Dirtiest Lie

by Cleo Peitsche

  He catches my arm, and I stare daggers at him.

  “Lindsay, you have a choice,” he says. “You can push me away, but that won’t solve your problem.”

  “Only one way to find out.” I jerk free of his grasp and head for the wardrobe to retrieve my clothes. Just because I owe my bosses two weeks of work doesn’t mean I have to put up with Hawthorne psychoanalyzing me.

  “You’re wrong,” he says as he pushes a hand against the closet door. It bangs shut, the sound reverberating through the office.

  “Move,” I say.

  “There’s not only one way to find out. Why not give what I’m suggesting a try?” The entire time he speaks, his eyes don’t leave mine.

  I wish he’d stare at my chest, at my naked pussy. I wish he’d look anywhere but into my eyes. He makes me feel naked, vulnerable. The things he says fill me with such blinding rage that I don’t even recognize myself.

  No, I don’t want to be like this, but I don’t know how to be.

  The truth is that he’s right. I’m profoundly fucked up. I know what I want my life to be like, but I have no idea how to get there, and I’m blinking away tears as I stare at everything but the big man blocking my path.

  “Lindsay?”

  “Can I please get my clothes and leave?” It comes out haltingly because I’m barely able to breathe. I’m two seconds away from crying, and if I do cry, I’m going to go crazy. I can’t be that vulnerable in front of anyone—especially Hawthorne.

  And then… He kisses me.

  Chapter 4

  Hawthorne has many kisses.

  Sloppy kisses that piss me off, get my face slobbery wet.

  Horny, sexual kisses, where his tongue fucks into my mouth while his cock claims my pussy or my ass.

  Distracted kisses. I haven’t received many of those.

  And then there are kisses like this, when his lips are soft and respectful, but his hands cupping my face are possessive. He lightly dances the tip of his tongue across the swell of my lips before licking inside my mouth.

  He’s tasting me. Pleasuring me. Consoling me.

  For all Hawthorne’s shortcomings, I’ve never truly thought of him as lacking complexity. Sure, he can be a jerk, and he’s one of the most entitled people I’ve ever met, but he also has moments of profound thoughtfulness, and he does deserve respect.

  But I never expected he was capable of this. Not the kiss.

  Rather, not only the kiss, but what it signifies.

  Rather, what I think it might signify.

  Hawthorne knows what to do. He sees me. I wanted to be seen, but now I don’t.

  Because it’s terrifying.

  My heart pounds, and even though I’m on an emotional roller coaster, my eyes remain open throughout. When Hawthorne slowly moves back, his hands still cupping my face, I realize his eyes are closed. They open.

  I squeeze mine shut, but it’s too late; he surely saw.

  “Love,” he whispers. “You’re so brave, but so afraid. And you’re strong. You could destroy everything in your panic.” He steps back just as my chin is about to start trembling, and I whip around.

  The sunlight coming in is too bright, eradicating all the shadows, leaving me no hiding place.

  My legs go weak, and I know I’m going to fall over, so I sink into a crouch. It’s even harder to balance like this, because of the shoes, but at least I won’t have far to fall if I do pass out.

  ~

  Hawthorne’s dark-clad legs move into my line of vision. He doesn’t say anything, and after several humiliating minutes of silence, I finally look up at him.

  “Are we ready to start training?” he asks. There’s nothing condescending in his expression, but because he’s Hawthorne, it’s difficult for me not to infer things.

  You’re strong. You could destroy everything in your panic.

  They’re the words of a man who’s emotionally invested. A man who, despite our differences, has always been there when I needed him. A man who gave me $300,000 in cash to start a new life, even though he believed it was the wrong decision, because it was what I wanted.

  And he still hasn’t given up on me.

  I nod. It’s safer than trying to talk.

  “Good.” He contemplates me. “This isn’t how I expected things to start.” And then he undoes his zipper. “Open.”

  A shudder of relief runs through me. This, at least, I’m comfortable with, which Hawthorne surely knows. I know what’s expected, and I know I’m capable of performing to anyone’s satisfaction. Even Hawthorne’s.

