Need you Now (Top Shelf Romance Book 2)

by Laurelin Paige

  Before he could say anything in response, I spun right back around to continue my advance to the road.

  But this time Donovan caught me, wrapping both arms around me from behind. I struggled with determination, elbowing him sharply.

  “Jesus Christ, Sabrina,” he exclaimed, tightening his grasp. “Stop!”

  I wrestled for another several seconds then surrendered, hating myself for giving in so easily. But I was no match for his strength, and the longer he held me the more I loved the feel of his firm arms, and the way he pressed his body tight along my back, pressing his head next to mine.

  “What?” I asked, broken. “What do you have to say?”

  He exhaled, his breath warming my neck, his mouth right at my ear. “You distract me,” he said quietly, honestly. “If I spend any time around you, I can’t focus for days. You sent that picture of your pretty little cunt, and I couldn’t even look at my phone all week without getting hard. I avoided you because it was the only way I knew how to deal with you.”

  I closed my eyes and let his words sink in, let them settle in between the facts I already had and the things I’d decided must be true and the things I wished were true and the things he’d said were true before, but I couldn’t get them to make a pattern that made sense.

  I couldn’t get these words to mean what I was pretty sure he was saying and still exist with what he’d said in the past.

  And these were the words I wanted him to mean. More than I’d realized.

  Afraid to make the wrong move, afraid to guess wrong, I told him, “I don’t know what you’re telling me right now.”

  “I’m telling you to come home with me.”

  Chapter 27

  Donovan’s car was parked with the hotel valet. It wasn’t the car that his driver normally drove me in. Instead it was a silver Tesla. I couldn’t say definitively since I’d always sat in the back of the Jag, but I was pretty sure this was the most sophisticated and modern car I’d ever been in, and watching Donovan handle it expertly through the city streets was captivating and stunning.

  We rode in silence, the energy between us electric and barbed, making it painful to sit in. My breasts ached. My pussy throbbed. My skin wanted to touch and be touched, my body wanted to be fucked and roughed up and bruised and bumped around.

  I still had anger in me. And pain. They were strong emotions that heightened my arousal, and they needed an outlet. Donovan had wordlessly promised to provide one when he’d invited me home with him, and the anticipation grew exponentially every second that passed.

  As we headed toward Midtown, the anxiousness drove my brain into overthinking mode. I wondered about trivial things, like did he only have a chauffeur for the women he didn’t want to deal with or did he sometimes use those services himself? And where did he keep his cars?

  There were so many things I didn’t know about Donovan Kincaid. So many things I wanted to know and yet didn’t need to know. And if I knew them, would I lose the attraction? Knowledge banished fear. If I understood him, would I lose the fear that drew me to him in the first place?

  I already knew the answer, and it was almost as frightening to face as the question.

  Because in between the banal thoughts, others wove in, more vague in form and heavier in weight. Thoughts like how the things I felt sitting next to this man right now were wider and deeper than lust and desire. They didn’t stop at what we’d already shared—the dirty sex, the filthy fantasies. They moved further into other realms. He’d looked out for me at the office. He’d worried about me in a dark alley alone. He’d come for me tonight—I was sure of it even though he hadn’t said so outright. I cared that he’d come for me. I cared that he’d worried. If he suddenly didn’t, I’d hurt.

  Donovan Kincaid had the power to hurt me.

  And not just with his hands or the rough way he treated my body—those possible ways had always fascinated me. But he could also hurt me by not caring, could cut me so much deeper. Could scar me so much more permanently. I realized that now. And that was terrifying.

  So I was still scared. He still scared me. Now he just scared me for different reasons.

  Eventually, we pulled off in front of a luxury building in Upper Midtown called the Baccarat. I hadn’t been there before, but it seemed to be a hotel. A small thread of disappointment entered the weave of emotions inside me. I’d gotten the impression that Donovan was taking me to his home, that we were moving toward something more intimate between us.

