Debauched (Undone Book 3)

by Jennifer Dawson

  I laugh, and some of my tension abates. “Nope. None at all.”

  We sit down. I put my napkin on my lap, and suddenly it occurs to me wearing a white dress is completely stupid. What if I spill something?

  There’s some chitchat around the table, and a waiter comes over. Chad’s dad orders two bottles of wine—red wine—before everyone settles. I cast a glance to the ceiling. Please dear God, don’t let me get wine on this dress.

  Chad’s mom is very put together and sophisticated, with her sleek chin-length bob the same color as her youngest son’s. Chad shares her blue eyes. She’s wearing a business suit, classically cut, that fits her trim figure like it was made for her. She’s the kind of woman I’d expect to be cold and remote, but when she smiles at me her face is warm and open. “We’re happy you could join us, Ruby. Chad never brings anyone to dinner.”

  I attempt to ignore the flash of pleasure that statement brings me. “Thank you for having me.”

  “Chad tells us you’re a singer?” David Fellows asks, steepling his hands.

  I shake my head. “Hardly. I sing a couple times a week at a place by my apartment. For my regular job I’m a graphic designer at a small ad agency.”

  “Interesting.” He nods, he has the same dark eyes as Cameron and they are quite penetrating. I wonder if he wishes I was a doctor.

  “Our whole family is musically challenged,” Alice says. To my surprise, her expression turns a bit amused and pouty. “I’ve always been jealous of people who can sing. Did you train in the musical arts?”

  I laugh. “No, nothing like that. I discovered my love of singing in the good old-fashioned church choir.” It was the only time I enjoyed the endless hours of church I was forced to attend growing up. The only time I ever felt peaceful under the watchful eye of God.

  Chad’s arm is on the back of my chair and I can feel his eyes on me. The questions there.

  David nods. “A churchgoing girl.”

  I say simply, “My father is a minister.”

  Chad knows this is an uncomfortable subject for me so, of course, he steps in. “Ruby’s family lives in southern Indiana.”

  “Very good,” David says, as though I passed a test.

  I bite my lip. I want to pass their test. It’s something I’ve never cared about. Rocker boys don’t bring home girls to their parents, it ruins their mystique. If you asked me six months ago, I’d swear I wanted no part of this, but here I am, wearing a dress that’s not mine, meeting an employed, conservative, nice guy’s parents. And I care.

  I shoot a sidelong glance in Chad’s direction. The truth dawns on me. Chad’s not actually conservative. That’s the story I keep trying to sell myself in hopes of keeping him at a distance, but it’s not true. I mean, sure on the surface he’s the all-American guy next door I assumed him to be the first time I met him, but he’s nothing like any man I’ve ever met.

  He is both angel and devil. Good and evil. Saint and sinner.

  Alice’s voice rips me from my thoughts. “And why were you late, young man?”

  I tense, and I will my body not to flush. Chad puts his hand on the back of my chair, and his fingers brush over my shoulder. “I had an inspector come late.”

  Alice’s face clears. “Ah, understandable.” She picks up her menu. “What shall we start with this evening?”

  That’s everyone’s cue to pick up their menus. I relax and adjust in my seat, biting my lip at the slick of my skin when I move. I let out a tiny gasp, recover, only to catch Chad’s oldest brother’s gaze. I try not to blush when he winks at me, before saying to Chad, “I do hate when that happens.”

  Chad’s hand skims intimately, suggestively over the curve of my neck. On the surface, it’s an innocent touch, but Cameron’s smirk makes it seem sexual.

  I cross my legs, once again calling attention to my current state. Heat flares through me. Oh god, no.

  Chad’s thumb presses against my pounding pulse and he says in a low voice, “Do you blame me?”

  Cameron’s gaze flickers to my mouth, which now feels impossibly swollen. “No, I don’t.”

  “Some things can’t be helped, as you well know.” Chad’s tone is wicked.

