Woman Named Red

by Stasia Black

  I lead Kennedy to one of my favorite hiding spots. Before he even knows what’s happening, I’m dragging him into the trees and away from prying eyes. But not too far away.

  His phone clicked off and in the dark, I can’t see his face—but I can feel his excitement. Still, he doesn’t immediately grab me or pull out his cock or any of the number of things other men in his position would do if they were here in his place with me offering up what I am so willingly.

  Instead, Kennedy reaches for me. He finds my hands and pulls me to him, chest to chest. He’s breathing hard and I get the feeling it’s not just from the run.

  “Christ, Scarlet, do you have any clue what you do to me?” He does that thing where he rubs his nose against mine, side by side, and then leans our foreheads together. His fingers intertwine with mine.

  I close my eyes and am glad for the darkness so he can’t see the pain on my face. No. God. I don’t want him to be like this. He’s not supposed to be so kind. So sensitive and just…wonderful. I don’t— I can’t—

  “Scarlet?” he asks, pulling back. “What’s wrong?”

  I open my mouth to say nothing, but it would so obviously be a lie. I’ve played this all a certain way—and that way has been to be as genuine as I can while pulling off the ultimate lie. But everything other than my motives for being here? Every conversation I’ve had with him? All the things about my life and the little I’ve revealed about my past? It’s all true. I decided it would be the least complicated way to go with this, but I think now it was the stupidest thing I ever could have done.

  If I could have treated this like a part I was playing… If I could have retreated into another character, then maybe I wouldn’t— wouldn’t feel—

  “I need something from you tonight,” I finally say, and my voice gives away exactly how conflicted I feel about it.

  His hands come to both sides of my face. “Anything. You know I’d give you anything, Scarlet.”

  I dip my chin to my chest. Anything. He’d give me anything.

  Then I look back up at him. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness but I still can’t make out much of him, just the barest shape of his body. I give up on words and unzip my jacket, then pull off my shirt with its built-in bra.

  A hiss of breath leaves Kennedy and his hands come to cup my breasts, thumbs immediately plucking at my nipples.

  I pull him closer to me by his hips, groaning into him as he continues with my nipples. What he’s doing and what I’m about to do—it’s so wrong, so wrong of me to ask when he doesn’t know why I’m really doing it. And God, if it comes to light… But no, it won’t. And I need this.

  Oooooohhhhh, God, he’s not even touching my clit yet and I swear I’m three seconds from coming.

  I desperately reach in his pocket and find the condom where I knew it would be. I grab it, rip the packet open with my teeth, then shove his jogging shorts down. I have the condom wrapped down his girth in the next moment.

  Kennedy buries his mouth in my neck, kissing and licking. I jolt, and not just because it feels good. It hurts, too. From the bruises. Goddamned Francisco.

  I drag Kennedy down to the ground on top of me, half in a frenzy to get his cock inside me, half in fury at the power Francisco got to exert over me earlier today. At being so powerless.

  We land less than gracefully on the forest floor and all kinds of leaves and sticks poke me in the back.

  “Shit, Scarlet, let me lay out my shirt for you.”

  “I don’t care.” I try to pull him on top of me, but he grabs his shirt, lifts me up and places it down before laying me back down.

  I just shake my head at him. “Stop it.” My voice comes out almost venomous. I think it takes both of us by surprise.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to be fucked by a gentleman tonight.” I grab his arm and jerk him down so that he’s on top of me. He gives in and settles his weight on me. I reach down between us, grab his cock and position him at my entrance, sliding him just the littlest bit inside.

  I put my forehead to his. “I need to be fucked hard tonight. Can you do that?”

  We’re close enough that I can tell that he gulps before nodding. He seems shocked by my language. I haven’t cursed often in front of him. I’ve always felt like bad words should only be pulled out when you’re feeling a lot or want to express something extreme. Tonight qualifies.

  “Then fuck me like a goddamned fucking animal.”

  His breathing picks up and both of his elbows brace on either side of my head. He doesn’t hem and haw or ask five hundred times if I’m sure.

