by Smith, Maren
She gasped when he found it, the slow upward grind of his cock pushing so deep that all she could feel was filled by him. The heat of him. The hardness.
The tenderness of him joining into her one slow undulation after another.
She could have cried, and not because it hurt. It didn’t, not even the grinding thrusts of his hips pumping against her wealed backside. It was pleasure. Pure, physical pleasure winding itself through every trembling nuance and nerve until all she could feel was the tightness of his arms, the thrust of his cock, the burning of his nipping, suckling, hungry kisses on the side of her neck, and the earth-shattering release that ripped from her clit to her womb when he groaned, “Come on my cock, honey. Come right fucking now.”
She did cry then, and she didn’t even know why. She tried to hide it. It should have been easy in the dark, but something in her breathing or her shaking must have given it away.
He didn’t even take care of himself first. Laying them both down, he held her in through the tears of the aftermath and he didn’t even try to shush her. All he did say, was, “That, honey, was making love.”
She knew better, but she hugged his arms while he held her and she didn’t argue.
Chapter 14
“I can’t do this,” Puppy gasped. Clinging to both the passenger side of his car door and her pack, she struggled to get her breathing under control. Every time she thought she might manage it, she thought about her cellphone and, in particular, about her voicemail messages where the call from the Deanwood library sat waiting for her to listen to it again. “What was I thinking?” she squeaked, horrified. “I can’t do this!”
“Yes, you can,” Carlson corrected.
“Yes, I can,” she obediently echoed, but she knew better.
Pulling into the parking garage just down the street from Black Light, Carlson found an empty stall on the second level and shut the car off. Swiveling to face her, he said, “Look at me.”
She did, but she could barely think past her panic as it was and all they’d done was offer her an interview. She covered her mouth, sure she was going to vomit.
“Deep breath,” Carlson said helpfully, and she did her best to obey that too. “Number one, if you’re going to throw up, do it outside the car.”
If she weren’t trying so hard to fight back the panic, she would have laughed. Snorting, she nodded instead. “Yes, Sir.”
“Number two,” he continued, “when’s the interview again?”
Oh God… “Next Friday.”
“Next week, not this week?”
She nodded.
“Do you trust me?”
Without hesitation, she nodded again.
“Good girl. You’ve got this.” Patting her on the knee, he jerked his thumb toward her door. “Let’s go.”
It was a two-block walk from the garage to the Psychic Shop’s secret Black Light entrance. Holding her hand the whole way, Carlson kept up a cheerful chatter, most of which she was too rattled to hear. You’ve got this, he’d said, but while she so badly wanted to believe him, that little voice was whispering away in the back of her head and its voice was far stronger than her confidence. She wanted her notebook, just holding it would have been a comfort. Writing out the last thirty lines of that first phrase he’d given her would have been too.
I’m not broken or stupid.
But the problem was, she was.
I’m brave.
Only, she wasn’t and like the riff off some old Sesame Street song playing in the back of her head, all she could think was: B is for broken, that’s good enough for me... Broken, broken, broken starts with B…
The rhythm of it was awful, and it wouldn’t stop echoing in her head and in the tunnel, punctuated by the briskness of their footsteps as she followed Carlson to the check-in desk.
“How’s your week been?” Danny asked as Carlson signed them in.
“Good so far. Is the boss man in?”
“As far as I know, he’s in his office. If you don’t see Klara at the bar,” the security guard winked, “you might want to knock first.”
Chuckling, Carlson took her hand again and together they walked into the dungeon. It was still early in the night. The lights were turned down low and the ambient rock music turned up, both creating the perfect atmosphere for hardcore fucking and impact play. No one was playing yet. In fact, the only people she could see were club employees, busily setting up for another decadent evening.
“Stool,” he told her, tapping a corner of the bar as he passed it on his way to Spencer’s office.
