Her Claim: Legally Bound Book 2

by Rebecca Grace Allen

  It was the kind of question he’d ask when seducing a woman, pretending he cared about her answer. Except this time, he did.

  “I suppose. I like the ‘saving the day’ aspect of it. You feel like a superhero when you can fix something that’s gone completely wrong. But I got into it because my grandfather told me when I was a kid that I was going to change the world. That he was counting on me to do it. He meant a lot to me, and I knew pursuing law would make him proud.”

  She got a faraway look in her eyes, and she looked up at the sky. For a moment she seemed…softer. Younger.

  “Is he still around?”

  “No, he passed when I was sixteen.”

  Patrick didn’t know what to say. He’d never known his own grandparents, and had little experience with grief. Reid had put a nice roof over Patrick’s head, and Patrick wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him, but other than acknowledging that he certainly hadn’t mourned his father.

  So all he said was, “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” She took a breath. “What about you? How’d you get into the sales end of publishing?”

  Patrick covered his grimace with a cough as another sponsor walked by. He couldn’t let everyone here see the disdain he had for the job he’d been strong-armed into. “I just…fell into it.”

  “You don’t fall into being an Executive Vice President.”

  He should’ve known she wouldn’t stop there. “You’re correct, counselor. But it’s a long story.”

  Cassie stopped at a vendor’s booth. Books were spread across his table, foreign ones with their native language texts on one side of the page, the English translation on the opposite. It was done by a small local press, and was the kind of thing he’d like to acquire, but the board would never sign on. It simply wouldn’t be considered lucrative enough.

  “A long story,” Cassie repeated, touching the delicate texts. “Did your parents read to you when you were a kid? Did you have some kind of huge old-school letterpress where you wrote your papers?”

  His parents reading to him? That was a joke. “No giant typewriters in my house, no.”

  “Did you get into it for a love of reading?”

  “Is this a cross-examination?” Clearly she wasn’t backing down, so he went with a shortened version of the truth. “I got into it because it was the job I needed to take. I actually don’t read much.”

  She threw him one of her looks of sarcastic disdain. “You run a publishing house, but you don’t read?”

  “It’s not my job to read. It’s my job to make money.”

  “Is that what matters to you? Money?”

  “It’s what matters when you’re in charge of sales at a huge corporation which bears your name.”

  “You don’t enjoy being The Great and Powerful Oz of Dunham and Strauss?”

  Of course he didn’t. And he wasn’t great and powerful at all. But it made sense that she’d see him that way. His whole life was smoke and mirrors—everything an act, a show. Even his apartment was one more trick in his magician’s hat, keeping him hidden instead of showing what was behind his curtains.

  “Objection, your honor,” he said with a grin. “Leading.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “What’s your passion, then?”

  “Sex.”

  That allotted him another eye roll. “What? It’s true.” In a life where his whole function was to chase the almighty dollar, sex was the only enjoyment he had. “Speaking of that, what were we saying about you crawling?”

  “Cassie!” Sam’s voice rang out in the crowd. They both turned to see her waving from one of the food trucks.

  Cassie waved back and then flashed Patrick a grin. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

  He did wait—all day while they sampled food and listened to snippets from memoirs, through roundtable discussions on art history and literary criticism, and a read-aloud from a picture book Allegra and Hope loved. He waited until they’d parted ways with their friends and were on their way back to his apartment. By the time they got inside, a vicious hunger had coiled itself inside him, needing to be turned loose.

  He led her to his bedroom and tackled her against the wall. Her grunt was a filthy, satisfying sound.

  “Tell me what you want, Cassie,” he growled against her ear. “Tell me now.”

  She tried to wrench herself away from him, and grinned when she couldn’t. “I don’t actually want to crawl. But there’s something else I want.”

  “What’s that?”

  Her breath rushed out on a shuddery exhale. “I want you to slap me.”

  He held himself still, even as his heart began to pound. “Slap you?”

