lose you and I guess I don't blame him."

"Hey," he said, a little louder, "He loves you, too. He doesn't want to lose you either."

"It's not the same, Cain," I said, sighing loudly. "It's just not the same thing."

He grabbed me then, pulling me up against his hard chest. "You need to give it some time, baby. You'll see. It's all gonna work out fine."

He stroked my hair with his hand, and he held me against him and for a minute, I wanted to totally believe that he was right.

That everything would work out fine.

chapter 17

To say that things were a bit…strange after Eli returned home Monday evening would be a bit of an understatement.

I mean, Cain was fine. It was as if nothing had changed between him and Eli, but I couldn't say the same for me.

All kinds of fucked-up emotions were springing forth, ranging from guilt and shame, to a little bit of resentment when they headed off to their room that night…together, as in at the same time, which almost never happened.

I went to bed with my ear buds in, listening to a heavy metal station because I'd be damned if I was going to let myself get lulled to sleep by the sound of their headboard banging a tune against their wall. And that's when the resentment part really started seeping in, and I know that's fucked up, alright?

I busied myself at work, and then stayed late to work out each night at the gym so that I would miss dinner with my guys. It seemed that putting up with Darin's little comments and innuendos in the weight room was preferable to my feeling like some twisted bitch home-wrecker.

The truth was that Eli hadn't been anything but sweet to me since his return home. Yet something had changed and we both knew it.

I would lie alone in my bed every night and feel totally clueless as to how I was supposed to handle this. I ached for Cain, but I knew that I really had no right to feel that way, if that made sense.

It was Thursday and it was New Year's Eve to boot. Long holiday weekend.

Fucking lovely.

I was just finishing up with my filing when my cell rang. It was Cain.

"You gonna be home for dinner tonight or are you going to continue avoiding me?"

I took a moment to gather my thoughts because he was right. I no longer felt comfortable around him—or Eli for that matter. This was too difficult for me. I didn't possess the emotional armor to be able to pull something off like this. At all.

"I'm sorry," I squeaked out. "You're right—I have been avoiding you guys."

"Why?" he deadpanned, as if it weren't totally obvious.

"I don't care who's blessing we have, Cain. I can't do this. I just can't. I love Eli too much. There. I've said it."

"What the fuck? You think that Eli and I don't love you every bit as much?"

"First off, Cain, I don't think that you should be the one speaking for Eli, okay? And secondly—regardless of how we all love one another, I can't share. Period. I'm going to find another place to live."

"The hell you are," he growled at me. "You're not going anywhere, Paige. You need to face the facts right here."

"Oh no," I said, tossing some downright haughtiness into my voice. I swiveled around in my desk chair so I faced the wall, hoping my voice didn't carry.

"You don't get to tell me what I can and cannot do. It's clear to me that you've not gone without fucking…someone since Eli came home. And how fucking pathetic is it that I even just said that to you? Jesus Christ, this is so not who I want to be," I halfway wailed. "So, to answer your question? I won't be home for dinner tonight…or breakfast tomorrow. Happy fucking New Year."

End Call.

chapter 18

I managed to find somewhere to crash for the night so that I could have some time to think things through like I needed to. One of my co-workers, Julie, came by as I was sitting in my car in the parking lot, staring into space and totally clueless as to where I could go.

"Hey, Paige," she called out, tapping on my car window. "Are you okay?"

The thing was, I didn't have girl friends, or sisters or even a brother that I felt comfortable confiding in when something like this was tearing me apart. All I had were Eli and Cain, and they were the problem.

I lowered my window. "Just some drama with roommates," I replied. "I suddenly wish it weren't a long, holiday weekend."

"You want to crash at my place?" she offered.

It was tempting, but I sure as hell didn't want her trying to dig into the details of my roommate problems in an effort to give me some sage advice.

"I mean, I'm staying with Rick over the New Year holiday so it's like you'd have the place to yourself…well almost, that is," she laughed. "Can you feed my cat, Brutus?"

Done fucking deal.

And so that's how it went.

I went to Julie's and spent the night, talking to Brutus and spilling my guts to him about my issues with these men. He was a great listener (for a tabby cat) and the best thing was that he never got judgy with me.

We rang in the New Year together. He just purred and rubbed against my ankles for most of the night, making sure that he had put his scent on me, like any other normal male I suppose.

I knew that Cain had a New Year's Day banquet to cater, and I'd heard Eli on the phone making plans to go to Darcy's for the traditional New Year's Day feast. He'd even invited me to go with him, but I had begged off, not looking him in the eye because he knew me well enough to know if I were lying.

Not that I lied to either one of them…anymore.

I left to return home at one o'clock, fairly certain that they'd both be out.

And then what?

I got on my cell and did the only thing that I could do under these circumstances.

"Hey Trace," I said when he picked up. "Happy New Year."

chapter 19

What a great way to start off the New Year! (Said no one ever.) I groveled to my older brother, who hadn't really been speaking much to me since I'd been tossed out of their home for having cunnilingus on their kitchen countertop. I now had the ultimate pleasure of asking him for temporary refuge, explaining I would fill him in on the details later.

I'd have to create some plausible reason other than the truth, or I'd be tossed out once again, I was sure.

I obviously couldn't ask Easton because of Darcy's close relationship with Eli. She'd have it all figured out in a nanosecond.

I mean, hopefully my application for a full-time position with the F.B.I. would be approved and I'd receive a salary that could sustain my livelihood, but I was fully prepared that, if that didn't happen, then maybe it was just a sign that it was time for me to move on.

I pulled into our driveway and breathed a sigh of relief. Cain's car was gone, and as soon as I hit the remote for the garage, I saw that Eli's was gone as well.

I grabbed several empty boxes from the garage and headed into the house with them. I was determined to work quickly and efficiently to clear out my closet and dresser drawers before either of them returned. I figured I had a couple of hours, minimum.

I emptied my closet and took those boxes out and put them in the trunk of my car. I grabbed a couple of more empty ones and headed back to pack up my dresser drawers.

I was just finishing up when I heard the slam of the front door, and footsteps coming down the hall.

Fuck.

My bedroom door was open, which was probably fortunate, because I would've hated to see the damage done had it been closed and locked.

Eli came in, his light blue eyes flashing with something akin to anger mixed with pain.

"So, this is what you're about?" he growled, his hands on his hips, glaring at me.

"Wh-What?" I croaked in confusion. "How did—?"

"How did I know?" he asked, eyes flashing. "You forget that Lindsey and Darcy talk almost hourly. She shared with Darce that you were to be a temporary houseguest. Wasn't all that hard to figure out you were bailing on us."

I shook my head, looking down at the floor.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

"Answer my question, Paige. You were just gonna leave us like that?"

"Eli," I said with a sigh, sitting down on my bed. "Calm down, okay? This is for the best. I can't even look at you because…of…"

"Of what?" he growled, flexing his hands at his sides as if he wanted to punch something…or someone.

Fuck. He's furious.

"Because of what I did…with Cain. And don't you dare tell me that you're fine with it because I don't fucking believe that."

He grabbed me by the arm, pulling me roughly to my feet. I was standing within inches of him, and I could feel the heat of his anger envelope me.

"You love Maddox," he said, his words very distinct. "And you love me, too. You think I don't know that?"

"I know that you do, but it's different."

"Hell yeah, it's different," he growled. "I fucking love you, Paige, and yeah, it's different than the way that I love Maddox, but that doesn't make it inconsequential now, does it?"

His hands were locked around my wrists, forcing me to look at him.

"I don't understand," I replied, honestly.

"Baby," he sighed. "You are trying to compartmentalize this situation. It's not black and white; it's not right or wrong. It's not even fifty-fifty because everyone's different, just as everyone's needs are different."

He relaxed his grip on me a bit, and pulled me down next to him as he sat down on my bed.

"I knew from the time that I was in junior high school that I was attracted to both sexes, but it's not like you think—like most people think. I'm attracted to the individual first; the gender is secondary to that. People automatically assume that bisexuals are simply people who want both genders sexually and cannot be monogamous to either. That's just not true."

"So then why did Cain refer to you being a 'closet' bisexual? I mean, that suggests that you have an overall preference…to the male gender."

He nodded his head, and clasped his hands together under his chin, taking a moment.

"I'm not sure what all Maddox told you," he said, and I realized I probably shouldn't have blurted out what I had. "But the truth is that I fell in love with an exchange student from Sweden my senior year of high school. Her name was Greta. I'd prefer not going into the details with you right now, but suffice it to say, I was in love with her. She hurt me deeply, and after that, I made a conscious choice to focus on the male gender only for future relationships. It worked out well until I met…Darcy."

What?

"What?" I gasped. I felt my eyes widen in surprise.

He nodded, his eyes caressing my face and I could tell this just might be the first time that he'd shared this with anyone.

"It's true," he said, wistfully. "I didn't set out for that to happen, but I kinda fell in love with her. And, I mean, it was the hardest thing that I've ever had to control," he said with a laugh. "But, control it I did because the simple truth was that I had no faith in my ability to sustain a relationship with a female…after Greta, that is."

"But Eli," I said, taking his hand, "You mean that Darcy never knew?"

"That's right," he said, "Oh hell, I knew the morning after she'd first slept with Easton that she was gone. And that was fine because the beautiful thing was that I had met Maddox that same night. I knew that Darce would always be in my life, and I'm satisfied with that. Just like I know that Maddox will always be in my life. But you," he said solemnly, "You, I'm not sure of and I don't want to lose you because of my fear that I can't sustain a relationship with another female…after Greta."

I swallowed nervously. This was all new information for me. I never suspected that Eli had been drawn to me in that way…at all. I just knew that, at this moment in time, he had opened himself up to me in a way that even Cain had never done, and that made me love him so much differently.

"Oh my God," I breathed, turning to face him. "All of this time, I’ve loved you because I saw how much you loved Cain. So much, that you were willing to share him with me because of that love for him. And… you know, Cain tried to tell me that it was different than that, but I swear to God, Eli, you've never acted on…any sort of attraction towards me, I mean…"

He interrupted, pulling me closer to him on the bed. "Baby," he said softly. "It's because I see that chemistry going back and forth between you and Maddox…and, I guess I'm just not sure if there's enough of that same chemistry—in you—left over for me. Because I know that there's plenty in me left for you—if you want it, I mean."

And I think he might've just blushed right then, like a guy that was wearing his heart on his sleeve—just putting it right out there and so worried that it might not be enough.

But it was enough.

It was more than enough.

"Oh Eli," I sighed, "I can't believe you've told me all of this, but I am so fucking glad that you have."

Our eyes met and locked. In that moment, everything that Cain had assured me of since we'd given in to our feelings was coming true.

I leaned over and brushed my lips softly against his, waiting for him to snake his arms around me and pull me against him.

I didn't wait long until that was exactly what he did.

We kissed and it was unfamiliar, but it was sweet. And every second, it became sweeter. I felt myself warm to his touch; my belly tingled with anticipation of where he might touch me next and I wanted him to touch me in different places.

He turned and pulled me into his lap, his fingers tilted my chin back so that his eyes could study mine and I saw the warmth fill them.

"God, baby. We're going to do this."

He lifted me up into his strong arms, carried me to their room, and gently deposited me on their bed. The same bed that I had shared with Cain, I was now going to share with Eli and I wanted it. I wanted it more than I thought I ever could.

"Get undressed," he ordered, "We'll do the sensual shit another time, but for right this second, I need to be inside of you and claim you as mine, too."

God, his words made me wet and yeah, that surprised the hell out of me as well. I scrambled to do as he ordered, shedding my clothes quickly; leaving my thong on so that he would be the one to relieve me of it when it was time…

He was standing there naked and he was every bit as beautiful as Cain. His body was well-muscled and his belly flat. He had a lighter complexion than Cain, but God he was beautiful in a "golden-boy" sort of way. I felt myself getting wet just in anticipation of what would happen next.

He opened the bedside table drawer, and pulled out a handful of condoms.

Holy shit.

He pushed me back against the pillows on the bed, his eyes taking in all of my nakedness with a hunger. He straddled me with his strong, muscular thighs, leaning forward to capture my lips with his.

I laced my arms around his strong neck, pulling him in closer. I felt his fingertips lightly caressing my breasts, slowly and methodically tugging at my nipples until they grew hard for him. He moved his mouth to one, his tongue circling the soft peaks, and his fingers gently kneading my breast so that he could begin suckling.

I drew in a sharp breath as he took the nipple into his mouth and sucked hard on it, my pussy now fairly soaked in anticipation. I needed him inside of me every bit as much as he wanted to be there.

I rolled to my side so that I could feel his warmth, my tongue tracing his lips as he moved his mouth back up to mine, and pulled me against his nakedness.

Damn.

And suddenly, there were another pair of hands in the mix. I hadn't heard Cain come in, but he was there and he was intent upon joining us.

I felt his calloused fingertips gently rubbing my lower back and smoothing over my hips, where his thumbs hooked into the elastic band of my thong, and he slowly lowered it down, where it pooled around my feet on the bed.

Eli's mouth moved from mine, and I watched as Cain, already stripped down to his tee shirt and boxers, leaned in and captured Eli's lips with his, their tongues swirling together in a frenzied and familiar passion.

I watched, totally mesmerized by their rhythm and cadence, caught between them, and feeling the heat of their love wrapped around me like a cozy blanket.

I felt Eli lift me from the bed, my feet shrugged out of the thong that had pooled there, and I gazed at Cain as he quickly discarded his tee shirt and bottoms.

His cock sprang free; it was thick and bold, as it slapped against his abdomen. His eyes were hooded with lust, but he was in and that made me so fucking happy.

He leaned over and his tongue traced the outside of my lips. "I need to taste you again, Paige."

Sweet Jesus.

I wanted him—I wanted both of them—to do anything and everything that they desired.

He smiled, and nodded to Eli, who was standing beside the bed now, totally hard. Cain reclined back on the bed, shifting himself so that he was on his back in the middle. I watched as his hand gripped his cock, stroking it up and down a few times, which made me want to slide my pussy over it.

They had something else in mind.

I felt Eli wrap his strong arms around my waist, and lift me so that I was directly over Cain's face.

"Spread your legs apart, baby," he instructed, as he gently lowered me so that my thighs were now framed on either side of Cain's head.

I felt Cain's hands brace the back of each thigh, as I straddled him. I leaned forward, and rested my weight onto each of my elbows, tilting my ass upward as his warm mouth met the wetness of my pussy.

Eli took his place at the end of the bed, parting Cain's thighs, and wrapping his hand around Cain's rigid cock, running it up and down with firm stroking.

I was dizzy with pleasure as I felt Cain's tongue run up and down my slit, licking and lapping my juices as I moaned and shuddered.

His fingers plied apart the soft folds, swirling his tongue around and around each one; gently nipping until I thought I would scream, and then plunging his tongue in and out of my core. My hips were swiveling to meet his thrusting tongue as he totally fucked me with his mouth.

"Oh God," I whimpered as I felt myself dissolving into him.

My eyes were locked on Eli, watching as he leaned over, and took Cain's cock into his mouth, his other hand now stroking his own very impressive erection. Eli's blue eyes were locked on me, and in that moment, it felt like we had reached the same peak of pleasure and had somehow shared it.

"You ready to come, baby?"

The words that Cain spoke against the lips of my pussy took me to the edge.

"That's it baby," he said softly against me, "Just let it happen. I need to taste it."

Oh…God!

His tongue plunged into my depths as my orgasm released around me; my muscles clenched as I moaned, unable to hold the release back one more second, not that I wanted to. I heard him moan against me as Eli brought him to climax with his mouth, the sound of wet sucking and the feel of Cain pumping against Eli's mouth made my orgasm electrifying.

I moaned and shuddered as the last of it wound down, my heart beating so fast I could barely catch my breath.

Cain suddenly clenched his jaw; his body became rigid as he emptied his climax into Eli's mouth. They both moaned in manly pleasure which totally, fucking rocked.

Afterwards, when I felt as if I could move again, I pulled my legs up and over and fell on my back next to Cain. His hand moved to my head, turning my face towards his and his lips and tongue found mine, kissing me sweetly and softly, moving his tongue inside of my mouth so that I could taste my orgasm.

Eli stretched out on the other side of me, his erection bold against my backside, his lips tracing a pattern on the back of my neck as I continued kissing Cain.

"My turn," he whispered huskily, pulling me against him, his hands now gently massaging my breasts.

"You ready to share, Maddox?" he asked, a hint of pure amusement and lots of happiness now evident in his voice.

"No, but I will," Cain said, as his lips moved from mine. "Let's see what you can do."

Cain moved aside, grabbing two condoms from their nightstand drawer, along with some lube.

Two?

He tossed a condom to Eli, who quickly ripped open the foil packet, and rolled it onto his thick and very-erect shaft.

Eli was on his knees now, hovering above me, but only for a moment, before he leaned in and captured my mouth with his. I wrapped my arms around his strong neck, bringing him in closer, wanting to taste him once again. Because he was mine, too.

I felt his fingers gently massaging the soft peaks of my breasts, twirling a nipple between his thumb and index finger, giving it a gentle pinch. His mouth moved downward, sucking the soft mounds; and his tongue teased the rosy peaks as my back arched upward, wanting to feel his bold erection against my slit.

"Somebody's greedy, Maddox," he said, and I caught a glimpse of Cain, hovering behind Eli, stroking his own sheathed cock which was fully erect once again.

I watched in total fascination as Cain rubbed lube onto his shaft, and then onto his fingers. His hands moved out of sight, but I could tell by Eli's sharp intake of breath where they had gone.

"Are you ready for me, baby?" Eli asked, his eyes hooded with pleasure as Cain continued to stroke him from behind.

"Yes, Eli," I whispered, gazing up into his pale blue eyes.

He shifted his position a bit, arching his back so that his ass tilted upward a bit to allow Cain access; while he guided his very erect cock into my pussy with a slow and deliberate thrust.

"Mmm," I moaned, feeling his fullness inside of me.

I wrapped my legs around his torso, my feet locked together as Eli began to rock in and out of me.

He paused momentarily, and I could tell that Cain had entered him from behind, but my vision was blocked by Eli's body, moving in and out of me.

"Fuck," he growled. "Maddox, take it slower or I'm gonna lose it right now and I need to feel more of her pussy. Been a while, dude."

I heard a soft chuckle from Cain, but Eli was intent on fucking me and I was glad because I needed to feel him and know that it was him and that I loved him, too.

"That's it," I breathed as he pumped into me again and again.

"God Paige, your pussy is squeezing my dick like a mother-fucker," he rasped. I could once again feel his rhythm change as Cain was thrusting into him.

The cadence of our fucking had changed and the only way I could describe it was that it was truly a team effort. Cain rocked into Eli, who rocked into me, and I bucked my hips back in the same rhythm, which was quickly causing a sexual frenzy for all of us.

Eli ravaged my lips with his as the pleasure elevated into a crescendo of raw passion and fury.

"Oh God," I moaned as I felt my muscles constrict around him, my core had a pulse as the contractions milked him fluidly.

"Fuucck," he growled loudly, as his cock throbbed like a heartbeat and his climax emptied inside of me.

From somewhere in the sensual fog of our orgasms, I heard Cain moan deeply, and felt Eli shudder as our trifecta was brought perfectly to fruition.

I had never felt anything quite as intense or as magical as what I'd just felt with these men.

And it totally rocked.

chapter 20

(Cain)

I awoke realizing that I was all tangled up in Eli, which wasn't all that unusual, but I could've fucking sworn that Paige had fallen asleep between us last night. We'd all fallen asleep tangled up in one another's limbs, butt naked and exhausted but fulfilled—all of us. That much I knew for certain.

I've got to say that I was fucking surprised when I'd walked into our room yesterday afternoon and saw what was starting to happen with Eli and Paige. I was not only surprised, I was pleased as fuck. It had been a tough week for all of us, but my instincts had been right.

I hadn't been sure just how comfortable my partner was going to be taking a walk back over to the other side. I mean, hell, it wasn't as if he hadn't been there plenty of times before, but something about his high school romance, and brief marriage to Greta, an exchange student from Sweden, that he'd knocked up during their senior year in high school, had changed all of that.

It wasn't as if Greta had even been his first.

Hell, he'd shared with our counselor that he'd fucked the whole varsity cheer squad during his junior year in high school; a couple of them at the same time he'd even bragged.

But Eli came from good people. He and his brothers were cowboys for Chrissake—growing up on a horse ranch in Wyoming. The only difference between Eli and his brothers was that Eli's boots had to be designer. That was just how my man rolled.

He had told me that, even in junior high school, he'd been attracted to both sexes, but he'd decided he was only going to pursue chicks. And pursue he had.

But when Greta got knocked up, the dude wanted to do the right thing, and he said at that point, he knew any desires he had for the male gender had to be retired permanently, because he planned on making a life with her and their kid.

So, both of them being eighteen years of age had taken off to find a JP and they had eloped.

Of course, as soon as Greta's sponsor, Youth for Understanding, found out about the situation, her knocked-up ass was put on a plane back to Sweden. It was something about her violating the terms of her student visa, and she was put on home country restriction, meaning she couldn't apply for a U.S. residency visa for another two years.

I guess Eli had e-mailed her like crazy, but her e-mail account had been closed. He tried writing to her as well, but the letters were returned to him unopened.

The marriage was annulled and he had never heard a thing from her again. It bugged him, knowing that somewhere on the planet, he had a kid that he'd never see or know. He had some trust issues after that where females were concerned.

But last night, it was apparent that Paige and Eli were down with each other. Like nothing I'd ever fucking imagined. It'd been pretty intense, but intense was good, right? I was just bothered by the fact that she'd left our bed sometime during the night.

I was worried that she was having second thoughts, and I knew that I couldn't handle losing her, especially since she was under my skin to stay.

I quietly extricated myself from Eli and grabbed my boxers from the floor, shrugging them on.

I went to her room and fuck if the door wasn't shut. That didn't stop me from opening it and letting myself in. Her bed was empty, but she'd slept in it, I could tell.

"What? You don't knock?" I heard her ask, coming out of her bathroom wearing a towel around her body, and her hair wrapped in another. She was sporting a sexy little grin, so I knew that she wasn't really pissed at me.

"Why knock?" I asked her with a shrug. "I've memorized every inch of your body, so there's really nothing to hide from me, is there?" I didn't give her a chance to respond. "What I'd like to know is why you're in here instead of with us in our room."

She turned from me and walked the few feet over to her dresser, grabbing a comb from it. "I just wanted to take a shower, that's all," she replied.

"Looks like you did more than that," I said, nodding towards her unmade bed as she turned to face me. "Do we need to get a bigger bed in our room? Or is it something else?"

I felt myself tense up because, at that moment, I wasn't reading her…at all.

My throat constricted because, fuck, I didn't know what I'd do if she said this arrangement was not for her.

She sat down on her bed, and removed the towel from her hair, rubbing sections of her long, damp locks with it. Her brown eyes met mine and my heart actually skipped a beat.

"Well," she said softly, "There is something else…and I don't want to hurt Eli's feelings…"

Fuck.

"Go on," I prodded, my voice tight.

"Well…you know," she said, giving me a look like I should be totally clued in as to what the 'something else' was. "He kind of snores…loudly," she finished in an almost whisper.

I felt a smile touch my mouth, my insides now unclenched because Eli's snoring was her only issue.

"You mean it doesn't keep you awake?" she asked, her eyebrows quirking in the fucking sexy way that they did whenever she was confused or puzzled about something.

I sat down beside her on the bed, my hand moving aside her wet locks so that my lips could graze her bare neck. I felt her shiver against me.

"No, babe," I whispered against her skin. "I guess I'm used to it. But you know there are things to help with that? I mean I like the idea of having you between us every night, but if you're not ready for that, I totally understand. It's your call."

She nuzzled against me, and I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my chest.

"I want to sleep with you guys, too," she said quietly. "But maybe not every night, if that's okay. I mean, sometimes a girl just likes her privacy, you know?"

"Sure, baby. I just need to know that after last night, you haven't had second thoughts. I know that all of this is something new for you. I want you to share your feelings with me, okay?"

I felt her nod against me. "I guess I'm just not sure about the rules. I mean, are there rules? Or do we just go with the flow?" she asked softly.

"How about we just go with whatever we're all comfortable with, okay?"

She pulled back to look up at me, her eyes held a questioning look that fucking wrapped around my soul because I somehow knew that the next words out of her beautiful mouth were going to totally break me.

"I have to be honest, Cain. I loved what happened last night. I loved the pleasure that both of you gave me—the attention, the words, and the feelings—all of it. And I gotta say that I think I might be falling just a little bit in love…with both of you," she confessed quietly, casting her eyes downward, a soft blush coloring her face.

"Hey baby," I crooned, my fingers lifting her chin back up so that her gaze met mine, "Don't ever be afraid or ashamed of your feelings. I love that you just said that to me, but I've already felt it, Paige. Many times. And it's all good, because I think that I know that I'm falling in love with you, too. And I'm betting Eli isn't far behind."

She laced her arms around my neck, and I lowered my face to hers. I found her mouth with mine, eager to explore her once again, and taste all of the sweetness that was Paige.

Our Paige.

But for right now?

My Paige.

I pulled the towel from her, and pushed her gently back down against the pillows on her bed.

"How do you feel about having right now just be about you and me?" I whispered against her neck, as my tongue traced patterns on her soft damp skin.

She shivered again, pressing her nakedness against me, and I could feel my cock straining against my boxers.

"I'd like that, Cain," she said, and I could feel her smile. "Better get a condom from the nightstand," she instructed, nodding to her right.

I obliged, mentally making a note for her to take the necessary steps for birth control so that our sex could be condom-free in the very near future.

