by Maya Rose
Little girl? Even that ships a roll of pleasure down my belly. Because his voice is gruff and gritty, anger and desire skirmishing. How is he this hot even when he’s mad?
I don’t blink. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want to see what all the fuss is about. You worth all that fuss women make over you, Mr King?”
But he gives a light chuckle to my awestruck chagrin. His eyes narrow, slick and knowing. “You cyber stalking me, princess? Is that how you flick your bean? What’s your scenario of choice? Imagining sucking me off? Swallowing every drop I give you till you can’t wash off my taste from your mouth?”
My breath kicks. He’s not guessing. He knows how he affects me. Of course he does, you ninny, after you practically mauled his mouth. But shit. I like it. God help me, I like the way his mouth forms these dirty words. I might not even need to stroke my pussy to come if he keeps talking. What is going on with me? My body doesn’t respond to men with this throb of longing. It’s like he flipped a damn switch somewhere that I thought wasn’t wired right.
“Are we talking about my fantasies or yours, Mr King?”
His eyes harden. “We’re talking about your mother ruining a good relationship.”
It ruined her too, I want to tell him. Her entire lucid life was a shrine toWarren Walton. I wish the disease had caught her sooner. At least then she wouldn’t have spent my childhood yearning for a relationship she could never have, and resenting the one she alone was forced to have.
But I don’t say any of that and keep my tone neutral. “Is this the part where I have to apologize for my mother being able to seduce a married man?”
A shrewd crinkle appears on his brow. It looks out of place on his face, which is all smooth angles, chiseled to perfection. “Is that what happened?”
Over the years, I tried to ask mom several times. And she steadfastly stuck to her version. They fell in love and one thing led to another. I don’t want to tell him what actually happened. That my mother meant for me to be a Hail Mary pass to keep Warren, but it spectacularly backfired. Mom’s boozy rambling one night when I was eight, cut me to the quick. I thought you were going to solve my problems. But you’re jinxed. A schlimazel. You made everything worse, you useless girl. I had to go look up what schlimazel meant. A consistently unlucky person.
“What? Your boss didn’t give you details?” I question him flippantly, trying to conceal my curiosity.
“Not about her.” He pauses. A muscle sports in his jaw, but his features are schooled. “He only told me about you and that day you came to see him on your tenth birthday.”
Shit. I focus all my energy on not cringing. “How much longer?” I ask him quickly, changing the subject.
His blue eyes study me, and I let them. I won’t be the one to back down. “You came to his office with some girls from your school. Because they wouldn’t believe Warren Walton is your father. You waited five hours to see him.”
Mom had told me the day before. I couldn’t wait to tell Stephanie and Macy. Only, they called me a liar. So we blew off classes and took the subway to his midtown Manhattan office building. We somehow made it to his office on the eleventh floor. He was so freaking polite after his initial shock wore off. Smiling, making jokes, ordering us snacks and juice when he finally saw us...but telling me I was mistaken the whole time. I don’t know any Tamara Jenning, he said, nervously smoothing his tousled red hair, and not letting me see into his light brown eyes. Maybe your mother is trying to protect your feelings, sweetheart. I had a picture of them together in my skirt pocket. I never took it out. He was so convincing, that when we left, I truly believed mom had lied to me. Just to get me off her back with my constant questions about my father. Until I went home and discovered a huge wad of cash in my backpack, with a note stuck to one bill, a single word on it. Sorry.
“You told him you’re allergic to ginger like he is. And a good swimmer.”
My eyes are starting to sting as he doggedly keeps going, face inscrutable. If I cry in front of him, I’m going to throw myself out of the running car.
“And that you also like strawberries only if they’re bitter--”
“Shut up.” I trim his words short. Is he mocking me?
But his face is as serious as a heart attack. And inflamed. “He remembers everything. Every little pitiful detail.”
“Well, sucks for you, doesn’t it? Poor Mr King.”
I’m goading him again, but so is he. After his entitled ass got everything I never even got close to. Why was he not punished for what his father did when I was for my mother? But he doesn’t take the bait, his face unruffled.