The door was closed, but she watched as he propped his shoulder against the wall and knocked. Less than twelve feet away, although she could hear Spencer’s grim bark and the low rumble of Carlson’s reply, but the music drowned out the words. For her, anyway. Apparently, Spencer had no problem hearing anything because his office door snapped open.
He emerged, jerking at his belt to get it buckled again, glaring at the other dom. “You want to run that by me again?”
Sitting on her stool, that was all Puppy heard for the few seconds it took Carlson to say whatever he did to make Spencer suddenly look past him and lock eyes on her. That look went straight through her gut. She clutched her hands tightly, trying not to fidget throughout the few seconds it took the club’s manager to switch his attention back on Carlson.
He did not speak again, but after a moment, Spencer went back into his office. Just before his door closed, the bartender came waltzing out.
“Jerk,” she said, marching past Carlson in knee-high fuck-me boots. She gave the skirt of her overly sexualized schoolgirl outfit an adjusting tug. “Your timing sucks, by the way.”
“Not my fault you didn’t have a longer honeymoon.” Trying not to smile, he followed her back to the bar. Planting himself on the stool next to her, he patted Puppy’s hip. “You’re up, honey.”
Staring from annoyed bartender to him, she startled. “I’m what?”
“Spencer’s going to help you practice for your interview.”
“Wh-what?” The woozy beat of her own pulse thundered in her temples. “I can’t. I can’t!”
“Of course, you can. Practice makes perfect.”
“C-can’t I practice with you?”
“Yes, and we might later on, but it’s not the same thing. Spencer is a boss. He hires and fires people all the time, and he intimidates you as much if not more than anyone you could possibly meet at the library.”
“Oh, he doesn’t, either,” Klara scoffed on her Dom’s behalf.
“Yeah, he does.” Playfully, he bumped Puppy’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t feel bad. He intimidates everybody.”
Her backpack purse clutched to her chest, she stared down the dark hallway to Spencer’s office. God, she didn’t want to go down there. She would almost have preferred to go back to Ethen than to go down there.
“He doesn’t, either!” Although starting to take offense, Klara still managed a thin laugh. “Really, he’s not that bad!”
“Yeah. He really is.” Carlson smiled and as if talking to a small child, said, “You just don’t notice anymore because he lets you play with his tinkle stick.”
Trying to cover her laugh with affront, Klara threw a dry table rag at him.
Puppy jumped when he playfully bumped her shoulder again. Snapping her gaze from the door back to him, she became pinned. He was smiling, but the look he gave her was more serious than playful.
“Go on,” he said. “You’ve got this.”
She was going to throw up, she just knew it.
Sliding off the barstool, she gave him a last imploring look, which he ignored. On knees that felt anything but steady, she walked down the hall to that closed office door. The thump of the ambient music reverberated in the close confines of the hallway. She could feel the vibration of it through the floor, but loud as it was, it didn’t begin to touch that horrible Sesame Street-esque ‘B is for Broken’ playing on perpetual repeat in her head.
&
nbsp; Swallowing convulsively, wiping her damp hands on her pants, she switched her backpack to her other hand and knocked.
“Come in.”
Deep breaths. She glanced back at Carlson, still on the barstool watching her. He pointed at her, flashed the okay symbol, then shooed with both hands while mouthing Go. Bracing herself—it was just an interview, after all… a practice interview… with one of the most intimidating doms she’d ever met, a man who made no effort to hide his dislike of her… God, she really was going to throw up—she went inside.
The interior of Spencer’s office was strongly reminiscent of the one her old manager had, back when she’d worked at Dairy Queen as a teen. It was small, no bigger than a broom closet and with just enough space for his desk and the tall metal filing cabinet that he was currently digging through. A wireless printer crowned the top of the cabinet, set in front of a cardboard box that read: Lost and Found. The handle of a purple crop was peeking over the open top flaps. Shift schedules, photographs, and order reminders were tacked all over the walls, along with a calendar and a wrinkled ten dollar bill in a picture frame—the first the bar had ever made on the day Black Light opened.