  He just thrusts his cock into me and oh God, yes. I draw my legs up and then wrap them around his back. I pull my own pelvis back and then do my best to jam hard back onto him.

  He growls low and then lurches back before ramming in again. My back jerks against the ground and God, yes, yes, yes. Sometimes you just need to be fucked.

  Even though he’s vigorous, he’s still not giving it to me as hard as I want it. I need it all or nothing.

  “Do you know how to fuck or not?” I bark. “I want that cock jammed so hard up inside me I’ll never feel anyone else there. Can you fucking do that or not? Do I need to go find someone else who will?”

  That does it. He starts jack-hammering into me and clutching me so close, I can taste the sweat that drips off his forehead.

  “You will never find someone else,” he breathes into my mouth before devouring my lips. He wraps his arms around my back and up underneath my shoulder blades, clutching me closer than I’ve ever been held in my life. “This body is fucking mine. And I’ll fuck you until my cock fucking brands you on the inside if that’s what it takes for you to realize it.” He pulls out and he jams his cock back in so hot and hard, our groins cement together. With every stroke, he drags across my clit and it feels—

  Fuck. Fuck.

  “Yes,” I cry. “Yes.”

  One orgasm rips through me and I grip his body to mine, sweat pouring from both of us so that it takes extra effort to hold onto him, we’re both becoming so slippery.

  But it was an unsatisfactory peak. I can feel more, something higher. I need it and I know what I need to get it.

  I need what’s wrong. What’s so wrong.

  I grab one of Kennedy’s arms and unwind it from my back. Then I position his hand at my throat.

  “No.” He tries to pull away. “Scarlet.”

  “I need it,” I beg. “You said anything. You promised. I need it. I need it so hard.”

  “Shit,” he swears. But he gives it to me.

  He’s tentative. Of course he is. His fingers apply the barest pressure. Tears slip out of my eyes at his gentleness.

  “Harder,” I command. I get the slightest increase of pressure. I start slamming my pelvis against his with even more fury. “Do you want me to come? This is what I need,” I hiss. “Are you going to give me what I need? Harder!”

  And God bless him, he applies just that much more pressure. I can still breathe. I’ve never had anyone do this to me before in this context—for pleasure—but I imagine even they do it harder, enough so that breathing is difficult.

  But the fact that Kennedy’s willing to go against his nature—and that I’m taking back what that bastard did to me this afternoon. And just, it’s so wrong and oooooooooooooohhh, oh shit, right there.

  “I’m coming,” I breathe out, tears pouring out of my eyes. “It’s so good.”

  And it is. It hits, so high and pure and just—

  Kennedy starts pumping into me that much harder and oh fuck, I just keep riding the wave and rubbing up against him as he fucks me and oh shit, it just keeps going. I swivel my pelvis and press my neck up against his handhold and push and push and oh God, oh fuck, I think I’m coming again, or like, it’s just one long high, and oh my God, I’ve never felt anything like this before—

  A high-pitched whine comes out of my mouth as I continue fucking and grinding that spot against Kennedy. He’s st
illed his movements, his whole body strained but I just keep rutting against him, riding out the third wave and oh God, there’s the crest.

  “So,” I pant, “beautiful.”

  I squeeze Kennedy’s body with everything I’m worth. Holding him to me with my legs, my arms, the inner walls of my sex, everything. I want to give him everything.

  And never ever let him go.

  Which sends a cold rush of reality slamming like a bucket of ice-water over every good and wonderful feeling I just experienced.

  Oh my God.

  What am I doing?

  Not only is there an expiration date on my time with Kennedy, but if I do this like I’ve planned, I’ll tear this man apart.

  Not just his life.

  Kennedy himself.

  I bury my face in his chest and listen to his pounding heartbeat. Because I’m starting to think it just might rip me in pieces, too.

  Chapter 13

  I manage to keep it together all week by pulling back some from Kennedy. He starts going back out to work and I mark the days by spending long hours in the kitchen on the most difficult recipes I can think of. I cook a complicated veal and spinach roll in bolognese sauce on Sunday.

