by Hannah Ford
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Then what?”
“Give me back my phone, Abigail.”
Instead, I scroll through his call log, finding the last call he received.
Shawna Marino, Marino Publicity.
“That was your publicist?”
“Yes.” He takes the phone back from me, finishes his email and puts the phone back in his suit pocket.
“What did she say?” But even as I’m asking him, a wispy thread of something is starting in my mind, weaving itself into something solid, something horrible. “Elijah, what is it?”
“It’s not anything for you to worry about. I’m handling it.”
But that isn’t going to fly anymore.
We’re pulling up to the curb and now he’s helping me out of the car and we’re going up to his apartment and the whole time I don’t want to say the words, I don’t want to say what it is I’m thinking, the only reason that his publicity team would be calling him, the only thing they could tell him that would elicit such a reaction.
I tell myself that I’m waiting until we get inside to bring it up, that I don’t want to say it out loud, especially not in front of the security guards that are trailing behind us.
So I wait until they’ve gone inside, cleared the apartment.
Wait until Elijah and I are upstairs in his bedroom.
“It’s the picture, isn’t it?” I say quietly. “The one of us in the bathroom. It’s been posted somewhere?”
Chapter 4
ELIJAH
“Yes.” I watch her carefully, waiting to see how she’s going to react to this bit of news. Her face is blank as I cross to where she stands in the middle of the room and take her in my arms.
“Where?” she asks, her voice small.
“A shitty online website called Celebgasm. I can get them shut down, but it’s going to take a couple of hours.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, and I can tell she knows what that means – that by the time the picture gets removed, it will be everywhere, so it’s pointless. And then her eyes open, her fists twisting the material of my shirt.
“Why the fuck would they do that?” she asks. “Why… I mean, didn’t they ask for money or something first?”
“No.” I shake my head. “If they’d asked for money, I would have paid it.” Of course, it would have done no good. Whoever it was that has the picture would have asked for more and more, and when they’d deemed it enough, they would have published it anyway.
“Jesus, Elijah, everyone’s going to see it. Agents, co-workers, my authors…” She blinks quickly, and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say gently. “That picture was taken of us in a private moment. A private moment between two consenting adults. The publication of it, the taking of it, was a violation. And when I find out who did it…” I trail off, not wanting to say out loud what I will do.
She shakes her head. “That’s easy for you to say, Elijah,” she says bitterly. “You have money. You have a career. You own a company from which you can’t be fired.”
Then she pulls away from me and walks into the closet and through the door that leads to her part of it. I follow her, watching as she starts flicking through the outfits that hang on the far side, the ones that are made for more casual gatherings.
“It’s not easy for me to say,” I say. “The thought of someone seeing that picture, of seeing you…” I resist the urge to put my fist through the wall.
“Don’t even,” she says, and then she’s pulling a dress off the rack, throwing it onto the marble island that sits in the middle of the closet. “It is easy for you to say, and if it isn’t, it’s only because you’re worried about me. It’s not going to effect you. You’re a man. You’ll get high fives and slaps on the back. I’ll get stares and whispers and talk about what a slut I am.”
She’s right. It’s not fair, but she’s right, and the thought fills me with more rage.
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re right. I won’t minimize it anymore.” I run my hand through my hair, scrub at my face. “Jesus, this is all my fault.”
“I just… I’m not mad at you. It’s not your fault. What I’m mad about is how unfair it is.” She leans down and grabs a pair of boots that are on the floor, tosses them toward the island.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting ready.”
“Getting ready? For what?”
“To go to Somersault with Hailey.”
“Abigail.” I sigh. “I thought I made my position on that clear.”
“You did,” she says, and now she’s over by the pullout jewelry hanger that’s built into the wall, selecting a pair of earrings. “And I made mine perfectly clear as well.”
“Abigail.” I close my eyes and take a breath. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to pull her over my knee. “You are not going to Somersault. Especially not now.”
“Especially not now that someone invaded my privacy and made me feel like a slut?”
“No. Especially not now that someone published that picture, sent it to an outlet without trying to get money out of us first.” I cross the room to her and take her shoulders, turn her away from the jewelry. “You don’t understand. Whoever it was who took that picture, they didn’t ask for any money. Which means they don’t care about money. All they care about is hurting you.”
Her shoulders sag just a little bit, but then she recovers, pushing s them back. “I’m not going to let them ruin my life, Elijah. This is what they want. For me to be ashamed, for me to hide away, like I’ve done something wrong. But I haven’t done anything wrong. Like you said, there’s nothing for me to be embarrassed about. Whoever took that photo is the one who did something wrong. They violated my privacy. It’s not okay, and I won’t be made to feel bad about it.”
“Abigail…”
“Elijah, please? Come with me to Somersault. We can drink wine and people watch and make fun of everyone’s dance moves.”
The thought of going to a club like Somersault makes me want to gouge my eyes out. But she’s looking at me with those big blue eyes, and I can tell how badly she wants this.