  More importantly, some mindless fucking is what I need.

  Before I left town, I thought I wanted to be seen. Not by the world, but by my lovers. It turns out that I hate it. Since I can’t turn invisible, I’ll slip into the familiar and comforting mantle of my sex kitten persona.

  I run my tongue around my lips to dampen them, and I open my mouth as I stare innocently up at Hawthorne. He exhales a little, and I’m not sure if it’s masculine impatience or something else, like frustration.

  Stop it, I will myself.

  Then his hand is full of his thick erection, and he’s sliding the tip across my lips. I relax my jaw. There must be a drop or two of pre-come because I catch a hint of his faint, salty flavor.

  The head of his cock tugs at my bottom lip. I whimper.

  He thrusts in, all at once, all the way down my throat, and he holds himself there, choking me just the way I like.

  When he pulls back, I do my best to keep the swollen tip of his erection inside my mouth. Using lots of saliva, I work the head and shaft.

  His cock stiffens until the head, the throbbing veins, all stand out in stark relief.

  Bobbing vigorously, I find myself being forced backward by his thrusting hips. My heels reach shaggy carpeting, but Hawthorne persists. My hands squeeze around the backs of his rock-hard thighs just as my shoulders come up against the sofa.

  It knocks me off balance, but pinned as I am, all I can do is let my legs slide out straight, leaving me sitting on my bare ass. The black rug beneath the sofa is fluffy and a little ticklish, and the snaps from the garter belt press into my skin.

  Hawthorne stops fucking my mouth long enough to order me onto the sofa.

  I scramble up and get into the same position I had been in on the floor before getting trapped—essentially crouching on the soft cushions.

  Seductively, I comb my fingers through my hair. The air fills with the scent of vanilla. I tilt my head a little and smile provocatively.

  Hawthorne’s attention drops low, between my legs. My knees are spread wide, and I swing them back together.

  “Don’t,” he says hoarsely. His cock is thick and swollen, the dark purple color of a bruise. It’s not a beautiful cock. In fact, there’s something obscene about it, about the unapologetic way it thrusts angrily from his tailored pants.

  Obscene and sexy.

  His rough hands spread my knees apart, but when I glance up, he’s looking into my face. The scrutiny is too much, and I flinch.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “Fucking,” I say, desperate to get to that portion of my so-called training.

  “Fucking? Can you be more specific?”

  I shrug. I can feel that my pussy is wet, surely glistening with arousal.

  “You’re careful with your words, Lindsay. You could have said you want your bosses to fuck you. Or that you want me to fuck you. Or that you want sex. Or that you want me to hold you. What happened that night you spent in Romeo’s bed?” His eyes narrow slightly, and his mouth tightens.

  “None of your business.”

  “The days of you ignoring our questions are in the past. If you learn nothing else from me today, it will be that.”

  “Nothing happened,” I say. “We slept. It was very G-rated.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes.” But because I feel exposed, I find myself adding, “Sex would have been better.” Which is a complete and utt
er lie, but I’m angry. That night in Romeo’s bed was the most erotic of my life, and he barely touched me. It felt special. Sacred.

  And now Hawthorne is using it to push my buttons.

  Hawthorne kneels on the edge of the sofa. He’s between my legs, pushing on my knees, spreading my thighs. His hands glide over the stockings.

  It’s not easy for me to balance like this, and I wonder if my stilettos are inflicting irreparable wounds on the soft upholstery. Though in this office, soft things never stood a chance.

  Hawthorne’s gaze penetrates me. “Do you want me to fuck you? Hurt you? Or do you want something else?”

  I want… both.

  “What do you need?” he asks.

  He moves closer, and the head of his cock nudges my inner thigh. It could be a sensual tease, but it’s more of a stabbing assault.

  What do I need? It’s a good question. Historically, it’s also one that Hawthorne is convinced I’m unable to answer.

