I Belong to You

by Lisa Renee Jones

  His reaction to my arrival sets my determination to achieve the goal I’m here to attend to, and my steps quicken as I walk down the long hallway that I know leads to Ms. Smith’s office. She needs to know that the Master is back from the bowels of hell. Sex and control make me stronger, which I’d forgotten these past few weeks—with gut-wrenching, heart-shredding results. I eased my rules, and crossed lines for and with Rebecca that ultimately led to her death.

  I swore ten years ago that no one by my side would ever get hurt again. Yet in the dangerous gray that lies between black and white, I’ve already crossed lines with Ms. Smith.

  No more. There is no in between.

  Two

  Mark . . .

  Stepping confidently into Crystal’s open doorway, I find her behind her glass desk, gaze fixed on the file she is studying, her long, shapely legs crossed. Seconds tick by before, in the midst of turning a page, she freezes. Her gaze lifts, landing on me, and she pops to her feet. My eyes sweep the way her formfitting pale pink suit hugs her curves and complements her sleekly styled long blond hair. My cock thickens and heat that I don’t deny or dismiss blazes in my veins, allowing myself the right to be unapologetically a man and a Master.

  When my gaze returns to hers, I don’t hide the predatory gleam in mine. It’s part of the message I’m here to deliver. Sex is my release, my way of dealing with life.

  “Hi,” she says, her stare remarkably unwavering as the sexual tension between us crackles like a live current. “And before you ask what kind of greeting that is,” she adds, reminding me of something I’d said to her a week before when we’d burned up the sheets in a California hotel room, “the answer is the same as before. It’s my kind.”

  Her kind. The kind that simply doesn’t work for me as a Master. But it does, apparently, work for the man beneath the armor I fully intend to restore. I have restored.

  I shut the door and then motion to the small, round conference table in the corner. “Let’s sit.” I’m irritated that I’m aware she’s wearing the same outfit she’d worn the first night I met her, several weeks ago.

  She nods and moves with the same pace, the same confident steps, confirming that she is not my type. As she once said, we’re too alike, two bulls fighting for the same red flag. We come together at the edge of the seats, neither of us voluntarily claiming one first, standing toe to toe, our gazes locking.

  A band seems to tug our bodies closer; I feel our shared connection in my chest and see it in the dilation of her soft blue eyes. The howl of memories is like a heavy wind that refuses to be ignored. I’d buried my pain over the news of a search for Rebecca’s body in Crystal’s body. I’d been weak, drunk, hurting. I’d tried to recover with a business-from-this-point-forward talk.

  But when I’d walked Crystal, not Ms. Smith, to a private jet the next day, I’d needed to touch her, to taste her one last time—the “one last time” I’d never had with Rebecca. My weakened armor had dropped, and I’d pulled her to me and kissed the hell out of her.

  And damn it to hell, I want to do that again. But I won’t.

  Ms. Smith lifts her hand to touch me, the way I’ve often let her and no one else do, though I still don’t understand why. Then she seems to sense the change in me, pulling back before contact.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  The rasp in her voice edges down my nerve endings and evokes emotions that, on some level, I want to arouse in her, though all I should desire from any woman is passion and lust. Those needs are within the realms I have always controlled, so they are acceptable.

  But I sense Ms. Smith wants more. And what I want from her is more—which infuriates me.

  “How am I?” My words are as tight as my spine. “Ready to get back to normal. Sit.”

  Her brow furrows in silence at the command, a prelude to the many battles I suspect are before us, but she claims her seat, as I do mine. Setting my briefcase on a chair, I pull out a document and set it in front of me, intentionally building her expectation as to what it might be.

  And I think she knows that, since she refuses to look at it. I narrow my stare on hers, wondering if there’s more behind her iron will than growing up in a rich family with dominant men. And in doing so, I see the slightest hint of discomfort in the depths of her eyes, the weakness I’m looking for to push her well beyond her comfort zone.