I'd been with many women in my thirty-one years on this planet, and I'd done my share of threesomes for sure. But it was just like I'd told Paige when she first realized what I was about. This wasn't the beginning of some threesome marathon, or even the fancier word that carried a bit more class: ménage. This was totally something else.

And to be honest?

It scared the hell out of me.

But at this moment, I had more pleasant things to occupy my mind with than trying to piece together why it scared me. I would have to think about that…later.

chapter 21

February 22nd

It was my birthday.

My 23rd birthday and though I hadn't reached the age yet where I looked upon birthdays as the most dreaded day of the year, I still wasn't up for all the fuss that my men were making about it.

Breakfast had been served in bed.

Their bed, as a matter of fact, where I'd been sandwiched in between their well-muscled bodies all night long.

It seemed as if my guys had some sort of a bet going amongst themselves as to which one of them would be the last one to give me the Big 'O' while I was still twenty-two.

Officially, I believe that Eli's tongue had won that honor smack dab on my clit, although I had tried to stifle my moans so that Cain's fingers would continue that magical thrumming of my G-Spot so expertly, in order to allow me to double my pleasure even though the clock had slipped to a couple of minutes past midnight.

"What was the actual hour and minute of your birth?" Eli had asked me, continuing his sweet assault on my clit.

I swear to God, these men could be as competitive in bed as Serena and Venus Williams were on the tennis court.

Finally, totally satiated and just plain fucking worn out, I had drifted to sleep, only to be awakened by the alarm at six a.m. to find the bed totally devoid of masculinity.

Several minutes later, in they came with a tray, bearing my birthday breakfast, card and wrapped gift, along with a single red rose in a crystal vase.

I was instructed that I had to eat my waffles, complete with strawberries and whipped cream, before I touched the card and gift.

I gobbled my food down like a pig, as you can well imagine.

The card was sentimental, not comedic, so I knew immediately that Cain had selected it, and he had done very well in picking out the perfect card. The front of it read, "Happy Birthday To The One We Love."

I felt my face flush as I read the loving and poetic words printed inside, and saw both of their signatures scrawled at the bottom, with "I Love You," written twice.

My eyes brimmed a little bit, and Cain immediately cleared his throat and ordered me to open my present.

The box was small, so I knew that it was jewelry of some sort, but I swear to God, the tears re-surfaced again when I opened the small, black velvet box and removed the beautiful gold necklace that had three encased birthstones dangling from it.

My stone, amethyst, was in the center and the largest of the three stones. Eli's stone, aquamarine for March was to the right; Cain's emerald for May was to the left.

"It's gorgeous," I breathed, carefully removing it from the velvet lined box. "Thank you so much. I love it."

Eli helped me get it fastened, and I fingered it gently, loving that the stones were close to my heart.

"And don't forget," Eli spoke up, once he had fastened the clasp and dropped my hair back down, "We're taking you out for dinner this evening, so don't dawdle getting home from the base, got it?"

"Yes sirs," I said, smiling up at them. They both leaned in, planting soft kisses on my cheeks.

"I love you guys," I said softly.

* * *

Work was the usual. I did think it odd that Darin made it a point to come by my station and wish me a Happy Birthday. I doubted very much if he would've even remembered when my birthday was had it not been for the February calendar on the bulletin board that marked birthdays for the staff in our department.

"Big plans for the birthday girl?" he asked, giving me a sexy wink.

"Naw," I said, not looking away from my computer screen. "Dinner out with the roomies. They insisted."

"Did they now?" he asked, quirking a brow, and getting a bit of a devilish grin going.

Really dude?

What's up with that look?

"Is there something you want to say, Darin?" I asked, giving him a slight glare.

"Just wanted to wish you the best on this special day," he said, walking away. "You've been looking great, by the way."

I contemplated his curious behavior. I mean, I was so over all of the bullshit that I'd encountered with him, having chalked it up to "That's life" and gone on my way, hardly giving it much thought anymore. I certainly didn't confide in him—or anyone for that matter—about my relationship with Cain and Eli. I wasn't the chatty type about my personal life; I never had been.

It dawned on me that Darin, with his "you’re looking great" compliment just might be trying to rekindle something with me, and if that were the case, he was definitely barking up the wrong tree.

These past couple of months with my guys had been an experience for me, and not one that I'd likely ever want to part with.

I mean sure, there had been feelings within me that were confusing at times; little pangs of jealousy on the nights that I had opted to sleep in my own room (mainly to get a good night's rest due to Eli's snoring) when I'd hear the familiar headboard banging against the wall.

I had realized that they were going on without me, and yes, I had felt a bit jealous and insecure about that, I'll admit.

But then I had thought it through, and had realized that if I'd gotten up and went into their room, they would've immediately welcomed me into their bed, and made love to me so hard that it would've taken my breath away, as always. So, I had reminded myself that it had been my choice, and not theirs, to sit this one out.

The only other aspect of it that still bothered me a bit was the fact that I knew I was head over heels in love with Cain. You see, I lay awake one night and totally dissected the dynamics of my relationship with these men.

And here's what it boiled down to: we were all in love with one another and the depth of each person's love couldn't possibly be measured. I might've been a bit more in love with Cain; Eli might've been a bit more in love with Cain, but I was fairly certain that Cain was in love equally. And maybe that's exactly what was needed to make this all work out.

But what about long term? How could this possibly work out long term if it continued being kind of lopsided like that, I had wondered?

And even if it did work out well, what then? I had to think about my future, and I guess on one's birthday, there was a tendency to do just that.

I mean, somewhere in my future I knew that I wanted children. Marriage wasn't mandatory for that to happen, so at least that wasn't an issue.

I felt my eyes roll with my thoughts. Here I was, presuming things that I had no right to presume only two months into this…relationship.

My thoughts and reflections were interrupted when my cell vibrated on my desk. It was Trace.

"Hey," I greeted him.

"Happy Birthday, lil' sis," he replied, very cheerfully.

"Thanks," I replied, smiling into the phone.

This was the first we'd spoken since New Year's Day when I had groveled. I had called him back that evening and told him to never mind, that I was staying put for now. Blessedly, he hadn't asked for any detail. He'd probably just been relieved that I wasn't moving in. Things were still a bit uncomfortable. I had decided that the next move would have to be my brother's, and I was glad that he'd made the move.

"So, do you have plans for dinner tonight? Lindsey and I would love to take you out if you haven't made other plans. I probably should have called sooner, I know."

I was silent for a moment, not quite sure how I should respond. "Well, Eli and Cain planned on taking me out to dinner tonight for my birthday."

"Hmm," he responded, "How about if Lindsey and I join the three of you?"

Shit.

"I'm not sure what restaurant they had in mind," I replied slowly, "But I guess I could find out and give you a call back?"

It came out as a question which is so not how I wanted it to sound. Like I didn't want anyone else invading my inner sanctum with these men.

Luckily, Trace hadn't noticed. "Great—call either me or Lindsey with the time and place. We have a gift for you, and well, it's been a while since we've seen you, you know? I think we need to mend fences, Paige. I know that I want to and I hope that you do as well."

"I do, Trace," I replied. "I just felt like maybe you guys wanted to put me out of your lives…forever."

"You're family," he sighed. "You're stuck with us, and we're stuck with you because that's what being a family means, got it?"

I nodded and squeaked out a "yes."

* * *

It was easier to reach Eli than Cain during working hours, especially around lunch time. I finished my now-cold cup of hot chocolate that I'd bought from the vending machine earlier. That was going to me my lunch after that huge breakfast I'd inhaled.

Eli's office phone rang several times before he picked up.

"Chambers," he answered, using his brusque workplace voice.

"It's me," I said, looking around to see how much privacy I had in my cubicle. Eli had an office, so there were no worries there.

"Hey babe," he greeted, his voice softening. "How's your birthday going?"

"Good so far," I sighed, feeling my belly tingle like it did whenever either one of them used some form of endearment when speaking to me. "But I did get a phone call from Trace."

I explained the conversation to him. Eli had no issue whatsoever with Trace and Lindsey joining us, in fact, he offered to phone Darcy to see if she and Easton wanted to join us as well.

"You don't have to go to all that trouble," I argued. "I don't want everyone making a big deal of my birthday and feeling, well…obligated or anything."

"Hey, no trouble at all, babe," he laughed. "Besides that, with Easton there, we're pretty much guaranteed that he'll pick up the tab."

"Eli, you're so bad," I giggled, swiveling my chair around so that I could toss my empty paper cup into the trash can.

"I know, babe, but you wouldn't have it any other way, would you?"

I felt my cheeks flush as I recalled the delicious, "bad" things he'd done to me last night in our 'family' bed as we had started calling it.

"Would you?" he pressed softly.

"No, Eli. I wouldn't have it any other way," I confirmed.

"Okay, so I'll make the arrangements with Darce, and I'll give Lindsey a holler, so that we're all on the same page for our Paige tonight at La Chaumiere."

"Now that was cheesy," I giggled. "But I love you anyway, especially since we're eating at La Chaumiere."

"Love you," he said. "See you at home later."

"Bye," I said softly into the phone, as I swiveled back around in my chair.

My smile froze when I saw Darin Murphy standing no more than three feet from me, in my cubicle, with a look on his face that told me he'd heard everything. He was just trying to digest it in his own mind.

Men like Darin weren't used to dumping a chick and not having them heartbroken (like Darcy was) about it. At the very least, I'm sure he took offense to the fact that I didn't at least stalk him a bit afterwards; or try to find out who his latest conquest was at the academy. That just wasn't me.

Well…not anymore.

"Excuse me?" I said, clearly irritated that he hadn't made his presence known.

He quirked a brow at me, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally as he spoke. "That explains it all," he said, his lips forming a stiff smile.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, feeling my blood pressure shooting up at his total disregard for my privacy.

He shook his head, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he were feeling some sort of strain. "The way you've been acting the last couple of months; all happy and bubbly—and not giving any of the dudes here a second glance. Several of us have noticed the subtle but definite change in your demeanor, hell—you're in love with your roomie, aren’t you?"

I immediately tensed up.

"That's really none of your business, Agent Murphy," I snapped, trying my best to give him an arctic glare.

"Well, answer me this, Paige. Does the other fag know his dude is bi? And that Eli's a cheater to boot? I could've sworn Darcy said Eli was gay." He scratched his head in faux confusion.

"It's none of your damn business what goes on in our house or in my life. I'll thank you to keep your nose out of places it clearly doesn't belong."

Oh, I was pissed. That much was obvious and, if I had given a damn at the moment, I might've re-thought those words that had just been spoken.

By me.

"Our house?" he said, echoing the words I'd just put out there in anger. "Fuck me," he laughed, "You're banging both of them, aren't you?"

"You're out of line, Darin," I deadpanned, trying to keep my cool before I let anything else out of the bag in anger. "What did you need? Why are you here?"

He turned around and looked at me, and I could tell he now was feeling kind of…stupid. "I was going to see if you wanted to get dinner—you know, for your birthday. Sounds like you have other plans."

He turned and left my cubicle before I had the opportunity to tell him that having dinner with him—ever, wasn't going to happen.

I put my head in my hands, wondering just how long it would take for Darin to spread some vicious gossip about me around to the rest of the office staff.

And then I remembered: it's only gossip if it's not true.

Still, I couldn't think that anyone I worked with would have the nerve or the audacity to ask me straight-out about my private and personal life.

Darin had no class.

I was betting the rest of my colleagues did.

chapter 22

I snuck out of work an hour early, wanting nothing more than to put this day behind me. Darin's innuendos had unnerved me. I didn't need him stirring up any drama, especially since my internship was ending next month, and I had applied for a permanent position with the bureau.

I beat both Eli and Cain home, going to my room to take a shower and change into something suitable for La Chaumiere. If I even had anything suitable, that is.

I saw that two wrapped boxes had been placed on my bed. More gifts? One dress-sized box, the other one small.

My guys…damn.

I knew I should probably have waited until they got home, but shit, you knew that wasn't going to happen.

I tore into the big box immediately, taking off the lid, and separating the tissue paper.

Oh. My God.

It was the most beautiful black dinner dress that I'd ever laid my eyes on. It was simple, but chic in the way it was cut. It had a sweetheart neckline with long sleeves that tapered at the wrist. It was perfect for La Chaumiere. I looked at the designer tag and saw that it was Donna Karan.

My Eli.

The other box contained a pair of earrings that matched the birthstone encrusted necklace they had bought for me. My birthstone was on the post, and each of their birthstones dangled daintily on a tiny gold chain from it. There was a note in the box.

"These will look great with the necklace."

* * *

Lindsey, Trace, Darcy and Easton were already at La Chaumiere when our threesome arrived. I felt nervous for some reason, and by the time our entrees were served, I was pretty damn sure that Darcy had finished analyzing me under her mental microscope.

"I love your necklace," she commented, glancing over at my birthday gift, "And the matching earrings," she finished, her eyes skimming over them.

I fumbled with an earring, and felt my face flush under everyone's perusal.

"Thank you," I said. "Birthday gift from my roomies," I smiled, doing my best to avoid looking at Eli who was sitting across from me. I felt Cain's hand move over to cover mine in my lap. He gave it a squeeze.

"Well, they certainly spoil you; that's for sure," Lindsey piped up, taking a sip of her white wine. "How about a birthday toast?"

Trace cleared his throat.

"If I may?" he said, raising his glass of wine. "To our little sister on her birthday—in hopes that this will be the best one yet, and wishes for many more to come. And also to welcome Paige Matthews as the newest member of the F.B.I. family."

"What?" I gasped, my eyes immediately widened in surprise.

Trace and Lindsey's smiles were panoramic, and contagious, it seemed, as everyone else at our table smiled as if it were no surprise that my application for permanent employment with the F.B.I. had been accepted.

"You were going to find out tomorrow anyway," Trace said. "I just pulled rank a little bit to get the information to make your birthday that much sweeter," he finished, giving me a brotherly wink.

All eyes were on me and, for some reason, I was simply speechless. I mean, I thought I'd had a fairly good chance, but in all honesty, I just wasn't one to believe in myself all that much.

"You seem surprised, babe," Cain said quietly, his gaze penetrating me.

"I just don't know what to say," I said, a smile finally breaking through.

"Well I do," Trace said. "Good job, Paige. You worked your ass off and I, for one, am proud as hell of you."

"Hear, hear," Eli chimed in, beaming.

"Congratulations and cheers," Easton said, as we all held up our wine glasses to tap with one another's—well, except for Darcy who was obviously not imbibing since she was pregnant.

"Thank you all," I said, suddenly feeling shy at the amount of attention on me, and seriously not accustomed to it. "This is totally awesome." I took a long sip of wine, and the warmth spread throughout me; my brother's words echoed over and over in my mind. I never would've guessed just how much hearing Trace tell me that he was proud of me would make me feel. I felt an unfamiliar bit of self-pride and damn it felt good.

I was grateful as hell when Easton started conversing with Eli and Darcy started talking to Lindsey about the new nursery for the baby. I could feel Cain's hand move from mine, and gently rub my nylon-clad thigh beneath my new dress. Immediately, my face warmed with a flush, and I felt that familiar tingle in my belly.

I took another sip of my wine, looking over his way, but he had started conversing with Trace. Although I knew where his focus really was at the moment: between my freakin' legs.

I crossed my legs and squirmed a bit, however that did nothing to dissuade his talented fingers from finding my mound, his thumb now rubbing against my slit from outside my clothing.

Sweet Baby Jesus!

"Umm, excuse me," I said, "I've got to make a visit to the Little Girl's Room," I lied. If I continued allowing him to do what he was intent upon doing, it would only be a matter of minutes before I'd be moaning my release.

"I'll go with you," Darcy piped up, scooting her chair back. "These last couple of months are hell on the old bladder."

"Hurry back," Cain said with a slight twitch of his lips, as he looked over at me.

The door to the large powder room had barely closed behind Darcy and me when she spoke.

"Hold up, Paige," she said from behind, causing me to halt in my tracks.

Oh…dayumm.

I turned around to face her, and the accusatory expression on her face didn't go unnoticed.

"Can we sit for a minute?" she asked, nodding toward the intricately carved, plum velvet settee against the mirrored wall of the powder room.

"Sure," I shrugged, my pulse speeding up a bit because this could mean only one thing: Eli had shared the details of our relationship with her.

How stupid was it that it hadn't even crossed my mind to ask him after all these weeks?

"Paige, you must know how important Eli is to me, right?"

I nodded silently.

"Then, please don't think it's none of my business, because when it comes to protecting him, there are no boundaries for me. Are you fucking Cain behind Eli's back?"

Holy shit.

"Wh-what?" I stammered, momentarily taken aback by the conclusion she'd jumped to. "Why would you ask me that?" It was my turn to put some edge in my voice.

She leaned back against the cushion on the settee, one hand rubbing her baby bump in a circular motion, as if that had some sort of calming effect on her.

"The chemistry going back and forth between the two of you is kind of…well, obvious. And let's just say I've been around long enough to know when a dude's feeling you up under the table," she finished, her eyes directly on mine.

Busted.

"It's not what you think, Darcy," I replied, feeling a sigh escape through my whole body. I hated that I felt compelled to be so secretive about my feelings for these men. It wasn't that I was ashamed of it; it was just that I wasn't ready for the negative reactions, disapproving comments and judgy attitudes that I knew would be forthcoming.

"Then what is it?" she asked pointedly.

I fingered my new necklace nervously, trying to decide whether I should tell her, and wondering if I did, could I trust her not to broadcast it? Her eyes were now on my necklace, watching as my finger rubbed each stone in it.

"Wait a minute," she said slowly, "That's a custom necklace, isn't it?"

She didn't wait for me to respond. "That's your birthstone in the center. And the aquamarine—that's Eli's birthstone for March. What month was Cain born?" she asked, her eyes narrowing just a bit.

"May," I replied, knowing that if anyone knew the birthstone for each month of the year, it would be Darcy.

"Emerald," she said quietly. "Oh my God."

I looked over at her and hesitated only for a moment. "Please don't say anything to Lindsey or Easton. I'm not sure if we're ready to go public with our relationship just yet."

"Oh my God," she repeated, shaking her head back and forth. "How did I not see this?"

I didn't answer because it was obviously a question she was posing to herself.

"I mean, I still talk to Eli on the phone at least once or twice a week and he has said nothing. I mean Christ almighty—it never occurred to me that he'd cross back over."

Huh?

"What?" I asked, not sure what she meant by that.

"Oh…sorry," she said, with a slight smile. "Eli told me a while back about that brief, albeit disastrous marriage of his. He said because of it, he'd made the decision to pursue only those of his own gender. That it was safer for his heart that way. Wow—what the hell did you do to my brotha from anotha?"

I felt myself smile in relief. Darcy was okay with it and it helped that someone I knew wasn't going to give me shit about it.

"Darcy, please," I said, putting just a hint of pleading into my voice to grab her attention. "Can you please keep this to yourself until…well, until further notice?"

"No worries," she replied, nodding. "Your secret's safe with me. But hey, is it okay if I give Eli shit about keeping it from me?"

I giggled softly. "As long as Easton, Trace or Lindsey are nowhere around when you do. I'm in a nice place with my brothers at the moment, and I don't know—I guess I kind of like that."

"Deal," she replied, "But I think maybe you're not giving them enough credit here. It is your life and your business after all."

I nodded.

"By the way," I said, wanting to change the subject, "I see you're gestating very nicely. When's the baby due? All Eli says when I ask is that it's April or May."

"He's such a bonehead, isn't he?" she teased. "We're expecting our baby girl, Carson, around the twenty-seventh of April. Eli always says that if she takes after me, she won't arrive until early May."

I laughed because that is exactly the type of thing Eli would say about Darcy.

Still, I knew that he loved her, but not the same way that he loved me, so I was more than fine with it. Those two actually did seem like brother and sister in many ways. More so than Trace and me, it would seem. But that was something I hoped to change, now that I would be residing in D.C. permanently.

"I love the name you picked out for her," I said wistfully. "Carson Matthews is an awesome name for a girl."

"Or a boy, as Easton has so eloquently reminded me once or a hundred times. Geez, sometimes I think Lindsey's right."

"About what?"

"Your oldest brother can be quite stuffy, Paige," she replied, trying her best to use a British accent, but kind of failing at it.

Darcy and I returned to our table, and I didn't miss the looks of concern that passed between Eli and Cain. My guys were instinctual and kind of protective that way. I gave them both a smile and a nod, letting them know that everything was cool—for now.

Through the rest of dinner, we were entertained with some of Darcy's exaggerated "Eli" stories from when they were roommates, along with some hilarious tales about a cruise they had all gone on together over a year ago. Darcy referred to it as "The 12 Days of Vacay," and Easton referred to it as 'yet another one of Darcy's brilliant ideas gone sour,' for which I'm pretty sure he received a swift kick to the shin underneath the table.

True to Eli's prediction, Easton insisted on picking up the tab for everyone's dinner as his birthday present to me. Darcy slipped me a card, which I was fairly certain contained a generous check.

Once everyone had finished and was preparing to leave, Eli said he'd go outside to have the valet bring our car around. Lindsey was talking to Darcy, and I watched as Trace made his way over to me.

"Can we talk in private for a moment, Paige?" he asked, his eyes giving away nothing.

"Sure," I replied, quietly, not sure of his intent.

Cain approached, holding my coat open for me. I immediately put my arms through the sleeves, as he lifted my hair out from underneath the collar, brushing it back from my face, his eyes meeting mine.

"Trace needs to speak to me for a minute, Cain. I'll see you outside?" I posed it as a question.

He nodded, eyeing Trace through shuttered eyes, but it wasn't extremely obvious—or maybe it was, but my brother seemed unaffected nonetheless.

Once out on the sidewalk, I pulled my collar up a bit to keep the windy chill of the night off of my neck.

"Paige," Trace started, actually appearing to be unsure of what he wanted to say. "I meant what I said earlier to you. I'm really fucking proud of you and how you've really grown over this past year."

"Okkaay," I said quirking a brow. "So, why do I think that's not why we're out here?"

He ran a hand through his thick, brown hair and looked me dead-ass in the eye. "I had a call from Darin Murphy this evening," he said. "What the hell are you doing?"

I immediately felt defensive. Fuck Darin Murphy! And the fact that Trace would have even listened to him was kind of pissing me off.

"This is my business, Trace," I said simply. "It's not on display, it's not up for debate, and I don't have to explain myself to anyone—not to you, not to Mom or Dad. This is my life and, for once, I'm fucking happy."

"Hey," he said, his voice softening. "I'm not here to judge you sweetie. Christ, I'm no saint and I've got a past. I just want to make sure—I need to know—that this isn't something you've been pressured into, you know?"

"How could you even think that?" I snapped. "What? Paige is so impulsive or Paige is trying to get attention just like she always does so it must be what? Fake? Well, I'm here to tell you, Trace, that this is real. It's actually the first real relationship that I've ever had."

"No need to get upset, sweetie. I just needed to ask, because well—I love you, sis. I know that it might not seem that way, but I do. I will always be here for you and I just needed to know that you're okay and I can see that you’re different. Hell, who am I to question your choices? I've known Eli for awhile; I don't know Cain as well, but as long as you're happy and they're good to you—that's all I care about."

I felt a heavy load lift from my shoulders after he said that. One down—strike that—two down, and a helluva lot more to go, but I knew having Trace in my corner was a big win.

I felt my eyes tear up immediately because I knew that Taz truly loved and cared about me. Yes, I was officially now going to call him Taz because it just seemed so right, and because that's what everyone else called him. Until now, he had seemed too uptight to be a "Taz." But now he wasn't. He was my big brother and I knew that he loved me unconditionally.

I stood on my tip-toes, throwing my arms around him for a hug.

"Thank you, Taz," I whispered against him. "Thank you so much for that."

"I can't make promises where Mom and Dad are concerned, Paige. That's up to you to tell them about…your relationship whenever you choose. They'll not hear it from me."

I nodded, sniffling a bit as I wiped an errant tear from my cheek.

"Is everything okay, Paige?" It was Cain and he was now standing next to us, his voice filled with concern, and his dark eyes getting darker as he tried to assess the situation.

"It's all good, Maddox," Taz said, releasing me. "Just wishing my sister a happy birthday. And I wanted to give her this."

Taz reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.

"You know I'm not much of a shopper, Paige. But I know how much you've learned to enjoy working out, so I got you a membership of your own at Lifetime Fitness. That way you never have to put up with that ass-hat Murphy showing up during your workouts."

"Thanks, Taz," I said with a smile, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

Eli pulled up in his car, honking his horn.

"Take care of her Maddox," Taz said gruffly, "Or you'll have me to face."

Cain remained solemn, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching, so I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he totally understood where my big brother was coming from.

"No worries, Taz. We will. Paige is very important to the both of us."

And with that, Taz was off.

Cain helped me into the car. "You okay, babe?"

"I'm totally fine. But you know what? There was no birthday cake today. No candles for me to blow out with my birthday wish."

"We can take care of that, right Eli?"

"Consider it done," Eli said, pulling away from the curb.

* * *

Later that evening, when we were all stretched out on top of our bed, Cain and I shared with Eli the conversation that I'd had with Taz. I then shared the conversation that I'd had with Darcy, which was pretty much a moot point now, since Darin Murphy had seen to it that my brother had been clued in.

"There's still the matter of your parents," Eli pointed out. "And I'm sure there will be scores of others that want to put their fucking two cents in."

"I know," I replied, not wanting to feel any melancholy at the moment. I just wanted to finish my birthday out with the traditional birthday wish.

Cain had stuck a candle in the fancy cupcake that we'd stopped to buy at a bakery on our way home to represent my official birthday cake.