  “Ask for what you want,” he says. “Anything I can give you in this room, it’s yours.”

  My mouth is dry. Anything I want?

  What I really want is for him to read my mind. To pull me into his arms and hold me. I know it won’t be as good as being in Romeo’s arms. Both men—all three of my bosses, to be accurate—are capable of physically keeping me safe. They’re all large men, their athletic bodies thick with muscle. They’re confident, and they have connections and money.

  But with Romeo, there’s a certain tenderness there, deep down, and I don’t think Hawthorne is capable of that. Not for real. I’m sure he can pretend to be anything for short periods of time, but how could I ever truly feel safe in the arms of a man whose tongue is as likely to cut me as to bring me to the heights of orgasmic bliss?

  Acknowledging that we provoke each other, that it’s mutual, doesn’t change the reality of our dynamic.

  “Try being brave,” he says, and I can see his patience is beginning to wear thin.

  Well, mine is, too.

  “You can’t give me what I want,” I say evenly. “So I think you’d better fuck me.”

  He looks stunned for a moment, then his mouth curls into a tight-lipped smile. He grabs the back of my head as he gets off the sofa, and he brings my face down onto his cock.

  Hard.

  He knows how to wield his erection like a weapon, and he does.

  Growling quietly, he fucks my mouth, holding me steady while he jackhammers down my throat.

  My gagging doesn’t stop him. My whimpers and moans don’t slow him down. Only my safe gesture could save me, and I refuse to use it.

  My legs are twisted underneath me, and my fingers endeavor, in vain, to burrow into the upholstery, to find some stability.

  Hawthorne hasn’t been this intense since the first night the four of us played together. Back then he didn’t like me, didn’t want anything to do with me, and he did his best to chase me away.

  Right now I’m being punished for what I said, and I know my words were cruel. But what he said earlier about how easy it is to provoke me… It goes both ways.

  One step forward, two steps back. Thank goodness I don’t have unhealthy interactions with Romeo or Slade.

  My face gets hot as Hawthorne uses his cock to choke me.

  My pussy gets wet, so very wet.

  Fuck me, I think. Put us both out of our misery.

  His fingers tangled in my hair, he yanks me off of his shaft.

  “Say something honest,” he pants.

  I use the back of my hand to wipe slobber from my mouth and chin while I catch my breath. “Why? The last time I did, you rammed your cock down my throat.” Tremors of excitement shake through my body. “You’re a selfish lover, just looking for any excuse to punish me,” I say.

  Trembling, I look up at him. His face is strangely blank.

  I feel my own face go pale. “Aren’t you going to spank me?” I ask, adding a smile.

  “No,” he says. “That’s not what you need right now, and you know it. If you’re not going to take this seriously, well, I have work to do.”

  He walks to the desk and violently pulls out the chair.

  His anger would make a more frightening image if his huge cock wasn’t sticking out of his pants, and I fight a giggle.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I’m skating on a thin edge of something, and I don’t just mean by antagonizing Hawthorne for no good reason. Maybe it’s because I’m a prisoner here for two weeks. I should hate my bosses for that… but I don’t.

  Or maybe it’s because after years of self-sufficiency, I’m now dependent on these three powerful men to save me, to fix the messes that I couldn’t… but it’s a relief to know I have help.

  There’s another possibility, and the twisting in my gut tells me that it’s the real reason.

  At some point today—or maybe tomorrow, if I’m lucky—I’m going to have to tell my bosses the rest of the details about my grandfather and what happened the night I ran away.

  To make a plan that doesn’t destroy my sister’s life, my bosses need to know the truth. All of it, and not the sanitized version I tell myself so I can sleep at night.

  I don’t deserve comfort.

  And I know what I need. Distraction.

  “Let me suck you,” I say as Hawthorne lowers himself into his chair.

  He makes a sound that suggests he’s not interested, but then he surprises me by motioning me over with a condescending gesture.

  “Crawl,” he says before I take two steps.

  “Excuse me?”

