What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 8)

by Sabrina York

  She had a Madame Katrina session scheduled for Saturday so she donned her usual garb and attitude and earned another nine hundred dollars. It had been a fairly predictable session, too, a relief; although part of her wished it had been Brody. Her disappointment, when she spotted her not-Brody client, made punishing the guy hard core like he requested, pretty damn easy.

  “Yo, that guy said he’ll be back next weekend.” Lance tossed her a towel when she emerged from the shower at two in the morning. “Nice work, Kat.”

  “Yeah,” she said, still a little wobbly coming down off her own Domme high. She did enjoy it. But the memory of Brody’s words spoken in that knee-melting, syrupy accent, I want to make love to you, Sophie, wafted across her brain. Damned men. She had to purge him. Big time.

  “Listen, I got a scary email from Frank,” she said, as casually as possible, tugging her hair up into a ponytail.

  Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, so just be aware that if I text you 911, it’s a Frank sighting.”

  “Sure.” He kept it simple, but there was power in his words. Lance would never let Frank hurt her.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a hug, and he hung onto her for a few extra minutes.

  Sunday she slept in, relishing the rest, but missed her Brody fix, even if just the sound of his voice or the sight of his words on her phone screen, no strings attached. The doorbell rang at noon, surprising her as she finished up some laundry. She’d been pondering whether to read or watch a movie while eating a pint of ice cream and had just discovered she had nothing worthwhile in her freezer.

  She opened her front door without thinking and came face to face with a delivery kid holding a small cooler. He consulted a piece of paper then handed it to her. A small truck, with the words Washtenaw Dairy emblazoned on the side, her favorite local ice cream place, sat on the street. Unable to suppress a grin, she pulled the cooler open to find three pints of her very favorites, including Double Mackinac Island fudge. She found a small envelope tucked down between the containers.

  Round two: me bribing you with your favorite treat. Dinner? Monday? RJV

  Sophie opened her laptop and sent him an email, a slower method of delivery than their usual text messages, but she wanted to put her carefully considered thoughts into words. As she composed the message, she ate the decadently sweet frozen treat, letting it melt in her mouth and slide down her throat.

  Dear RJV

  Thanks for your valiant efforts, especially with the ice cream. Good job remembering my one vice, after too much coffee.

  I think that you and I need to ponder whether or not we should see each other socially. I’m not sure I am ready to date, and you really ought to focus on girls your own age. I enjoy being your friend. And it would be sad if our friendship faded because I won’t go out on a date with you.

  So the answer is no. But thank you,

  SLH

  She hit send, and turned the thing off, getting lost in a day of classic movies and dessert.

  After that, she got the silent treatment for a solid two weeks. When he finally emerged, sort of by accident into her line of vision, she’d been reduced to a twitchy, pissed off mess.

  Frank had indeed been sending her emails, and he’d called once, leaving a message she deleted before listening to a single word. She should call the police, but she notified Lance instead, every time.

  She’d been sitting on her office ledge sipping an afternoon decaf latte and enjoying the Brody view from afar. She made it a point to watch the team practices, always willing him not to work so hard, not to leap for balls and put his head so near the feet, knees, and skulls of other players. Being a near-professional Brody-stalker by this point, she knew Kelli had faded. Her photo had not appeared anywhere near his public online presence for weeks, and she’d heard through the grapevine the girl had been making a bit of a fool of herself, hanging around, begging Brody to pay attention to her.

  “But for the grace of god…or something,” she muttered, half sympathetic with the poor little rich girl who no longer got her way with the sexy soccer star. Just as she went back to work, a hulking presence appeared in her doorway. She glanced up on autopilot assuming the man there had come from marketing with some reports she’d requested.

  “Sophie, my sweet, my darling, just look at you….”