"I don't understand, guys," I said. "Is this something that we're supposed to be ashamed of? Because, if it is, I have to tell you that I'm not. But, at the same time, I just don't want the grief that I know I'll get from my parents. I feel like such a freakin' hypocrite about it. I guess I've grown comfortable in this private little cocoon that we've created here for ourselves. I don't want it spoiled by any ugliness."

"Hey," Cain said, turning on his other side to face me. "We'll figure it out, sweetie. We've got plenty of time to figure it all out, okay?"

I nodded, biting my lower lip and wondering about that. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was simply a matter of time before everything came together and people accepted what we were about.

"Because," Eli piped up, "We are all in this together—for the long haul, right?"

"Right," Cain and I answered together.

"I feel so lucky," I sighed, plucking at the comforter. "A year ago, I never would've guessed how happy I'd be right now. Right here."

"Tell us what makes you feel so lucky," Cain challenged softly, as he flicked a match and lit the candle on the cupcake.

"Well, I have an awesome new career as a forensic technician with the F.B.I," I started. "And then there are these men you see—two of them that I love so fucking hard. They make me so happy and they love me right back and it's seriously the best feeling in the world for me. And for now, I have my brother's approval, which isn't easily given, mind you—at least to me, and it kind of rocks. My life is damn near perfect I guess."

"What would make it perfect?" Cain whispered, leaning over me so that his lips grazed my jawline with slow, soft kisses.

"Yes," Eli chimed in quietly, his fingertips tracing a trail along my cheek, his warm breath caressing my ear as I felt his tongue lightly trace the outer edge.

I shivered with anticipation because I knew that these men were going to make love to me tonight. And it would be slow, and it would be sensual, and it would be so very sweet. And for whatever reason, I knew that it would be different with them tonight. Because more than anything else going on in my life, there was one thing that I was sure of: I had the love of these men, and it was more precious to me than any other gift I had received…ever!

I reflected on how Darcy had looked tonight. She was glowing and happy and I loved when she let everyone feel her tummy when Carson kicked during dinner. I had been totally mesmerized by it.

"A baby," I finally sighed. "Having our baby would make it perfect. It's what I want."

I sat up for a moment and leaned back on my elbows. "So, it’s official—for my next birthday, my wish is to have a baby in my belly."

I leaned over and blew out the single candle on my cupcake, and as I watched the smoke curl and snake its way up to the ceiling, I smiled.

The End

Still

by

Alessandra Torre

Dedicated to the incredible women of Torreville. You guys make each and every day a joy, bringing me support and laughter. You are the community of women I have never had, and I appreciate you immensely.

Here’s to your wicked and open minds, I love you all.

Chapter 1

I don’t belong here—not in a loud casino, smoke curling up the walls, disappearing into discreet vents. Flip flops sharing space with sequins and diamonds. The crowd a mix of sandy tourists and high rollers, eighteen year old spring breakers polka-dotting the mix with their wide eyes and slurred steps, the available alcohol hitting their virgin systems hard. We’re at a craps table, a game that none of us understand, yet the Asians to our right are grinning and gesturing like we are hitting the mother load, so we blow on dice and move markers and our chip stack continues to grow.

Chelsea. She’s the reason we are all here. Six of us split between three rooms, the four hundred dollar nightly rate generously taken care of by Mr. McCrory, Chelsea’s father and the king of the Atlanta carwash market. Chelsea’s big day is two weeks away, so here we are, in Nassau, bachelorette-partying our country asses off.

I don’t belong here. I belong on my front porch, sunning my toes on the railing of the porch, a sweet tea next to me, a magazine on my lap, Sugarland on the radio. That’s what I’d spend a weekend off doing. Not here, in this loud place, with Tammy’s hand digging into my shoulders, her fresh manicure biting imprints into my sunburned skin. There is a bump of bodies behind me, and the curve of the table cuts into my still-gorged-on-seafood stomach. Ouch. I gaze longingly at the stool holding up the cigarette-smoking female to my right. My feet are on fire, four hours in a-size-too-small-but-they-were-on-sale heels taking their toll in the most painful way possible.

I gather my chips and turn to Megan Gallt, the bit of a girl to my left, her platinum curls bouncing excitedly at some aspect of this gamble that we don’t understand. “I’m gonna head upstairs,” I yell, my mouth as close to her ear as I can manage without swallowing her chandelier earrings.

“What?” She glances down at her wrist, the fake Rolex we all—with the exception of Chelsea—had gobbled up from the first roadside stand the taxi driver had stopped at. It glitters impressively at me, and I fight a glimpse downward to see if my own looks as good. “It’s only ten.”

“My feet are killing me.”

She looks down. “You got a long way to walk to the room.”

She isn’t kidding. My brain groans at the trek before me. Through the casino, through the shops, down a flight of stairs, through a second lobby, up twelve floors via elevator, and then down a thousand feet of hallway. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving while my soles still have a little bit of life left in them.”

She leans in, lowering her voice slightly. “Chelsea will be pissed.”

I shrug, craning my neck ’til I see the future bride’s over-highlighted head. I lean in, give Megan a quick peck on the cheek, then hobble over to Chelsea. “I’m heading up to the room,” I yell.

She waves her hand dismissively, her eyes glued to the table, the movement of our Asian coaching staff leaping in the air dominating her attention, her own voice whooping at an ear-splitting crescendo.

Great. I move before my words register and her attention moves to me, weaving through crowds of people as fast as my raw feet will take me, opening my purse and dumping my handful of chips into it.

Past blackjack. I can do this. It’s not really that bad if I don’t pause long enough for my feet to bitch.

Past poker. Damn, there are a lot of tables. I keep my eyes focused forward, like I do when I feel like I will faint. Step, hobble. Step, hobble. I can do this. Damn, I hope I’m going the right way.

Past blackjack. Shit. Are these the same tables I passed before? Or different ones? Maybe the others were in a high-roller portion of the casino. These must be different. They have to be different. I look for a sign, an arrow, a member of the casino staff. The blister on the back of my right heel is now competing with my left pinky toe, which I’d be willing to bet is bleeding.

Past slots. Okay, I think this is right. I am jostled out of place by an overweight white woman who shoots me a dirty look. Almost turn my ankle and bust my ass. Great. Just what I need. An injury to accompany my pansy-ass feet.

There is an exit before me, and I crane to see over the heads blocking my view. Please lead out of the casino. Please lead into the lobby by the shops, please … Oh, thank God. I almost cry with relief when the crowd parts, and I enter the smoke-free arena that is the rest of the hotel. Bathrooms to my left, a seating area on my right. I walk like my ninety year old grandma and collapse into the closest chair, working off my heels with trembling fingers, and moan when the heavy stilettos drop to the tiled floor. Sweet Jesus. I flex my feet and lean back in the chair. Close my eyes and cover my face for a moment, rubbing gentle patterns into my hairline as I try to massage the headache that has spent the last two hours building. Aspirin. I’ll get to the room, take aspirin, and draw a bath. Soak my feet and create enough bubbles to make Mr. Clean jealous. The prospect brings a smile to my face, and I let my hands drop. Take a moment to breathe, to relax.

It’s quieter out here. Away from the madness of the casino.

I can’t believe it’s only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loud, seeing as I’m the only FA our small town chain has. FA. That’s fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lies right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days are spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’m-not-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that can’t wait ’til Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self will crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM.

I pick up my right foot and examine the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that are uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trash can at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes take up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominate the rest of that said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they help to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rock ninety percent of the year. Maybe I can’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I see a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they look comfortable. They certainly don’t have the engine red feet that are currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly push on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I can almost hear liquid squishing in it.

Fuzzy white. It is thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focus on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’ve never heard of embroidered along the top. I look from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, golden hair light over a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I have previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.

He smiles, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I work my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.

“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.

I swallow. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?

A surprised look crosses his face. “You’re Southern. From … Alabama?”

“Georgia.” I wince. I can’t hide the drawl; it drags through that one word with such ownership, as if the Southern notes are fused through every syllable.

He nods slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moves, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”

I should stand. It’s the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I don’t. I don’t think my feet can handle it. I just reach out, shake his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and meet his eyes. “Riley.”

Bemused. I don’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shiver at the thought and pull my eyes from his. Take the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”

“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”

“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”

If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”

Having no intelligent response, I pretend to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they are on. “Where did you get these?”

He tilts his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”

I laugh. “No, I’m good.”

“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down … How far do you have to go?”

“My room.” I wave a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”

He frowns. “A bit of a hike.”

“It was.” I wiggle my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gesture to the seat next to me. Pull open my purse and dig through the chips there, seeing him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collect all of the green chips I can find. Six total. Sixty bucks worth. I close my purse and hold out the handful, watching Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urge.

He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.

“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I don’t want your charity. Please.”

“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.

“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”

I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”

“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”

I sigh. A big dramatic one—one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”

His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”

“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.

I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.

“Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”

“I’ll be fine,” I grin. “Promise.”

He tugs gently, and we move, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I release his arm and grip his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.

Feet, don’t fail me now.

Chapter 2

“Are you here alone?”

I glance over, our hands separating eight paces back, when the awkward contact had become forced. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”

I may be mistaken, but I feel as if he stumbles slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”

The three martinis at dinner make that question much more humorous than it should be, and I giggle. “Me? No.”

“A boyfriend?” We reach the lobby, and he reaches out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I make the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.

I shake my head. “No.” I look over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”

He chews on his bottom lip as he meets my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’ve seen on his face. And damn, it is a hot look. He should rock indecision more. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”

I look away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackle him to the ground and have my Southern way with him. We reach the elevators and stop, his finger pressing the button.

Silence. Awkward silence. I shift in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I’m thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m not a fifteen year old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”

He grins, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors open. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”

I press the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He takes my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raise my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”

Our conversation is interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men step on. Not really men. What appear to be twenty year old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I see Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.

“What floor?” I ask the question when the doors close and their attention hasn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.

Mistake. Their eyes move as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbles, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurs, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who casts a quick look in Brett’s direction.

“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprises me, and I look up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I want to reassure him, not that we are close enough that I would assume his protection. But it seems, from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone, that he is ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys is not looking for.

The doors slide open, and I squeeze through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors once again close. We stand in the empty landing.

“Are you okay?” His eyes are dark, face tight. I glance down and see his fists clenched.

I laugh, press a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”

He grips my forearms, walks me three steps backward, until I am against the wall, and he is close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”

Then he closes the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so tightly there is almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reach my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound comes from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he catches it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turns into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I am on my toes, and the weight of him is pressing me against the wall. In a moment of pause, our mouths taking a readjusting period, I speak, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I know is that I want him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I place a hand on his chest, and he immediately drags his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he takes his own ragged breath of air.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to … restraint.” His hands suddenly release their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sink to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing … wanting … more. He’s not used to restraint? I’m not used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’s been years since I’ve had a cock in my mouth, years since I’ve felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I need to step away from this man. I need to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that eat my soul, his hands that burn like possessive fire across my skin. I can’t control myself in his presence, won’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wider than the Panama Canal.

He takes another step back, rubs his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

I’m not. I blush. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I push off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I want him so badly. What am I doing? My new slippers move me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappear inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stop in front of my room, take a steadying breath, and turn to him. “This is it. Thank you.”

His right hand is outstretched, fist closed. I stare at it in confusion before I realize what he’s doing. I give him an exasperated smile and hold my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”

He chews on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stares at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence draws out, thickness in the air between us. God, I want to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fight the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.

He finally speaks, breaking our eye contact as he looks away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”

I feel ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I am a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He doesn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his six-foot proximity from my body. I shoulder my purse open and dump the chips, fishing out my room key. I look down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”

“Nah.” He leans one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushes off the wall, holds out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”

“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shake his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I am imagining it, and am in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we are one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.

I insert the key, push down the handle, and step in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicks, and I stare at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobs in despair. Okay, this is fine. I made it safely to the room, am now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I am in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumps around and tries to find the place of reason where my decision is a good one. Surely this is the right move. I have retained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s panty-dropping looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I don’t know him, he is a stranger. This is not Macon, Georgia. I do not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I can’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably won’t. I rise to my tiptoes and look through the peephole.

He’s still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He runs a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. I look as far as I can, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I want to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he is striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I don’t. I drop my heels by the door, kick off the slippers, and take four steps, falling into the closest bed.

Chapter 3

I wake up thinking of Brett. The possessive grip of his fingers, the need in his mouth, the press of his body against me, the heat between our touch. The way my body had cried out and his had responded.

Circumstance brings me back to Earth, reminding me, with the cruel pairing of sunlight rays, that he left. Had the opportunity to escort me in, get my contact number or, at the least, rock my world with one more kiss. But instead he ran. Or rather, briskly walked. With a gentleman’s goodbye and nothing more.

Shower. Pathetic water pressure that alternates between hot and lukewarm. Squeezing out a mini bottle of shampoo with a British crest, yet made in Illinois. I dry off hard enough to realize that my back is sunburnt, the itch and scratch of the towel rough against my tender skin. Wrapping the white terrycloth around my body, I walk to the closet. Stare at my open suitcase, then at the clothes hanging. Nothing looks good enough.

I thought I was too old to feel like this. This adolescent, breathless high. Nervous anticipation at the idea that I might walk downstairs and bump into his gaze. The tingling feeling that I may have met my soul mate, kissed his mouth, gazed up into his face and felt his smile touch my skin. Am I one of hundreds? Just another girl, just a brief experience that he will think nothing of? Did I imagine the spark, the connection? My leg is jiggling. Jumping up and down underneath the desk as I apply mascara with a hand that is too shaky, considering my system is drug free. The resort is huge. We leave in twenty-eight hours. I may never see him again. I should have gotten his number.

“Shut the curtains, bitch.”

I ignore the words, examine my blue sundress, and wonder if the deodorant marks skipping along the front will rub out.

“Seriously. What time is it?”

“Nine-twenty.” I toss the dress down, give up on looking put-together, and grab a pair of shorts and a tank top. That’s about as high class fashion as my town gets. It will have to be good enough.

“Fuuuccccckk …” The word is muffled under ten pounds of hangover and one mascara-smeared pillow, but it’s there. I have about five minutes before Tammy not-a-morning-person McGowan rolls her ass outta bed, and I don’t plan to be in striking distance when that happens.

“Coffee is brewed. We’re supposed to be at the spa at ten. I’m gonna run downstairs and grab breakfast.”

A grunt. Muffled curses. A word that I think is curtains. I grab my purse and room key, open the door, and escape.

This hotel’s prices would make a nun curse like Tammy. I order a bottled water, apple, and blueberry muffin from the coffee stand off the lobby and still rack up a thirteen-dollar bill, fifteen percent gratuity graciously added automatically. And for that additional two bucks I don’t even get a smile. I scribble my last name and room number, sign the line, and escape with my tray of food, pressing open the door and stepping onto the balcony, grabbing a table by the railing and settling in.

Wedge sandals kicked off, my chipped pink toes curl against the stone railing, brilliant blue water sparkling at me from behind one hundred acres of palm trees and resort pools. A pigeon missing the toes on his right foot lands on the railing three feet to my right and tilts his head at my toes as if he might give them a taste. I toss him a piece of muffin, then kick out my foot, leaning back my head once I am convinced that my piggies are safe.

Peel sticker from the apple. Crunch. Chew. Swallow. The sun is warm, even this early. And no humidity. God, I wish Georgia was like this. Heat without the moisture bath that makes sweat bead on my upper lip. Here, I could bake for hours. High enough up for a breeze, the sun warming me with a gentle embrace, I take a swig of water and then screw the lid back on. Loosen the muscles in my neck, slide down a little in my chair, and close my eyes. Good old alone time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then I will need to get my ass over to the spa for three hours of feminine chatter. Go Team McCrory.

A breeze blows from behind, ruffling the light hair on my forearm. Men’s voices. Talking too loud, the scrape of metal against pavers as they settle into the chairs behind me. The click of a lighter as one of them ruins a perfectly healthy set of lungs.

I keep my eyes closed, taking a bite of muffin as my mind wanders, my eavesdropping gene lifting its head when a voice starts that sounds familiar. I start to sit up but stop, not sure if now, makeup free with a face full of muffin crumbles, is how I want to reintroduce myself. I stay in place, slouching a little further, more sure with each additional word, that one of the men is Brett. A smile plays on the corner of my mouth.

“What happened with that girl from last night?”

“The blonde?”

“Yeah. Looked like you were headed up to her room.”

A pause. Soft cough. I almost fall off my chair in an attempt to hear his next words.

“Nothing happened. She’s here with a bachelorette party, and isn’t the type I’m looking for.”

I don’t pay attention to the other man’s response, my toes curling against the railing, body tightening in hurt and anger. Not his type. Maybe that was why he walked away so easily. And here I am, thinking my kiss had affected him as deeply as it had me. I dig my nails into my thighs, watching a curl of forgotten smoke float past, hearing the screech of chair legs as the men behind me move along.

Fuck him. I don’t need a one-night stand anyway. My dusty vagina is perfectly happy with the extensive network of cobwebs it’s spent years creating. Somewhere, in the empty recesses of my mind, my subconscious tears to pieces the ‘I love Brett’ picture and moves on to more official business.

Chapter 4

Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hung over selves will be strapped in and flying back to ATL. I hang an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaning my head back, weight on their shoulders, and bellow the chorus of Sweet Home Alabama, the club singing along, my mouth breaking into a grin too big too contain, the familiar tune never failing to raise my spirits. Never mind that, between the six of us, we’ve set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It is the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we own every syllable of the damn thing.

The last chorus rings out, and I release the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass begins, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.

I slow my hips, glance at our table, seeing Beth and Tammy there, the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I am pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tries to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yank at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and move to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon lit exit sign. Air. I need air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with the fact that none of the men in this club will be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seem worthy of a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too … not who I am looking for.

I bang through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I take two steps to the right and lean against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wish I still smoke. I remember the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I don’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet are enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to I-Can’t-Even-Remember-His-Name-Ville.

I sense the presence before I see it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffen, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it is with my gaze. Then he speaks, and I relax, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lie I’ve told myself is exposed. I need him. My body needs him. Wants more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8th floor. I had made a mistake. I don’t intend to make another.

“Come here.”

He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping, pulling me tighter. I love it.

“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping, taking it in his mind as his own.

“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.

The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing. His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as he sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.

Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.

Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most. My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head. Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.

Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.

He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there, the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, and I just about lift off the ground in my need for more.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp.

“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands. I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”

He lifts his mouth off of my neck, returning to my mouth, his kisses softening as his fingers take their time, probing, fluttering over my clit, sliding a firm index down the line of my sex, making their way to my ass for a hard press, before returning and starting the insanity again. I am shaking, wanting, dying for another touch of his skin, wanting the silk tease of my panties gone, wanting the raw feel of skin on skin. Even with that need, I am not prepared when it happens, my mouth freezing against his kiss, brain function gone, motor skills impaired, every intelligent thought I ever had fleeing my body as his thumb presses against my clit and two of his fingers push inside my body.

Holy Jesus Hell.

He groans, his forehead on my own, pushing my head back against the wall. “Fuck, I wish you were open before me on a bed right now so I could see this.” The words tear from him, and the blurred vision of my senses sees the couple glance our way, a whispered discussion beginning, then ending; the club door opens.

“If we were on a bed right now, your cock would be out.” It is a difficult sentence to formulate, my hips thrusting, trying to help the push and withdrawal of his fingers, my eyes closing despite my best attempts to keep them open.

“Is that so?”

I can hear his need despite the cocky drawl of his question. I have my leg wrapped around him, can feel a tremor in his legs, can feel the stiff ridge of his cock that is anything but unaffected.

“I’m—” The word ‘close’ never makes it off my lips. It can’t, never has a chance at life, my orgasm eating it for dessert with a ravenous need that takes hold of everything else in its path. I tighten around his fingers, my body shuddering as delirium moves in needy waves, radiating from the center of my universe, which lies in the slick breath between his fingers and my everything. I don’t catch the first of his words; they disappear in my full body experience. But then later, I hear them as I fall back down to Earth, the vowels stretching out my grip on insanity, taking me to an additional plane I have never reached before.

“… beautiful creature. You feel so perfect. So open, so willing. I want to take every piece of you with my cock. Open up your world, and make you mine. Taste you on my mouth. Feel this sensation against the bare skin of my cock. God, I want you so badly. Have thought about you all day.”

His mouth stops moving, stops talking, crushes back on mine, communicating the most with its desperation, his fingers thrusting and then slowly halting their movement, and just staying in place, buried inside, my sex fuller than it has been in a long time. I drop my hand off his shoulders, let the one that has been digging lines of need into his back fall as a wave of sexual contentment moves in.

His mouth slows, and he slides my leg down, tugs my dress back down, keeping our kiss uninterrupted, his hands moving to cup both sides of my face as his legs straddle mine, my push against the wall less intense as our interaction changes to something less dirty. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against my own as he lets out a long breath that is half groan in its makeup. “God, Riley.”

He sounds so pained, so remorseful, that I almost check for a wedding ring, almost push against his chest to look into his eyes. But I don’t. I don’t do anything but enjoy the scent of his cologne, the view out of the bottom of my lashes, one of expensive fabric and a peek of tan skin.

“I don’t know what to do with you.” He finishes the statement with a brush over my lips, his hands lifting my face until it is turned up to him, our eyes meeting for the first moment since I lost all sense.

Damn, I could look in this man’s eyes all day. Could get lost in them, move for them, lie, steal, die for them. I stare in his eyes and fully accept that I am a woman. Vulnerable, emotional, delicate, easily overcome. I don’t know this man. Have shared less than a hundred sentences with him. Have just given him a piece of my virtue in the form of a finger fuck on a dirty Bahamian street in the dead of night.

I stare in his eyes and say nothing. Memorize the dark depths of them. The thick fringe of lashes that I’d accuse of being mascara enhanced had he not radiated masculinity from every pore on his body.

“I don’t need to ask if you do this often. Your body betrays you of the impossibility of that fact.” He speaks tightly, his hands keeping my face up, my eyes arrested by him, not that I have any plans of looking away in this lifetime. “I don’t. I can’t. This … is not normal.” His eyes drop to my lips and he bends, takes a long draw of my mouth, as if it is the last time we will ever kiss. He groans, and my shoulders are suddenly pushed back against stucco. “Fuck,” he swears. “God, I need you underneath me.” He releases me, steps away, rubs his mouth as he turns, half in the light, the shadows protecting me from the meat of his stare.

“So take me.” The voice coming out of my chest is not my own. It is of a confident woman who admits what she wants, takes what she needs.

He drops his hand, stares at me. “You don’t mean that. You’d regret it in the morning. And I don’t do one-night stands.”

“Meaning?” I stay against the wall. He can come to me if he wants something. I don’t know if, at this point in time, my legs have the capacity to move anyway.

He does come. Is in front of me in three strides, his hands on either side of my head, flat against the wall, his eyes intense, inches from mine. I smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. I notice the angle of his body, his hips too far away when all I want is them pressed against me. Is he still hard? ’Cause I am still wet. Desperately so. “Meaning,” he growls, “that if I have you, you will be mine. You will not return to life as you know it. You will not flirt with men around the water cooler at work. You will bend for me, spread for me, allow me to have every inch of your surface, all while screaming my name and shuddering into my heart. That is what I mean.”

Holy shit. I try to breathe normally. Try to stop my pulse from jumping through my skin. Try to speak in a way that doesn’t cause my voice to shake. “We don’t have water coolers.”

He smiles, and the change pulls me off of whatever ledge I am gripping onto. Oh my word. White, perfect teeth. A goddamn mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I can’t figure out if I like his intense side or smiling side more, but I try and hold on to this look for as long as I can. “And the rest?”

“I don’t think that’s a decision I can make without having your cock first.”

He tilts his head. “Worried I will disappoint?”

Hell to the no. “Girl’s gotta be safe.” I release my own smile, one with much less potency, but the best card I have in this the situation.

His face darkens, the grin disappearing as intensity steals back over. “I’m not joking, Riley. About having you.”

I watch his eyes, the shudder in them as they look from my lips to my eyes to the door. All minute twitches of his pupils, his head unmoving, his entire body so still it may be made of steel. Controlled intensity. I don’t doubt his words. I also know that there is no way I can anything say but yes to this man. My body won’t allow any other response. “Then take me.”

Confirmation in the set of his face, the fire that comes to his eyes, the forward press of his pelvis as he gathers me back, pulling me tightly, his mouth coming back down to claim me. Yes, he is still hard. I smile against his mouth.

Chapter 5

The driver’s name is Leo. White Escalade with custom rims, tinted windows. I step into the backseat, Brett’s head following me inside, his long legs cramped in the backseat. I clutch my purse, smile at Leo as he shuts the door. I had parted with the girls, their protective nature insisting on a face to face with Brett before letting me disappear into the night. Jena had taken it one step further, getting his business card and verifying his cell. He smiled through it all, relaxed and at ease, the intensity of our alley romp gone as he shook hands, oh my god, those fingers were in me, remembered names, and stole all of their hearts.

The SUV moves, rocking over cobblestone steps that pirates once roamed, the movement of the car tossing me slightly. Brett’s hand finds me in the darkness.

“Sorry about the interrogation in there.”

“I’m not. They’re watching out for you. It’s the smart thing to do.”

I bite the edge of my smile. “You say that. Jena Crawford has your number. You might regret that in the wee hours of the morning. I think her second major was drunk dialing.”

He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I can handle it.”

I glance to the front. To the Bahamian man less than five feet away. “What you said in the alley, about what this will mean …”

“Yes.”

