by Ava Claire
I let out a mewl, wanting him to take me before I exploded. It was a low, pleading thing that made his already hardened cock nearly rip his pants and claim me all on its own. But his fingers weren’t done. They moved inside me, exploring my wet, juicy core. My body made sounds that went well with my moans that poured from my open mouth.
My knees twitched, keeping my legs apart and spread at the unnatural angle too much. Just as they buckled, he swept me into his arms, taking me away from the mantle.
I pouted inwardly, almost wishing I was back in front of the fireplace; legs spread wide, moments away from crumbling to the floor. Anything for more of his fingers.
One look at him and I knew I was right where I was supposed to be—and that he had other parts of himself that he wanted to plunge inside me.
He stopped at the couch, releasing me. My hands were still bound, and I peered at him, confused. He forced me to turn back around, pushing me down...and over the arm of the chair.
I knew what was coming—and I just could not help myself.
Right there—dress hanging haphazardly on my body, breathing ragged, ass in the air—I let go.
I convulsed as wave after wave of bliss hit me. I gasped as I came down from the high of my climax, a smile on my lips...until I realized I’d broken the rule.
“Did you enjoy that?” he spat, no smile in his voice. I had a feeling if I were not still draped over the arm of the couch I would see no smile on his face either.
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked. Liar. You meant to push him. You want to be punished.
“Do you enjoy disobeying me?”
I sucked in a breath as he ran his hand up my skirt, cupping my ass.
I knew the correct answer was no, even though I was walking, talking evidence to the contrary. I got a perverse pleasure out of pushing his buttons. I was on the edge of my seat, simultaneously thrilled and terrified at my impending punishment.
My insides clenched hungrily, and I uttered a word that would seal my fate.
“Yes.”
Stunned silence filled the room after my confession. I curved my back, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he had not transported himself from the room. His eyes burned like coals. My gaze dropped to the cock he was gripping tightly, swollen with so much unreleased desire that I saw every bulging vein in beautiful clarity.
“Turn back around,” he growled.
I whipped back around, gripping the chair excitedly. He came up behind me, spreading my ass cheeks savagely. Every fold of me was on display, ripe for the taking...but he hovered at the entrance.
One of his hands held me steady. He knew me well; knew that I would be tempted to thrust my body backward and pull him inside. But his hold was ironclad. He was reminding me who was in charge.
I felt the curved end of the head of his cock drawing up and down my slit; so close but so far away. From the way his grip had trembled every few seconds before he regained control of himself, I knew the wait was as difficult for him as it was for me.
“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” he said hoarsely.
The word ‘fuck’ made my body clench, so wet that I was soaked down to my bones.
“Yes,” I groaned. I wanted him to drive into me; flesh slapping, so much pleasure shooting all over us that everything else faded to black. I wanted to forget about anything that lied outside of this room. I wanted him to pound me into the cushion; make me forget that the world outside was a different one for me—and I did not know if I belonged.
The hand around my waist, holding me still, relaxed its binding position and joined the other at my hips. One hand on each side. The perfect position for thrusting inside me with reckless abandon.
I held my breath, ready for him to rob me of all the air in my lungs; give me physical pain to dull the emotional pain in my heart. But there was no punch of motion as he claimed me. No slice of discomfort melting into pleasure as he beat a furious rhythm inside of me.
He entered me slowly, forcing me to feel every second that ticked by, every inch of him that filled me wholly and completely. He turned sex into poetry. The words were our moans. The slap of our skin.
I lost myself in his strokes, and I saw how crazy I had been. His body said the words I needed to hear; that he loved me, even when I pushed him away. The fingers that dug into my hips illustrated trust. I had to trust that even when I thought I knew what I needed, he knew me better than I knew myself.
“Come with me Leila,” he whispered. Soft as a kiss. Eternal.
It started at the center of me and roared over my body. It was as if I had been waiting for those words all my life. Every pore in me was in sync with his, so wild and free, that tears came to my eyes.
