by Alta Hensley
He chuckled and motioned for me to take the wine glass, which I did. “Relax. I’m kidding. Layla is just a friend. More like a daughter to me. She came to live with me a couple of years ago because she had nowhere else to go. Her father was killed, and he was a good friend of mine.”
“Oh, that’s awful. He was killed? Assassinated?” I don’t know why my thoughts went to the extreme rather than thinking that Layla’s father could have simply died in a car crash or by cancer, but this was Harley Crow and his past after all.
Harley nodded as he poured vodka from a crystal decanter into a tumbler. “One of the largest bounties I had ever seen was on her father’s head. Hell, I was tempted to take the job myself. Layla had one on her head as well. I guess you could say that friendship took over, and I felt that, though, I couldn’t save her father, I owed it to the man to at least save his daughter. So I did.”
“Why couldn’t you save her father?”
Wiping down the counter, he said, “There’s no changing a hit once it is set in stone. Nothing can be done. You can’t prevent the fates. I maybe could have stopped one attempt, perhaps even two. But eventually it would have caught up to him.”
“But you saved Layla? Will the fates catch up with her?”
He nodded. “Most likely. We both know that. All I can do is try my best to fight them.”
“But there is nothing between you guys?” I tried to ask as casually as I could, hoping he couldn’t hear the jealousy still laced within my words. I sipped my wine to try to hide the tension on my face as I waited for the answer.
He sipped his drink and walked over to the couch and motioned for me to follow as we both sat down. “There are some lines you just don’t cross. She’s a little too young for my tastes,” he said with a wink. “And vanilla. I tend to like things a lot darker than Layla is or at least I assume she is.” His eyes darkened and so much mystery seemed to lurk in the depths of them. “She lives in the pool house and is about as close to family as I have. So, no, I wouldn’t fuck a family member.”
Relief washed over me. I felt bad and even a bit ashamed for instantly hating a girl I had never met. The green-eyed monster had always been a weakness of mine, and I just hoped I had somehow managed to hide my feelings from Harley.
“You don’t have any family?” I asked as I settled against the leather that was almost as soft as butter.
“Assassins and family don’t mix.”
“Why?”
He chuckled. “Do I really need to answer that?”
My face heated. “I guess not. Good point.”
“So… Carla Alvarez,” he said calmly, “where do we go from here?”
His words were like a splash of cold water. I nearly choked on the wine that I had just sipped. “How do you know my real name?” I asked, stunned to hear that name that I hadn’t heard in so many years. I hated it. Carla Alvarez was dead. I’d killed her the minute I’d moved to New Orleans, and Harley was digging up her grave.
“I own Spiked Roses, remember. I have access to personnel records.”
I hadn’t seen smug on Harley Crow before, and it was about as sexy as the rest of his facial expressions.
“I don’t go by that name anymore,” I said softly.
“I understand that.”
“Just like you don’t go by the name you were born with,” I countered, feeling a bit violated that he knew this secret of mine.
“True,” he said with a nod as he crossed his leg casually over the other. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make a deal with you. I promise to never call you by that name or ever mention it to anyone if you tell me why you chose to change it to Marlowe Masters.”
I hadn’t told anyone about my name change before, and wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Picking up on my hesitation, Harley said, “Who’s Afraid of the Dark? I get to choose anything I want that could scare you, remember? As long as it isn’t on your list of hard limits. Asking about your past is not on your hard limits.”
“This has nothing to do with fear,” I defended.
“I disagree.”
I sighed deeply. I wanted to make sure he knew I was not pleased with the way the conversation was going. “I told you. Big dreams, shitty past. I didn’t want to be the daughter of a Mexican motorcycle gang leader any longer. I wanted a new start. I didn’t want to be the girl who grew up in a piece of shit town ruled by the gun trade and drugs. And you know what else?” I said as I paused to take a drink of wine. “I didn’t want to be Mexican anymore. I didn’t want to become my mother, or my sisters, or my other family members. I wanted to escape it all. My past, my heritage, my family. All of it. Marlowe Masters was as far away from Carla Alvarez as you could get.”
