Knave (Masters of Manhattan #1)

by Jane Henry

  “Then take me home.” I knew I was being pissy, but I just didn’t give a damn. I couldn’t seem to help myself.

  He continued as if I hadn’t interrupted him. “But now you’ve got me trying to figure out if I should make you eat, put you to bed, or spank some sense into your belligerent ass.”

  My fucking subversive body zinged at that, and it made me so angry, I picked up the pillow next to me and whipped it at him so hard he only had a split second to duck before it sailed right over his head and slammed into a bookcase before it slid to the floor.

  “You’re not gonna do any of those things,” I said, the need to cry evaporating as I welcomed the anger instead. “You’re gonna take me home to my place before I call the fucking police.” He ducked as I whipped another pillow at him.

  He got to his feet and picked up the first pillow, fluffing it a bit before tossing it lightly to the overstuffed chair next to the couch, then did the same with the second. “Don’t know if the police are involved yet. Won’t for a while. Now,” he continued with maddening patience, “for the second time, we don’t know if it’s safe. We don’t know if the people who robbed your father’s office found everything they were looking for. We don’t know if they somehow figured out you were there and might have seen them. We just don’t know if it’s fucking safe!” It seemed his patience waned, then, as he clenched his jaw and pointed a finger at me. “For Christ’s sake, you throw one more thing at me, I’ll tie you up,” he said, and when I didn’t move, he grabbed my hand and walked me toward the darkened kitchen.

  Again, the zing coursed through me. God.

  Spank your ass. Tie you up.

  How I wished this was a different time and place and I could take him up on that. But Anson was just a pissed-off guy spouting off weird threats or... something.

  He rummaged around in the fridge and cupboards, and my stomach gnawed with hunger once again. God, I needed to eat so badly. I watched him, unable to focus on anything but the movements of his hands, the graceful way his body moved as he placed a sleeve of crackers on the plate, followed by sliced cheese, some other things I couldn’t quite identify, and a bunch of grapes. He pushed the door to the fridge shut with his hip, nabbed a bottle of wine from a rack near the stove, and brought me over to the dining table, then pushed me into a chair.

  My mouth watered.

  I was fucking famished.

  He sat down on the chair across from me and handed me the loaded plate of food.

  “Eat,” he commanded with a scowl.

  “Fine.” I took the plate. Everything tasted good, and my hands stopped shaking as the food hit my belly.

  “Here,” he grunted, handing me a very, very tall glass of wine. Jesus, it was the size of three I’d have gotten at one of my dad’s parties. But I wasn’t complaining. I took it by the stem, lifted it to my lips, and drank. It was cool and sweet but warmed me when it went down. I gulped it like it was water, closing my eyes at the burn and tingle of the alcohol.

  He whistled low. “Thirsty? I can get you water.”

  I shook my head and handed him my empty glass. “No. More wine.”

  He placed my glass on the table, shook his head, and pointed to my plate. “Yeah, no. Eat more food and I’ll give you more wine. Don’t need you getting hammered on my watch, then tossing your cookies all over my shoes.”

  I scowled, but ate a few bites of crackers and cheese, followed by a handful of grapes. “Satisfied now?” I asked, barely resisting the urge to tack jerk at the end.

  He nodded, and silently filled my glass, watching me as he sat back.

  “You look like a girl who likes high class shit.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  “Yeah.”

  I handed my empty glass to him, and he filled it again, this time only halfway, and this time, I didn’t protest. I wouldn’t admit it, but the wine had already gone to my head. Despite my effort to stay serious, I giggled. “What’s that painting over there?” I asked, pointing to a vivid blue painting of a clock folded over the edge of a table. “It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Salvador Dali. Don’t remember the name of that one but you’ll see more. Caelan’s weird like that.”

  I realized then this wasn’t a print, but a real Salvador Dali. These guys either had money or were very, very good thieves. Maybe both.

  I smirked. “The big guy with the tea?”

