by Ruby Laska
“You—you have to stop,” she mumbled, feeling her face flame.
“You know how to make me stop,” he responded, his voice suddenly tight and hard. The safe word—that had to be what he meant, Chelsea thought, as one of his hands began to travel up her dress, his fingers sliding over the silk and the skin that it exposed, and then flicked—not gently—against her nipple. In response, the juices teasing the lips of her newly bared pussy gushed forth, the hot wetness unfamiliar against her bared skin, and dampened the inside of her thighs.
“No, it’s just—” This didn’t seem to be what a safe word was designed for since he wasn’t hurting her and she wasn’t afraid. Well, her nipple—she supposed that had been a kind of pain, but so wrapped and shrouded in pleasure that—but the fact remained that she had to do something, and fast. “I’m not wearing underwear,” she confessed in a whisper. “And I’m afraid that…I mean…there might be, um, people might be able to see, it’s just that when you touch me like that—and I can’t even help it, really, it’s—”
Another flick, harder this time, on the other nipple. She hadn’t even noticed his other hand moving. She groaned, the aftereffect of the sharp pain a thrill that radiated out, and a hunger for his touch, his mouth, his hot tongue, his teeth—everything she remembered of the other night and more. But the trickle down her leg reminded her where she was.
“You respond to me,” Ricardo said, his voice practically a threat. “I respond to you.”
“But they’ll see…” she said helplessly.
“Chelsea. If I walk through that room, and your dress bears the evidence of your desire for me, do you not think that every man in the room will be seized with envy? Will not every woman wish to feel what you feel?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Instead of answering, his hand moved back down, along the outer edge of her rib cage, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip, igniting need along the way. She moved closer to the wall, grinding her pubis against the stone. She needed touch; she needed something to quell the desperate hunger.
He jerked her back, hands on her hips, jamming her ass against his very obvious arousal. “Be careful,” he whispered. “The gown is not made to endure rough treatment.” Then his hand moved lightning fast, reaching for the hem, pushing the silk up, moving over her hip, her ass. “Unlike you,” he added, his voice a carnal growl.
Unlike her. Rough treatment. The words excited her, provoked her, opened the door to her forbidden desires, and she ground her ass against his cock, the layers of fabric between them frustrating her. The sounds of conversation and laughter from the other end of the balcony reached her as though from another planet, another time.
His hand moved to the cleft of her legs, sliding over her slick, bare folds. “Ah,” he murmured, his lips pressed to her hair. “Good girl. You followed instructions.”
Then he plunged his fingers inside her. This time he didn’t start with just one, teasing and exploring and making way; it felt like his entire hand at once demanding passage, the pain shooting through her at the same time she bucked against him, trying to drive him farther.
“I have three fingers inside you, querida,” he said, moving them with maddening slowness, drawing them out only to plunge them back in, ignoring her clit, which throbbed in need. “Someday, if you continue to be my very good girl, perhaps I’ll fuck you with my cock.”
“Oh God oh God yes please, please,” Chelsea muttered, only dimly aware of her surroundings as she rode his hand. If they didn’t stop, she was going to come, and she faintly remembered that it wasn’t a good idea, not here, not now, but how could she stop?—oh God please don’t let him stop…
He pulled his fingers out of her, suddenly and without warning, and slid his index finger into her mouth, wiping the other fingers on her face. She felt her hot, slick juices coating her chin, her neck.
“Do you want to come for all these nice people, putita? Do you want to put on a show?”
She trembled in his arms, suckling his fingers, unable to speak with him in her mouth, unable to pull away. But yes: yes, there was a part of her that very much wanted them to see. Wanted them to watch him using her, forcing her. An image flashed through her mind of herself on her knees, the beautiful dress pushed roughly up over her hips, his hands in her hair, fucking her mouth the way he had the other night.
With all the beautiful people from the party gathered around to watch.