  She nodded, her arousal clear in the way her body undulated slightly toward his. Patrick felt the ground shift. They were heading into new territory now, moving from rough play to acts of violence. He’d never hit anyone before, nothing more than a playful swat.

  “Where?” he asked, because fuck, there were things he didn’t know. Did she bruise easily? Had she had surgery anywhere he could possibly do damage? How hard did she want to be hit?

  “Breasts, thighs, if you need some suggestions. And don’t be gentle, either.”

  “You want me to do that while I’m touching you, or…?”

  He trailed off, desperately needing her to finish his sentence. Slapping alone wasn’t enough to go on, and he was too turned on to think straight.

  She huffed out an irritated sigh, like she’d been watching a movie and someone’s cell phone had rung. “Yes, while you’re touching me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Something like defiance burned in her eyes. “What, the famous player can’t figure out how to make it hurt so good?” Her eyes sparkled, her chin lifted in a dare. “Come on, Patrick. Don’t tell me you can’t slap me and make me come at the same time.”

  There she went, goading him again, and his palm itched to smack. Lord, this was messed up. Seriously erotic and twisted. But he couldn’t deny the twinge of excitement rippling through him, and there was no way he was shutting down Cassie’s unique form of kinky deviance. He was pretty familiar with her body by now, and this was consensual, after all. If she wanted to push both their boundaries like this, then fuck yeah, he’d do it.

  And somehow try to be incredibly careful in the process.

  Patrick pushed her against the wall, hips grinding against hers. “You know damn well how hard I can make you come. I’ve seen it. Several times. But I’m happy to give you a reminder.”

  Cassie shuddered, a sharp fuck dropping from her lips. The name-calling was a flare going off, a burning blaze that hiked her shoulders up and directed him where to go.

  Patrick grabbed the bottom of her sweater and dragged it forcefully over her head. He went for her bra next, yanking it down. The sight of her exposed breasts spilling out the top of it sent his pulse hammering. He unzipped her jeans and shoved them down to her ankles, then jammed his hand inside her panties. Parting slick folds, he drove in deep.

  “Sopping wet already.” He caught her nipple with his other hand and pinched until she squirmed, then released it and slapped her breast. It was experimental, not terribly hard, but enough to make her skin go pink. Cassie hissed, her teeth clenching as her pussy tightened around his finger.

  Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him. “More.”

  “More? The little bitch wants more?”

  The question tumbled out of him, but it felt right, and Cassie moaned loudly in response. Patrick wasn’t sure if it was the words, the smack, or his finger inside her that made her do it. Regardless, it was a hell of a sight, one he needed to see again. He repeated the motion, a stinging slap to the same spot. He leaned down to suck and bite her nipple, tugging sharply with his teeth and making her skin angrier. Cassie tilted her head back and groaned.

  He struck her other breast, giving that nipple the same cruel treatment. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  He was half provoking her and half
checking in. Not that he couldn’t tell. Her grinding hips was all the proof he needed, but he had to be sure.

  She bared her teeth at him like an animal. “No.”

  “No?” Was she playing? She hadn’t used her safeword, and her skin was still flushed.

  Going on instinct, he curled his fingers upward in faster strokes that once again had her spilling over his palm. She whined and pinched her eyes shut.

  “Do you hear yourself? Hear how wet I’ve made you?” Patrick reveled in her wince. “You can lie all you want. Your body is telling me how much you like it.”

  “Fuck—” He added another finger. She panted. “—you.”

  Patrick worked her harder, just to prove what he could do. She was so wet her panties were drenched. God, he’d never been this hard.

  Cassie tried to wriggle away from him. “No,” she moaned. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t what? Can’t take any more?”

  He smacked her thigh with his other hand. Cassie cried out, her eyes closing as her body started to shake. She was close now, and Patrick wanted inside her so badly he couldn’t stand it.

  “Yeah, you can take it. And I don’t like it when you tell me no. So I don’t think I’m going to listen.”

