by Geneva Lee
The game between us progresses throughout the day. I imagine her stealing glances at her phone and trying to hide her blush. She can’t. I know exactly how pink flushes her cheeks when she reads them. It’s the same shade that lovely ass of hers is going to turn when I show her all the other ways I can pleasure her later.
Lose your knickers, I order her while she’s shopping at Harrods. She doesn’t know that I know exactly where she is, but she doesn’t need to. It’s all part of the fun.
Who says I have any on?
I know Clara Bishop is wearing knickers, but I get hard anyway. She’s not the type to wander around London with a bare cunt. It’s one of the reasons I’m going to enjoy teaching her to do just that. Because Clara Bishop is a very good girl, and I’m going to teach her how to be wicked.
I wait until I receive word she’s at lunch before I unleash the next barrage of texts:
I need to have my mouth on you. I need to make you come.
I need to hear you crying my name as I fuck you.
She’s had enough time with her mother. It’s my turn now, and I won’t wait much longer. I know exactly what table she’s been seated at in Hillgrove’s, and if she doesn’t dine quickly, I might walk in and carry her out myself.
I’m especially tempted after her next text arrives:
But how can I scream your name with my mouth busy sucking you off?
Fuck. I need her. Now.
You won’t know until you’ve tried.
Christ, I’m so fucking hard for you.
Finish eating and get your pretty ass over to me.
I won’t wait much longer for her. She’s won this game, and her prize is the rock-hard dick she’ll be riding all afternoon. It’s time for her to collect her winnings.
I need to see you now. The Westminster Royal.
There’s no response, but I know she’s on her way. I can already feel her coming.
Chapter Nine
When the lift opens, I don’t think. I’m on her, my hands and lips vying to see which can cover more of her. Lifting her into my arms, she doesn’t resist. She’s so pliable, responding to me as I cradle her neck—as I crush her against the wall. I nearly take her right there. It’s all I can do not to. I don’t think she’ll stop me—protection or no. I don’t think I can stop myself, and the tiny voice in my head reminding me to care about such things is drowned out by the rush of blood pounding through me.
And then I taste salt on my lips.
It takes a moment to realize she’s crying, and now that I do, I feel like a wanker. Had she been crying when she arrived? This is why I don’t do relationships. I don’t notice things like that.
Or care about them, I tell myself. Except I do.
“Clara.” I tilt her chin up so that she has to meet my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She turns away, pushing against me like she wants to be freed. I can’t understand why.
“What’s going on?” Something is wrong, and I appear to be the cause of it.
“This, Mr. X!” She holds up her phone, and I catch sight of a news article.
“I’m not sure I understand what’s happening here.” That’s a lie. What’s happening is the inevitable result of pretending I can have my cake and eat it, too.
“What’s happening is that you’re an asshole!” She’s finally caught on to that. It took her longer than most. I’d almost allowed myself to believe it might be different between us—that she might see me for who I am.
Not that I even know who that is.
But I’ve fucked it up. Moving to the bar, I lift a bottle of bourbon. “Drink?”
She shakes her head, her shoulders set. Clara’s determined to stand her ground. I pour myself a drink.
“So TMI is reporting that I was seen with Pepper last night?” I ask.
This is true. I was, but she doesn’t know the circumstances. Annoyance ticks inside me, but I can’t decide if it’s the results of Clara’s assumptions or Pepper’s fame-mongering.
“Weren’t you the one that said tabloids report rumors as facts?” I continue. “Because I rather appreciated the truth of that statement. Sit down, Clara.”
She folds her arms over her chest but otherwise remains still. “I’d prefer to stand.”
It’s such an adorable little stand-off that I’m already imagining it ending with her over my knee.
“Suit yourself.” I don’t bother to participate in this stand-off. Instead, I take a chair and focus on my drink, knowing it will rile her up. She needs to get this out of her system—or allow herself to get so worked up that she gives in to what she really wants from me.
“So you know her?” Clara presses.
“Of course I know her. I’ve known Pepper for years.” If only she knew how much I wish that wasn’t the case.
Her cold indifference falters for a moment when I tell her the truth. “You aren’t making me feel any better.”
“Are you jealous?” This makes me smile. I like the idea of Clara Bishop asserting some ownership. Probably, because she seems so hell-bent on pretending that she’s comfortable with our arrangement. I know she’s not.
Everything about this should bother me. Instead, I rather appreciate the possessive side of her argument. It’s an interesting development.
“Who is she?”
“A friend of my sister’s.” Bringing Sarah into this adds a wrinkle I don’t appreciate, though. I don’t talk about my sister. Ever. I down the rest of my drink to cover my discomfort.
“And that’s it? Wasn’t she the girl at the club?” she asks.
So she had recognized her, remembered her. I owe Pepper for whatever this is between Clara and me, but I can’t exactly say that which is leaving room for her to fuck with Clara’s head. Pepper doesn’t even know I’m seeing someone, and she’s still screwing it up for me.
“She was,” I admit. “You’re wondering if I’m using you to get to her.”
