Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  Taking a slice of ham and cheese, I roll it up, dip it into a glob of mustard, and bring it to my mouth. I'm mid bite when Jacob enters. He stops short just inside the threshold. There's no greeting or smile on his face. He just stares. I can't completely read the look on his face, but the softening of his eyes is clearly pity.

  "Hope you don't mind," I mumble around a mouthful and hold up the half-eaten roll.

  I've come to expect the blunt and very verbal Jacob. So, the silence following my comment grows uncomfortable, making the hairs on my arms stand up. Unsure of what's happening, I can only assume I've done something wrong.

  With a visible shake of his body, he gives a small that feels off.

  "As the lady of the house, you can have whatever you like," he finally speaks, moving from his frozen spot near the doorway.

  "I'm not the lady of the house," I correct, watching him open the fridge, take out two bottles of water, and set them on the granite top between us.

  "Of course you are," his voice back to the one I've grown familiar with. "Who else would be?"

  I don't hesitate in responding, "His wife."

  With a look that clearly conveys, stupid girl, he uncaps one bottle of water and drinks.

  Placing the bottle back on the counter top, he reveals, "She's never stepped foot in this house."

  That information shouldn't send a thrill through me, but I'm a warped person. So, even though I don't show it, I still feel it. Reaching out, I take the other bottle, uncap, and drink.

  Jacob continues, "This isn't a place he brings people."

  Sketch strolls in and, having overheard, is quick to add, "At least not ones he plans on leaving here breathing or with all their parts still intact."

  I choke on the water, dribbling some down my chin.

  Jacob glares at Sketch and holds a paper napkin out to me. Snatching it out of his hand, I press it to my mouth and wipe over my chin.

  Sketch grabs an apple out of a bowl, leaning his hip against the far end of the island. Rubbing the fruit on his t-shirt, he ignores Jacob and focuses on me.

  "But given how comfortable you are in the dungeon, I'd say you two twisted fucks are a match made in hell," he taunts, giving a toothy grin before biting into the apple.

  "Oh how I wish you wouldn't have been an exception to norm," Jacob grumbles.

  Sketch slaps a palm over the center of his chest. "You wound me, Jake," he feigns hurt and then goes on, "Besides, Mei should feel quite at home, given all the experience with—"

  Jacob cuts him off and addresses me, "How about you and I do some sparring on the back patio?" He nods to the French doors behind me. "I'll grab some gear and meet you out there."

  There's definitely something going on and I'm obviously not supposed to know. So, I nod, saying, "Let me go find something to change into."

  Glancing back to Sketch, I find his face uncharacteristically serious. His eyes are directed at me, but he's not seeing me. Instead, he's lost in his own mind.

  "I'll get this," Jacob says, taking my plate away and pulling my attention from Sketch.

  "Thanks," I mumble, slipping off the stool and padding out of the room.

  Hushed arguing follows my exit, but I can't make out what the two are disagreeing about.

  The black cut off sweats brush the top of my knees and my cropped gray t-shirt reveal about two inches of skin. The chilly air caresses all my exposed flesh as I step out onto the back patio.

  Jacob looks up at my arrival. Sitting on a low stone wall, he secures black gloves onto his hands. They aren't standard boxing gloves, instead they look like the kind MMA fighters use.

  Lifting his hands, he explains, "We don't have two sets of boxing gloves here. I figure these will work for a sparring workout until I can get others delivered."

  He pushes up to his feet and motions to a red pair.

  "They are the smallest I could find, so hopefully they'll work." His eyes trail down my body to my bare feet and back up, meeting my eyes. "This isn't exactly half clothed kind of weather."

  At the mention of the temperature, a second cold breeze sweeps up my back making me shiver.

  "You should dress warmer," he says in a fatherly tone. It's the same tone I hear from him every time we work out together.

  Striding to the wall, I pick up the red gloves and slip them on. Securing them, I say, "Once we start moving, I'll be fine."

  "It's your disadvantage," he teases, stretching and warming up.