  This was dangerous ground, words that strayed against consent, but it got her even wetter. And him even harder. Jesus Christ, was he a closeted masochist? The urge had to have been buried inside him, because here he was, fingering her roughly while slapping her until he saw his handprint on her flesh, saying shit he’d never imagined he’d say.

  Mean. He was being mean. And he really. Fucking. Liked it.

  She snarled. “You’ll fucking listen to what I—”

  He slapped her face. “I will not.”

  It had been a smack like all the others, but this one hard against her cheek. Cassie went rigid. Suddenly tipping her hips away, she frowned, blinked and stared at the floor. Patrick froze.

  Shit.

  “Are you okay?”

  She swallowed. Blinked again. “Exit.”

  Without thinking, Patrick pulled his hand from her panties and gathered her in his arms, one hand cradling the base of her neck as the other wrapped solidly around her. They’d never hugged before, not like this, and he doubted the move until Cassie burrowed into him. She held on tightly, chin digging into his shoulder.

  “The face slap?” he asked. “Was that what did it?”

  She nodded and clung to him. “I didn’t like that.”

  Her voice was barely a whisper. He rocked her gently. “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Patrick kissed her cheek. The spot he’d struck was warm. For all that he enjoyed taunting her, that was only with the knowledge that she liked it too. He hated knowing he’d actually hurt her.

  “Do you want to stop? Go home?”

  Please don’t say yes.

  “No. But could I have a glass of water?”

  He nodded quickly and helped her with her clothes, then walked her to the living room couch. He’d have put her in the bed, but he didn’t want her out of his sight. After wrapping her in a throw blanket, he hurried to the kitchen, keeping an eye on her as he filled a glass. He’d been dying to fuck her less than a minute ago, but now sex was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted to do whatever it took to make her laugh. To order her favorite delivery food and turn on a TV show she liked. To not let her leave so he could make sure she was all right, and hold her until the sun rose.

  Those weren’t feelings he was supposed to have.

  Those weren’t feelings he ever had.

  And Patrick didn’t know what to do with those feelings at all.

  16

  Cassie glanced at the time. A quarter to five, and nearly time for her annual review. At least the partners had the decency to hold it on a Friday, so she could have the weekend to collect herself if it didn’t go well.

  It would go well. It had to go well.

  Her phone buzzed with a text. A ridiculously stupid smile spread across her face when she saw it was from Patrick.

  “Good luck,” it read. “Not that you need it. You’re going to do great.”

  Sitting back in her chair, she reread his words several times. It was amazing, how different things were between them now, even more so since last week.

  Everything seemed to be split to a time that existed before The Hug and after it.

  She’d loved play-fighting with him. The arguing revved her up, made her belly tighten and her skin tingle like she was getting ready for a smack-down in court. But she felt a little bad for how things had gone afterward. She hadn’t known what to expect from the slapping, and had started to lose herself to the sensation. The pain made the pleasure sharper somehow. Each stinging blow to her breasts left a ripple behind, hijacking her attention before it returned to the plunges of his fingers. He was getting her to a point she’d craved—bringing the wall down between her body and her mind, releasing her from the life sentence of guilt her fantasies had imprisoned her in.

  And then he’d struck her cheek, and everything had screeched to a halt.

  It hadn’t hurt—not exactly, not physically anyway—but it took her by surprise and she’d had to blink back tears. She’d never stipulated he should avoid her face, because she hadn’t known she’d react that way, but it made something sick roil in her stomach, made her feel foolish and ashamed.

  And Patrick had understood.

  There was no criticism, no irritation. He’d simply stopped what he was doing and held her, even seemed remorseful that she’d gotten upset. And he’d found other ways to chase her pleasure when she’d recovered.

  Cassie typed back a thank you and a smiley emoticon, then put down her phone.

