Break Me Beautifully

by Nora Flite

  His fingers drift into his jacket pocket. If I offended him by not grabbing his hand, he doesn't act like it, he's still wearing that damn sly smile. “This way,” he says, walking towards a gorgeous black town car parked on the tarmac.

  “My suitcase,” I say.

  “It's taken care of.” He nods towards a man who's carefully rolling my bag towards the car ahead of us. I get the feeling a lot of things are taken care of for Klintock.

  I glance his face from beneath the umbrella. I feel so unsure around him, like he's becoming more of a stranger the longer we're together. He catches me looking at him. I duck my head in embarrassment, half-diving into the car when the driver opens the door for me. It's dark inside with plenty of space between the huge seats. I wish there was more, especially when Klintock sits across from me. He invades every space he enters. The shadows jump to him like they're old friends, and he settles so easily into the role of brooding villain. Katy's warning whispers in my ear, He's dangerous. I know about the mafia from television and stories. Only brutal men with no qualms getting blood on their hands could be part of that world. I'd thought, though, that the mob was into drug trafficking, or arms deals. Art seemed so mundane.

  “Marshall?” I say, needing to erase the awful tension, “Can you tell me how long you've worked as an art curator?”

  He shuts the car door, smiling at me curiously. “About seven years, when I was your age.”

  “That seems so young.”

  “Maybe. But my father taught me everything he knew. I was appreciating fine art before I could walk.”

  I grin helplessly as I imagine that. “Your dad is a curator?”

  Marshall pauses, looking away before answering. “Was. He died a long time ago.”

  “Oh. I'm sorry,” I say sincerely.

  The back of his hand presses to his cheek. He's still looking out the window when he speaks again. “He was a wonderful artist. I was never as good as him. I'll never be.”

  “You’re an artist, too? What sort of art do you make?”

  He smiles at me, eyes lighting up. "Oil paintings," he says.

  Picturing him detailing a canvas with stroke after stroke of rich colors, I start to relax. "I prefer watercolors. I like oils too, but I never had the patience for how long they take to dry."

  "I'm a fan of working on things that take time. Effort often leads to a satisfying result." He leans towards me, his knees spreading wide, and I realize too late that I'm blocked in. His legs are on either side of mine, his face inches away. I can smell the same delicious scent from this morning under the bright blue sky. "I have a feeling you're someone that doesn't warm up easily to others, Leona. And I'm guessing most boys—because they certainly weren't men—backed off at the slightest cold shoulder from you. Am I right?"

  I start to breathe quicker. "Are you always like this?"

  "Like what?"

  "Ballsy." I tilt my chin up, keeping my voice as steady as I can. "You talk to me like you have some right to be so bold, no, rude. It doesn't matter if I'm going to be working under you, or if you're going to help my career. I'm still someone you need to behave yourself around.”

  Klintock takes a deep inhale, going still in front of me. "I like what you said just now. Working under me." His lips form a tempting smirk. "You're not used to people telling you what they think or want."

  "It's not that. There's a difference between being upfront and being whatever this ... inappropriate thing you're doing is."

  "Inappropriate?" There's a hint of a threat in his mouth as he says that word. The car advances, jolting me so that I rock back into my seat. He moves, too, but much more than the force of the car could have caused. His body arches forward off of his seat, hands coming down on the cushion by my head. I gasp, staring straight into his eyes, counting all the small hairs on his face that turn into stubble along his chin. "You have no idea what inappropriate means, Leona. I think I've given you the wrong idea about our relationship."

  My coat is too tight. I can't take a full breath, my chest squeezes against the thick material as I battle with needing air and not wanting to move closer to him. Fight or flight. That's what this is. My body is thrumming with helpless desire. I try to explain it away by reminding myself he's attractive, this is a given, who wouldn't feel a spark?

  But it's more than that.

  We both know it.

  “You can't,” I whisper.

  “Can't what?” he asks with a cocky smile. “Say it. Tell the Devil what he can't do, sweet girl.”

