Flipping on the bedside lamp, I let myself sink into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The immediate relief to my leg causes an involuntary sigh to escape, and I rub my hand across my beard.
This is my home life existence. A ten-by-twelve guest bedroom and an empty fridge.
And yet, I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything. Living has become quite simple for me. I keep my attachments to people and luxuries to a minimum, concentrate on my job, and put all my energies into saving lives. I don’t worry about anything else. By not giving anything value, nothing can hurt me if taken away.
Self-preservation at its finest.
And yet, I’m in a conundrum because I’ve just recently found something that has proven valuable to me.
At least on one occasion.
The woman from The Wicked Horse Vegas last weekend. If I were being honest in the brutal, flagellating way I’ve developed over the last year, I’d call her a plague because she’s occupied way too many of my thoughts since our encounter. It’s disconcerting because the only thing I’ve allowed to penetrate any of my brain matter, is well… brains.
Those I operate on, evaluate, and fix. I only have room for work, or so I thought.
But this past week, I repeatedly replayed every single moment of that evening over in my mind. I wasn’t with her more than thirty minutes tops, yet I’ve spent hours analyzing every minute of it. Why this woman fascinates me is vexing, because on the surface, she’s no different than any other beautiful, hot, fuckable woman at the club.
I’m not sure how many times I went into the fantasy app since our hookup, intent on setting another meeting.
Another chance for me to feel something.
And while she might be labeled a frustrating annoyance to me in so many ways, I must admit she has proven to have value to me.
Because my body reacted differently to her than any other of my conquests in The Wicked Horse. For the few months I’ve been a member, I’ve fucked my fair share of the women there and I’ve gotten off each time. But I’m not sure it’s been worth the exorbitant fee I pay to be a member.
At least not until last Friday night with the mysterious @elencosti89 and what was the most mind-blowing sexual experience of my life. It all boiled down to the fucking orgasm that made me almost believe in God again.
Yes, she has value. She made me feel again, and isn’t that the reason I went to The Wicked Horse in the first place? Because I’d gotten so far removed from life itself that I wasn’t feeling much of anything. Even I know it’s not a good thing, and it is only a thin line separating what I had and the peace that might come with death if I thought about things too hard.
So why in the hell had I passed up the opportunity to be with her again? My entire body pulsed with energy when I saw her standing in that ballroom. A blindfold hid most of her face, but I’d seen her picture before. She was easy to recognize because she’s such a beautiful woman.
It was a simple proposition. I could have brought her to the club after they’d served the cake at the party tonight, but I shut that down. Having another divine sexual experience was within my grasp, but I turned my back on it.
Same old Benjamin. Shielding himself. Taking the easy way out. Being a coward.
I could have fucking had her tonight, and I passed.
Because despite how desperately I’ve been seeking to feel something the last few months, it scared the shit out of me once it happened.
It means I’m not totally dead inside.
And that means I can hurt again.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter as I scrub my hands through my hair. No good choices.
April would be shaking me right about now if she were corporeal. I imagine her as a spirit somewhere but not in Heaven. I can’t believe in such a place because I can’t believe in a God who would do such an awful thing to our family.
I can almost understand April. She had not lived a complete life, but a full one. But what the fuck had Cassidy ever done to ever deserve to die that way? Why would God do that to a five-year-old?
Again, I can almost envision April shaking her head sadly at me for thinking these thoughts. She’d wonder where her eternal optimist had gone.
It’s easy for me to ignore these thoughts as April’s face dulls and fades more each day. Without the pictures out to remind me of how beautiful and sunny she was, I sometimes struggle to remember what she looked like. The memory of Cassidy’s face faded a bit faster, since I’d had less time with that precious angel.
And then something uniquely horrific hits me straight in the middle of my chest. A pain so intense that nausea sweeps through me. Groaning as I rub my breastbone, I try to put meaning onto what I’m feeling.
Guilt.
Pure, exquisitely sharp and brutally unforgiving.
Tears prick at my eyes for the first time in months. Not since my mom told me April and Cassidy had died in the accident.
They had put me in a medically induced coma so I could cope with my multiple injuries. They’d brought me out of it eight days later and my mom’s face was the first thing I saw as my eyes fluttered open. My mouth was dry, and I tried to talk but couldn’t.
“You have a trach,” were the first words out of her mouth as she leaned over the bed to hover in my field of vision. I could tell by the expression on her face she was holding onto some horrible, awful secret. “Don’t try to talk.”
My gaze moved left and right and there were two nurses checking me out. I hurt all over, but that’s not what caused me to want to slip back into unconsciousness.
It was the sickening expression on my mom’s face.
She grabbed my hand, gently of course, and leaned in even closer. “You’re going to be all right. You’ve been in a medically induced coma for eight days to help you cope with your injuries.”
It was impossible to talk, but I spoke with my eyes. I stared at my mom, imploring silently for her to tell me everything. Because I remembered April in the front passenger seat and Cassidy in her child safety seat in the rear when a pair of headlights crossed over into our lane of travel and came barreling at us.
