by Jess Bentley
It’s as if I know now what this body is for. It’s for this relationship, for what exists between us.
Did I just call it a relationship?
I don’t know what it is.
This thing I have with King has its own momentum. Either that or he’s in control. Because I feel like I am a little girl, just going with the flow of whatever it is that’s taken hold of me since I decided to call him that day.
And now, as I look up at him—his dark lashes and crow’s feet around light eyes, his stubble, his masculine features—there’s something in me that never wants it to end.
And another part of me wants it to end right away.
I can’t deny that part of me longs to go back to normal. For Kelsey to be alive. To be back in the safety of her friendship, not stuck in some foreign country with some man who’s making me feel things I didn’t think were possible.
Some man who is going to leave me. It’s not a question of if—it’s a question of when. I can’t stay with someone who is my father’s age. Can I?
I feel his hand against my ear as he strokes and pinches the lobe gently before leaning in and kissing my neck, and I’m brought back into the present.
“Where’d you go, Little Girl?” he asks softly, and I want to fold into his arms. But how can I trust him when I’m more and more sure every day that I couldn’t even trust my own goddamned best friend?
And yet, it feels like the safest place to be is in his arms. There's something so comforting about just letting go, letting him control me, handle me, make me feel whatever he wants me to feel. He takes me to a place where I don't have to think so much, where it's calm and beautiful and filled with bliss.
“I'm right here, King,” I reply softly, pushing up on my toes just before the elevator door opens again. “I'm right where you want me to be.”
We stumble back into the penthouse, his lips covering my mouth, his hand gripping the small of my back, pulling me off my feet. I lock my arms behind his neck and let him carry me away to the bed. Already I'm wet and swollen again for him, anticipating his touch.
His hands find the hem of my dress and slide up my thighs, parting my legs as he drops me on my back on the fluffy mattress. Immediately I feel his tongue, warm and wet, snaking along the seam of my sodden thong.
“Do you like this?" he asks, his voice muffled against my sex.
To answer, I only moan. I don't know what I’m supposed to say, and I'm afraid that if I open my mouth to speak, shyness will overcome me and trick me into telling him to stop. But I don't want him to stop. Instead, I plunge my fingers into his hair and pull his mouth closer to me.
It's answer enough. He growls against my slick folds, eager and hungry to taste me.
His fingers slide under my thong, pushing it completely to the side as his tongue swipes back and forth, plunging deeper and deeper into my folds. I arch my back, pushing myself against him as he flutters his tongue, sucking the juices from me, urging me forward until I come in a brilliant explosion that shatters my consciousness into a million pieces.
The next thing I know, I'm floating, drifting on a sea of bliss that seems to rock back and forth. I realize it's the motion of his body as he climbs onto the bed and positions himself next to me. He swipes a damp tendril of hair from my forehead and kisses me gently. I can smell myself on his breath.
“Such a good little girl,” he murmurs.
“Am I?” I ask, barely conscious of the words as they escape my lips.
His expression darkens. He can tell I’m talking about more than just the sex we just had. “Well, what you mean by that?”
Consciousness rushes back to me in a flood and I realize I don't know what I'm saying, but I do need to tell him something. He's looking at me keenly, as though he thinks he knows what I'm about to say.
“It's just… I'm not sure I can stay here.”
“Do you mean you prefer Istanbul?”
Despite myself, I smile. Could I really live without this kind of charm in my life? He barely seems real.
“No, King, I mean… I need to go back. To America. I need to go back home.”
He nods slowly, deliberately untangling his limbs from mine. I feel cold inside as he retreats. But, he doesn't seem entirely surprised either.
“You know, Kelsey’s will?" I stammer, fumbling for words to say. Now that the thought has escaped my lips, I sort of want to take it all back. I can feel the door in his heart closing, and something about that makes me frantic.
“Kelsey's will?”
