Crossing the Lines

by S. J. Hooks

  Tonight, in the kitchen, Mr. Thorne doesn’t observe me at a distance. He’s behind me, looking over my shoulder, distracting me with his wandering hands. I guess dressing me in only an apron is a fantasy of his, which is how I find myself in his beautiful kitchen, baking a chocolate cake, butt naked except for a few scraps of soft white fabric covering my front. Maybe I’m getting used to his quirks, because I didn’t even bat an eyelash when he told me what I’d be wearing—or not wearing.

  “Mmm, that smells good,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against the side of my neck. “Why do you do it like that? Why not just put it in the pot?”

  I look down at the chocolate chips I’m melting in a bowl over a pot of boiling water, and I draw a blank. “I actually don’t know. I’ve always done it like this,” I tell him, stirring slowly.

  “Who taught you?”

  My spine stiffens. That’s not a question I want to answer.

  “Abigail?”

  “My, uh, my mother, I guess,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

  “Do you see her a lot?”

  “Please, Sir. I’d really prefer not to talk about it,” I implore, looking over my shoulder at him. “Please.”

  His eyes scan my face before he nods once. “I didn’t realize it was painful for you. I apologize.”

  “It’s not painful.” Yes, it is. “I just … we’re not close anymore. At all.”

  “That’s a shame,” Mr. Thorne says. “I won’t bring it up again.”

  I turn and quickly press a kiss onto his cheek. “Thank you, Sir,” I whisper before facing the kitchen island again. Leaving the melted chocolate to cool off, I start measuring and mixing the rest of the ingredients carefully.

  “How can you remember all this without a recipe?” he asks, sounding impressed.

  I smile to myself. Chocolate cake is Luke’s favorite. “I don’t know,” I lie, dipping a clean teaspoon into the chocolate. “I’ve always liked baking.” That part is true.

  I lick off the spoon, tasting the chocolate, and add more sugar to the other bowl. I need this cake to be perfect—not just because Mr. Thorne demands perfection, but because I want him to enjoy this. I don’t have much money, and I don’t live in a beautiful house like this, but I’ve never had to spend my birthday alone. No matter where I’ve been in my life, I’ve been with people who matter to me on that special day. For some reason, Mr. Thorne doesn’t have that in his life, and while I’m a lousy substitute, I’ll do my best to make sure he has a nice time tonight. Underneath all the weirdness, he’s not so bad.

  “Don’t I get a taste?”

  I look over my shoulder at him, nodding, before dipping the spoon back into the chocolate and turning to face him, holding it up. He looks at the spoon, chuckling softly before angling it toward my mouth instead. Then he kisses me, invading my mouth with his velvet-soft tongue, groaning as he tastes me. The sound makes my insides liquefy and I stand up on my toes, kissing him back and pushing my body into his.

  “You are so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, nipping at my lips.

  “I-it’s the chocolate,” I stutter.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I can’t help it; I blush underneath his gaze and a secret thrill runs through me, knowing how pleased he is. Really, I should feel ridiculous standing here in just an apron that barely covers my breasts, but I don’t. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Abigail.”

  I put the cake in the oven and clean up while he sits at the counter, alternating between watching me and typing on his phone. He doesn’t offer to help, but that doesn’t surprise me at all. He likes to watch.

  “I’m done, Sir,” I tell him when I’ve finished washing the bowls and utensils.

  “Very good. Unfortunately, I have a few calls to make. You go upstairs and take a bath while I make them and order us some dinner.”

  “Really, Sir, I don’t mind cooking,” I begin, remembering how he said he enjoys a home-cooked meal. “I can easily—”

  He’s off his chair immediately, wrapping me up in his arms and cutting me off by pressing his lips against mine. His kiss is aggressive, his tongue demanding access to my mouth. I yield, pliant in his embrace, and let him kiss the hell out of me. When our lips part, he gives me a stern look, still holding me firmly against his chest.

  “Who makes the decisions, Abigail?”

  I draw a gasping breath. “Y-you do, Sir.”