  I grip my menu as my nipples pucker impossibly tight.

  “I do.” Cameron tips his head. “I hope the visit was satisfying.”

  Chad’s still rubbing over my neck in slow, methodical circles. “Very.”

  Cameron meets my eyes again. “Good.”

  What in God’s name is going on? They are deviants. I glance around the table, but none of the rest of the family seems to notice this exchange.

  I shift restlessly in my chair and the press of my thighs rubs against my needy flesh, reminding me all over again of my craziness in the cab. My stomach jumps, heats.

  Chad’s fingers curl around my neck and Cameron’s attention tracks the movement.

  Without saying it, Chad has clearly communicated the exact reason we are late. And Cameron isn’t hiding his appreciation. A month ago this would have horrified me, but because Chad’s done…something to my brain, lust rushes through my body at warp speed.

  He’s corrupted me.

  I give him a little glare, silently ordering him to behave.

  Instead he gives my throat a squeeze, leans over, and whispers in my ear, “He knows I fucked you.”

  I suck in my breath and my gaze flies to Cameron, who’s watching us instead of paying attention to the menu like everyone else. He smiles, and runs his fingers the length of the wineglass.

  I look down at my menu and dig my heel into Chad’s foot under the table.

  He laughs and moves his foot out of reach, but still speaks into my ear. “Every time I put my hands on you under the table you’re going to wonder if he knows what I’m doing. And the answer is, yes, he will.”

  “This is perverse,” I say in a barely audible hiss.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  He’s so…so… Wicked. I scowl and whisper, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You know why.”

  Understanding rushes over me like a freight train and everything seems to click into place. Suddenly, I remember Layla’s words this afternoon, and her true meaning finally sinks in. A million seemingly unrelated threads coalesce and soul-deep knowledge practically explodes through me. It sinks into my bones, makes my heart pound, and my palms sweat. I understand, for perhaps the very first time in my entire life. Chad’s words from this afternoon come back to me, this, right here, is who you really are.

  This isn’t something he’s doing to me at all.

  There’s one reason and one reason only why he’s doing it.

  Because I like it.

  Chad

  We’re riding in the back of a cab from dinner with my family to Brandon’s club and I’m trying to give Ruby some time to process instead of attacking her the way I want to. When I’d teased her in front of Cameron I’d seen something shift in her eyes. It had been written in the widening of her expression, the intake of her breath, the tightening of her muscles under my hands. Only because of our surroundings I hadn’t been able to ask her what it was, and that, combined with the fact that we were at dinner with my parents and I wanted her to be able to form a coherent sentence, I took it easy on her.

  But every time I slid my fingers up her thighs she’d been wet. Very wet.

  Right now she looked out the window, seeming lost in thought.

  I squeezed her knee. “You survived.”

  “I did.” She shifts a little. “Your family is nice.”

  “They are.” I slide my hand up her leg. “When you went to the bathroom my mom gave you a huge seal of approval. They loved you.”

  “I’m glad. I liked them too.”

  “Do you want to talk about whatever is on your mind?” I prompt her. She’s reflective. Not angry or upset, but thoughtful.

  She clears her throat. “Do you think I’m changing for you?”

  Individuality. Lack of conformity is import
ant to Ruby. Having grown up in such a rigid household where there was only one narrow line to follow made an impression. I make it a practice to answer Ruby directly, but I find I want to push a little bit and go with my gut. “Do you think you’re changing for me?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers tighten on her purse.

  She is, the question is if she’s becoming more of who she really is. “Is that a bad thing?”

  Even in the darkness of the car her brow furrows. “It doesn’t feel bad.”

  “Isn’t that the important thing?”

  “I don’t know.” She looks out the window and the lights pass over her face. “My mom gave up everything to be with my dad. She lived in New York when she met him. He was there for a conference and he saw her play. She gave it up to go live in that small town and be his wife. The day I left home for college I swore I’d never go back. Swore I’d never change for a man. But I feel myself changing for you.”

