Once Upon A

by Charlotte E Hart

“That you wanted to…” She trails off again, shyness creeping over her flawless features as she tries to look anywhere but at me. “That we should…”

  “Fuck? Is that the word you’re looking for?” She nods quietly, trying to push her dress up to cover her perfect breasts. “I didn’t say we should fuck. What did I say?” She frowns and looks around the floor, perhaps searching for an answer. She only needs to roll back a few minutes and recall the actual words that left my lips. I know we should fuck. I’m more than engrossed in fucking her, but I won’t be doing it anytime soon. I don’t fuck anything anymore. It’s an unsafe venture, certainly with something that interests me as much as this one does.

  “That you’d…” She fidgets again, slowly taking hold of her dress and clutching it to her body as she moves over to the bed and looks at the clothes I’ve put out for her. “They’re women’s?” I don’t answer her surprised question as she looks back up at me. I’ve got no intention of discussing why I have women’s clothes here. I wouldn’t have had any fucking intention of bringing a woman here ever again if we hadn’t been twenty yards from the doorstep when Cole crashed fucking the car. Idiot.

  Instead I grab my own clothes from the wardrobe and walk into the bathroom to get dressed, ready to forget any of this has ever happened. She won’t come back to the club. She’s too flighty to actually see this through, regardless of her need for the information. She’s also too pompous in some ways. Constantly looking down her nose at the scene as if it’s dirty or sordid, as she grips her notebooks. Talking haughtily of things she’s knows nothing about. Perhaps she thinks the clubs are dens of heinousness, only propagating filth mongering and dissention from society. I couldn’t fucking care less. She’s wrong. They’re places to be free and believe in your right to exist as you need to. Places of safety, to a degree.

  “Do you bring many women here? Is it a thing your kind do?” she calls.

  Her tone makes me glare at the mirror as I pull up my pants. My fucking kind? Am I a fucking alien all of a sudden? If I wasn’t so preoccupied with my cock continually leaping about at her words, I’d go and show her the back of my kind’s hand. “I mean, presumably you’re all quite loose about who you do it with?” My temper and frustrated tension makes me grab on to the vanity unit, fear of doing something incomprehensible beginning to rile me further. I glare at myself again, taking in sharp breaths to calm my cock’s wayward thoughts. For the first time in over a year, I want to fuck. It wants to fuck. Not the fucking I was tempted by three minutes ago. This is the old sense of fucking, the one I’ve pushed away for so long. It wants to batter something until it bleeds. Ravage it. Lose control in it. Specifically, the little madam who is presently half naked, sitting on my bed and waiting for instruction. I look down at my hands, watching the way they grab incessantly, as if even they know this is the wrong thing to do.

  “I assume you do it a lot, really. I mean, your kind get up to all sorts, don’t you?” It goes silent for a minute or two, giving me room to keep pulling in breaths in the hope I can contain the need to fuck her mouth ‘til that bleeds, too. Why the fuck did I tell her she only had to ask? Why? And fuck, why did she look so good in that pool? No one has looked like that since... “And I’m assuming, as a Dominant, you just do what you want, don’t you? From what I’ve gathered in other literature I’ve read, you’re allowed to put your dicks in anything that moves without consequences. Acceptance or not.” Fuck that.

  I storm into the room, barging the door out of the way to get to her before she utters another word that demeans my community. The vision that hits me halts me in my tracks. Enough so that I grab onto the dresser for support and scowl at her.

  “Take those off,” snarls out of my mouth, not daring to walk another foot.

  “But, you gave them to me?” she questions, glancing over the clothes she wears. She’s right, I did, but I put no store on how seeing her clothes on a woman again would make me feel. I shift my feet, trying not to look at the way her breasts fill the t-shirt perfectly, or the way her legs are hugged by the material, just as hers were.

  “Off.” It’s all I can get out of my mouth. And if this fucking cock wasn’t indulging itself before, it certainly is now, confusing everything tenfold.

  “Blaine?” Why the fuck does her voice sound so good when she breathes her B’s, let alone allows the rest of her mouth to wrap around my name.

  “Fuck you. Take them off.” That isn’t even a logical thing to say. It makes me furious with myself. So furious that I turn and rage from the room, slamming the door behind me and rubbing my head for clarity. Jesus fucking Christ. One of the clubs—that’s what I need, and something in it. Leaving and getting out of this house is the first thing, the house I hardly ever come to.

