by Alice Ward
I would soon own him.
I stood up and walked to the table of sex toys, holding back a gasp as the pull of the chains made a yearning stab through my core. Finding a condom, I ripped it open and took my time walking back to him, counting his excited, tortured breaths. When I returned, I climbed on his lap, hovered over him, eye to eye. “If you can tilt your mask back to drink scotch, you can tilt it back to kiss me.”
He nodded, captured.
I lifted his cock, rolling the condom on.
Feeling him pulse against my palm, I held it erect, positioned myself over the tip, and sank down, taking him in, inch by inch.
We growled in unison as he filled me. I’d never before felt the entwining of pain and pleasure so clearly. When I’d buried him to the hilt inside me, and our bodies were flush against one another, I looked down, pushing aside the fabric of his shirt to get a better view. I sighed, thinking I’d never seen anything so perfect in my life. When I faced him, I realized he was gazing at me too. Sweat had begun to trickle down his temple. And I thought Mr. Conservative had been trained to keep cool.
“Cassandra,” he whispered, his eyes meeting mine as he reached between us and tugged on the chain. I groaned in pleasure and pain as I ground myself hard against him.
Then, still looking into my eyes, he slowly tilted the mask back over his nose and kissed me for the first time.
I’d never felt such an erotic kiss, as I sat on his lap, naked, him buried inside me. We didn’t move our lower halves for the longest time. He concentrated on the kiss, bringing his hands to the sides of my head, and really, really kissing me. His tongue worked deeply into my mouth, fucking my mouth so thoroughly, the way he must have sensed I’d been dreaming of since our first meeting. It was personal, more intimate, somehow, and definitely romantic. Our mouths worked together hungrily, until I’d explored every hair of stubble on his chin, until my face had been rubbed raw and red. For the first time, I felt like we weren’t just body parts moving together to find a release like everyone else in this club.
No. We were lovers.
And then I could stand it no more. I needed to move.
Moving up on my knees, I slowly lifted off of him. I felt the emptiness at once.
I sank back down, this time his cock hitting a spot inside that made me shudder in pleasure. I had to do it again, meeting the same spot, lifting up off of him and sinking down, getting into a rhythm. I started to grind on his cock, rubbing my clamped clit against his skin, feeling the rushing smoothness spike pleasure up my body as droplets of sweat coursed down my breasts, melding with his own.
In the back of my head, warning alarms had been going off. Do you realize what you’re doing? You’re fucking Cameron Brice. The Cameron Brice. The man you’re trying to bring down!
But I kept ignoring them. I’d been lost to reason for much too long. I’d gone into this trying to bring him down, and maybe I still would, but not here. Not like this. A new desire had taken over in the confines of this club, one that overshadowed the FBI. I needed his body, now. I needed what he was doing to me.
What we were doing together.
He wrapped his hands around my ass, drawing me down harder, lifting his hips off the couch to meet me as I smashed down onto him. I screamed out, chasing a release, which I found again and again as our bodies continually met in an explosion of heat and desire. I felt his fingers lace behind me, tightening and then he pulled me down in a crash, his whole body pulsating as he came into me. He growled as he did, holding me there, breathing hard.
“God. Fucking. Damn,” he finally said.
I didn’t know what to say. Reason was beginning to dribble in, and the first thing that occurred to me was that Cameron Brice, a man well-known throughout the wide state of Pennsylvania for having a giant stick up his ass, had just given me what was by far the most erotic sexual experience of my life.
I laid my forehead on his shoulder, gripping his bare, sweat-dampened chest, coming down, my breathing slowly returning to normal. When I finally pulled off of him, lying on the sofa beside him, I swallowed. My sexual needs satisfied, other needs began to crowd in. The need for a career, for a life outside of this club.
It was then I felt the total enormity of what I’d done.
And started second-guessing myself.
