by Holly Hart
When I let his hand go, he flattens it to my chest, like he’s holding me in place. I concentrate on matching his rhythm, pressing my thighs together to feel more of his cock inside me. Eddies of sensation ripple through me, and I can feel myself fluttering around him.
“If you kept doing that—” I tilt my head back, catching my breath. “—just that angle, that rhythm, I think I could...mm...think I could ride the edge all morning, that moment right before you....”
Jack stills for a moment, and keeps going. “You that close?”
“Mm....”
He hisses and pulls out all the way, right to the tip. “How about this?” He snaps his hips, hard and sharp, once, twice...and settles back into that slow, easy grind. I squirm and buck, denied my peak.
“Oh, you tease!”
“Complaining?”
Wouldn’t say that....
Jack presses even closer, till we’re shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, not a breath between us. He trails his fingers up and down my thighs, across my lower belly, between my legs, teasing my lips, my clit. I hardly even notice he’s steadily picking up the pace till my excitement’s a boiling whirlpool at my core, sucking everything into itself, till my whole world’s pleasure and light.
I come back to myself panting, lightheaded. Jack’s still inside me, barely moving now. He’s rocking me in his arms in a way that could easily lull me to sleep. Can’t say I’d mind if it did. Nothing so decadent as a mid-morning nap.
Jack yawns and buries his face in my hair. “Y’know, we could close our eyes right now. Sleep the morning away. Wake up in a few hours, like... Was that even real?”
“Your dick still inside me might give us away.”
He pulls out, flopping onto his back with a groan. “You remind me of my first grade teacher.”
“You’d better be saying she was hot.”
He nudges me with his toe. “He was sixty years old, bony as a chicken, and covered in moles.”
“Oh, you—”
“Wait!” He’s laughing. “Wait, though! Here’s why you’re him: picture this. It’s my first week of school. I’m finally one of the big kids—no more kindergarten baby. Mr. Tuttle gives us our first homework ever. Actual, real homework, not like... Go home and find a cool rock. We have to bring in a poem and read it to the class.” Jack props himself up on one elbow. There’s a wicked glint in his eye. Something tells me I’m going to hate where this is going. “So I’m like, okay, I’m hitting this shit out of the park. Going to write my own poem. Kick these other kids’ asses.”
“So far, so good?”
“You’d think, right?” He’s waggling a finger, getting right into the story. “So, I make it just like the ones in Ma’s books, all...flowery and weird, where you don’t really know what it means, but you’re like ‘yeah, that’s some great poetry, right there’.”
“Uh-huh....”
“I remember it to this day: ‘Crocuses and daisies die. Sparrows go by in the sky.’ Genius, right?”
“You’re a regular Wordsworth Jr.”
Jack scoffs. “Pff—like you could do better. Anyway, I turn it in, and I can’t wait for Tuttle to see it. And when we come in from recess, he calls me up to the front of the class. Asks me to read it out loud. And I’m bursting. Proud as fuck. And then—then, y’know what he says? You know what that motherfucker says?”
“Ah...the meter’s a little off?” I jerk my ankle out of the way before Jack can kick it.
“He says, ‘You wrote that, didn’t you?’ And I’m like, ‘Hell, yeah, I did.’ And he turns to the class, and he puts on his teacher voice, this world-weary, condescending, sick-of-this-shit drone, and he goes ‘Class, when I hand out assignments, I expect you to do them. Not decide you’re too busy playing hopscotch or lighting farts, and scribble down your own thing five seconds before the bell.’”
I raise a brow. “Okay, so you look at me, and you see the teacher who squished your creativity like...like a dead crocus?”
“Yup.”
“Seriously. That’s got to be the most words you’ve said to me since I got here—and you use them to make fun of me?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Can I at least ask why?”
Jack pulls me back into his arms. “’Cause you can’t let me have my little fantasy, where we have this hazy, fuzzy memory of a sweet first time, and we’re never quite sure it really happened. You have to beat me with the reality stick.” He taps me on the top of my head. “You’re a cynic.”