  I contemplate how to handle this, unsure what direction I should take. I’m saved from an immediate answer when the cab pulls up to Brandon’s club. There’s a line down the block. I pay the driver, grab her hand and we climb out, but instead of going to the doorman where our names on the list, I pull her in the opposite direction.

  She frowns. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to finish our conversation before we go in.” We walk a half a block down and I tuck her into an alcove before turning to face her.

  I slide my hand over her neck and run my thumb down the line of her jaw. I tilt my head. “Have you ever asked your mom how she felt about it?”

  Her expression tightens before she shakes her head. “No, I never did.”

  “So you don’t really know how she felt about that time in her life.”

  She shakes her head again. “She’d never admit to making a sacrifice.”

  “That’s what you’re assuming.”

  She lowers her eyes. “True.”

  “You know, I’m changing for you too.” And I realize it’s true. It’s not as drastic, because I know who I am in a way Ruby hasn’t ever given herself the luxury to discover and I’m not shifting my perception of self, but it’s still true.

  She laughs. “You are not.”

  “Not true.”

  “How?”

  “Before we started I was consumed with work, but I’ve stopped putting in twelve-hour days and working all weekend. It’s not that I don’t care about work anymore, because I do, but I’ve relaxed about it. I come from a family whose careers are their lives; it’s part of who they are. Even though I wasn’t ever going to be a doctor, work has been my one and only priority for as long as I can remember. Before you, I sized up every woman I met in terms of how much time she would take away from my job, from my buildings and from me. It’s why when I called you the day after Valentine’s Day to make sure you were all right, I didn’t press, even though I knew there was something between us. You were going to take time I didn’t have or want to give you, so I let it go. I didn’t realize it but I didn’t want to make room for someone. Didn’t want someone in my life.”

  She peers at me, her expression filled with surprise. “What made you change your mind?”

  “You did.” I lean down to brush my mouth over hers. “You looked at me with those big, needy blue eyes and I couldn’t resist.”

  “Oh.” A smile trembles at her lips.

  “The question you need to ask yourself is if the ways you’re changing are a sacrifice.”

  “They’re not.” Her brow knits. “But they still feel like a betrayal, you know?”

  I do, but I want her to say the words to me, so she’ll be forced to think them through. “Give me an example.”

  She bites her lower lip then smooths her hand over her stomach. “This dress. I like the way it makes me feel. I like the way you look at me in it.”

  When she falters, I encourage her. “Go on.”

  “It’s nothing I would have ever picked for myself. It seems too… I don’t know…mainstream. Like I’m dressing in my mom’s clothes.”

  I understand what she means, but what makes the dress so spectacular is that on her it doesn’t look mainstream, but that’s not the point here.

  She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s a grown-up dress and even though I’m thirty years old, I don’t want to become—” she makes air quotes, “—an adult. Pretty stupid, huh?”

  I smile. “Did you ever think that maybe you don’t have to choose? That you don’t have to be one or the other? That it’s possible to be both? Holding on to ideas that no longer fit you is just as stifling as trying to be someone you’re not, it’s only a different kind of box. Both hold you back from who you really are.”

  Slowly, she nods. “That’s true. I never looked at it that way.”

  “Your job is to figure out how to satisfy both the girl and the woman.” I kiss her again. “My job is to support you in that.”

  “Okay.” She grips my wrist and rises to her tiptoes and captures my mouth before breathing into me. “Thank you, Chad.”

  Fuck. She is sweet. “You’re welcome. Ready?”

  I take her hand and we start to leave our private little spot on the street, but she stops. “Chad?”

  I turn back to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Her fingers tighten on mine. “I want to say something.”

  By the tremble in her voice I hear her nervousness. I put my hand on her hip to steady her. “Please do.”

  She licks her lips and sucks in a little breath. “What you did with your brother was very twisted.”