  “I have the answer to my first question,” I state. “Clearly, we still want to fuck.”

  Her lips part in surprise, then a look of incredulity slides over her delicate features as a disgusted sound slips from her lips. “Funny. I thought your first question would be ‘How’s my mother?’ Or ‘How’s my father?’ Or ‘How is the staff, after they’ve taken a beating from the press and customers pounding them with questions?’ ”

  “We’ve had that conversation three times in four days, including last night. I trust you. That’s the point.”

  “No. The point seems to be us wanting to fuck again.”

  My lips quirk at her bold statement. “I’ll take your lack of denial as confirmation you agree. And us wanting to fuck has everything to do with us working together on a day-to-day basis, Ms. Smith.”

  “Crystal,” she amends. “You know ‘Ms. Smith’ bothers me, since long before we got naked together. Not even the staff calls me that.”

  “Formality is how I manage and how I operate. It’s not a slap. It’s not a reflection on us getting naked together. I simply cannot maintain structure with the staff by treating you differently, nor would we be able to avoid questions.”

  She inhales and lets it out. “Point taken, Mr. Compton.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Smith.” I pause for effect. “My plan is to be by my mother’s side as much as possible, and leave you with your present duties if you’re agreeable. I’ll simply help you navigate the ship in the more treacherous waters.”

  She nods. “I have a list of powerful clients and prospective clients who represent large dollar figures, and it’s taking time to earn the trust that you’d have in one phone call. So I need backup.”

  “You have it.” I lean back and study her a moment. “You treat this company and my family as your own.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re doing it for us, since your own family owns one of the largest tech companies on the planet. That’s a lot to walk away from.”

  “You did the same: Riptide is one of the largest auction houses in the world. And, like I told you, my father and brothers are very controlling, much like you. In fact, I’d say they are equally overbearing.”

  I arch a brow, amused at her boldness. “You think I’m overbearing.”

  “You take pride in being overbearing.”

  I incline my head. “It works for me. But my mother wrote the book on overbearing—yet here you are.”

  “It’s different. She isn’t them.”

  “But I am?”

  “You’re arrogant, intolerably bossy, often rude, and infuriating, but—you’re my boss, not my family. And I’ll point out that you chose to open your gallery across the country, despite being emotionally close to your parents.”

  “Birds of a feather,” I say. “But there’s more to your story.”

  “There’s more to yours.”

  I lean in closer, lowering my voice to a soft rasp. “I never take what isn’t given to me freely, Ms. Smith.”

  She smiles. “Nor do I, Mr. Compton.”

  The unexpected reply curls my lips. “You are nothing that I expect.”

  “Because you never expect anyone to be like you. Two birds of a feather. Remember?”

  “I’m fairly certain you won’t let me forget.” We’re close, a mere lean-in from a kiss, one I crave more each moment I’m with her.

  I lean back before I forget my agenda. “Whatever the rest of your story is, when I look into your eyes I see honesty and sincerity, qualities I value more than ever. Qualities I owe you in return. That means
giving you a clear understanding of who and what I am—because the past few weeks have not been an example of those things.”

  Her gaze lowers and she says softly, “I know I’m a gateway to a place you’re using to cope with . . . things.” Then she looks at me. “Maybe I even am that place. You’ve just lost someone important to you. You fear losing your mother to cancer. So anything you feel with me is about them, not me. Sex is an escape for you.

  “And it is for me, too. It’s how I’ve handled the emotion all of this creates in me. So I don’t need or want your guilt. We’re clear on everything.”

  But we’re not; the muddied water we’re traveling is dangerous. Worse, she makes me want to believe we can continue. But she brings out a part of me I don’t want to exist; if I let it, I will deserve the guilt.

  “If we’re clear up to this point,” I reply, sliding the contract across the table, “then you understand why it’s so important that we’re equally clear on what our relationship is or isn’t going forward.”