  “Who?” he whispers, sliding his right hand underneath the apron to grab my breast, tweaking my nipple harder than normal.

  I hiss, looking up into his eyes. “You, Mr. Thorne. You decide.”

  The stinging sensation on my chest fades, soothed by his wet tongue, as he quickly unties the knot and moves the apron to the side, leaning down to suck my nipple into his mouth. He pushes his right leg in between mine and grabs my ass, grinding me against the hard muscles of his thigh.

  “Oh, oh,” I whisper, holding on to him to keep my balance. His mouth is on mine again and I moan, melting into the kiss while my lower half ruts against him. I could come like this, I think.

  Of course, he won’t let me do that. He ends the kiss, running his thumb across my lips.

  “That’s right,” he says. “I decide.”

  I nod, forcing myself not to grind against him anymore, even though I really want to.

  “So when I tell you to relax and take a bath while I order us dinner, what do you say, Abigail?”

  “Thank you, Sir?”

  He smiles. “You’re welcome, sweet girl.” He releases me and tells me to set the timer on the oven. I do as I’m told, and with a playful swat to my behind, he sends me on my way.

  “Abigail?”

  I pause on my way up the stairs, turning to see that Mr. Thorne has followed me into the hall. “Yes, Sir?”

  He climbs the stairs until he’s just one step away and even then, he’s still so much taller than me. “During your bath,” he says, running the backs of his fingers up my naked thigh, “you may wash yourself, but don’t make yourself come. Are we clear?”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Yes, Sir. We’re clear. I … I don’t do that.”

  At least, I haven’t in a long time.

  “You will, for me,” he says simply. “I like to watch.”

  I swallow hard. Of all the things he’s asked of me, that one might be the most difficult to do. It’s so private, and I suspect that’s part of the appeal for him. He wants all of me.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Go take your bath and then change,” he says. “And don’t wash your hair; it looks very pretty like this.”

  I nod my head and resist the urge to rush up the stairs. Knowing that he’s most likely watching my ascent, I try to walk slowly, seductively, all the while acutely aware of the fact that I’m completely naked and on display. Mr. Thorne chuckles behind me, the sound sending shivers up my spine.

  “Oh, sweet girl. The things I’d like to do to that ass of yours,” he murmurs before I hear him walk back downstairs.

  In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror, noticing my flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Running my hands over my skin, I shiver, remembering how we kissed when I arrived earlier tonight. The memory of his fingers caressing me makes me press my thighs together to quell the ache between them. It’s been a very long time since I had an orgasm. Patrick never seemed to care and I was never brave enough to guide him, or take matters into my own hands during sex, so to speak. And after Luke was born, those urges seemed to have vanished.

  I won’t pretend that I don’t still have mixed feelings about my arrangement with Mr. Thorne, but I made a decision when I came over here tonight and I’m sticking to it. I’ll do my very best to please him, no matter what he asks of me, and I won’t deny myself pleasure—if he gives it to me.

  God, I hope he does.

  I fill the tub, add bubbles, and pile my hair up with a hair tie Mr. Thorne left out for me next to the hairbrush. After a quick bath, I dry off and put on lotion
, then turn to the dress I’ll be wearing. It’s so pretty: a short, black, sleeveless party dress with a small bow tied around the waist. It looks old; vintage is the right term. Forgoing underwear yet again, I slip it on, happy that it fits my slender frame. I can’t zip it all the way up on my own, but I can’t do too much about that. I gently brush my hair, restoring the stylist’s work, and put on the kitten heels I wore last time. Turning, I admire myself in the mirror. I look like I’m going to a party, and I guess in a way I am.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, I find Mr. Thorne on the phone. I pause by the door, seeking his approval before entering, listening to the foreign words coming out of his mouth. He turns and stops talking for a moment, smiles at the sight of me, and motions for me to come in before continuing his conversation. It sounds like it could be Russian, or something Eastern European—I’m definitely impressed. He ends the call after I’ve taken the cake out of the oven and comes over to me.

