Her Claim: Legally Bound Book 2

by Rebecca Grace Allen

  Shit. He’d been expecting as much, but still. Those two had been together since they were in college.

  Jack steepled his fingers together, tapping them once against his mouth. “Do you think there’s somebody else?”

  “Nah, I don’t think it’s that. It’s—” Brady shrugged his enormous shoulders, still bulky from B.U. football. “She seems annoyed at everything I do. We barely talk, unless it’s about the girls. And I can’t remember the last time we had sex.”

  Heavy stuff, but fixable. Patrick tried to lighten the mood. “Maybe you need to shake things up. The two of us can certainly help you with ideas.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it’s weird. And gross.”

  “It’s not gross,” Patrick insisted. “Think of it as getting advice from your elders. There’s little I haven’t done, and if it’s getting smacked around that Sam might be into, your brother’s the authority on that.”

  Jack tensed. Brady’s head lifted in openmouthed aversion.

  “You’re the authority on what?”

  Oh. Crap.

  In his attempt at helping, Patrick had forgotten Brady’s lack of knowledge on his big brother’s proclivity toward dominance. Jack’s jaw was stiff as he met Brady’s gaze.

  “Lilly and I engage in BDSM play. She’s my submissive,” he said. “So was Eve.”

  Brady’s brow was so furrowed Patrick worried the lines would remain permanently etched. “Hey, buddy. You look far too shocked. Haven’t you ever heard of—”

  Brady held up a hand.

  “The movies. The books. I know. Sam has them.” His face contorted as he looked at Jack, like he wasn’t sure who his brother was. “You’re a Dominant?”

  Jack’s hands remained steepled. “I am.”

  Brady rapidly pushed his seat back. “I need some air.” He made his way toward the exit. Jack sighed heavily.

  “Hey man, I’m sorry,” Patrick began, but Jack cut him off.

  “Don’t be. It was bound to happen. Didn’t think he’d react like that though.” He shook his head. “You go talk to him. Clearly he doesn’t want to speak to me right now.”

  Yeah, somebody needed to go out after the kid. And Patrick owed it to them to fix this, as best he could anyway.

  “All right. Order some nachos or something. Maybe food will help get him back inside.”

  When Patrick had pushed the pub’s door open, he found Brady leaning against the building, facing an empty Fenway stadium. The air was crisp enough to be uncomfortable if the sun weren’t so bright. Patrick stepped into the sunshine.

  “You want to talk about what happened in there?”

  Brady’s jaw worked. “I didn’t know about Jack. It shouldn’t bother me.”

  “But it does because…?”

  “Because I’m not like Jack. I’m…the opposite.”

  “The opposite?”

  Brady’s cheeks burned brighter than the Sox flags fluttering in the breeze above them.

  Oh. Oh. “As in, you’d rather be the one getting smacked around.”

  He nodded and hung his head. “If being Dominant is what Sam wants from me, if that’s the only way I can keep her—” He choked back a sob. The kid’s anguish was palpable. “It used to work between us. It used to be good. You don’t know what it’s like, to be in love with someone, for it to be so damn perfect, and then to feel totally helpless as it crumbles in front of you.”

  Oh no, Patrick knew what it was like. To wake up one morning and discover that the life you’d planned on living had vanished while you slept. “I’m sure this will come as a surprise, but I do know how you feel.”

  “You?” Brady asked. “When have you ever been in love?”

  Patrick squinted at the sunlight. The gold beams reminded him of the shoulder-baring peasant blouses Sofía used to wear. He recalled every detail about her, from the way she smelled to the deep brown of her eyes. So different from American girls, she had an air of mystery to her, and captured his heart instantly. He’d captured hers, or so he thought, and what they shared together was pure magic.

  Then that magic ended, nearly destroying him.

  “A long time ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Nope. Not going there. “It didn’t work out. But it doesn’t mean that’s the way it’s going to go with you and Sam.”

  “Maybe,” Brady said quietly.