  "And I'll still beat you," I taunt back, giving him a smile.

  He returns one and says, "Your smile is quite charming."

  "The better to distract you with," I retort, hiding my embarrassment behind a joke.

  The genuine kindness he shows me coupled with a sincere compliment are things I'm not exactly used to. In my line of work, I usually get lewd comments or false praise and their sole hope is that I'll give them more. Jacob's compliments don't have strings and I don't know how to process that.

  "Ready?" He asks, taking a fighting stance.

  Opening and closing my hands, I test the fit of the gloves and nod.

  "Yep." I take my own stance.

  "Ladies first," he offers, wanting me to throw the first jab.

  "I respect my elders, so you first," I retort.

  He laughs and our dance begins.

  Forty minutes and two matches later, the cold is unnoticeable. Sweat drips down my spine and between my breasts. Having gone so many days without a workout, my body is already feeling it. But now, I'd found my stride.

  Jacob jabs right, I dodge left. He sweeps a leg, I jump and send a padded jab into his side. But before I can move around his body an arm wraps around my chest. Curling the limb, he pulls my back to his chest and sends a soft hit to my right kidney.

  "Damn it," I shout, pissed he caught me.

  "Not quick enough," he teases on a laugh.

  His laugh dies as quickly as his arm disappears. Glancing over my shoulder, I furrow my brow.

  "Explain." Saint's deep demand sends a different kind of shiver through my body.

  "The lady—" Jacob starts to explain.

  "I'm used to working out a few times a week," I cut him off and turn.

  Saint's eyes sweep the length of my body, stopping on my feet.

  "You should have shoes on," he grumbles, bringing his eyes to mine.

  "I'm fine," I assure.

  "Is this what you went to that gym for?" He asks, stepping onto the patio.

  I nod.

  "Just for the exercise?" He presses, stalking toward me. He stops less than a foot away and lifts a brow.

  "No," I shake my head. "I trained with two instructors to learn how to fight."

  The corners of his mouth lift just a little at my confession.

  "Gloves," he demands, tugging his sweater over his head.

  Keeping his eyes on mine, he tosses it off to the side and lifts an expectant hand out to Jacob. Silence falls around us, until the tear of Velcro rips through it like a shout. Jacob places the black gloves in Saint's hand before backing away and out of my peripheral.

  "Let's see what you've got, doll," Saint taunts, slipping the gloves over his hands.

  A mixture of surprise and fear jolts through my body and I step back. His hands come up and he positions his feet in a manner that makes it clear he knows what he's doing.

  Swallowing, I resume my starting stance in front of him.

  "Widen your legs," he instructs.

  I narrow my eyes, letting him know I don't trust his advice.

  "Your balance is compromised," he continues. "One hit and you'll stumble, possibly fall."

  "You're twice my size," I snort. "My leg positioning doesn't make a difference. Besides, you'd have to hit me first," I tease.

  The giant grin on his face is almost enough to distract me from his first attack.

  Almost.

  He jabs, I duck. I jab, he dodges. The dance goes on for a solid ten minutes before I come to a conclusion. I'll lose
any fair fight with him, so it's time to use other tactics.

  He punches out again, but this time I duck under his arm and move around his body. One jab to his side, as I did with Jacob, and he grunts. But this time, I move faster. Now behind him, I jump on his back before he can turn around.

  Wrapping my legs around his waist, I bring my arm around his neck. He gets one gloved hand between my arm and his throat, but I lock my hands together and tighten.

  In my peripheral, I see Jacob jump to his feet. He hesitates, unsure if an intervention is needed.

  It's not.

  Saint works his other hand beneath my arm and breaks my hold. The surprise of his release forces me to grab at his shoulders. And before I can drop back to the patio, my back hits the side of the house. It's not enough to seriously hurt me, but the stone is unforgiving, causing me to grunt at the pain and drop my legs from his waist.

  In a real fight, I'm sure he'd step away, letting the opponent crumble to the ground so he could finish them off. But with me, he stills, using his body to hold me up.