“Sit down,” Spencer said, pulling a thin packet of forms out of a file folder.
Sandwiched in the small space behind the door was an empty chair. She had to come in and close the door before she could obey. Her pack balanced in her lap, she picked at her fingernails. Her leg wouldn’t stop jiggling and she tried not to look at him directly.
B is for Broken…
Sticking the forms in a clipboard and digging a pen out of his desk, at last Spencer turned around. He took one look at her, huddled on the chair in the cramped corner of his office, the cuticle around her thumb raw and bleeding now, and promptly dropped the clipboard. It hit his desk, clattering loud enough to make her jump and sending the pen skittering to the floor.
“What,” he demanded, “are you doing?”
Turning, he plucked a tissue out of a box half buried behind two folders and a spreadsheet. She jumped all over again when he clamped his big hand onto her wrist. Glaring first at her and then at her fingers, he switched his grip to her bleeding thumb. His touch gentled as he wiped around her near non-existent thumbnail until he found the source of the bleeding.
“Press,” he grumbled, holding a corner of the tissue to the wound.
Eyeing him nervously, she did as she was told while he rummaged through his desk.
“You’re out of luck,” he said, holding up a child’s Band-Aid. “Regular bandages go like hotcakes around here. You’re stuck with Frozen.”
Throwing the wrapper away, he put it on her, then held out an expectant hand.
The only thing she’d brought in here with her was her pack. She wanted to cry, but she obediently gave it to him.
“No.” He dropped it on his desk with only slightly less irritation than he had the clipboard. “Hand,” he ordered, holding his out again.
There was zero warmth in his stare as she reluctantly offered the hand he’d just bandaged. He dropped it the minute she’d placed it in his waiting palm.
“Other. Hand,” he growled, patience thinning.
She gave it to him. Three of her five fingers were every bit as red and raw as her bleeding thumb. He pointedly showed her each one before turning her hand palm down. He slapped the back, hard.
Gasping, she yanked her arm back. She hugged it protectively, shrinking back in her chair when he leaned toward her.
“You,” he snapped, “don’t get to hurt you. Got it?”
Eyes huge, hand stinging, she nodded.
Bending to pick up the pen, he shoved both it and the clipboard with its forms at her. “Fill those out.”
It was an employment application with a W-2 directly under it. She looked at him. “I don’t understand…”
“You’re looking for a job, aren’t you?” he countered.
She was horrified. “Not here!”
“Thank God for small favors.” He stabbed a finger at the application. “Fill it out. Everything I tell you to do is something you’ll be asked at a real interview. My job is to help get you ready for it. Your job is either to cooperate or get out. Frankly, I’ve got other things I could be doing.”
Her stomach was a ball of knots and her hand still stung. The urge to drop the forms and run were incredibly strong. He could keep her pack if he wanted, she just wanted out. And yet, when he leaned back to cross his ankle over his knee, folded his arms across his chest and waited, instead of bolting, she timidly bent her head and began filling out the form.
She got as far as her name and halfway through her address before he took the clipboard out from under her. Removing the application, he wadded it up and threw it in the garbage.
“No prospective employer is going to take you seriously if you list your name as Puppy.” Sticking a fresh application form on the clipboard, he handed it back. “Try again.”
Flustered, she bowed back over the form.
“Sit up,” he ordered. “You look like you expect to get hit.”
She locked her mouth so she wouldn’t point out that he had, in fact, hit her. Sitting up straight, she tried again and immediately miswrote her name again. She caught herself after only two letters, but so did he.
Snatching the clipboard away, he crumpled the form into a tight ball and threw it in the trash. Replacing it with a fresh form, he handed the clipboard back. “Again.”
“Why?” she snapped, growing frustration getting the best of her. “We both know I can’t do this.”
“Do we?” Spencer challenged.