  Her blood froze at the sound of his familiar voice. She gulped, and her knees trembled, but she stayed upright. “Get out of here, Frank, or whatever the fuck your name is.” Her voice sounded strong. A good thing since her brain had locked up in terror. Just the sight of him sent her programmed body into overdrive making her nearly drop to her knees and crawl toward him, ready to do anything he wanted. The distinct sound of her door closing and the snick of the lock brought tears to her eyes.

  “Oh, I’m just stopping by to check on you. To see your new life….” He ran his hand over a leather chair. She gritted her teeth with the urge to pour bleach over the damn thing to eliminate his germs.

  “I’m calling security.” She picked up the phone, but her head clanged, and her ears buzzed with a sickeningly familiar refrain of submit, be cowed, and be rewarded. At that split second she recalled the security call button located under her desk could be activated without his knowledge.

  His control over her, even after all she’d been through, fascinated and terrified her in equal measure. Not surprising, since he’d spent nearly two years training her in ways she still didn’t understand. His gray eyes pinned her like an ant, or a mouse. That flipped some switch in her head, rallying inner forces she didn’t realize she possessed. She refused to be a victim, no matter how strong the compulsion at that moment to drop to the floor and beg him to fuck her.

  Keeping her grip on the phone, she took a step to the left, putting her foot within reach of the alarm button. She cursed herself for recalling his lips on her skin, for remembering the sting of his palm, sometimes harsh with a smack to her ass, other times to her face when she made too much noise while they had sex. So firm, yet smooth, comforting, and gentle as he guided her through a door, or up a flight of steps, anywhere in public. In private, the man many times became a monster. She clenched her jaw, forcing the sensory-overloading memories away.

  As soon as she opened them she realized it as a near fatal mistake. Frank loomed into her space, his six-foot-six body towering over her. She shivered so violently, her teeth rattled. She tried to meet his gaze, gave it all she had, but her training took hold and would not allow it. His palm touched her face, tender now, his voice a smooth, deep rumble against her chest. She leaned into him while trying to maintain her foot’s pressure on the floor alarm without giving away her action.

  “Now, now, dear one. My best girl, my Sophie…you haven’t forgotten, have you? How you are when you’re with me?” His words lit a flame in her gut, and she responded by rote.

  “No. S-s-s-sir,” she said, eyes still lowered. “Please…don’t.”

  He rubbed her arm, tugging her ever closer, whispering, cooing, soothing like he always had. Calming her nerves before the storm, but drawing her away from the alarm, which she wasn’t certain had been activated.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, gripping her arm tight, now that their bodies touched. She sensed his erection, that giant, intimidating dick he’d use and abuse her with. Which she’d let him do, all the while convinced he had her best interests at heart.

  She shook her head, balling her hands into fists. Pulse pounding, heart racing, gut turning over, she kept her gaze on the floor. The slap sent her pin wheeling backward, tripping over her heels but didn’t surprise her. Frank loved smacking her around but always under the guise of discipline. She would forget his shirts at the laundry, and he would smile, pour her a glass of wine, help with dinner. Then later, in the bedroom, he would rip her clothes off and smack her face, repeatedly, his own face never betraying a lick of emotion. Leaving her alone to ponder her laziness, he’d return, flip her over on her stomach, and fuck her with
out preamble or pretext. And she would let him.

  Because the very next morning, he’d get up and fix her breakfast, feed it to her, then set the food aside and bring her to a shuddering, yelling climax. This passed as acceptable behavior for years. She’d been weakened by her near brush with true emotion with Evan Adams, had pushed it from her and then whirled around to find…Frank. So she continued thinking that he was The One. Until she found herself along the Huron River on Dexter-Ann Arbor Road with one leg pinned under a Harley and fighting for her life. Then shit got real.

  “Get out, Frank, before security gets here.”