I shrug. “I just want you to know that I’m a big girl. I’m not gonna attach anything to this. If it doesn’t turn out to be anything.”

He looks out the window. Tugs at the front of his dress pants, adjusting himself, he says, “I may have spoken out of turn. I’m not used to this.”

I lower my voice. “We can have sex. Without it meaning anything.”

“I’m not seventeen, Riley. I’m familiar with the concept.”

I shut my mouth. Do my own turn of looking out the window, trying to decide if I should bail on this man when we hit the hotel lobby. It is easier when I look out the window. When I don’t see the line of his jaw and imagine how it tastes. When I don’t look in those eyes and fall further into trouble. Then he moves my hand, from the armrest where he had held it, to his lap. Pushes my palm flat against him, and I lose a bit of my breath. Wow.

His hand atop mine, he drags my palm—my exploring, inquisitive fingers—from his belt buckle to his leg, letting me feel exactly how much, how hard, he wants me. I dart my eyes, trying to see more, but the dark cab shows me nothing but the glow of his eyes. Watching me, his mouth hidden by shadow. Those eyes closing briefly when I grip him through the fabric. “More,” he breathes.

I fumble with the zipper, my own hand struggling, his hand moving to help, holding the fabric tightly as I drag down the metal tag, holding my breath, hoping the driver’s music will drown out the sound, the man’s head not moving, not turning, when the action ends, my hand stealing in and coming in immediate contact with bare cock.

A moment when my body relaxes as my fingers wrap around it, as if I am finally at piece in a place where I belong and everything else can subside. I am touching it. The thought is a shot of arousal to my body. I move my hand, explore. My first thought, when I wrap my hands around it, the observation that my thumb and index finger don’t meet. That his fingers that had satisfied me so easily in that alley—won’t hold a candle to this organ. I squirm a bit in my seat. Grip him with my full hand and am rewarded with an exhale of breath.

A squeal of brakes. I look up and realize we are stopping. At a toll booth, Leo leans out the window, the street lights of the toll plaza casting in full light, my hand on Brett’s ohmygodthatisgorgeous cock. He leans forward quickly, pushing my hand gently to the side, and my ears hear the faint sound of a zipper closing.

“Royal Towers.” He puts his hands on the front headrests, resting his weight on them as he speaks to the driver, and I fight the urge to run my hand over the line of his back. It’s been so long since I touched a man in a loving way. So long since I was in a role other than that of professional friend—sweet ol’ Riley.

I don’t touch his back. I sit, my hands between my knees, the heat of my fingers remembering the lines of his cock. The ridge between his shaft and his head. How it moved slightly in my hand when I grabbed it. The warmth of his skin.

Then the truck stops, a burst of air brushes over my bare legs, and I accept Leo’s hand and exit the vehicle.

“Thank you.” Brett’s hand is on my arm, taking over from Leo, firm pressure in his touch as he guides me toward the entrance, his steps quick, my heels almost struggling to keep up. I tug on his hand, and his head turns, notes my agitation and he slows his gait. “I’m sorry.” He loops an arm around my shoulders, presses a kiss on the top of my head. “Do you want to grab a drink at the bar?”

Do I want to grab a drink at the bar? I don’t think I can handle the wait to walk down the hotel hallway, much less sit out the agonizing process of ordering, sipping, then paying for an unneeded drink. I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”

He holds the door, our eyes catching for a moment as I pass through. Just that catch, that brief hold of two stares … it relights the fire that didn’t need any additional fuel. I don’t know why I’m going to fuck this man. There is no sense or reason in the decision. But there is need. There is need, and there will be satisfaction. I don’t know what is about to happen, but I know it will be different than anything I have ever had. Anyone I have ever fucked. I feel like I did when I was a virgin. Nervous. Apprehensive. Excited. The hand on my back guides me to an unfamiliar elevator, and I wait as he presses the button.

Chapter 6

Brett Jacobs watches her. Thinks. This is a mistake. He should be back in that alley. Or in the smoke of the club. Drinking. Watching. Entertaining himself. He doesn’t take strange women into his bed. His head, his heart, doesn’t understand that. Fucking should have a purpose, should contribute to an end goal. There is no end goal that will work in this scenario. She is from Georgia for God’s sake. Here on a bachelorette party, surrounded by a group of friends with eyes of hawks and sex drives of donkeys. A fuck with her will accomplish nothing—lead nowhere. The words his idiotic mouth had uttered in that alley will never work. What did he expect? That after a few hours in his bed, she will commit to him? Fill the hole that has existed for as long as he can remember? This woman who moves before him, the one who smells of lilies and brown sugar, has her own life. One he knows nothing about. A life that breathes fire and independence. One with roots and commitments and, for all he knows, its own leading man. He watches as the elevator doors open and she steps out, his hand reaching out, snagging the delicate warmth of her wrist, and dragging her to the side, rougher than necessary, his sudden need to know more asserting its dominance. He releases her wrist when she stumbles sideways, catching her weight and pinning it against the closest wall.

“Jeez.” The word comes out as an annoyed huff, her eyes flashing as he moves closer, places a hand on the wall beside her head, and stares into her eyes. “What is it with you and walls?”

“What’s it about you?”

“Me?” She lifts her chin, looks at him head on.

“I can’t stop myself. I want to pin you and fuck you against every surface I come to.” He swallows. Refocuses his agitation. “Are you in a relationship?”

Her body tightens. Breath shortens. Eyes focus on his mouth. All reactions he is familiar with. Can read as easily as a financial statement. Lust. A struggle against the reaction, her mind arguing with her want, her eyes losing focus as she licks her lips to wet them. Good God. He barely hears her response, hears the two-letter word sigh out of her lips as she leans against the wall, and he lets himself do what he’s thought about for the last fifteen minutes. Taste that sweet fucking tongue. Reach down and lift her up. Wrap her legs around his waist and carry her the short distance to his door, his hand fumbling with the key, mouths fighting in their frantic quest for more more more. Brett turns the handle, pushes the door, steps into the darkness and carries her to the bed. Tossing her off him, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Collect his wits. From behind, he hears the click of the closing door and, for the first time since meeting her, they are truly and completely alone together. He sends a short prayer upward for strength, restraint, the ability to touch her and be gentle.

Chapter 7

“Stay here.” His breath seems harder than necessary, the wild look in his eyes enough to keep me in place, my own lust aiding in the desire to speed this process along. He steps away, running a hand through his hair, moves to the doors at the end of the room, opens the slider fully. Standing there for a moment, his hands high on the doorframe, his head hangs slightly as he appears to think.

I prop myself up. Make a conscious decision to ignore his directive and stand. Walk across the room until I am behind him. His back straightens, and he turns, his face dark, silhouetted by the lit night before him.

I stop. Look up into the darkness that is his face. His hand reaches forward, toward my face, and I flinch, his hand stopping a few inches away.

“Relax.” His hand moves slowly, brushing down and covering my eyes. “Close your eyes.”

I do. I close my eyes and feel his hand drop. Keep them closed as I turn every other sense to high alert. “Good girl,” he says softly. “Keep them closed.”

I do. I keep my world dark and try to relax. Feel the heat of him as he moves closer. I inhale, but only smell ocean, the breeze from the open door washing the scent of salt and sea across my face. Then his hands, brushing over my shoulderblades, tugging down the spaghetti straps of my dress. Swiping back across my collarbone as firm fingers tug at the front clasp of my dress. Silence as he parts the fabric and slides it down until my bra is the only thing on my upper half.

Closer. I can feel the brush of his chest against the soft pillow of my breasts. Both of his arms wrap around me as he unclips my bra in one movement, the garment dropping, my breasts suddenly loose and free. His arms drop and the hard comfort of his chest leaves me. My eyes flip open.

“No.” He is before me. Staring. Close enough that the shadow is lifted; I can see the reflection of the bathroom light in his eyes. They are tight on me, a warning look in them. “Keep them closed, Riley. For now.”

For now. I release a slow breath. Drop my eyelids until I am back to relying on touch, smell, sense, hearing. I don’t know why I opened them anyway. This way is so much better. I don’t have to worry about the look in his eyes. I can let my imagination go wild. Imagine what I want. Enjoy what I—oh God. A breeze blows, the cool air causing my skin to awaken, the caress of the outdoors making this suddenly so erotic in its voyeurism. I don’t remember which floor we are on. Don’t know if it’s the second or twentieth, but knowing that the balcony door is open before me, feeling the soft brush of his fingers as they return to my skin … it is enough to make my nipples stand on edge, the weight in my pussy heavy with its increased need.

“You are so beautiful.” He almost groans the words, the sentence cuts off my own gasp as both of his fingers circle and squeeze my breasts. Lifting them. I feel the rough prickle of his cheek as his mouth moves across their surface. Wet suction as my right nipple makes its way into his mouth, his soft play of tongue against delicate skin probing and teasing, a low moan coming out of me when he bites the tip of it gently. I sag a bit in his hands, my knees shaking, and my desire to have him making a persuasive argument against the one to have him never stop what is occurring right now. “Wait, Riley.” His mouth moves lower, his hands release my breasts, and I feel the bump of cloth against my legs.

His mouth presses kisses along my stomach until it reaches the line of my dress, and his hands are suddenly at the back of me, fumbling over and then finding the zipper, yanking it down in one movement, and the fabric falls, leaving me one wet pair of panties away from being naked, in heels, before him.

“God.” A reverent whisper from his mouth. A mouth that is wasting no time in moving lower. “Spread your legs a bit.”

I obey. Moaning softly when I feel the press of his finger moving aside the silk and pushing inside of me. One gentle push inside that breaks any chance of restraint I have left. I open my eyes, look down to find him on his knees, and reach down, grip his hair, and pull back until our eyes meet. “I can’t,” I gasp, his finger pushing deeper, curving inside of me, his eyes watching me darkly, the edge of his mouth curving a little when my legs buckle.

Thank God the man listens. He moves to his feet, pulling his finger from me and moving it to his mouth. Sucking on his forefinger, he stares down at me. It might just be the most erotic thing—wait, it is definitely the most erotic thing I have ever seen. I step forward, pull his finger from his lips and replace it with my tongue, the man taking my mouth as if he owns it, his hands gripping me to him, his kiss hard and dominant.

I fall back on the bed, his body above me, knees moving to either side of me as he takes a final pull on my mouth before sitting up, skimming his fingers down my breasts, the lines of my stomach, hooking into the sides of my panties and dragging them over my hips, his body rolling off me enough to free my body from the last bit of resistance.

“My turn,” I breathe, sitting up and reaching for his belt.

He obliges, rolling onto his back and letting me unbutton his shirt.

I am nervous. I realize it as my fingers loop buttons through holes, each minor accomplishment revealing inch after inch of strong chest, covered by a thin layer of hair. He is a man, more man than anyone I have been with. My last boyfriend was a leftover from college, a frat boy turned pharmacist, who never let go of the shaggy haircut that every boy from the South seems to don like a badge of honor. This man, whose chest is strong and wide, his eyes dark and heated, his touch, which trails patiently down my back, is firm and confident. I know, with no degree of uncertainty, this will be different than any other experience I have ever had. That this, however fleeting and short in commitment, will rock my world.

I pull at white material, tugging fabric from pants until abs are fully exposed, a line of thicker hair leading down the ripped path of his stomach to a belt buckle, a break of skin against dark fabric. I slow down, pull hesitantly on the leather, the cold metal of the clasp so foreign in this hot bed of sexual tension. Then his hands push me aside, three quick movements having his pants undone, zipper down, belt open, and cock out.

The groan out of me is unstoppable. It rumbles, turns into a hiss, and then my hesitation is gone, and I pounce on it, diving with greedy lips, my frantic fingers trying to pull him down the bed, as I slide down his body and onto my knees on the carpet. I need it all. I need to feel the slide of skin against bone, need to feel it respond on my tongue. I want to taste every inch of it. Suck on his head until he gasps. Take him as far down my throat as I can, damn the gag reflex. Obsessively worship him with my mouth until he is half as hungry with lust as I am.

I can’t believe I am doing this. On my knees, in a stranger’s hotel room, his body following my lead, sliding to the end of the bed, sitting up, his hand settling on the back of my head, pushing with encouragement as I take his gorgeous cock in my mouth. I am naked in front of this man, any prior relationship with modesty having jumped ship, his eyes nothing but worshipping in their perusal of my curves.

He is almost without taste, my mouth working hard, yearning for a response, the squeeze of sweet hitting my tongue. And, despite my subservient position on my knees, it is empowering to have his most sensitive organ in my mouth. I look up at him, my eyes watering slightly as he takes the moment to pull me further onto his cock. God, the look in his eyes. Singular focus on me. His mouth dropping open slightly as I increase the pressure of my suction. The ownership of his stare even as his lids drop slightly, my name coming out as a hiss on his lips.

“Get up,” he growls. “I need to be inside of you now.”

Hands suddenly on my wrists, stopping my motion on his cock. Lifting me to my feet, I am on the bed before I can think, my back dragging across the duvet as he puts me into place.

A slowing of time. His hands firm and patient as they spread my legs, open me before him. Any concern I have over my naked body, the pounds I really should have shed before hitting vacation mode in a bikini … everything is swiped away by the shudder in his sigh, the look in his eyes as he drinks me in, his fingers opening me up, his mouth lowering for a few back-arching seconds as his tongue dips inside of me.

Then he withdraws. Drags his fingers down my legs and stops at my ankle. Works the strap with his fingers, caresses the curves of my foot as he pulls off the stiletto.

“Is this what you want?”

“My shoes to be taken off?”

The heel drops to the floor with a soft thud. I look down, past the V of my legs, at the naked man before me, a hand settling on the outward jut of his cock, wrapping around its base, stroking it as he stares at me, meets my eyes, for one silent moment. Salt air sweeps over my skin, my legs still spread, fingers of coolness softly brushing over my open sex. I am so wet I can feel a drop sliding down the crack of my body.

“This. What I’m about to do. Is it what you want?”

“Yes.” I don’t need to hesitate before speaking the words. I don’t need to think, to analyze. I threw reason and safety and good decisions out the window as soon as I walked through the door to this suite. I traded logic for a touch that I desperately crave, a connection that is dropping that perfect cock and moving to my other foot. Working the straps to that heel. Fingers teasing the arch and ankle there.

The heel comes off in his hand, and he tosses it away. Grips my ankle, moves his knees on the bed, until he is before me, his cock placed against the wet mound of my sex. His hands on my inner thighs, delicate movements that are turning rougher, stronger. He presses on the back of my knees, lifts my legs until my thighs brush my stomach, thrusts forward with his hips, dragging his hardness back and forth over my clit.

I whimper. I can’t help myself. I can feel the loss of control, feel the breakdown of my mind as pleasure takes over and I become a loose mess of want before him. I am so close to begging, need his cock an inch lower so badly I’m two steps away from taking that matter into my own hands. “Please.” The word slips from my lips as he continues, the underside of his cock now slick with my juices, the steady drag on my clit so perfect that my plea is suddenly counterproductive seeing as the only thing I want to do right now is stay in this moment until I break.

Shove, pull. Shove, pull. I prop myself up to get a better look, the eroticism of seeing his bare cock, head and shaft tight to the point of ripping, the muscles in his stomach sliding under the tan skin, the evidence of my arousal, my need growing. His skin in the moonlight, reflections of white in his eyes, the groan from his mouth that tells me his self-control is as stretched as my own.

I don’t want to come like this. From just the rub of his cock. How tightly stretched is my arousal that just this brush with him can bring me to my knees? I push against his chest, squirm underneath him. “Please, I can’t. I’m about to …”

“I need it.” His gruff voice is close to my ear. The consistent firm strokes continue, the pump of his cock back and forth back and … OH MY.

I stop it somehow. Gasp for breath. Try to focus. Try to fight a battle I am seconds from losing. I don’t know why I am fighting it. How I am managing. But all I know is that every second of this is incredible, and I don’t want to lose it—can’t lose it. Not right now. Not just yet. I need another ten seconds, or fifty, or five hundred. I need this man to never stop anything he is doing, to—

My elbows give out, and I collapse, my back bucking, every muscle in my legs contracting as the purest form of ecstasy blinds my world, grips my heart, and shudders through my body.

* * *

A metallic scrape. The rip, crackle. I see a bit of gold flutter to the scrunched fabric of the white duvet. Moving my eyes to between my legs, I see the hot brand of his cock lifted, busy in his hands, wrapped and secured, then his hands still, and I drag my eyes up, over his stomach, which moves slightly with heavy breaths. Up over the strength of his chest, the defined muscles in his shoulders, the shadow on his face, the swollen breath of his lips. His eyes, blazing with intensity, watching me carefully as he growls out a sigh. I don’t move, don’t pull my eyes from him, but feel the weight of latexed cock against my sensitive clit as he leans forward slightly, a finger surprising me when he presses it through the seal of my sex.

A moan sighs through my lips at the change in his eyes that occurs, the drug of arousal moving through them, dulling his spark, his mouth opening further. He closes his eyes for a moment, his finger moving slowly and deliciously inside of me, and then reopens, control reestablished. I don’t want his control. I want him ravaging me, taking me harder, rougher, his strength untapped, sexuality grabbing ahold of him and dragging him by his lapels to the throne of me, where he will forever be my sexual slave.

“Are you sure?”

I groan in response, his finger cupping, stroking. My pussy so wet I am shaking for him.

“Answer me. I need to hear it.” His voice is rough. Control shaken. Good.

I open my eyes. Reestablish contact. Let him see the resolution there. “Yes. Please. Now.”

He leans forward, braces himself above me on the bed, his face a foot from mine, my vision filled with the beautiful look of Brett, and shifts his hips down slightly and thrusts.

Mother of—I whimper, reach up and grip his shoulders, pull him closer as my mouth opens in silent exclamation. It has been too long. I can’t go without it for this long ever again. On second thought, maybe the reason this feels this incredible is because I have been without. But either way, the stretch of my muscles around his cock … the heat inside me as he slowly thrusts, in and out, back and forth, my silent cries turning a little louder, becoming words, moans, begs, pleas. “Don’t ever stop … Brett—I … “

He gives it to me slow. Letting me adjust before his speed picks up, thrusts roughening right at the moment when I am ready for it. I wrap my legs around his waist. Dig my heels into the lickable meat of his ass. Squeeze the heat of his skin with my legs, stare up into his face as he buries his cock in repeated succession, the quickened pace containing an edge of desperation, of wild inhibition.

“Right there, I’m about to …”

I bellow, the howl of a woman overtaken, and he groans at the sound, lowers his face to my neck, inhales my scent as my voice breaks. I lose all focus, all ability to understand anything but that he hasn’t stopped, hasn’t slowed, is carrying me on this high which is not, will not stop, until it takes ahold of my soul and makes me his own.

He pulls me back to life, gripping my face with both hands, lowering his face to mine, and diving into my mouth. Kissing me strong. Ragged breaths between deep kisses, his cock continues its steady thrust, my hands greedy against his chest, scraping across the ridges of his side, scratching lines of need into his back. Then he breaks the kiss, his hands tightening a little on my face, our eyes holding until a groan drags from his throat, his eyes closing, head dropping, thrusts slowing and deepening, until he is buried and still inside of me. His hands drop my face, my name rolls off his lips as he eases down, his body flush to mine, and it feels, in that moment, like we are fused—souls, bodies, and mind—completely together.

Chapter 8

My cell is ringing. I hear the familiar tune, the beats dragging me awake, my hand fumbling over the empty bedside table. I wake more, hanging half off the bed as my fingers trip over carpet until they encounter my purse. I answer it a second short of too late. “Hello?”

“You slut!” The screech of Mitzi’s voice is way too loud, and I pull the phone away from my ear. Blink in the darkness. Try to figure out where I am. One bed, not two. Room twice as big as the one I spent last night in. Movement comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see well over six feet of dark gorgeousness watching me, on his side, the dawn light contrasting with the intense look that he rocks so well. ‘Good morning,’ he mouths, his hand reaching out, wrapping around my waist and pulling me flat on my back. He is on one side, head propped up on one hand, eyes on my face.

“What do you want?” I mumble into the phone.

“I just got back to the room. I know your prude ass can’t be shacking up with that delicious piece of man you left with last night.”

“I can’t talk right now.”

“You know wheels are going up in three hours.”

“Then you should get some more beauty rest.”

A snort. The beginning of some lecture. I hang up the phone, lock it and toss it onto the floor in the direction of my purse, before rolling toward Brett and closing my eyes. I try to memorize the look of him in morning shadows. It’s a good look. Way too good of a look. “I’ve got to go back to my room.”

“No you don’t.” He bends over, pressing a kiss on my collarbone. Pulling at the sheet, he reveals a breast. He exhales, moves his mouth to that spot with soft kisses until I push him off. Cuddle into the crook of his shoulder. Rest my head on him when he lies back against the pillows.

“I have to go back to Georgia.”

“When?” The word vibrates through his chest, and I roll closer into him. Run my hand over his chest.

“One. Which means I need to pack, and shower …”

“… and eat breakfast.”

I look up at him. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at ordering room service.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at eating it.”

* * *

We eat on the bed like kids, cross-legged, cartoons on the TV, trays on the crumpled sheets before us. I lean over, swig a generous swallow of mimosa from the flute and then return it to the bedside table. “So … Mister …” I tilt my head at him. “I don’t know your last name.”

He scowls. Brings a forkful of omelet to his mouth and chews thoroughly before swallowing, the clench of his jaw as he chews drawing my attention to the strong curves of his face, the way dark stubble makes the green of his eyes pop. The gulp of his throat is somehow sexy. “Jacobs.”

“Jacobs. Why the Bahamas, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Isn’t that a question you should have asked me before you …”

I raise my eyebrows as he struggles for words. “Before I what?”

He meets my playful gaze. “Trusted me with your body.”

I shrug. “Jena has your business card. She makes a practice of digging into every aspect of my life. I’m sure she has your blood type and latest draft of your resume by this point. She hasn’t called to warn me of anything, so I think my body is safe in your hands.”

When his eyes darken, they become hunter green. A heart-stopping change. Intensity looks incredible on this man. “I’m here for pleasure. I enjoy the fishing.”

My eyes pick up on his tan, the flex of his forearms as he reaches forward and snags a piece of toast. I suddenly want to see him. On the deck of a boat, wearing only swim trunks. The flex of his muscles as he battles a fish. The break of his smile when he catches a prize. I’ve never seen him during the day. When the sun reflects in those eyes. I look down, scoop up a spoonful of grits, and bring them to my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Look back to find him watching me.

“Have you caught anything this trip?”

His mouth twitches. “Been too busy with a certain blonde to get any time in.”

“Ahhh … sure. Blame your bad luck on me.” I shoot him a look that he finds humorous, his mouth splitting into an easy grin.

I am digging out grapes from the fruit bowl when he speaks. “Stay a few more days with me.”

I pause my quest for red ones. “I can’t. I have work tomorrow.” As I speak the words I realize how out of character they are for me. Blaming work. Not the fact that staying here, with a stranger, is foolhardy enough to say no. I want to stay. The warm buzz, the state of euphoria that seems to accompany every moment in this man’s presence … it is a high I haven’t experienced in a long time. New love. Love that—at previous interactions—skipped along on its merry way after a few weeks. My last experience with this heady, butterflies in my tummy, elation in my heart feeling was … high school? Almost twenty years ago, when I had fresh, unwounded eyes. Before I realized the selfishness and deceit that we, as adults, hold. The ugly truths of life that pull apart love and make relationships obligation centers that carry us from year to year, life transition to life transition.

“What do you do?”

His question brings me back. I pop an elusive red grape in my mouth before answering. “I’m a financial advisor. I work at a small bank in a town called Macon.”

“Why Macon?”

I shrug. “It was my hometown. After college I spent a few years in Athens with a guy I was dating. When that ended … I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Didn’t want to stay in Athens. So I came home.” The super exciting story of my life. I change the focus of the conversation. “What about you?”

He leans back. “Fort Lauderdale. The bank can’t do without you for a few days?”

I shake my head. “No, they can’t. Why Fort Lauderdale? What do you do there?”

“I sell boats.”

God, this guy is a regular chatterbox. I let my eyes float over the suite, the dining room table we seem more likely to fuck on over eating at, the watch draped over his wallet, a brand I don’t recognize, but one I can guarantee is worth what I make in a year. “You sell boats.”

He chuckles. “Yes.” He slides over, pushing his tray forward, so close to the edge of the bed that I watch it nervously, my attention redirected when his lips close over my neck. “Stop thinking,” he whispers, taking another taste of my neck, this one more aggressive, one that will probably leave a hickey. Super classy, Riley. My mother will be thrilled. I close my eyes. Lean into his mouth. Let his arms slide me up the bed and roll me atop him.

“I was overdramatic last night. What I said to you. About owning you.”

“I figured it was for effect.”

“But this isn’t something I do. I don’t make a habit of fucking strangers.” His words tumble awkwardly over the expletive, as if he isn’t used to swearing.

“Neither do I.” Hell, I live in a town where strangers don’t exist, and I still haven’t done any fucking. Shows what happens when I try to brave life outside of our dirt roads.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

“Nothing.” The lie comes out convincingly. Kasey Craig, my second cousin on some distant family member’s side, is actually having a baby shower on Saturday. Her fourth one in the last six years, yet there will be serious repercussions if I am not present. It is the South, after all. Not to mention, I also have plans to spray the garage for bugs. Super important stuff that my lie pushes to the side. I want this man. I know little-to-nothing about him, but I crave something outside of my world. I’m sick of pantyhose and mutual funds. Potluck dinners and familial obligations. This weekend is the most alive I’ve felt in a decade. Part of it is the location; the majority of it lies atop me. Had moved inside of me. Had woken me at four AM begging for five minutes inside of me, then blessed my world for twenty.