Her mouth falls open, and I know I’m right. “We’re connected, Clara. Can’t you feel it? At first, I thought it was just sexual.” So much of it is, but that’s not what has me abandoning the bourbon and going to her now. “The way your body responds to mine. How it feels when I’m inside you. But it’s more than that. I know you feel it.”
She swallows hard, as affected by our nearness as I am. “Why even bring it up? You don’t do commitment, remember?”
“I remember.” Fuck. She has me there. To be honest, I don’t even know what I’m saying. What is it that I want from Clara Bishop? “I don’t understand it either. I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself to you—”
“Because you want exclusivity, remember? You demanded it from me! But apparently not from yourself!”
“Do you think I fucked her?” I take a step closer, pleased with how her body seems to angle toward mine despite how pissed off her suggestion makes me. Does she think I would do that? Go back on our agreement?
“If it walks like a fuck and talks like a fuck,” she spits back, recalling our earlier argument.
She has trust issues. That makes two of us, and I can think of only one way to solve that problem.
“I don’t lie, Clara,” I murmur so that she has to listen closely. I want her to hear this next bit. “And if you accuse me of doing so, I will take you over my knee.”
Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a surprised O as she backs away from me a little too slowly to be entirely believable.
“You’d like that,” I say, moving toward her, eager to close the space between us. “I see it in your eyes—the hunger.”
Clara’s hand flies up, but it’s a shaky barrier. I catch it and bring it to my lips, kissing it once and savoring how she trembles.
“I’ll never lay a finger on you without your permission, but the sooner you accept the truth, Clara, the better.”
“What truth?” Her question is forced because she already knows the answer.
“You want to submit to me. You want me to tell you what to do with
that sweet little mouth. The way your body responds to mine. It wants to be controlled. Dominated. You want to be dominated. You’re so incredibly strong, Clara.” I trace the flat plane of her stomach and feel her muscles constrict. “But you need to lose control. You want to.”
She shakes her head, but her words are turned inward. “No, I don’t.”
“You’ll be safe with me.” I will protect her. She has to see that. Pulling her toward me, I wrap my arms around her, hoping she can feel the truth of it. “I’ll never take you further than you can handle, but I will take you to the edge. I will give you more pleasure than you ever thought possible.”
Her throat slides, and I wonder if she’s swallowing back a yes or a no. I can see her fighting with herself, and every ounce of me wants to release her from that struggle—to give her the bliss she can only know under my domination.
“I’m not like that,” she says in a small voice.
I refuse to allow her to turn away. Staring into her eyes, I will her to see what I’m offering her. “I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you. Release. My only thought is of your pleasure. When you give yourself to me, I take that responsibility seriously, Clara.”
She turns as though my gaze burns her. “What are we talking about? Ropes and safe words?”
An image of Clara bound in red rope flashes through my mind, and it’s all I can do not to throw her over my shoulder and carry her into the bedroom.
Yes, I want ropes and safe words. I want to paint her ass red with my hands. I want to watch her slip into a place where all she knows is my touch.
“Small steps, Clara, but yes. A safeword is a necessity. For now, I want you to trust me. I want you to trust that I will give you pleasure.”
“And you’ll punish me too?” she asks. “Threaten to spank me if I misbehave?”
“Only when you don’t trust me.” Which won’t be an issue for long, not once she gives in. I know I can show her. “Without trust, you can’t give me control, Clara, and then we can’t have what we both need.”
“You mean what you want!” Her voice pitches up to the verge of hysterical.
“Need,” I say firmly, “What you need.”
“I… don’t…” She shakes her head like the words are stuck.
“Yes, you do.” How can I make her see this? I feel it in her. It draws me to her. As much as I want this—as much as I crave the submission of her body—I long to see her free more. “Let me show you.”
She pulls away. This time shaking her head with rejection as her eyes grow wet. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
And now I see what’s holding her back. It’s not denial or ignorance. It’s fear—an unnatural fear. She isn’t scared of what I’m suggesting because it’s unknown. She’s scared because someone made her that way.
“Someone tried to break you before,” I say sadly.
She’s crying now, and I want to wipe the tears away. I want to take back what I’ve suggested. If I had known…
“I’m not him, Clara. That’s not what I want to do to you.” But how can you explain that there is a difference between submission and humiliation—a difference between giving control and having it taken from you.
“You warned me,” she accuses me. “You told me you would hurt me!”
“I did.” But that wasn’t what I meant. And in the end, even if I convince her to stay now and build the trust I’ve nearly destroyed, I won’t keep her. She deserves more.
She hesitates for a moment, waiting for me to give her a reason to stay. “I should go.”
“You probably should,” I say, wishing I could let her walk out the door but knowing I can’t, “but I wish you wouldn’t. Go to bed with me one more time. Let me show you. Let me give you pleasure.”
She’s already backing away, and I feel a veil descend between us. She can’t see what I’m offering, and I can’t show her—not until she’s ready. Not until she asks.
“I can’t,” she says.
“You won’t.” I can’t let her go without delivering this final truth. I hate myself for not reaching out for her. I hate myself for not being able to lie and tell her it was all a joke. I hate myself for needing more than she’ll give.
