Iron Born (Iron Palace Book 1)

by Lisa Ferrari

  “I did it.”

  “Oh, Claire. My sweet little Clarice.” She sounds disapproving.

  “What? What’s the big deal? We were in the moment.”

  “I know you were. And God bless you for finally having a moment to be lost in. You deserve it. I’m just afraid that since you’re the one who initiated the nudity, you are the one who looks like a slut. I know you’re not a slut. Far from it. Just be prepared for Kellan to throw it right back in your face and make it seem like you were the one who wanted to do it, not him, so if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours.”

  I try to process what Denise is saying. Is she right? Am I the slutty aggressor? Did I totally give away the milk? Does Kellan think I’m just another Jacuzzi tramp who couldn’t wait to get her knickers off, and his too, so we could bump uglies?

  I suddenly wish I’d kept my big fat mouth shut and hadn’t said anything to Denise.

  DINNER IS NICE. Perhaps a bit irritating because Denise monopolizes the conversation. She asks Kellan a million questions and each time he answers, she interrupts to offer her own experience on the subject, usually going on and on for five to ten minutes.

  Plus, her bra or her dress or both lose their battle with gravity over the course of the meal. By the time she’s eating her tiramisu with her fingers (and sucking them clean) and drinking her coffee, I can practically see her naval. And at least a couple times when she laughs and throws her head back and flails her arms about in her usual animated way, I distinctly see nipple.

  I’m sure Kellan sees it, too. But he has the grace to turn in the red leather booth so he’s mostly facing me. He glances at Denise only occasionally, usually when she’s sucking the chocolate off her fingers. I think, like me, he’s so blown away by her obviousness that he can’t look away. It’s like a car wreck, but there’s a white dress, massive knockers, and tiramisu.

  ONCE WE’VE COLLECTED our vehicles from the valet, Denise suggests that Kellan give her a ride to her house in the Aventador and that I drive behind them in her BMW X6.

  I immediately loathe this plan.

  But Denise has had three glasses of Pinot Grigio.

  I immediately realize her machinations are coming to fruition.

  “Just a quick drive,” says Kellan.

  “Sure, a quickie,” Denise agrees.

  Kellan gives me a kiss. “Stay close.”

  “I will.”

  The valets open the scissor doors on the Aventador and one of them helps Denise get in. I don’t like seeing her in the car. That’s my seat.

  I get into her big black SUV and follow them out of the parking lot.

  Everything is fine for a few minutes. I can see them talking. Denise is flailing her arms about like she’s riding a roller coaster. She touches Kellan’s shoulder several times.

  They seem to be debating something.

  Kellan looks all about and when the light turns green, he punches it.

  Fire shoots from the back of the Aventador’s exhaust pipes. Actual fire. The sound is like an animal growling, and then they’re gone.

  Everyone in the giant four-way intersection merely sits there, watching in awe as the ice-blue supercar rockets away.

  I step on it. To BMW’s credit, the X6 is no slouch. It launches off the line, taking me by surprise and completely scaring the crap out of me. Before I know it, I’m doing 75. I slow down to 50.

  But I don’t see them.

  I continue on, getting stuck at several traffic lights, until I finally pull into Denise’s driveway. Her house is gorgeous, of course. Not huge or anything, but it’s very elegant. Her Vietnamese gardeners outdo themselves on the landscaping.

  I pull up beside the Aventador and park.

  Something seems weird.

  Kellan definitely seems weird.

  I immediately wonder what they’ve been talking about.

  Denise opens the door on her side and rolls out of the car. One of her boobs flops out. She laughs and mashes it back inside the apron she calls a dress.

  Denise invites us inside.

  Kellan declines, saying we need to get to the gym.

  “Oh come on, Kearns,” says Denise, drawling out ‘Kearns’. “You just ate a huge steak and baked potato. You can’t train yet. You need to let your food settle for at least an hour before you start pumping it up at your little gym. Come inside for some coffee or tea.”

  Kellan looks at me.

  I’m excited to be introducing him to my world, my circle of friends.

  He relents.

  Inside, Denise makes coffee but then pulls out the Bailey’s and makes hers Irish. She takes a big drink right from the bottle before she screws the cap back on.

  Kellan and I sit on her big black leather sectional. He holds my hand.

  Denise puts on some music and dances around in front of us, telling us to dance with her. She grabs me by the hand and hauls me to my feet. It’s actually rather impressive how she can move so well on those pointy shoes.

  Denise starts doing weird, very-nearly-lesbian stuff with me; rubbing her crotch on my leg, rubbing her ass on my crotch, grabbing my arms and wrapping them around her body, trying to get me to feel her boobs.

  She continually looks at Kellan, grinning.

  Kellan’s phone rings. He says it’s the cop with more info about his brother. He goes out front to talk.

  Once I hear the front door close, I turn to Denise. “What are you doing?”

  “Just having a little fun. Don’t you guys want to get wasted and see what happens?”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know but the three of us getting naked is a start.”

  “Denise!”

  “Don’t be so selfish, Claire bear. I’ll share. Go outside and get him.”

  She swigs the last of her Bailey’s.