I am thirty-two. I am not dead. I am not in a relationship. I am bored. I am tempted to say, had he asked me to pack up my house and move to Florida right now, I would say yes.

“See me next weekend. I’ll send you a plane. It won’t be the jet you girls flew in on, but it’ll get to Lauderdale easier than commercial.”

I look at him. “How do you know what we came in on?”

“Don’t get too excited. I was at the private airport when you arrived.” He runs a hand through my hair. “Pretty blondes always catch my eye.”

I let out a huff of air. “We’re almost all blondes.”

He smiles, that grin tugging hard at my vulnerable heart. “You leave them all in the dust.”

The blush hot on my cheeks, I lift my mouth, stopped from a kiss by his hand on my chest. “Next weekend?”

I smile. “Next weekend. I’m not promising anything more after that.”

My words may not have promised, but my heart? It is toast. It is already booking wedding venues, picking out baby names, tying unbreakable knots in the bond between his heart and mine. I feel his hand relax, the resistance gone, and he closes the distance between our lips. Surrendering myself to him, I feel the crush of our souls, as our touches say what our lips are not ready for.

I came for vacation. I found, in those hours, the other half of my soul.

The End

Beg

by

CD Reiss

Songs of Submission - Book One

one

At the height of singing the last note, when my lungs were still full and I was switching from pure physical power to emotional thrust, I was blindsided by last night’s dream. Like most dreams, it hadn’t had a story. I was on top of a grand piano on the rooftop bar of Hotel K. The fact that the real hotel didn’t have a piano on the roof notwithstanding, I was on it and naked from the waist down, propped on my elbows. My knees were spread further apart than physically possible. Customers drank their thirty-dollar drinks and watched as I sang. The song didn’t have words, but I knew them well, and as the strange man with his head between my legs licked me, I sang harder and harder until I woke up with an arched back and soaked sheets, hanging on to a middle C for dear life.

Same as the last note of our last song, and I held it like a stranger was pleasuring me on a nonexistent piano. I drew that last note out for everything it was worth, pulling from deep inside my diaphragm, feeling the song rattle the bones of my rib cage, sweat pouring down my face. It was my note. The dream told me so. Even after Harry stopped strumming and Gabby’s keyboard softened to silence, I croaked out the last tearful strain as if gripping the edge of a precipice.

When I opened my eyes in the dark club, I knew I had them; every one of them stared at me as if I had just ripped out their souls, put them in envelopes, and sent them back to their mothers, COD. Even in the few silent seconds after I stopped, when most singers would worry that they’d lost the audience, I knew I hadn’t; they just needed permission to applaud. When I smiled, permission was granted, and they clapped all right.

Our band, Spoken Not Stirred, had brought down the Thelonius Room. A year of writing and rehearsing the songs and a month getting bodies in the door had paid off right here, right now.

The crowd. That was what it was all about. That was why I busted my ass. That was why I had shut out everything in my life but putting a roof over my head and food in my mouth. I didn’t want anything from them but that ovation.

I bowed and went off stage, followed by the band. Harry bolted to the bathroom to throw up, as always. I could still hear the applause and banging feet. The room held a hundred people, and the audience sounded like a thousand. I wanted to take the moment to bathe in something other than the disappointment and failure that accompanied a career in music, but I heard Gabrielle next to me, tapping her right thumb and middle finger. Her gaze was blank, settled in a corner, her eyes as big as teacups. I followed that gaze to exactly nothing. The corner was empty, but she stared as if a mirror into herself stood there, and she didn’t like what she saw.

I glanced at Darren, our drummer. He stared back at me, then at his sister, who had tapped those fingers since puberty.

“Gabby,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

Darren poked her bicep. “Gabs? Shit together?”

“Fuck off, Darren,” Gabby said flatly, not looking away from the empty corner.

Darren and I looked at each other. We were each other’s first loves, back in L.A. Performing Arts High, and even after the soft, simple breakup, we had deepened our friendship to the point we didn’t need to talk with words.

We said to each other, with our expressions, that Gabby was in trouble again.

“We rule!” Harry gave a fist pump as he exited the bathroom, still buttoning up his pants. “You were awesome.” He punched me in the arm, oblivious to what was going on with Gabby. “My heart broke a little at ‘Split Me.’”

“Thanks,” I said without emotion. I did feel gratitude, but we had other concerns at the moment. “Where’s Vinny?”

Our manager, Vinny Mardigian, appeared as if summoned, all glad-handing and smiles. Such a dick. I really couldn’t stand him, but he’d seemed confident and competent when we met.

“You happy?” I said. “We sold all our tickets at full price. Now maybe next time we won’t have to pay to play?”

“Hello, Monica Sexybitch.” That was his pet name for me. The guy had the personality of a landfill and the drive of a shark in bloody waters. “Nice to see you too. I got Performer’s Agency on the line. Their guy’s right outside.”

Great. I needed representation from the The Rinkydink Agency like I needed a hole in the head. But I was an artist, and I was supposed to take whatever the industry handed me with a smile and spread legs.

Vinny, of course, couldn’t shut up worth a damn. He was high on Performer’s Agency and the worldwide fame he thought they would get us. He didn’t realize half a step forward was just as good as a full step back. “You got a crowd out there asking for an encore. Everybody here does their job, then everybody’s happy.”

I listened, and sure enough, they were still clapping, and Gabby was still staring into the corner.

two

Darren took Gabby home after the encore, which she played like the crazy prodigy she was, then she blanked out again. Her depression was ameliorated by music and brought on by just about anything, even if she was taking her meds.

She’d attempted suicide two years before after a few weeks of corner-staring and complaining of not being able to feel anything about anything. I’d been the one to find her in the kitchen, bleeding into the sink. That had been terrific for everyone. She took my second bedroom, and Darren moved from a roommate-infested guest house in West Hollywood to a studio a block away. We played music together because music was what we did, and because it kept Gabby sane, Darren close, and me from screwing up. But it didn’t even keep us in hot dogs. We all worked, and until I got my current gig at the rooftop bar at Hotel K, I had to give up Starbucks because I couldn’t rub two nickels together to make heat.

Because Spoken Not Stirred had drawn more people than the cost of our guaranteed tickets, we’d made three hundred dollars that night. Fifteen percent went to Vinny Landfillian. Sixty-eight dollars paid for Harry’s parking ticket because he figured if he was loading his bass and amp, he could park in a loading zone on the Sunset Strip before six o’clock. We split the rest four ways.

Hotel K was a spanking new modernist, thirty-story diamond in a one-story stucco shitpile of a neighborhood. The rooftop bar thing in L.A. had gotten out of hand. You couldn’t swing a dead talent agent without hitting some new construction with a barside pool on the roof and thumping music day and night. The upside of the epidemic was that waitress service was the norm, and tall, skinny girls who could slip between name-dropping drunks while holding heavy trays over their heads without clocking anyone were an absolute necessity. The downside for someone tall and skinny like myself was my replaceability. You couldn’t swing a tall, skinny girl in L.A. without hitting another one.

Darren and I had taken too long discussing who would watch Gabby. He convinced her to stay at his place for the night, though “convinced” might not be the word to use when talking about someone who didn’t care about where she slept, or anything, one way or the other.

I ran from the elevator to the hotel locker room, the fifty bucks I’d made for holding a hundred people in my palm light in my pocket. I peeled off my jacket and stuffed it in my locker, then pulled my shirt off. I didn’t have a second to spare before Yvonne, who I was relieving, started chewing me out for stranding her on the floor. I yanked a low-cut dress that showed more leg than modesty out of my bag and wrestled into it.

“You’re late,” Freddie, my manager, said. He stank of cigarettes, which I found disgusting.

“I’m sorry, I had a gig.” I kicked off my shoes and pulled my pants off from under my dress. I had no time to worry about what Freddie thought of me.

“Bully for you.” Freddie crossed his arms, scrunching his brown pinstripe suit. He had a mole on his cheek and wore a puckered expression even when he looked down my shirt, which was almost every time we talked.

I didn’t wait to argue. I slipped back into my shoes, slapped my locker shut, and ran toward the floor.

“Yvonne!” I caught her in the back hall as she folded a wad of tips into her pocket.

“Monica, girl! Where were you?”

“I’m sorry. Thanks for covering my tables. Can I make it up to you?”

“I don’t get home in time, you can pay the sitter an extra hour.”

“No problem,” I said, though it was a big problem.

“Jonathan Drazen is at your table.” She put her hand to her heart. “He’s hot, and he’ll tip if he likes what he sees. So be nice.” She handed me the tickets for my station.

Drazen was my boss’s boss. He owned the hotel, but we’d never crossed paths. Apparently, he traveled a lot, and he spent little or no time on the roof when he was in town, so we hadn’t met. This development was more annoying than anything. I’d just gotten the ovation of my life at a really cool club and was bathing in the warm validation. I didn’t need to prove myself all over again, and based on what? If it wasn’t my music, I didn’t care.

The place was packed: wall-to-wall Eurotrash, Hollywood heavyweights, and assorted hangers-on. The pool was a big rectangle in the center of the expanse. Red chairs surrounded it, and a large cocktail area with tables and chairs sat off to the side. Little tents with couches inside outlined most of the roof, and when the curtains closed, you left them closed unless someone looked as though they’d taken off without paying.

I stood at the service bar, flipping through my tickets. Five tables, two with little star punch-outs in the upper right hand corners. Put there by Freddie, they meant someone important was at the table. Extra care was required.

My first tray was a star punch-out. I put on a smile and navigated through the crowd to deliver the tray to a table in the corner. Four men, and I knew Drazen right away. He had red hair cut just below the ears, disheveled in that absolutely precise way. He wore jeans and a grey shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and hard biceps. His full lips stretched across flawless, natural teeth when he saw his tray coming, and I was caught a little off guard by how much I couldn’t stop looking at him.

“H-Hi,” I stammered. “I’ll be your server.” I smiled. That always worked. Then I thought happy thoughts because that made my smile genuine, and I watched Drazen move his gaze from my smiling face, over my breasts, to my hips, stopping at my calves. I felt as if I were being applauded again.

He looked back at my face. I stared right back at him, and he pursed his lips. I’d caught him looking, and he seemed justifiably embarrassed.

“Hello,” he said. “You’re new.” His voice resonated like a cello, even over the music.

I checked Yvonne’s notes and picked up a short glass with ice and amber liquid from the tray. “You have the Jameson’s?”

“Thank you.” He nodded to me, keeping his eyes on my face and off my body. Even then, I felt as if I were being eaten alive, sucked to fluid, mouthful by mouthful. A liquid feeling came over me, and I stopped doing my job for half a second while I allowed myself to be completely saturated by that warm feeling. In that moment, of course, someone, a man judging from the weight of impact, pushed or got pushed, and my tray went flying.

For a second, the glasses hung in the air like a handful of glitter, and I thought I could catch them. I felt the sound of the impact too long after three gin and tonics splashed over each guest. I was shocked into silence as everyone at the table stood, hands out, dripping, clothes getting darker at crotches and chests. A collective gasp rose from everyone within splash distance.

Freddie appeared like a zombie smelling fresh brains. “You’re fired.” He turned to Drazen and said, “Sir, can I get you anything? We have shirts—”

Drazen shook a splash of liquid off his hand. “It’s fine.”

“I am so sorry,” I said.

Freddie got between me and my former boss, as if I would beg him for my job back, which I’d never do, and said, “Get your things.”

three

Fuck it. Fuck that job and everything else. I’d get another one. I promised myself I was going to make it big, and when I did, I would come in here with my freaking entourage and Freddie was going to serve me whatever I wanted for no tip at all. Not even a cent. And Jonathan Drazen was going to sit by me and look at me just like he did before I spilled gin and tonic all over him, but like I’m an equal, not some little piece of candy working for tips.

I slammed my locker shut.

I had to find another job soon. I always paid my housing expenses first, but we owed the studio money, and I couldn’t take another dime from Harry.

Freddie strode down the dim hallway, toes pointed out and walking like a duck on a mission.

“Fuck off, Freddie. I’m leaving, and by the way, you’re an—”

“Mister Drazen wants to see you.”

“Fuck him. He can’t summon me. I don’t work for him anymore.”

Freddie smiled like a sly cat. “Sometimes he gives the short timers a severance if he feels bad. Nice chunka change. After that, you can get the hell out if you don’t want to sleep with him. I’d like to see him not get laid for once.”

He took a step closer. I didn’t know why he’d get close enough to touch me, so I didn’t back away, and when he slapped my ass, I was so stunned I didn’t move. He ended the slap with a pinch.

“What did you…?”

But he was already waddling off, elbows bent, as if someone else’s life needed to be miserable and he was just the guy to make it so. I stood there with my mouth open, seventy percent mad at him for being a complete molester and thirty percent mad at myself for being too shocked to punch him in the face.

four

I had pride. I had so much pride that heeling at Jonathan Drazen’s beck and call for a “chunka change” was the most humiliating thing I could think of doing. But there I was, in front of his ajar door on the thirtieth floor, knocking, not because I needed the money (which I did), and not because I wanted him to look at me like that again (which I also did), but because I couldn’t have been the first waitress ass-slapped, or worse, by Freddie. If Drazen wasn’t aware of Freddie’s douchebaggery, he needed to be.

The office looked onto the Hollywood Hills, which must have been stunning in daylight. At night, the neighborhood was just a splash of twinkling lights on a black canvas. He stood behind his desk, back to the window, the room’s soft lighting a flattering glaze on the perfect skin of his forearms. He wore a fresh pair of jeans and a white shirt. The dark wood and frosted glass accentuated the fact his office was meant to be a comforting space, and even though I knew the setting was manipulating me, I relaxed.

“Come on in,” he said.

I stepped onto the carpet, its softness easing the pain caused by my high heels.

“I’m sorry I spilled on you. I’ll pay for dry cleaning, if you want.”

“I don’t want. Sit down.” His green eyes flickered in the lamplight. I had to admit he was stunning. His copper hair curled at the edges, and his smile could light a thousand cities. He couldn’t have been older than his early thirties.

“I’ll stand,” I said. I was wearing a short skirt, and judging from the way he’d looked at me on the roof, if I sat down, I’d receive another stare that would make me want to jump him.

“I want to apologize for Freddie,” he said. “He’s a little more aggressive than he should be.”

“We need to talk about that,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow and came around to the front of the desk. He wore some cologne that stole the scent of sage leaves on a foggy day: dry, dusty, and clean. He leaned on his desk, putting his hands behind him, and I could see the whole length of his body: broad shoulders, tight waist, and straight hips. He looked at me again, then down to the floor. I felt as if he’d moved his hands off of me, and at once I was thrilled and ashamed. I wasn’t going to be intimidated or scared. I wasn’t going to let him look away from me. If he wanted to stare, he should stare. I placed my hands on my hips and let my body language challenge him to put his eyes where they wanted to go, not the floor.

Because, fuck him.

“Freddie’s a douchebag.” I could tell from his expression that was the wrong way to start. I needed to keep opinions and juicy expressions to myself and state facts. “He said you’re going to try and sleep with me, for one.” He smiled as if he really was going to try to sleep with me and got caught.

“Then,” I continued, because I wanted to wipe that smile off his gorgeous face, “he grabbed my ass.”

The smile melted as though it was an ice cube in a hot frying pan. He took his hungry eyes off mine, a relief on one hand and a disappointment on the other. “I was going to offer you severance.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Let me finish.”

I nodded, a sting of prickly heat spreading across my cheeks.

“The severance was in case you didn’t want to continue working here,” he said. “Even though I can’t stand the smell of the gin you got on me, I don’t think you should lose your job over it. But now that you told me that, what should I do? If I give you severance, it looks like I’m paying you off. And if I unfire you, it looks like I’m letting you stay because I’m afraid of getting sued.”

“I get it,” I said. “If he said you’d try to sleep with me, then you’ve got your own shit to hide, and nothing would bring it out better than a lawsuit.” I waited a second to see if I could glean anything from his eyes, but he had his business face on, so I put on my sarcasm face. “Quite a terrible position you’re in.”

His nod told me he understood me. His position was privileged. He got to make choices about my life based on his convenience. “What do you do, Monica?”

“I’m a waitress.”

He smirked, looking at me full on, and I wanted to drop right there. “That’s your circumstance. It’s not who you are. Law school, maybe?”

“Like hell.”

“Teacher, woodworker, volleyball player?” He ran the words together quickly, and I guessed he could come up with another hundred potential professions before he got it right.

“I’m a musician,” I said.

“I’d like to see you play sometime.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Indeed.” He walked behind his desk. “I assume no one witnessed this alleged ass-grab?”

“Correct.”

He opened a drawer and flipped through some files. “I hired Freddie, and he’s my responsibility to manage. Your responsibility is to report it to someone besides me.” He handed me a slip of paper. It was a standard U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission flyer. “The numbers are on there. File a report. Send me a copy, please. It would protect both of us.”

I stared at the paper. Drazen could get into a lot of trouble if enough reports were filed. I intended to tell the authorities what happened because I couldn’t stand Freddie, but I felt a little sheepish about getting Drazen cited or investigated.

“You’re not an asshole,” I said.

He bowed his head, and though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined he was smiling. He took a card from his pocket and came back around the desk. “My friend Sam owns the Stock downtown. I think it’s a better fit for you. I’ll tell him you might call.”

When I took the card, I had an urge I couldn’t resist. I reached my hand a little farther than I should have and brushed my finger against his. A shot of pleasure drove through me, and his finger flicked to extend the touch.

I had to get away from that guy as fast as possible.

five

Los Angeles weather in late September was mid-July weather everywhere else—dog’s-mouth hot, sweat-through-your-antiperspirant hot, car-exhaust hot. Gabby seemed better than the previous night, but Darren and I were on our toes.

Gabby said she was going for a walk and, trying to make sure she wasn’t alone, I suggested she and I get ice cream at the artisanal place on Sunset.

We sat on the outside patio so the noise would mask our conversation. I poked at my strawberry basil ice cream while she considered her wasabi/honey longer than she might have a week ago.

“It’s good money,” she said, trying to talk me into a Thursday night lounge job. “And no pay to play. Just cash and go home.”

“I hate those gigs. I hate being background.”

“Two hundred dollars? Come on, Monica. You don’t have to learn any songs; one rehearsal, maybe two, and we got it.”

Gabby had spent her childhood getting her fingers slapped with a ruler every time she made a mistake on the piano. Her playing became so perfect she barely had to work at it. She was so compulsive her every waking moment was spent eating, playing, or thinking about playing, so the word “rehearse” couldn’t apply to her because it implied an artist taking time out of their day to get something right, not a compulsive perfectionist basically breathing. She was a genius, and in all likelihood, her genius plus her perfectionist nature drove her depression.

“I only want to sing my own songs,” I said.

“You can spin them. Just, come on. If I don’t bring a voice on, I’ll lose the gig, and I need it.” That hitch in her voice meant she was swinging between desperation and emotional flatness, and it terrified me. “Mon, I can’t wait for the next Spoken gig. I’m twenty-five, and I don’t have a lot of time. We don’t have a lot of time. Every month goes by, and I’m nobody. God, I don’t even have an agent. What will happen to me? I can’t take it. I think I’ll die if I end up like Frieda DuPree, trying her whole life and then she’s in her sixties and still going to band auditions.”

“You’re not going to end up like Frieda DuPree.”

“I have to keep working. Every night that goes by without someone seeing me play is a lost opportunity.”

Performance school rote bullshit. Get out and play. Keep working. Play the odds. Teachers told poor kids they might be seen if they busted their violins on the streets if they had to. Dream-feeders. Fuck them. Some of those kids should have gone into accounting, and that line of shit kept them dreaming a few too many years.

I looked at Gabby and her big blue eyes, pleading for consideration. She was mid-anxiety attack. If it continued over the coming weeks, the anxiety attacks would become less frequent and the dead stares into corners more frequent if she didn’t take her meds regularly. Then it would be trouble: another suicide attempt, or worse, a success. I loved Gabby. She was like a sister to me, but sometimes I wished for a less burdensome friend.

“Fine,” I said. “One time, okay? You can find someone else in all of Los Angeles to do it next time.”

Gabby nodded and tapped her thumb and middle finger together. “It’s good,” she said. “It’ll be good, Monica. You’ll knock them out. You will.” The words had a rote quality, like she said them just to fill space.

“I guess I need it too,” I said. “I got fired last night.”

“What did you do?”

“Spilled drinks in my boss’s lap.”

“That Freddie guy?”

“Jonathan Drazen.”

“Oh…” She put her hands to her mouth. “He also owns the R.O.Q. Club in Santa Monica. So don’t try to work there, either.”

“Did you know he’s gorgeous?”

A voice came from behind me. “Talking about me again?” Darren had shown up, God bless him.

“Jonathan Drazen fired her last night,” Gabby said.

“Who is that?” He sat down, placing his laptop on the table.

“He didn’t do it. Freddie did. Drazen just offered me a severance and referred me to the Stock.”

“And apparently he’s gorgeous.” He raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged. Darren and I were over each other, but he’d rib me bloody at the slightest sign of weakness. “I haven’t heard you talk like that about a guy in a year and a half. I thought maybe you were still in love with me.” I must have blushed, or my eyes might have given away some hidden spark of feeling, because Darren snapped open his laptop. “Let’s see what kinda wifi I can pick up.”

“I don’t talk like that about men because I prefer celibacy to bullshit.”

Darren tapped away on his laptop. “Jonathan Drazen. Thirty-two. Old man.” He looked at me over the screen.

“Do not underestimate how hot he is. I could barely talk.”

“Earned his money the old-fashioned way.”

“Rich daddy?”

“A long line of them. He makes more in interest than the entire GDP of Burma.” Darren scrolled through some web page or another. He loved the internet like most people loved puppies and babies. “Real estate magnate. Our Jonathan the Third…” He drifted off as he scrolled. “BA from Penn. MBA from Stanford. He brought the business back. Bazillionaire. He’s a real catch if you can tear him away from the four hundred other women he’s getting photographed with.”

“Lalala. Don’t care.”

“Why? It’s not like you’ve had sex in…what?” Darren clicked around, pretending he didn’t care about my answer, but I knew he did.

“Men are bad news,” I said. “They’re a distraction. They make demands.”

“Not all men are Kevin.”

Kevin was my last boyfriend, the one whose control issues had turned me off to men for eighteen months. “Lalala… not talking about Kevin either.” I scraped the bottom of my ice cream cup.

Darren turned his laptop so I could see the screen. “This him?”

Jonathan Drazen stood between a woman and man I didn’t recognize. I scrolled through the gossip page. His Irish good looks were undeniable next to anyone, even movie stars.

“He has been photographed with an awful lot of women,” I said.

“Yeah, he’s been a total fuck-around since his divorce, FYI. If you wanted him, he’d probably be game. All I’m saying.” He crossed his legs and looked out onto Sunset.

Gabby had a faraway look as she watched the cars. “His wife was Jessica Carnes,” Gabby recited as if she was reading a newspaper in her head, “the artist. Drazen married her at her father’s place on Venice Beach. She’s half-sister to Thomas Deacon, the sports agent at APR, who has a baby with Susan Kincaid, the hostess at the Key Club, whose brother plays basketball with Eugene Testarossa. Our dream agent at WDE.”

“One day, Gabster, your obsession with Hollywood interrelationships will pay off.” Darren clicked his laptop closed. “But not today.”

six

I think one could be at Hotel K, get blindfolded, taken to the Stock, and believe they’d been driven around and dropped in the same place they started: same pool, same chairs, same couches, same music, and same assholes clutching the same drinks and passing off the same tips. What was different was that there was no Freddie. The Stock had Debbie, a tall Asian lady who wore mandarin collar embroidered shirts and black trousers. She knew every superstar from just their face, and they loved her as much as she loved them. She could tell a movie mogul from an actress and sat them where they’d have the most professional friction. She coordinated the waitresses’ tables according to the patron’s taste and coddled the girls until they worked like a machine.

She was the nicest person I’d ever worked for.

“Smile, girl,” Debbie said. I’d been there a week and she knew exactly how many tables I could handle, how fast I was compared to the others, and my strong suit, which appeared to be my magnetic personality. “People look at you,” she said. “They can’t help it. Be smiling.”

It was hard to smile. We’d had three good shows in a row, then Vinny disappeared into thin air. We’d banged on his office door in Thai Town, went to his house in East Hollywood, and called four hundred times. No Vinny. Every gig he had lined up for us fell through. My momentum was slowing and I didn’t like it.

“What’s your freaking problem?” said one dude as he threw a dollar bill and three dimes on my tray. “You need a blast of coke or something?” He’d looked like every other spikey-haired, fake-blonde, Hugo Boss-wearing douchenozzle who namedropped from zero to sixty in three beers. But Debbie had put his name on the ticket, probably as a favor to me. His name was Eugene Testarossa, the one guy at WDE I’d wanted to meet for months. In my depression over stupid Vinny, I hadn’t recognized him.

I stalked toward the bathroom on my break and bumped into a hard chest that smelled of sage green and fog.

“Monica,” Jonathan said. “Hey. Sam told me he hired you.” His green eyes looked down at me and I wanted to break apart under the weight of them. As he looked at me, his face went from amused to concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, just a bad day. Whatever.” I stepped toward the bathroom, but he seemed disinclined to let me go so easily.

“I got your report. Thanks. It was very professional.”

“You assumed a waitress couldn’t put together a sentence?” His glance down told me I’d been a bitch. He didn’t deserve my worst side. I tried to think fast; I didn’t want a barrage of questions about my life right then. “The Dodgers lost and I’m from Echo Park and all, so I got a little down.”