“I have to be there…” I start. I look at my hands, as if they hold some secret information that will make it all okay. “The lawyers say I have to be there. Maybe there's something… Oh, I don't know. She left me something.”
“Money,” he says.
“Well, that's what people do, right? Leave money in their wills? I mean, she's got parents, she's got a brother…” Who else will be there? I guess it’s just us.
He nods slowly. “So, you're leaving. When?”
“The ticket is for the day after tomorrow.”
His arms fold around me, pulling me close. I bury my head against his neck and inhale his woody, masculine scent.
“Well, then you better get some sleep, Little Girl,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. I can’t resist doing as he tells me. Something about his voice seems so authoritative and again, I find myself simply taking the path of least resistance: the one he tells me to take. And it feels so comforting. My breath fills my chest slowly and deeply.
I automatically nestle against him, fitting myself into the warm space between our bodies.
10
Raleigh
Two days. That's really not a lot of time.
As soon as she told me that she was going back for the reading of Kelsey's will, I knew exactly what was about to happen. Everything is about to change. This girl’s entire life is about to shatter around her ears, and she has absolutely no fucking idea.
Charmingly, the wine at dinner seems to have overwhelmed her after just a few glasses, and she cuddles up against me like some kind of baby animal, like a bunny or a kitten, humming softly as she falls into sleep.
But I can’t sleep. My mind races ahead, trying to anticipate the events as they will likely unfold.
My investigator assembled what I can only assume is a fairly complete and accurate picture of the events as they had transpired, and I shudder to think how Jordan will see them. She's going to see her life from a whole new angle, have everything she thought she knew turned on its head.
It is going to crush her. It would crush anybody.
I draw her closer to me as she sleeps, wanting nothing more than to fold over her, to create a safe space for her. I want to protect her from the inevitable.
Because it is coming, and there's really nothing I can do about it.
But is that true? Is there really nothing I can do? Actually, I can probably do a fuck of a lot. But first I need to get a hold of Kelsey's attorney, try to find out what's actually in the will. If she does simply hand off a bunch of money, that's not so bad. I can shield her from the worst of it.
But does that seem like Kelsey?
From everything I can ascertain, Kelsey was a bit of a sociopath. Would she have taken a moment to consider her friend’s feelings? Would she have tried to soften the blow? Or would this dramatic scene fit her motivations best if it were as gut wrenching as possible?
I have my answer. I know what's going to happen.
Jordan shifts against me, sliding her knee along mine. Crazily, I want to take her again. I want to plunge into her, to claim every inch of her. I want her to never doubt that she’s safe, and she is mine. She is safe because she is mine.
I have to do something. I know it's crazy for me to be acting like this. I know it's insane for me to be taking her places in public, to be parading her in front of my business acquaintances. I know it's risky. I know it's far more risky for me than for her. But I can't help it anymore.
&n
bsp; What the hell am I thinking? And even as I ask myself the question, I know I'm not thinking anymore. It might be wrong in hundred different ways, but I feel something for her. Something real. Something I both don't want to feel, and can't help but dive into. And I'll do anything to protect her.
So she's got two days. At least I can move ahead of her. I can catch an earlier flight back to the States, smooth things out as best I can. And I can be there for her when it all happens.
I am the King, after all. I can make this work.
11
Jordan
When I wake up in the morning, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. The high ceilings, the ornate plaster moulding, the billowing sheer curtains filtering the early morning light.
I sit up, startled, in bed and glance around until it makes sense. This is R’s room. The penthouse. We spent the night together.
And now he's… gone?
I slide from the tall bed, my bare feet plunging into the thick pile of a luxurious rug. My head is still a little bit filled with cotton wool after all that wine I drank last night. What was that, three glasses? More? Is it possible that the wine in Paris is stronger than the wine in the United States?
I’ll bet it is. I bet it's just all part of this Disneyland fantasy of the weird European experience they've put together. Of course it is. How much more lurid can all this get? Of course they spike the wine with roofies or hallucinogens or something. That is so like the French.