  “Have you tried talking to her? Telling her how you feel? Or—” How did he phrase this? “—the things you want in bed?”

  Brady responded with a grim shake of his head. “I can’t.”

  Patrick was no king at expressing his emotions either. And he couldn’t imagine admitting something like that to your wife. Brady took a deep breath, and Patrick had a feeling the kid was done with their little heart-to-heart.

  So was he, to be honest.

  “I’m gonna go back in.” Brady pushed off the wall. “I need to apologize to Jack.”

  Patrick retrieved his phone and pretended he’d received an important message. “You go. I’ve gotta read this. I’ll be there in a second.”

  Once Brady was gone, Patrick pocketed his phone and leaned against the building. Staring at the yellowed leaves on the ground and branches in front of him, he willed away thoughts of the woman who’d broken his heart. He tried to keep them out, because whatever hasty stitches he’d managed to fasten across his heart got ripped open at the memories. Two decades had passed. He should’ve recovered by now. Should’ve been able to move on and fall in love again.

  He hadn’t. In fact, he’d made a point of avoiding connecting with anyone at all.

  The fear that he’d started connecting with Cassie crossed his mind, but no. What they were doing was different. Sure he wanted to get to know her, but there was no romance involved. Just an enormous amount of sex, and with a woman who was as adamant about not getting attached as he was. She’d come up with a foolproof stipulation to make sure that didn’t happen. If either of them started having feelings, they were out. Game over. Done.

  The wind kicked up, swirling leaves in circles around in the street. Patrick pushed off the wall and went inside.

  13

  Mr. Grant is waiting for you in the conference room, Ms. Allbright.”

  “Great. Thanks, Piper.” Cassie tapped the speakerphone button and gathered her things. Hudson had pushed this meeting with his investors from Monday to Tuesday, which had been fine by her. It had given her more time to prepare. She’d planned to work on her presentation over the weekend, but that was before she’d ended up spending half of it in Patrick’s apartment.

  And the other half thinking about what she wanted to do with him.

  Sunday morning had begun with another grueling hour on the stair-climber. After a walk home and a shower, she’d set herself up at her desk with her laptop. No matter how hard she’d tried, she couldn’t get herself to concentrate. Her mind kept returning to Patrick.

  He was offering her a blank slate of possibilities, willing to fulfill every sexual fantasy she had. All she had to do was tell him about them.

  Easier said than done.

  Some things wouldn’t be a problem to bring up. Anal was definitely on her list now, and the idea of being gagged was something she’d thought about since they’d mentioned it that night at the bar. She liked the idea of him tormenting her again—of having her orgasm held off to the point of desperation—and the feeling of being objectified. Body slapping. Name calling, things she’d never allow outside the bedroom. But those were tame cravings. Easier things to say. The rest were a bit harder.

  A lot harder.

  She’d told Patrick the sad truth about her dating history, but she’d only skimmed the surface. Yes, she had a tendency to be argumentative. She got easily frustrated, but whenever a fight popped up, her exes ended things instead of doing what she wanted, which was to fight back. She wanted a man to prove himself—to show that as tough as she was, he could be to
ugher. Because what turned her on the most was the idea of being physically controlled by someone she couldn’t fight off.

  Of course she’d never voiced her fantasy to anyone, and she had no idea where this dark, taboo fantasy had come from. But it had always been there, as far back as she could remember. When she was a teenager, she’d lock herself in the bathroom because it was the only place she could get some fucking privacy, and imagine resisting the hold of some faceless, nameless male. Her hand between her legs in the shower, she’d picture powerlessly clawing at him to stop, the pleasure mounting the more she fought back. In her head, he’d whisper threatening things, telling her he was going to fuck her whether she liked it or not.

  She’d liked it. So much it frightened and disgusted her.

  The throat-grabbing hadn’t become a thing for her until college with the boyfriend she’d lost her virginity to. He’d said he wanted to grip her neck while he fucked her, and while he hadn’t done more than put his hand there, it had been an a-ha! moment for her. One when she realized other people were into some fucked-up shit too.