  Monday I make my nonna’s famous Napolitano pizza recipe from scratch, including the dough. She was from Naples—the birthplace of pizza—as she constantly reminded us. She was appalled that Americans took pizza for granted as their favorite delivery food without ever stopping to remember or honor its origins, Well, her grandchildren would not be so ungrateful! We would know the history of every Italian dish served at Bianchi’s.

  Nonna was an amazing woman. Enzo was terrified of her but I was just old enough to appreciate her as she stormed around the kitchens shouting orders. Dad liked to pretend he was in charge, but it was Nonna that ran the kitchen at Bianchi’s.

  All growing up, I heard about how Nonna’s cooking saved the restaurant when she moved here from Italy after World War II and married Grandpa Anatolio. She brought all her recipes with her, just what the struggling restaurant needed after great-grandpa lost three sons in the war. Grandpa Anatolio was said to have lost his spirit in the war and only regained it when he married Nonna. She saved the restaurant.

  All that history was only one more reason Dad had been so determined to do the same—save the restaurant. He also wanted the legacy for me and Enzo.

  I shake my head as I pack salt into the fresh cod I bought from Fisherman’s Wharf earlier today. I’m making baccalà. This one Dad taught me. It’s just dried and salted cod, but there’s something about the whole process that’s soothing. Walking over to the wharf. Buying the fish, coming back home and salting it and then storing it in the fridge. Tomorrow I’ll bring it out, rinse off the excess salt, then wrap it in cheesecloth and set it out to dry.

  I think of Dad’s hands performing the same actions. How Nonna taught him and he had taught me. How I learned everything at either his knee or Nonna’s. She died when I was nine and then it was me and Dad. Enzo stayed with a neighbor in the afternoons while I helped out in the kitchen.

  “All this will be yours one day,” Dad would say, smiling no matter how tired he was. “The Bianchi legacy has stood for seventy-nine years. I’m just a caretaker for now, but it’s you and Enzo who will keep it alive.”

  But we never even had a chance and Dad was devastated by what he considered his life’s failure of letting not only me and Enzo down, but also Nonna and all the generations who had gone before.

  Because Kennedy Benson stole our family legacy out from under us.

  * * *

  On Friday, Kennedy and I pull up in front of a palatial mansion in Silicon Valley.

  “We’re here. You awake, Scarlet?” Kennedy’s voice is gentle. As is his hand on my knee when he touches me.

  “Mmm?” I move slowly like I’m just waking up.

  Yes, I pretended to nap on the hour-long drive down here. Am I proud of it? No. But then am I proud of anything I’m doing lately?

  God, I don’t know anymore. I was so sure of my path when I started this. And now?

  I put a hand to my forehead. I have a headache from all the stupid thinking I’ve been doing the whole drive. Hell, all week. Kennedy’s the bad guy. Right? Then why do I feel so freaking conflicted about this?

  I’m tired of the constant war in my head.

  “You feeling all right?” Kennedy’s concerned voice only makes it worse.

  I wish I was back in my kitchen. Flour, dough, pasta, olive oil, basil, tomatoes, garlic—

  “Scarlet,” Kennedy cuts off my mental listing of ingredients, “if you’re not feeling good, we can go back home. It’s not a big deal, I’ll just reschedule.”

  “Stop.” I cover his hand with mine and look up into his eyes. Why does there have to be such concern there? Why couldn’t he have just been the asshole I expected him to be? That would have been more difficult in some ways but far, far easier in others.

  On impulse, I undo my seatbelt and lean over the gearshift between us to hug him. “You’re a good man, aren’t you?” I whisper in his ear as I hold him tight. My arms can’t close over his large, muscled frame. He’s so strong. So solid.

  It’s not fair. None of this is fair.

  He laughs as he wraps me up in those muscled arms of his. “I don’t know.” I hear the honesty in his voice. “I’m trying to be.” He squeezes me tight. “I’m trying to be,” he repeats.

  God, enough of this. Torturing myself by his closeness. His scent.

  I hurry out of the car and Kennedy has to jog to catch up to me.