She grabbed frantically at his forearm and jerked his hand from her mouth, horrified at the thought. It was the champagne, the elevation, the intoxicating effect of all the glamorous company…she was not herself.
Instantly, Ricardo loosened his grip on her, backing up to give her space to turn around. She pulled at her skirt, trying desperately to compose herself, afraid to look over at the others, to see if they were watching, laughing, judging, maybe even feeling pity for her. The nobody out here on the patio, who couldn’t even wait to be taken to a room before she offered herself. The cheapest kind of fuck.
His hands covered hers, stilling them. Her hammering heart slowed.
“Look at me.” That same taut, almost angry voice. Slowly, reluctantly, she moved her gaze up his shirt—unmussed, unwrinkled, the tie still perfectly tied—over his smoothly shaven jaw and firm set of his mouth, to his eyes.
His beautiful, depthless, ebony eyes. Eyes that held secrets and an invitation.
He glared at her, and his anger—she had no idea how she’d provoked it, but some dark emotion was undeniably there—seemed to ebb only with a tremendous show of self-control. “You are a beautiful woman, Chelsea. What we do together…it is nothing to be ashamed of. It is…”
He paused, seeming to search for the right word. His English was nearly perfect, so perhaps he was searching for a nuance that eluded him. No matter, it felt so right to be held in his arms that she could wait forever.
“Exalted.”
Never, if she had been given a thesaurus and a hundred hours in a locked room, would Chelsea have come up with that word. It was shocking enough to be called beautiful. But to have her touch mean something…real to a man—
She pulled away, her mind filled with the fast-forward memory stream of a thousand meaningless nights, dozens of faceless lovers, the grasping hands she’d pushed away, the kisses she’d spurned, the grappling in the dark and graceless wee-hours exits that had marked all of her relationships. It wasn’t their fault—but she had never allowed any of them to mean anything. Never allowed their fucking to mean more than what it was—clumsy tangles of limbs and fluids and lies.
Chelsea knew she was on the verge of tears, and that couldn’t happen, not here, not now. Not when she had to walk back into that room filled with beautiful, perfect people, their smug and knowing faces, the glitter of their jewelry and the shrill cold sound of their platitudes.
“We will go now,” Ricardo said, all the anger gone from his voice. “But the evening is far from over.”
She knew he didn’t understand—how could he, when she didn’t either?—but she was so grateful for his kindness that she went limp against him, allowing him to guide her with his arm around her waist. At the other end of the balcony, the gentlemen nodded and the ladies gave them bland smiles. They hadn’t seen. They didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
Crossing the threshold into the room, Chelsea reminded herself who she was: not some weak, needful extra, but a woman who had literally remade her life from nothing, who gave everything to the pursuit of her cherished dream. She could do this. With Ricardo’s arm at her waist, the Fiend was silenced, and a startling new truth came to her with crystal clarity:
No one here is better than me. I am enough.
Where that had come from—well, it wasn’t that she had no idea. Instead, she had a very good idea. It was being with Ricardo. Not as his accessory; not to bask in the reflected glory of a beautiful, powerful, wealthy man. But because, somehow—a mystery to be explored later, when the sparkling lights of the city had g
iven way to a new day and she was safely back home, alone—she was more real at his side. The anxiety that was her near constant companion fell away when she was with Ricardo, and she was more…herself.
As they made their way through the room, Chelsea held her head high once again, smiling at the men and women who now gave her a second look, wondering who she was, wondering if she was important. They looked at Ricardo too—how could they not, he was perfection.
When they reached the elevators, the waiter materialized again, proffering Chelsea’s bag with a bow.
“Thank you,” she said, as confidently as if he’d handed her a Balenciaga rather than a worn messenger bag, and stepped into the elevator.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Her cheek was still tingling from the caress Ricardo had given her in the elevator—practically a chaste gesture, wordless; there was no gasping clutch as the old elevator made its clunky way down, the operator fixing his gaze straight ahead.