“The Dodgers won tonight.” His pressed lips and bemused eyes told me he understood I was half joking.

I shuffled my feet, feeling like a kid caught lying about kissing behind the gym. “Yeah. Fucking Jesus Renaldo pulling it out in the ninth like that.”

“He’s got five good pitches in him per game.”

“He tends to throw them in the bullpen.”

“Or trying to pick a guy off.” He shook his head. He looked normal just then, not like the guy behind the desk undressing me with his eyes.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch just now.”

“I’m used to it.”

“No, you’re not. Come on. People are nice to you all day.”

He shrugged. “You lied about why you were upset. I get to lie about how people treat me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I have season tickets on the first base line.”

I felt my eyes light up a little, and getting so excited over something someone else had embarrassed me.

“I could bring you sometime,” he said.

“You haven’t seen a Dodger game until you’ve seen it from the bleachers. Six dolla seats, yo.”

He laughed, and I laughed too. Then Debbie showed up at the end of the hall.

“Monica!” she called out, tapping her wrist.

“Shit!” I cried out and ran back to my station, turning to give Jonathan a wave before rounding the corner.

I put on a smile and made myself as intensely personable as I could. I saw Jonathan at the head of the bar, talking to Sam and Debbie, laughing at some joke I couldn’t hear. When I went to the station to pick up my tray, he looked at me and I felt his sight. He was gorgeous, no doubt. I could write songs about that face, those cheekbones, those eyes, that dry scent.

I wished he’d go away. I tried not to look at him, but he and Sam were still talking at one in the morning. Debbie stood at the end of the service bar, counting receipts, when I came by with a ticket, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry I was talking to Mister Drazen in the hall,” I said. “I used to work for him.”

“I know.”

“How often does he come around here?”

“He and Sam have been close since they went to Stanford together, so… once a week? Should I arrange for him to be here more often?”

My cheeks got hot. To Debbie, who read people like neon street signs, the blushing was visible even in the dim lights. I glanced at him across the bar. He was looking at Debbie and me. He lifted his rocks glass, a bunch of melting ice in the bottom. Sam had gone to take care of some late-night hotel business, and Jonathan was alone.

“Perfect,” Debbie said to me. “You will bring him his refill.” She hailed the bartender, a buffed out model who worked his body more than his mind. “Robert, give Mister Drazen’s drink to Monica.”

“Debbie, really,” I said.

“Why?” asked Robert, pouring a glass of single malt from a shelf so high I would have needed a cherry picker to reach it. “I’m not pretty enough?”

“You’re plenty pretty,” Debbie said. “Now do it.” She put her hand on my forearm and spoke quietly. “You need more practice dealing with his social class. For you, as a person. Getting used to it will only benefit you. Now go.”

Being mothered was nice, I guess. My mother had been more or less absent since I went to high school, which was about when she and Dad moved to Castaic. I never felt abandoned, but I could have used a hand with the day to day bullshit.

Drazen watched me come around the bar with his scotch. I wondered if he knew that made me uncomfortable or if he even gave it a thought. I wondered if the difference in our relative positions bothered him or turned him on. He was a bazillionaire and a customer. I was a waitress with two nickels making heat. This had to be a turn on.

“Thanks,” he said when I placed the napkin and drink on the bar, a job Robert could have done in half the time.

“You’re welcome.”

We looked at each other for a second or ten. I had nothing to add to the conversation, but his magnetic pull made words irrelevant. I was stepping away to leave when he said, “I meant it, about seeing a game.”

“I meant it about the bleachers.”

“I like to get to know someone before they drag me out past centerfield.” He clinked his ice against the sides of his glass. “The company has to be pretty engaging that far from the plate.”

I wanted to mention the stunning color of his eyes. I wanted to touch his hand as it rested on the edges of the bar. Instead I said, “Your fellow fans keep you on your toes, especially if you wear red.”

“Can I see you after work?”

The clattering noise in my chest must have been audible. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been asked out or the object of a proposition in the last year and a half; all of the men who wanted me were simply too easy to politely reject. If I had a brain in my head, I would reject Jonathan Drazen right out of hand. Politely.

“Maybe,” I said. “Company’s got to be pretty engaging at two thirty in the morning.”

Sam showed up, and since I didn’t want to be seen talking up my ex-boss, I walked away without confirming that he’d feel engaging at that ungodly hour.

seven

I spent the next hour and a half talking myself out of meeting with Jonathan after work, if he even showed. He was going to be a distraction, I could tell. I couldn’t be in the same room with him without feeling like I needed to touch him.

I thought about Kevin. A fine specimen of a man, he’d had much the same effect on me as Jonathan Drazen, complete with fluttery stomach and tingling cheeks.

I’d been with Darren over six years when he admitted to kissing Dana Fasano. We were in the process of either breaking up or getting married. I went to a party downtown with a friend whose name eluded me right then, and there he was. Kevin was talking to some girl in the corner, and when he glanced over her head, his eyes found mine like he was looking for them. I froze in place. He had brown eyes and thick black lashes, and when we saw each other, the distance between us became a plucked cello string, vibrating, making a beautiful sound.

I didn’t see him again for another half an hour, yet I had felt him circling me, tethered, even when we talked to different people. Finally, in the crowded kitchen, he was behind me, and I knew it because I could feel him before I even saw him reach over me to slide a beer from the sink.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He held the beer bottle toward me, his hands slick on the glass, cold water pooling in the crevice between his skin and the bottle. “Is the opener over there?”

I took the bottle from him, overreaching, as I’d done with Drazen, so I could touch his cool, wet hand. Then I put the bottle cap on the metal edge of the counter and pulled down swiftly. The cap bent and popped off, clinking to the floor. I held up the bottle for him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He considered the bottle, then me. “See that girl over there?” He pointed at a girl about my age with short, dark hair and striped leggings.

“Yeah.”

“In twenty seconds, she’s going to come over here and ask what I’m working on for my show. I don’t want to tell her.”

“So don’t.”

As if on cue, the girl saw Kevin and walked over. It was the first time I experienced him as a charmed person, and it would not be the last.

“It would be better if she didn’t ask. My paintings are secret before a show. If I tell her, she’ll own them. Her soul will own them. I can’t explain it.” The kitchen was crowded, slowing the striped leggings’ progress and pushing us together, forcing us to whisper.

“I get it,” I said. I would have gotten anything he said at that point. I would have claimed to understand quantum mechanics if he explained it to me. “They aren’t born yet,” I continued. “If she sees them while they’re being made, she knows them as children. Their insides.”

“My God, you get me.”

I had no snappy reply. I wanted to get him. I wanted to get everything he said from now on. He touched my chin. “If I kiss you, she’ll turn around and go away.”

In retrospect, that was the lamest come-on imaginable from him. He’d done much better in the year following. But at the party, the word “kiss” breathed from his beautiful lips, was all I needed. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he slipped one around my waist. Our lips met, and I held back a groan of pleasure. I’d only ever been with Darren, and I loved him. I would always love him, but kissing that man, like that, with his taste of malt and chocolate, uncovered physical sensations I didn’t know could come from a kiss. I felt every pore of his tongue, every turn of his lips. The world shut off and my identity became a glow of sexual desire.

I went home barely able to walk from wanting him and completed my breakup with Darren the next day. If desire was supposed to feel like that, I needed more of it. I felt awake, alive, not just sexy, but sexual. Thoughts of him infected me until I saw him again and we tumbled into bed, screwing like wild animals.

When I finally walked away from him, weeping, I realized I’d let my sexuality control and manipulate me through him. He took my music and crushed it under the weight of his own talent. He ignored what I created, dismissing it, degenerating it, so that within three months, I couldn’t sing a word and any instrument I picked up became a bludgeon. I’d never felt so creatively dead and so sexually alive.

When I got the strength to walk away from him, I vowed never again.

eight

I snapped my locker closed, thinking about those Dodger seats on the first base line. A corporation gets a skybox. A real fan gets tickets at field level, luxuries be damned. I’d never seen a game from that angle.

Debbie came into the locker room, buzzing with talk and flirting and locker doors banging, and handed out our tip envelopes. “A good night for everyone,” she said, then got close to me. “Someone is waiting for you at the front exit. If you want to avoid him, go through the parking lot, but be nice. He’s a friend of the hotel.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Quickly, I have to count out.”

“How many drinks did he have?” I asked as quietly as I could.

Debbie smiled as if I’d asked the exact right question. “Two. He nurses like a baby.”

“I know you don’t know me that well yet, but… would going out the front be a mistake?”

“Only if you take it too seriously.”

“Thanks.”

Debbie walked off to hand out the rest of the envelopes. What she said had been a relief, actually. It made the boundaries that much clearer. I could hang out, be close to him and feel the buzz of sex between us, but I had to be careful about climbing into bed with him. Fair warning.

nine

Jonathan stood in the lobby, talking to Sam, laughing like an old buddy. I wasn’t going to approach him with my boss right there. Sam seemed like a fine guy for the fifteen minutes we’d talked. With his white hair and slim build, he looked like a newscaster and had an all-business attitude. I just pushed through the revolving doors, figuring fate had lent a hand in deciding whether or not I’d see Drazen outside a rooftop bar.

I was three steps into the hot night when I heard him call my name.

“You stalking me?” I asked, slowing my steps to the parking lot.

“Just wanted company to walk to my car.”

We strolled down Flower Street, the long way to the underground parking lot. Any normal person would have gone through the hotel.

“How do you know Sam?” I asked.

“He introduced me to my ex-wife, which I’m trying not to hold against him.”

“You’re a good sport,” I said. “Have you always been blue?”

He tilted his head a few degrees.

“Dodger fan,” I said. “I would’ve taken you for more of an Angels guy.”

“Ah. Because I have money?”

“Kind of.”

“I like a little grit,” he said, that smile lighting up the night.

“Is that why you met me after work?” I asked, turning toward the parking lot entrance.

“Kind of.”

He let me go first into the underground passage, and I felt his eyes on me as I walked. It was not an uncomfortable feeling. When we got to the bottom of the ramp, we stopped. I parked in the employee level and his car was in the valet section. I held up my hand to wave good-bye.

“It was nice to talk to you,” I said.

“You too.”

We faced each other, walking backward in opposite directions.

“See you around,” I said.

“Okay.” He waved, tall and beautiful in the flat light and grey parking lot.

“Take care.”

“What do I have to say?”

“You have to say please,” I said.

“Please.”

“Where do you think you’re taking me?”

“Come on. Text a friend and tell them who you’re with in case I’m a psycho killer.”

ten

The early hour guaranteed a traffic-free trip to the west side. I’d gotten into his Mercedes convertible thinking most killers don’t drive with the top down where everyone could see, so I just let the wind whip my hair into a bird’s nest. Jonathan drove with one hand, and as I watched his fingers move and slide on the bottom of the wheel, the hair on the back of it, the strong wrist, I imagined it on me. I grabbed the leather seat, trying to keep my mind on something, anything else, but the leather itself seemed to rub the backs of my thighs the wrong way. “So, you pick up waitresses a lot?”

He smirked and glanced over to me. The wind was doing crazy shit to his hair as well, but it made him look sexy, and I was sure I looked like Medusa. “Only the very attractive ones.”

“I guess I should take that as a compliment.”

“You definitely should.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

“You mentioned that.”

So maybe the rumors were true, and he was a total womanizer. Well, I’d already told him sex was off the table, so he could womanize all he wanted. Didn’t matter to me at all. I was driven by curiosity. Who was this guy? What was it like to be him? Not that it mattered, I told myself, because again, I had no time for a heartbreak.

“What’s your instrument, Monica? You said you were a musician.”

“My voice, mostly,” I said. “But I play everything. I play piano, guitar, viola. I learned to play the Theremin last year.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, it’s beautiful. You actually don’t touch it to play it. There’s an electrical signal between two antennae, and you move your hands between them to create a sound. It’s just the most haunting thing you ever heard.”

“You play it without touching it?”

“Yeah, you just move your hands inside it. Like a dance.”

“This, I have to see.”

When he tipped his head toward me, I thought, oh no. He wants me to play it for him. Never gonna happen. For some reason, the idea of this guy seeing me sing or play made me feel vulnerable, and I wasn’t in for that at all. “You can watch people play it on YouTube.”

“True. But I want to watch you do it.”

I didn’t know where we were going, so I didn’t know how much of a drive we were in for. I wanted to get off the subject of me before I told him something that gave him a hold over me. I had to remember he was my new boss’s friend, and I really liked working at the Stock.

“What do you do besides own hotels and pick up very attractive waitresses?”

“I own lots of things, and they all need attention.”

He pulled the car to the side of the road. We were on the twistiest part of Mulholland, the part that looked like a desolate park instead of the most expensive real estate in Los Angeles County. A short guardrail stood between the car and a nearly sheer drop down to the valley and its twinkling Saturday night lights.

“Let’s go take a look,” he said, pulling the emergency brake.

I got out, thankful for the opportunity to uncross my legs, and slammed the door behind me. I walked toward the edge overlooking the city. My heels kept hitting little rocky ditches, but I played it off. They were comfortable, but they weren’t hiking boots. I stood close to the guardrail, leaning against it with my knees. I felt him behind me, closing his door and jingling his keys. I’d been to places like that before. There were thousands of them all over the city, which was surrounded by hills and mountains. Way back when, before I’d even kissed Darren, I’d been up to a similar place to squirm around the back of Peter Dunbar’s Nissan. And after the prom, I’d come up to drink too much and make love to Darren behind a tree.

“Do you live up here?” I asked.

“I live in Griffith Park.” He stepped behind me. “Those bright lights are Universal City. To the right, that black part is the Hollywood reservoir.” I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “Toluca Lake is to the left.” He put his hands on my neck, where every nerve ending in my body was now located, following his touch as he stroked me, like the little magnet shavings under plastic I’d played with as a kid. When the pen moved, the shavings moved, and I arched my neck to feel more of him. “The rest,” he said, “is hell on Earth. Not recommended.”

He kissed me at the base of my neck. His lips were full and soft. His tongue traced a line across my shoulder. I gasped. I had not a single word to say, even when I felt his erection against my back and his hands moved across my stomach, feeling me through my clothes. God, I hadn’t been touched like that in so long. When did I decide men were too much trouble? A year and a half since I shed Kevin like a too-warm coat? I couldn’t even say. Drazen’s lips were more than lips; they were the physical memory of myself before I shut out sex to pursue music.

I twisted, my lips searching for his, my mouth open for him as his was for me. We met there, tongues twisting together, his chest to my back, his hands moving up my shirt, teasing my nipples.

I moaned and turned to face him. He pushed me against the car. The hardness between his legs felt enormous on my thigh. He moved his hand down and pushed my legs open, gripping tight enough to press my jeans against my skin. He looked down at me, and the intensity of the lust in his eyes was nearly intimidating, but I was way past sense. Miles. The thought of saying, “No, stop, I need sleep so I’m fresh for rehearsals tomorrow,” didn’t even occur to me. He pushed his hips between my legs and kissed me again. I was hungry for him. A white hot ball of heat grew beneath my hips. We kept kissing and grinding, hands everywhere. I pinched his nipple through his shirt and he gasped, biting my neck. I hated my clothes. I hated every layer of fabric between myself and his cock. I wanted to feel skin sweating above mine, his dick rigid and hot, his hands at my breasts. I wanted those hard, dry thrusts to be real, slick, sliding inside me.

The siren blast split my ears. I almost choked on my own spit. Jonathan looked over at the police car and the tension in his neck was the last thing I saw before the light got too bright to see anything. I lowered my legs, and when he got off me, he held his hand out to help me off the hood.

“Good morning,” came a male voice from behind the driver’s side light. The passenger door opened, and a female cop got out.

“Good morning,” Jonathan and I answered like two kids greeting their third grade teacher. He wove his fingers in mine. The female cop shone her flashlight in my face. I flinched.

“You okay, miss?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you step away from the gentleman, please? Come toward me.”

I did, hands out so she knew I wasn’t reaching for anything. The cop pulled me out of earshot.

“Do you know this guy?” she asked, shining a little light into my pupils to see if I was on anything stronger than pheromones.

“Yes.”

“Are you here of your own free will?”

“Yes.”

“That was pretty hot.” She snapped her little light down. “Next time, get a room, okay?”

eleven

Things cooled on the way home. I kept my legs crossed and his hand stayed on the gear shifter. When I told Jonathan the lady cop said we should get a room, he laughed.

“If only she knew who she was talking about,” he said. After a few seconds, he stopped at a light and turned to me. “So, what’s up with you saying you’re not sleeping with me, then pushing up against my dick on the hood of my car?”

I was a little annoyed with the question, because he brought me there and he started kissing my neck, but I also couldn’t pretend I wasn’t just as responsible for the raw heat of the scene.

“I just…” I had to pause and think. The light changed, and when he turned his head back to the road, I felt like I could talk. “I have things I’m doing. I can’t be up all night fucking because my voice gets messed up. I can’t think about a man, any man, nothing personal, when I should be writing songs. Carving out enough nights for song writing, between gigs and working, is hard enough without making time for a boyfriend. So, I mean, I had to give up something in life, and it’s men.”

He nodded and thought about it. He rubbed his chin, which had a little bit of stubble. My neck remembered it very fondly. “I get it.”

“So, I’m sorry I led you on. That was careless.”

His laugh was loud and inappropriate, considering what I’d just said, but he didn’t seem embarrassed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You’re taking all my best lines.”

“Didn’t mean to steal your thunder.”

“No problem. I enjoyed hearing it.”

I leaned back and watched the scenery change from the twisted forestation of Mulholland to the expanse of the 101. How did I end up in this car, at four in the morning, with a known womanizer? Yes, he was gorgeous and warm and knew all the right places and ways to touch me, but really? How stupid would I be? How many women had fallen for this crap, and I was going to be another one in line?

The wind made it hard to talk until he pulled off downtown. “What’s with you and sleeping around?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“All the women. You have a reputation.”

“Do I?” He smirked, not looking at me as he drove. “And that didn’t chase you away?”

“I trust myself. I trust my instincts and my resolve. You just make me curious is all.”

He shrugged. “What do you think your reputation is?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Of course you do. Everyone does. When people talk about Monica, what do they say, besides that she’s beautiful?”

I let the compliment slide. Coming from someone who had almost made his way into my pants, it didn’t mean much. “I guess they say I’m ambitious. I hope they say I’m talented. My friend Darren would say I’m cold.”

“Did he try to get you into bed, too?”

“Shut up.” He glanced at me and we smiled at each other. “I was with him for six and a half years, so it’s not like he had to try for a long time.”

“Was it a hard breakup?” He stopped at a light and turned his gaze to me, ready to offer me sympathy or words of wisdom.

“No. It was the easiest thing we ever did.” I couldn’t discern what he was thinking from the way he looked at me, but he got serious, draining his tone of all flirtation.

“Easy for you?”

“Both. It was dying for a long time.”

He looked out his window, rubbing his lips with two fingertips.

“You want to say something you’re not saying,” I said. “I don’t want to be your girlfriend, so being honest isn’t going to come back and bite you on the ass.”

The Stock, and my car, were a block away. He pulled up to the curb. He put the Mercedes in park but didn’t turn the key.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you make me curious.”

He smirked. “My wife and I were married that long. It wasn’t easy.” He rubbed the steering wheel, and I realized he regretted answering even the first part of the question. It was too late for me to give up on him now, so I waited until he said, “She left and took everything with her.”

“I don’t understand. Are you broke?”

He put the car into drive and turned to me. “She didn’t take a dime. She took everything that mattered.”

I felt sorry and then I felt stupid for feeling any kind of sympathy. I wanted to hold his hand and tell him he’d get over it someday, but nothing could have been less appropriate.

“I’m kinda hungry,” I said. “There’s this food truck thing on First and Olive. In a parking lot? You can come if you want.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Don’t come. Your call.”

“You’re a tough customer. Anyone ever tell you that?”

I shrugged. I really was hungry, and nothing sounded better than a little Kogi kimchi right then.

twelve

Jonathan was right in mentioning the time. Four in the morning was pretty late, as evidenced by the fact that he found a place for the car half a block away. We walked into the lot, against the traffic of twenty- and thirty-something partiers as they filtered out, one third more sober than they had been when they got there, carrying food folded in wax paper or swishing around eco-friendly containers. The lot was smallish, being in the middle of downtown and not in front of a Costco. The only parked vehicles lined the chain link fence, brightly painted trucks spewing luscious smells from all over the globe. My Kogi truck was there, as well as a gourmet popcorn truck, artisanal grilled cheese, lobster poppers, ice cream, sushi, and Mongolian barbecue. The night’s litter dotted the asphalt, hard white from the brash floodlights brought by the truck owners. The truck stops were informal and gathered by tweet and rumor. Each truck brought their own tables and chairs, garbage pail, and lights. The customers came between midnight and whenever.

I scanned the lot for someone I knew, hoping I’d find someone to say hello to on one hand and wishing Jonathan and I could stay alone on the other.

“My Kogi truck is over there,” I said.

“I’m going to Korea next week. The last think I need is to fill up on Kogi. Have you had the Tipo’s Tacos?”

“Tacos? Really?”

“Come on.” He took my hand and pulled me over to the taco truck. “You’re not a vegetarian or anything?”

“No.”

“Hola,” he said to the guy in the window, who looked to be about my age or younger with a wide smile and little moustache. “Que tal?” he continued. That was about the extent of my Spanish, but not Jonathan’s. He started rattling off stuff, asking questions, and if the laughter between him and the guy with the little moustache was any indication, joking fluidly. If I’d closed my eyes, I’d have thought he was a different person.

“You speak Spanish?” I asked.

“I live in Los Angeles,” Jonathan replied as if his answer was the most obvious in the world.

“You don’t speak it?” Little Moustache asked me.

“No.”

He said something to Jonathan, and there was more conversation, which made me feel left out. They were obviously talking about me.

“He wants to know if you’re as smart as you are beautiful,” Jonathan said.

“What did you tell him?”

“Prospects are good, but I need time to get to know you better.”

“Anywhere in that conversation, did you order me a pastor?”

“Just one?”

“Yes. Just one.”

“They’re small.” He made a circle with his hands, smiling like an old grandma talking to her granddaughter about being too damn skinny.

I pinched his side, and there wasn’t much to grab. It was hard and tight. “One,” I said, trying to forget that I’d touched him.

We sat at a long table. A few trucks were breaking down for the night. There was a feeling of quiet and finality, the feeling he and I had outlasted the late nighters and deep partiers. I finished my taco in three bites and turned around, putting my back to the table and stretching my legs.

He took a swig of his water and touched my bicep with his thumb. “No tattoos?”

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know. Mid-twenties. Musician. Lives in Echo Park. You need tattoos and piercings to get into that club.”

I shook my head. “I went a few times, but couldn’t commit to anything. My best friend Gabby has a few. I went with her once, and I couldn’t decide what to get. And anyway, it would have been awkward.”

“Why?” He was working on his last taco, so I guess I felt like I should do the talking until he finished.

“She was getting something important. On the inside of her wrist, she got the words Never Again on the scars she made when she cut herself. I couldn’t diminish it by getting some stupid thing on me.”

He ate his last bite and balled up his napkin. “What happened that made her try to commit suicide?”

“We have no idea. She doesn’t even know. Just life.” I wanted to tell him I’d found her, and been with her in the hospital, and that I took care of her, but I thought I’d gotten heavy enough. “I have a piercing, though,” I said. “Wanna see?”

“I can see your ears from here.”

I lifted my shirt to show him my navel ring with its little fake diamond. “Yes, it hurt.”

“Ah,” he said. “Lovely.”

He touched it, then spread his fingers over my stomach. His pinkie grazed the top of my waistband, and I took in a deep gasp. He put a little pressure toward him on my waist, and I followed it, kissing him deeply. His stubble scratched my lips and his tongue tasted of the water he’d just drunk. I put my hands on his cheeks, weaving my fingers in his hair.

It was sweet, and doomed, and pointless, but it was late, and he was handsome and funny. I may not have been interested in having a boyfriend, but I wasn’t made of stone.

When Little Moustache had to break down the table, we had to admit it was time to go. The sky had gone from navy to cyan, and the air warmed with the appearance of the first arc of the sun.

We got to his car before he had to feed the meter. We didn’t say anything as he pulled into the parking lot at the Stock and went down two stories to my lonely Honda, sitting in the employee section. I opened the door with a clack that echoed in the empty underground lot.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll probably see you at the hotel sometime.”

“We can pretend this never happened.”

“Up to you.” He touched my cheek with his fingertips, and I felt like an electrical cable to my nervous system went live. “I wouldn’t mind finishing the job.”

“Let’s not promise each other anything.”

“All right. No promises,” he said.

“No lies,” I replied.

“See you around.”

We parted without a good-bye kiss.

thirteen

Gabby and I lived in the house I grew up in, which was on the second steepest hill in Los Angeles. When my parents moved, they let me live in the house for rent that equaled the property taxes plus utilities. I was sure I’d never need to move. I had two bedrooms and a little yard. The house had been a worthless piece of crap in a bad neighborhood when they bought it in the 1980s. Now it had a cardiologist to the west of it and a converted Montessori school that cost $1,800 a month to the east.

The night Jonathan Drazen took me up to Mulholland Drive, I returned to find Darren sleeping on my couch. We had agreed to not leave Gabby alone until we knew she was okay, and she’d gotten no better after a week on her meds. The first blue light of morning came through the drapes, so I could see well enough to step around the pizza box he’d left on the floor and get into the bathroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The convertible had wreaked havoc with my hair and my makeup was gone, probably all over Jonathan Drazen’s face.