  "Can you stand?" He asks over his shoulder.

  Nodding, I pant, "yes."

  Slowly, he turns, being sure to keep his body close. Pressing his hands into the stones on either side, he cages me in.

  "You're a fierce little thing," he praises, bringing one hand to my face and brushing my stray hairs away. "But I'll always win, Mei," he grins. "Even if I have to fight dirty, cheat, or kill," he continues and I feel like we're no longer talking about sparring. "Whatever it takes," he finishes, pressing his body against mine.

  A throat clears behind him. Jacob.

  "Go away," he orders.

  "Unless you want the crowd you've drawn to watch, I suggest you take this inside."

  At Jacob's suggestion, Saint pushes away and turns. The moment his body is out of my way, I see four men in suits seated on the stone wall.

  "How is my perimeter?" Saint asks, crossing his sweaty arms over his chest.

  The men shoot up and disappear around the corner of the house.

  "You can't blame them," Jacob says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  "Can't I?" Saint asks, removing his gloves and holding them out.

  "Like you said," Jacob pauses, looking over to me. Saint does the same. "She's a fierce little thing," he finishes, taking the gloves.

  "That she is," he agrees, extending an arm to me.

  When I hesitate, his brow lifts. Placing my hand in his, he yanks me toward him and removes my gloves.

  "We'll be going out to dinner at seven," Saint announces.

  "The car will be ready," Jacob responds.

  "Until then, we're unavailable."

  Keeping one hand secured in his, he guides me along the back patio, down one flight of stairs, passed the pool, and then up the stairs that lead to his room. Once inside, he releases me to close the French doors.

  "I like that you can defend yourself," he states, locking the doors.

  When he turns to face me, there's a ferocity in his eyes. A riot of butterflies assault my stomach and a lump of nervousness forms at the base of my throat.

  "I'll admit, I was curious after you knocked me off the bed back in the penthouse," he continues, starting a slow prowl in my direction.

  For each step he advances, I take a step back.

  "Don't run from me," he commands.

  Swallowing my nerves, I admit, "You scare me."

  He stills. His brow furrows and muscle at his jaw ticks.

  "I'm the last person you should fear," he growls, closing the distance.

  I retreat until my back hits a wall and press myself against it. Saint reaches me, dropping to his knees. It's not what I expected and the unpredictability makes me more nervous.

  Large hands grip my hips, holding me in place. His head tilts back.

  "The first moment I saw you," his words draw my eyes to his. "I was drawn in."

  Tugging on my hips, he brings me closer so that his chin rests against my lower abdomen.

  "The first time our eyes met, you ensnared me," he confesses. "And the moment, you pulled away your mask, you became my obsession."

  His hands move from my hips, sliding around me until I'm caged within his arms.

  "They say giving someone your name gives them power over you."

  I stiffen at the words, pressing my hands on his shoulders. I try to twist away and out of his hold. I handed my name, my power, over to him like a fucking foolish girl.

  "But…" The word stills my struggle. "With you it's the opposite," he admits. "I've spent my life making sure no one owns me," he declares, squeezing me tighter. "Until you. You've seen the ugliness, danced with my demons, and you didn't run."

  Closing my eyes, I drop my head back against the wall. No, I hadn't run. I accepted him, was twistedly turned on by him. And maybe it's because we're alike. More so than he knows.

  He releases my lower body long enough to stand and capture my throat in his large hand. My body instantly flushes, wanting to arch into him. And when his thumb slides along my jaw, I bite back a moan.

  Lowering his face to the side of my head, he whispers, "Why is it that the creature excites you, but the rest of me scares you? Why do you think that is, Dahlia?"

  "I don't know," I answer on a shaky whisper.

  "I think you do," he responds. The hand at my throat tenses and his tongue touches my earlobe.

  "I don't," I cry, not wanting to admit all the things I work so hard to deny to myself.

  "You do," he counters, lifting his head to capture my eyes with his. "It's easier to fear the man, hate him, because you've dealt with mere men for a long time, haven't you?"