The elegant black sedan stood waiting at the curb, the driver standing tall and unsmiling beside it.
They were walking toward the car, Ricardo’s arm at her elbow, when suddenly the world exploded into a flash of blinding light and shouting voices.
Chelsea threw herself against Ricardo’s chest, screaming. He wrapped his arms around her, but she couldn’t hold him tightly enough; she had to get out of here, now. She burrowed her head against his shoulders with her eyes squeezed shut, trying to disappear, trying to make it all go away. Strong hands guided her—not just Ricardo, someone else too—and she heard a door open and then she was lifted from the ground, her arms wrapped tightly around Ricardo’s neck, and set down hard on the backseat of the limo. She recognized the faint sandalwood smell of the car’s interior, the feel of the leather against her skin, but she didn’t dare open her eyes, not until the door shut and the car was in motion. And even then, she waited until all the sounds of shouting fell away, and the car had accelerated into traffic, her heart pounding raggedly and her cries turning into sobs.
Ricardo held her, murmuring words in Spanish, not loosening his grip on her until she pulled away. His hand was on her face, gentle, tipping up her chin so he could look into her eyes.
Terror gave way to mortification as Chelsea came back to herself, as her hair-trigger response to the flashbulbs slowly ebbed and reality regained its firm hold. It had happened again—the awful anxiety that the trauma of her early years had imprinted her with. The Fiend had returned in all its cackling cruelty. She would never be rid of it—despite all her efforts to overcome, to be stronger than the fear, to remind herself that it was all behind her. The confidence that she had felt only moments ago was gone, shattered like glass into a thousand splinters, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.
And tonight—why had it had to happen tonight? Here, with Ricardo? When happiness seemed finally within her grasp?
She pulled away from him, twisting out of his embrace and edging across the seat. She didn’t want him to see her like this; her makeup was probably ruined, her hair, so lovingly styled by Donny, tangled and wild. Looking down she was horrified to see that she had lost a shoe in her attempt to flee, and one of the straps of blue silk crisscrossing her torso had snapped and hung loose. Worst of all, her purse was gone; it may have been ugly, but it had her wallet, her keys, not just to her apartment but to the gallery as well.
“We have to go back,” she gasped. “My purse, I think I dropped it.”
The driver turned and exchanged a look with Ricardo over the backseat. Ricardo nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Querida, Mr. Smith will go back and search for your purse after he drops us off.”
“But—” she was about to insist that they turn the car around, but the thought of the paparazzi kept her silent. They hadn’t been there for her; they must have been taking pictures of all the emerging party guests to make sure they didn’t miss any of the celebrities. Now they were no doubt wondering who the unknown female was who’d had such a violent reaction, and that might make them keen to pursue her if there were no celebrities in sight.
She couldn’t bear it again tonight: the bright flashes of the bulbs, the shouting voices, the feeling of exposure.
“I can’t go back to my place,” she said instead. “My keys are in the purse.”
“No matter,” Ricardo said. He spoke quickly and quietly in Spanish to the driver, who nodded once and said merely si. “Mr. Smith will take us to a safe place.”
Ricardo reached for Chelsea’s hand and tugged her back toward him. He made room for her in the crook of his arm, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He must think she was crazy for overreacting like that, but he didn’t question, didn’t push her.
She was trying to think of a way to explain when she noticed that they weren’t headed back toward his apartment. Instead, the car slipped in and out of traffic, accelerating and falling back, exiting and re-entering the freeway. Either Mr. Smith was lost…or he was deliberately trying to elude someone.
A trickle of anxiety threaded up her spine.
Ever since she had discovered the painting waiting for her in the backseat, Chelsea had tried to suppress her doubts about Ricardo. Perhaps there was a good explanation as to why an art authenticator might have an undocumented, long-missing painting by a famous artist in his possession.
But it was much harder to imagine why he might be on the run, in a car chase.
“Is…someone following us?” she asked in a small voice.