  I go outside.

  Kellan is getting into the Aventador.

  “Are you leaving?”

  He looks up at me. “Yes. I am most definitely leaving.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to be coerced into a threesome with you and your drunken friend.”

  “She’s just screwing around.” Deep down, I know this is majorly not true, and I wonder why I’m making excuses for Denise’s behavior.

  “She’s trying to get into my pants. I told you before that I don’t do that anymore. Remember? This is exactly what I was talking about. Look, you can stay if you want to, but I’m not going back in there. I’m going to train. I would prefer that you come with me but it’s up to you.”

  Kellan flips up the red ignition switch guard. His finger hovers over the Start button. “Coming?”

  I’m torn. Kellan has a point. But Denise is my friend. Even if she is acting crazy. “We can’t just leave. That’s rude.” Trying to make a stand on etiquette is weak but it’s the only thing I can think of.

  “Hitting on your best friend’s boyfriend is rude. Look, Denise seems very nice and she’s a partner in her law firm and she has this nice house and she’s done really well for herself and she’s a snazzy dresser and she eats tiramisu with her fingers like a child and that’s great. But I thought I made myself clear last night in the pool which of you I am interested in. I was sort of hoping that after we trained tonight there would be more nakedness. Hopefully at my place. But it has to be just you and me. If I go back inside with you, something will happen.”

  “No, it won’t. Denise is just screwing around.”

  “Claire, trust me. Something will happen that we’ll both regret. Denise is probably in there dancing around topless by now. Let’s just get out of here while we still can, okay? A recovering sex addict shouldn’t hang around in a friggin den of iniquity.”

  “Are you really a recovering sex addict?”

  “No. It’s a metaphor or an analogy or a simile or whatever you call it. You can illuminate me on the finer points of English while we train, okay? Let’s just go. Run inside and say goodbye for two seconds so you don’
t feel like we’re being rude, and then come right back out, okay? You can even blame it on me and say I got an important phone call and I had to leave and I’m your ride home so you had to go, too.”

  I don’t like this. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. “Fine.”

  I go into the house to say goodbye to Denise and—holy cow—she’s dancing on the coffee table. How she got up there in those shoes is a wonder. She has a champagne bottle in one hand and a full champagne flute in the other.

  And holy crap bag she is topless. Her quote-unquote dress is peeled down to her waist.

  “Come on, Claire bear! I’ve got the Jacuzzi heating up. Get that big side of beef in here and let’s party.” She flashes me a very wide, very intoxicated smile. She’s always had nice teeth.

  “I, uh, can’t, Deni. We have to go.”

  “Go? You can’t go!”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I flee the sight of my friend parading her half-naked body around like a stripper, utterly shocked.

  KELLAN PUTS HIS foot down once we get out of Denise’s subdivision and onto open road. The Aventador roars up to 90 but he doesn’t slow down. It’s only a matter of time before we’re both arrested. Ninety in a forty is guaranteed jail. At least for the night. And this town is crawling with cops.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Slow down.”

  He doesn’t.

  “Kellan. It’s okay. We left. We’ll go train like we planned. Slow down. Right now.”

  He looks at me for the first time since I got into the car. I think my command got his attention.

  He mashes the brakes and we’re creeping along at the posted limit two seconds later.

  Just in time. A police car drives by going the other way, its driver ogling us.

  My phone pings. It’s a text from Denise.

  Cum back u guyz!

  I’m sorry.

  I just wanted 2 hav sum fun

  A minute later, she texts again.

  show these 2 the K-man

  A pic comes in. Of her bare naked breasts. They’re almost as good as Stacy’s.

  “Is it a pic of her tits?” Kellan asks.

  “Actually, it is.” I hold up my phone. He doesn’t look.

  Denise texts again.

  Claire bear! I was going 2 show u

  how I deepthroat!

  To hell with the Taco Bell guy!!!

  I’m staring at my phone, trying to decide if I should show it to Kellan when he asks, “What did you tell Denise about what you and I did at my place last night?”

  “I told her everything. Why?”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because she’s my best friend. We tell each other everything.”

  “Really? You sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, it’s just that I think it would be best if what you and I do stays between us.”

  “Like you’re not going to tell your guy friends all about nailing me at your dope crib next time you guys are all shooting pool and knocking back Budweisers or Heinekens or Samuel Adams or whatever.”

  “Okay, you know I don’t really drink. You know I don’t have any guy friends I party with like that. My friends are mostly bodybuilders. And for your information, I wouldn’t tell them all about what you and I do together.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s none of their business.”

  “But it’s so much fun to share. It’s like reliving it all over again. Denise is always talking about all the sexual escapades she has and all the times she’s had semen in her eye or in her hair or she’s woken up with a condom hanging out of her butt crack. I’ve never woken up with a condom hanging out of my butt crack. It felt really good for a change for me to be the one telling her about the wild and crazy stuff I did with a guy.”