  Her eyes hold mine and she swallows hard, before her gaze drops to the contract. She stares at the first line, “Master and Submissive Contract,” for two beats and then calmly hands it back to me. “I told you. I will never be your submissive.”

  “This is how I operate.” A contract is about my responsibility for her well-being, being in charge of everything that she is and does. Yet that’s not really what I want right now. I want lust, desire. Short, intense BDSM sessions that let me exert the control I need in the rest of my life, strengthening me—but right now I’m too far to the other side to make that happen.

  “This is how you operate,” she repeats slowly.

  “Yes. The only way.”

  “It’s not how I operate.” She stands up, in full rejection mode.

  I push to my feet as well. “Have you ever been a submissive?” I ask, intentionally pushing her buttons. “Did you have a bad experience, and that’s why you’re resisting?”

  She makes a frustrated sound. “All you need to know is that I will never be one with you.”

  She walks away and I have to clamp down on a sudden urge to grab her, pull her to me, and demand to know what the fuck she meant. She is not for you, I remind myself. She is not for you.

  She puts the desk between us. “I’d like to get back to my work now.”

  Her voice quivers with hurt—not my intention, and proving how bad this could get if it continued. And what’s bad for us would also be bad for my mother. Slipping the contract back into my briefcase, I go for the close, standing directly across from her and pinning her in an unwavering stare. “Submitting to me would teach you things about yourself that I know, and you don’t.”

  The hurt disappears, replaced by red-hot anger blazing from her eyes. “You know about me? Seriously? You don’t even know about you right now.”

  Goal achieved. Believing that I’m an asshole lets her hold her head high; lets this end on her terms.

  I press my hands on the desk, leaning toward her. “Oh, Ms. Smith,” I purr, “you’d be shocked to know just how well I know myself. You’d be even more shocked to know how well I know you. After fucking under my rules just once, I’d own you.”

  She presses her hands to the desk and leans forward, too, yet I see her bottom lip quiver. “Fucking me,” she bites out, “pleasing me, doesn’t make you own me.”

  My blood heats with desire. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

  “One you’d fail,” she assures me.

  “Should I remind you yet again, how easily I made you beg me to lick your—”

  “Don’t,” she warns calmly. “Don’t keep pushing me.” She straightens her spine and crosses her arms. “I’m done. We’re done.” She sits down and pulls her folder in front of her. “I’m getting back to work.”

  Control. She wants it desperately, but we both know it’s mine. I’ve won, despite my body’s scream that the only win would be bending her over the desk and burying myself inside her. I curve my lips as if I’m amused at her efforts, though I’m not. “Carry on, Ms. Smith,” I say, arrogantly enough to singe every control-freak nerve ending she owns as I turn and head to the door.

  As my hand touches the knob, she says, “Objective achieved.”

  The simple words are as good a power play as any I’ve ever delivered. Intrigued despite myself, I turn and arch a brow. “Objective achieved?”

  “You had a message to give me tonight, and I got it. You love your family too much to risk letting us become a problem. It won’t. As I’ve said before, we didn’t happen.”

  We didn’t happen. She’d challenged me with those words right before I’d followed her to a restaurant bathroom and proved I could make her say, “Mr. Compton, please lick my pussy.” I didn’t like her words then, and I don’t like them now.

  “Denial is weakness,” I tell her. “It means that I’ll have you tied up and tormented before you know it. I’ll own you before you can blink. You need to come up with a better plan, or you’ll belong to me in no time. Unless that’s what you really want.”

  I leave, giving her no chance to reply.

  Crystal . . .

  He disappears into the hallway, his musky, spicy, deliciously provocative scent lingering. After his footsteps fade, my shoulders finally slump and my breath gushes from my lips. I knew this was coming, and thought I was prepared. I’d spent the last few days telling myself that I’d welcome the day that he pushed me away, because he’d gotten under my skin. But I hadn’t been prepared for his trying to turn me into a mere contract that expires—and it scares me that he still affected me after he gave it to me. He’s still everything I don’t want, and somehow everything I crave.