  Anson smiled then, just a little. “Yeah. Big as a tree, muscles forever? Former MMA fighter. That guy could take down Goliath and Samson and not even break a sweat. But if he isn’t working out, he’s reading, and he doesn’t touch alcohol at all. Neither of us do.”

  “Why?”

  “He says he likes being in control of himself too much. Same with me.”

  “I could see that.” I liked to drink for the opposite reason. I needed to lose control. Everything I did was so controlled, precise, predictable.

  I put my half-filled glass on the table. I wanted more, but if he told me no again, I’d have to smack him, and I wasn’t sure how that would go.

  “Better?” he asked. I nodded but it was a lie. No. No, I was not better. Now that my hunger was sated and the alcohol was going to my head, what had transpired through the night weighed on me. God… Curt was gone, just like that. Gone.

  “Not gonna ask you more questions tonight,” he said. “Let’s get you to bed.” He rose, took my plate, and moved to the kitchen. I heard the clinking of dishes as he cleaned up, before he walked back over to me and sat down on the chair.

  “Anything you wanna tell me before you go to bed?” he asked.

  “I want to know when I can go home. And I want to know who’s responsible for this.”

  He raised a brow. “I said you could tell me anything you wanted, not ask.”

  Asshole.

  Holding onto my crazy emotions by a mere thread. I reacted as if on autopilot. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the remains of my wine straight at his face. He growled, leapt to his feet, and stalked to the kitchen, swiping at his eyes. He came back over to me, mopping his face with a towel and glaring.

  My head swam and fuck if his anger didn’t turn me on.

  “That’s enough, Sabrina,” he clipped. He wrapped his fingers around my wrists, and a shock of arousal licked through me. My clit throbbed, and my breasts swelled, the energy between us taking my breath away. I gasped. “I’ve tried being nice but now you’ve pushed it.”

  Holy shit.

  It was like he held some sort of weird electric aphrodisiac.

  Later, I blamed the alcohol. He blamed the stress.

  We both blamed each other.

  My body teemed with arousal as he half-dragged me to his bedroom. When we reached his bed, he pulled me up against his side, holding me against his flank. His erection pushed up against my belly, and the realization that I turned him on like he did me made me want him even more.

  I wanted him to take me. I wanted to let it go.

  “I’ll get you a t-shirt, and you’ll get your ass in bed,” he said hoarsely, still trying to hang onto self-control.

  “Stop telling me what to do.”

  His eyes flamed, and without warning, he cracked his hand against my ass. “Stop being a brat.”

  Shit.

  I wanted to tell him to stop, but I couldn’t. My head swam with the alcohol, my vision slightly blurred, and my words jumbled as my ass tingled from the smack. “You like spanking, big guy? You wanna smack my ass? Huh?” I placed both my hands on his shoulders and his hands straddled my hips, the possessive touch welcome, his heat seeping straight through my clothes.

  “Yeah,” he growled, with a half-smile. “You have no idea how much I wanna pull your panties down and paint your ass red,” he said. “Teach you some manners.”

  Fuck, I wanted that.

  “You get off on punishing girls?” I breathed in his ear.

  His hand cupped my ass and squeezed before he gave me another slap. “Depends,” he said i
n my ear, his raspy voice making me shiver. “You get off on getting spanked? You’re in such desperate need of a spanking,” he rasped.

  I groaned. “Hell yeah.” Fuck self-control.

  Who could blame me for wanting to escape after the losses I’d sustained? The impotence I felt at not knowing what to do or where to go?

  Who could blame me?

  I pushed his hands off me, turned toward the bed, and laid myself over the edge, effectively begging him to spank me. I hadn’t had a boyfriend in months who’d give this to me. It had been so fucking long.

  Don’t wanna hurt you, they’d say. Not some fifty shades movie, they’d protest. Why do you want me to cause you pain?

  The sound of metal clinking warned me he was taking off his belt seconds before I heard the slither of leather, and I stopped breathing just before the first thwap smacked against my ass.

  I inhaled again. “Fuck yes,” I said, as the pain melted to warmth, and my pussy clenched.