  “Why do you keep calling yourself that?”

  “Because it's who I am.” He moves his arm. I flinch, but he doesn't touch me, he touches his own chest. “In here. I'm twisted, selfish, sinful. That's why I said you have the wrong idea about our relationship.”

  I lick my dry lips. He watches. “Our relationship is work related. That's it.”

  “Of course,” he chuckles. “I'll teach you everything I know. Not just paint and canvas, but all the different ways art intersects with our lives. With our bodies.” He drops his eyes to my lips. The magnetic pull between us grows so quick I'm afraid I'll kiss him right here.

  “My mom,” I whisper, the rain hitting the windows, drowning me out. “She warned me you might try something like this.”

  “That uptight woman said I might try to fuck you?”

  “No! She didn't say it like that.”

  His fingers drift over my cheek. The sensation creates butterflies in my belly. “She warned you, but here you are,” he says darkly. “Should I take that to mean you're fine with me fucking you? Or are you going to try and turn me down?”

  “Not try,” I say, defying him with all I can manage. God, it makes me dizzy. “I'm turning you down. Full stop.”

  Klintock presses his knees against my outer thighs. He squeezes until he's hugging my legs with his own. The finger on my cheek swirls into my hair, making my brain buzz delightfully. “Sweet Leona,” he sighs, “Were you listening? I said I love things that take time.”

  The throbbing between my thighs gets stronger. His nails scrape gently on my scalp, then down my jaw, and when he brushes my bottom lip I moan before I can stop myself, my eyes shutting.

  “Fuck,” he gasps.

  It wakes me up. I push his hand away, both of us breathing heavily, staring at each other. I know why I'm so wary, but why does he look uncertain? Surely, he expected my reaction. He'd been trying to get one out of me. Why would he be so stunned by it?

  His legs leave mine. The air is empty and depressing. Drawing his body away, he looks out the window, then pulls out his phone. The screen makes his gorgeous features glow.

  What the hell just happened? I wonder. My heart is still thumping, my skin sweaty with desire. I cross my legs, hugging myself. There's no sound in the car but the patter of rain. I wish I could jump out into the fresh air and cool off.

  Trying to distract myself, I look out the window just as we turn off the highway. Even the rain can't hide the electric billboards or the stunning buildings scraping the clouds of New York City.

  I've been here before, but it was long ago, when my father brought us to see Phantom of the Opera. It was a move on his part to show his business partners how family-oriented he was, making us props in his own play. Sitting in the audience while the organ music thrummed into my bones, however, made it worth it.

  “We're here.” It's the first thing Klintock said since he brushed my bottom lip. The car rumbles to a halt in front of what I think must be a hotel. Through the glass doors I see the front desk, the flower-circled fountain in the lobby, and the security guards.

  Klintock climbs out and I follow. He holds the umbrella high. Unlike earlier, he doesn't offer me his hand. Does he not want to touch me? I wonder. After what he tried to do in the car, getting so intimately close, it's a little weird.

  And I'm a little disappointed.

  Stepping under his umbrella, we make our way to the building. The doorman tips his hat at us. “Sir, welc
ome back,” he says to Klintock. The doors split apart as we approach, warm air settling over me. Klintock dumps the dripping umbrella into the stand near the doors.

  The lobby is massive with gold and green walls and columns that extend from floor to ceiling. It's more beautiful than it looked from the outside. The gentle ripple of the fountain is the only sound heard echoing in the space. The driver of our car is handing off bags to the front desk. “They'll be brought up to my penthouse,” Klintock says, reading my mind. “Come on.”

  I follow him into the mirrored elevator. There are raindrops in my hair and on my shoulders despite the umbrella's protection. As I smooth them away, Klintock watches me from the corner of his eye. “The button,” I say.

  He blinks. “What?”

  “Shouldn't you press ...”

  Turning away, he pushes the button for his floor, making the doors close. He's acting so strange. Where has his cocky attitude gone? He almost seems scared of me. Impossible.

