by Lila Dubois
“Uh, Sasha, there’s something on your, uh…”
Sasha looked down to see green wax covering her belly. “Fuck. Fuck. Jayne, get me clothes, and something for my hair, I don’t have time to wash it. Where’s the closest shower?”
“Three doors down on the right there’s an en suite.”
“Here, give me your wrist.” Emory grabbed her hand and undid the cuff.
She looked at him for a moment, wanting to thank him, to explain what was going on. There just wasn’t time.
“Go, shower,” was all he said.
Sasha grabbed her dress of the floor and, holding it over herself, ran for the door. As she left, she heard Jayne asking him to leave, as there had already been questions about whose car was in the driveway.
“Of course,” was his faraway reply. “May I suggest you tell them she had an early-morning meeting with her attorney? Blame me for her lateness, and…”
Sasha zipped into the other room and jumped in the shower.
Chapter Seven
Four days.
It had been four days since he’d seen her.
Emory jogged along the path atop the Santa Monica cliffs, taking in the sunshine and nodding at the other joggers, though he wasn’t feeling too friendly.
It had been four days since he’d slunk out of her house like the hired help—which he was. In those four days he hadn’t heard from her. Not once.
What happened that morning was his fault. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. He had a vague memory of undoing one cuff and getting them under the covers, but he hadn’t gotten her back to her room, hadn’t set alarms or notified anyone where they were.
He’d been late to a meeting of his own, and had used the same excuse—early-morning meeting with Sasha—to explain his absence. It was a bad situation for both of them—not only being late, but exposing their intimate encounter to her assistant. Though Emory had always assumed she had some idea as to Sasha’s sexual preferences, he was sure knowing was different than seeing Sasha with a cuff dangling from her wrist and wax dried on her belly.
He’d fucked up, and it appeared that the price for that was steep. She’d cut ties with him.
Or perhaps she hadn’t cut ties over that, perhaps she’d never intended to see him after that night, perhaps he’d misread their conversation at dinner. The Dom in him, actually all parts of him, wanted to go back to her house and fuck her until she agreed to be his, forever.
He loved her.
He’d always assumed love was a state of mind that people could talk themselves in and out of, and that when the time was right he would be able to decide he loved someone.
He’d been stupid and wrong.
He hadn’t decided to love her. If he had a choice he probably wouldn’t love her—it would be easier. But love her he did. Just thinking about her caused a physiological response—his heart beat faster, his palms got sweaty.
He loved her and had never told her.
But how could he? She was a movie star, he was a lawyer. In the industry, lawyers were considered the necessary-but-evil, boring thugs who everyone needed and no one wanted. They were the people who had nothing to do with creation and art, and everything to do with contracts and litigation. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard of entertainment lawyers dating or marrying their star clients.
Marrying? Did he want to marry her?
Emory slowed to a walk as he came up on her street. Half a block down from the beachside cliff was her house. The fact that he’d come all the way up here to do his daily run was a sign of just how smitten he was.
He did want to marry her. Maybe he should just jog over there and ask her. He might be able to startle her into saying yes.
A female jogger wearing a hat and sunglasses turned off the running path toward Ocean Avenue, which paralleled the cliffs and Highway 1 below. Emory watched as the woman, wearing long, skintight pants and a fleece jacket, both of which were unnecessary despite the morning breeze, looked both ways before jogging across the street.
Emory narrowed his gaze. He knew that ass.
A grin spreading across his face, Emory jogged across Ocean and followed her.
Sasha slowed as she reached her house. Every bruise on her body was throbbing from the run, but it felt good to be out in the sun. She’d been stuck in her basement home gym too much in the past few days.
She keyed in the code and pushed the gate open. She had fifteen minutes to shower and get in the car. While not ideal, she could do it.
There was a scrape on the path behind her. Sasha’s whole body went tense. Had she heard the gate swing shut behind her? No, she hadn’t, which meant someone had followed her in. Her muscles tensed and she looked to a tall hedge, which she knew concealed one of the security cameras. She raised her hand and crooked her finger at the camera, keeping the motion small.
She should let the security team handle it. If she attacked whoever was behind her—and she was certain they were close, she could feel their presence—she’d pay the price. The few times she’d gotten pissed off enough to lay out a paparazzo or two she’d been all over the gossip shows and been slapped with lawsuits. Luckily, the lawsuits had gone nowhere. Her lawyer…
Her lawyer.
That jerk hadn’t called her. It had been four days and she’d heard nothing. The anger and hurt she’d managed to burn off on the run returned full force.
Now happy to have a target for the feeling, she stopped, braced her left foot and lashed out.
Emory was less than three feet behind her. There was an eye-opening moment of recognition but she couldn’t pull back in time—not that she tried very hard. Her right foot hit him square in the stomach. Emory flew back a few feet, landing on his ass and back with a meaty thud.
Sasha took a deep breath, wincing as he let out a strangled groan.