I was still panting, hanging over the edge of the chair when he released my hands. When I turned around to face my lover, a smile rippled across his lips.
“How,” I huffed, chest rising and falling. “How did you know—”
“That you needed me to make love to you?” he finished. He roped an arm around my waist, bringing my body back to his. “It’s my job to know, Leila. As your Dominant—and as the man that loves you. I know you, Leila. And I’ll take care of you.”
Chapter Seven
I stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed soundlessly behind me. I planted my feet firmly on the hardwood floor. I had felt like a ballerina for the past thirty minutes; skating across the floor on my tiptoes. Moving with long, lean strides as I gathered my things, making as little noise as possible so I would not wake Jacob.
Today was the day when I would make good on a promise I made to myself. He took such good care of me; both in and out of the bedroom. I did not have a villa to whisk him away to nor any advice on how to ignore the paparazzi and live his life. Not that he needed any pointers, since he did a fine job of carpe diem-ing, whether the cameras were flashing or not.
But breakfast in bed? That I could do. I intended to whip up some edible eggs and hopefully, unburnt toast. If all else failed and I ended up burning said eggs and the toast, I could give him all the love that burst from my heart.
I exited the bedroom, rolling the tight muscles in my neck. And maybe some bacon? And there's the oranges from the—
I froze on the top stair, the faint murmur of cabinets opening and closing gluing my bare feet to the floor. Apprehension tightened my chest.
Isabella.
I had not seen her since our last run-in. All the house staff came back last week, and I had expected we would have another showdown. She minced no words, and it was no secret that she could not stand me. But since I had been wrapped up in the press and Jacob, I had pushed the threat of confrontation to the back of my mind. More things moving around in the kitchen made the threat claw its way to the forefront. My stomach knotted, making me rethink this whole breakfast in bed thing.
No, I thought indignantly. If you're going to be a part of Jacob's life, you can't slink away. You're not a guest. You're his girlfriend.
I raised my chin and brought my hands to the elastic on top of my head, tightening my ponytail. I scrubbed a hand over my face and continued the descent. The silence of every other room magnified the sounds billowing from the kitchen. The water running in the sink was like Niagara Falls, the jingle of silverware and plates like cymbals banging together. The humming was like—
I frowned.
The humming?
The cold-as-ice woman I met did not seem like the humming type. In fact, I would be willing to bet she was one of those weirdos that claim that did not like music. Or happiness.
Count it as a blessing. If she's humming, maybe she's in a good mood.
A blur of movement passed in front of the doorway, the humming growing in volume. The song seemed very familiar. My forehead scrunched as I tried to figure out why. A smile spread across my face when the fresh faced country-pop singer's name flashed in my head. The lyrics told a story about princes and princesses, Romeo and Juliet. Young love.
She was humming a Ta
ylor Swift song.
I breezed into the kitchen, ready to bury the hatchet, because anyone that hummed “Love Story” could not be all bad.
My smile faltered when I did not find the statuesque Italian woman towering over the sink, but a petite, young woman with a dirty blonde fishtail braid trailing to her waist. A scarlet colored apron, black tunic, and black leggings hung on her thin frame. Leather combat boots dashed up her legs, stopping at the knee.
She stopped humming, picking up on the fact that she was not alone. She slowly faced me. She had sharp, hawk-like features, but her sky colored eyes softened as she sized me up. A nervous smile pulled her lips into a friendly hello.
When I did not say anything, she blushed red, eyes dropping to the floor. “Was I too loud? I'm sorry if I woke you—”
“No,” I said quickly, returning the smile as I held out my hand. “You must be Blanka.”
Her smile returned instantly as she shook my hand. “That is me. And you’re Leila Montgomery.”
I frowned, dropping my hand back to my side gingerly. I guess it was better than being known as a guest, but it still surprised me that she knew my full name.
“Jacob told you about me?”