“Says the man who rotates girlfriends like the rest of us rotate tires.”
“Well, that’s....”
“Yeah?”
“Hmph.” He pushes me away and sits up. “Let’s grab a shower.”
I tug my panties back into place and roll out of bed. Not sure how I feel about being Jack’s cynical, chicken-legged first grade teacher, but a shower sounds good.
28
Jack
I kick my shorts into the laundry basket and follow Stella to the ensuite. She’s just slipping out of her nightie, giving me fresh ideas, when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
“Just be a second.”
She nods. “You know where I’ll be.”
I grab the phone on the third ring. Magnus. This better be good.
“Yeah?”
“So, there’s this rumor going around. About your girlfriend getting dragged out of some party in the Hamptons by this big, scary guy. A stalker, no less.”
Oh. That. “I know.”
“You do realize that’s exactly the kind of spotlight we’re trying to avoid?”
I sprawl back on the bed, landing neatly in the wet spot. “Eugh—shit.”
“Can you get a lid on it, or not?”
“I will. I have. Starkey took care of it.” I scrub at my back with the corner of the sheet. “It’s just gossip. And it’s not even about us. If anything, a mystery stalker draws focus off us.”
Magnus sighs. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”
“I’m not. ‘Cause it’s silly.”
“Talked to Erik last night. He was thinking—and I agree—this isn’t working out. We were thinking, why not send her back to France? Let her do whatever she wants over there, where she can’t—”
“Italy.”
“What?”
“She’s from Italy. Not France. And if she wanted to go there, she’d be there. We send her away, she’ll be back like a boomerang, digging around, doing God knows what.” I’m tapping my foot on the carpet. Getting worked up. “This is what we’re doing. End of story.”
“You’re not the only one writing this story.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just, there’s other ways this could end.”
My stomach churns. I flinch away from something—someone—that isn’t there. Shake my head to clear it. “You better not be saying—.”
“Whatever.” I hear a zipper on the other end of the line, followed by the unmistakable sound of splashing piss. “Think it over. And keep a leash on her while you do.”
And I’m done. Should’ve sent him to voicemail. I toss my phone on the bed and stand up. The blood rushes out of my head, and it’s there again: sand underfoot, light slanting through cracks in the walls, a broken cot in the corner....
I blink it all away. Stella’s waiting for me. Can’t fuck up now.
The sight of her through the glass door, naked and slippery, wreathed in steam, is a welcome distraction. I slip in behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. Love the way we fit together, the way she fits her hands over mine. Possessive.
Shouldn’t be thinking that way. If Magnus guessed, or Erik....
Stella can’t be different. Nothing can. The plan, the routine—that’s how one day follows the next. One misstep, and anything could happen. Anything at all. Like back then.
Stella wriggles out of my arms, going for the shampoo. I reach for her, grab nothing, and—
—hot; wh
y’s it so hot?—
I reach out to steady myself. The floor’s slippery. I stumble and thump against the wall, head coming to rest on my arm.
“Fuck....”
Spots dance in front of my eyes. Stella’s looking my way. “Problem?”
“Slipped.” My laugh comes out hollow and fake.
“You should get some of those shower decals. Little sandpaper flowers.”
“Mm....” There’s too much steam. Making my eyes water. I scrub at them with the back of my hand, and when my vision clears, I’m looking at Magnus. He’s pale, backing away. Shaking his head, like if he doesn’t accept this, it’ll cease to be.
“Jack?”
It doesn’t hurt yet. Feels...cold. Cold and breathless, like a punch to the gut. Maybe that’s all it was. I didn’t see the bayonet go in.
Ferris pushes me. Now it hurts. I’m being torn open, gutted like a fish. The blade nicks my rib, and then it’s out. I’m reeling. Tripping over the chair. Staring at Magnus over Ferris’s shoulder. Why doesn’t he do something?
Trying to pick which of us to kill.
“What?”
