by Olivia Myers
The dude at the table grabs me the instant my back is turned.
His fingers against my skin are harder this time, and I cringe before bristling in anger. I can feel the hair on my arms raise where his skin touches mine, and I almost shake with the hate. How dare this guy touch me, again?
His arm moves to my neck, keeping me trapped in a headlock. I can’t struggle against it, as much as I try. And I really freaking try.
“Hey!” Blake’s voice is harsher than before, and he’s across the room instantly. He’s so close that I can feel his heat from where he stands in front of me, just off to the side with his eyes intent on the guy holding onto me. “Release her.” He glares, and I watch as his cool explodes into an angry fire in front of me. His voice has an edge to it. “Immediately.”
“Nah,” the man behind me says. His arm tightens around me. It’s horrible. I bring my hands up to claw at his skin, trying in vain to get free from his death grip. “I think I won’t.”
“You don’t want to do that,” Blake insists. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
This does nothing to deter the creep.
“I might,” he says. Still, no change. Who is Blake, anyway? “Should it matter?’
Clearly, he doesn’t know who Blake is, but neither do I. I’m confused. Blake grins at him, his mouth forming a sloppy, slightly unhinged smirk, and then he raises a hand. The sound of a smack never comes. He grabs the guy by the hair, lifting him so that his arms come away from me and I’m freed.
I gasp, my breath coming in long uneven breaths as I try to make up for the lack of air I’ve had for the past few moments. Goddammit! I roll out of the way, my hands balling to cling to my stomach. I barely make it out of the way in time. Blake’s body moves to replace the space I was in just moments earlier, and then they’re on each other.
Smack.
Blake’s hand crashes against the other guy’s face, and the guy’s head swivels to the side at the impact. The man moves in an attempt to get away, or strike back, or maybe both, but he can’t. Blake moves too fast, and then he hits the man’s face again. His fist impacts with the guy’s skin, breaking it open into a garish mix of black and purple.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
The man drops to the floor, and doesn’t get up again.
I’m about to tell him to stop when he pulls away from the guy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The man is just a few feet away from where I kneel. Why the hell am I hiding down here? I have no reason to hide. I glance up to Blake and watch the fire in his eyes dimming down to a contented glare. Something dark flashes in them, and I cringe for a second. What’s wrong with him? What did I get into by taking a job here?
Why do I enjoy this so much?
“Get up, Cara,” he says.
I glance around with a start and realize that I’m still on the floor. I scramble to get up, my hands immediately going to my knees to wipe the dirt off of them. Blake’s eyes go down to my knees and he takes in where I was in a kneeling position. He grins at me, one of his eyebrows flicking up in a perverse imitation of that facial expression I’m starting to love so much.
I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Goddammit, Blake.
But then, like always, he walks away before I can ask him anything about it. About what’s going on, about why people might know who he was. Who is he, anyway? Why is that important? I have so many questions. And, in what I’m coming to know is usual for him, he’s walked away and now I can’t go after him and ask.
Dammit!
Hours pass and I finally get the whole waitress thing down: going up to tables, asking people what they want, bringing back drinks from the bar, and occasionally taking orders for food. I’m exhausted. I hate this job. The muscular men around the bar remind me of why I’ve decided to force my way into this place regardless of my lack of work ethic, though.
“Hey, Cara, shift’s over,” Blake calls. I look up to see him dragging an old rag across the surface of the bar, the cloth running against the polished wood. “It’s time to clean up.”
“What if I don’t want to?” I look at the rag and at the grime slowly gathering on the fabric. There is no way I’m touching that. I bring my hand in front of my face, looking at the nails there. Yeah, touching that stuff will definitely mess my hands up, and there’s no way I’m ruining a good manicure.
He stops rubbing the rag across the bar. He looks serious. “I didn’t ask you to. But,” he says, pausing and pushing the rag a few feet away from him on the wooden surface. “If you don’t want to, there’s something else we could do instead.”