  Shaking my head, I try to deny his truths.

  "But the darker side, the demons, it's too close to home, isn't it?" He presses.

  I continue to shake my head in denial.

  Easing his hold on my throat, he takes a step back. He drags his hand down my chest, stopping to palm my breast through my shirt.

  "When you picked up the knife…" He rubs the pad of his thumb over my nipple. My body responds immediately, the tip hardening. "I was terrified."

  Bringing his other hand up, he fists the collar of my tank top, and, with both hands, rips it. The material tears, but not completely. He has to fist the last inch and finish the job. Then his hands are on my stomach, moving up to grip the small piece of cotton holding my bra cups together.

  "I wouldn't let myself believe or even hope. In fact, part of me was sure you'd come after me."

  There's a small hint of amusement in his voice. He tugs the bra, tearing the material and causing my body to jerk.

  "But then…" He closes his eyes and licks his lips. "You did more than…" his words fall away. Eyes flashing open, the same ferocity burns in them. His jaw tense, he grounds out, "You were made for me."

  Dipping his fingertips into the waist of my cut off sweats, he shoves them down my body until they pool around my feet.

  "My vow, to you, the other night wasn't just words," he states, pulling his t-shirt over his head. "I will possess you, own you, in every possible way I can," he promises, undoing his pants and shoving them to the floor with his underwear.

  His cock springs forward, needy and hard. My clit pulses and I clench seeking relief.

  Pressing his naked body to mine, he lays his hands on my hips. Lowering his head, he kisses the side of my jaw before burying his face in my neck. Then he slides his body down mine, making sure my hard nipples rub against his chest. His calloused fingers slip over my hips, down and around to palm the back of my thighs before he lifts me high against the wall.

  "Hold on," he orders, positioning the head of his cock at my entrance.

  I grip his shoulders as he lowers me onto him.

  "Yes," I cry out, feeling every inch of him enter me.

  He doesn't wait, jerking his hips back and thrusting up into me, rough and repeatedly.

  Coherent words aren't possible. Everything he admitted, promised, a
nd the way his thrusts punish me for daring to think differently.

  When I come, he pushes me even further, digging his fingers into my ass, and making damn sure I don't fucking forget. He owns me, and I own him. His obsession is overwhelming and scary, but knowing I also possess him only makes me come again.

  His thrusts become erratic, frantic, and my lower back slams against the wall until he curses against my neck.

  Body going slack, he presses into me, his chest rising and falling with heavy panting.

  Running my hands from his shoulders into his hair, I turn my head and press my lips just below his ear. He stills, holding his breath. So, I kiss him again.

  Lifting his head from my neck, he drops my legs and grabs the sides of my face.

  "Nothing will take you from me," he declares. "There is nothing that I will allow to keep me from the one person meant for me. Do you understand?" His fingers flex against my head.

  Knowing that even if I was sane enough to not want anything to do with him, he still wouldn't let me go. That should be all I need to reject him. To continue to put up my fight and work harder to get away. But I'm clearly not sane. In fact, pleasure rolls through my body with every pledge of possessiveness. My own linger at the tip of my tongue, wanting nothing more than to own every deep dark piece of his soul.

  "Yes," I whisper.

  Returning a brief nod, he releases my head and takes a step back.

  Body still at a slight arch, I flatten my palms to the wall on either side me for support.

  His eyes drift down my body. Stopping at my thighs, he licks his bottom lip. He gives a slow blink, opening his eyes to focus on mine.

  "As much as I hate to wash away the cum dripping down your thighs…" he hesitates, glancing down once more.

  I press my legs together and feel exactly what he's talking about. Noticing the movement, a grin of satisfaction spreads across his face.

  Reaching out and taking my hand from the wall, he guides me through the bathroom, passed the shower, and into the spa room. Stepping into the steamy water, he guides me to follow him.

  Seating himself in a corner, he turns my body and positions me in front of him. My back to his chest, his groin against my ass, he sweeps my hair to one side.

  "Relax," he says in the same way he does most things. A command.