  No. No. I shove off the desk. The man I just dealt with is not the man I crave. He is not the man I’ve known these past weeks, the man I’ve started to fall for in a huge way. The one who has a tender side, who’s vulnerable yet strong.

  This man is cold and hard, an arrogant asshole, and I should welcome these realizations. Falling in love with a man who’s grieving for a woman he’d loved and lost is nothing but a heartache. And Mark Compton is not a man you let tie you up, or he’s right: He’ll own you. I’ve worked too hard to find myself and my freedom to let that happen.

  He doesn’t know me—not even close. And he’s just done me a favor. Now we’re both where we need to be: in control of ourselves, not each other. We’re done.

  Three

  Mark . . .

  I’m cold inside and out as I exit Riptide, for reasons that have nothing to do with the snow that’s now blowing in fierce gusts. As I slide into the Escalade, Jacob eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay?”

  “Fucking beautiful.”

  “Does that mean go to the hotel, or a bar?”

  “Sex is my drug, not booze.” Especially not scotch, considering the last time I’d drunk-dialed Ms. Smith and flown her to San Francisco. “Go to the Omni on Madison Avenue.”

  “Got it,” he assures me, tapping his GPS.

  He pulls away from the curb, and during the three-minute drive I replay my encounter with Ms. Smith. By the time the hotel doormen open our car doors, I tell myself there was no other way than making her hate me. This woman sees beneath my skin, and the sense of freedom in being unable to hide from her is dangerous. Instead of containing what I feel in some moment, when she’s nearby, I get lost in it and in her. She makes me weak enough to forget my control. And I think it’s pretty clear I’m not one of her better choices, either.

  Jacob and I enter the white-tiled lobby, a sparkling chandelier above our heads. Due to the late hour and the weather, only a few patrons are sprinkled across the room. “The front desk,” I say when I don’t see any manager I recognize. At the counter, the clerk quickly looks up the alias I’ve registered under, as I did during my mother’s blood infection, and sees the flag on my file. As I follow the woman leading us to a private office, Ms. Smith’s “I’m a gateway” plays in my head, causing a twist of gui
lt in my gut. She’d have ended up hating me anyway, no doubt rightfully so.

  The manager who helps us is no one I know, a pretty blonde whom I barely register outside of her remote resemblance to Ms. Smith, who seems to want to play around in my head. She does whatever check-in computer work that is needed while Jacob engages her in conversation to ensure our privacy.

  The woman is efficient and quick, as is Jacob’s glance at our room numbers and the knowing look of disapproval when he sees we’re on different floors. Leveling a stare at him, I dare him to challenge me and he gets the message. We cross the quiet lobby to the elevators, the silence between us lurking, not comfortable.

  I hired his team for a specific list of reasons. That list does not include ensuring that I don’t carry out my vow of vengeance, spoken in a moment of torment in front of his boss. But the news that Rebecca was most likely dead and in the Bay, knowing that she’d struggled for years with nightmares of drowning in the Bay, had been torture.

  We enter the elevator, riding to his floor in silence. “My room at eight in the morning,” I say when the elevator halts. “That should give us plenty of time to get to my parents’ apartment and then the hospital for my mother’s treatment at ten.”

  Jacob punches the button to hold open the door. “I’ve been thinking about tomorrow. You mentioned the press had tracked you to your parents’ apartment during your last stay, even though the apartment had a private garage that should have prevented you from being detected. I can’t help but think someone on the building staff is being paid to tip them off.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Your mother wasn’t aware of her surroundings the last time you were here, but she is now. Since you haven’t warned her yet about what’s being said in the news, and you were pleased with the hospital’s protocols for high-profile visitors, I think you need to surprise your mother there.”

  My lips thin. “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. Change the meet-up time to nine.”