  But that hadn’t been exactly what he’d said.

  It was already happening. I was already opening myself up to be hurt by assuming that we were becoming something other than what he’d so adamantly stated we were.

  I was too vulnerable.

  Panic started to twist and braid in my chest.

  We left the car with the valet, and as we walked through the elegant, crystal-adorned lobby, he took my hand in his. I stared at our fingers interlaced, suddenly aware of how thick the air felt in my lungs and how my heart sounded as loud as my heels on the marbled floor. After a nod at the doorman, we got in the elevator. The doors had closed, and we were on our way up before I realized we hadn’t actually checked in.

  The car stopped at the fifty-sixth floor, and Donovan led me to the suite doors almost immediately across from the elevator. He dropped my hand to retrieve a key card from his wallet and let me in.

  As soon as I crossed the threshold and he turned on the lights, I realized I’d been wrong about the hotel situation.

  “You live here?” I asked as he helped me with my coat. I didn’t let him answer before heading toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the other side of the open space behind him. It was a luxury residence, not a hotel room. The main space was white and large with a huge fireplace, furnished sparsely with modern sofas and a conversation area. The floor was dark wood covered with rich-toned rugs.

  But the highlight was the view. Even in the dark, I could tell that the windows framed Central Park in the near distance.

  The place was both elegant and masculine, and though I would have expected Donovan to have more black in his color scheme, I knew it was his house before he responded.

  He responded anyway. “Yes. I live here.”

  He lived here. These were his windows, his sofas. This was his view. This was his fireplace.

  I studied more of the apartment. There was a formal dining room at the opposite end of the main space and the kitchen beyond that. A staircase led to an upper floor where I imagined his bedroom was located. There weren’t any portraits, but a few art pieces decorated the walls. An impressionistic ink painting of pine trees hung above the fireplace. An abstract oil canvas of orange water lilies filled the wall of the dining area.

  The paintings could have been chosen by an interior designer, but neither of the designs were what I’d imagine for a man like Donovan. And there was something about each of them—the stark loneliness of the pine trees, the frankness of the lilies—something about their honesty that made me certain that he’d picked them out himself.

  I shouldn’t know that about him.

  I shouldn’t know something so intimate about a man I was supposed to have just sex with.

  These things exposed him, but they made me feel like the one who was exposed. As if he understood that the more I knew about him, the more I’d feel for him. And the more I felt for him, the more he could use my emotions as his toy.

  My heart started racing. My palms began sweating. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. I needed escape, but I needed him too—with every part of me, I needed him. Needed him to fill me and fuck me and bend me and break me, and, oh god, it was going to hurt when he did.

  I needed to run.

  I spun around and found him standing behind me, watching as I scrutinized his quarters. He’d taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. His eyes narrowed and glistened, pinned on me like I was a rabbit through a riflescope. As though he could read every minute thought racing through my mind. As thou
gh he knew I wanted to escape. But every crease on his face said he was determined that he wouldn’t let me.

  He took a slow step in my direction.

  I took a cautious step away.

  Another step from him. Not really a step even, more like a prowl.

  I kicked off my heels, ready to take off. A quick scan of my surroundings said I wouldn’t get far without him catching me, which didn’t matter. I wanted him to catch me. Just…I couldn’t stand still anymore, couldn’t stand frozen in his trap while the panic and the fear and the lust and desire overwhelmed me. Couldn’t stand there waiting for him to take me. I needed to move.

  So I ran.

  Adrenaline surged through my veins as I took off around the coffee table and slipped past the sofa. He was right behind me as I darted across the open space. There were two routes out of the main room—one that seemed to lead to the kitchen and the other that went up to the second level. I headed toward the stairs.

  He followed practically on my heels as I rounded the corner after the first flight. He lunged for me then, and his hand grabbed my hip sending a thrill through me, and I fell.