I hate myself for scaring her.
Chapter Ten
Clara Bishop is not a woman who can be drank away. Still, I’ve tried. The subtle thump of music is all that penetrates my hiding spot. Below me, hundreds of people are crammed into Brimstone, enjoying themselves or, at least, forgetting whatever troubles plague them. Lucky bastards.
“Let’s go down there,” Jonathan suggests, eying the crowd. I’ve no doubt he’s spotted some potential conquest. He’s dressed for the evening. A button-down, cuffed to look casual. Expensive shoes of some sort. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, he could take home more than a few conquests. I, on the other hand, need a shave, and I’m in a t-shirt and jeans. I know he expects a wild evening. What I can’t figure out is why I invited him in the first place.
Maybe because only alcoholics drink alone? But I’m not really drinking. I’m not doing anything, a fact my father reminded me of this morning.
“You go.” I grin, trying to sound encouraging. I really would like it if he left.
“Is this about that girl?” Jonathan asks. “You know, the best way to get over her would be to fuck someone else.”
My fake smile flattens, even though he has a point. “Not interested.”
“You always told me that sometimes a girl needs to get fucked out of your system,” Jonathan reminds me. “You’ll feel better after.”
It’s like he’s telling me to take some medicine for a headache. “I’m not fucking coming,” I growl. “Go!”
My hands close into fists as I try to keep this from getting physical. Because right now, I want to throw him out—toss him to the crowd. But why?
He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.
A dark look flashes across his fair features, but he rearranges his face into an apathetic mask. “Fine.”
The door slides open, and club music punctures the air as he exits. It reminds me of the night she came here to visit, and I look up, half-hoping to find myself back there. What would I say to change the direction our relationship took?
Nothing.
There is no relationship. There won’t be. She was smart enough to run, and I need to be man enough to let her.
Moving to the window, I stare into the crowd, losing myself to the faces below. Maybe he’s right. Maybe a night with a stranger would fix all this. I’d never let a woman get to me before. It’s always the other way around. I sleep with a woman. It’s good. I fuck her again. She gets ideas. It’s the natural course of things. I can’t blame her. But I do send a clear message by moving on to someone new. Once a girl sees she’s replaceable, she understands. It’s how I’ve always operated. I’m not looking for a fucking princess or a happily ever after. No man is.
So why can’t I go down there and take some stranger to my bed? Why am I up here nursing a bourbon and wondering if she’ll respond to my texts?
There’s another burst of club music, and I look up, expecting Jonathan, but it’s only Norris, dressed in a suit and looking a bit too James Bond for Brimstone.
He stares stoically at me as if waiting for an invitation to join me. It’s been like that since I got back from the front. Before I left, he treated me like a charge—lecturing and interfering as much as he thought necessary. I don’t know if he sees me as a man now or if he gave up when all his well-intentioned fathering failed, and I wound up bleeding on the roadside holding my dying sister. I’ve never asked.
I hold up my glass and motion for him to pour himself one.
“Are we drinking or admiring it?” He doesn’t bother with the bourbon. I knew he wouldn’t. Not since he’s been stuck playing bodyguard and chauffeur.
“Neither.” I turn my attention to the club.
“You aren’t going to find her down there,” Norris says softly.
“Who?” I’m tired of this conversation. I’m tired of people seeing through me and acting like they know what’s best for me. I know exactly where to find Clara Bishop. I know she starts work in the morning at Peters & Clarkwell. I know she’s been shopping with her best friend. I know she doesn’t want to see me. I know I shouldn’t want to see her.
Norris doesn’t answer me. He’s been around when I’ve received reports from friends inside SIS. He knows I’m tracking Clara, but he’s kept his thoughts to himself, and it’s driving me crazy.
“I’m not looking for her,” I say, my eyes glued to the swarm of club-goers.
“You don’t have to,” he says in a clipped tone. “You know exactly where she is. You always do. If I might, that’s not exactly healthy behavior for either of you.”
I know that, too. She admitted she’d had a bad relationship before. I’d had to stop myself from seeking out information on this ex of hers. But I had checked up on her. “I’m not stalking her.”
Norris raises a gray brow. “Just because you’re using MI5 doesn’t make it right.”
“I just want to know that she’s safe. That the reporters are leaving her alone.” I walk away from the window, away from him and the accusation. But I can’t seem to get far enough.
“The reporters have been quiet,” he says. “They seem more interested in Ms. Lockwood since that photo at the opera.”
“I guess I owe Pepper one,” I bite out. “She took the heat off Clara. It’s what I wanted, you know. Clara to have a normal life. I never wanted anyone to find out about us.”
The pause between us is deafening, but it’s what he asks next that’s loaded. “Why?”
“Because she doesn’t belong in my world.” It’s obvious. I live in a world of glass crowns and pretty cages. No beautiful creature belongs there. “It’s better to keep her away from all this.”
“But it’s part of who you are.” Norris watches me as I continue to pace, his eyes sweeping along with me while the rest of him remains still.
