Crossing the Lines

by S. J. Hooks

  “A-Abigail,” I stutter. “Or Abbi, if you prefer.”

  “I don’t,” he says, and just like that, the discussion is over. I don’t really mind. We’re on his dime, so I guess he can call me anything he wants. “Abigail. You’ll refer to me as ‘Mr. Thorne’ or ‘Sir’ at all times. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I whisper, hoping I’ll be able to remember. I don’t want to disappoint him.

  “Good girl.” He smiles for the very first time in my presence. I don’t know much about him, but deference is apparently something he enjoys a great deal. His smile reveals tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but they don’t detract from his good looks—quite the opposite.

  Now that I’m inside, I can see how attractive he really is. He’s tall and lean with lightly tanned skin and thick dark hair. His eyes are hazel with long lashes, and the sharp angles of his face compliment his rather long straight nose. His only softening feature is his lips, which are now smirking at me as I stare up at him open-mouthed. There’s something a bit haughty about his face, and I change my impression of him from TV lawyer to English aristocrat in a historical drama –the lord of the manor. The fact that he’s so handsome doesn’t put me at ease. With his good looks, if he has to hire a girl to have sex with him, he must want something out of the ordinary. Something way out of the ordinary. I shiver at the thought and he notices immediately, the amused look in his eyes replaced by a serious one.

  “Would you like something to eat?” he asks, surprising me.

  “No, thank you.”

  “If you’re hungry, I want to know,” he says in a firm tone.

  “I’m not, Sir, I promise. I already ate.”

  He watches me closely for a few seconds before giving me a small nod. “Come with me, then,” he says, leading me upstairs. We pass several doors on the first floor before entering a huge, luxurious bathroom.

  “I want you to take a shower,” he directs. “Use all the products I’ve put out and dry your hair afterward. Then put this on and come join me in the kitchen. Understood?” He points to a pretty white dress on a hanger by the door.

  “Uh, y-yes, Sir.”

  “Very good.”

  I feel a bit shell-shocked after he’s left. He wants me to shower? I sniff under my arms but can’t find anything wrong with the way I smell. I showered at home right before dropping off Luke, so I’m already clean. What a weirdo.

  Regardless, I do as I’m told, locking the door to the bathroom first and removing what little makeup I have on before getting into the shower. Mr. Thorne has put out both shampoo and conditioner, expensive salon brands that I could never afford myself. Turning to the third bottle in the shower, I frown and try my best to read the label, but my high-school French isn’t proficient. I pour some of it in my hand and the texture tells me it’s some kind of exfoliating body scrub, which I use all over. It smells like flowers. After I’ve rinsed myself, I quickly dry off with a fluffy towel and wrap a smaller one around my head. On the table next to the sink, I spot a comb, a brush, and a bottle like the French one in the shower, this one labeled Lait pour le corps.

  Use all the products.

  Dropping the towel, I apply the body lotion carefully all over, wondering why Mr. Thorne wants me to do all this in the first place. It’s creepy.

  It rubs the lotion on its skin.

  “Stop it,” I whisper to myself as I start on my hair. It’s weird that I have to go through all this preparation, but it doesn’t mean Mr. Thorne’s a serial killer. He’s probably just neat and prefers his women really clean. After I’ve blow-dried my hair, I turn to the dress, faced with a dilemma. Mr. Thorne hasn’t provided me with any underwear, so does that mean I should wear my own or forego them completely? Since my own clothes apparently aren’t up to his standards, I decide that my inexpensive underwear probably isn’t either and decide to go commando. Hell, I’m probably here to have sex with the guy, after all. Slipping it over my head, I stand in front of the mirror, turning slowly. I look sweet and innocent, practically virginal in the white sundress with its delicate lace trimmings. Is this what he likes? Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and make my way downstairs, barefoot and feeling very exposed. I find him at the kitchen table, poring over a stack of papers. I clear my throat softly, but he doesn’t respond.

  “Mr. Thorne?”

  He looks up, piercing me with his gaze. “Never interrupt me when I’m working.”