  So she’d done some research, deciding that knowledge was power and if she was going to want to do things, she might as well know what they were called. Breath play was the closest she could come to naming that one. She didn’t want to be choked, but there was something about being grabbed that way that she enjoyed. Something that made her feel overpowered and controlled.

  Her other fantasy had a name she hadn’t expected. It was apparently called consensual non-consent—a mutual agreement to act as if permission had been waived.

  It had been a relief to know this was actually a thing, and it didn’t mean she wanted to be raped. That, she would never allow. But she’d never understood her desire for a taste of reckless thrills, so she’d shut them down, avoiding them in self-loathing and shame. She was a woman, a lawyer who demanded nothing less than respect. Not to mention she was half Latina. Spaniards conquered indigenous women in the Caribbean and South America. They had sex slaves. And as recently as last year, Cuban women had been lured to Miami on promises of jobs, then were forced into prostitution. How could she want to be treated like an object when her maternal gente had been forced into it? When women of all races and backgrounds had?

  She shouldn’t want it, but at her core, she did. She hungered for things that were risky and dangerous.

  Maybe it would be less dangerous with Patrick.

  She couldn’t imagine trusting anyone with the darkest, most appalling parts of herself, but it seemed more plausible after their conversation on Saturday. His response about relationships was a total non-answer, but she’d let it go, especially after realizing they’d been misinterpreting one another’s behavior for months. If only they’d talked to each other before now, she wouldn’t have spent so much time resenting and snapping at him.

  Then again, they both enjoyed it when she did.

  She smiled to herself at the thought. After all, what had their bickering been a precursor for if not some nasty, name-calling, hair-pulling, fist-around-her-throat, raw hate-sex?

  Her skin started to prickle, body buzzing with the idea of him wrestling her into surrender. Pinning her down until she struggled under his weight and he took what he wanted, fucking her despite her protests, and letting her give in to the thrill, fear and pleasure of her most depraved needs.

  It was the perfect scenario. She was going to explore her fantasies with someone she already knew and she felt safe around, but had zero chance of falling for. Patrick wasn’t going to be the guy she lost her heart to. He was worth millions while she’d had to work for everything she had. They couldn’t be more wrong for each other, so their escape clause was a moot point. No need for a fail-safe when it was just sex, but she’d put it out there anyway, to make sure she’d covered her ass.

  It was the most epic strategy she’d ever devised, like a well-played game of dominoes, or a perfectly laid-out restructuring plan. There was nothing she hadn’t thought of. All she had to do was tell him what she wanted.

  But she had to get through this meeting first.

  Cassie picked up her laptop and Hudson’s file. Making her way down the hall, she stopped quickly in the ladies’ room and was relieved when she got into the stall. She’d had some breakthrough bleeding this weekend, and the last thing she needed right now was cramps. Her periods had been wonky lately, arriving quicker than before and only lasting a few days, but sex could throw a wrench in a woman’s cycle. Thankfully, that time of the month didn’t seem to be hitting yet.

  She left the stall, checked her reflection in the mirror and got ready to kick some legal ass.

  When she reached the conference room, Hudson was pale and sitting in a chair, stupid ponytail and all.

  He looked up at her. “I’m a nervous fucking wreck.”

  “Well, good morning to you too.”

  She settled her things on the table and tried not to be annoyed. Hudson needed to be babied, and understanding her client’s needs was part of her job.

  “There’s nothing to be a wreck about,” she said. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “I’m not sure about that. They’re pretty angry.”

  “Your investors?” She had to clarify, because there were a bunch of people angry at Hudson—his authors, editors and all other employees included. He nodded. “Why is that?”

  “Because I haven’t been a hundred percent honest with them. Or you.”

  Cassie stopped moving. “What do you mean?”

