by M. Never
“A lot of things have already changed,” she admits meekly.
“It’s just the beginning,” I assure her with a warm smile. I don’t know what horrific things have happened to her, but I can promise, while she’s under my roof, no one will ever hurt her, scare her, disrespect her, abuse her, or make her feel like she’s anything less than a treasured human being.
“Relax, I’ll be back.” I tap her nose, then leave the room.
I HATE BEING CALLED BEAUTIFUL.
Shortly after someone used that word to describe me, my life changed drastically. And every time it was used after, it’s always been connected with a seedy undertone. Sometimes I wish I were ugly—deformed—so the world would shun away from me and leave me in peace.
Tonight was the first time a man called me beautiful and I didn’t cringe. He actually sounded like he meant it. Like it was genuine. Like he saw a woman, just a woman. Not an object or a slave or a prostitute. Which is everything I am.
Nothing. No one.
I have no idea what to make of Jett. I don’t understand his strange ways or kind demeanor. I understand his dominance. I understand what he wanted from me tonight. That makes sense. But not his sweet touch or pleasantries afterward. I’m always just dismissed. That’s what I’m used to. That’s how it should be.
He can have my body. Do whatever he pleases to it. Share me with every single one of his friends. Tie me up, beat me, fuck me. But don’t be kind. Kindness isn’t real. It’s just a fucking ploy.
Whatever his game, I’ll play it and prepare myself for the worst. Because evil is inevitable.
Depravity, that’s what’s real.
WORD OF OUR NEW SUPERSTAR has spread like wildfire. London has been here one week, and her bookings are already out of control. Good for business, sucks for me.
I stare at my inbox, filled with requests. I can go about this two ways. Work her like a dog and forgo stealing time with her myself, or make her an elite and charge an extra fee for a session with her. This will weed out the cheap garbage and free up her schedule and the holy ground between her legs.
Shit. I rub my cock. Just thinking about her gets me excited. I haven’t touched her since last Sunday. Just sat back and watched as client after client indulged in her. Getting more than their money’s worth.
I shouldn’t be jealous, but I am. It’s childish. But dare I say it, London is special. And I don’t mean just to me. It’s her whole persona. The way she presents herself. Her quiet strength and muted humility. Her unsurpassed beauty and sharp intelligence. The vulnerability in her eyes contrasting with the confidence in her speech. She’s a silent storm I want to drive straight into. The problem is, so does everyone else.
Including Kayne.
He’s called on her twice this week, which is unheard of for him. But I knew once he was exposed, he’d go back. That’s how it works. I help break the ice with a new woman. He takes it from there, although he usually prefers working out his aggressions on a punching bag instead of a pussy.
Not in this case, I guess.
I can’t really blame him. If I were more of a douchebag, I wouldn’t give a shit how many men she fucked on any given day as long as I got to sink inside that hot cunt too. But that’s not me. I’ll sacrifice.
Wait my turn. Wait for the right time. Because when we are together, it’s going to be all that much sweeter. Hotter. Combustible.
“Hey, asshole.” Kayne barges into my office without so much as a warning knock.
“What’s up?” I glance at the screen dismissively.
“This came yesterday. Forgot to give it to you.” He drops a medium-sized brown package on my desk. I spy the return address and know exactly what it is.
“Thanks.” I hit send on my email and then give Kayne my full attention.
“No problem.” He crosses his arms and looms imposingly. It’s not him trying to be a dick; that’s just the way he stands.
“Still no word from south of the border?” I ask.
“Nothing. But I’m confident he’ll contact us.”
“You ever going to tell me what you did to instill such confidence?”
Kayne shakes his head, his off-colored eyes guarded. “Some things are better taken to the grave.”
“When you say shit like that, it scares me.”
“It should.”
“I don’t like you harboring things.”
“I’ll be fine once we burn his fucking complex to the ground.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
“Then I’ll just have to trust you. As frightening as that is.”