  “It was.” There’s no denying it. But it was a safe risk I didn’t push too far. Everyone had been paying attention to their menus and Cameron and I understand each other. My oldest brother isn’t into the scene, but he enjoys making a pretty girl squirm as much as I do. There was no way he didn’t know why we were late.

  She meets my eyes. “Did you do it because you thought I’d like it?”

  It’s the first time she’s asked a question that gives me any indication she’s starting to realize, or get curious, about the unspoken dynamic that’s playing out between us. I answer her directly and honestly. “Yes, I did.”

  “So you think I’m twisted?” Her gaze is searching.

  I nod. “I don’t think you are. I know you are.”

  “Even though I have all these sex hang-ups?”

  “Yes.” I narrow my eyes and take the first step into leading her where she wants to go but is still afraid of. “I think you have sex hang-ups for precisely that reason.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  I make my statement much more specific. “You have hang-ups because you’ve spent your entire sexual life denying exactly how twisted you are.”

  Emotions play over her expression—and the equivalent of a storm cloud passes over her face—before she settles. Then she straightens, squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eye. “I liked it.”

  “I know.” My cock grows hard as I watch her own it. I raise a brow. “Anything else?”

  The cords in her neck work as she swallows. “During dinner, I kept getting distracted.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted more.”

  I close the distance between us, but instead of sliding my hand through her hair I grip it and yank, so her chin juts up. “That can be arranged.”

  She makes that needy little gasp.

  My heart gives a hard thump and something hot and foreign races through me like lightning.

  Fuck. I think I’m in love with her.

  It’s been two weeks since the night Ruby met my parents and I’ve watched her come alive. Everything about her has become more vibrant. She’s lost that closed-off, worried look. Every day she becomes more empowered, more confident, more the woman she wants to be.

  She’s still Ruby. Still my little rocker princess. But it’s like the rough edges have smoothed away. She’s experimenting more, laughing more, and as I watch her doing her makeu
p from my bed, where I’m still sprawled naked under a sheet, she practically glows.

  Instead of getting ready in my master bathroom she’s standing at my dresser mirror because I told her I wanted to watch her. She’s wearing nothing but a black bra and—I smile—batman boy shorts. I’ve discovered that Ruby has a fetish for superhero underwear and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

  I put my hand behind my head. “Cute panties.”

  She glances at me and grins. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”

  Because she’s a smart girl.

  We continue to avoid having the discussion about dominance and submission, even though that’s exactly what we’ve fallen into. I’ve been waiting, but she hasn’t brought it up again since that night on the street, and I’m content not to push the matter. Other than forcing her to accept all facets of her nature, I’m not sure there’s a need.

  Sex with Ruby is goddamn mind blowing. Taking her has become almost an obsession. She’s eager, compliant, blushes at the drop of a hat, and is increasingly easy to turn completely perverse. Now that she’s not only accepted but embraced this part of herself, her limits have expanded exponentially. She still hates it—in the way all submissive girls both hate and love the twisting of the knife in equal measure—but she’s stopped questioning and surrenders when I push her.

  I let my eyes roam over her body before meeting her gaze in the mirror. One brow is raised and she’s wearing a smirk. She’s fully anticipating I make her take off her panties, because that’s what I usually do. I let her think that because it suits my purposes. “Do you really think I’m going to let you wear them?”

  This has become old hat to her by now, and there’s no more wariness left in her eyes. There’s only excitement and lust. She finishes with her mascara, tosses it to the dresser before she turns, and puts her hand on her hip. All cocky and confident. “Yes, it’s only fair.”

  “And why is it fair?”

  “You made me take off my panties last night.” She huffs. “At the table.”

  Yesterday after work, we went to dinner, and she came at the table with every course. After I pushed her in between the buildings, bent her over, put her hands on the wall, and fucked her while people passed us on the street not three feet away.