If I didn’t have the FBI, what did I have? I couldn’t go back to folding sweaters at New York & Company. But that’s exactly where I’d be if I told Owen I couldn’t find any dirt on our golden boy. Owen would be asking me for a full report soon, and would I really be able to turn over those pictures I’d taken?
I looked over at Cameron, who had fixed the mask back over his face again and was quietly meditating in a post-coital stupor. I looked down at the clamps on me, feeling foolish and cheap, and started to take them off.
“Do you…” I started, not sure where I was headed. Something inside was desperately clawing at me, wanting this to be more than sex, wanting a connection with him that didn’t involve our sexual organs. “Have you used all of the sex toys on the table?”
He didn’t speak for a moment, but his masked faced moved to study me. “Are you curious about them… or me?”
I blushed fiercely, afraid to admit the truth: that I could care less if I saw another sex toy in my lifetime, but Cameron? He was still sitting beside me, and already I felt the loss of him deep inside, like a huge dagger through my center.
Why? I berated myself, reminding myself again that this wasn’t a relationship. It was just wild sex. I was sure he didn’t use sex toys with his hoity-toity girlfriend. His relationship with her was probably all romance and champagne, sweetly whispered words of endearment, and promises of forever. Families like his married a certain pedigree, to keep the royal lines strong. He could have no relationship with me, a retail stooge with a worthless criminal justice degree. I would lose him, eventually. That was a certainty. Not that he was ever mine to lose. I should have so easily been able to cut my losses, chalk this up to good, kinky sex, which was all it was. Then I could hand those pictures over and claim my prize.
But it wasn’t that simple.
I didn’t have to say a word. The answer to his question was in my blush. I’d only been with him twice, and already, it was all about him. He had the power again, and my heart in his hands.
At first, he didn’t react. He just reclined on the sofa, quietly watching me. The more he did, the more exposed I felt.
As if sensing my worry, Cameron’s hand left his lap, landing on my thigh. He took my hand and squeezed it in such a sweet way, it made butterflies alight in my chest. It was the smallest, most innocent gesture of acknowledgment.
And yet it meant everything. I instantly felt better.
No. Cameron was an asshole, with a misguided view of the world. He had outdated beliefs and could be totally full of himself. But he had weaknesses, like any man. I couldn’t fault him for coming to a club like this. If I’d been raised with maids and nannies, being told what I had to study in school and who I had to marry, I’d probably want to escape too. There was a soft side hiding beneath the politician’s polished exterior, and I’d been one of few who’d seen it.
A new knowledge hit me. Without a doubt, I would never hand those pictures over, so long as I lived.
I would just have to find another way to bring him down.
“Hey,” he finally said, checking his watch when I made a move to find my clothes on the floor. He sprang up straight and cursed under his breath. “Holy shit, it’s almost five in the morning.”
“Do you have somewhere to be?” I asked as I looked around for my shoes.
“A meeting with—” He stopped. I looked at him. He was standing there, frozen, holding the condom on his dick. Then he carefully pulled it off, threw it in the trash, and slowly started to zip up his pants, tucking in his shirt. “A meeting.”
It was easy to see the slipup. He’d forgotten that he was Apollo and had almost spilled to me a detail about his life as Cam
eron Brice. I wondered how much longer this charade could go on. If it would go on, which… I had to admit, I desperately wanted. As much as I cursed myself for this feeling, I already wanted him inside me again, not five minutes after our separation. It was too good. Too perfect.
“On a Saturday? Oh, well.” I tried for a blasé tone as I pulled my camisole down and scuffed into my ballet flats. “Have fun.”
I grabbed my bag and started to walk to the door. I took baby-steps, hoping that he would stop me.
He did. He grabbed my arm, pulling me toward him. I stared back into his Guy Fawkes mask as he grabbed my hand, stretching it flat. He pooled the chain and clamps into it. “Keep these. Wear them when you’re not with me. I want you to think of me.”
“I will.” I closed my fist around it. Honestly, I doubted I’d think of much else.
“And I need to see you again. Here. As soon as you can.”