  I lengthen my strides down the stairs, aiming for the door, hoping fresh air will lesson this madness, then remember I can’t fucking leave Cole alone. “Fuck.”

  No matter how much I want to shout that word out loud, I don’t. I mutter it instead, standing stock-still by the front door and glaring at my shoes for not being on my feet so I can run from the little bitch upstairs.

  “Blaine?” her voice says again, this time from not too far away regardless of my attempt at leaving. I swing my head around, catching a glimpse of her purple striped hair hovering at the top of the stairs as she leans over the banister. “I don’t understand what you want me to do.” Neither do I. For the first fucking time in over a year I feel downright out of control in front of a woman. “Tell me what you want me to do.” The statement isn’t useful. She means about taking the clothes off, I know that, but the connotation of dominance is all over her lips as well, whether she knows it or not. She wants it all taking from her. I could feel it in the way she drifted beneath the water, just waiting for someone to rescue her. Her whole being screams for help from someone. That person is not me. It isn’t. It shouldn’t be. I’m too much for someone like her. Too severe.

  I turn from the door and head for my phone, hoping that simply getting her out of here will be enough to dowse her from my mind. It isn’t, no matter how hard I squeeze the phone, and the need to walk back up those stairs overtakes my judgement. Her startled face gazes at me as I slowly walk the stairs back to her, both feet labouring each pace, neither in control of myself nor caring for the outcome. And her mouth quivers as her hands begins to hold themselves up, her feet backing her away at the same time.

  “Changed your mind?” I ask, a sneer developing on my face as muscles prime for use. She looks behind her, possibly for where to run to. There isn’t anywhere to run. “Push, push, push,” comes from me, musing her continued asking rather than her body begging for a fucking it doesn’t understand. “Here on the floor?” She shakes her head, her feet still moving away. It makes me chuckle and imagine her chained to the radiator as I drag my hand around the last of the banister. I could leave her there to wallow in her temper tantrum maybe, just as Eloise had done once before. Perhaps then she’d know who she was asking for help.

  “I…” I don’t stop my movement as she scans my body, her fingers sliding over her hips nervously as she looks around again. “Blaine?”

  She has no fucking idea what’s hurtling through my mind. The blood—its taste. The sight of it weeping, and the way my cock currently aches to have it on my tongue again. She doesn’t know the pain either, or the nature of its sensation for deliverer or recipient. The thought rallies all those engagements to collide inside me. Dominance. Sadism. Control over something willing to take the brunt of me. The temptation of an innocent overwhelms the indecision inside, almost instantly bringing with it a calm for me to pitch against. I grab at the back of my shirt, pulling it over my head and throwing it to the floor. She watches it go, her hands outstretched again as she continues backing towards the third floor, her feet hitting the first steps. Stupid little brat. I smile again, remembering what’s up there. It’s the last place she should be leading me to. No one knows she’s here. No one even knows that we know each
other, apart from a few at the clubs, and not one of them will say a word. I could just keep her here for a week or so, show her the evolution of a story she could write, quickly. Let her feel the ramifications of cheeking a sadist. Let its effects sit on her skin for a while. Entertain myself.

  “Blaine, I don’t know what’s happening here, but I don’t like that look in your eye,” she whispers, her feet faltering on a step and her ass falling to the floor because of it. Her face shoots up to mine swiftly as she rights herself, her eyes boring into mine filled with exactly the fear I crave. But there’s something else there, too. I don’t know what. Resolve perhaps. Tenacity even. She appears, regardless of her fear, aggressive in her demeanour. It’s the most provoking presentation of honesty I’ve seen for some time, and it somehow snaps my mind from its calm, making me lick my lips and stop the forward momentum.

  “I need you to go,” I grate out, infuriated with the thought as I watch her panting, and yet overcome with the decency I’ve worked so hard to achieve all this time. “Get up, and leave before you have no choice left to make.”

  She has to go. I won’t have her back at the club again. I won’t meet with her again. I certainly won’t engage my cock in its amorous intentions again. She’s a liability, one I won’t put my soul through the pleasure of. Once was enough for my mind to manage; twice is not of use. I can’t do it again, no matter how hard my dick beats for her to be pinned against something and fucked until she screams.