“Eli.” He says in a dark drawl instead. “Call me Eli.”
The hell I will. Now if only my heart gets the memo and stops doing that goddamn dance inside my chest. “Why? Because we swapped spit?”
He canvasses me intently. His eyes drop to my mouth, before rising up, darkened. “Because for once, say something with that mouth that you actually want to.”
Hell will freeze over before I let him think he’s right. “Aww...was that your first real kiss, pretty boy? If that’s why you think you’ve got me all figured out now, you should consider asking for a refund on all that Ivy League tuition.”
I’m anticipating him to mouth off angrily. But between me opening my door for him and right now, he’s somehow a different man. His eyes on me are unperturbed, penetrating. His full lips are shaped in a taunting smile. And although there’s no humor in it, my heart still jumps at the sheer beauty of it.
He leans in, breathing on my face, and now I’m the one flinching back.
“Don’t make me stick my fingers inside your wet little slit just to prove a point, princess.” His voice is heavy. A whispered warning. “Because unlike you, your body won’t lie to me.”
He’s so close I can almost feel him on my lips. I should punch his face. But his words are equal parts terrifying and arousing, and my core hurts like an addict needing a fix. I want to open my legs and guide him down to that untouched part of me. I want it. No. I need it. To beg him to break the barrier that keeps me a virgin. Stuff me up and take me hard. My clit is pulsing, begging for relief. My heart slams faster, need and fear merging and gushing through it. He’s right. I lost this game long before I started playing. What was I thinking needling him with this act of mine? Why didn’t I think this through? And now I’m going with him, God knows where, because...because why? Shit. Shit! Without any lead in, my mouth is suddenly parched, my forehead is clammy, and my fingers start to numb.
No, I pray desperately. Not now. Not here. Not in front of him. I’ve had such a good run for almost three months.
“Take me back.” I order him tersely. My fingers come off the jacket, and tug at the elastic band around my wrist, letting it hit against my skin with each pull, trying to curb the panic. “I changed my mind.”
But he just gives me a fixed look. “I haven’t. You’re meeting him, whether you want to or not.”
His words suck out all the air around me. Whether you want to or not. I don’t have a choice. Like I didn’t when my landlord suggested I clean his apartment, in exchange for another month of rent. He was wearing only briefs when he opened the door. I entered 911 on my phone and kept my finger ready to hit the call button the whole time. He didn’t make a move or touch me, but I scrubbed myself for an hour after I got back to my apartment, and then curled up in a foetal position in the empty tub, letting the trepidation wear off. Like I didn’t have a choice when my manager at the Lace Club offered to pay for mom’s new medicines, if I served drinks to that rich banker, wearing scraps that barely covered me. It’s not like I’m asking you to strip. I suppose I should be grateful that he backed off when he saw my panicked reaction right in front of him...which...here it comes.
I can’t breathe, and there’s a mountain lodged in my throat. And there’s no corner for me to tuck in, no table or desk to hide under. The man in front of me is starting to turn blurry, and my hands reach out blindly, grasping at him
so he stops fading in and out of my vision. I don’t know why unlike the others, he needs to stay. I can’t let him go away. But my fingers are like lead, tingling and unable to hold on to anything. I’ve got to be dying. This time, I’m definitely going. It’s not a terrible thing, I tell myself. For this frequent pain to stop. To have this life end. Not like it means anything. But my body still can’t stop tailspinning in a bid for survival.
“I’m...I think...I feel…”
I try to talk to him, to explain that I’m collapsing, because I can see him watching me with growing alarm, but I’m not really sure he’s real. I’m floating in space and time, weightless, shaking uncontrollably. I stay like that, suspended, waiting for a decision to be made for me, when suddenly, I’m bodily surrounded by something warm and sturdy and musky.
“Ms Walt...Jenn…fuck......Ariel...Ariel?”
It seems distant at first, the sound of my name, until it grows clearer. It’s demanding and coaxing and reassuring, trying to bring me back. But I’m so safely encased, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I shut my eyes tighter, gliding deeper into the darkness behind my eyelids. “Please...just for a second.” I plead, not sure anymore whom to.