  My mouth drops open. God, he’s so rude! “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  He stands and approaches me, looking me over with interest. “You’re forgiven,” he says. “Did you want to ask me something?”

  “Well, yes. What … should I have done when I came down here?” I don’t want to annoy him. I need him to be happy with me, so he’ll want to see me—and pay me—again.

  “You should have waited for me to address you first. You’re here for me, not the other way around. Tonight, you’re mine to do with as I please. All you have to do is obey.”

  “Y-yes, Sir.” I can’t keep my nervousness from showing through my voice.

  “Don’t be scared,” he says in a surprisingly gentle voice, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. I draw a deep breath, willing myself not to let my emotions get the best of me.

  Mr. Thorne smiles at me, running his fingers across the apple of my cheek. “There’s a good girl. You ready to let me be in charge?”

  I nod, bracing myself for whatever he might inflict upon me.

  “Very good,” he says, nodding. “Abigail, I’d like you to make me an apple pie.”

  What. The. Fuck?

  Chapter Five

  “A-an apple pie, Sir?” I stutter. Is that slang for some sort of sex act?

  “You commented on the apple turnover last night,” he reminds me. “You can bake, yes?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir.” I nod eagerly, beyond relieved that he really is just talking about pie.

  “Good.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand toward the cooking area. “Feel free to make yourself at home in my kitchen. You may begin.”

  Still unsure, I rummage through the cupboards and the fridge, gathering bowls, utensils, and ingredients, and do my best to ignore the hawklike way Mr. Thorne watches me. After a minute, he finally takes his seat again, and I feel as though I can relax a bit more. His kitchen is every chef’s dream, but I can’t enjoy the surroundings. I feel as though I’m auditioning for a part, but I have no clue what role I’m up for. I thought he was just looking for sex, but it seems I’m here for more than that.

  As I begin to make the crust, Mr. Thorne stands up and walks over. I can feel him behind me, observing, and it makes me nervous. I jump a little as his hands thread into my hair, gathering it and wrapping something around it to sweep it up. He leans down and inhales deeply against the skin on my now exposed neck.

  “Lovely,” he murmurs.

  I don’t know if I should respond, so I stand perfectly still, my hands still buried in the flour mixture, my heart in my throat. I wish I knew what he wants from me.

  “Keep working,” he urges.

  I do as I’m told, gently mixing the ingredients while he watches over my shoulder. His warm fingers fiddle with one of the thin straps of the dress I’m wearing and, suddenly, he pushes it all the way down to the crook of my elbow, exposing my left breast.

  “That’s perfect,” he whispers in my ear. “Just like that.”

  I’m mortified. He walks back to his seat and starts working again, as though nothing is out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, I have no choice but to keep baking, very much aware of the fact that it makes my breasts jiggle with each move I make. It feels obscene. We’re in the kitchen! I glance over to where Mr. Thorne is sitting and find him watching me, yet again, while tapping his pen against his lips.

  Doing my best to suppress my sense of modesty, I remind myself of the money and start peeling and slicing the apples. After I’ve placed them on top of the crust, I mix granulated sugar and cinnamon in a s
mall bowl. But before I sprinkle it over the apple slices, I pause. Not everyone likes cinnamon in their apple pie. Does Mr. Thorne? I don’t want to take a chance on this. It seems like this pie is important, and I can’t risk making something he won’t enjoy. I look over at him, but he’s not watching me now.

  “M—” I press my lips together, stopping the sound immediately. Shit! Don’t interrupt him while he’s working. Did he notice?

  I look over again, but thankfully he’s still bent over his papers. Picking up the small bowl, I approach the table and stand still next to his chair, saying nothing. The urge to cover myself is strong, but I suppress it. For a few minutes, I’m rooted to the spot while he ignores me. I feel like an object, standing here with my breast hanging out, not moving or saying a word. Finally, he looks up at me, smiling.

  “Yes, Abigail?” he asks, clearly pleased at my behavior.

  “Excuse me, Sir. I was wondering if you like cinnamon in your pie?” I hold the bowl out to show him. You know, in case he doesn’t know what cinnamon is. God, I’m an idiot.