Kayne smiles wickedly. “My unpredictability keeps us alive.”
“Says you,” I scoff.
“We’re still here, aren’t we?”
“Barely.”
“I can live with barely.”
“That’s because you’re reckless.” I stand and scoop up the box.
“Isn’t that why you like me?”
“Whoever said I like you?”
“I’m sorry. Love me.” He bats his eyes like the fucking idiot he is.
I chuckle reluctantly. “You’re a moron,” I declare. But we both know I do love him. Like an annoying stray you feel sorry for and keep feeding because the guilt would eat you alive if you let him starve to death.
“Any word from the elusive Mr. A?” Kayne asks as he walks out of the room with me. He’s talking about Alistair. My free-roaming uncle.
“Only a picture message of a surfboard on a beach. He’s having fun wherever he is.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“What? Your Mexican getaway wasn’t relaxing enough?”
“Keep walking before I pummel you.” We split off, Kayne in the direction of the gym and me up the stairs to London’s room. This package is really for her.
“London?” I knock, but no answer. It’s Sunday, so she’s probably with the rest of the girls unwinding. There’s an entire mobile spa downstairs. The house will be quiet for a while.
I crack open the door with the intention of leaving the box with a note when I hear the shower. I know I shouldn’t. I should just leave her be. She’s had a long week. But even as I try to talk myself out of it, my feet gravitate to the sound of the running water and the image of a naked, soapy, redheaded goddess.
But the reality is far more different than the fantasy, because when I enter the steamy room, I don’t find London standing under the spray lathering up or washing off. I find her curled in a ball on the floor, sobbing.
Rushing to the shower, I haul open the glass door. “London?”
She looks up at me with a fright. Then her gaze turns lethal.
“Get out!” She grabs the bottle of shampoo and chucks it at me. I deflect it with my forearm before it hits me in the face. Damn, the woman can throw. “Get out right now!” she screams like a banshee, and I take the hint. Backing out of the room, I quickly give her space. My heart beats like a battering ram as I lurk by the doorway, waiting for the shower to turn off. Once the water stops, I peek into the bathroom, just to make sure she isn’t thinking about doing anything stupid.
Which, by the looks of it, she isn’t. She’s just standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in a towel, staring at herself.
Jesus, she makes my chest ache.
As much as I want to wrap her in my arms and demand she tell me what’s wrong, my instincts instruct me to do the exact opposite. To give her the space she needs and let her come to me.
I leave her tidy bedroom silently with high hopes she’ll do just that.
YOU’RE A FUCKING MORON, I chastise myself in the mirror. You just lashed out at the one person who can keep you safe. Keep you hidden.
He caught me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting anyone to come looking for me. But I should have known. No time is my own. It belongs to everyone else. Primarily Jett.
But the anxiety was building, and I had to let it out. I needed the emotional release. I’ve barely slept. Barely eaten. A
nd been worked over continuously this week. It’s like every time I turned around there was another man to service. Including Kayne. He’s the most intense of all. A straight up machine.
I needed a minute. A breather. And as soon as I saw Jett, I knew what he wanted, too.
Sometimes the past collides with the present. Sometimes I find myself crumbling, and the only way to endure is to fall apart and then glue back each of the broken pieces. I’ll never truly be whole. There are cracks and crevices at the very center of my core. But I go on. Why? I’m not quite sure. It would be so easy just to end it. Just two quick flicks of a razor blade and all my suffering would be over. But even that doesn’t seem like a way out. Suicide isn’t appealing enough for me to actually attempt. Something inside pushes me on, telling me to live. I just wish I knew exactly what that something was.
Finding my second wind, I drop my towel on the floor and throw on some clothes. A pair of skimpy underwear, an oversized T-shirt that reads “Love Pink” across the shoulders, and a pair of white knee socks with black stripes around the calf.
I don’t even bother to brush my hair. I just hurry out of the room and prepare to grovel.