The sound of my own voice jolts me back to reality. It doesn’t snap back all at once, like it usually does. The killing shed lingers like an afterimage of the sun, burned into my retinas.
Stella’s got her hand on my shoulder, holding me steady.
“Head rush....” I focus on the beads of moisture trickling down the wall till I feel tile under my feet instead of sand, smell shampoo instead of copper. Even then, a wrongness remains—a sense of disquiet.
This is what happens when I stray from procedure.
Fuck that. It’s not. This is... This is like I said. A natural reaction. Normal and human, and under control. Back in its box, where it belongs.
“It’s because you’re too tall. Not enough blood to go around.”
Too tall, huh? I rise on the balls of my feet, purposely towering over Stella. She backs off and I follow, getting right in her face. She runs out of space, and her hair sticks to the tiles. I knot my fingers in it and drag them up the wall, pinning her in place. She tosses her head side to side, pretending she can’t break free.
“Got you now.”
“Yeah? What are you going to do with me?”
Splatter your brains on the sand.
I start and swallow hard. Not that. It’s the rushing of the shower, the pattering water—there’s voices in it. Like radio static, scanning between stations. Dead men trying to break through.
“I want—I want....”
“Yeah?” Her hand’s on my cock, stroking, squeezing. I’m hard, slick with precum. I swallow again, biting back nausea.
“Talk to me,” I croak.
“You want my mouth.” She twists her hand on the head of my cock, thumb grazing the slit. “You want me to kneel on that hard floor while you fuck my throat so deep your balls smack my chin.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The desert wind picks up. Going to be a sandstorm. Batten down the—
Bad idea. Focus.
“And what do you want?”
“Let go of my hair and find out.”
I let go. Stella drops to her knees and slides her lips down my cock in one long, smooth motion. She tilts her head back and swallows me to the root—holy fuck; she was serious! I jerk my hips involuntarily, and she takes it without complaint, moaning around me like she’s been starving for it all along. Her nails dig into the backs of my thighs.
“Yeah....”
I can feel her throat working. Trying to wring me dry. I’m fighting to restrain myself, but she’s raking her nails down my legs, tugging me forward, and I’m thrusting, pumping—
—On your knees! Drop your weapon!—
I grunt. Punch the wall. Feel my knuckles split. Can’t lose it now. Lose myself in her, instead, that hot mouth, those sharp, sharp nails....
One of her hands strays between my legs. I shiver as she trails those same nails over my balls. Like a threat. Or a promise. I can feel her teeth, too, the lightest of grazes along my shaft. This was how I pictured it, with her; this, and—
—and I’m drifting again. Can’t hear them any more, Magnus and Ferris, Erik in the background with McHugh. Can’t see the shed, or feel the bone-dry air. But I’m caught somewhere between getting my dick sucked and high alert. Ready to blow my load or shoot someone.
This isn’t right.
I push her away. She looks at me, questioning, lips pink and parted.
“Gimme your hand.”
She takes my hand in that possessive way she has, tangling her fingers with mine. I pull her to her feet. “Turn around.”
Stella shifts her weight. Turns her head, and for a moment, I see a stranger. I grip her shoulders, holding her in place.
“No. Don’t.”
“Hm?”
“Need to see your face.” I lift her up and she wraps her legs around my waist. I push into her again, and it’s got to be uncomfortable, the way she’s trapped between me and the wall, but the sounds she’s making are all good ones. Her breath’s coming in little pants and gasps; every exhale’s a sharp, hungry ah!
“Let me—let me feel your nails.” My own breath’s hitching now. I’m not going to last long.
Stella obliges, scoring long scratches into my back. She dips her head and bites me, hard, sharp little canines pinching my shoulder.
“Yeah—bite my lip. Kiss me, and....”
She does, and I’m nearly there—and here, fully here, clinging to the moment as she clings to me.
“Gonna cum.”
“Do it.” She grinds her hips, nips at my mouth, and I bury myself in her, deep as I can get, tumbling over the edge. For a moment, it feels like I’m really falling, collapsing in on myself, and I grip her thighs tight. So tight she yelps.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Good.” She laughs, high and giddy. “Great, in fact.”