  “Lovely,” he says. “Turn.”

  I do a twirl for him and he helps zip up the dress, looking me over again.

  “Perfect,” he says, holding up his phone. “May I?”

  “Take my picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  “You won’t show anyone, will you?”

  “I won’t be posting it on Facebook, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re on Facebook?”

  He laughs like I’m being silly, and I guess I am. But I can’t imagine Mr. Thorne updating his status or commenting on a friend’s post.

  If he even has any friends at all.

  “It’s just for me,” he says. “Please?”

  I can’t see anything wrong with it. After all, I’m fully dressed and not doing anything incriminating, so I nod and smile.

  Holding his phone up again, he snaps a picture of me and then puts it away. “No more work tonight,” he says, brushing past me to open his wine fridge. He takes out two bottles and opens the white one with a pop. Pouring the fizzy liquid into a wine glass, he hands it to me.

  “Asti Spumante,” he says with a bit of an accent. “You’ll like it.”

  I’m not so sure. I really don’t care for wine at all. Mr. Thorne pours himself a glass from the other bottle and I lift mine up. “Happy birthday, Sir.”

  He gazes at me for a moment before touching his glass to mine. “Thank you, Abigail.”

  I take a small sip, surprised that the wine is sweet and fruity. I can hardly taste the alcohol.

  “You like it?” he asks.

  I nod my head.

  “Good. I brought it back with you in mind.”

  I can’t help but feel touched by his thoughtfulness and give him a big smile. “Is it from France?” I guess. I know that’s where champagne comes from.

  “Italy,” he says. “Have you ever been?”

  I shake my head and shrug. “I’ve never been outside the state.”

  He doesn’t comment, but I can see that he’s surprised. I decide to change the topic.

  “Were you in Rome?”

  “Yes, and a few days in London as well.”

  “Wow, must be nice,” I say quietly.

  Mr. Thorne shrugs, taking a sip of his wine. “Truth be told, it gets old after a while. Staying in hotel rooms, eating room service, spending most of my time in airports or on a plane.”

  “It sounds lonely,” I whisper.

  He looks at me but doesn’t comment. Instead, he goes to the stereo on the wall and turns on music—something unfamiliar.

  “Who is this?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.

  “The Drifters. They’re old like me,” he says, grinning.

  I smile at him. “You’re not old, Sir.”

  “I’ve still got some moves.” He holds out his hand to me, an almost hopeful expression on his face. I put my glass down and walk to him, placing my right hand in his and my left on his shoulder. “Just follow my lead,” he murmurs, drawing me close.

  I smile and follow his steps as we start dancing, moving effortlessly together. I feel his fingers gently caressing my back and close my eyes, listening to the song, surprised he’s put on something so romantic. His lips brush against my forehead and I have to concentrate not to lose my rhythm as he twirls me across the floor.

  “You can really dance,” he says.

  I look up at him, and his surprised grin makes my heart flutter. “I can, Sir.” I took dancing lessons for many years growing up. It was my mom’s idea of raising a proper lady, I suppose, but I quickly discovered how much I loved it. I also took a little ballet before I joined the cheerleading squad freshman year.

  “I never would have guessed.”

  I suppose he wouldn’t, given my current circumstances. I wonder where Mr. Thorne thinks I come from. I bet a comfortable childhood in a small town isn’t his first thought when he looks at the girl who has to sell her body to keep herself fed.

  “My life wasn’t always like this,” I confess. “I had plans, dreams for the future.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know—college, seeing more of the world, a good job.” Giving my son a good life.

  “And now?” he asks.

  “Make rent, pay my bills, and put food on the table.” Why am I telling him all this? I shouldn’t be saying this stuff to Mr. Thorne. This is his celebration and I’m ruining it, bringing my unfortunate reality into his fantasy. “I’m sorry,” I whisper and stop moving, stepping out of his embrace and averting my eyes.

  “Look at me.”