  He had me, but I tried to pull away, my fingers clawing at the carpet of the step above me. I couldn’t get a good grip, and his other arm came around my waist, twisting me to my back as he dragged me down two stairs so that he could hold me beneath him.

  “You can’t run from me,” he said cruelly, pinning my hands above my head.

  “Fuck you,” I spat. I didn’t know how I was so certain that he knew this was a game, but I was. Just as I was certain that he knew that part of it was real too.

  “Don’t worry, you will.”

  With one knee bent on the stair next to me, he held my wrists with just one of his hands so that he could start pushing my dress up.

  My pussy throbbed with anticipation. He was so close to touching me there, and it couldn’t come fast enough.

  But this game required that I give it my best fight.

  I wrestled again, just like I had in college when we’d sparred in his office. This time I tried to go down, but he grabbed my hair and yanked so hard I cried out as I fell forcefully back on the stairs.

  Automatically his hand came down to cover my mouth. Clamped over it tightly. Exactly the same way Theo had covered my mouth when he’d tried to rape me.

  The physical recollection of Theo’s attack was so vivid, so close to the surface of my mind, that it was hard to differentiate between Donovan and the memory. My heart raced like I was actually being raped, my throat tightened, but everywhere we touched I was on fire, burning with need and arousal. My panties were soaked. My nipples were painfully erect.

  Donovan stilled, and I worried that he’d stop. Especially when he lowered his hand from my mouth. I was already preparing all the things to say to get him to go on.

  “How much do you want me to hurt you?” he asked.

  God, I almost came. He knew. Knew that this was edgy, that this brought up difficult memories, but he knew I still wanted to play.

  “Do you want me to tell you to stop?” I’d never tell him to stop. I was sure I’d take whatever he wanted to give me.

  He lowered himself over me so that I could feel his erection, hot and hard against my pelvis. “I want you to beg me to stop.”

  A shiver ran down my body.

  “Safe word, then.” I’d never used a safe word. Never even thought about safe words. In all my fantasies, they’d never been necessary, and it wasn’t like I’d ever thought I’d play these games for real.

  I knew the concept though. I just needed to pick a word—any word—the first that came to mind, that wouldn’t normally come up in a sexual situation. But, put on the spot, it was weird what things my brain came up with. Maybe it was because the scene brought up so much from the past. Maybe that’s why my mind finally settled on what it did.

  “MADAR,” I said, firmly.

  His jaw flexed, but other than that slight change of expression, he didn’t move.

  “Donovan?”

  He stayed frozen. “Why did you choose that?”

  Of course he didn’t know how the MADAR Foundation had taken away my Harvard scholarship. He might not have even ever heard of the foundation. He’d been born with wealth and privilege and didn’t need the services of such an organization.

  There was no way I was going to explain right now. “It’s a long story. It’s the reason I couldn’t come back to Harvard. It’s a word that means ‘end’ for me.” All that mattered was that I wouldn’t say it without meaning to.

  He continued to look down on me strangely, making no move to continue.

  “Just. Go on.”

  Still he didn’t move, as though he were lost in thought or busy analyzing my safe word choice.

  I wriggled underneath him. “Please, Donovan!”

  Abruptly he was in motion. He clamped his hand back over my mouth, harder and tighter than he did before. “If you can’t talk, you snap.” His tone was cruel and cold now. “Snap now to show me you understand, but as soon as you do, this starts. Got it?”

  I didn’t even hesitate. I just snapped.

  Immediately, he was back where we left off. He pushed his hand up under my dress, reaching up toward my pussy. I gripped my thighs together, trying to deny him access, but he managed to get where he wanted easily enough. Once he had the front panel of my panties in his fist, he twisted hard and pulled, causing the waistband of my thong to cut painfully into my back and then break. He tossed the ruined panties over his shoulder.

  Holy shit.