She let out a giggle, scooping her side swept bang behind her ear. “No. You’re a celebrity.”
“A celebrity?” I repeated, shaking my head. “Jacob’s the celebrity. If I’m a celebrity, it’s purely by association...” I trailed off when she moved past me. Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when she turned to the cart beside the fridge.
She picked up her cell and swiped a finger across the screen, illuminating it, then holding it up for me to see.
I felt sick all over again. Front and center was a picture of me standing in the living room of Jacob’s villa, moments before I snapped the blinds shut. Beneath the picture in big, block letters was, “Who is Leila Montgomery?”
“I recognized the shutters,” Blanka said brightly, her face beaming with pride. “Well, that and Mr. Whitmore’s name.”
She looked back and forth between her screen and my face, probably comparing and contrasting the nearly identical deer-in-headlights expression. After she had completed the analysis, she reached out, touching one of my stray chocolate brown tendrils.
“Your hair is curlier in person.” She pondered that fact for a moment, her smile unwavering. “I like it!”
I let out a weak chuckle and a half-hearted thank you, looking past her to the spread on the island. I needed to change the subject before I started hyperventilating. The countertop was lined with glass mixing bowls filled with assortments of food: flour, eggs, and a kaleidoscope of berries. “This is quite impressive.”
“Mr. Whitmore requested breakfast in bed,” she explained.
I sighed, deflated. “I guess great minds think alike.”
She cocked her head to the side, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. “You were going to make breakfast?”
I nodded ruefully. “I really wanted to do something special and surprise him.”
Her whole demeanor changed as she backed up, hands out in a gesture of submission. “I’m sorry, I just do what he says..”
“Oh, I’m not upset,” I said, trying to calm her fears. My efforts were obviously ineffective because she looked ready to drop to her knees and beg for my forgiveness. My heart went out to her when I saw the genuine fear that drained all color from her face. “Blanka, really, it’s fine.”
She did not look wholly convinced. “I really need this job. I’m a student and my mother back home doesn’t work, so I send her part of my check.” She dropped her chin to her chest. Her breathing was elevated, nearly giving me heart palpitations.
I put both hands on her shoulders. “It’s really all right. I promise.”
She peered at me skeptically, like she was sure this was some trick. The worry that darkened her previously cheery features made me feel guilty, even though I knew that her fear was rooted in experiences that had nothing to do with me. What guests had Jacob brought here that bullied this poor girl? Had they threatened her job? Jacob could not have believed any of the made-up offenses. Anyone that had a conversation with Blanka, or even looked at the Taylor Swift-humming girl could clearly she meant no harm.
I gestured at the ingredients in front of me, trying to alleviate the suffocating tension that hung in the air. “Why don’t I give you a hand with this?”
She went even paler. “But Isa—”
“I won’t take no for an answer. And I won’t steal your thunder.” I said lightly. I stepped around her to the sink and washed and dried my hands, turning my attention back to breakfast. “I’m about 99.9% sure you can make better eggs than me, but I’m pretty good at following instructions.”
A smile danced in her eyes, but she was still hesitant. “That really isn’t necessary, Miss Montgomery.”
“Call me Leila,” I corrected gently. To prove I was serious about helping, I opened the egg carton. “Are we scrambling or doing one of those folding egg thingies?”
“Folding egg thingies?” Her hesitation melted into confusion as she repeated it to herself, and I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. “You mean an omelet?”
“Oh yeah,” I nodded, like it was coming back to me. “One of those.”
“I think you better listen to my instructions very carefully,” she giggled. “If Francois found out that someone was cooking in his kitchen that called an omelet a folding egg thingy he’d probably lose it.” She pointed at the eggs, then the milk, and salt and pepper. “Can you whisk eight eggs in the glass bowl with one cup of milk and a pinch of salt and pepper?”
“I sure can!” I cracked the eggs, miraculously keeping the shell fragments out of the egg mixture, then poured in the milk. I reached for the salt and pepper. “So you’re a student? What are you studying?”