I sigh. “Fine,” I say. “But you won’t leave my sight.”
“Of course not.”
“And we’re taking two security guards.”
“I would never leave home without them.”
Chapter 5
ABIGAIL
Going to a club with two security guards is a real pain in the ass. I get that they’re supposed to be there for my protection, but Chase and his partner– Bob? Rob?—insist on going in and checking out the club before allowing us to go inside. (I don’t know the partner’s name because when I asked him, he told me he didn’t like to get personally involved with his clients. Which made me pretty nervous, because why wouldn’t you want to get attached to your clients unless you were pretty sure that at some point they were going to die? It’s not like people go around being like, ‘oh I better not get attached to my clients because they’re going to be fine.’ It was definitely disconcerting.)
“How long are they doing to be in there?” Hailey asks as the three of us wait outside. She stomps her feet on the ground and makes a big show of acting like she’s cold, even though it’s pretty warm out. I think she’s just annoyed that Elijah’s here, but there was no way he was going to let me go alone, and she would have been more pissed if I’d bailed.
“As long as it takes,” Elijah says, his tone curt.
“What time is Tyler getting here?” I ask, trying to distract her.
“He’s inside already,” she grumbles.
A second later, Chase appears in the doorway of the club, nodding his approval.
The bouncer holds the line for us, unhooking the rope that separates us from the club. We walk inside, and everyone who’s waiting in line behind us groans in frustration.
“Welcome to Somersault, Mr. Armstrong
,” a pretty cocktail waitress says immediately, putting her hand on Elijah’s arm. He shakes her off.
“Let me show you to the VIP area,” she says, not skipping a beat.
She takes up a winding, twirling metal staircase to a built-in open second floor that looks out onto the dance floor. Up here, the round leather booths are each separate, encased in gauzy curtains that can be opened or shut depending on how much privacy you want.
The curtains are tied back now, and after we order drinks, Hailey stares out across the dance floor, looking for Tyler.
“I don’t see him,” she says.
“It’s going to be difficult to find him with all those people,” I say. “Why don’t you text him?”
“I am,” she says. “He’s not answering.” She bites her lip in frustration. She looks pretty tonight – her hair is down, and she’s traded her glasses for contacts, showing off her big brown eyes. She’s wearing a dark green bodycon dress and high black boots.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “You just need to relax, he’ll text you back.”
“I hope so,” she says. She takes a sip of her drink, something called a blue kamikaze that looks like it would get you drunk in about one sip, and then leans in close to me. “I texted him a naked pic,” she whispers so that Elijah can’t hear.
“What?”
“Uh huh. Naked. With no clothes on.” She giggles.
“Yeah, I know what naked means, Hailey. Are you sure that’s –”
“He’s here!” she crows, staring at the text that’s just come in on her phone. “He’s waiting for me at the bar.”
She looks down and scans the crowd. Sure enough, a blond guy in a black t-shirt stands at the end of the bar, one hand on a bottle of beer, the other on his phone.
“He’s cute,” I say.
“He looks just like his pic,” Hailey says excitedly.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head, then glances behind me at Chase, who’s standing a few feet away, his eyes scanning the crowd below us. Rob/Bob has been stationed by the door. “I think I should go meet him alone. But then I’ll bring him up here. You know, after we talk for a little bit.”
“Okay.” I squeeze her hand. “Text me if you need me.”
She gets up, tugging on her dress, her steps measured and careful as she walks down the stairs.
I turn to Elijah, who’s sitting next to me in the booth, one hand on my back, the other on his phone.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Not bad yet,” he says. “The picture is on their site, but they haven’t tweeted it or promoted it in any way.”
“Can I see?”
“No.”
“Elijah. I’m going to see it eventually, you might as well show me.”
He sighs and then holds out the phone. “Billionaire Elijah Armstrong ‘Ties Up’ His Employees With All Sorts Of Tasks After Hours!” the headline declares. I can’t help but roll my eyes at the lameness.
“Jesus, this website looks like it was made in 1997,” I say. The background is a shocking blue color, and the font is so swirling and decorative it looks like something a thirteen-year-old would have chosen for their Backstreet Boys fan blog.
And yet the picture is no less shocking.
There it is, on the website, me with Elijah behind me, my hands tied behind my back, his body pressed against mine. The only saving grace is that since we’re so pushed together, you can’t see much of my naked body – just the top of my breasts and the very top of my ass.
Not that it’s much of a saving grace – the only reason you can’t see much of my body is because I’m obviously getting fucked in the ass with my hands tied behind my back.
I blink back the tears that prick against the back of my eyes. I try to tap into the anger I felt earlier, the emotion that led me here, the feeling of wanting to fight back. But that was before the evidence was staring me right in the face, before I saw the picture actually posted.
“I can’t believe someone would do this,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief as I hand his phone back to him.
