Controlled Chaos
A Clarke Brothers Novella
Christina C. Jones
Copyright © 2020 by Christina Jones
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Synopsis
Author’s Note
1. Drew
2. Andre
3. Drew
4. Andre
5. Drew
6. Andre
7. Drew
About the Author
Also by Christina C. Jones
Synopsis
Andre Clarke is painfully accustomed to being in control.
He’s the problem solver, the “responsible” brother, the one who keeps everything around him in order.
Until Drew Dawson steps in to turn him upside down.
Andre may be used to doling out commands, but Drew isn’t one to take them.
Two very different people, with a shared goal… if only they can play their roles.
Author’s Note
It’s a really weird time.
I hope you’re okay.
I hope you’re safe.
I hope you’re well.
I hope that maybe this gives you a few moments of enjoyment and distraction.
XO - CCJ
1
Drew
Everything had to be just so.
A very specific crimson on my lips.
Only ever emerald lace for my lingerie.
Only sky-high red-bottoms on my feet.
Only smoky makeup around my eyes. They, along with my lips, were the only things not obscured by the mask.
Once it was secured, I was ready.
My escort was already waiting – she was always waiting before I was done, ready to take me to where he was waiting.
Where relief awaited both of us.
I held my head high as we weaved through the hallways of the dark club, getting myself into character. I was a master of precision and poise, my braided ponytail bobbing behind me in perfect rhythm between my shoulder blades, never swinging further past one side than the other.
A little game I played with myself.
Foreplay, before the main event.
Before I did the kinda things I had no business doing with a stranger.
I was great at shit I wasn’t supposed to be doing.
I blinked back tears at the thought of it, not wanting to mess up my makeup – it wouldn’t do to be smudged when it was time to look him in his eyes.
This… whatever this was, between us – it wasn’t about my feelings, or triggers, or traumas. It was about… pain.
Exacted and endured.
Whatever we took from the experience, well… that was our own business.
At the door to the room, my escort stopped – she never crossed with me to the other side. The very first time, I’d understandably worried for my safety. I was about to be locked in a darkened room with a strange man.
But then… back then … I realized the depth of the very real danger I faced just walking down the street. Going to work, coming home. Maybe from men I knew.
Maybe from men I loved.
The man in the room didn’t seem so scary after all.
In fact, I found solace in this – anonymous, and controlled.
There were no surprises in this room, no sucker-punches. I knew what was coming.
Just the thought of it put a hitch in my breath.
I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with air before I exhaled, and pushed the door open. He was already waiting for me when I approached the padded leather bench. The restraints at all four corners glinted in the candlelight – candles he’d lit when he entered.
Setting the mood… just like he always did.
“You ready?” he asked, in a subtly-rasped baritone that made my stomach muscles clench. The glimmering flames from around the room reflected off his golden skin, lending itself to the sense that this was a man to be revered.
Too precious to touch… too delicious not to.
“Of course,” I told him, chin raised. “Are you?”
Like me, his facial features were obscured by a mask. But there was no dampening of those molten brown eyes, no downplaying the panty-wetting effect of a smirk on those full, velvety lips.
“Let’s get to it.”
I shuddered against the feeling of his fingertips grazing my bare stomach as he passed me. Even in my heels, he was taller than me, with thick shoulders and biceps, and just enough definition in his solid midsection to be exactly my type.
At least, in my head.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured in my ear, just before he took away his touch.
Nobody’s perfect.
He was lying, but… I was okay with that.
I needed that.
His eyes never left my body as he moved toward the flat bench, and I followed with a graceful, purposeful stride to help fulfill his lie. The only thing in his gaze was pure adulation.
And lust.
In my heels, I planted my feet, propping my hands on my hips.
“Lie your ass down. Now.”
He did.
And really… that was damn near orgasmic in and of itself – this big, strong man, moving at my command. He laid face down on the specialty bench, stretching his arms and legs into exactly the right places. I took my sweet time, hoping every second that passed felt like an extra hour as one by one, I secured him with the thick leather straps – his ankles, then his wrists.
And then…I picked up the flogger.
This, too, was very specific.
Butter-soft suede, with knotted leather ends that would sting.
Slowly, deliberately, I let the ends trail across the expanse of his honey-toned back, noticing each contraction of flesh and muscle. I could feel the tension – the impatience - vibrating from him.
He was ready, so fucking ready, to get what I was here to give.
This part, the anticipation… it was almost as good as the pain.
Or so I heard.
I pulled it back, taking away any trace of sensation as I walked around the table. To torture him, yes, but also to take a moment for pure admiration. This nameless, faceless man was… exquisite.