  She slowly gets up, her body sliding between the banister rails and me to get past, not once removing her eyes from mine as she goes. Good girl. Astute. Sensible. Fucking perfect, actually. And still filling me with indecent images and visions. She reeks of come now, the stench of its excruciating taste floating around the air and making me ache to stop her retreat. “Keep going,” I continue, allowing her distance before I follow her descent to the ground floor carefully. When I finally get to her, my hands shoved into my pockets to disable their advance and my eyes landing on anything but her body or eyes, she just hovers by the door.

  “I’ll get you another research partner,” I mutter, still transfixed by the sound of her breathing and the way her scent lights up the hallway, regardless of the fact that I’ve turned from her.

  “I don’t want anyone else,” she replies, slowly manoeuvring her way in front of me. I try to keep my eyes away from her, desperately wanting to keep a safe distance between the two of us to make it easier, but she bats her fucking eyes knowingly. Without thought, I feel my mouth curve upwards at the gesture. She’s such a clever little thing. It isn’t surprising she can write a story so well. She appears to know all the correct tactics for engaging a man’s interest. “I won’t trust anyone else but you. Please, Blaine.” She trusts me? Unwise. It makes me snort cynically and pick up a lock of her hair, barely restraining myself from tasting her lips again as they quietly tremble in front of me.

  “You’ll trust whoever you want, Alana,” I reply, twirling the blonde edges and smirking at the purple highlights as I flick some of them away with a smile. Rebellion at its finest. “You’re the one who needs the information. You’ll ride whatever takes you to it. I’ll find something else to fuck it out of you.” She steps back, frowning at me and snatching the rest of her hair from me as she waves a hand around in my face.

  “You don’t have the right to tell me what to do,” she spits out. I’ve told her nothing as far as I can tell, only that I won’t help her any further and that I’ll find someone else, regardless of my first offering. It’s best for both of us. Practical. And she won’t get hurt—physically or mentally with someone else. Not as long as I find her the right type of partner for her adventure. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Temper, temper. Push, push, push.

  I smirk some more, enjoying the way she practically begs for a firm hand on her ass. I’ve seen all this before, hundreds of times. Watched the beginnings of a frayed woman’s nerves get the better of her as they raise their voices and begin spouting forth diatribes of fury. She does just that as I watch the way her face contorts, removing the splendour of it and replacing it with tension and strain. It makes me tilt my head in thought, intrigued, wondering what would have her wound so tightly. And then she opens the front door, surprising me and lifting her chin as she readies herself to deliver more hostility, no doubt.

  “Your loss,” is all that comes from her mouth, though, her feet backing away from me and turning, a mocking smile trying to break through her frown. “You don’t know what you’re missing. You clearly don’t know how to live.”

  I look straight at her ass as she slips her heels on. I know exactly what I’m missing, and I’m suddenly so enthused with reminding myself that I nearly grab for her belligerent little body and shove something inside it. And then she waggles the fucking thing in my face, cocking her hip and folding her arms as she waits and taps her foot. Brat. “If you’re not man enough to help me then I’ll find someone else on my own.” Man enough? The thought infuriates me again. I feel it rise again so quickly it surprises me further, announcing my need for her more than I’m willing to admit.

  “Good luck.” It’s my best response, and after checking she has her bag in her hands, I close the door behind her. It’s the right choice. The only sensible choice. She’s correct in her analysis of the situation. Someone who has little to no effect on me I’m willing to play with. Guide. Her, I’m not. The door knocks again instantly. I glare at it, wondering why she won’t take the fucking hint, until eventually curiosity gets the better of me so I open it. Stupidly.

  “Well, screw you,” she spits out, grabbing the handle and slamming it in my face again.

  I stand, stunned, and then realise I’m smiling so widely my face begins to hurt. It causes a chuckle to reverberate around my chest, reminding me of a long lost happiness and contentment. I can feel a sense of closeness wrapping around my hands, almost sense her in my hold. Still, I let my feet back away, allowing the wood beneath them to ground some logic into the circumstances regardless of her tantrum until her form disappears and I’m left alone again. The breath that huffs out as I accept her leaving is galling, making me chastise myself for some reason I’m not aware of. Perhaps I’m irritated with my lack of reasoning, or too much of the fucking emotion. My cock isn’t happy about anything in any case, and I find myself staring at it, willing it to shut the fuck up.