Thundering footsteps heralded the arrival of her security team. A massive bodyguard put himself between her and where Emory lay.
“Ms. Brazil, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Police are on their way.”
“There’s no need. That’s my lawyer.”
There was a pregnant pause while the security guards looked at her. The one protecting her raised his wrist to his mouth and spoke quietly into the mic there.
“Ma’am, I’ve called off the police, but if he followed you and entered the premises without permission, we need to treat him as an intruder. Just because you know him doesn’t mean you’re safe with him.”
Sasha was sure she wasn’t safe with him. The jerk had already broken her heart.
“I have to leave in a few minutes,” she told her security detail. “Bring him in. I’ll talk to him when I’m done with my shower.”
With that, Sasha turned and walked into the house.
Exactly ten minutes later, Sasha came down wearing skinny jeans, a halter top printed with little skulls, red peep-toe heels and black leather wristbands. A security guy stood in front of the living room door.
“He’s in there?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Thank you. Can you bring a car around for me?”
“You’re planning to drive yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Which car would you like?”
“Something fast.”
A small smile cracked the stoic mask of her security guard’s face. “Yes ma’am.”
When he was gone, Sasha opened the living room door. Emory was lying on the couch, a grimace contorting his face. His head lifted when she walked in. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering in a way that heated her blood. Then a grimace crossed his face and his head dropped back onto the cushions.
“Did you know,” he said, “that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?”
“I’d heard that.”
“Well, clearly you’ve made me insane, because I keep surprising you, and despite past experiences, I’m shocked
when it ends with me in pain.”
“I guess you don’t need me to tell you that you shouldn’t sneak up on me.”
“I think I’ve finally learned. My internal organs will never be the same.”
“I didn’t kick you that hard.”
“I beg to differ. I spent a few minutes throwing up in your front yard.”
Sasha’s heart clenched. Had she really hurt him? She took a few steps forward then stopped. She wasn’t going to rush to him as if she were some silly girl. He’d snuck up on her—it was his own fault he’d gotten hurt. Still, she chewed her lower lip, worried.
Emory sat up, one hand on his stomach. Slowly, he pushed to his feet.
It was the first time she’d seen him in casual clothes. He wore running shorts and a tight athletic shirt. The shirt showed off the very fine muscles of his arms, shoulders and abs.
“You’re not wearing a suit.”
“I rarely do when I go running.”
“Why were you following me?”
He jerked a little at her sudden question. She didn’t have time for subtlety.
“I was running and I saw you. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh, now you want to talk to me.” Sasha crossed her arms, smirking in satisfaction when the action caused his gaze to drop to her breasts.
“I’m sorry if that distresses you. Apparently,” his gaze slid off her and his shoulders stiffened, “I am unable to take a hint.”
“What are you talking about?” Sasha could feel the distance he was putting between them. She didn’t like it. If anyone was going to put distance between them it was going to be her. She knew that was petty but she didn’t care. She’d let him in and now he had the power to hurt her—she’d minimize that whatever way she could.
“I should have respected the fact that you didn’t want to speak with me anymore.”
“Wait a minute.” Sasha narrowed her eyes. “You’re upset because I didn’t call you?”
“I’m not upset.”
“Well, I am, because you didn’t call me.” Sasha stalked forward.
Emory held his ground but put up a hand. “Do not hit me again.”
“I’ll hit you if you need to be hit. Which you do.” Sasha unfolded her arms and curled her hands into fists.
“You were waiting for me to call you?”
“It’s not like I was waiting by the phone. I’m busy.”
“Which is precisely why I didn’t call you.”
“That doesn’t—you know what? I don’t have time for this.” Sasha desperately wanted to finish this conversation but she was now past her fifteen-minute window. She turned her back to Emory and walked out of the living room.
“Sasha, we need to talk.” Emory’s footsteps echoed hers as he followed her out.
“I know, but I have two hours to get my hair done and then to the studio for some wardrobe and screen tests.” Her newest toy—the Ferrari-killer Audi R8—was waiting at the foot of the front steps.
“Very well.” Emory caught her arm. “You can give me a ride home.”
“Where’s your car?”
“I took a bus. I hate parking in Santa Monica.”
“The bus?” It had been years since she’d ridden a bus, and the idea of prissy Emory on one made her smile. “Fine, get in.”
Sasha slid behind the wheel. The inside looked like the console of a jet. It rumbled to life, vibrating beneath them. She put it in gear and grinned at Emory. “Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
With a laugh, she ripped out of the driveway. The gate had barely opened before she slid through, with only inches between the mirror and the gatepost.
“Sasha, slow down!” Emory started swearing in a language she didn’t recognize.
She peeled out onto her quiet street, not bothering to check for cross traffic. People always got out of her way. She laughed as Emory braced his hands against the door and roof.
“Sometimes,” she said, “if I’m…needy…I’ll just drive. I’ll wait until 3:00 a.m. and just drive up Highway 1, go until I hit the part where there are cliffs, where you never know what’s coming next.”