It was more of a command, but one he didn’t need to make. I knew I couldn’t keep following him here and fucking him. It was pointless, and only getting in the way of my real aim. But as an addict, I couldn’t gather the resolve to say no.
One more time.
Just one more time, and then I’d stop fucking him, and fuck him over instead.
“Next Friday,” I said, the word breathless and raw. “Midnight.”
CHAPTER TEN
Cameron
Cassandra.
Her name was like a part of my heartbeat, something I couldn’t forget for a moment.
The following Sunday, I attended church services with my parents as usual, outside of the city. It was less about worship and more about projecting a certain image. Afterwards, we retired to their sprawling mansion in Solebury. I usually didn’t mind the trip because it gave me a chance to stretch my ’67 Mustang convertible’s legs over the sparsely traveled backcountry roads of Bucks County. But that afternoon, as I loosened my tie after services, I hit eighty as I traversed the rolling landscape and farms, feeling restless and impatient, my thoughts consumed by just one woman.
A woman whose whole face I hadn’t even seen.
It already felt like a lifetime since I left the club at six that Saturday morning. Just over thirty hours, and I’d been able to think of nothing but the way she’d looked, that innocent but sexy prophetess, doing my bidding. She’d worn those clamps without question, obeying me. And god, it was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced, her, impaled on my cock, grinding into me. I’d never felt a more sublime place than inside her. She’d been tight, and sweet, and I’d be hard-pressed to ever find that anywhere else. I ached to be in that utopia again. How could I possibly make it until Friday?
Then I pulled into the horseshoe driveway, and an already long week suddenly stretched longer.
Bernadette’s father’s familiar black BMW was parked in front of the door, taking up too much space, the way Ellery Dryden usually did. He owned the biggest coffee business in the States, with likely the most miserable employees, because for Dryden, it was always more, bigger, better. The blowhard demanded it, at the expense of everyone else. Unable to pull around him since he’d parked in the very center of the driveway, I coasted to a stop behind his New York license plate, cursing to myself.
Blindsided again. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
I threw open the door just as my parents were removing their coats and handing them to their maid. “Oh, Cameron, dear, look who turned up,” my mother said, as if it was a great surprise. As if she hadn’t fucking orchestrated this whole thing.
Bernadette beamed at me, expecting a happiness I couldn’t bring myself to display. Dammit, I couldn’t even pretend, that’s how annoyed I was. I shifted my gaze to her father.
Bernadette’s father was shaped like a series of stout rectangles. I could see clear over the top of his bald head. His voice was low and gravelly as he shook my hand. “Hello, boy. Good move, taking that tough stance on the Hunter’s Hill Development.”
I opened my tight lips, and the bruise on my temple stung as I recalled the people who hadn’t thought it such a good move. “Hello. Thank you, sir.”
My mother guided them to the parlor, where she usually took guests. We had twenty other rooms that were suitable for entertaining, but my mother preferred this one because it had the fullest bar. Bernadette laced her arm through mine as we headed in there, and I saw the ensuing hours so clearly. We were destined to engage in hours of mind-numbing conversation while my mother imbibed too many cocktails. Then, still more excruciatingly dull conversation, this time at the dinner table over a dry roast beef.
I looked over at the woman my parents wanted me to marry as we stepped through the double doors. She was wearing a clean white suit, and as usual, not a hair was out of place. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
The disappointment was evident on her face. “You could at least pretend to be happy.”
“I’m happy to see you.” Deliriously. When she glared like she didn’t believe me, I patted her hand. “Very. It was just a surprise. A delightful one.”
My mother started on her first Bellini, as my father and Dryden discussed some new priceless bauble over the fireplace my father had secured from their latest trip to China.
Bernadette’s glare deepened, and she whispered accusingly, “Why you didn’t call about that early dinner?”
Dinner. Fuck. I had said I’d make reservations, and then we’d go back to her house and...
I winced. “Sorry. It’s been a hectic week.”