My mom’s eyes filled with tears, and she gave a sad shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Benjamin. I’m so sorry. But April and Cassidy didn’t make it.”
I’m not sure if I’d been crying or not. I’d felt such painful emotion deep in my lower throat, but it couldn’t rise any higher than the trach. My eyes blurred, and warmth hit my cheeks. Pain spread through my chest, so severe I thought perhaps the stress of this news was killing me. It moved down into my stomach, and it seemed to curdle there.
My mouth opened and I gasped like a dying fish, but no sound came out.
I’d cried in the only way my broken body would let me, and it hurt so fucking much to do it so quietly. All the pain and grief stayed pushed down deep. By the time my trach was removed and I was released from the hospital almost three weeks later, I’d learned to keep it pushed down.
I haven’t shed a tear since.
The guilt within me continues to pulse, and I breathe through the pain.
This is a good thing, I remind myself.
It means I’m feeling something.
And the only thing I can give credence to for this breakthrough is @elencosti89.
I don’t even know her name, but I know she’s broken something open.
I lean on my hip, pulling my cell out of my pocket. Within moments, I have the fantasy app open and I’m sending her a message before I can talk myself out of it.
I’m disappointed not to spend time with you tonight. Let’s meet again, at your convenience. I’ll gladly pay your entrance fee into the club for the pleasure of your company.
Setting the phone on the bedside table, I wonder if she’s still at her friend’s birthday party or if she’s made her way home yet. I wonder where she lives and what she does for a living. I never even thought to ask, even though the polite thing would have been to engage in conversation after she’d asked what I did.
&
nbsp; Pushing up from the bed, I suppress the groan that wants to bubble out from the pain in my leg. It would be so easy to succumb to narcotic pain meds to help ease the burden. Instead, I’m using old-fashioned perseverance in my therapy and workout regimens, the dull support of a cane, and a gratefulness the ache in my leg takes my mind off other things.
I limp over to the guest bathroom, then strip out of my clothes. It takes me no more than five minutes to take a hot shower and brush my teeth.
When I make my way back into the guest room where I sleep, the phone draws my gaze. I can see there’s a notification on the icon of the fantasy app.
I plop down on the edge of the bed, the damp towel I’d wrapped around my waist gaping and exposing the fourteen-inch scar running along my outer left thigh. The scar itself looks like someone gouged out a chunk of muscle in the shape of a thin triangle about three inches in width at the widest point. My hand rubs at the scar, feeling the hardware underneath the reddened, puckered skin where I have plates and screws holding my femur together.
My other hand shakes slightly as I pick up my phone, then use my thumb to tap on the app. I maneuver to the messaging system, and my heart lurches when I see the response is from @elencosti89.
Tomorrow night? 11pm?
The weird sensation of my lips curving upward startles me a moment, but then I’m typing back.
Perfect. Meet you in the lobby.
CHAPTER 6
Elena
In all the times I have been to The Wicked Horse, I have never met someone in the first-floor lobby. Even though an evening at the club pretty much guarantees a fuck, there’s still work to be put in to meet and match up with someone who can fulfill the desired fantasies. That means socializing and talking beforehand.
Tonight, it’s not necessary, which makes it feel a little bit like an arranged date. I hate to think of it that way since nothing about tonight resembles a traditional date. We’re certainly not going to be having extended conversation while trying to get to know each other. Let’s face it… we know all we need to at this point.
We are well matched in our sexual chemistry and needs.
The Wicked Horse sits on the forty-sixth floor of the Onyx Casino in downtown Vegas. There is a private elevator that runs from the first-floor lobby straight up to the sex club and I stand near it waiting for my “date” to arrive.
So weird to even think of him as a date. I don’t even know his name. Only that he’s a neurosurgeon. I suppose I could address him as “doctor,” but that seems weird.
Admittedly, I am beyond excited and nervous at the same time. I honestly did not think I would hear from the man again. There was something about the way he’d left Jorie’s party last night that clearly stated he wasn’t interested. Sure, he tried to hook up with me, but because it wasn’t on his exact terms, he’d moved on. I’d been disappointed, but I didn’t think he felt much of anything about our ships passing in the night.
I glance at my watch, my entire body buzzing with anticipation. It almost feels like I’ve been roofied. Not that I would know what it felt like, but I can suspect since I feel overly primed to have this man fuck me again.
Inside my small purse, my phone chimes with a text. The handbag is a simple black silk number that matches the black dress I’m wearing. It’s sexy but also elegant, which is the expected dress code for The Wicked Horse.
I reach in and nab my phone, flipping to the text screen to see what Jorie wrote.
I am officially three days late on my period.
I put my purse under my arm to hold it tucked against my ribs, which frees my hands so I can respond. What? Are you serious?
I hit send, waiting only a moment before she replies. Yes!!!
I go dizzy with giddiness that Jorie might be pregnant. I’m not surprised she would share this with me, even though three days late doesn’t prove anything. But we have the deep, abiding bond of trust between us. Being besties will never change, which means we share even the tiniest of thrills, hopes, and expectations.