I still felt his touch: his lips on my neck, his hands feeling my breasts through my shirt. My fingers traced where his had been, and my cunt felt like an overripe fruit. I stuck my hand in my jeans, one knee on the toilet bowl, and came so fast and hard under the ugly fluorescent lights that my back arched and I moaned at my own touch. It was a waste of time. I wanted him as much after I came as I did before.

My God, I thought, how did I do this to myself? What have I become?

I needed to never see him again. I didn’t need his lips or his firm hands. If I needed to take care of my body’s needs, I could find a man easily enough. I didn’t need one so pissed at his ex-wife he’d make me fall in love with him before apologizing for leading me on. He wanted to hurt women, and nothing froze my creative juices like heartache. No, I decided as I went back out to the kitchen, anyone but Jonathan.

Darren was already making coffee.

“Where were you?” he asked. “It’s six thirty already.”

“Driving all over the west side with I-won’t-say.”

“Mister Gorgeous?” He said it without jealousy or teasing.

“Yep.”

“He’s nice to you?”

“He wants to sleep with me, so it’s hard to say if he’s being nice or being manipulative,” I said. “How’s Gabby?”

“Same.” He got out two cups and a near-dead carton of half-and-half. “She’s volatile, then deadened. She started shaking because she wasn’t playing last night. Missed opportunity and all that. Then she rocked back and forth for half an hour.”

“Did you sit her at the piano?”

“Yeah, that worked. We need something to happen for her.”

“She’ll still be who she is,” I said. “She could play the Staples Center, and she’d be this way.”

“But she could afford to get care, the right meds, maybe therapy. Something.” I nodded. He was right. They were stymied by poverty. “And Vinny? I haven’t heard a damn thing from that guy. I tried calling him and his mailbox is full.” He was losing his shit, standing there with a coffee cup in his hand.

“We have six more months on our contract with him and we’re out,” I said.

“She doesn’t have six months, Mon.”

“Okay, I get it.” I held him by the biceps and looked him in the face.

“She’s like she was the last time, when you found her. I don’t want—”

“Darren! Stop!”

But it was too late. The stress of the evening had gotten to him. He blinked hard and tears dripped down his cheeks. I put my arms around him, and we held each other in the middle of the kitchen until the coffeemaker beeped. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, still holding the empty cup. “I’m working the music store this morning. Will you stay with her until rehearsal?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I shower here? My water heater’s busted.”

“Knock yourself out. Just hang the towel.”

He strode out of the kitchen, and I was left there with our dripping sink and filthy floor. The roof leaked, and the foundation was cracked from the last earthquake swarm. It had been nice to sit in that Mercedes and drive around with someone who never spent a minute agonizing about money. It had been nice to not worry about anything but physical pleasure and what to do with it for a couple of hours. Real nice.

Darren’s laptop was on the kitchen table, set to some Pro Tools thing he probably hadn’t gotten a chance to touch in the middle of taking care of Gabby. I fixed my coffee and slid into the chair, opening the internet browser. We stole bandwidth from the Montessori school during off hours, so I checked my email. I remembered my conversation with Jonathan about his ex-wife, so I did a search for her: Jessica Carnes.

I got a different set of pictures than Darren had shown us the other day. Jessica was an abstract and conceptual artist. Searching under Google Images brought back a treasury of pictures of the artist and her art, which despite Kevin schooling me in the vocabulary of the visual arts, I didn’t get at all.

Jessica had long blond hair and an Ivory Girl complexion. She might have worn a stitch of makeup and maybe used hot rollers. She wore nice flats, but flats nonetheless. Her skirts were long and her demeanor was modest. She was my exact opposite. I had long brown hair and black eyes. I wore makeup, tight jeans, short skirts, and the highest heels I could manage. And black. I wore a lot of black, a color I hadn’t given a thought to until I saw Jessica in every cream, ecru, and pastel on the palette.

On page three, I came across a wedding photo. I clicked through.

The page had been built by her agent, and it showed a beachside extravaganza the likes of which I could only aspire to waitress. I scrolled down, looking for his face. I found him here and there with people I didn’t know or side-by-side with his bride. A picture at the bottom stopped me. I sighed as if the air had been forced out of my lungs by an outside force. Jessica and Jonathan stood together, separated from the crowds. Her back was three-quarters to the camera, and he faced her. He was speaking, his eyes joyous, happy, his face an open book about love. He looked like a different man with his fingertips resting on Jessica’s collarbone. I knew exactly how that touch felt, and I envied that collarbone enough to snap the laptop closed.

fourteen

I tapped my foot. Studio time was bought by the hour and not cheap, yet Gabby and I were the only ones there. She was at the piano, of course, running her fingers over the keys with her usual brilliance, but it was only therapy, not real practice. Darren’s drums took twenty minutes to set up. The chitchat and apologies would take another fifteen minutes, and I still had to practice some dumb standards for the solo gig at Frontage that night.

I sat on a wooden bench facing the glass separating the studio from the control room. The room stank of cigarettes and human funk. The soundproofing on the walls and ceiling was foam, porous by necessity, and thus holding cells for germs and odor. Though I thought I’d rubbed away the ache Jonathan had caused, I woke up with it, and a good scrub and an arched back in the shower did nothing to dispel the feel of him. I needed to get to work. Letting this guy under my skin was counterproductive already.

I whispered, “I’ve got you, under my skin.” Then I groaned the rest of the lyrics like I was in heat. No. But yes. It was a good song. It was missing how I really felt: frustrated and angry. So I belted out the last line of the chorus without Sinatra’s little snappy croon, but a longing, accusatory howl.

“Hang on,” Gabby said. She took a second to find the melody, and I sang the chorus the way I wanted it played.

“Wow, that’s not how Sinatra did it,” she said.

“Play it loungey, like we’re seducing someone.” I tapped her a slower rhythm, and she caught onto it. “Right, Gabs. That’s it.”

I stood up and took the rest of the song, owning it, singing as if the intrusion was unacceptable, as if insects crawled inside me, because I didn’t want anyone under my skin. I wanted to be left alone to do my work.

Having the guys here to record it so I could hear it would have been nice, but I could tell I was onto something. The back room at Frontage was small, so I needed less rage and more discomfort. More sadness. More disappointment in myself for letting it happen, and begging the pain away. If I could nail that, I might actually enjoy singing a few standards at a restaurant. Or I might get fired for changing them. No way to know.

I did it again, from the top. The first time I sang the word, “skin,” I felt Jonathan’s hands on me and didn’t resist the pleasure and warmth. I sang right through it, and when Gabby accompanied, she put her own sadness into it. I felt it. It was my song now.

My phone rang: Darren.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Harry just called me. His mother is sick in Arizona. He’s out. For good.”

I would have said something like, so no bassist, no band, but Gabby would have heard, and she wasn’t ready for any kind of upset.

“And you’re not here because?”

He sighed. “I got held up at work. I’ll be there in twenty. Tomorrow night, I have a favor to ask.”

“Yeah?”

“I have a date. Can you get her home after your gig and make sure she takes her meds?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Mon.”

“Go get laid.”

I clicked the phone off and used the rest of the time to work on our performance.

fifteen

Thursday afternoon shift at the Stock was slow by Saturday night standards. I earned less money, but the atmosphere was more relaxed. There was always a minute to chill with Debbie at the service bar. I liked her more and more all the time. I tried to keep it light and hold my energy up. Just because this gig tonight wasn’t my own songwriting, I still wanted to do a good job. But after Darren’s call and the sputtering dissolution of the band, I lost the mojo, and I just sounded like Sinatra on barbiturates. I had no idea how to get that heat back.

Debbie got off her phone as I slid table ten’s ticket across the bar. Robert snapped it up and poured my rounds.

“I think he likes you,” Debbie said, indicating Robert. He was hot in his black T-shirt and Celtic tattoos.

“Not my type.”

“What is your type?”

I shrugged. “Nonexistent.”

“Okay, well, finish with this table and go on your break. Could you go down to Sam’s office and make a copy of next week’s schedule?” She handed me a slip of paper with the calendar. The waitstaff hung around waiting for it every week as our station placement and hours determined not only how much money we’d make over the next seven days, but our social and family plans as well. And here she was giving it to me two hours early. She smiled and patted my arm before walking off to greet three men in suits.

I went to the bathroom and freshened up, then headed for Sam’s office.

It wasn’t a warm, fabulously decorated place like Jonathan’s at K. It was totally utilitarian, with a linoleum floor and metal filing cabinets. The copy machine was in there, and I put the schedule on the glass without turning the lights on. The windows gave enough afternoon light.

The energy saver was on, meaning the copier was ice cold. I tapped start and waited. Lord knew how long it would take. I stretched my neck and hummed, then whispered, the lyrics to Under My Skin.

I gasped when I smelled his dry scent. When I turned, Jonathan stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. That was the first time I’d seen him in daylight, and the sunlight made him look more human, more substantial, more present, and more gorgeous, if that was even possible.

“Jonathan.”

“Hi.”

I realized the deal with the schedule copying just then. “Debbie sent me up here.”

“You didn’t know she was a yenta?”

“You’re very persistent.”

“I just kept telling myself I didn’t want you, but we said no lies, and I think that includes lying to myself. How about you?”

I didn’t know what to say. I had shut out thoughts of him for almost a week. I thought about baseball, chord progressions, and getting a new manager whenever he came into my mind. So having him in front of me was like opening a closet door and having all the stuff come tumbling out.

I took a step forward, and he did, too. We were in each other’s arms in a second, mouths attached, tongues twisting. He reached back and closed the door.

Okay, I was going to get this over with now. Me and him. Right there. Just get it done so I could move on. He thrust me onto the desk and I opened my legs, wrapping them around his waist. He was pushing against me again, like on the hood of the Mercedes, a million years ago.

He put his hands up my shirt, across my stomach and to my breasts.

“Yes?” he gasped.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes to everything.”

“Yes,” he whispered in my ear, then pushed my bra up and cupped my tits, finding my nipples and rubbing them with his thumbs. My hips levitated from the desk, and I made some noise deep in my throat. Damn, he was good. Lots of practice. He knew exactly what to do.

He looked down at my chest, nipples hardening from his touch and the cool air. “My God, Monica, you are magnificent.”

I laughed, because being admired like that made me nervous, but he shut me up when he put his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other, pressing and twisting. My legs tightened around him, hitching my skirt up to my waist. With only my panties between me and his jeans, he felt harder and more forceful. He pushed against me, and I flowed with him, my hips to his rhythm as I gripped his hair. I’d almost come like that, eons ago, with some guy in freshman year I couldn’t even remember now, and it felt like it might happen again.

As if reading my mind, he pulled away. His own breathing was heavy as he looked at me, not as if he was undressing me with his eyes, but as if he was making plans for the body in front of him. He moved his hands down my sides and pulled my skirt up, bunching it at the waist. My underwear bottoms, which I hadn’t given a thought to when I’d dressed in the morning, were the only thing between me and the world.

“Listen,” I started, “I don’t know if Sam would think this is ok.”

He put his fingertips to my mouth, and I shushed. Let him explain to Sam. Let me get fired. I parted my lips and took two of his fingers in my mouth, sucking them down to the back.

“Ah, Monica,” was all he said as he pulled them out, slowly, and pushed them back in at the same pace. I cupped my tongue around them and sucked. Not too hard, just enough. I knew I was doing it right when his eyelids closed just a little, and he opened his mouth for something between a gasp and an aah. He rubbed them over my bottom lip, curling it back, then put them back in my mouth. I took them eagerly, tasting his skin, feeling his warm breath on my face.

He slid his fingers out and stepped back, taking his crotch away from mine. I suddenly felt exposed and started to close my legs, but he pressed them apart. I reached for his buckle, but he pulled away.

“I want to touch you,” I said.

“Not yet.”

“I’m going crazy.”

“No, you’re not. Not enough.”

With that, he moved the crotch of my panties to the side and put the finger he’d just removed from my mouth onto my wet folds. We both gasped. Then he slid two fingers into me. Slowly.

“Oh, God,” I whispered.

He slipped them out without a word and put his thumb on the thin strip of cotton covering my clit. Lightly. Barely touching it. Just enough so I knew it was there, and he leaned over to kiss me, flicking his tongue in time with his thumbnail as it gently scratched the fabric of my underwear.

I thrust my hips forward. His fingers went deep into me, but the thumb wouldn’t press down any harder. It just grazed the cotton as he glided his two fingers in and out.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Now?”

His fingers worked my body while he bent down to whisper into my ear. “You have three minutes of break left.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m going to spend hours fucking you.”

My hips pushed against his hand, but he kept control: a light touch of the thumb and a slow grind with the fingers. I was on fire. I thought I had known what that meant, but I didn’t.

“After your shift.”

“I have a gig right after. We have to do it now.” He might have considered it for the next three thrusts, but he didn’t give my clit more than a stroke through fabric. I couldn’t decide if that was pleasure or torture.

“After your gig,” he said. “I have a dinner meeting anyway. Meet me at the hotel tonight. Room 3423.”

“I have to take care of my roommate.”

“Figure it out.”

He pulled his fingers out of me. I felt the loss of them and his tormenting thumb so deeply I moaned. Sitting there, splayed and nearly naked on Sam’s desk, I felt foolish and exposed, not to mention ravenously aroused.

“Don’t.” I didn’t have anything more to say, except don’t stop there; don’t leave me like this. My eyes must have pleaded with him for some release, because his face, with its parted lips and heavy lids, shone with a lustful satisfaction. He knew I wanted him to fuck me for hours, starting on that desk. “You are despicable,” I said.

He pulled my skirt down, and when he leaned down to kiss me, I returned it with no little anger on my lips. “Too true. And tonight, you’re mine.”

“What if I don’t show?”

“You’ll show.”

After opening the door as little as possible, as if to protect my destroyed modesty, he was gone.

sixteen

I had another three hours to work, and I couldn’t keep my mind on the task at hand: pouring drinks. A moron could do it. First example: Robert. A hunk by any measure, but dumb as a post.

He slid the tray over the service bar. Each had the requisite alcohol as listed on the order ticket, clockwise from twelve o’clock, where he’d put the ticket. My job was to fill each glass with mixers from the soda gun and juice bin.

Like I said, a moron could do it. But I stood there, with Debbie next to me checking stuff off the inventory list, and I put soda in a whiskey. I stared at the glass and watched it over flow and why? Because the pain between my legs was uncomfortable and exquisite, and I was counting down the hours before I could get home and release it.

“Whoa!” Robert shouted, waking me up. “You got soda all over the tray!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Monica,” Debbie said, slipping her pen onto the top of the clipboard, “come sit with me.”

She pulled me over to an empty table by the kitchen door. We tried to keep it clear until the bar got too packed. I pressed my legs together when I sat even though my skirt was long enough. I felt like she could see my arousal.

Debbie placed her clipboard in front of her and leaned forward. “What’s happening? You took the wrong order to Frazier Upton; you stepped on Jennifer Roberg’s foot. That’s not how we do service here.”

“Why did you do that, Debbie? Why did you set me up to meet Jonathan upstairs?”

“I saw you looking at him the other night. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“If you could avoid doing that again, that would be great.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“You were. It’s just…” I looked at my hands in my lap. “He’s… I don’t know.” I felt suddenly embarrassed talking about a man’s hold over me with my manager. I should have been mad at her, but in the world I lived in, she had done me a kindness, and it wasn’t like he’d raped me. I’d loved it. I hated it ending when it did. “I just don’t need to be with anyone right now. Or ever. I had this boyfriend, Kevin, a year and a little ago. He wouldn’t let me sing. It was awful, but what I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to be that person again.”

“Okay.” Debbie sat up straight. She pushed her long, straight hair out of her face with a single, French-manicured finger and got down to business. “I am going to tell you things you need to hear, but don’t want to. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure.”

“Jonathan Drazen is not going to stay with you long enough to care what you do with your spare time. He is very attracted to you, that much I can see. But he is in love with one woman, and one woman only.”

“His ex-wife.”

Debbie nodded. “When Jessica left, he begged her to stay. She wouldn’t. He broke down at a shareholder meeting. It was ugly. He was humiliated. He’s still humiliated. He won’t put himself in that position again, I promise you. So if you like him, I suggest you enjoy yourself with him. He will treat you very well, and then you’ll go your separate ways. He can be a valuable friend.”

I nodded. I got it. I felt comforted, in a way, that I could meet him later, have mattress-bending sex, then go home without worrying. I knew I wasn’t getting involved, and if he had the same idea, I was safe.

Debbie gathered her things and started to stand, but I wasn’t done.

“Why did she leave?” I asked.

“Another man,” she said, “and everyone knew it.”

“Ouch.”

Debbie nodded. “Ouch is right. It should never happen to any of us.”

seventeen

I hated gigs like Frontage. I had to sing songs someone else wrote to people who weren’t there to see me. I had to sing through waiters taking orders and customers being seated. I couldn’t sing too loud or I’d disturb everyone, and I couldn’t improvise at all. Ever. I was background.

But it was money, if not a lot, and it was practice. It wasn’t as if Vinny had shown up and booked anything fabulous. It wasn’t as if he’d shown up at all in the past two weeks. I simply had nothing else going on.

We had a dressing room with a smudged mirror and filth on everything. Sometime in the eighties, a tube of lipstick had been jammed into the seam between the two pieces of plywood that made up the counter, and the red goo that was out of reach of a folded paper towel had turned brown and crusty. The carpet stank of beer vomit, and the bathroom had been casually wiped down a few days previous. I felt like a superstar.

Gabby was already out there, tinkling the piano. She had a jazzy way of rolling her fingers across the keys, creating a melody from nothing, building on it, and landing into something else without a hitch. Her bag was open on the counter, and I did what Darren and I always did. I took out her meds and made sure she had one less Marplan than she had last night. Ten milligrams, twice a day. Eleven pills in the bottle. Darren had texted me this morning with the number twelve. Good.

I called him. He was headed out for another date with this girl whose name he wouldn’t reveal.

“Hey, Mon,” he said.

“Eleven,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“What are you doing tonight?” I asked.

“Date.”

“Are you going to tell me her name?” I sat on the torn pleather chair, letting my short skirt ride up since I was alone. My hair was up, and red lipstick coated my lips like lacquer. I looked like a 1950s pinup.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Is it an early date or a late date?” I swallowed hard. I was about to ask a lot.

“Maybe both. Why?”

“I wanted to…” I drifted off, because I wanted to meet Jonathan and relieve the ache he created, but I didn’t want to get into too much detail with Darren.

“Ask. I’m shaving and it’s messing up the phone.”

“I wanted to see Jonathan Drazen tonight. After the gig. Right after. I can be home to watch Gabby by eleven.”

“Can’t. My date’s boss got us tickets to Madame Bovary.”

Great. A date including a musical would go from dinner at seven p.m. to curtains at eleven thirty. He must like this girl.

“Sorry,” he said. I heard the water running.

“No problem.” I hung up.

Eight months before I ever worked at K, I found Gabby sitting at the kitchen sink, on the high stool I’d used to get cereal as a kid. Her head was on the counter and one wrist had flopped over, spilling blood onto the floor.

I’m so sorry I messed up the floor, Monica, she’d said the next day, in her hospital bed. That was what she was worried about: That I would be mad I had to clean up the floor. I’d just ripped up the whole thing and put in new press-on vinyl tiles. I couldn’t find another way to think about something besides how dead and cold she looked when I pulled her off the stool, or the blood trapped in the drain catch, or the way I’d screamed at her the day before for eating graham crackers in the living room, or the way she’d wept when Darren and I broke up, eons ago. I cried over cracking linoleum flooring because the ambulance had arrived a full nine and a half minutes after I called, and I spent them slapping her because it made her groan and I didn’t know what else to do to prove she was alive.

So though I wanted Jonathan to treat me like his own personal toy for a few hours, I had to get Gabby home and stay there until the next morning, when Darren would show up.

The lights kept me from seeing any of the diners. I smiled at a bunch of silhouettes because even though I couldn’t see them, they could see me.

Gabrielle hit the first song, Someone to Watch Over Me, then went to Stormy Weather. I had my groove on then. I sang with the feeling she and I had practiced, but as I got to the middle of Cheek to Cheek, I caught a whiff of cologne I recognized: Jonathan’s. Someone was wearing his cologne, and the weight between my legs came back from the memory of the afternoon. I sang about his cheek on mine, about the scent and feel of him. Under My Skin came out like a seduction. I sang the words, but all I could feel was sex, the need for it. I begged for it with the lyrics, the snappy little Sinatra tune gone, replaced by a moan for gratification.

When my voice fell off the last note, I was ready for that hotel room.

They applauded, quiet but earnest. You weren’t supposed to clap at all at these types of gigs, and I said, “Thank you” with an embarrassed smile. I was convinced they could see my arousal like a dark patch soaking through my dress. I looked back at Gabby, and she gave me a thumbs up. I think I must have been a hundred shades of blush. I put the mike down and the spotlights went out. The diners started up their conversations again, and I headed back to the shitty dressing room.

Jonathan was in a booth, staring at me.

Of course that was where the cologne smell had come from. The source. It wasn’t like he’d gotten it at Barney’s. If it wasn’t a handmade scent, I’d eat my shoe. But I hadn’t even thought of that until I saw him in a booth at Frontage with a gorgeous redhead sipping a cosmopolitan. He tipped his glass to me.

He leaned toward the redhead and whispered something to her. Right into her ear. Like tipping his glass to me and breathing on her in any ten second interval was perfectly okay.

I was going to run and get as far from him as possible. I couldn’t believe what I’d almost done. I wasn’t kidding myself into thinking monogamy was on the table, but I’d think a day would pass before he’d put his hand up someone else’s skirt, or that he’d take the trouble to not shove it right in my face.

But instead of running away like a sensible person, I walked up to the booth. “Hi, Jonathan.”

“Monica,” he said. “This is Theresa.”

I nodded and smiled, and she held her glass up to me. “That was beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“You were incredible,” Jonathan said. “I’ve never heard anything like that.” I stared at him. Something had changed in his face. I couldn’t pin it down. Softer? Was he tired? Or did Theresa have a relaxing effect on him? His happiness made me feel evil and sharp.

“I’ve never heard of a man trying to sandwich another woman between fingering me and fucking me in the same day.”

Theresa, who looked as though she was one hundred percent lady, almost spit out a mouthful of her cosmopolitan. Jonathan laughed too. I personally didn’t find any of this funny. I stepped back, and Theresa stood as well. Maybe she was pissed. Maybe her laugh was the nervous kind or maybe I’d just shocked her. But she was as composed as possible as she turned to Jonathan and said, “I’m going to the ladies’.”

He nodded, then scooted over once she was gone. “Would you like to sit?”

“No.”

“For someone who doesn’t want to get involved, you have a way of being involved.”

“Even I have limits.”

“She’s a natural redhead.” His look was full deadpan, and though what he said had a hundred filthy connotations, the one non-pornographic one became apparent with the straight-faced look.

“She’s your sister,” I said.

“Two years between us. She’d appreciate it if you assumed I was older.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” I said. “I have to apologize to her.”

“Are you going to sit? Or am I just going to stare at your body without touching you?”

I slid in next to him, and he put his arm around me, his fingertips brushing my neck.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I was having dinner with my sister. No, I was not stalking you, though I have to say again, I think you have a gift. I think I felt a half a tear, right here.” He touched the inside corner of his eye.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No. I promise you. You were… I don’t have a word big enough.” He looked at my face, and I noticed his eyelashes were copper, like his hair. I was overcome by his presence. “Now I know what you’re protecting by not getting entangled.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that. I really do.”

He ran his finger over my collarbone with just enough pressure to make me breathe a little more deeply. “Am I seeing you tonight?”

I tried to stay cool, but I wanted him all over again. “I don’t think I can. I’m not avoiding you. I have something else going on. Tomorrow?”

He shrugged. He must have thought I was playing games with him, which he’d probably be exquisitely sensitive about after the cheating wife. But I wasn’t playing a game. Not at all.

“I have a flight out at five tomorrow. After two weeks, you might forget me.”

“I should do to you what you did to me this afternoon,” I said.

He let out a short snort of a laugh into his whiskey. “You don’t have the self-control.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Yeah. I wanna bet.”

He pulled me close and spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “You get me to beg for it, and tomorrow I will take you to Tiffany on Rodeo Drive where you can pick out anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“And what if I don’t? Which I won’t, but just for argument’s sake.”

“Then you cancel whatever it is you’re doing, and I take you back to my house, where you will obey my every command until the sun comes up.”

“I am not scrubbing your kitchen floor.”

He smirked. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

I hadn’t noticed the piano had stopped until I mentioned the kitchen floor.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, getting out of the booth before I had a chance to explain that I wasn’t ditching him or manipulating him. I’d let Gabby go off by herself, and I didn’t know if she’d seen me with him and taken a cab home.

I ran into Theresa in the hall on the way to the dressing room.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “I was rude and unbecoming.”

“My brother’s an asshole, so I don’t blame you.” She said it with a smile, taking my hand and squeezing. “We both loved your voice.”

“Thank you. I have to go. I’ll try to see you on the way out.”

I got into the dressing room just as Gabby shouldered her bag.

“I was looking for you,” she said.

“I was talking to Jonathan. You ready to go? I want to see him on the way out.”

“He’s here? Oh my God, Mon, he can help us get an agent or something. Another manager. Anything.”

“He’s not in the business, Gabs, please come on.”

She tugged my sleeve. “Wait. First of all, everyone’s in the business, even if they’re not. Okay? And what are you hiding from me? What?” She was a few inches shorter and looked up at me like she could pierce me with her eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Monica.”