  “Is that what I am? Just a guy?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Look, Denise is your friend and what you decide to share with her and what you guys talk about is your business. It’s just that, from my experience, it’s best not to tell your same-sex friends about the sex you have with your significant other.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it sexualizes them in their eyes. When a married man tells his golf buddies or his poker buddies all about how much his wife likes it in the ass, or about how they did it in the shower that morning, or how they went to Carmel for the weekend and she stuck an empty beer bottle up his butt while she was blowing him and he came harder than he’d ever come before in his life, then his buddies have the image in their heads. They think about it while they’re stuck in traffic or while they’re sitting there watching Jeopardy and they start to want to do that with the guy’s wife. And maybe one of them is a disloyal asshole and he actually approaches the guy’s wife and says ‘Oh, I heard about you sticking a beer bottle up Mike’s ass. Sounds hot. When’s my turn?’ And maybe, just maybe, she and the mister have been fighting a lot lately since they got back from Carmel and she’s pissed off at him and is feeling vindictive and she says ‘Oh, any time, big boy.’ And the next thing you know, they’re upstairs getting it on.

  “It’s not a good idea. Stuff that happens between a couple is personal and intimate and private and it should stay that way.

  “Besides, how can I be vulnerable with you and be naked and do stuff if I’m always wondering if you’re going to go tell Denise about it?”

  I have to admit Kellan has a point. I’ve never really thought of it that way. But what he says makes sense. “You’re right. I won’t give Denise any more lurid details.”

  “I think that would be best.” Kellan reaches over and takes my hand. “Let’s go home and change and head to the gym.” He flashes me a reassuring smile.

  As we drive back to his house, I’m glad he and I understand one another, that our argument has concluded.

  But is he right?

  Or is he controlling?

  Is he cutting me off from my friends?

  My one and only friend?

  It’s not as if he told me not to be friends with her anymore.

  I will have to talk to her about her behavior, though. I don’t look forward to that. Will she be contrite or will she blow me off? Either way, it needs to be said.

  Then something Kellan said pops into my mind. The thing about the beer bottle.

  “A beer bottle up the butt, huh? Tell me, Mister Kearns, do you have an anal fetish?”

  “Who doesn’t?” He grins his megawatt smile and kisses the back of my hand. Like he’s a prince and I’m a princess.

  “Remember yesterday when we were talking about anal fisting?” he asks.

  “Yeah…”

  “Have you ever been fisted?”

  Lord. This is embarrassing. But it’s also exciting to talk about sex. Especially with Kellan. “In my vagina or in my butt?”

  “Either one.”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Not in my vagina.”

  “In your butt, really, you have?”

  “No, I’m kidding.”

  “So you haven’t.”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You swear?”

  “I swear. Honest, I’ve never had anyone put their hand up my butt.”

  “What if I wanted to do that to you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  We drive in relative silence, enjoying the ride in the new car. I wonder if Kellan has an anal fetish and he’s embarrassed about it but he’s trying to communicate it to me.

  My first impulse is to ask Denise about it; to see if Denise has ever fisted a guy or put anything in a guy’s ass.

  But then I remember I just promised Kellan I wouldn’t talk to her anymore about our sexy times.

  “Kellan? If I’m not going to talk to Denise about our sex life anymore, who am I going to talk to?” />
  “Me.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something about my sex toys stashed in my closet. But I decide not to say anything. Not yet.

  Chapter 13

  IRON PALACE IS quiet. It’s Tuesday night.

  Kellan and I have a great workout, super-setting back and forth between chest and back. He says it’s one of Arnold’s favorite training methods. We do bench press followed immediately by lat pulldowns to simulate pull-ups. Kellan has me do ten sets of each. I ask if we should work the muscle from different angles using different exercises. He says he wants me to do one exercise at a time in order for me to see where I get sore in the next few days, so I have a better understanding of what these exercises do for my body, which is unique.

  We go back to my place so I can get more clean clothes. As I’m rooting around in my closet for clean underwear and socks, I see the black box with my sex toys in it.

  Kellan is wandering around my bedroom, looking at pictures and books and candles and little things I’ve accumulated over the years.

  He reads my college diploma hanging on the wall.

  He comes over to the closet and starts flipping through my hangers. It occurs to me to ask what he’s doing, but his hand is inches from the black box. I grab some clean clothes and put them in my bag.

  Downstairs, he asks if I want to drive. We’re driving his Corvette now, having exchanged the Aventador for it because Kellan wasn’t yet certain about parking the Mister Beaumont out in front of the gym late at night.

  I’m scared, but he says I can do it.

  I reluctantly take the keys. The Stingray is similar to the Huracan inside. It’s all dark leather and sexy gauges and electronics. And a deep, throaty sound from the engine and exhaust. Plus that really great new-car smell.

  Once out on the road, it feels like a regular car. I can feel how sharp and tight the handling is.

  Kellan warns me to slow down.

  I’m about to ask why when I check the speedometer. I’m doing 70! Thirty miles per hour above the posted limit. Yikes. These fast sports cars are easy to drive fast and difficult to drive slowly. I get up to 55 in my Corolla and it starts to shake. I’m afraid things are going to fall off.

  We get back to his place and after a quick protein shake we put on our bathing suits and jump in the pool for a refreshing swim. Kellan turns on the music and the lights and the fire pit.