I search all over for Jett. His room, backstage, the mobile spa, the living room, dining room, even the kitchen and service kitchen where he found me making the chocolate crinkles. He ate almost all of them in bed that night. An entire pile of cookies and a huge glass of milk. I don’t know why that makes me smile. Maybe because he’s the first person to ever enjoy something I have to offer other than my body. Enjoy may be putting it mildly. He moaned like I was giving him head.
Baking is an outlet for me. Keeps my hands busy and my oscillating thoughts at bay.
The last place I look is his office. Hoping beyond hope he’s holed away in there. I knock on the door self-consciously. “Jett?”
Three heartbeats pass before the door swings open, and Jett leans on the frame. The same way he did the first day I met him.
“I’m sorry,” I immediately spill, wrapping my arms around myself and dropping my eyes submissively. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just wasn’t expecting anyone to walk in. I know I was out of line. I’m so sorry. Please don’t send me away. You can punish me however you want, just please don’t make me leave,” I beg.
Jett clutches my jaw and forces me to look up. An unfathomable expression on his face. “What would ever make you think I’d want to punish you for your outburst?”
Because that’s all I know. That’s what happens when I’m disrespectful or disobedient.
“Don’t you?” I question.
“No. Do you think you’re the first woman to walk into this house with issues?”
I shrug because I honestly have no idea. Jett releases my jaw and pushes the door open wider.
“In.”
I step inside the room, and he closes the door behind me. After which he saunters back to his desk in bare feet, slim blue jeans, and a white V-neck T-shirt. He has this whole European style with the attitude to match.
“Come. Sit,” he instructs as he settles behind his desk. I follow, going for one of the chairs opposite him. “No. Here.” He stops me before my butt hits the cushion, tapping the top of his sleek wood desk. “Directly in front of me.”
I sit where I’m told, sliding myself between his legs. He leans back in his chair, laces his fingers over his chest, and gazes up at me. Those aqua eyes picking me apart piece by tiny, broken, fractured piece. It’s unnerving.
I cross my ankles and anchor my hands, trying to look anywhere but at Jett. Which is nearly impossible because his immense presence engulfs the room.
“Do you want to tell me what that outburst was all about?” he asks evenly.
“No,” I shoot back almost immediately.
“Is there anything pressing I should know?”
“No. I was just having a moment.”
“A woman moment or I need to talk to a shrink moment?”
Shrink? I press my lips together, reluctant to answer that one.
“London?” His strict tone is probing.
“I’m fine.” I attempt to sound assuring. “It was just a very long week. I needed to decompress. I’m not used to anyone seeing me like that.” Jett was the very first, and I’m completely ashamed. My meltdowns are my business and not meant to be shared with anyone else.
“I see.” He exhales and leans forward, resting his hands on my bare thighs. Why do I like it when he touches me? “I want to be clear. You can come to me with anything. If you’re feeling overwhelmed or tired or just need a break, you have to tell me. You have to trust me,” he reiterates for the thousandth time. I still don’t. Probably never will. Even though his eyes are sincere and his voice is inviting.
I just nod, pretending to buy into his bullshit.
“I know you’ve had a very long week.” He begins to rub circles into my tender muscles with his thumbs. It actually feels good. Almost therapeutic. “That’s why I’ve stayed away.”
“From what?”
“Not what. Who. You.”
“Me, why? Did I do something wrong?” I frown. Besides throwing a shampoo bottle at your head.
“Wrong? No. You do everything fucking right.” He digs his fingertips into my skin. “That’s the problem. You’re impossible to resist.”
“You don’t have to resist me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a sure thing.”
“I have noticed. I’ve noticed how you have every one of my clients eating out of your hand. How you walk into a room and steal everyone’s attention. How you carry yourself. How seductive you are. How I can’t be around you without dying to touch you.”
“You can touch me whenever you want. However you want.”
“That’s only partly true. I’ve also seen how tired you are at the end of each day.”
