So I do.
Needless to say, I’m meeting Chad’s parents for dinner tonight.
Chad
Ruby and I are at one of the buildings I’m working on. I’m trying to get some things done so my partner and I can list it. We’ve been here all morning, working away, and I’m surprised at how natural it’s starting to feel with her by my side.
I look over at her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hair in a ponytail, her face scrunched up in concentration. It’s warm today, the air hot, signaling summer is on the way. She has on torn jeans and a tight, black tank top that gives her that rocker, rebel vibe.
She’s nothing like the women I normally date. The last girl I dated was a blonde. She was soft and curvy, with a bright, bubbly personality. A cute little submissive girl, who was compliant, loved shopping and didn’t have a complicated thought in her head. I never would have brought her with me to sit in an abandoned building, and I’d never have introduced her to my family.
Watching Ruby, I can’t figure out why that had remotely interested me.
Her brow furrows and she huffs, drawing my attention to her full breasts. Under the scoop of the neckline, I can see the barest hint of a bruise. A bruise I put there. I’ve never been particularly sadistic, I don’t get off on inflicting pain, but last night—my cock stirs—last night I’d been addicted to marking her pale ivory skin. Ruby hadn’t really been in pain though, she’d moved past that so everything had been pure pleasure.
And what I’d said to her this morning was right, last night had been about possession.
Impossibly, I want her again.
Since we’ve been here Ruby has either helped me, or worked on her computer. When we’d first arrived, I’d put her on the island counter and taken her but that was hours ago. I find I’m impatient to get inside her. I hadn’t realized it before but somewhere along the way sex had grown kind of boring. Even kinky sex hadn’t really captured my attention. My seemingly bottomless lust for Ruby only highlighted how apathetic and lazy I’d grown.
I toss my rag to the counter and walk over to her.
She lifts her head, flushes before beaming at me.
My heart skips a beat. I raise a brow. “What were you just thinking about?”
She bites her full bottom lip. “Nothing.”
My guess is she’s either thinking about getting slapped or fucked in the ass. I’ll be honest, she’s managed to surprise me. Her being submissive I’ve known from the beginning, but I didn’t expect her to be this kind of submissive.
A darkness lurks within Ruby that gets off on doing things she finds shocking. Ruby didn’t like getting her breasts and pussy smacked because she’s a masochist, she liked it because in her mind there was something wrong about liking it. The more twisted she sees the act, the hotter she gets.
That’s her kink.
My challenge will be in taking it slow. Of pushing her enough she loses her mind but doesn’t panic.
Her lashes flutter. “You’re looking at me like you’re plotting.”
I laugh. “Ruby, when it comes to you, I’m always plotting.”
A red flush crawls across her chest. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”
“I beg to differ.” I crouch down and rub a finger over her hard nipple. “I think you love the sound of that.”
She does that little intake of breath that drives me crazy.
At some point we’re going to have to talk about the fact that she’s submissive and learning to accept herself for who she really is will only bring her happiness and freedom. She’s not ready yet, but I see it lurking in her gaze, and I know at some point she’ll have to let it out. Her nature will only stand being repressed for so long. Especially now that I’ve opened the floodgates and she no longer has orgasms to stress over.
I have no idea how it will go when we get there, but I’m guessing not well. From what I understand, Ruby’s mom was a talented violinist that gave up everything the world had to offer to take care of her father’s needs and become a perfect minister’s wife.
In Ruby’s eyes, any hierarchy is oppressive and stifling. I can prove her wrong…but only if she lets me. And that will be entirely up to her.
I glance down at her computer and see she has a graphic program open and the image there catches my eye. I shift, sit down against the wall, next to where she’s sitting and take in the picture on her screen. The background is a gritty smudged black, with words in an intricate font. I peer closer—inside the words is an image of a woman, starkly beautiful and haunting.
I rest my head against the wall. “What are you working on?”
She mimics my posture, pulling her laptop up on her thighs, and swirling the pointer over the screen. “It’s not quite done yet. Do you like it?”
I turn my head to study Ruby. Does she not see how unbelievable it is? Her expression is narrowed, her vision roaming over the screen, looking for flaws. “It’s amazing. Is this for work?”
Ruby works for an ad agency and informed me they are beyond boring. I thought she told me the current campaign she’s working on was for toothpaste. She laughs. “No, it’s for fun.” She shrugs. “A favor for my friend, Gene.”
To my surprise jealousy stabs me right in the chest. I shake my head. What the fuck? My mother raised me better. She always said jealousy was a sign of the weak and I tend to agree with her. In a neutral tone, I ask, “Who’s Gene?”
“A musician friend I sometimes hang out with. He’s the guitarist.”
I grit my teeth. Ruby’s weakness. I not only play zero instruments I border on tone deaf and can’t carry a tune to save my soul. My musical talents are in the negatives. I ignore the craziness in my head and ask, “What’s the favor?”