She crossed her arms as the maid came with cocktails for us. I took a Bellini off the tray and handed it to her before taking a sip of my own. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “Maybe we can get some time alone this week?”
I swallowed, thinking of the way she’d come on to me at her place. How was it that all the moves she’d tried to make on me felt so wrong, and yet when I imagined Cassandra doing the same thing, I only wanted more? “I don’t know, Bern. This week’s tight.”
What was it? It was like I didn’t want to cheat on Cassandra, whose real name I didn’t even know, with the woman most people — including the tabloids and my parents — would call my girlfriend.
She pursed her lips.
During dinner, she sat next to me, carrying on a conversation with my father. The Dryden family was staunchly conservative and had contributed substantially to my campaign. Ellery did not mince words and made no bones about his hate for liberals. With no one on the other side of the political spectrum to temper the conversation, he and my father held no restraint whatsoever. It started with illegal immigration, traveled to international relations, and then the topic turned to women’s rights. Bernadette nodded right along when her father pronounced that, “Women should keep their damn mouths shut and accept what they’re made for — popping out babies.”
My jaw clenched, and my hands tightened into fists as my father laughed along with it. I looked at my mother, who didn’t look perturbed in the least.
“Men should run the world, women merely decorate it,” he said, as I leaned over and took another gulp of my wine.
By the third insult and my third glass of wine, I was in a sour mood, ready to pick a fight. I looked over at Bernadette. “So let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you have any opinion on abortion?”
She nodded. “I’m pro-life. You know that.”
I did. But I got the feeling she was merely saying that because that’s what everyone she’d ever held in her company said. “Why?”
She looked confused. “Why… what do you mean, darling?”
I shrugged. “I just want to know what brought you to the opinion.”
She looked over at her father. “Well, I think killing babies is wrong.”
“And if the pregnancy endangers the mother’s life…?”
She opened her mouth, for once at a loss for words while my father barged in. “We all know that that represents a small percentage of the cases we’re referring to,” he said dismissively. Then he looked
at me, his eyes narrowing. “What’s your point, Cameron?”
I showed him my teeth. “Just that nothing is black-and-white. Contested issues are and have been hotly contested over the years simply because there are no clear answers. Each side has a valid point and we need to listen to and respect each other.”
“And a liberal’s valid point is?” Dryden asked with a disbelieving laugh.
“Simply, that a woman should have a say in what to do with her own body. But here’s what I think… there has to be another, better option. We can send people to the moon, yet we can’t figure out how to eliminate the need for abortion by providing health focused, inexpensive options that prevent it to every person, man and woman, who wants it.”
Dryden snorted. My father planted both hands on the sides of the table’s head and gave me a look that said, You dare defend liberals in front of your biggest campaign contributor?
But I didn’t fucking care. As much as I didn’t think it right to tell women what to do with their bodies, I was still a proud conservative because that’s where the majority of my political beliefs leaned. But in no way would I ever think liberals’ views didn’t count. They were there to temper our own. Bernadette, though? She leaned whichever way the wind blew, and right now, she was leaning with her father. If she were ever my wife, she’d lean with me, and never have a real opinion of her own.
As if sensing this, for the rest of the long hours I spent in her company, she was decidedly icy to me. Of course, she was the perfect guest, complimenting my mother on the décor and the moistness of the beef, regaling us with charming stories of her childhood, affecting the woman that any politician would be glad to have on his arm. But she’d shut me down completely, giving me one-word answers and barely looking my way during dinner. I almost felt bad about it. I probably would have felt bad about it, if not for Cassandra.
Cassandra. The last part of dinner, pleasantly buzzed from my third glass of wine, I’d imagined the way she’d rocked back and forth on me, her tits bouncing, making those little moans of pleasure. I imagined the way I’d kissed her, tasting her, wanting to be a part of her. It was such an overpowering feeling that I was glad the brocade tablecloth hid the stiffening of my cock.