And exquisitely at my mercy.
With a sharp, tight flick of my wrist, I whipped the flogger across his back, creating a web of red marks across his skin. He didn’t even flinch, and just as quickly as the blemishes appeared, they were gone.
Then I did it again.
And again.
And again.
Over and over, never in the same spot in succession.
Sometimes gently, most times with all the strength I could pull into me, until his back was cobwebbed with red blotches.
Until… he… flinched.
That was the deal.
He enjoyed the pain.
I enjoyed inflicting it.
He enjoyed not being in control.
I enjoyed controlling.
Exchange.
People got off on the strangest things, and I included myself in that number.
When I saw that involuntary jolt, the reflexive contraction of the muscles across his back, the clench of his tight glutes… there was no describing the relief I felt.
The arousal.
I knew what was next.
My hands shook as I undid the restraints keeping him against the bench. As soon as he was free, he sat up, and his big hands went to my waist, drawing me against him.
H
is dick was hard as a rock, pressing into my stomach as one hand came up, tangling in my ponytail to pull my head back.
To put my mouth in a better position to be claimed.
Always, always, he tasted like bourbon and coke.
Lots of bourbon, just a splash of the cola.
His tongue was big and wide, blanketing mine, easily bringing to mind thoughts of how it might feel in other, even more intimate places.
We never, ever went there though.
This was all I ever got, by design, before he stepped away. With one swift pull, the flat bench was turned into a seat – one he took, and then… waited.
Again, I bound him, but just his arms this time.
And then I dropped to my knees in front of him.
At his insistence, there was a cushion there for me – maybe in his real life, he was some sort of gentleman. But then again, I’d imagine that a man like this would have no issue getting a woman to fulfill this fantasy.
So maybe he was a monster.
Not that it mattered to me.
His gaze was focused and greedy as I pulled his dick from his boxers.
Long and thick, just slightly darker than the same golden brown that covered the rest of him. It was beautiful.
Mouth-wateringly so, enough that I desperately wanted to taste it, but that was another line we never crossed. Instead of putting my mouth on him, I spit into my hands, using them to squeeze and pump, jacking him off.
His fists clenched, wrists tugging at the restraints.
He wanted to touch me, badly, but aside from the brief liberties he’d already taken, that wasn’t part of this.
I squeezed him harder, spitting on his dick again to keep up the wet, messy friction with both hands. Tight and slow, how he liked it, until the muscles in his thighs started jumping, his hips surging to meet my hands.
Until he came, hard.
Thick and creamy white, spurting through my fingers and dripping down my hands. I waited, looking him right in his eyes until his breathing leveled out. I wiped my hands with the towel left nearby just for that purpose, then clambered back to my feet to undo his restraints.
Again, he pulled me against him, but his time, instead of going to my ponytail… his hand went to my neck.
Squeezing enough to take my breath away.
He brought his lips to mine, just a graze. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” I answered, biting my lip before I stepped away from his hold. “We’re done.” I turned away and headed for the door, not wanting him to see how completely aroused I was, how close I was to throwing aside our rules and begging him to fuck me.
“You never let me return the favor,” he called to my retreating back.
At the door, I turned to him, shaking my head. “And I won’t.”
“Why?”
I smirked as I pulled the handle on the door.
“I’m sure you’d love to know.”
“81C? Why would I want to go back there exactly?”
I shot that text off to Raisa and Bianca then sat back with a heavy sigh. My appointment at the club had been kinda early in the evening, around seven. Afterward, I went home and masturbated myself into a coma with thoughts of him in my head, not waking up until the buzzing of my phone wouldn’t let me stay asleep.
My homegirls wanted to have a late dinner, and I could use a meal after tonight’s exploits, so I was down.
Until they said they wanted to go to 81st & Clarke.
That place… irked me.
It wasn’t that the food was bad, or the service lacked, or the décor was trash – in fact, they boasted the exact opposite of all those things.
It was perfect.
Completely, utterly polished, like the perfection was the goal – that was their “thing”. It shirked personality in favor of being Instagram-worthy from the moment you walked up. The service staff was all gorgeous, every dish was perfectly plated, the drinks expertly mixed.
Impeccably fucking boring.
“What’s wrong Dede? Afraid they’re gonna spit in your food after that review you left? – Bebe.”
I grinned at the text from Bianca. She was the only person who called me Dede – the only person I let call me that, since she had good reason to not want to speak my name. She and I’d met in group therapy, actually – for women who’d survived abusive relationships.
Her abuser and I shared a name.