  He picks up a pen and clicks the top, then reaches for a stack of documents with yellow “sign here” notes sticking out.

  The office falls silent except for the scrape of pen across paper.

  From the time he’s taking, I guess he’s carefully writing out his full name. Hawthorne Tarraget. I suppose it’s a lot of letters.

  The more he ignores me, the hornier I get.

  It occurs to me that this morning of training is, so far, an unmitigated disaster. Slade or Romeo should have gone first. Probably Romeo. Slade is too… easygoing. He’s dominant, but he doesn’t push me emotionally. Sexually, sure, he likes identifying my limits and then breaking through them. All my bosses do.

  But Slade would never have expected me to beg. Slade wouldn’t be making me crawl across his office just so I can suck his dick.

  Romeo might make me do something humiliating, but he wouldn’t let things get so that both our egos were wrapped up in the outcome.

  Anyway, I’m horny, and while sucking him isn’t exactly what I want to be doing with my time, not sucking him is an obstacle to getting the fucking that I asked for.

  So I lower myself to my knees. I drop my head down and see my inner thighs are damp. I glance up to confirm that Hawthorne isn’t looking at me, but in the end I decide not to explore just how wet I am.

  Sighing, I crawl across the office and around his desk. It’s like going around a mountain.

  He shoves back his chair. “Bend over,” he says, picking up the ruler. He pats his lap.

  Eyeing the ruler, which is twelve inches of rigid wood that nonetheless looks like it could easily break, I stand, then delicately position myself across Hawthorne’s lap.

  His cock is harder than ever, and it jabs into my ribs as he pulls me down, getting me into the uncomfortable position he wants.

  “Put both your index fingers into your pussy,” he commands. His voice is low, deep and even.

  But he can’t fool me.

  I recognize the tension in his body as mirroring my own, and his breathing is shallow with arousal.

  And then, yeah, there’s that cock. It’s hot and sticky under my body.

  I start to slide my hands back, over my buttocks, but Hawthorne uses the ruler to flick my fingers away.

  “No,” he says. “From underneath.”

  It’s not exactly comfortable, but I lie on my hands and slowly shove my index fingers into my
clutching heat.

  I’m wet. And horny. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning.

  “Leave your hands there,” he says hoarsely. “The rest of your fingers will remain curled.”

  Before I can ask why, he slaps the ruler hard across my buttocks, and I gasp. Because of where my fingers are, I get to appreciate the tight clenching of my pussy.

  Slowly, I move one of my hands so that my thumb is across my clit, and I tease the engorged nub.

  Hawthorne’s voice is right in my ear as he whispers, “Did I give you permission to play with yourself?”

  “You told me to put my fingers into my pussy,” I snap, trying to twist my head in an attempt to glare at him. “I didn’t realize I needed a lawyer to break down what that does and doesn’t mean.”

  His response is nonverbal: a hard strike across my ass.

  “Ow!” It’s a narrow but intense band of pain.

  “Make as much noise as you want,” he murmurs huskily. “It turns me on, and this room is soundproof. But even if it weren’t, I don’t care if the entire office knows I’ve got your gorgeous, naked body across my lap. I don’t care if the entire world knows I’m punishing you.”

  Why does that make me even wetter?

  “If you want to play with your pussy, ask,” he says.

  I tilt my head up far enough to meet his dominating stare. “If it pleases your kingship, I’d like to play with myself.”

  “Would you also like to orgasm?”

  “Yes,” I say. “If that’s not too inconvenient for you.”

  “Request denied,” he says with relish, and it reminds me of our first meeting. Expense disallowed!

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because manners matter.” He smacks that wicked ruler against my ass, and it stings.

  But it’s not enough to stop me from rubbing my thumb over my clit. Because in the end, he can’t stop me from playing with my own body.

  I’m close. Very close. Just twenty, maybe thirty seconds, and—

  Hawthorne drops the ruler and lifts me off his lap.

  For a moment I’m in the air, then he easily flips me onto my back. He jerks my hands from between my legs and holds them over my head.