“How I feel doesn’t matter.”
Jett sits up straight with a perturbed look on his face. “Of course it matters.”
“It never has before,” I argue.
“Well, it does with me.” He spreads my legs. “I don’t want what’s leftover when it comes to you. I want all of you. The entire meal. All seven courses.” He begins to kiss his way up my thigh and something strange tingles in my lower abdomen. “When we’re together, I want all your pleasure and all your pain.” He sucks on my skin still moving dangerously higher. “I want you strong enough to endure every dirty thing I desire. And I want you to enjoy all those things just as much as I do.” He plants a kiss right between my legs over the scarce scrap of material before sliding it over to the side.
“What are you doing?” I jump, grabbing a fistful of his blond hair.
“What does it look like?” He leans forward. “Showing no restraint whatsoever.” He steals a hot lick of my pussy, and I gasp. “Why so skittish, little bird? You’re acting like you’ve never been eaten out before.”
“I just don’t understand why you prolong the inevitable. If you want to fuck me, just fuck me. That’s what I’m here for. Why bother with foreplay?”
Jett halts all movement and looks up at me with just his eyes. His tongue a hazardous inch away from my dewy slit.
“I don’t want to just fuck you,” he snaps. “I want to pleasure you. I want to hear you moan as you come on my face and then again all over my cock. I want you begging me for more until you can’t speak and neither one of us can breathe. That’s what I fucking want.”
My jaw drops.
“Jesus, London. What has your life been like?”
Sheer hell. I bite back my response.
Jett stands and hovers over me. “Has anyone ever touched you?” He runs his thumb down my cheek so sweetly that if I could actually feel, it might make me cry. “Like, really touched you?”
“Not in the way I think you mean.”
“What a fucking tragedy.” He kisses me as sweetly as he touched me. It’s completely foreign. I want to hate it, but I don’t. I can’t comprehend why he even cares. I’m no one. Nothing. A woman h
e can use and then toss away. Isn’t that what every man wants?
“I want to touch you,” he asserts.
“You don’t need my permission.”
“I’m not asking for your permission. I’m asking if you want me to touch you. If you want me to be the first man who shows you what real pleasure feels like.”
“Does shared pleasure really even exist?” I counter cynically.
“God, you deprived woman.” He pets his hands down my damp hair. “By the time I’m through with you, there’ll be no doubt. Only faith.”
Nice try. But I had to learn what “pleasure” was all by myself. I had to navigate murky waters alone to understand how to alleviate the stress forced on my body. And even then, the “pleasure” was never really mine. It belonged to the man invading me at any given moment. He either stole the orgasm or denied it altogether. And if I didn’t obey what was being dictated, there were severe consequences. The only true “pleasure” I have ever known is from my own hand. It’s the way I want it, fast or slow, soft or hard. On my own time. In my own head. So unless Jett can penetrate more than just my pussy, I have little belief in this thing called “shared pleasure.” It might exist for some, but definitely not for me.
“You haven’t answered me, robin. Do you want me to touch you?” He slips his hand under my shirt and runs his thumbnail down the center of my abdomen.
“Yes,” I lie.
He cocks his eyebrow, and for a split second, I question whether or not he buys my b.s. Yes or no, it’s clear he wants to touch me. And so it goes. The story of my life. Another man added to the laundry list to please. This one just happens to talk a good game. Great game. He almost has me convinced he cares about my pleasure as much as he does his own. But if I’ve learned anything in my twenty-six years, it’s that talk is cheap, and men are selfish.
“Lift your shirt up. Show me that beautiful body,” Jett requests.
I pull the hem of my T-shirt up and tuck it under my chin, exposing my breasts, my stomach, and my wide-spread legs.
Jett moans appreciatively, scanning his bright blue orbs over the curves of my naked body before sitting back down in his chair. No touching, fondling, or pinching. He just admires. He admires for a long time, content with me sprawled out on his work space.