Harley appeared stunned by my confession. A little too stunned. From the way his eyes narrowed and the tilt of his head, he almost seemed as if he didn’t believe what I was telling him.
“Did someone tell you to tell me that? Your story?” His voice was even and steady, but all the casual and playful banter almost seemed to disappear. He stood up from the couch, walked toward the window, and turned to face me. “The motorcycle gang. What gang?”
“What are you talking about?” I didn’t understand why he was asking me this question. Why did he care? “Why would someone tell me to tell you this? My past? I didn’t want to tell you about my past. You made me.”
He shook his head, and a small smile seemed to be forced on his face. “Never mind. It just seems like an unbelievable story. Mexican motorcycle gang? Really?”
“Really,” I said, feeling a little defensive and still confused with the way he acted and the questions he asked.
“Your past world blends with mine. I just didn’t expect that to happen is all.”
“I work at Spiked Roses. Did you really expect for me to have some naïve, bright-eyed, normal past with a blue-collared father and a suburban housewife of a mother? The girls who work there have dark and checkered pasts. Not one of us have to make something up just to be interesting. Trust me.”
Walking back to the couch, he sat down and ran his hand over the side of my head, keeping it cupped in a warm and protective way. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you tell me that story if you didn’t want to.”
His eyes were staring deeply into mine, and his face was so close that I could feel his breath against my skin. He was so close. So close that if I moved in just a little bit, we would be kissing.
“I promise that I will never call you that name, nor bring it up again.”
And just like that, I was jelly in his hands once again. One touch. One kind word. Melted goo on his butter soft couch.
“I just want to change the subject. If that’s all right with you,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t take his hand off my head. It felt possessive, and I fantasized at that moment that I was his. I wanted the feeling to last.
“Fair enough,” he said, finally breaking his contact and sitting back as he sipped from his vodka. He was still close to me, but not nearly as close as I wanted him to be. “Let’s discuss this contract we signed.”
Heat radiated from my toes all the way to the top of my head. I knew my cheeks had to be a blazing red by how hot they felt. “Okay, the contract.” My words came out stronger than I truly felt inside which I at least was happy about.
“Are you really not afraid of the dark?” he asked, his eyes locking with mine.
“I guess we will soon find out.” Breathing seemed to become a struggle as my chest felt like it weighed a million pounds.
“RED,” he said. “All you have to do is say RED. But if I don’t hear that word, I won’t stop. I have to warn you, Marlowe.”
“Warn me about what?”
“I love the smell of fear. I get off on it. It makes my dick hard, and the more afraid you are, the more I will want to continue on. I plan to test you. Take you right to the edge of insanity. I want you to be so afraid, yet have me there with you while you are. What I have in mind this weekend, you will hate me
for it afterwards.”
“I don’t scare easily,” I said, placing my empty wine glass on the nearby table. “And how can I hate you for doing what we both agreed to? I told you at Spiked Roses that I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that you believe that to be true. But I also think I will succeed in scaring you shitless. We have all weekend. Tonight will just be a taste of what’s to come.”
“Yes, we have all weekend.” I took hold of his glass and placed it next to mine. “Then shall we begin?” I asked, not being able to take it any longer. “Let’s see if you can break me.”
“Break you?” His eyes darkened and an almost snarl formed on his lips. “Did I just hear you say that?”
“Break me,” I repeated. “Can you?”
“Oh, trust me… I can.”
I could smell him so close. I’d had a small taste of how good his touches could be. But I wanted more. So much more.
Standing up, Harley lifted me from my seated position with more force than all his other tender touches before. Taking me by the hand, he silently led me to a door. It didn’t take long for me to see that it was his room when I saw the large four-poster master bed that dominated the center of the space.