  “You’re of no fucking use here,” I mutter at it, wondering why it’s so excitable. “She’s just another woman.” The damn thing disagrees vehemently, swelling further and batting around the inside my pants. “Your taste in women is terrible.” And now I’m smiling again, which is the only workable response to talking to my own cock, and has nothing to do with Alana Williams and her wide, soft mouth that’s in need of filling. She’s gone. It’s done.

  Striding forward I launch myself up the stairs, hoping that half an hour with my brother might induce sentiments of the normal variety. Tedium.

  “Cole?” I ask, rounding the corner into the guest bedroom. “You still alive?”

  “How come you know the girl,” is the response that comes from the bathroom.

  “She’s a researcher.”

  “Of what?”

  “Research.”

  “What sort? ‘Cause I know you’re not doing psychology lessons anymore.” I’m always doing psychology lessons. That’s all this world is anymore. Self-abstinence may have removed the physicality of life, but the mind still remained occasionally engaged.

  “None of your business.” Cole strides back into the room, naked, a toothbrush perched in his mouth as he scrubs and glances him over.

  “Why is your cock on display?” I will the damn thing down again, getting nowhere near making it happen. “Brother, you’re interested,” Cole mumbles around his stuffed mouth as he walks to the dresser and yanks out some of my old clothes. “Why? She’s cute, but nothing special.” She fucking is. She’s beyond special. I cock a brow in response because cute is the least of my co
ncerns where Alana Williams is concerned. Cute I can handle appropriately. She isn’t cute. Cute depicts workable, easy to play around with. From the first time I saw her I knew I should have turned around and walked away. She was just waiting in the restaurant when I arrived, fiddling with her phone and smiling about something. I’d waited by the window for a while, watching the way she moved her hands through her perfect hair and wondering whether they’d wrap around my cock sufficiently. And then I’d noticed the way she snickered, lighting up the room with a devilish grin that defied normal amusement. It wasn’t until I actually took her hand by way of greeting, though, that I noticed her need for more than she knew. She crackled in my grasp, just as she did earlier. Shivering and shuddering. She’d begged me then without even knowing she was doing.

  “You thinking about starting again?” No.

  Although, standing in this room now and thinking about the way her cheeks had blushed in the club, the way her body had quivered at the mere thought of more, and the way her blues eyes had shone with unknown need when she first saw a woman’s ass strapped is tempting rational thought no end.

  “No,” I eventually reply, walking away from the conversation and out onto the landing again to grab my shirt from the floor. “I don’t do that anymore. I teach.” The ending of my statement is muttered with lacking finality to it, regardless of sending her away. I know it, and Cole will certainly know it. It makes me quicken my strides to get away from more interrogation, regardless of the fact that I’m peering out of the window the entire way looking for her. “I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

  The fact I have to have Cole tagging along with me all day is frustrating, but with family comes loyalty, and when Mina had visited last night, checking the pair of them over, she said that he wasn’t to be left alone in case the knock to the temple had done more damage than she could see. I huff as I round into the lounge to get my keys. More damage? The guy is already out of his fucking mind. Driving with no licence. Getting women pregnant with no sense of remorse. Cole Jacobs is a dick—a dick I happen to be related to. One I vowed to protect from the moment the little fucker was born, regardless of the never-ending drama the bastard causes. It doesn’t contain the stupidity that Cole is one of the most eligible twenty-eight-year-old bachelors in the city, or that he has more money than he knows what to do with. Women fawn over him, throwing themselves at him in the hope that he will settle down, produce children, perhaps be the man our parents had wanted him to be. I frown at the thought of my mother, snatching my keys off the coffee table and remembering the look on her face when I’d got my first position. Pride. Being a professor was good for a politician’s son, a worthy cause, one I’d studied long and hard for from a young age. She’d been so proud standing there with my father, the pair of them mingling with society’s finest at the induction of new students for their first semester. If only she’d known what lay beneath my veil of respectability as the students filtered past, all the girls batting their eyelashes at the dashing professor who smiled and nodded at fresh new skin. It was the hardest year of my life, tempting me with anything that moved as I dodged the daily advances for fear of showing my true self. The notes, the apples, the pleas for extra help after hours. She would have been so ashamed, so repulsed at what I really was inside the shroud of pretence. Not that any of it matters now, anyway. They’re both dead and buried, the plane crash still as vivid in my mind as the day I watched it unfold on television. The money in both Cole’s and my bank accounts now is just a reminder of a society I used to live in, one Cole flagrantly abuses, one I deny on all counts because of the wealth they left me.