She glared at the clipboard so she wouldn’t get caught glaring at him. Not at all sure what to say, she locked her lips again.
“Try again,” Spencer ordered.
This time, she got all the way down to references before she made another mistake.
“You really think Ethen O’Dowell is going to give you a good work recommendation? Use your head.”
Into the garbage the paper went and a new form was thrust in front of her.
“If I see you list Pony instead, I’m going to smack you again,” he grumbled before she got that far.
By then, her hand no longer stinging, but her eyes were more than making up for it. She was shaking, terrifyingly close to just throwing all this back at him. With real throws. Frustrated and hopeless, the last thing she needed was his terse reminders that she was too stupid even to fill out an application.
She knew Ethen wasn’t going to give her a good reference.
…But she had put him on the application. Both this one and the one she’d turned into the library. She’d done it without thinking, just like she’d put Pony on it. And Kitty, although the contact information was blank because she didn’t have it now that she’d moved to Australia. She didn’t have Piggy’s either, but they were menagerie girls. They’d made good their escape and probably wanted nothing more to do with her, but they were still her sisters.
And besides, those answers were good enough for Deanwood. They’d called her for an interview. She wasn’t going to get the job, she knew that. But she had got the interview, and it took everything she had not to remind him. Especially since she doubted she could do so while keeping a respectful tone.
She stared at the reference section and the three empty slots, at a complete loss for who to put down.
“You thought of Ethen, but not your Dom?” Spencer asked dryly.
A slow heat burned her face. The knots in her stomach twisted, expanding inside her until she could feel the block of them all the way up in the back of her throat. She put Carlson’s name down. She’d have to get his contact information later. She hadn’t yet memorized his phone number. That was in her cell.
She tried to skip to the next section.
“You need to provide three references. Who else do you have?”
“Pony,” she said defiantly, but they both knew that wasn’t true and his frown said as much. Still, it was easier
to lie than to admit she didn’t have anybody else.
“Where was your last job?”
“They fired me.”
“Why?”
Because she was Puppy and she hadn’t been able to function.
“Fine,” he said, when she stayed silent. “Where was your last decent job?”
“They fired me too,” she said bitterly.
“All right, now I really want to know: Why?” he demanded.
Because Ethen got arrested and she’d become the girl in the cage that every media outlet showed pictures of and every reporter in the area hounded for an interview for weeks, first when police finally raided Ethen’s home and again during the course of his trial. Her old boss hadn’t wanted any part of that. He hadn’t wanted any part of the girl in the dog kennel, for that matter.
Pen looming over the blank area where a second reference ought to go, if only she could think of one, she tried not to think about it.
“Have you been able to hold a job at all since it happened?” Spencer pressed.
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
Shoulders slumping, she glared at him. “What do you mean, why not?”
Even her voice was shaking, cracking with the effort it took not to break down. Crying in this office, though, would be like crying in front of the enemy. He’d never liked her, and never had that dislike felt quite so painful blatant as it did now. She didn’t even know why, since it wasn’t as if she’d ever really liked him either.
His already thin patience broke first.
“I mean why the fuck not?” he snapped. “Your car broke down and you can’t replace it. You’re lazy. You can’t wait for the beast master to get out of prison so life can return to normal. Give me a goddamn reason.”
“This!” She snapped her hands up, showing him the clipboard and pen she still clasped tight. Both were shaking every bit as badly as the rest of her. “This is my reason! I can’t function!”
Flinging both on his desk, she jumped up to leave, but he stopped her.
“Sit your ass down.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The command still hit her hard as thunder and her body obeyed against her will. She wanted to run, but she dropped back into her chair, squeezed behind a door that would surely hit her if someone came in. Helpless, hopeless, without any other outlet for the unbearableness of her mounting frustration, she ripped off that stupid Frozen Band-Aid and threw it back at him. Folding herself into her chair to make herself the smallest target possible, she told herself she didn’t care how he’d retaliate.