I needed Harley Crow now. I had waited for this time for so long. I had lusted, I had hungered, and I had craved. It was time to finally stare that boogiemonster straight in the eye. I was not afraid of the dark one little bit. It was the opposite. He was the dark, and I wanted to be engulfed in it. Surrounded in it. Conquered by it.
Chapter Seven
Harley
You can’t rattle the cage of the animal and not expect to unleash the fury.
Marlowe claimed she didn’t scare easily, which only further fueled my desire to prove her wrong. Her exterior was hardened, protected—but I saw something else. I saw it in the way she swallowed hard, and the way her breathing hitched. There was fear there. Fear beneath the weak shield she held up. I could break her. I would fucking break her. She didn’t think so, but oh, how she was wrong. When I was done with her this weekend, she would see. She would see where dancing with the monster would lead her.
As we walked into my bedroom, I took her by the upper arms and slammed her against the wall without warning. The purpose wasn’t to hurt her, but to set the energy. No more small talk. No more peeking into our pasts. Now it was time to dive into the depths of what both of us kept locked inside.
Her brown eyes were wide, but not frightened. Startled. But startled didn’t fuel my fire. I wanted her to be afraid. She should be. If she knew. If she had any idea, she would have never signed that contract to be with me. She had no idea what I was capable of doing. What I could… and would… do to her.
There was a fine, jagged line between consensual and taking. It was a line I walked. I took. I demanded. But at the same time, the women of my past begged for more. They hungered for me as I did for them. A taste of the darkness addicted all who sampled.
“Remove your dress,” I ordered in a low and even tone. Calm. Always calm. The calmest waters were always the scariest. You never knew what creature lurked beneath.
I released her arms so she was no longer restricted. This is where I would see if she was truly what I craved. If I had read her correctly. Did the submissive nature that I longed to devour exist behind those dark eyes of hers?
The answer was yes. Without hesitation, and without shame, she reached for the black strap of her dress and lowered it down her shoulder and arm. She never broke eye contact as she repeated the step with the other strap. Lowering the fabric over her bare breasts, she held her gaze steady on mine. I didn’t want to break the stare, but I had no choice. I needed to see what was revealed as the black dress was peeled off her creamy skin. She took hold of the dress with both hands when it bunched at her hips and lowered it over the curve of her ass, exposing a black lace G-string. Allowing the dress to drop to the floor where it pooled at her bare feet, she took one step, then two out of it, kicking it to the side.
Fuck. Fucking beautiful. The most fucking stunning woman stood before me. Her firm breasts screamed out to me, demanding to be touched, licked, bit, and claimed as mine. And the soft swell of her stomach that blended with the hourglass shape of her hips. She was not stick and bones like so many women foolishly strived to be, and the luscious womanly curves she possessed turned me on more than any woman I had ever seen.
The pressure built at the base of my spine and jolted straight to my cock. She wasn’t afraid. She was in control. But I was not. I was fucking losing control as my lust and desire to be balls deep in her sweet pussy increased to an almost suffocating level.
I had to gain control. I had to take it back. I had no choice or she would eat me alive.
I placed my hand at her throat and squeezed. Not enough to cut off her air completely, but enough to restrict it. Her eyes widened again, and her lips parted with a soft strangled gasp, but she still showed no fear.
Fuck, why was there no fear?
I tightened my grip as I made sure her head was pressed firmly against the wall behind her. Looking down at her body in nothing but a thin G-string, I used my other hand to cup one breast, enjoying how it filled my hand. Marlowe remained motionless, which pleased me. She was waiting. Waiting for my command as what to do next; she understood her role.
I was the predator and she was the prey.
“Go sit on the bed,” I said in the same calm voice as before.
She waited until I released my hold on her throat and breast, and slowly walked over to the bed draped in a black and gray damask bedspread.