“I want to go home.” I took a step toward the door, but Gabby leaned against it. I dropped my bag, giving in. “Fine, he wants to make this bet, and it has to do with sex, and I’m not hanging out with him tonight, I’m hanging out with you.”

“Cancel with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Darren would kill me.”

“God damn the two of you!” she shouted.

“Gabs, please. Give me a break.”

“No, you guys won’t leave me alone to take a dump and you think I’m too stupid to notice? Now you have the chance to get the ear of a major fucking player—”

“He’s not—”

“Shut up. Because you don’t know anything. He teaches business at UCLA where Janet Terova heads up the Industry Relations board, and you know who that is, right?”

I sighed. I felt like I was taking a quiz.

“Arnie Sanderson’s ex-wife?”

“Eugene Testarossa’s boss. Right. Him.”

“Gabby, if something happened because I went to have sex with some guy I barely even know…”

She put her hands on my arms and looked up at me with those big stinking blue eyes, the ones that had rolled to the back of her head and could only be brought back with a slap in the face, and said, “I promise I will not try to kill myself tonight.”

“Your word is the last thing I should believe.”

“I tried to kill myself because I felt hopeless. You do this, I have hope. Okay?”

“You’re whoring me out.”

“Am I taking a cab home or not?”

I had to admit, the temptation was painful, almost physically so. Here she was, not only giving me permission to leave her alone and promising not to hurt herself, but pushing me out the door.

The exquisite ache between my legs grew to a distracting level when I thought about being with Jonathan. The afternoon’s frustration had turned into a longing that seemed bigger than my body.

Right then Darren’s face showed up in my mind. He looked disappointed and angry.

I pushed past Gabby and went out to Jonathan and Theresa, who had moved to the bar. He put his hand on the back of my neck when I got close enough, and I whispered in his ear, “If I win, you cancel your flight and see me tomorrow night.”

“And no Tiffany?” he asked, smirking.

“Yes, Tiffany. If you win, I’m at your command until sunrise. And after the sun comes up, I’ll scrub your floors.” He laughed. I didn’t know exactly what he was laughing at, unless it was the presumption that he didn’t already have a team of people to sterilize his house, but I smiled back at him because it was a stupid offer and I knew it.

Gabby situated herself at the end of the bar and ordered something. I hoped it was soda. Alcohol’s a depressant, and she could assure me she had hope all she wanted. I didn’t believe she had as much control as she asserted.

“You drive a hard bargain.” He put his drink down. “And you’re funny. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth next.”

I had a million jokes about what was going in my mouth, but I kept them to myself as I pulled him into the back room.

eighteen

The dressing room was locked. I was momentarily stumped, but I remembered there was another one for men. I took his hand and led him deeper into the back, passing the kitchen and backmost hallway, to the least populated part of the club.

“I’m really liking this scrubbing idea,” he said as I pulled him into the second dressing room, which was as gross as the first, and slammed the door behind me. If he had more wisecracks, they got swallowed in a kiss. I ran my fingers through his hair, pressing his face to mine, then ran them down the length of his body. I pushed him onto the chair, which squeaked when he fell into it.

I kneeled in front of him, the industrial carpet digging into my knees, and opened his fly. I stroked the hardness under his boxers until I teased out his cock. It was rock hard and gorgeous.

“You ready?” I asked.

“You are really cute.”

He held his arms out as if to say come at me.

I pulled up his shirt and kissed his stomach, which was hard and tight, down the line of hair, until I got to his base. I put him between my lips, kissed it, sucking the length on one side, then the other, running my tongue up and down the taut skin, tasting the sharpness of it. He took a deep breath. I flattened my tongue against the underside and ran it up to the end, then put the head in my mouth, sucking it on the way out. I tasted a salty drop of moisture on his tip.

I looked up at him as I slid it into my mouth again. His lips parted and he looked straight at me, moving my hair from my eyes. Perfect. I moved down, sliding the whole huge length of him into my open mouth.

“Oh,” he whispered as I took him to the bottom. I moved my head up and down, taking all of him with every stroke, sucking on the way out, rubbing him with my tongue on the way in. I looked up at him again, going slow, letting him see every inch of his dick going in my mouth. I picked up the pace slightly, then gave three really fast strokes. He sighed and thrust his hips forward, jamming himself down my throat. I had him. All I had to do was slow down and tease him so close he’d beg me to finish him.

But he put his head back and looked at the ceiling, groaning deep in his throat. It was such a position of surrender, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stop. I was going to make him come way before he begged.

He was going to have me at his beck and call until sunrise.

I didn’t like jewelry that much anyway.

nineteen

He’d smirked when he’d given me his address and tried to give me directions, but I knew where he lived, give or take. He was up in the park, where the lawyers and magnates play. I remembered Debbie’s edict to just have fun, but the fact I’d failed in my mission to get him to take me to Tiffany rankled. Not that I really had anything to go with the carats I would have made him buy me, but failure wasn’t something I took lightly, especially if it meant I’d been weak.

The valet pulled up with his dark green Jaguar. “Can I drive you to your car?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m in the lot,” I said. “It’s fine.”

He put his face close to mine, until I could feel his breath in my ear. “If you don’t want to go home with me, I won’t hold you to it. We can wait, or we can call it off.”

“A bet’s a bet.”

He brushed his nose on my cheek. “You sure? I can be demanding.”

“So can I.”

He stepped back and smiled. “Not tonight, you’re not.” He moved onto the curb. “I’ll leave the gate open for you.” He got into the car and drove off. I watched it head down La Brea, swaggering just like he did.

When I went inside, Gabby had already called a cab. I could smell a vodka tonic on her breath, but she seemed relatively sober.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” I said.

“Monica, you want to go, so just go. I’m tired of being babied.”

And that was that. I put her in a cab and walked to my car.

My phone buzzed as I got into my little Honda. It was Vinny. Fucking Vinny.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Vegas, baby.” He was somewhere loud and unruly, yelling into the phone.

“We’ve been looking for you. The band broke up.”

“I can’t hear you. Listen, Sexybitch, you did a gig tonight at that shithole on Santa Monica?”

“Fron—”

“Eugene Testarossa’s partner was there. Testarossa himself wants to see you. So you text me when you’re up next, and I’ll call him back and he’ll show up. Bang! You’re in.”

“Vinny, I can’t—”

“Text me, baby. Love you.”

He cut the call.

What an asshole. He goes to Vegas for how long and now he wants his fifteen percent because I got my own gig? Oh no. That wasn’t going to work. I texted him,

—You’re fired—

I was at my car when the phone dinged.

—Fuck I am. You signed a contract—

—The band signed a contract. The band didn’t play tonight. I played solo—

There was a longer pause, and I sat in the driver’s seat waiting to hear back, my night of subservience forgotten.

—Good luck getting WDE to take your call—

I shut off my phone. I wanted to throw it, but I couldn’t afford to replace it when I smashed it into a million pieces. He was right. No one at WDE was going to take a call or email from me. They’d contacted Vinny. I wouldn’t get past the first round of assistants. Their job was to filter out artists. I could sing Under My Skin a hundred more times and never get another opportunity like this.

I think I looked out the window for fifteen minutes, resigning myself to the fact that I had a manager I hated and distrusted, and he was going to take a chunk of money from me from now until I accepted my Grammy.

I started the engine, but I had forgotten where I was going. Then that weight between my legs came back. Shit. I had an evening of wild sex planned with a rich womanizer who liked cute broke chicks. I was worrying about Vinny Landfillian. Fuck him. I hated Los Angeles.

All money and connections.

He can be a valuable friend.

All I needed was a lawyer to unravel that contract, and I was about to screw a guy who must have had a hundred sharky lawyers on speed dial. All I had to do was let him boss me around all night. The pleasure would be all mine.

I put the car in drive and headed east to Griffith Park.

It was wrong. My mother didn’t raise me like that. She raised a nice girl who cared about her body more than her career. I didn’t know who that girl was or what she wanted out of life though. I knew who I was. And the only thing I wanted more than Jonathan Drazen’s body was an agent at WDE.

twenty

The houses north of Los Feliz Boulevard aren’t dream houses. A dream house in Los Angeles has four walls and a roof and maybe heat, but no one can afford it. The houses up in Griffith Park are scenery. They’re owned by other people, the people who live on the other side. Not nouveau riche rock stars and actors. Old money. Generations’ worth of trust funds. Three thousand square feet was a palace behind ten-foot hedges. I drove up the winding pass. Never having looked at the addresses before, I was at a loss to find them. It was as if you were supposed to just know where you were going because you belonged there.

I finally found the address under a gigantic fig tree with a brass plaque next to it, announcing the tree’s status as a protected landmark. The gate opened for me, and I went up the drive and parked next to the Jag.

I sat in the car and looked at the house, convincing myself I still had a choice between going in or going home. The house was a craftsman, all warm lighting and dark woods. The porch was as big as my living room, leading to a wide, thick door. It was closed.

I took a deep breath.

Bottom line: He was hot, he was charming, and he didn’t want anything out of me but the same thing I wanted. Unless he wanted me to clean his bathroom. I took hours to clean a bathroom, and I wasn’t cleaning his.

I slid my phone out of my purse and called Darren.

“Hi,” I said. “How was the show?”

“Fantastic. What’s up?”

“I thought you should know…” I swallowed hard. “I sent Gabby home in a cab.”

“You what?”

“She’s tired of being followed around.”

“And where are you?” He was pissed. He sounded like he was in the middle of a street, with people everywhere.

“Griffith Park. I can explain more later.”

“No, explain now why you let a suicidal woman go home alone when her meds obviously aren’t working and she’s showing the same behaviors she did just before you found her bleeding into your kitchen sink.”

“She’s fine.”

“This is completely irresponsible.”

He hung up, which was a huge favor. I didn’t want to tell him why I’d ditched Gabby.

I got out and walked up to the porch. Stained glass windows bordered the door. The light on the other side was soft and inviting. This would be all right. Just fine.

I knocked so softly, he couldn’t have heard me unless he’d been waiting. I needed to see if he’d found something else to occupy him or if he was looking forward to seeing me. That could set the timbre for what I could request in the way of a warm call to WDE on my behalf.

The door opened immediately.

He wore the same button down shirt and jeans he’d worn at Frontage. His feet were bare, and in his right hand, he held a glass containing whiskey on ice.

I stood with my bag in front of me, which didn’t stop him from looking at me as if he wanted to eat me alive. He leaned on the door jamb and swirled his drink. “I thought you weren’t coming. I was starting to think I was losing my touch.”

“This is a nice house.”

He paused, and I waited. Despite the distractions of the past half hour, I was back to wanting to put my tongue all over his body. “All bets are on?” he asked.

“I’m yours to command.”

He took my bag and put it on a side table. “Turn around.”

I put my back to him. My car sat in the drive, next to his, the gate to the street wide open. He clicked the button on a little handheld box, and the gate slid closed.

The ice in his glass clinked, and I felt the touch of his hand at the base of my neck, then a tug as he unzipped my dress. “Jonathan…”

“No one can see.”

The zipper went down past my lower back, and he slowly pulled it open. The sleeves slipped off a little when his hand, cold from the drink, touched between my shoulder blades. He ran his hand up to my neck, then over my right shoulder, pushing the dress off. Then he ran his hand to the left shoulder, until the dress slipped off and pooled around my ankles. I felt a breeze over my body. He slipped his finger under the bra strap. “Take this off.”

I did, dropping it to the porch floor. He stroked under my waistband. He wanted that off too. I knew it, and I complied. I was fully naked except for my shoes, with my back to him.

“Face me.”

I did. I’d never felt so naked in my life as he took his time looking me over.

“Hands behind your back.”

I think if anyone else had gotten to command number four, I would have started laughing, but he wasn’t anyone else.

“You doing okay?” he asked, stepping up to me. He put the glass to my lips and tipped it. Warmth filled my chest. It was good whiskey. The single malt I’d suspected.

“It’s warm tonight,” I said.

He put his face up to mine and whispered, “Infield fly rule. What is it?”

He kissed my neck as I answered. “When there’s a force play at third, any fly hit inside the baselines, whether it’s caught or not, means the batter’s automatically out.”

“Why?” He bit the corner of my neck and shoulder, and I gasped.

“To prevent an intentional error that would manufacture a double play.”

“You are very real.” He enunciated each word.

He drank the last of the whiskey and took an ice cube in his teeth. He put his face to mine and pressed the ice cube to my lips. I sucked on it, then took it from him, holding it in my mouth.

He took half a step back. I must have been a sight: naked but for my heels, hands behind my back, with an ice cube in my mouth. “And you are stunning,” he said, lifting his glass. He put the cold base of it to my nipple, and I groaned as it hardened. He touched the other one, chilling it to a rock.

He bent down and warmed my breast with his mouth, sucking on the hard tip, pulling on it with lip-blunted teeth. I gasped, but couldn’t open my mouth farther or I’d lose the ice. I guess that wouldn’t have been the worst tragedy, but I knew the game was to keep the ice in my teeth. His attention to my breast made me groan, awakening the warmth in my crotch. The ice in my mouth melted, dripping down my chin and neck, tingling a wet path to my stomach. He licked the droplets that found their way to my breasts, warming cooled skin with his tongue. When I thought I couldn’t take another minute of his attention without falling down from the pleasure of it, he stood straight and put his mouth over mine, sucking the ice back.

He crunched it and said, “Come on in.”

I stepped past the threshold, and he closed the door behind me. The living room was impeccable in dark woods and Persian carpets. The bookcases were full. The whole place was the exact opposite of the cold modernity of his hotels.

Jonathan stood in front of me, watching my eyes take in the details of his house. The paintings. The stained glass. The clean corners and fluffed pillows. He kissed me again and, having forgotten the edict about the position of my hands, I put my arms around him. His hands warmed my back, his touch solid and strong. He kissed my cheek and neck. “Go upstairs. There’s a room with the light on and an open door. Sit on the end of the bed. I’m going to lock up down here.”

“Okay,” I said because I needed to hear the sound of my own voice at the end of so many commands. I backed up, and he watched me as I turned and went up the stairs.

The room he wanted was right in front of me. There were other doors, all closed. I heard him banging around downstairs with locks and lights. I could peek in one room, just to see, then say I was looking for the bathroom, but the idea lasted the time it took for me to step into the room with the single, glowing lamp.

I sat at the edge of the bed. It must have been a guest bedroom. There were no pictures, no personal effects, just a hardwood bed and matching craftsman style dressers.

He seemed to take forever, and just as I was about to get up and see if he was all right, I heard him coming, one slow step at a time, up the stairs.

He was still dressed and had a bottle of water. He held it out to me.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“You look uncomfortable.”

“You took a long time.”

He kneeled in front of me and touched my knee. “I’m sorry, Monica. Can you forgive me?”

Before I could answer, he kissed inside my knee. “I think so,” I said. “If you keep doing that.”

He looked up at me, all green eyes and messy red hair. He moved his lips up my thigh, spreading my legs. A tingle went up the inside of my thighs as he ran his hands up them, the edge of his watch made a light scratch on sensitive skin. He picked my leg up, and I fell back as he lightly kissed the outside of my mound.

“Ah, Jonathan,” I whispered, stroking his hair. He spread my legs farther, kissing between them. He slipped his finger into my wetness, and I gasped and remember the afternoon and Sam’s desk. This time was different. When I looked down at him, his eyes were closed with intensity as he flicked his tongue over my clit. I think I said his name again. He flicked again. He was so light with it. Like he didn’t want me to come.

As if he read my mind, he stood up, undressing so quickly I had only a second to admire his body, with its light hair and perfect angles. He flipped a condom out of his pocket and got it on without missing a beat, then lodged himself on top of me, his dick like a rock and everywhere it should be except inside me. We kissed. He tasted perfectly of whiskey and desire. I wanted him. I wanted every inch of him. He was right outside, pressing in, the head of his cock a tingle at my opening. I twisted my hips to move him in, but he backed off, picking his head up to look at me.

“Please,” I said.

“Not yet.”

He slid his dick up my cleft without entering me, rubbing the length of him on my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me. I was so wet, he slid back and forth. I spread my legs as far as I could and moved with him. I could come like this, but I didn’t want to. I wanted him inside me. This would feel like masturbation compared to his cock being where it belonged.

“Please,” I said again.

“Not yet.”

“Jesus, Jonathan. What do you want?” My sex ached for him. It didn’t feel empty. It felt full to bursting, a throbbing, pounding hunger filling my skin.

“I want you to want it,” he said.

“I do. My God, I do.”

In response, he pushed harder, increasing the pressure without entering me. “No, you don’t. Not enough.”

I knew what he wanted, and I was willing to give it to him. “Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t—”

He drove his dick into me with a ferocity that shocked me and turned the last word into a cry. He stopped for a second, as if he’d been shaken by the violence of his initial thrust.

“Don’t stop,” I gasped. “Don’t make me beg again.”

He buried his face in my neck and fucked me, pushing inside, pressing his body against my clit, his cock rubbing with each stroke, until I couldn’t take it anymore, and then he stopped.

“What?” I groaned.

“You want to come?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”

“Beg for it.”

“Fuck you.” I pushed his chest. I was on fire, so close to orgasm, nearly unable to think complete thoughts. He pushed himself in me once, then stopped. It was a burst of sensation between my legs, then nothing. I looked up at him. He was enjoying himself, and he could keep going as long as he needed to.

“Please. Fuck you.”

“Close.” He stroked again, a taste of what I could have. He went slowly, too slowly, moving enough to keep me hot, but not enough to get me off. I put a hand between my legs and he grabbed both my wrists, holding them against the mattress with all his weight, rocking his hips back and forth just a little.

I had never felt anything like that. It wasn’t an orgasm, because I had not an ounce of release, only the firing nerve endings and blasting heat between my legs. I was sweating everywhere. Tendrils of hair clung to my face, but his hands held mine down,.

“I want to come,” I groaned.

“I want you to come.”

“Let me. Please.” I said it so softly I didn’t even think he’d hear me. “Please. Please. Please…” With every please, I got more desperate and more quiet. On the last plea, he pulled out of me and pushed back in, all the way, and then again, until everything went hot red. I said his name over and over, going limp everywhere, and still the orgasm went on and on. His mouth was at my ear, and I could hear his groan as I finally stopped coming. His arms wrapped around me, tightening as he came, a guttural ahh rattling his throat with each slowing thrust.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered into my neck.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

He propped himself up on his elbows and kissed my face from my chin, to my right cheek, to my forehead, and back down my left cheek, and to my chin again. His eyes flicked to his watch.

“Sun rises at 5:38 a.m. You’re mine for four more hours.”

“I don’t think I can take four more hours of that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He rolled off me, and we just stared at the ceiling, letting our breathing get back to normal.

I had never experienced anything like that, not with Kevin and certainly not with Darren. I didn’t know I could sit on the brink for that long or just how many brinks there were. I didn’t know I could give someone else control over what I felt.

It felt as though, after that orgasm, I should have to sleep for hours, or I wouldn’t want sex for at least a month, but neither was the case. I was energized, and I wanted it again.

“Where are you flying off to tomorrow?” I asked.

“Korea. I’m putting a hotel up in Seoul.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Uh oh.”

“Your house. You have all the original everything in here, and the hotels are, like, white and chrome.”

“This house was built for a family a hundred years ago. It was a home. People want to feel like they’re away from home when they go to a hotel.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

“I thought you were going to bail on me.”

“I got held up talking to my manager. Ex-manager. Jerk-off.” I tucked my head on his shoulder and ran my fingertips up and down his chest. I couldn’t keep my hands off him.

“This the guy who disappeared?”

I propped myself up on my elbows and kissed his shoulder and down his chest. I could still smell some of the dusty cologne past the sheen of sweat built up from our sex. “This guy from WDE was at Frontage and called him. He wants his boss to see me. But I fired Vinny, and now he won’t give me the contact.”

“Why’d you fire him?”

“Because he’s an asshole. I’ll find a way to get Testarossa to take my call myself.” I worked my way down his stomach, over his hip bones, with my lips and tongue. I was aroused all over again. He put his hands on my shoulders.

“WDE? That’s Arnie Sanderson, right?”

Arnie Sanderson owned WDE and was the single most inaccessible person in the world. Even his own clients had to make appointments to get a call, and regular schlub WDE clients, who were some of the top paid people in entertainment, never met the guy.

“Arnie Sanderson. Yeah,” I said. Jonathan’s dick was hard again already.

“I’ll call him for you.”

“I’m not about to suck your dick so you’ll make a call for me.”

“And I’m not making the call so you’ll suck my dick. So, now that we’ve cleared that up, can you get on with it?”

I looked up at him. He smiled from ear to ear and put one hand under his head. I licked his dick’s length with the flattest part of my tongue. When I got to the top, I slid the entire length of it down my throat.

He breathed a deep ahh and said, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it.”

He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment.”

I couldn’t help but grin, which kept me from engaging in the task at hand. “I like you, Jonathan.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Monica.”

twenty-one

We collapsed from exhaustion around five thirty a.m. Two hours later, I woke up with a sore sex and a dry throat. Jonathan’s arm was draped over me. His breath came in heavy, slow rhythms. I looked at him sleeping, closely inspecting him for the first time. His copper-colored lashes fluttered under soft brows. Faded freckles dotted his nose. He was truly beautiful, and seeing him with those eyes, I realized I could easily fall for this man. I was walking on a precipice even letting myself stare at him for this long.

I slipped out from under his arm and went to find my clothes.

My dress and underwear were draped over a chair by the door and smelled like last night’s whiskey and fresh porch air. I slipped into them and went into the kitchen for water.

I looked onto the backyard, with its dark green furniture and bean-shaped pool, sipping my water. I ran over the night in my mind, which was hard, because after a certain point, it just became a blur of skin, sweat, and orgasms. I must have said his name a hundred times, starting with me begging him to fuck me and ending with an orgasm he’d delayed eternally. When he finally let me come, it must have lasted fifteen minutes.

The first time he had thrust into me with such force, it was almost like he wanted to shut me up. Like he was saying, “here, take it, but please stop.”

Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t—

I was going to stay don’t stop, but in a different circumstance, when the love of your life was walking out the door, you might say don’t leave.

The buzz of a phone brought me back to my senses. I was making stuff up. The phone buzzed again. I didn’t know if it was mine, but I located the source on the kitchen counter, plugged into the wall. Jonathan’s phone, and it was facing up.

The caller: Jess.

Ex-wife.

Fuck.

I threw the rest of the water down my throat and put the glass in the sink. I had to go. I didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever that was.

“Good morning,” he said, sleep all over his face, T-shirt stretched over his perfect body.

“I took the glass from the rack and got water from the little thing in the fridge door. Didn’t even open it.” He shrugged, and I relaxed. He didn’t seem to feel invaded.

“Can I make you coffee?” he asked. “I can scramble eggs if you want.”

“No, I’m okay.”

As I rinsed the glass, he came up behind me and kissed my neck, fingering my zipper. “How about another go?”

“The sun is up,” I teased. I wanted another go. On the counter. On the floor. His lips caressed my earlobe, and I leaned my head back.

He slipped the dress’s zipper down. “You need to beg again. You’re good at it.” He kissed my back. I wanted to. I wanted to cry for it, one more time, before he became a memory. He pushed my dress off my shoulders with a perfect touch that rode between firm and light, a touch on a collarbone, maybe, like the one caught on camera from his wedding day.

“Your phone rang,” I said. Stupid. Another go would have been nice, but it was too late now.

“It’s always ringing.” He reached inside the dress and caressed my breasts, nipples hardening at his touch.

The phone buzzed. His lips left me, and I knew he was looking at it. His hands fell, and a palpable chill filled the room. I cleared my throat.

“I think I need to take this,” he said, zipping me back up.

“Sure,” I whispered. “My shoes are upstairs.”

I walked to the door, and when I looked back, he was popping the cable from the phone. His hands might have been shaking. I couldn’t tell.

I scooped up my shoes from the bedroom floor and went back to the kitchen. He was on the patio, elbows on his knees, looking at the flagstones with the phone pressed to his ear. His hands gestured, but I couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t my business.

“Good-bye, Jonathan,” I said before I slipped out the front door.

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To be continued…

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This series was structured like a serial TV show. Novellas were released every four to six weeks, with a break between sequences. Each novella episode was between 20 and 50 thousand words, and ended with unanswered questions.

Sequence 1

Beg

Tease

Submit

Sequence 2

Control

Burn

Resist

Sequence 3

Sing

Sequence One is also available as a novel-length omni edition.

Supplemental, optional reads—

Jessica/Sharon (to be read after Submit and before Control)

Rachel (to be read after Burn and before Resist)

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Content

BEND

Preface by C D Reiss

BEND contents

UnRaveled K. Bromberg

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

About the Author

COME A Dirty, Dark, and Dangerous Prequel By J A Huss

Chapter One JAMES

Chapter Two HARPER

Chapter Three HARPER

Chapter Four JAMES

Chapter Five HARPER

Chapter Six JAMES

Chapter Seven HARPER

Chapter Eight JAMES

Chapter Nine HARPER

Chapter Ten HARPER

Chapter Eleven HARPER

Chapter Twelve HARPER

Chapter Thirteen HARPER

Chapter Fourteen HARPER

Red & Wolfe Part One an erotic fairy tale By Ella James

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

The Devil In Me by K.I. Lynn

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

About K.I. Lynn

Kick Songs of Perdition - Book One CD Reiss

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Worth Shay Savage

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These Men Andrea Smith

acknowledgements

playlist for "These Men"

prologue

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

Still by Alessandra Torre

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Beg by  CD Reiss Songs of Submission - Book One

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