  She made sure her voice remained free of fear or anger. Frank hated it when she got hysterical for any reason—if she showed anything more than a bare minimum of normal human reaction. He’d punish her for that too—for being unhappy over something at work or pissed off at the news of the world. He considered it his job to keep her calm, blasé, free from emotion other than those he demanded of her. And he did, too, smoothing off every single rough edge she possessed until she emerged polished like a stone at the bottom of a river and with just as much motivation to live. Oh, and minus a spleen, a kidney, and having to endure a year of punishing physical therapies so she could walk like a normal person.

  She turned, putting the door behind her, hoping to move toward it and escape. He kept coming at her, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a feral grimace. He seemed well put together in a suit and shiny shoes, but something important loomed under his surface—a slimy desperation. The man reeked of it. She used that to give her courage and to fuel her next words.

  “You are loser, Frank. A class-A, walking, talking douche bag posing as a man, a Dom. To me you were an abusive rapist, a useless waste of my personal space.”

  That stopped him. His eyes clouded over, sending a spike of primal fear through her body. She had taken a calculated risk, but a plan emerged, one that would only work if she had managed to trip the security alarm. She needed witnesses. No one believed her when she tried to tell them stories of her allowing this man to bind her arms and legs, to drop hot wax on her bare pussy, to clamp her nipples so hard they were distended for days. No one bought her story that she believed him to be a faker and abuser. She had allowed the “abuse” for too long, so she no longer had validity when she claimed it.

  Using every ounce of terror-tinged energy she possessed, she stepped in front of him. “That’s right, Sir.” She spit the word out. Then spit directly at him, her saliva dripping down his dark, stubbled cheek. That face she’d adored for so long had crushed her soul every way possible. “Fuck you…Sir.” She did it again while reaching back to unlock the door. He acted according to type as she expected, backhanding her so hard her body hit the door with the full force of the blow.

  The crunching sensation in the middle of her face shocked her into a scream. His long, strong fingers threaded in her hair using it to yank her to her feet. Nose throbbing, she struggled to breathe, her high-heeled shoes scrabbled against the floor. Something cold touched her neck. A knife? Fear bloomed in her chest, darkening her vision.

  “Shut up, cunt,” he growled. “You were about as useful to me as a blow-up doll with a couple of holes in it.” He shook her, ripping more hair from her head and pressing the knife close. “Give me the money in the safe. Now. Then I’ll leave.”

  She sobbed, tried to suck in a breath but flooded her sinuses and throat with blood. “Safe?” she gurgled, trying to shy away from his blade. Her mind spun. What safe?

  “Don’t lie to me, you bitch…you whore. You stupid, ignorant cow.” He stopped and a sinister smile spread over his handsome, terrifying face. “Well, hello there. Who do have we here?”

  Sophie attempted to focus her streaming eyes on the man standing at the now-open door, dressed in the Black Jacks practice gear, his hands clenched into fists, flanked by the security guards. “Brody, get back. Don’t…ow….”

  Frank tightened his grip, and a sting at her neck indicated he’d nicked her skin. “Is this your handsome young boy toy now, my dearest? I know you are ever so fond of these youngsters. You really are getting on a bit, a little dried up perhaps for this stud?”

  Brody stepped into the room. “Let her go. The police are on their way,” he said, his voice low, in control.

  Frank laughed so loud she sensed it deep in her soul, along with the conviction that this could be her final moments on earth. He fully intended to kill her, perhaps right in front of these men.

  “Let me give you some advice about this old bitch. She,” he gave her a shake, “is hardly worth your effort, trust me. Sniveling, whining, and useless and…oof.”

  The air left Frank’s lungs in a great whoosh, filling Sophie’s ear with the sound and heat of it. Released, she dropped to her knees sobbing and choking.