I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, staring at her as she walked to the bed. Her long black hair cascaded down her back over the tattoo that I was dying to know the story behind. The branches of the tree delicately curved around her shoulder blades, while the trunk of the tree ran down the entire length of her spine. The branches were nearly bare, with dead leaves dropping to where her ass met her back. It was a dead tree, yet so full of life. It screamed of a dark tale. A tale I wanted to be told. It wasn’t just a tattoo, but rather art. True and unbelievably talented art.
She sat at the edge of the bed and placed her hands in her lap as she watched me shed my clothing with hunger in her eyes. After I cast my shirt to the side, I walked over to a row of blood red candles I had on the nightstand and lit them. The moonlight shone through the large window in the room, but the moon alone without the candle’s blaze wouldn’t be enough light for my tastes. I wanted to see every delicious inch of her body. I wanted to see the spark of fear the minute it entered her brave eyes.
Marlowe said nothing as the wicks crackled beneath the flame. She remained still. So still.
The only thing she moved were her eyes as she watched my every move. And when the candlelight illuminated the room, I turned to find her studying my tattoos as I had studied hers. Tattoos are like body paint that warriors put on before battle. Marlowe and I were both warriors engaged in our own type of war.
I walked back toward her as I unbuckled my belt, slipping it from the loops of my pants in a swish. The action and sound drew Marlowe’s eyes to the belt, and then to my eyes in question as I took hold of the black leather and wrapped it around her neck.
And there it was…
The first flicker of fear as I fastened the belt and tightened it around her delicate throat. Again, it wasn’t enough to prevent her from breathing, but enough to force her to have to part her lips and inhale deeply, searching for whatever air she could. I held onto the belt and tugged it hard, snapping her head back so she had no choice but to look up at me. I needed to hear her voice. I needed to hear the submissive softness that I knew would be present. I needed to hear the quiver in her words that I knew the building fear inside of her would cause.
“Do you like pain, Marlowe?”
“Yes,” she said so low that had I not read the word on her lips, I wouldn’t have heard it.
I tugged the belt more, hoping she’d read my
action and the stern look I gave her as a warning.
“Yes, sir,” she said more clearly which instantly pleased me.
Yes, that was all it would take. The look. She understood the look.
Her eyes glassed over as I ran my fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her head possessively. “I know you do. Or at least you think you do. But you have no idea the type of pain I could deliver. I wouldn’t scar your body, but I would scar every inch of your insides. There would be nothing inside of you left untouched.”
A soft mewl escaped her lips and my cock surged in need. Jesus Christ, so submissive. She was so fucking submissive. I knew… but I didn’t know. Not like this. Not this intense. It shouldn’t be this intense. I was walking along a dangerous cliff. If I fell off, I would be undone. Marlowe Masters had the power to shove me off that cliff if I wasn’t careful.
She placed her fingertips at my waistband and looked up at me with questioning eyes. Yes, she was asking permission. Marlowe and I had already mastered the language of silence. We knew the looks, the way to speak without the words. She wanted to lower my pants but was waiting for my dictate to say it could happen first. Oh, she had the skill of an aged submissive, and we had the connection that a Dom and submissive spend years to develop. So fast, so powerful… but so fucking dangerous. The cliff. I had to remember I balanced precariously on the precipice.
I nodded my approval which was all it took for her tiny fingers to busily unbutton, unzip and shed me of my pants and underwear in effortless motions. I still held the belt firmly around her neck. It acted as the appetizer of what was still to come this night. A very small sampling of the main course.
When my pants came down and my cock popped out, free to stand hard against the still air of the room, I could feel her small puffs of breath upon it. She was so close. Her face so close. One thrust is all it would take to shove my dick past her pouty lips and rest against her wet tongue. This was an act I never insisted on. I never commanded it to happen. If they chose of their own free will, and their own desires to suck me off, then I gladly allowed it. But that was on them. I would not fuck their face without consent, just as I would not fuck their pussy without it.