  He reared back and snapped the belt a second time, this time harder, but I hardly felt it. I needed more. I gripped the blanket in my hands as he spanked me a third time, then a fourth. By the fifth, I was shocked to feel my cheeks wet. In between strokes of his belt, I swiped at my eyes, needing him to see I wasn’t a wuss, but he noticed.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be sexy.

  “Sabrina. God!” The belt clanged to the floor. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Nooo,” I moaned, not even knowing why I was crying, as I turned around to face him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, picking up his belt, and threading it through the loops. “Fuck, I don’t know what came over me. God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop!” I said, and desperation moved me then. I looped my arms around his neck as his hands were still occupied fastening his belt. “I needed that. God, I practically begged you.”

  He’d finished fastening his belt, and his hands went to my waist, holding me closer to him. “You needed the release,” he agreed. “But we barely know each other. I don’t want you to regret this. Hell, I don’t want to regret it myself.”

  The tears flowed freely then as I shook my head, angry at his guilt. “Stop it,” I said. “Fucking stop it.” I tasted salt as I shook my head.

  His hand wove through my hair at the back of my neck. He pulled me close to him and his mouth found mine, our bodies instinctively responding. I loved the feel of his strong body over mine, but too soon, he pulled away.

  “Can’t do this,” he muttered, shaking his head, still holding me. “I’d be pissed at myself for taking advantage of you, and the rest of the guys would kick my ass.”

  Rejected, I turned away from him and snapped, “You have clothes I can wear?”

  “Top drawer,” he rumbled.

  I took out a way-big t-shirt and stripped, right in front of him. I had one kickass body, and I wanted to punish him with blue balls. I made sure to shimmy and shake myself right out of the jeans, feeling the residual burn of the lashes from his belt across my ass. I left the panties on but stripped off my top and my bra right in front of him, my eyes meeting his, and tossed them on the dresser before I pulled his shirt over my head.

  “I need a toothbrush and stuff,” I muttered, walking to his bathroom.

  “Toiletries in the closet,” he muttered.

  Why was his room stocked? Did he always take girls here?

  Did he always spank them with his belt?

  He followed me. “Sabrina,” he began, his voice tight yet pleading.

  I turned around. “What?”

  Running hand through his hair, he shook his head, and I made a decision. I wasn’t gonna let him spank my ass and then leave me high and dry. I’d punish him, too. I took him by the shirt and pulled him to me, then I kissed him, hard.

  I pulled away and breathed in his ear, “You just gonna leave me like this? What if I want you to fuck me?”

  His eyes heated, and he leaned in, his lips on my ear, gently pulling the lobe into his mouth. “Do you?” he whispered.

  “Um, yeah,” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think I just strip for anyone and let guys take their belts to my ass for fun?”

  His eyes clouded over, and self-doubt plagued me but the next thing I knew he was stripping, and I got a glimpse of his bare chest sprinkled with hair, muscled legs, and his cock that was so totally ready to not call it a night. I grinned.

  “Condom?” I asked.

  “Top drawer,” he grunted, tossing his clothes to the side. I opened the drawer and tossed it to him. I heard the tear of cellophane before he ordered, “Get on the bed, naked, all fours.”

  Mmm.

  I tossed off the t-shirt and did what he said, chest down, stinging hot ass in the air. He grabbed my sides and knelt beside me on the bed. I was slick and ready, and the jolt of arousal shot through me like lightning when he swiped my clit and folds. Testing. Then with a rapid, savage thrust, he entered me. Fuck yes.

  We said nothing at all as our bodies melded as one. He wove a hand in my hair and tugged so hard I screamed, but it hurt so fucking good as he met the tug with another thrust that made my clit throb. “Touch yourself,” he growled.

  I leaned one shoulder on the bed and reached for my clit with trembling fingers as he slammed into me. I worked rapidly and he pounded me, until electric ecstasy ripped through me, and I screamed his name as he came with me, forgetting we weren’t alone, but in the moment, I didn’t care. I fell to the bed, panting, my hair damp on my forehead.