There’s deafening silence for a moment, maybe longer. Until my ears pick up that voice again. Crusty, but certain. “I’m here.”
Then I’m pulled closer towards that solid wall, anchoring me in place. Heat engulfs me, and I can hear the beat of something wild under my ears. Mixing with nonsensical soft murmurs. It strikes me gradually. I’m not freefalling. I’m not hurting...and I’m not alone. My heart starts to pace down as I’m squeezed tighter, dread dissipating. The feeling of impending disaster starts slowly chipping away. My feet can feel the surface beneath them, as my tremors subside.
Air flows in and out of my nose again, and the first thing I become acutely aware of, is hands skimming my back. Comforting, not exploring. Their pressure is firm, as steady as the warm breath that falls on the top of my head. My eyes flutter open, then blink hard, focusing. The fabric I’m nabbing in my fingers is smoother than anything I own. My other hand is circling a waist. I’m not in the apartment. The faucet wasn’t working again, and I was going to eat the leftover pizza instead of cooking anything. Then there was a knock. When I opened the door, eyes like the ocean tried to drown me. And I suddenly recollect where I am, and grasp what happened.
I had another panic attack, and this man witnessed it.
Can anything be more mortifying? He saw me at my weakest. And I still have him in a vise like embrace, like I might crumble if he lets go. How long have I been draped on him like this? How am I supposed to live this down? I can’t let him think this is a big deal, even if my heart screams differently. Because no one has ever held me through one of these. I’ve never wanted them to either. I’m also not high strung or a teary mess like I normally get. But he can’t know.
I tip my head back and meet his eyes, ready to tear down any hint of pity in them. But there’s none of that. His face is all snarly, and he’s looking at me with an expression of pure distaste. There’s a sharp pinch in my chest I’ve never felt before. He’s disgusted by what he saw?
For a man to go from desire to contempt in such a short span...how did I manage that? I disentangle myself, releasing his vest, and push against his chest to propel myself straight. That’s when I realize where his hands are. Because I’m in them. I’m practically straddling him, and he’s keeping me there. What the hell is his deal? If he’s so repelled by me, why is he still touching me?
“Show’s over, Mr King. You got your lap dance. Now let me go.”
But he just keeps his hands right where they are, eyes about to blow a gasket. “Do you still want to go back?”
Why is he asking me now? Why does it scare me? “Now you care what I want? Make up your mind, Mr--”
“Answer the fucking question.” His voice slices through my words.
My heart skips a beat as the ugly possibility peeks its head. Is he done forcing me to go with him? I’m a coward right now, afraid of the answer. So I dodge.
“Get your damn hands off me.” I hurl at him, mimicking his tone, trying to wrench away from his grasp.
But his fingers slide up my back and stop on my forearms. Then they try to pierce my skin, and shots of pain run up and down my arm, as his nearness plays havoc with my senses. God, it would be so easy to place my lips on the side of his jaw where his five o'clock shadow rests, and lick. I can’t believe where my head is going, even when he’s like this. What is he doing to me?
“Say it.” He chews out, and his jaw doesn’t even shift when he talks. “Fucking tell me again you don’t want to do this, so I can get rid of you.”
It’s not a battle of words anymore. He means it. He’s through with me. I’m too much or maybe too little, but clearly not enough. The crushing weight on my heart at the realization is unexpected, disorienting me for an instant. No. No. Since when can a man hurt me? I always thought I was better than mom. I swore that I would never be as gullible as she was. Apparently, I’m worse. I don’t know this man at all, and somehow he wields control over me that I can’t understand or stop. Elevating me with a kiss, and burying me under rock bottom with words. I look at him glowering at me with his immaculate suit and blue blooded looks, like I’m not worth his time, like I don’t deserve him or his world, and something snaps in me. It’s not up to him. He can’t take this away from me. I’m tired of letting assholes like him dictate my life. All I have to do is kick my ego to the curb and stop telling myself that I don’t want this. Because it’s a freaking lie. I want it. A future that the likes of him don’t decide for me. A life that I’m free to choose. A shot at having a ghost of a relationship with at least one parent that won’t forget me before they die. It’s in front of me, all of it, offered out of nowhere, and I’m not on the fence anymore.