So instead of being faced with that in what was supposed to be a safe space, she called me Dede – Drew Dawson – and she was Bebe – Bianca Bailey.
It worked, and she and her bestie became my besties.
Besties who wanted me to go sit in a place that made me wanna gag.
“It wasn’t even a bad review,” I insisted via text. “I just told my truth, that’s all.”
“LMAO. Girl. And what a soul-crushing truth it was. – Raisa.”
My mouth dropped open, and I typed back, “I wasn’t even mean!”
“You’re right, you weren’t. But that’s what makes it even worse LMAO – Bebe.”
“Anyway, you coming for these drinks or not? I know you said it was “mind-numbingly… fine.” LMAOOOOO – Raisa.”
“You don’t quite get yours, but enjoy yourself enough to answer the phone and hope for better next time. – remember you said that part D? – Bebe.”
Yikes.
I did say that, huh?
In my defense, that honesty was what drew people in my direction – and was how I’d gotten the job alongside Bianca and Raisa at Sugar&Spice magazine. They were fashion and home life, while I was the food editor, offering up the occasional article or review of my own.
The review of 81st and Clarke was one of mine, from a few months ago.
“Fine, we can go back – maybe I’ll be more impressed this time. See y’all in thirty?”
Once we got the time confirmed, I forced myself out of bed for a quick shower, then into my closet to pick clothes. I kept it simple – jeans, tee-shirt, blazer, heels, chunky jewelry. I didn’t have time to worry too much about the effort.
I did a quick five-minute face with my makeup, then grabbed my phone, purse, and keys to head out the door, hoping I wasn’t going to regret agreeing to this choice in restaurant.
I didn’t want to have to tell my social media following that in spite of many of their disagreements with my opinion of 81C, I’d given them another shot and still wasn’t impressed.
2
Andre
You really are a fucking glutton for punishment, aren’t you?
Instead of closing the website like I knew I should, I scrolled back to the top of the page – past the pictures the reviewer had taken of the restaurant and the food, to read the review over again, for what had to the hundredth time at this point. If this was random, the shit wouldn’t faze me.
I wouldn’t have given it even a second thought.
But this wasn’t random – this wasn’t just digital, it had been printed and sent out around the country – around the world. Sugar&Spice magazine had a very long reach, which meant this annoying ass review did as well.
“It’s not that the food is bad – it isn’t. The food is great – I’d even venture into excellent, in terms of taste and obvious quality of ingredients. But the food, like everything else with 81st and Clarke is so carefully measured that it skirts the line of being sterile. I’m pretty sure somebody in the back was counting out an exact number of pepper flakes for each plate.
With all the buzz around this initial opening from the youngest generation of the Clarke family – past generations were integral to the history and culture of Blackwood - I anticipated being wowed. I expected the vibrant, remarkable flavors, visuals, and energy that would send me on an expedition to an experience I’d be able to deem orgasmic, or whatever is appropriately adjacent.
I didn’t get that.
This was more like… when you don’t quite get yours, but enjoyed yourself enough to answer the phone and hope for better
next time.
81st and Clarke has established itself as very popular among the Black millennials in this city, and I can see why. The plating and presentation of each dish are gorgeous, just begging to be snapped, filtered, and posted on Instagram with all the other parsley-coated foods that are easier on your eyes than they are in your mouth. (The food at 81C is good though.)
The servers are obviously well-trained – almost over-trained, to the point that you might wonder if they need a quick flash of light in their eyes. And they’re gorgeous too – right from the pages of a very purposefully inclusive magazine. Not a bad thing, just very obvious.
And maybe that’s the problem?
I won’t knock or downplay the very obvious care that was put into this restaurant. Every detail is carefully planned and executed, not a metaphorical hair out of place. Off the record, one of the servers assured me that the stick lodged in a certain head manager’s orifice was secure as well.
Should you go to 81C?
I’m not personally suggesting otherwise, and I’m certain you’ll have a good time – they’ve made sure of it. You’ll be seated exactly on time for your reservation, your server will be attentive, your drinks will be perfectly poured, and your meal will taste great.
But if you’re like me, and prefer a little more relaxed vibe for dates, drinks with the girls, business lunches with the colleagues… I’d stick with Honeybee.
“Fuck,” I muttered out loud, pushing the laptop away from me on the desk. It wasn’t overtly “bad”, and didn’t feel malicious, which almost made the shit worse.
As Addison would – and had – framed it, she’d “fuckin fried us”.
And hadn’t even been trying to.
I pushed out another deep sigh, cursing myself for coming right back to this shit after having a much-needed stress-relieving session earlier.
Controlled Chaos Page 1