“People are capable of horrible things, Ms. Bennett,” he says, and there’s an undertone to his words. I wonder if he’s thinking about his mother, about the horrible things she’s supposedly done, even though as far as I can tell her biggest crime was making his father fall in love with her.
“I know that,” I say. “I just...” The tears threaten again, and I blink fast, determined not to let whatever sick person is doing this have their intended effect on me.
Elijah pulls me close, and I snuggle into him, my cheek against his chest. I inhale his scent, the clean smell of his laundry detergent, the spicy, masculine smell of his cologne.
His arms are strong, and his cashmere sweater is soft against my skin. He reaches down and slides my legs over his lap, his hands stroking my hair softly.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I ask. “I mean, you have billions of dollars.”
“They don’t want money, Abigail.”
“No, I know. But can we… I mean, can’t we get the website shut down? Isn’t there always some story about that online, about some rich person coming along and taking down a website?”
“I told you I will. But the picture is already out there. We can go after anyone we want, but once the pictures are out there, there’s no way to stop them.”
I nod.
“How long?” I ask, running my palm over the hard lines of his chest.
“What?”
“How long until it goes viral.”
He shakes his head. “Depends on how long it takes people to notice. Probably an hour or so.”
I nod.
“Hey,” he says, and then he leans down and tips my chin up. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“All I want is to protect you.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
He looks away. “You seem to be saying that a lot lately.”
This time, it’s me who takes his chin and forces him to look back at me. “Because it’s true.”
I kiss him softly, taking his lower lip between my lips, wanting to kiss away the pain he’s feeling just as much as I want to feel something, anything, other than the panic and anxiety that’s blooming in my chest.
The kiss deepens as he takes control, stroking me expertly with his tongue, the rough, raw edge inside of him coming out as he fists my hair and holds me to him.
I surrender to him, wanting this more than anything, wanting his touch, his lips, his cock, wanting him to take away everything else that I’m feeling.
And it’s like he knows exactly what I need, because when he finally breaks the kiss, leaving me breathless, he uses his hand to pull my head back, to kiss my neck, trailing his tongue over the sensitive nerve endings.
My anxiety begins to fade at the edges as my body, as it always does when it comes to Elijah, overrides my mind, surrendering to him.
His hands roam over me, brushing my breasts over my clothes, until finally, he hefts me onto the ledge behind the booth.
I gasp as he pushes my skirt up.
He pulls my panties off in one smooth motion, tucks them safely into the pocket of his pants.
He parts my thighs and then looks at me, his eyes questioning.
I know what he’s asking.
If this is okay, doing this here, after what happened the last time we did something in public, with the picture and the fallout that’s sure to come. But when I said I wasn’t going to let this effect my life, I was telling the truth. And besides, there’s a security guard outside, making sure no one can see in here.
So I nod and see his dark eyes fill with a primal need.
He licks up the inside of my thighs.
“Elijah,” I gasp as he reaches my pussy.
There’s no teasing, no soft brushes of his hands or dirty talk.
Instead, there’s just him, sucking my pussy, his mou
th moving, licking, stroking.
His hands pin my hips down, not allowing me any control over what’s happening, no way to move.
I’m at his mercy, a slave to the caress of his tongue, his lips, his fingers as he spreads me.
He concentrates on my clit for a long time, swirling his tongue around and around the hardened nub, the whole time holding me open with his fingers so that he can get better access.
I fist his hair, pulling him into my pussy, wanting it harder, faster, but this is when he decides to tease me, grinning up at me with a wicked glint in his eyes as he slows down the pace.
I let go of his hair, my hands curling into fists.
I’m begging now, begging him to let me come, calling his name. I feel like I’m going out of my mind, the anticipation so intense it makes me dizzy.
And when he finally slides a finger inside of me, curls it up and touches my g-spot, finger fucking me slowly while his tongue continues stroking my clit and the scruff on his chin rubs against my thighs, I can’t take it anymore.
I come, calling out his name, and there’s nothing but him, no picture of me posted on the internet, no work stress, nothing except the two of us and the pound of the music in the club, nothing but the rhythm of the bass and this electric, unexplainable connection between us.
Once I still, he slides me off the back of the booth and lays me down on my stomach across the leather of the booth.
He slips my dress up over my ass, bunches it around my waist and starts to fuck me, sliding into my pussy from behind.
I’m so wet that it’s not as painful as it usually is, but he’s still big, and so it takes me a second to get over the familiar stretching sensation and start to feel the warm pleasure that comes from his cock inside of me.
He starts to fuck me harder, his hand slapping my ass as he does.
“You like that, you little slut?” he growls.
“Yes, sir.” My cheek is pressed against the leather of the booth, and I can feel the bass of the music that’s pumping out of the speakers reverberating through my body.
He pumps into me, calling me dirty names, making me tell him how much I like being a slut for him, a dirty whore, a bad girl.