“Their indie band is putting out their first album and they asked me to design it.” She swirls the pointer over the female image in the words. “She reminds me of their first single but I don’t think I have her quite right.”
“She looks perfect to me.”
She laughs. “Layla says I’m a closet perfectionist, and when it comes to this kind of stuff, I am. I’ll make adjustments probably only I can see until I finally get the sense that it’s right.”
“I get that, I’ll fix code for things nobody notices but me and could technically let slide. But they’ll bug me until I take care of them.”
“Exactly.”
Sometimes these little similarities between us takes me off guard. I raise a brow. “And you do this as a favor?”
“Yeah. I’m happy to get a chance to do something creative for a change.”
“Does favor mean free?”
She shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”
I’m not at all surprised. These fucking guys are getting high-quality, professional work for nothing. “How many hours have you spent on this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe twenty or so?”
I’d bet she’s underestimating. “And you don’t think you should get paid for that?”
“They’re friends. I’m not going to charge them.”
“Ruby, that cover is fucking brilliant.”
“You’re biased.” She waves her hand over the screen. “It’s nothing original. Nothing that hasn’t been done before.”
I narrow my eyes on her. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Insist what you do isn’t valuable.”
She stiffens. “They asked me for a favor and I said yes, it’s not a big deal. I wanted to do it.”
She’s deliberately missing my point. I want to push, but stop myself because I can tell she doesn’t want to hear it. To me it’s an example of her undervaluing herself, of minimizing her talents. I don’t even think she’s aware she does it but I’ve been paying attention. She minimizes any praise, diverting almost immediately if someone calls attention to her.
I take a breath and remind myself to be patient. She’s going through changes and it’s important not to throw too much at her. She doesn�
�t realize this yet but not having her—I’m frigid and can’t have orgasms mantra—as a security blanket to cling to is bound to cause emotional upheaval.
I can’t add to it right now. So I tuck it away for another time and say simply, “They are lucky to have you.”
“Thanks.” Her expression relaxes and she stretches her neck, tilting her head to the side and rolling, before pressing her shoulders back, which thrusts out her breasts. “They’re playing a show the night before the reunion, do you want to go check them out?”
I would certainly like to check out this Gene guy. “That sounds fun.”
“Maybe we could see if everyone wants to go.”
I love that she’s suggesting this, and how she’s including herself in that circle instead of apart. It makes me hopeful. “Should I make the call, or do you want to?”
“I’ll do it.” She frowns and looks down.
“What?”
She clears her throat and pays close attention to her keyboard.
I jostle her shoulder with mine. “Ruby?”
A shrug. “What does this mean?”
I’m lost. “What does what mean?”
“Are we like…what… A couple?”
A smile twitches at my lips. “Are you seeing other people?”
“No!” Her head jerks up and she looks at me, appalled. “Are you?”
I laugh. “No. You’re the only woman I want.”
Her features relax and she licks her lips. “So?”
“Have I not repeatedly told you that you belong to me?”
Another pretty flush across her skin. “During sex.”
I grip her jaw and force her to meet my gaze. Her dark, thick lashes flutter. “You are mine. You belong to me and I do not share. Ever.”
Her breath catches.
I release her jaw and brush my mouth over her lips. “So, yes, we are a couple.”
“Okay.” The word is a rasp.
I tangle my fingers in her hair. “I assume you’re good with that.”
She nods.
“Come over here and we’ll make it official.”
She does, and I sink into her heat and hungry mouth, and forget about doing anything but showing her what her body craves, but her mind’s not ready for.
Ruby
“Layla, oh my god, help me.” I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, as desperation and panic eat away at me.
Layla grins like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
I screech, “Stop laughing! You’re a horrible best friend.”
I called in an emergency girlfriend session, because I have no idea what to wear to dinner with a bunch of doctors, but all she can do is snicker at my distress.
When another giggle spurts forth, I cross my arms over my chest and huff. “You are the worst.”
Layla attempts to affix a serious expression on her face. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her face free of makeup, her hair in a messy bun. Apparently Michael and she’d been cleaning out their closet when I called, and Layla was more than happy to abandon the task and help me. She looks so relaxed.
I used to be relaxed. I want to be relaxed again.
“Okay, how about this?” She holds out a halter dress with an empire waist and pencil skirt. I wear it sometimes when I sing.
I shake my head. “Too sexy.”
We must have gone through all my clothes by now.
“Where are you going again?”
“Harvest.”
“Oh, fancy.”
“Focus, Layla.” I managed to avoid thinking about what I agreed to, until Chad dropped me off an hour ago, and now I’m in a panic.
She laughs again and turns back to my closet. She shifts through items before holding out a nineteen fifties shirtwaist dress. “This isn’t sexy.”
“It was a Halloween costume.” I start pacing around the room. “This is a disaster. Why am I doing this? I don’t like people. I don’t like parents. I need to cancel. This is too much.”
Layla grabs my arm, stilling me, before leaning in and peering into my face. Suddenly she gasps. “Oh my god.”
