I trail across the floor gingerly, noticing that there’s nothing wet down below as I go. I’ve either not had sex, or I had the afterthought, post fucking, to clean myself up. It was more than likely awful sex, then. I mean, no one cleans themselves up when they’ve had unbelievable sex. Limbs are too exhausted to move, let alone worry about cleansing oneself. Although I did write a book about a woman who used to douche afterwards, apparently thinking it would remove the sperm, thus removing the problem of pregnancy. Needless to say, she became pregnant by the end of it, hopefully proving to the masses who read that particular book that it does not work.
My fingers rest on the bridge of my nose as I hover in the middle of the room, still searching for answers as to why I can’t remember anything and looking at my dress for inspiration. Nothing. Not a thing springs to mind. I can’t even remember if I had sex, which means I seriously need to stop drinking vodka and Champagne, or certainly stop doing the aforementioned with speed inside me. Jesus wept. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old professional female who thinks inebriated one-night stands are acceptable? They’re not. Well, they are under normal circumstances, but not when you’re so drunk that you can’t remember a thing the next day. Good lord, what the fuck am I going to tell Bree? That I just dropped her off after the do and then found some random guy on the street and slept with him? Maybe it was the cabbie.
That thought instantly brings visions racing back into my mind. The screech of wheels comes first, irritating my already pounding head and forcing me to fumble for the bed frame to lean on, and then the sound of metal clashing rattles, too.
“You’re alive then?”
My body folds into itself, desperate to hide from the voice that’s appeared behind me as I swing round, grabbing for the sheets. It’s a scrambled affair, one that has me tripping over my feet and hurrying for the other side of the room, duvet wrapped around me. It’s only when I take stock of my situation that I realise I haven’t even seen his face. Regrettably, I don’t think I need to. “We haven’t fucked if that’s what’s bothering you.” My eyes fly up at the comment, linking straight with ones I know all too well and pondering the correct response.
“I don’t fuck people I research,” I snap, flustered at his body in my space. His space. Whatever.
He smirks at me, and that combined with the waft of Chanel that’s floating across the room is nearly enough to make me wish I had.
“Why not?”
“What?”
“You’re writing a book about kink. Why wouldn’t you fuck the person teaching you how it all fits together?”
“It’s hardly the time to discuss...” My mouth seems to diminish its attempts at language as he takes a step closer to me. It still leaves an eight-foot gap between us, but that’s nowhere near enough room for a practical conversation regarding kink when I have no clothes on and he looks too tempting for words. “You hurt people. And besides, you’re not a teacher, you’re research.” He smirks again, crinkling his dark eyes at me and loosening his tie as he runs a hand through his hair.
“I am, actually. Professor, if you’d like to be precise. Psychology.”
My mouth hangs open at the comment. I’d like to say it’s only because of his revelation, but it also has something to do with the fact that he’s removing his jacket. Why is he doing that? I back up again, coiling the duvet closer to me and aiming myself towards a seat.
“Why am I here?” My question is bolder than I feel given the context of this odd encounter, but useless behaviour in front of these alpha types infers inferiority, something I’m not, and never will be. Not even under his eyes, or lips, or voice. “I can remember a crash, I think. Were you in it?”
“Yes.”
“Any more explanation?”
“No.”
“What does that mean?” Seriously? He’s not going to tell me what happened?
“How are you feeling?” That’s not an answer either.
“Fine. Answer the question. What happened? Why am I here? And if you were in the accident, did you cause it? I mean, is the cabbie alright? The other driver?”
“Where in England are you from?” I stand up, infuriated with his lack of answers, and cross over to my dress. If he’s not going to give me the information I require then I see little point in being here. Perhaps it’s been reported to the police and they’ll have a clue if the cabbie’s okay.
“Mr. Jacobs, if you could leave the room so I can get dressed please,” I ask, as politely as my current state of frustration will allow. “I have things to do today and this is getting me nowhere.”
“What things?”
“What?”
“What things are more important than you understanding your subject matter correctly?”
“You’re not my subject matter.”
“Drop the sheets.”
“I’m not—”
“Alana, drop the sheets. Or would you rather me call you Peter?”
“What?” How does he know my name, let alone any relation to my pen?
“Or we could continue with Valerie. Seems a little old for you, in my opinion, but I’m not against fucking a man either, so you can choose.”
I’m gaping and clutching the sheets so tightly my hands are hurting. It might be related to the fear I’m beginning to feel, or it could be to do with the fact that no one knows about Peter, only Bree. No one else. I’ve had experts cover my Internet presence, ensuring that all the backgrounds are checked out. Profiles alienated, emails covered and logged over. There’s no way anyone could know about him. I even have separate business accounts for banking, and that all goes to PO Boxes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s Alana?”
He shakes his head, a flash of the expression I’ve only seen once before gracing his mouth as a slight sneer creeps along his jaw.