“Of course not,” Ricardo said, after a small hesitation. “Are you all right now?”
Even if he was changing the subject, Chelsea was grateful for his solicitude. Her rollercoastering emotions seemed to have settled into embarrassment. The terror never lasted long; it was like a nightmare that kept coming back, but from which she could force herself to wake.
“I’m sorry,” she said, impatient with herself now. “I overreacted. I don’t…like cameras.”
“Ah,” Ricardo said, as though that explained everything.
“And I’ve ruined the dress,” Chelsea said, chagrined. “And lost a shoe. I’m so sorry, Ricardo, they were so beautiful.”
He shrugged. “They’re just things. What is important…” he placed a hand over her heart. The gesture was a tender one, a kind one, but Chelsea was all too aware of the proximity of his palm to her nipple, bare beneath the thin fabric. It was all she could do to press herself against him, to beg him with her body for more.
It was one of the best things about sex, in Chelsea’s opinion: it could be used as shock therapy, a way to force oneself out of a mood, into oblivion. And she could certainly use a little oblivion right now. She glanced ahead to Mr. Smith—the name still seemed ludicrous to her—but the driver appeared to be focusing on the traffic as he sped up to cross two lanes, then hit the brakes to avoid a collision with a van.
Chelsea put her hand on Ricardo’s thigh and turned toward him. She pushed her hand upward, approaching the swell of what she knew was his arousal and buried her face in his neck, nipping the sensitive skin with her teeth.
He grabbed both of her wrists in his hands, moving so fast it was like a viper striking, and pulled her away from him.
“No,” he said quietly but firmly. “That is not the way.”
Hurt and pain flooded Chelsea. To be rejected now—when she needed the balm of physical contact the most—was excruciating. She jerked her hands back and sat straight up, pressing her arms rigidly to her sides, staring straight ahead. At least she was spared the humiliation of Mr. Smith overhearing.
But Ricardo pulled her back against him, overcoming her resistance as easily as if she were a child. She fumed but didn’t resist, unwilling to create a scene in the backseat.
“We will be there in a few moments,” Ricardo said. “Then, you may relax and we can speak freely.”
She didn’t want to talk, Chelsea thought petulantly, but she kept her protest to herself. It was a fine time for Ricardo to turn into Dr. Phil, that was al
l, especially since the night they’d spent together hadn’t made him seem like the type.
Moments later, Mr. Smith was driving up a narrow, winding, hidden lane up past several large homes, to a small old stucco bungalow perched near the top of the drive. They were somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, high above the city. Climbing roses covered the fences and almost obscured the house from view. Mr. Smith pulled into the gravel drive and cut the engine, then got out of the car.
“We’re here,” Ricardo said gently. “Mr. Smith will remain outside tonight after he goes back for your purse. He will ensure that nothing happens. You needn’t worry about photographers—”
“I’m not worried,” Chelsea interrupted. She would have to be crazy to think that the paparazzi would bother to pursue her….did Ricardo think she had lost her mind? “I just overreacted, that’s all.”
She didn’t have a chance to explain further because Mr. smith opened the door and stood politely by while they got out, exchanging a few more words with Ricardo. Chelsea wished she’d had some formal Spanish education instead of the few words and phrases she’d picked up on the streets. Still, she could make out a few words, and it sounded like they were making plans for the morning.
She was grateful not to have to deal with being locked out of her apartment tonight. And the idea of spending an entire night with Ricardo was...far from unpleasant. During their last evening together, she’d tried to cover her disappointment at being dismissed at midnight, but no amount of pretending could cover her need, her longing.
She hobbled a couple of steps with only one high heeled shoe before Ricardo noticed and picked her up, carrying her like she weighed almost nothing. They passed gardens blooming with fragrant flowers, winding stone paths, the overhanging branches of trees that further shielded the house from view. Ricardo tapped a code into the keypad which was at odds with the old heavy oak door, and let them into a cozy foyer dimly lit with sconces.