My heart speeds up. “What?”
“You and Chad. It’s serious.” She releases her grip and points to me. “You care what his parents think.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “I do. I really, really do, Laylay.”
All her amusement fades away and she gets that serious, take-no-prisoners look on her face. “Grab what you need and we’ll head to my house. I have lots of meeting-the-parents dresses to choose from.”
I experience a flood of relief. Then race like mad around my apartment, throwing stuff in my bag, unsure of what I might need.
Layla rolls her eyes. “He should be shot, giving you no notice to prepare.”
I toss makeup into a bag and say absently, “I think he did it on purpose.”
She scoffs. “So typical of them.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I turn my attention to her. “What does that mean?”
She narrows her blue eyes, and shakes her head. “Nothing.” She juts her head toward my door. “Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later we’re standing in Layla’s bedroom, and she’s kicked Michael out of the room. She hands me a tan dress. “Try this one.”
“I hate that.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s pretty, but conservative.”
“I want to look good, but like me, not you.”
She turns back and finds a black dress. A wraparound number, I’ve seen her wear before, she doesn’t have my cleavage though. I frown. “I don’t know.”
“Just try it.”
“Fine.” I put my hands on my waist and go to pull off my top and at the last second, remember what my chest, thighs and hips look like. I freeze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I dart a glance at the bathroom. This is my best friend. We were roommates. Stripping into my bra and underwear is not supposed to be a big deal. I frantically try and come up with an excuse. I can say I have to use the bathroom, but what about the next dress? And the next? Her gaze catches mine and I must look guilty because her expression turns speculative.
She tilts her head. “Did you have sex last night?”
I flush scarlet. I could deny it but she’s already on to me. “Um… Kind of.”
Her brows rise. “Kind of?”
I swallow. I had the best night of my life and I don’t know how to explain it to her. Ironically, she’s the one person who would understand, but I’m not ready to talk. I shrug.
She grins. “How was it?”
I sink down onto her massive bed. I prop my elbows on my knees and drop my head into my open palms. “Mind-blowing.”
I can’t even communicate how mind-blowing.
She laughs. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.” I look up at her. “It was so, so good, Layla. Like better than anything times a thousand.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away.”
“What was I suppose to say?”
She shrugs. “I had mind-blowing sex with Chad last night.”
If only it were that simple. Because while the statement is true, it leaves out so much. “Well, now you know.”
“And now you want to change in the bathroom?” She doesn’t elaborate but I know she understands why.
I just blink at her. A mixture of startled relief and embarrassed shame. But underneath, desire burns as I remember what he did to me. How much I liked it. No matter how wrong it was.
She clears her throat. “Will this dress work?”
It won’t. Layla’s cleavage spilled from the top, mine will overflow it. “Maybe something less low cut.”
She turns back to the closet and starts to rifle through her clothes again and I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s not going to press. She rummages in there for a good five minutes, muttering and making disgusted noises, making me laugh. Finally she emerges with a white dress that still has
the tags on. It’s simple—a capped-sleeved, classic-cut dress that probably hits Layla’s thighs and will come to my knees. It looks like nothing. She hands it to me. “Try this. I didn’t try it on at the store so I’m not sure how it runs but it will look fabulous with your black hair.” She picks up a pair of nude heels at least four inches high, and hands them to me. “These will work.”
“Are you sure? It’s new?”
“I’m sure. It’s not a big deal. I impulse bought it.”
“Thanks.” I don’t argue, even though I’m not sure about the dress. I don’t have high hopes. Without looking at her I go to the bathroom and shut the door, stripping down to my bra and underwear, thankful I had the foresight to wear beige. I see now the dress is made from a stretchy fabric. I put the dress over my head, slip on the shoes and turn to the full-length mirror.
I start a bit at my reflection. The dress scoops low, but not so low you can see the marks on my skin. My breasts strain at the fabric and it fits like a glove. The dress looks custom made for me. I look like a grown up. Sophisticated, somehow. I’m not sure if I love it or I hate it. It’s gorgeous. I feel like an imposter. And every other dress I put on will pale in comparison.
I take a deep breath and step out of the bathroom.
Layla’s expression widens at the sight of me. “Keep the dress, it was clearly meant for you. I’ll never be able to wear it now.”
I shake my head. “God, no! Are you kidding? I’m not taking your clothes.”
“Consider it an early birthday present.”
“I can’t!”
“I don’t think you understand how that dress looks on you. Hang on, I’ll show you.” All the sudden she cranes her neck and yells, “Michael, can you come here?”
I hiss, “What are you doing?”
She waves a hand. “Trust me.”
He pounds down the hall, and when he swings open the door, Layla gestures to me. “Tell her.”
Michael takes one look at me and stops in his tracks. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”
I put my hand on my stomach and shift on the balls of my feet. I clear my throat. “It was an option.”
Layla pokes him in the arm. “Don’t make her doubt the power. Tell her.”
Debauched (Undone Book 3) Page 15