“I don’t like games, and I don’t like liars, Alana,” he eventually says, backing himself to the door so that he can close it. “I research the people who come into my space and ask about me, especially those who want me to open up about matters that are relatively private to the outside world.” And then he takes another few steps towards me, never once giving me a chance to look away from eyes that defy any sense of reason. “Drop the fucking sheets.”
I have no answer for any of that. None. The only thing I’m moderately aware of is the fact that, for some unidentified reason, my hands are giving up their desire to hold on to the fabric in my hands.
“How do you…?” I mean, seriously, how does he? “And why should I…?” I can’t finish any sentence. None of them want to actually come out of my mouth. This could be a metaphor for something I need to check out later. Research. I snatch a glance at the door behind him, wondering why he’s closed it if we’re the only people here. Maybe we’re not.
“I’ll scream if you touch me.”
“I’m not going to touch you. I’m teaching you. You asked for information,” he replies, calm as a summer ocean as he smiles again, probably at my misfortune and his superiority in the room.
“I’m not dressed for research.”
“You’re perfectly dressed for research.” And by the look of the smirk accompanying those last words, he means naked.
“This is inappropriate,” I say, reaching for my dress and wondering if I could get it on under the duvet while still managing to hold onto it. I frown at the thought. It was hard enough getting it on when I had an entire room’s worth of space.
“I’ll help you write your book, Alana, but I want something in return. At the moment, that’s you naked and the truth about who you are.”
“There was a crash.” I don’t know why I said that again. Maybe I’m trying to change the subject. “I hurt in places.”
“Not nearly as much as you will do.”
That’s it. Last straw. He’s talking about pain with a smile on his face while taking another few paces in my direction. I’m actually scared now. Like, shaking scared. It makes me snatch my dress wi
thout much fear as to whether he’ll see me or not. I have to leave and regain some sense of reality. I mean my body is physically shuddering now. I can feel it as I step into the bottom of the dress, shunting it upwards in the hope that I’ll manage this without my breasts leaping out and attacking him. Unfortunately, I’m not entirely sure if it’s fear or excitement.
“If it helps, I was the one who undressed you last night.”
Well, great. He’s seen it all anyway. That doesn’t help, though, as I stall mid-shrug. In fact, it makes the whole situation more uncomfortable because now I can’t stop myself wondering what he thought of my body. Fucking hell. Jesus. I start shrugging and jostling again, desperately trying to clamp my arms onto the top of the duvet for privacy.
“Please, just leave so I can get dressed in peace, Mr. Jacobs.”
“No. I’m intrigued by this dance of yours.”
I roll my eyes at his accompanying chuckle, turning my back on him in an attempt at subtle aggravation. Whatever this might be, he is right to a degree. I do require information from him, and he’s rather good at giving it succinctly, apart from in this circumstance.
“Could you be more juvenile?” I mutter, loud enough for him to hear. I mean, what an arse. I just want an explanation about the crash and where I am—about a lot of things actually, given his little dive into my private life. And god knows why my body’s reacting to his voice in such a slutty way, but it has to stop. It’s in no way helpful to anything.
Eventually, after much tugging, bouncing, and jumping, I hold the halter-neck fastening around the back of my neck and drop the duvet. There. Done. Fuck him and his drop the sheets. Sadly, it occurs to me as I look up and find a mirror reflecting my image at me, I haven’t got a hope of zipping up the back. I hover, my fingers fiddling with the clips at my neck as I consider just wrapping my shawl around my mid-section.
“Would you like some help?”
“No.” The word is out before I’ve given it any thought. I do not require help of any kind that might involve his hands anywhere near me, especially if they get here and bring more Chanel with them. “I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are, Alana.”
There’s a pause in the air as he finishes his sentence. It makes me look back through the mirror at him without thought. It’s been so long since a man’s called me that. I’ve spent years having a different name for each encounter, never exchanging details or revealing who I am. I’ve almost been lost in a world of pennames and social media, occasionally being called by my real name if I needed to pay a bill or fill in something at the bank, but never with a man. Definitely not with any sexual connotation associated, anyway.
He moves again, crossing the carpeted floor slowly and continuing to stare until he drops his gaze to my backside and stops. I feel the moment my arms give way to blocking him, not that they have been physically doing so, but my mind has. In fact, since the moment I met him I’ve been blocking him. He’s been research, that’s all. The fact that he’s everything I would generally drool over has meant nothing to me. Tall, broad, and full of that understated swagger. He’s the sort of man who owns the world simply by residing within it, somehow announcing to the inhabitants of the planet that he will not be messed with, nor fooled. It makes me smile to myself as I watch the way he appraises what’s in front of him. He’s measured, disciplined, weighing up his options given the situation around us, and considering the correct approach to getting hold of me. At this moment, it wouldn’t take much. I can smell him as he rubs his chin, stroking his finger across his cheek to his jaw, then pushing it over his lips. And those prevailing notes of wood and spice filter across to me from his neck, lifting any sense of appropriate out of the open window on a breeze of irrationality.
“You should leave,” he says softly, finally taking the last few steps over to me and zipping up my dress without asking if he can. “You’re right. This is inappropriate.”