  “Well, let’s see now,” he says, wrapping his long fingers around my wrist, pulling me closer to him. He opens his mouth and taps the tip of his index finger against his tongue before dipping it in the bowl and then tasting the sugar and cinnamon mixture.

  “Hmm,” he says, looking up at me. “What do you think?” Putting more of it on his finger, he pushes it between my parted lips. “Suck,” he orders.

  I do as I’m told, hollowing out my cheeks.

  “Well?” he prompts, leaning in to nuzzle my breast.

  “I like cinnamon,” I whisper. The gentleness of his touch, and the fact that I don’t hate the sensation of it, shocks me.

  “As do I.”

  I gasp as he wraps his lips around my exposed nipple, flicking across it with his tongue. His eyes meet mine and he grins around my sensitive flesh as his hands start trailing up the length of my thighs, slipping underneath the dress. I turn red as his large hands cup my bottom, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “No underwear,” he murmurs after he’s released my nipple. “You naughty girl.”

  He starts exploring underneath the fabric. His touches are slow—lazy almost—while he watches my face the whole time. My breath hitches in my throat as he parts me, and a fingertip comes in contact with my most sensitive place. His touches bear witness to his level of experience. There’s no fumbling around—he knows what he’s doing.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You didn’t give me any, and I didn’t think you’d like the ones I have.”

  “You wanted to please me?”

  I nod, inhaling as his fingers brush against my entrance. The teasing little touch causes a tiny spasm inside me, a reaction I did not expect. As he leans in to kiss my breast it happens again.

  “That’s good,” he murmurs. “You really are a sweet girl, aren’t you, Abigail?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Well, at least I used to be. Now I don’t know what to call myself.

  He looks up at me, still gently caressing between my legs. “Have you had sex before?” His voice is soft, soothing almost. I nod, surprised at how my response makes his features relax. I guess he didn’t want a virgin.

  Mr. Thorne removes his hands from me and pulls the other strap down, which makes the dress fall off me completely. Once again, I can’t help but recall the words spoken by the manager and bouncer at the strip club, and I curl my shoulders, wanting to hide my nakedness.

  “Don’t,” he orders. “Let me look at you.”

  I draw a shuddering breath, forcing my back to straighten. His eyes scan me from head to toe, pausing on areas that are of particular interest to him before looking at my face. Blindly, he moves his paperwork as well as the cinnamon sugar aside, never taking his eyes off me. When he suddenly rises, I take a step back, overwhelmed by his height. Standing naked in front of him while he’s still fully dressed makes me feel especially vulnerable, and I yelp when he grabs me, spinning me around to press himself against me from behind.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he whispers in my ear, stroking my arms. “Relax.”

  His hands move up and down my body, gentle and firm at the same time, and his lips caress the side of my neck. I feel him taking my hair down and inhaling its scent deeply.

  “I’m going to fuck you right here on this table.”

  I inhale sharply at the roughness of his voice. A startling feeling of satisfaction rushes through me, knowing he wants me this badly, knowing this beautiful man finds me desirable.

  “You’ll let me do that, won’t you, Abigail?”

  “Y-yes, Sir.”

  “Good girl. Bend over.”

  I obey, trembling lightly as I place my upper body on the cool surface of the table and close my eyes.

  “Spread your legs.”

  Drawing a deep breath, I move my feet apart, exposing myself to Mr. Thorne.

  “Beautiful,” he says softly. His hands are back on me again a second later, caressing me with certain touches. His fingers rub gently, exploring me. They disappear, but a moment later they’re back, wet from his saliva, dipping inside me while his thumb moves to rub tight circles on my outside, making me breathe faster. It feels good, but I don’t understand why he bothers.

  “That’s it,” he says, sounding very pleased. “Get my fingers nice and wet.”

  I sort of hate that my body seems to like what he’s doing. It makes it a lot harder to remain detached from this. On the other hand, I’m grateful he hasn’t just plowed into me, which would undoubtedly hurt. A moment later, he stops touching me and I hear him rustling around, followed by the sound of his zipper. The crackle of the condom wrapper relaxes me; I have a good inclination that Mr. Thorne’s sexual past is very different from mine, and I know I’d have to insist on him wearing one.