Which causes a twinge of guilt I’m getting ready to meet the mysterious man from her party last night, and I haven’t even told her about it. For some reason, I want to keep this experience to myself, at least for tonight. And it’s because he is so different from any other man I have been with. In fact, I’m walking into this evening fully expecting it might not end up as great as last time. If that ends up the case, I’m going to be disappointed. But I’m not ready to share the possible let down with Jorie, so I haven’t mentioned anything. I don’t want her to get all hopeful I might find something special the way she did.
Before I can respond, Jorie texts again. I’ve got to go. Walsh and I are headed out to the drugstore for a pregnancy test and some late-night ice cream. Love you.
I sent her a quick text back. Love you, too. Good luck. Let me know results asap.
She blows me a kiss with an emoji, and I smile.
As I turn off my phone, a pair of black dress shoes come into my line of vision. I slowly lift my head. Standing before me is my date, and he looks even better than I remembered.
He’s wearing a light gray designer suit complete with matching vest and accessorized with a white dress shirt and pale pink tie. Like last night, his hair is slightly mussed, yet his beard is perfectly trimmed. I wonder what it would feel like between my legs?
He lets his dark eyes run down my body, and I feel a moment of triumph when I see them heat up. When his eyes lock onto mine, he remains stoically silent. It’s awkward because I would usually expect a compliment over how I look at this point.
My heart sinks a moment, wondering if he is going to be awkward or shy, a complete juxtaposition to his commanding ways our first time together. I absolutely don’t want to have to lead. It’s why the fantasy app had matched us to begin with—I want someone I can submit to who will have absolute control over me. I don’t want to have to be the idea person, the seductress, the vixen who will rock his world.
I mean… I want to rock his world, but I want him to rock mine in return. That’s what he did for me the other night.
I want it again.
I’m startled when he grabs my hand, then turns me toward the elevator. “I’ve been thinking all day about what I want to do to you.”
His voice is deep, dark, and rumbling with pent-up desire. A pleasurable cramp hits me straight between my legs. Instantly, I feel a rush of wetness just from those words. It’s not a compliment about how I look tonight, but rather how I’ve affected him since our first encounter, which is much better.
I don’t respond because I don’t feel there’s any need. Instead, I intend to follow and comply obediently with whatever he wants to do.
I follow him into the elevator and when we emerge at the hostess podium, he gives a curt nod to the woman before he leads me through The Social Room. It’s where I’d ordinarily start my evening by having a drink or two to relax and meet prospects.
I’m led into another small lobby that has several hallways leading from it. Turning to the right, he heads straight for The Apartments.
This surprises me. I thought he might want to exercise control over me in a more public way. I had envisioned him putting me in the stocks or maybe on a St. Andrew’s cross in The Silo. The glassed-in rooms are the perfect place to exhibit kink for everyone to see.
Once inside The Apartments, he leads me to the same private room we were in last week. Except when he opens the door, I’m stunned to find it looks completely different. The bed, which I’d laid on as I’d allowed him to pour hot wax over me, is gone, and instead, there’s a black leather harness suspended from the ceiling. There are so many straps I can’t even comprehend how it works. Beside it, there’s a thick cable that appears to hold a remote control to maneuver the contraption.
I can feel my nipples go tight against the material of my dress as this is something new. I’ve never been suspended in any kind of contraption, and I’m going to be helpless as I hang there. Glancing around the
room, I see a rolling metal cabinet with three drawers. Past that, there’s nothing else to see.
He drops my hand, then moves to the cabinet. Opening the top drawer, he withdraws the same red silk blindfold I’d had on the night before.
Turning, he holds it out to me. “Get naked and put this on.”
There is no doubt I will do exactly as he says. I saunter up, then take the blindfold from him. He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes as I shimmy out of my dress. His nostrils flare when he sees I’m not wearing anything under it.
“Leave the shoes on,” he commands.
I push the stretchy material of my dress down past my hips along my legs, then step out of it without managing to wobble once in my extremely high heels.
To my surprise, he moves toward me, taking the blindfold out of my hands.
“Turn around,” he orders gruffly.
I comply, feeling him step in close, then I’m plunged into darkness as he ties the red silk around my eyes.
I gasp when he reaches around and pinches my nipple lightly, causing my hips to fly back into him. Blind, I can only imagine what is going to happen. I’m not prepared when one strong hand goes to my hip and the other brings his cane around to where he gently rubs it across my naked pussy. Moaning, I try to press into him, but then he’s gone and I’m all alone in the dark.
I stand there, wobbly and uncertain, listening intently for anything to give me a hint as to what he’ll do next. Part of the excitement is not knowing. For all I know, there’s a flogger in that cabinet that he could use to redden my skin soon.
But all I hear is a click, then some whirring. Footsteps pad toward me, then his hands are on my shoulders guiding me forward a few steps until he halts my progress.
With a series of soft commands, he starts to put me into the contraption.
“Raise your right leg.”
“Lift your arms.”
“Squat down just a tiny bit so I can get this strap on.”
Every single maneuver binds me tighter into the contraption. I feel swaths of leather crisscrossing all over my body. Several down my legs, under my ass, across my back.
Wicked Angel Page 4