Not one bit of his finger dragging along my spine feels inappropriate. I wish I could say it does, but it feels exquisite, as if I’ve never felt such a sensation. His touch is dense, like I can feel it beneath my skin finding its way inside with little effort. And the callous that roughens the touch? The way it grates slightly and coarsens the moment, effortlessly changing the dynamic between us? It’s deafening to my awareness of his proximity, showing he’s in complete control of what happens next. I can feel his breath on the nape of my neck, the heat from his skin, the air continuing to thicken with every breath that falls from my own lips. I’d only need him to lift those brown eyes again and this would escalate into something I’d remember for the rest of my life, I’m sure. Because I can feel the weight of his hands, regardless of the fact he’s removed them. I can feel their grasp, their flex. The way they’ll harness what’s inside him, turning his frame with skill and using it wisely for endless purposes. But mostly, I can feel the fact that they’ll hurt when they take hold. I know that, irrespective of this gentlemanly exterior. I can feel it all with just one touch on my skin and the rapid response from my heart, its fear and excitement, lust and confusion. It’s a heady moment. One that should be written onto parchment and sealed in blood for eternity, leaving it in the hands of millions of others to read so they too can feel true depth. One could fall in love with such a refined sense of beauty. One could lose themselves in the hedonism of these type of Dominants and their magical hold over minds. In fact, one might well do just that. What the hell does it matter anymore?
Chapter 5
Alana
I stare for precisely one minute longer before turning into his face and waiting for him to do something. Bree’s right. I should let someone just take hold and lead. Show me something new. My life is all about being in control—times, dates, release fixtures, promos, and certainly how my sex life works. It’s constant, even in the books Peter writes. And for once, here, now, I just want whatever happens to be in the hands of someone other than me. In his hands. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s his aura or his looks, or maybe I’m going insane. Who knows? Who cares? I don’t. I’m free of thinking for once, free of controlling my life and ready for whatever he wants.
Rather than initiating anything, though, he backs away. First one small step, followed by another longer stride, until he’s standing four foot away and staring at my lips with frustration etched into every hard contour of his face.
“My brother was driving the car that crashed into your cab, badly. He’s next door recovering and the cab driver is in hospital, doing fine.” Oh, well that was a change of direction, I suppose. One that leaves me with a raised pair of brows and my body still aching to close the distance between us again. “My doctor looked you over last night. There’s nothing but some whiplash, which she’s left you some pills for.”
“Okay,” I say, trying for sensible thought and failing as I reach for my shawl. He’s right. I should go. This is… Actually, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not useful for research purposes whatever it is. And ten seconds longer in my scattered brain and I would have been launching myself at him, proving his beauty and my inability to think logically, which is something we researchers don’t do. I shake my head at myself, remembering who I am and chastising my stupidity. I don’t daydream of impulsive encounters, pretending that reality doesn’t exist. It’s ridiculous. I’m considered. Deliberate. It’s what I’ve become. I’ve had too, to write a book that makes sense to people. It’s probably just the heady concoction of drugs in my system still, I suppose. Or that combined with a bump on my head maybe. I don’t know, but it’s not right. Whatever I was thinking, I was wrong. This is all wrong, regardless of the ache that’s still there.
I scan around for my bag, eventually finding it next to the bedside table as I slip my shoes on, and then smirk as I realise that’s how he knows my name. He must have rifled through my bag for the doctor. Doesn’t explain the Peter thing, though.
“You have your own doctor, huh?” I say, lifting the shawl and looking at him, trying to i
gnore the fact that I need something from him that I don’t understand.
“As you said, I hurt people. It’s necessary.”
“Dodgy doctor?”
“Kinky doctor,” he replies, seemingly uninterested in my question. Of course. It’s a useful fact that I can use in the story. I’d never considered that these places and people would need a doctor, or at least someone with medical training to act as a backup. Presumably it’s not easy to explain lacerations and rope burns to the hospitals if they ever need to go.
I fiddle with my bag as he stands there staring at me, unsure how one ends such a meeting or says thank you. And for what? Crashing into me? Not that he did by the sounds of it, but I’m okay, so what does it matter.
“Is your brother okay?”
“He’ll survive,” he says, completely devoid of any of the warmth he had. All joviality seems to have gone. All passion. He seems colder than I’ve ever seen him, making me question if I’ve done something wrong. And then he just opens the door, finally removing his gaze from me and walking out into the hallway with little emotion other than boredom. I eventually follow him with one last sweep of my eyes around the bedroom, checking for anything I’ve left.
“I assume this is your place?” I ask, wanting to find something to talk about, which is unlike me. I frown at myself, amused by my nerves around this man. Normally they’re just there for my own satisfaction. One nighters. One nighters where I up and leave with little in the way of explanation or conversation. After several failed attempts at the relationship status everyone else seems to chase, I don’t bother anymore. I certainly don’t hang around for a tête-à-tête about our night’s activities in the morning, if I even make it that far through a night.
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 7