Tiptoeing around the perimeter of the room, I look for signs of R. What am I supposed to do now? What does spending the night together mean, exactly?
But when I see the tented note card near the window, glowing softly as the morning light hits the thick, creamy paper, I already have my answer. It doesn't mean anything. He's gone, and I know it.
The note is handwritten, and I can't help notice that his handwriting is a luxurious scrawl, with long flowing lines and a bit of a flourish. It reads simply: “Urgent business. I'll return. Please stay as long as you like. – King.”
The note trembles in my hand until I finally drop it back on the mirrored silver tray. Please stay as long as I like? He can’t believe that I would stay. In fact, I told him I needed to leave. What am I supposed to do, just linger in his suite, propping myself up in the various locations like some tragic silent film figure, longing for her absent lover? Seriously?
Should I lean against the antique dresser and gaze at the ceiling? Fling myself across the bed and weep? Lean out the window and stare longingly into the street below while soft accordion music plays?
Given my slight hangover, all of those things actually don't sound too far from possibility. I could use a bit of a lie down.
But instead, I shake my head and clench my jaw. I have things to do, business of my own. I have a lot of details to work out, I and might as well get started.
I’m headed back to America, and I’ll have to do it on my own.
I’ll have to do this on my own. It’s going to become a mantra.
Kelsey, I pray. Kelsey, I need you. Help me get out of here. You’re the catalyst for this. I flew all the way across the ocean so that I could learn whatever it is I could from this experience, and now it’s time for me to learn it, and get the fuck out of here.
In the second elevator, I rake my fingers through my hair and put my sandals on, straightening my dress. It’s nothing compared to the Rodarte that King bought me, and for a moment I wish I still had that gorgeous piece, almost wanted to go back to get it. But it’s not me anyway. Where else would I wear such a thing, and besides the ten thousand in price, what’s the cost to me? To not even be able to have my own autonomy? I rubbed my head. Or even safety? Who the fuck is R, and why is he able to do all of this?
Is it just because I let him?
My mind wanders to his stiff cock, that blunt instrument that I had given all the power over me. Or is it the grief that had that power? If it weren’t for my grief, there’s no way I would have sunk myself into this situation. No way I would be on the plane in the first place. And even Kelsey herself—she was the one who originally had power over me.
She never wanted me to develop.
The doors to the elevator open soundlessly, with just a small tinkling bell announcing my arrival in the lobby. I slip out, heading toward the door.
“May I help you?” I hear in a polite voice, but the timbre of the sound makes me feel uneasy. Looking over my shoulder, I see the owner of the voice with a phone cradled at her neck, typing into the computer. She wasn’t even talking to me.
I emerge onto the streets of Paris. How many centuries have women been escaping from their circumstances on this pavement? The light is cold, vacant. The Eiffel Tower, the massive Louvre, the apartment buildings loom down on me. The advertisements, with their familiar images of popular movies but their taglines distorted into French are at once comforting and discomfiting. I take a breath.
You know what? Fuck you, Kelsey, I think. Fuck you for putting me in this situation. If you hadn’t controlled everything about my life I wouldn’t be in this position, running from some man. An engine rolls up beside me, breaking my thoughts. Is it King?
No. Once it passes, I clutch my bag to me and head off to the nearest main intersection. There are shouts of delivery people in the streets as the city wakes up, and my stomach, despite its knots, growls.
Fuck this, I need food. I go into the nearest cafe, anger and hunger taking over my apprehension and finally mobilizing me.
“Excusez-moi,” I say, to the man behind the counter in what I’m sure is heavily accented French. “Cafe s’il-vous plait, et une baguette.” I point to the pastry behind the glass.
He looks at me funny—a smirk in his lips, eyebrow arched. Freaking French. “Baguette?” he repeats.
“Oui,” I say.
He shrugs. “Pour emporter?”