  He rings the doorbell and after a moment, a tall, extremely broad-chested man opens the door with his arm around the waist of a petite blond.

  “Welcome, come on in,” says the giant of a man, smiling. “Hi, I’m Jackson but everyone calls me Vale. And this beautiful lady is my fiancée, Callie.” If I thought his face was soft before, it’s nothing compared to the way he transforms when he looks at the woman at his side. He looks positively gushy, like a big, soft teddy bear when he gazes at her.

  She laughs and holds her hand out to me.

  Their happiness is infectious and I can’t help a wide smile of my own. “I’m Scarlet, nice to meet you.” I shake her hand. I had no idea what to expect at this meeting, but I imagined people a lot more stuffy and proper.

  “Come on in,” Callie echoes her fiancé, waving us in. “Feel free to take your shoes off or leave them on, whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

  We step into the house. There’s no foyer, it just immediately opens into a large, open floorplan with lots of light. In the far corner is the kitchen, separated only by a counter that cuts it off from the main room. The whole space is decorated in deep reds and ivories, with sumptuous leather couches and hardwood floors.

  As I’m looking at the floor, my eyes track over and see that Callie’s wearing what look like a very comfortable pair of fuzzy blue lounge socks in spite of the fact that she has a lovely black cocktail dress on. She follows my gaze.

  “Whoops,” she laughs. “I meant to change those. My feet just got so cold earlier.”

  I wave my hands. “Don’t bother on our account.” I lean in. “To be honest, these shoes are pretty, but they’re killing me. Keep the socks on and I won’t feel so funny about going around without them.” I slip off the pumps that were pinching my toes and set them beside the door.

  Callie smiles big. “You want a pair of socks? The hardwood’s lovely, but it can get so cold.”

  I put a hand to my chest. “Would you? I hear it’s the newest fashion rage. I’m so embarrassed to have forgotten mine at home.”

  She laughs, a deep-chested laugh that’s not fake at all. I really like this woman. I can already tell she’s my kind of people.

  “Speaking of fashion, that scarf is so adorable.” She points at the bright purple mini-scarf I have tied around my neck. Unconsciously I lift a hand to make sure it’s secure in place.

  “Thanks,” I say, pro
bably too brightly. No need for her or anyone else, especially Kennedy, to know that the scarf is completely a practical measure to cover the bruises Francisco gave me last week. They’re getting better every day. But the greenish-yellow marks in the shape of a handprint on the front of my neck can’t be explained away as anything other than what they are. Choke marks.

  So I’m more than glad when Callie drops it at that.

  “I’ll be right back with those socks.” She winks at me, then puts a hand on her fiancé’s arm. “Hon, can you get our guests some refreshments?”

  Vale’s been watching her with quiet amusement during this whole exchange. He nods while she jogs off down through the large open room toward a hallway.

  “As the future wife demands,” Vale holds out an arm to a small bar set against one wall. “What’s your poison?”

  We get our drinks and Kennedy, Vale, and I chat. Soon Callie’s back with the socks—fleece pink ones that make my feet feel so good, it’s like I’m walking on clouds. We meander over toward one side of the room and leave the men talking on the other.

  Callie sips from her glass of champagne. “So how long have you and Kennedy been together?”

  “Oh.” I blush. I should have thought through how to answer questions about us. What is Kennedy telling Vale? That thought makes my cheeks go even hotter. “A little while. I mean, we’re not even really together together. We’re just…”

  I glance over at Kennedy. He looks so at ease standing beside Vale. They’re both striking men, but Kennedy’s inky black hair and strong eyebrows and…just his whole demeanor of gorgeous, dark and dangerous. Damn, it just does it for me.

  He glances over at me and our gazes catch. I swear, it goes straight to my sex. Just one look from him and I’m freakin’ wet and squirming in my stockings. He looks back to Vale and nods at something he says.

  Oh crap. I blink out of my Kennedy-induced haze and look back to Callie. “What was I saying? Oh, yeah.” I shake my head, trying to get my thoughts back on track. “I, uh, fell on some rough times and he’s letting me stay with him. Just till I’m back on my feet,” I hurry to add.