  An awkward silence fell on us then.

  He pulled out and together we went to the bathroom and cleaned up, neither of us speaking. The aftermath of what we’d just done left me comfortable or sated, I had no idea. I just knew I was suddenly very, very tired.

  His eyes looked troubled, but his voice was husky when he spoke as he pulled on his jeans and walked to the door. “Don’t try to leave. You’ve got no idea how secure we are here.” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “You couldn’t do it if you tried anyway. Get some rest.” The door shut with a soft thump and I locked it behind him.

  Fine. I’d get some sleep. Snuggles weren’t really my thing, and it looked like they weren’t his either. I nestled under the covers. His bed smelled like him. I closed my eyes.

  God.

  It was like I was sleeping next to him. I closed my eyes, ignoring the memories of my losses and fear. Exhausted. Drained. Needing escape. I didn’t know where I was or what I’d do, but tomorrow I’d pretend none of this had ever happened.

  Three

  “Wakey, wakey.”

  Something knocked into my bare foot and I woke up instantly, instinctively grabbing for the offender.

  “Settle your ass down, Sleeping Beauty, or I’m gonna spill hot coffee all over you.” Ethan’s voice was threaded with amusement.

  I rubbed at my gritty eyes and then opened them. Ethan was standing over me, his auburn hair still damp from the shower, holding two steaming red coffee mugs.

  “Gimme,” I said, my voice as gritty as my eyes. I held out my hand.

  “So polite.” He handed me the mug—prepared the way I liked it, because Ethan was always noticing shit like that—and took a seat on the leather wingback chair opposite me as I gulped the scalding beverage, welcoming the burn on my tongue. His eyes raked me over—my bare feet hanging off the leather sofa, the plush throw blanket that lay over my jeans, my bare torso, and finally my hair—and I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw.

  He grinned—a real one, which was noticeably different from the polite smile he usually wore.

  “What?” I demanded, running a hand over my head. I knew my overgrown mop of hair was a mess, between the mask I’d worn to Fowler’s office last night and the… things… I’d done with Sabrina after that. Things I would not be thinking about this morning.

  “Just that you realize there are these marvelous devices called beds, right?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “
In fact,” he continued, “I vaguely recall that you have one, Saint. In your room.”

  Ethan was the only person who called me by my street name, despite me repeatedly correcting him in the beginning. In truth, it didn’t really bug me; I’d even come to like it. With the myriad of things happening around me that I couldn’t control, that name was a subtle reminder of who I was, a reminder of how far I’d come, and that I controlled my own destiny. Pretty sure that’s why he did it.

  “Mine’s occupied,” I told him, swinging my legs around to put my feet flat on the floor.

  “Uh huh.” He leaned forward and put his cup on the table. “By my redheaded soul sister. Which is an interesting development on its own, and we’ll get back to that.” His smile was quick and sharp. “But first, you do realize there are three guest rooms in this monstrosity of a penthouse, right? Three actual beds where your entire body could have fit on the surface at the same time?”

  “Shut up. I’ve slept in much less comfortable places than this.” I tossed the blanket off my lap and rubbed a hand over my head again. If I’d learned anything from living with Ethan, it was that he could get a person to do just about anything when he focused his attention on them. More than once, I’d found myself on the brink of admitting things that I didn’t share with anyone—things about my life growing up, about my mom.

  The last thing I wanted was for him to know that I’d gotten soft and ended up sleeping with the girl. Or that she seemed to have the same unnerving effect on me that he did, making me wanna trust her and share all the secrets I kept locked up tight, even though I’d never been the trusting kind. I definitely didn’t want him to know I’d parked my ass on this couch to make sure Sabrina didn’t freak out after what we’d done and try to sneak off in the night.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I told Ethan as I pushed to my feet and made my way out into the hall.

  “Hey, stay and chat!” Ethan called after me. “You’ll wish you had!” I ignored him and paused just outside the room, leaning back against the hallway wall.