The way he looks at me makes me go crazy. I don’t know why, and I bite the inside of my mouth in agitation, even though it hurts. Damn him! But I start moving toward him anyway. What does he have in mind?
I get to the bar and he grabs my hand. I look at him, and he looks back at me, and then we’re moving closer toward each other. What does he have in mind? My brain takes me to all kinds of delicious, naughty fantasies.
He opens the palm of my hand and places the rag in it.
“You can clean on your own.” He looks down at me and winks.
I slap him on the chest, then, and he doesn’t even blink. I think back to people telling me that I’m prone to assault. That is so not the case. Looking at Blake’s contented face, I’m sure he deserved that. Ugh. Of course I get this guy as my boss. He says something, but I don’t hear it. So I just nod.
And then, for the thousandth time tonight, he walks away. Only this time, I’m left cleaning a dingy bar on my own.
***
It takes a while for Blake to come back to get me. When he does, I’m agitated. I look up at the clock hanging up above the bar, just a few feet above the highest shelf holding the best vodka and the whiskey and all that stuff.
It’s been hours, and now it’s three. In the morning.
“Blake—”
He cuts me off before I can even put a hand on my hips.
What is wrong with this guy?
Who does he think he is?
Who is he, actually, because I’m pretty sure there’s some detail that’s kind of, I don’t know, important?
I don’t get the chance to ask. He takes me by the hand, dragging me behind him. He takes me out of the bar through the small door on the side, and we maneuver past the tables littering the room. We get almost to the front of the bar when Blake veers me suddenly to the left. Off to the side of the main entrance is another door, and we go through it. From there, we go up a flight of stairs. They’re not so long and not nearly as winding as they probably should be, and we get to the top of them in just moments.
We’re in a dark room.
It’s impossible to see the size of the room, or what its purpose is. I turn to ask Blake what the hell is on his mind, but I never get the chance. He pushes against me, backing me up toward the nearest wall until my back is pressed flat against it. I open my mouth to protest at the sudden shove, but nothing comes out. And I realize I don’t want to protest, anyway. Both of his hands go up to either side of me, keeping me pinned beneath him. Desire shoots through my core.
I blink up at him, wondering where this is going to go. I want to bring a hand out to touch his chest, but I can’t—he holds me still. His face is inches from mine. I try to say his name again, and I’m cut off a second time—this time by his lips.
His mouth crashes down hard against mine, and I mold to his touch. My moan is lost against his lips. He’s soft and hot, and the hardness of his entire body presses against mine. He pushes me farther and farther against the wall, until I can’t go back anymore and I’m leaning against him for support. His hands drop from either side of me. I push mine against his chest, wanting to say something, but he doesn’t allow it.
I’m not pissed, like I thought I’d be.
I don’t mind at all.
I go to touch his chest and am rebuffed again. I groan in agitation, and his mouth covers the noise. Both of his han
ds drop down to my shirt, and he pulls it up off over my chest quickly. I breathe hard and my chest heaves. My breasts press against the front of his shirt from how close he is, and I close my eyes to hold on to the image of him in front of me.
He’s not sweaty, though, not yet, and for some reason, that’s disappointing. His hand goes around to my back, tracing up the lines there until he gets to the clasp of my bra. He flicks it open. With a simple yank, my bra comes falling to the floor, and, instantly, my nipples harden in the cool air.
It has to be the air, at least. He’s sexy, but I refuse to acknowledge that my dickish boss is turning me on like this. But, at the same time, the room isn’t even that cold.
I reach out to touch his shoulders. He’s still completely clothed, and it infuriates me. So I drop my hand down to his side, finally reaching his hip. I’m just about to tug at the fabric and pull it up off of him like he did to me, but I can’t. His hand catches my wrist. He brings my hand up over me, beside my head, without much effort, and I glare at him.
He just grins. “Stop doing that.”