“Mm. Me, too.”
Her heel digs into my back. “You can put me down now.”
And there she goes again, puncturing my afterglow. “Sure, Mr. Tuttle.”
That gets me a smack, right on my scratched-up shoulder blade. I wince, grin, and set her on her feet. I’m shaking—not a lot, just a fine, steady tremor that the hot shower can’t soothe. Probably shouldn’t have done that. Not while I wasn’t all there. Not....
“That was amazing. Right up to the ‘Mr Tuttle’ part.” She presses up against me, soft hands soothing my abused skin.
No harm done, I suppose. Still.... I hug her tight, overwhelmed by a sudden flood of protectiveness.
“Whatever you did in the Hamptons... Don’t do it again. Please.” I pull back just far enough to look her in the eye. “I want you to be....” Safe. Can’t say that. Not without scaring her.
She’s nodding, though. Like she gets it, anyway. “I know. Starkey told me. I’m...still getting used to this. But it won’t happen again.”
“Thank you.”
We stand there under the spray, loosely entwined, till it gets to be too much and she reaches for the soap.
29
Stella
I’m nervous. This is it: my first public appearance since the Hamptons. I turn my mask over in my hands, admiring the beadwork—all pearls and gold, to match the delicate strands woven into my hair, the choker at my throat, the clinging layers of metallic lace and silk that hug my every curve. Even my lip gloss has a gold-dust sheen.
A masked ball. I should be excited. Here’s a chance to hide in plain sight. To mingle with New York’s tipsy elite, in a setting ripe with intrigue and the promise of secrets. A hint here, a leading question there....
My fingers go to my neck. I can’t find it by touch any more, but I can see it when I push my curls aside: the yellow ghost of a bruise.
I can’t keep hiding forever. It’s been days since I’ve felt the sun on my face. Fresh air’s a distant memory—and that’s not all I’ve missed. Countess BeeBee’s skipped two major parties an
d a hell of a fashion show, complete with a hair-pulling fight that catapulted a model off the runway like a crowdsurfing rockstar. Her headlong flight made every gossip page but mine.
My knees go weak at the sound of footsteps in the hall. I steady myself against the dresser. Starkey won’t hurt me if I toe the line. I need to look him straight in the eye and tell him...tell him....
My skin crawls at the thought of telling him anything.
I need to call him Jeeves. Make him carry my purse. Eat off his plate. Show him I’m not afraid.
Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight—
There’s a rap at the door. My heart sinks.
“Come in.”
“Sorry to intrude.” Starkey doesn’t look sorry. He looks the same way he always does: like a killer playing butler. “The car’s outside.”
I could still beg off. Claim exhaustion, illness, an irrational fear of masks. But things have been going well. Jack’s brought me to his bed every night since our early-morning hookup. He hasn’t come back to the idea of getting the birds their own room.
I pluck my mask off the dresser. My feet don’t want to move. One hesitant step leads to another, but I need to be bold. It’s easier when I glare into the distance and pretend it’s just me. Me, and me alone, in the penthouse I share with Jack. Only Jack. No one else. I raise my mask, and the feathers cut my peripheral vision to nothing. It hides Starkey’s reflection in the windows, the mirrors, the walls of the elevator.
He’s not there. I’m all alone.
“You’ll want to be on your guard tonight,” he says as he helps me into the car.
I shrink away, slamming the door behind me. Maybe he won’t get in. Jack’ll be at the ball—what do I need with a babysitter? I could tap on the glass, wave the driver on. Maybe—
Starkey piles in. “That wasn’t a threat.” The car starts moving and I’m trapped. “Gunnarsson has questions. He’s been asking about, well....” He clears his throat. “The unpleasantness. In the Hamptons.”
The unpleasantness. That’s one way to put it. “What does he know?”
“There’s talk of a stalker. And an angry bodyguard.”