“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve seen the damned speeding tickets. Sasha, the light, the light!”
She slid through a yellow—maybe it was red—light.
Emory grabbed for the wheel, then thought better of it. “You may have a death wish, but I don’t.”
“Death wish? No, sometimes I just need…” Sasha shrugged as she turned right onto Lincoln, the car seeming to sink even lower to the road from the force behind the turn.
“You like danger. You like darkness. I get it, but please, please don’t kill us.”
Sasha laughed. “I guess that’s true. But you should calm down.” She weaved between cars, sliding into openings and blowing through lights. “Stress can kill you.”
“Getting into a car accident at this speed will kill me.”
“I don’t even know where we’re going. Where do you live?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just stop the car and I’ll get out.”
“Okay. I will. When you tell me why you didn’t call me.”
“Why I didn’t call you?” Emory stopped frantically stomping on what she assumed was his imaginary brake pedal. “When I last saw you, you were running out of the room late for a meeting. It was my fault that you were late. I shouldn’t have let us fall asleep. I should have set an alarm. I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”
“Oh.” Sasha let that sink in. It made sense when he said it like that.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Emory’s voice was cool and calm, with none of the amusing panic she’d heard since they got in the car.
“I was waiting for you to call me.” She slowed and stopped driving so aggressively as she switched her focus to their conversation. “I thought the conversation we had at dinner…” Words failed her, and Sasha felt an unfamiliar blush creep over her face. She was terrified that she’d read it wrong—that what she’d interpreted as his interest and desire for an extension of their sexual relationship was really just him being polite or kind.
Emory was quiet a moment, then said, “Turn right at the next light.”
In silence she followed his directions, finally keying into the garage for a four-story condo complex in Marina Del Rey. He directed her to a parking space next to his rather boring Lexus.
Sasha ran her hands over the wrapped leather of the steering wheel, feeling each stitch with her fingers. She wanted to say something flippant and then peel out of the garage, end this on a light, high note. But she couldn’t. She didn’t feel flippant. She felt raw and exposed, wavering between tears and anger.
“Sasha.”
“What?”
“Come upstairs.”
She couldn’t, she needed to get her hair done before the screen test. She needed to focus on work.
It didn’t seem to matter. Or maybe she just cared about this more.
She followed Emory to an elevator.
“Now. I can’t wait.”
“Please. Please, touch me.”
Emory, lips on Sasha’s neck, had enough presence of mind to push the door shut behind them. As soon as he’d opened the door the desire he’d been holding back flooded him and he’d pushed Sasha against the wall, kissing her hard and deep.
She’d ripped at his jogging clothes, growling in frustration when his shirt clung to him.
With the door closed, the last vestiges of his control snapped. He dropped to his knees to work the button of her jeans. Pushing her top up over her breasts, he nipped her belly. When her pants were around her ankles, Sasha grabbed his head and ground her pussy against his face. She was wet, ready.
Pulling her panties aside, he licked her, tasting her need. His cock tented the front of his shorts.
“I need to be inside you.”
“I want that too. I want to feel you in me.”
Emory dragged her down to the floor. Together th
ey frantically removed her shoes and jeans. Her shirt was still bunched under her arms and his shorts were caught around his knees but it didn’t matter.
She spread her legs and he slid between them. There was no time for finesse, their need was too great. Her sex was hot and wet as he thrust in. They both shuddered from the perfection of the joining. He held out as long as he could, reveling in the sensation of that first possession. When he couldn’t hold on any longer he moved, thrusting in and out.
The sex was simple, almost base in nature. There were no trappings, no play, just two people who desperately needed each other, needed to be with each other in the most elemental way.
Emory came first, his thrusting quickening as pleasure dug into him. He paused for a moment as his orgasm subsided, but Sasha dug greedy fingers into him. He resumed thrusting, dipping his head to lick and kiss her throat below her ear.
He felt her come, felt the greedy pull of her body and it sent a fresh wave of pleasure through him.
When she stilled, her panting breath hot against the side of his face, Emory slid down her body, his cock pulling free. He laid his head on her breasts and closed his eyes.
Sasha drifted.
There was no word for it but drifting. She was used to sex being all consuming and exhausting. She’d never known sex to do anything but empty her. This sex had been different. She felt as if there were a happy sparkling within her, an internal buzzing that allowed her to stay suspended in the moment.
Her thoughts drifted lazily, switching between English and Portuguese, though she’d years ago trained herself to think in English, which had helped rid her of her accent.
Emory’s head was a pleasant weight on her chest, his body cradled by her legs. She ran her fingers through his hair, loving the way it curled and clung to her fingers. She tried to remember the last time she’d had sex outside BDSM and couldn’t.
“You’ve never had vanilla sex?”
She didn’t realize she’d been talking aloud until Emory raised his head and asked the question.
“Hmm? I must have. I just don’t remember.”
“You must have been very young when you got into it.”