  She’d spent the last two days listing Grant Books’ assets and liabilities, where Hudson’s debts were and what his potential future earnings could be. She’d researched his investors, exhausted hours poring over information about the publishing industry and the day-to-day operations of Hudson’s business. She’d covered every detail possible to ensure that his and his investors’ issues were going to be identified and addressed, creating a plan that fucking worked. If Hudson had been keeping things from her, it could turn today’s meeting into a toppling house of cards.

  “I’ve avoided telling them how bad it is. They don’t know I haven’t paid my authors in a few months, and that I haven’t signed on anyone new, or done much in the way of marketing. I’ve been using their money to pay my bills, which I told them about this morning.”

  He’d been robbing Peter to pay Paul. Cassie knew this, but the fact that his investors hadn’t until today didn’t bode well for her plans.

  “And what haven’t you told me?”

  “Nothing more than that. It’s not easy to admit how badly you’ve run your company to—”

  She ground her jaw. “To?”

  If he said to a woman, she was dropping his case right the fuck now.

  “To the person who’s supposed to help you fix it.”

  Cassie could barely stand the dissatisfied creases at the corners of Hudson’s mouth. It pained him to talk about it, when he was the one who’d caused all this to happen. He’d chosen not to pay people what he owed them in order to cover his own lavish expenses. Hadn’t anyone taught him how to handle his finances?

  But beyond the tight set of Hudson’s lips, there was a desperation he’d been hiding. It was why he’d kept his investors in the dark. She shouldn’t judge her client. She needed to be on his side, to be sympathetic and patient. And working toward Hudson’s best interests worked toward her own. Stability. Job security. Partner.

  “I am going to help you fix it, but I need you to be completely honest from now on. Understood?”

  She half expected him to respond with some kind of obnoxious comment about her helping him fix problems south of his belt as well, but all Hudson did was nod.

  “Good. Now, when Bruce and Reynash get here, let me do the talking. Whatever I say is going to happen, don’t argue, even if it seems beneath you. If I say we’re extending a contract to a homeless street artist in Trinidad because she’s become an internet sensation and we can make millions off her story, you agree. The goal is a dea
l, and you don’t put your ego in front of it. Are we clear?”

  He bobbed his head again. If felt good, having him subservient. She’d just finished setting things up when his investors walked through the door.

  “Mr. Harrison, Mr. Agarwal.” She reached a hand out for each man to shake. “Thank you for coming. Please have a seat.”

  Bruce Harrison and Reynash Agarwal. Two people Hudson couldn’t afford to have on his bad side. They were entrepreneurs and venture capitalists with a history of threatening litigation. Hudson hadn’t done his homework when calling on them. He’d found them through Princeton’s alumni network, and had used their shared love for their alma mater to hit them up for money. They had a combined wealth fifty times what Hudson had, but these men weren’t your run-of-the-mill investors. They were the have-their-own-yacht-and-jet kind of wealthy. The villa-in-France-and-mansion-in-Mumbai type of rich. When they invested in something, they expected to see a high return of profit, and Cassie needed to make sure Hudson’s mistakes didn’t bite him in the ass.

  Once they’d been seated, she stood in front of them, ready for battle.

  “As you know, we’re here to discuss your current interests in Grant Books.”

  “Current being the key word,” Reynash said with a pointed glare at Hudson.

  “Of course. We’re here to make sure everyone is on board with this restructuring.” Cassie started her presentation and pulled up the first slide. “Step one is to show you that the company is doing everything possible to maximize its value.”

  She took them through her plan, which began with a new clause in their standing agreement with Hudson: clear reporting on what he was doing each month, as opposed to him dodging the phone calls they left with his assistant. Next, she brought up a graph which showed how much they could expect to make from the sale of Hudson’s building, explaining which portion would go back into the business, how much would go to paying off his debts, and what amounts Bruce and Reynash could expect to receive from it. The third step was identifying whose goals mattered—and that wasn’t only the two men sitting on the other side of the table.