She sprinkled flour over the counter. “Fashion.”
“Milan, here you come?” I said with a smile.
She stole a glance at me, like she almost thought I was poking fun, but when she saw I was being genuine, the bright and bubbly girl I met returned. “New York too. It’s my dream to see the world then go back home and open a boutique.” She paused for a moment, then gathered up the ball of dough and dropped it on the floured surface, kneading it with strong thrusts that surprised me given her slight frame. “My mother was an artist, but her work never left the walls of our living room. I won’t let that happen to me.”
I had only just met her, but there was something powerfully genuine about her. I had a feeling that she had the drive and talent to make every dream come true.
“Someday, celebrities will be clamoring to wear Blanka.” Her eyes shot to me then she flattened the ball of dough into a disc. “Maybe someday you would wear my dresses?”
I had not seen a single sketch, but I knew if her dresses were anything like her personality, I would shine the brightest in the room. “I’d love to! Honestly, I’m not sure how much capital Leila Montgomery wearing your clothing will bring. A month from now, I’m sure no one will remember my name.”
She grabbed a pizza cutter and sliced the flat disc into equal sections. “You might not be first page news, but you are like Cinderella. No one will forget that the billionaire fell in love with someone so—”
“Ordinary?” I offered, trying to disguise my hurt with a tight smile.
“Independent,” she corrected, moving the slices of dough to a baking sheet. “You’re not known because you were in a movie or because of what family you are from. People will remember you because in every stolen picture, when you don’t notice the photogs and it’s just you and Jacob, you look at him like you could care less about any of the fame or money. You look like a woman in love.” She slid the sheet in the oven. “With people famous for being famous and so many fake relationships for publicity’s sake that makes you worth remembering. You’re real—and anyone with two eyes can see that you and Jacob are real.” She wiped the flour on her apron. “And anyone that
says anything negative is just stupid.”
Her words made pride bloom in my chest, and tears rose in my throat. I knew she was young, but her words were as deep and resounding as anything my grandmother ever said when I went to her, finally opening up about the bullying I endured as a kid.
“Don’t listen to a single word, you hear? I won’t patronize you by saying they’re jealous, or that words don’t hurt, Leila. I will tell you that you’ve got a light inside you that won’t go out unless you let them put it out.”
I opened my mouth to tell Blanka just how sweet her words were, but a croak came out when I looked to the left and realized we were not alone.
Isabella stood in the doorway, dark eyes burning like lasers. I was surprised Blanka and I did not burst into flames.
Isabella’s hair was slicked into a tight bun on top of her head, making her cheekbones as intense as her bottomless eyes. Her button down, black shirt was tailored and professional, tucked into ebony colored wide leg trousers. Stiletto heels clicked on the floor as she sauntered toward us.
She looks like she’s going to a funeral. I gulped. Our funeral.
“What is going on here?” Her eyes swept across the counter and froze on us.
My jaw twitched when I realized it was not us. She was zeroed in on Blanka.
The sunniness that beamed from Blanka dimmed, turning her into a ghost of her former self.
She was terrified of Isabella.
“Uh,” Blanka stammered, her voice low and nervous. “I was j-just—”
“Speak up, girl,” Isabella snarled, nostrils flaring. “And look at me when you address me. I’m not a speck on the floor.”
I stepped forward, anger of my own making silence impossible. “You don’t have to talk to her like—”
“I’m her boss?” Isabella cut in, still not looking at me. Burning holes into Blanka’s face. “I am her boss. Aren’t I, Blanka?”
“Yes ma’am,” Blanka said quietly.
She was disappearing into herself, and it made me want to save her; tell Isabella to get off her high horse before I knocked her from it. An uncomfortable truth kept me quiet. While I had no idea that Isabella was in charge of Blanka, I knew that Jacob was in charge of the house—and the last time I tried to take on Isabella, Jacob reminded me that she was in charge of what went on in the house. End of story.