  Wanting to test my theory, I inch closer to where he's standing. He doesn't react. Chewing my bottom lip, I reach out to touch his shoulder. He startles, spinning to regard me with wide eyes. “Sorry,” I say, holding up my hands like I'm under arrest. “You had rainwater on your coat. I was wiping it away.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” he whispers, staring down his nose at me. There it is. Electric energy in his eyes, like he hates me or desires me or both. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You're just acting different.” I wait for him to do something. He's just watching me. Encouraged by my theory, I take another step. He grimaces. “Are you trying not to breathe?” I ask, stunned. “You are. You're holding your breath.”

  He glares at me, the scar on his lip twitching. “You don't know what you're doing, Leona.”

  “I think ... I'm making you do your best to try and not react to me. Am I right?”

  His eyebrows lower over hooded, wicked eyes. “I thought you were smart. Now I can see you're crazy.”

  “Why? Because I'm calling you out for how you're giving yourself away?”

  “That's not it.”

  “Then what's going on?” I ask, advancing on him with my eyes half shut, a sensation of power I've never felt before surging in me. I've done something to make a man like him back off. It's exhilarating. It must be how my sisters feel when they lead men around by their slobbering tongues.

  Marshall sucks in air through flared nostrils, groaning in his throat. “I'll tell you the truth, sweetling. You're right. I am trying to hold back, but you keep pushing. Do you know what's going to happen now?”

  I pull in a small, rattled breath. "What?”

  His hands scoop into my hair the way they had in the car. But this time they're tight, like I'm a butterfly that could slip away if he eased up and created a small gap. He forces my head back so that I stare up into his handsome face. He isn't smiling. His lips are strained. He wants to either kiss me or devour me. “You're a reckless fool to try tempting an evil man like me. I like corrupting girls like you. It fucking exhilarates me. I just expected you'd resist me for longer than this.”

  I catch our reflection in the mirrored elevator. My cheeks are red with color, lips parted. It's funny, like I'm looking at something happening to someone else.

  The elevator dings. The doors start to open, he slams his hand on the button, shutting them again. He doesn't pull his eyes away from my face the entire time. "Marshall," I start to say.

  His fingers move from my hair until they're curved around my soft neck, cupping my chin, his thumbs tracing just below my mouth. I shiver in anticipation. "So my issue is this." He bends down until his nose touches mine. I let out a small noise. "The way you responded to me in the car, it broke something open inside of me, Leona. Removed the barrier around me. I made an advance on you because I expected you to reject me. I was prepared for that. I wasn't prepared for you to moan like I'd run my hands between your thighs and discovered how wet you were. How wet you are.”

  His fingers leave my face, smoothing down my jacket across my chest but deliberately avoiding my breasts. My blood races. He's resting his hands on my hips, going nowhere near the gap between my thighs that we both know is soaked. “Wait,” I whisper.

  “Where did your boldness go?” he teases me, pushing me firmly against the mirror. “A minute ago you were egging me on. I warned you not to, but you insisted. What sort of girl challenges a devil? I've seen your art, Leona. I know you know what demons seek from the gorgeous women in their grasp.”

  I think about my drawings. How many are insights into my wicked fantasies? I've never had sex, but I've had a curious mind for a long while. Watching porn on my phone in the dark and using it for inspiration when I wanted to recreate the perfect couple in the throes of passion.

  Imagining him looking at the more scandalous art I've shared secretly online makes me flush. It also makes my panties even wetter. “Marshall, we can't do this,” I argue faintly.

  “We can.” His palm slips down to my thigh, squeezing it through my soft leggings. “We are. Spread your legs.”

  I do it without hesitating. “What if someone catches us?”

  “Who?” he chuckles, but when he sees my nervous face, he frowns. “This building belongs to me. No one else lives here but some of my security guards, and they'd never use this elevator. It goes to my penthouse.”

  “We're really alone?”

  “Not even a camera.” He motions at the inside of the elevator. “Are you done pretending you're looking for reasons not to let me kiss you?”