I put all my energy into not wincing under his glare and his touch, and give him a hostile look. “Beg some more. I like it.”
His hand presses down cruelly, and more pain mingles with pride as my skin accepts the brunt of my effect on him. Angry does not begin to describe his thunderous expression. Like he wants to carve me in half. In this, we’re equals. Because I want to do the same to him.
“Mr King, we’re here.” Someone talks over static, and we turn in the direction of the partition, spooked out of our deadlock. I look back at him, but half a second later, he flings me off him like I’m contagious.
Damn him, why am I cold? I huddle the jacket around me again, even as I’m preparing for him to ask for it back from me. But he simply looks at the door expectantly the minute the car goes stationary. I get why, seconds later, when it opens for him. Rich people, Jesus.
I turn to my own door when I hear him say something to someone, but nothing’s happening. Okay, where do I get out from? After him or my own door? Should I wait or should I open it myself? Does it even matter? Shit, why am I nervous? The car feels safe, and I don’t want to get out.
His face suddenly appears in the space his open door has left and he throws something on the floor in front of me.
Shoes. A glittery version, studded with little sparkly stones, and heels that could boost me up to touch the moon. What is he----my battle weary sneakers. Torn and dirty. He doesn’t want me to meet my father in them. My heart flutters uncomfortably, trying to write off the oddly sensitive gesture. It can’t be for me. Maybe he gets brownie points from Warren for--
“Get out.” He forces my attention back.
I sense movement next to him. We have an audience. And he’s still talking to me like that. Yeah, no. “What’s the magic word, Mr King?” I ask him, making sure my voice carries.
His jaw twitches, and his eyes are not helping with my feeling cold. “Please get the fuck out.”
I’ll take it, I decide. I strap the pumps on and slide down the seat, before offering him my hand with a phony civil smile. He glares at it like I’m giving him the pin of a grenade. When he hesitates, I
smile wider. “I have all night.”
He grabs it, placing his palm below mine, his thumb indenting my knuckles, and pulls me out. The dumbass pumps have me hobbling for balance, and I go for a grip on his sleeves. But shit, I can barely manage it, because the man is ripped, and the shirt is plastered onto him. How did I not feel all this cushiony hardness before when we were kissing? The heels, I realize. My eyes fasten on the obvious shape of his muscles through the cloth, and I’m suddenly hot behind my ears, absorbed in the sheer maleness of him. In the way his apple bobs. In the perfect Cupid’s bow on the top of his upper lip. In the way his perfectly parted and set dark blonde hair is just asking for trouble. In how my cheek can still feel the stubble that covers his jaw. I have butterflies the size of dinosaurs. And the stupid things multiply tenfold when I meet his eyes.
“Leave, Xavier.” He doles out abruptly, not breaking our eyelock.
What? Through my jumble of thoughts, I hear the car being kicked into gear and driven off. Oh.
Then he stands straighter, and I’m again craning my neck. Ugh, why couldn’t he have been shorter? Balder? Spindlier?
He looks at me like he’s barely tolerating my presence. “Enough with the eye-fucking, Ms Jenning.”
Obnoxious jackass. But a jackass that wants me. I’m standing close enough that he can’t hide the lift in his pants. And I’m dying to set the record straight.
Without looking away, I bring one hand down, and graze it across his hardened length. Just one stroke and my hand comes away. The contact sears me to my bones, and I hope to God he can’t see it on my face. I ask him with an innocent look before my own voice gives out, “You were saying?”
Hope sparks in me when a jagged breath from him fans my face, and he goes motionless like a statue. That lasts all of 1 second.
I’m left red-faced when he removes my hand that’s on his arm, disengaging himself. Then he eyes me like he’s embarrassed for me. “You have about five minutes to grow the fuck up before you meet your father, Ms Jenning. Think you can manage it?”