I can tell too much about him from his voice already, and it sends chills down my spine that run up and down every inch of my skin. Although his body sings to mine, and I want to get to know every bit of that, I only want to do that once. That’s the rule. I set it for myself a while back… Blake’s lips at my neck bring my attention back to him, and I groan as he kisses me. I move to place my head on his shoulder, to get at his neck, to kiss him, too, but he doesn’t allow it. One of his hands bunches in my hair and he holds me still, his eyes steely. “Cara,” he warns.
I just look back at him, saying nothing. My breath comes heavy and I cringe at myself. We’ve barely done anything. And yet, here I am, standing in front of him and probably looking like a shocked, virgin schoolgirl.
His hand in my hair loosens, and I take that as my chance. I go to put my head toward him again, going for a kiss, wanting to feel the roughness of his stubble against my skin. It never happens. His hand goes back to my hair, harder this time, and he pushes me back. He pushes me back so hard that my head hits the wall a little. It’s not enough to hurt, but enough to make an impact. I want to touch my lips where he planted a kiss on them earlier.
I don’t.
He kisses me again, sweetly this time. From how he’s pressed up against me, I can feel every muscle in his body. He’s tense, like he’s holding back on me, and I hate it. His words come mixed in with a steady gasp. “I don’t want to have to make you behave, Cara.”
Bullshit. “That’s a lie.” I don’t know how I’m functioning enough to make retorts when he’s this close to me, but I do. And I deal with it. The Cara Kulfiger way.
His hands go to my sides. His touch roams upwards, trapping me as he works up my sides to my stomach and then to my chest. With a sly smile in my direction, he pinches both of my nipples, and then he lets go. “You’re right, it is bullshit. I desperately want to make you behave,” he says.
He backs up, and I feel myself slide down the wall a little from where he was keeping me still with his weight. “Stay there.”
“And if I don’t want to?” I want to stay, but I want to see how frustrated he gets at the thought that I might disobey him
“You will,” he says, pausing, “or I’ll have to punish you for it.”
My eyes have adjusted to the dim light of the room by now, so it’s a shock when he flips a light switch on it. Light floods the room in pools, and I look around. I don’t move, though, not even an inch. He didn’t specify that I couldn’t, but I wonder what a punishment at his hands would be like. Would he spank me or would he…? I can’t keep thinking about this. It’s pretty obvious that we’re going to… I bite my lip. Goddamnit, Cara. Stop thinking so much.
The room is way bigger than I thought it was in the darkness. There’s a bed in here, which comes at a surprise to me. But I guess it’s no surprise that Blake would prefer the wall for messing around. The bed is small and pressed up against the opposite wall, kept hidden in the corner by its position and by all the boxes around it. Some of the boxes are clearly labeled with the names of the liquor companies they came from visible on the fronts of them; others are not. This must be a storage room.
Romantic.
My gaze returns to Blake. He has a thin sheen of sweat down the back of his shirt. Maybe it’s because he’s breathing so hard. Maybe it’s because he’s really worked up. I can’t help but hope I’m the cause of it, though, and my heart flutters when I see exactly what Blake is doing: stretching his arms out to grab a box, stacked hastily on top a pile of other boxes.
He pulls something out of it and turns. He smiles at me, raising the object so I can see it.
Rope.
Spools of it.
“Are you going to stay still, or are you going to make this more fun for me?” He sounds playful, but there’s a definite edge to it.
I gulp. I don’t really let people dominate me—my whole thing is going for men who think they can, and letting them at first, but then taking control of the situation before walking away from it all. Control is my thing. This? This is crazy. I look to Blake, though, and I nod.
“Good,” he says. “Stay quiet.”
I think, What if I don’t? but I don’t say it.
He’s serious. He has to be.
He’s back in seconds, taking one of my arms up. He holds it up in one hand, his other hand moving to the spool of rope to get a length from it. He can’t do it with only one hand, though, and he growls in frustration. “Hold still,” he says.
How many times is he going to tell me to do that tonight? Is he worried I’m going to run away? Do women usually do that to him? Would he chase me if I ran away from him?