  My eyes fix on his. “I'm not worried about kissing.” It's everything else. Before he can get my meaning, I reach up, holding his cheeks steady. On tiptoe I stretch to taste his open mouth and his surprise is delicious. A tiny moan escapes him, flowing down my throat. This is control. I'm instantly addicted. I want to make him melt for me, to fall to his knees, to watch him squirm.

  The switch in the power dynamic doesn't last long. Marshall isn't a man who bows to anyone, and I'm a fool for thinking I could stay in charge. The muscles in his arms flex. He lifts me by my waist, shoving me against the mirrored walls, wrapping my legs around his middle with one hand on my ankles. The pressure of his body is the only thing keeping me upright. “I guess you weren't worried,” he admits, driving his lips on mine for a new kiss that's longer than the last. His tongue slips across mine. My ears begin to ring. I close my eyes, but the darkness doesn't help me focus. I'm lost in the rush of pleasure that his expert skills bring.

  And this is just kissing.

  I'm done for. I know it.

  My hands curl around his broad back, slipping over his jacket as I look for purchase. He nips my lip gently, making my body explode with excitement. Whimpering, wriggling, I grind my hips on him. “So eager,” he says as he breaks our kiss. “I love it. I want more of it.”

  Dragging my nails down his arms, I go lower, along his ribs. I'm moving without thought. There's lightning in my skin. Holding still is impossible, so I grab for whatever I can.

  I feel the hard shape of a gun in his inner jacket pocket, and I’m brought back to reality.

  I've only held one a few times. A family security guard showed me his weapon when he was cleaning it. The pistol was unloaded, but he still got in trouble when my father found out.

  Marshall tries to hold onto me but I’m shoving at his chest, forcing space between us. “Let go,” I demand, twisting frantically. Amazingly he does as I ask, his palms releasing my legs, so I can stand on the floor. The second I get away I smack the elevator button. The doors open. I jump out, not stopping until I'm in the hallway.

  Marshall stares at me from inside the elevator. His reflection bounces off all three walls, casting multiple pairs of eyes staring at me in confusion. “Leona, what's wrong?” he asks warily.

  The hot and heavy mood is gone. It dissipated, and with it, my e
agerness to trust him. I know why he has a gun. It's exactly like Katy warned me. “You're in the mafia, aren't you?”

  He remains stoic. His ability to hide his emotions makes my stomach flip on itself. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “Leona ...”

  “Don't act like I'm dumb. Just tell me!”

  His hand tucks into his jacket. I freeze up. Marshall tosses me some keys, but I'm so nervous I fumble, dropping them. “The door to the penthouse is there,” he says, pointing to the end of the hall behind me. “Let yourself in. I'll be back later.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  There's a sad smile on his face as he pushes the elevator button. “Don't worry about it. Get some rest, you'll find your bag inside your room. Goodnight, Leona.”

  Then he's gone.

  And he didn't answer my question.

  And I can still taste him on my lips.

  Chapter 5.

  His penthouse is luxurious. The glass wall offers a view of the expansive city lights twinkling below. I’m familiar with the high-end artwork on massive canvases that cover the walls from floor to ceiling .

  The recessed lighting makes the neutral gray floor and white furniture welcoming enough, but I feel like an intruder. I leave his keys on the giant coffee table carved from a tree trunk, the rings still visible, and head for the kitchen. It's not hard to find. The place has an open floor plan, unlike my family's closed off arrangement of rooms on our estate.

  I chug a full glass of ice-cold water, but my body remains hot. What Marshall coaxed out of me, it can't be quenched with just water. I'm crazy to think it could be. I'm also crazy for letting things go as far as they did.

  He had a gun.

  Shivering, I flex my fingers from the memory of the weapon's stiff shape in my grip. He had it the whole time we were together. Katy wasn't telling me some rumor. A normal art curator wouldn't carry a gun like that. Someone who expected danger would. What did that mean for me?