  She still had yet to understand her own desires. Out of the bedroom, she demanded respect, fought hard for it, and refused to be seen as anything less than fierce. In the bedroom, she was the opposite. In her professional life she liked to fight and win, but sexually, she liked to lose.

  Her head felt like a courtroom, with the warring parts of her psyche arguing their cases before her own judge. She could see the caption on the court docket now:

  State of Massachusetts Supreme Court, County of Boston, the Honorable Cassie Allbright presiding. Cassie Allbright, a.k.a. lawyer-with-her-head-on-straight, Plaintiff, against Cassie Allbright, a.k.a. woman-who-likes-to-be-forced, Defendant.

  It didn’t make sense. But she supposed that was part of what she and Patrick were doing—trying things out, seeing what she liked and didn’t, discovering where her limits were. What she needed in order to feel safe, to trust the person she was with.

  Did she trust Patrick?

  She wasn’t sure, but she had started to like him, which was weird. She hadn’t seen him since the weekend—a side effect of her period coming on Monday. But she’d enjoyed spending time with him at the book festival, even if she’d found his attitude toward his career irritating. He headed a publishing house, but didn’t read. He was a businessman who saw dollar signs, whose only passion was sex.

  Not that she was complaining. She was benefitting from that passion at the moment.

  But being in his arms, having him hold her and rock her…that was different, as was how she’d been feeling since. His embrace was a place she wanted to be now, and she had to wonder if that meant she needed to hit the eject button.

  Not now. They weren’t in a danger zone yet. After all, who didn’t like getting hugged when they were upset? And she had more important things to worry about.

  Attempting to distract herself and make the time go faster, she checked her voicemails: one was a reminder about an upcoming event with the Bar Association, another was a request from a former coworker at Legal Aid asking her to take on a rash of pro-bono cases. The third was Hudson’s real estate agent requesting copies of the final paperwork from the sale of his building.

  Jotting down call back numbers for the last two messages, Cassie got
a bit queasy. The former provided assistance to low-income families who had nowhere else to turn. The latter was proof that she was helping a wealthy man stay in business, which she was doing in order to get ahead in her career.

  Sure she was helping his authors, but only inadvertently. It was Hudson the partners wanted her to help, to keep the cash flow coming in.

  How was that changing the world?

  It wasn’t. But she couldn’t do that until she changed her own, i.e., made partner.

  Fighting back the feeling that she was selling her soul, she ignored the message from Legal Aid and called back Hudson’s agent. Assisting Boston’s impoverished could happen down the line. She had to secure a future for herself first.

  By the time she’d finished the call, it was five o’clock.

  Cassie gathered her things, ready to prove how awesome she was. When she reached corner of the building where William Forrester, Elliot Schaeffer and Reginald Pierce’s three big offices were, she was greeted by Pierce’s assistant, Hannaleen.

  “You’re gonna kill it, girl,” Hannaleen said. “I’ve been listening to them talk in there a tick. I’d be gobsmacked if they’re not about to offer you partner, and a massive bonus.”

  Cassie smiled, marveling at the other woman’s way of carrying herself. Half European, half South African, Hannaleen had grown up in London and still spoke in British slang. Her Afrikaans accent was thick too—her a’s sounded like flat e’s, and she hit her consonants like a machine gun. With her toffee skin highlighted by gold eye makeup and her hair wild and curly, Hannaleen was unapologetically herself.

  Unlike Cassie, who kept her mixed-culture background under wraps.

  Hannaleen herself hadn’t believed Cassie was biracial at first. But once Cassie had launched into flawless Spanish in the privacy of the executive kitchen, the other woman was convinced. They were among the few minority employees at the firm, even though Hannaleen wore her heritage more openly than Cassie did.

  Cassie wanted to be like that, sometimes. To not always keep such a tight lid on the brown side of her background. But as much as the firm touted the importance of multiculturalism, Cassie couldn’t forget that every partner was a white male. Her chances of competing were better when she was simply Cassie Allbright, and not Cassandra Flóres Allbright.