He finally gets the rope undone. It doesn’t take more than seconds, but it feels like longer to me. I’m anxious for him to touch me again, but he hasn’t. If he was anyone else, I might think he was gay, but there’s no way he is. He looks to something off of my side. I start turning my head to see what it is, too, and he lifts a hand out. He grabs the side of my face and turns my head back, keeping me looking forward like I was earlier. He doesn’t say anything, but I get the message anyway.
I hear the sound of metallic clanging, and something heavy falls to just a few feet away from me. I don’t look to see what it is, but it sounds like a bar, a literal metal bar… I can’t help it. I raise my eyes as subtly as I can, looking right at it. Blake’s adjusted the bar so it’s above my head, attached to the wall and just a few feet above me.
Blake looks down at me. Fuck! He knows I noticed. Is he going to say anything? No.
His first command comes next. “Put your hands up.”
I do it without a second thought. He binds both of them tightly, tugging at the ropes to make sure I can’t get free from them. Like I’d want to? Ha! When he’s finally content that there’s not too much slack in the rope, his eyes fall down from my hands to my face, and then to my chest. The way he ogles me makes me feel oddly self-conscious, but I push my chest out even though my face is flushed red.
“Touch me,” I say.
He grabs one of my boobs and squeezes it roughly. “You’re not the one who gives the commands, Cara.” Then he grins and releases me. His thumb and forefinger work up to my nipple, and I draw in a breath.
“Whatever,” I manage to say. “You’re not going to bind my feet?”
“Why would I want to do that?” He leans closer, his lips just inches from mine.
I move myself in an attempt to get another, however fleeting, kiss from him. It doesn’t work—he moves away. I didn’t expect him to kiss me again, but his little game is pissing me off, and I pout.
“You need to be able to move your legs so you can cling to me while I fuck you.”
And just like that, the wait is over.
The tension I felt in his muscles is gone. He pushes himself back to me, his chest crushing itself against mine. His mouth goes to mine, both of his hands holding my face st
ill as he kisses me hard. I open my mouth to return the kiss, but it’s useless—he’s going too fast, too rough, and my mouth can only accept his kisses instead of returning them. He keeps kissing me, one of his hands slipping down my back to reach my ass. He bites at my lip, and I gasp, trying to get air through the small space he’s left me. It does nothing. His mouth crushes against mine again, and the hand not on my ass goes to my throat where he squeezes my neck.
It’s hard to breathe. I can still get in air, but it’s difficult.
Suddenly, he lets go. “Safeword,” he mutters. “You need a safeword.”
This is going to be intense. I glance around the room and my gaze lands on one of the boxes near the bed. “How about…Johnnie Walker?”
“Good,” he growls. His hand goes back to my neck.
I clutch my thighs tightly together. Fuck. I’m turned on by the idea that Blake—who’s pretty much a total stranger—is owning my body.
I gasp against his mouth, and he pulls away from me. His hand drops from my neck. I suck in as much air as I can get, thinking he’s going to push his mouth against mine and I won’t be able to breathe again. I don’t need to worry. His lips go down to my neck, and he bites me there. He sucks at my neck, alternating between kisses and bites, and his hand at my ass moves to push my body closer to him. My shoulders lean closer to him, but I can’t get any closer than this. We’re pushed against each other, skin to skin.
His mouth leaves my neck and then falls down to my chest. He kisses each of my breasts, licking and sucking every inch of the skin there but avoiding my nipples. I moan out to him, pushing myself toward him so he’ll touch my nipples, but he doesn’t. I ache. He ignores it.
I whimper out to him again, looking at him with pleading eyes.
Finally.
His mouth sucks a nipple in deeply, kissing me and then pushing as much of my breast into his mouth as he can fit. He moves back, focusing on my nipple, kissing it, sucking it, and then he bites on it. I gasp. He laughs, and does it again, harder this time. I wriggle underneath him, my legs going weak from his onslaught on my chest that’s somehow gentle and rough at the same time. His other hand falls down to my ass.