  I obey, drawing a stuttering breath. He doesn’t look angry, but I can tell his previous levity has dimmed.

  “I asked you,” he says. “Don’t apologize for telling me the truth.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He lowers the volume of the music and turns to me again. “Your financial trouble is the reason why you went to that sleazy club the night I picked you up?”

  I nod my head. “I was looking for a job.”

  “You were upset,” he says. “You were crying when you ran into me.”

  “I was a mess. Why’d you follow me outside?”

  “I wanted you.” His tone is factual, his stance unapologetic. “I thought maybe they’d rejected you because you were too young.”

  “No,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my waist. “Too thin. Not sexy enough.”

  He scoffs, leading me over to the kitchen island again and handing me my wine. “You are thin,” he says, “but I’m guessing it’s not your natural shape?”

  I shake my head, chewing on my lower lip as he reaches out to touch a lock of my hair.

  “I meant what I said last time. I’m going to take good care of you and you’re going to get healthy again.”

  “Thank you.” I like the idea of having him take care of me.

  “I don’t regret my decision to follow you outside that night,” he says. “I hope you don’t regret getting into my car?”

  I shake my head again. “Can I ask you something, Sir?”

  He nods.

  “Why were you there? The club, I mean.”

  “I was looking.”

  “For what?”

  His eyes burn with unexpected intensity. “You. Only I didn’t know it at the time.”

  I don’t know what to say. His words sound romantic, but he probably doesn’t mean them that way.

  “I’m very pleased with how this arrangement of ours has turned out,” he adds, stepping forward to pull me back into his arms.

  “You are?”

  He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Mmm,” he hums, kissing me. “I think you like being my good girl, Abigail.”

  “I do, Sir.” When did my voice become so breathy?

  We’re so close and all I want is to launch myself at him. I shiver as he strokes my naked arms and his lips and tongue caress my neck.

  “You’re so s
weet,” he whispers in my ear. “I can’t wait to taste you everywhere.”

  Oh, God. Everywhere!

  We’re interrupted by the loud ring of the doorbell and Mr. Thorne lifts his head to smile at me. “To be continued,” he says.

  “Please, Sir.”

  “You already do. I’ll get dinner; you set the table in the dining room.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Oh, and Abigail?”

  “Sir?”

  “Would you prefer one or two place settings?”

  He’s asking me? I gape at him. This has to be a test, but instead of trying to figure out what he wants me to say, I search my own feelings. Do I want to sit next to him, eating at my own place, or sit in his lap? The first option doesn’t feel right to me. It’ll be normal, and my relationship with Mr. Thorne is anything but. I like sitting with him. I like his hands on me. His arms make me feel safe and warm. I like the way he looks at me when he’s pleased with me.

  “One place setting, Sir,” I tell him.

  He smiles at me. “There’s my good girl.”

  Yes, here I am.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After setting the table for one and lighting tapers, I join Mr. Thorne in the kitchen, where he tells me to put the food in serving bowls before he heads into the dining room, bringing our wine and glasses with him. I’m not sure what I expected when he said he’d order us dinner. Maybe pizza or Chinese food. It turns out that Mr. Thorne’s idea of take-out is something very different. I open the Styrofoam boxes to find a meal from what must be a fancy restaurant: an orange, creamy soup to start and a rice dish with mushrooms, sautéed vegetables, some kind of meat surrounded by puff pastry, and a dark red sauce. I have no idea what any of this stuff is called, but the smell is mouthwatering. Carefully transferring the soup to a bowl, I grab a ladle, a soup plate, and a spoon, and carry them to Mr. Thorne, who’s already seated at the head of the table and smiling at me. I notice he’s drawn the curtains and put on music, creating a cozy setting in the large room. The gift I brought him is sitting next to him on the table.

  “May I serve you, Sir?” I ask.

  “You may.”

  After placing the plate in front of him, I’m surprised that he doesn’t eat; instead, he pulls me onto his lap, making sure I’m situated comfortably before offering me the first taste. I close my eyes, savoring the flavor—it’s delicious.