  “You want this, pretty girl?”

  I feel him sliding against me, through my wetness, caressing my hip with his free hand. I nod my head, puzzled that he’s even asking at all. I’m here for him, just as he said.

  “Tell me,” he orders. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I want it.” The words are barely out before he pushes inside, making me gasp loudly. He’s very big, stretching me to the point of discomfort at first, and he has to ease his way in and out a few times before he’s able to penetrate me completely.

  “Fuck, yes,” Mr. Thorne moans. “You’d better hold on to something.”

  Two seconds later, I understand why. He fucks me like he’s trying to move the sturdy table across the kitchen floor, and my arms flail out as I manage to hold on to the edge of it, protecting my poor thighs from colliding too hard with the wood. A moment later, he grabs my hips, pulling me back against him, our skin slapping together each time my backside meets his front. It’s better this way—much better. My body certainly seems to think so.

  I cry out, more from surprise than pain, when Mr. Thorne pulls my hair, forcing me up on my elbows. He reaches underneath me, kneading my breasts, while he leans in to groan in my ear.

  “So sweet, so tight around me. You’re my good girl, right, Abigail?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Louder!” he commands, fucking me harder and faster.

  “Yes, Sir. Yes, Mr. Thorne!” I cry, obeying him.

  “Fuck, yes!” His hands return to my hips, moving my body with his, taking my body with his as he pulls me back onto his thick cock again and again. I’ve never experienced sex like this before—so aggressive and wild. It scares me a little even though it doesn’t hurt at all. I can feel how wet I am, and it embarrasses me how positively my body is responding to him, how easily the feeling of him inside me switched from strange to welcome. Mr. Thorne comes with a loud groan, his body sinking down on mine as his hips still thrust slowly. I lay down flat on the surface, feeling his shirt buttons against my naked back.

  “Mmm,” he pants, delivering a gentle bite to my shoulder. “So sweet.”

  My face feels hot and my body is restless,
but I make myself lay perfectly still while he recovers, nuzzling my hair and breathing deeply. I remain still as he gets off me, removing the used condom and zipping his pants.

  “Up you go,” he says, patting my hip. He turns me around and makes me look up at him. “You’ve never done that before—been fucked like that.”

  It’s not a question. I shake my head, feeling tears pool in my eyes.

  “Stop that,” he says firmly, but not unkindly. “No shame, no guilt. You’re here for me. To please me.”

  I nod slowly, drawing a shaky breath.

  “And I am,” he adds.

  “You’re what, Mr. Thorne?”

  “Pleased.”

  I breathe in again, deeply, through my nose. Unexpected warmth spreads through my chest, surprising me. He hands me the dress, helping me slip it back on, and then puts my hair back up, his touches slow and gentle as he fusses over me. The contrast between this and the way he grabbed me while I was bent over is startling.

  “So, Abigail,” he says, sounding formal once again. “I believe that’s a ‘yes’ on the cinnamon query.”

  “Um, yes, Sir.” What a freaking weirdo.

  An hour later, I’ve cleaned up the kitchen and the pie has cooled off. Nervously, I serve it to Mr. Thorne. He takes a bite and looks up at me.

  “Delicious, Abigail,” he praises.

  I can’t help it—I smile widely, and before I can hide it away, Mr. Thorne returns it. He lifts his hand but retracts it again before it touches mine, his smile vanishing.

  “You can go now,” he says. “I’ll call you a cab.”

  I’m about to protest when he holds up his hand.

  “Do not disrespect me. I will, of course, pay the fare, since I’m the one who’s ordering it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

  “Put your own clothes back on,” he says, dismissing me.

  I run up to the bathroom and change as quickly as possible, eager for this confusing night to be over. I look at myself in the mirror. I just let a virtual stranger fuck the living daylights out of me. For money. And I may have enjoyed it a little. Who the hell am I?