  Brody came at him like a torpedo, barreling into his chest without regard to the fact he had a knife to her neck. They rolled across her office floor, fists flying. But Frank quickly learned a hard truth—that there were not many men in the world in as good a shape as Brody Vaughn. He had the asshole pinned with both arms yanked up behind his back in minutes. She crawled away and huddled against a chair, her face aching and neck bleeding from the superficial cut. The guards pulled Frank up and Brody stood over her, barely breathing hard, and holding out his hand. She rose to her feet and tried to stay that way, but when the room faded, she let it, willing Brody to catch her before she hit the floor again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brody sat in his car, gathering his thoughts and courage. For as long as he lived, he would remember that scene, that freak show asshole hanging onto Sophie’s hair, her shattered nose streaming blood, the glint of a knife at her porcelain throat. A beast had risen in his chest then, filling him with strength and a bit of wildness he didn’t think he possessed. He had struck, nothing in him but the urge to get his woman away from the crazy man who had her by the hair.

  His woman.

  He shook his head and gripped the steering wheel a bit longer. She’d mentioned a mistake in her past to him, nothing more. He’d had no idea it involved an insane stalker. Taking a long, deep breath, he got out, then forced more air into his lungs.

  After spending a restless night in the hospital being monitored for her own concussion, Sophie had gone home, claiming to be fine and needing to be alone. So he’d left her that way for a total of two days then greeted her at her office on her first day back with cups of coffee and a smile.

  “So, now that you owe me I will ask you again and expect a different answer. But you can pick the date venue.”

  She’d sighed, touched the bandage covering her nose. He’d tried hard not to flinch at the ugly bruising around her eyes. That bastard—he should have killed him.

  “Okay, I give,” she said. His heart lifted, teasing him with a quick tremor of happiness. Unable to resist, he put a soft kiss on her forehead and left after confirming she’d come up with her dream date and text him later.

  But now, after all that effort, he had gut-churning second thoughts. He wanted something else, Madame Katrina perhaps, not the Sophie who exuded her power vibe along with a vulnerability that pulled him in odd directions. He had no intention of doing anything more than exactly as she specified: dinner at Vineology, concert at The Ark, although he had no idea what that meant. She claimed to have tickets for a nationally known blues band there. No nightcaps at her place or his, no random groping. Nothing. Just the two of them talking, enjoying food and drink and music, getting to know each other. His pulse raced no matter how many tricks he used to calm it.

  Get a grip, man. It’s a date. Jesus. Not a marriage ceremony.

  He ascended the steps to the porch of her small bungalow-style house, body tensing with anxiety. The door swung open when he touched his knuckles to it. But he stayed on the threshold calling out for her. She emerged, a smaller white bandage on her nose, the bruising faded but still there. But to him, she appeared as Venus, like all the most perfect women in the u
niverse rolled into one slim, brown-haired, blue-eyed package. He sucked in a breath.

  She touched the bandage and flushed deep red. “I must look like shit,” she said, her voice nasally and low.

  “You are a vision of loveliness.” He held out a hand, a natural-seeming gesture, and one that he had not planned or anticipated.

  She put her palm in it, and he tugged her close without really meaning to, but never more sure about anything. Shaking, she started to resist. He tilted her chin up and kissed both her cheeks, and then her forehead, and finally her lips. Keeping it gentle, he probed with his tongue, so revved he wanted to toss her on the bed and have her right then. Letting her set the pace, he felt her relax, going up on her tiptoes to reach him and wrap her arms around his neck. It did not feel like a first kiss. He honestly believed he had been kissing her forever.

  “Mmmm….” He broke it off. “Sorry, but if we do much more of that, we will definitely miss our reservation and the concert at The Boat.”

  She cocked her head at him then threw her head back and laughed. Breathless at the sight of her long, lean neck and unable to stop, he touched his lips there, just under her jaw line. At the connection, meant only as a simple caress, she gasped and molded into him, giving him more access and tossing him right over the precipice.

  “Where is the bedroom,” he muttered, picking her up and kissing every inch of her face and neck.

  “Straight back.” Sophie, his Sophie, sighed into his skin. “Hurry up.”

  “I know,” he said, never meaning anything more.