  It had been so primal and raw to witness, I’d stopped fighting for a moment, awestruck and turned on. But then I started fighting even harder, because as arousing as it was to see his strength, it was also exactly the right amount of frightening.

  I kicked. I bucked. I twisted and scratched. All my squirming only helped him—my dress gathered up around my waist, baring my pussy to him completely. His eyes glinted in the dimly lit stairway, like an animal. Like all he could see was this target, this prize that wasn’t a being or a person at all but just a thing to dominate and fuck.

  And in every way that it was vile and wrong, I loved it. In every way that it meant I was sick and shameful, I embraced it.

  I made one last attempt at escape when he loosened his grip to undo his pants. But I only managed to scoot up one stair before he pounced on me with his entire body. I’d have bruises in the morning, I was sure. Marks I welcomed and longed for. The next time he went to work his zipper down, he was smarter. He put his knee on my chest, pinning me down. It hurt. I couldn’t breathe. I felt lightheaded like I’d pass out.

  As soon as he moved his knee off of me, I sucked in air in desperate gulps. But I didn’t have long to recover. His cock was out now—massive and threatening—and I felt a sudden flash of the fear I sometimes felt in my nightmares, the ones where Donovan didn’t stop my assault, and I was forced to face Theo’s terrible excuse for a dick. Those were the worst dreams. The ones that woke me in a cold sweat. The ones that I had to erase with fantasies of Donovan fucking me and claiming me instead.

  Just like he was about to do now.

  I was so scared and turned on I couldn’t even explain myself anymore.

  “You want this,” Donovan taunted in the same menacing ways Theo had taunted me. He rubbed his crown along the skin at the top of my folds. “Girls like you always want it.”

  I did want it. In all the ways I hadn’t wanted Theo, I wanted Donovan now. Even though I meant to fight him until the very end.

  I hit him. I scratched. I heard my dress tear. I bent my knees and clamped them together, denying him entry to my hole, but he dug his fingers into my knees, pulling them apart. The next time he tried, he wedged his thigh between my legs, and then settled his body in the space he created while he once again gathered my wrists in his hands.

  “Now fucking hold still,” he growled, angry and aroused. With my wrists secure, he used his other hand to notch his c
ock at my hole and then pushed in bluntly.

  I was so wet, so turned on, so high on the enactment of a fantasy I’d had for years, that I came instantly, the intensity of it taking my breath away. He shoved in again as the strength of my orgasm tried to push him out. He continued to thrust with belligerent determination, fighting against my body’s tightening around him.

  As soon as I thought I was done, I came again, my body shuddering as the second climax rippled over me.

  “Jesus Christ,” he swore in awe. He forced himself inside me once more, plunging in deeper and with more aggression than he ever had.

  He worked up a pace that was uneven and unrelenting and too frenzied to call rhythmic. I lay almost completely still, letting him invade me in whatever way he wanted. I was delirious and dazed and already wrecked, but I was still so sensitive and aroused that he brought me to orgasm twice more before he slowed and then stilled, emptying himself into me with a long grunt.

  He fell on top of me with a thud, as though all of his energy had been exhausted. The weight of him felt heavy and welcome, like a thick winter blanket, and in the comfort of that moment I thought that if this had been what had happened that night, if this had been the outcome—if Donovan had tried to rape me, if he’d succeeded—would I have loved it like this? Would that have changed everything about what happened then?

  What did that mean about me? Did it mean I wanted to be raped? I was sure there was a difference. Sure there was a reason why the fantasy wasn’t the same as the reality, but in my euphoric cum-drunk bliss, I couldn’t sort it out in my mind.

  As long as Donovan was lying on top of me, I didn’t feel like I had to. I was satisfied. Protected. I was vulnerable, but only to him.

  But he didn’t stay there long. After a few minutes, he rolled onto his back next to me and lay there staring at the ceiling until he caught his breath.

  “Sabrina?” he asked eventually, turning on his side with a sense of urgency in his energy.