I shrug back. I have no idea what he’s saying, what that means. But I don’t care. When he hands me the long baton of bread, I realize my mistake. I’d pointed at what I of course know is a croissant. I hide my grimace and hand over the few euros in my bag. A small victory, but my own. I did it. If the same thing happens at the airport, I realize grimly, I might end up in England or something, but at least I will be the fuck out of here.
Clutching my prizes to my chest, the cafe door closes behind me. My stomach is so empty I feel the coffee wind and burn its way down my throat. Or maybe it’s raw from taking in King.
Now to get a cab. The wind whips my skirt around my legs and I hold my free arm aloft as I reach the intersection, and immediately a cab is at my side. Gratefully I open the door and sit.
“Where you going?”
“Why aren’t you speaking to me in French?” I ask, puzzled.
“Because you are clearly Americain,” he replies. “Where you going?”
“The airport,” I say almost happily. The sensation of happiness is feeling so foreign to me right now. I wonder the last time I felt it. “Going home. Finally going home.”
“Charles de Gaulle it is.” He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “As you wish, Madame.”
The ripped leather seats feel more comfortable than silk cushions ever could as I sink back into the sunlit ride. I close my eyes and rip pieces of baguette from the bag, tearing the buttery crisp crust with my teeth and letting the gentle flavor of the bread suffuse my mouth. The sips of coffee wash it down, and somehow this becomes the simplest and most delicious meal I’ve ever tasted.
“Good bread?” the cabbie says, smiling a little. Then his attention turns to the road, and he lets out a stream of invective words in rough French. “Do you see what these turkeys do?” he demands of me.
“Eh, I am not in a rush,” I say, swallowing. “I don’t have to make a particular flight. That is, I have to get it organized.” I do have one, but I didn’t know exactly what time it leaves—just that I’m pretty sure I’m early. I’ll just have to take whatever they can give me. Still, being free of R is worth it, d
espite the gnawing feeling in my mind.
Will he come after me? Do I want him to?
King is like a drug. Sure I am in the euphoria stage of getting away from him, from everyone. But I know the withdrawal will hit me, and I will feel the grief of Kelsey’s loss. And the loss of my idea of Kelsey. I will feel the finality of never being able to speak to her, to accuse her of taking me over, of running me like her personal safety blanket.
I push those thoughts away and try to regain the peace that I found in the sunlight and baguette before these thoughts begin circling like vultures in my mind. Vultures waiting for my “relationship” with King to die so they can feast on its bones. Bones like the over-picked carcass of Paris, the old and stately architecture taken over by the garishness of storefronts, the subdued ancient palate scarred with yellows and reds.
After a bumpy ride, we arrive at the airport. The sunlight is still in my eyes, but seems too bright now. Why is my happiness so fleeting? Will my entire life be a trial, where I move from one problem to another? Losing something every time along the way?
First I lost Kelsey.
That’s not true. First I lost my independence to Kelsey, trading it for some kind of servitude. Then I lost Kelsey, and got a chance to regain myself, to figure out who Jordan Burke is, but I immediately gave it to King. I gave myself away the first chance I got. I could have just left, instead of using King. My face twists.
You were grieving, some part of me says. You didn’t know what you were doing. And besides, he helped you forget. Oh how he helped me forget. You can still find yourself. I try to imagine what Kelsey would have said: “You look hot in that dress, girlie. You should spend enough for a down payment for a house on clothes all the time.”
I have to smile. Was she really that bad? The answer has to be no. It was all me. I was useless. Still am, basically. I met this man, and clearly I lacked the necessary strength to resist him. Sure he might be gorgeous; in fact, the best-looking man I’ve ever met—those cheekbones, that hair, the steep angles of his pecs, the six-pack, or maybe eight-pack. Abs upon abs. The line of his hips, leading down to that perfect, massive cock. One that practically tore me in two when it filled me for the first time, but in the best of ways. My inner core jumps as I relive the feeling of being taken by King, used, spanked.
