by Linnea May
Problem is, I don't want that.
I don't want to let her go.
Chapter 32
Ruby
I can see him battling. He's pacing up and down the living room like a caged tiger, trying to figure out how to solve his dilemma. There's only one way I'd expect him to do it, one way that I'm hoping for, but he needs to get there on his own.
"You know things have changed," I repeat, watching him from across the room. "You can't ignore that."
"I'm not ignoring anything," he says. "I know my brother won't let this go. I know this is over."
My heart sinks. "This is over?"
He stops mid-pace, capturing my eyes with his. His short hair is ruffled and his face strained.
"You know what I mean," he says. "I can't keep you here any longer, despite what you told him. I'm busted. I have to let you go."
I sigh, my shoulders sinking as the weight of sadness sets in. Why is he being so stubborn?
He looks at me, pained by the dilemma that's tearing him apart from the inside out.
"I don't want to let you go," he says. "I really don't fucking want to do that."
"You don't have to let me go," I whisper, hoping that he gets the meaning behind my words.
I approach him with quick, confident steps, a firm decision carrying me to him. He looks at me quizzically, freezing when I come to a halt in front of him. Our eyes meet, and I take a deep breath before I reach for the leash that's attached to the collar around my neck, and hand it over to him.
"I want you to be in control. I need you to exert control over me, just as much as you crave my submission," I say in a low voice, as his hand slowly closes around the end of the leash. "I have no desire to pull the rug out from under your feet, master. No matter what happens, I will never tell anyone about this. I will not go to the police, and I will not destroy your life. I will not destroy our life."
His eyes widen in cautious relief and he sighs.
"Why wouldn't you, though?" he asks. "After all I've done to you..."
"You know why," I say.
Our eyes lock, unspoken words hovering between us as the silence grows and stretches.
"You can trust me," I say.
"I know," he says. "I know I can trust you, and I want to. I'm just not sure if I can trust myself."
He gently pulls at the leash, beckoning me to come closer.
I follow his lead, stepping up on my toes when he leans down so our lips can meet. The kiss is cautious and gentle, as if it's our first kiss after a long period of flirting and dancing around each other. He never lets go of the leash, pulling me even closer, until the collar begins to tighten around my throat, not really choking me but keeping me in place.
I moan when he wraps his other arm around me, pressing my body against his hard-muscled frame. His warmth embraces me, comforts me, and envelops me with heated shelter. There's a devotion in that kiss that he hasn’t shown me before. It's as if he's the one sinking in my arms, and not vice versa.
It's as if he's finally willing to let go, not of me, but of himself and whatever has been holding him back.
He breaks our kiss reluctantly.
"I don't want to lose you," he whispers, his eyes still closed and his lips so near mine that I can feel his hot breath brushing my skin.
"You're not going to," I whisper. "I'm yours, Loran."
I place a soft peck on his lips. "I'll always be yours. If you let me."
My eye search for his, and finally, after a few more minutes of solitary contemplation, he's ready to face me. His eyes open, seeking mine, and a smile appears on his face - a smile finally void of darkness.
"We have some things to take care of," he says.
I nod. "Yes. We do."
His grip around me loosens and his hands wander down to my ass, lifting the negligé and squeezing my naked cheeks greedily, the leash still encompassed in one of his hands. I can feel the hard leather pressing against my skin as he kneads and massages my ass.
"We have to go to the agency," I say randomly. "They need to know where I am."
He nods. "We will do that, my toy."
It's all the admission I need at this point. He's not ready to let me go, but he's ready to leave this part behind us.
He's ready for something else - with me.
"I will take you there first thing in the morning," he promises, before leaning in for another kiss. His lips only touch mine for a moment, before he moves further, inching along the side of my neck as he grabs a fistful of hair at the back of my head. I let out a needy sigh when he pulls my head back, his other hand still locked on my ass while I lean into him.
He's overpowering me and I'm melting in his arms, my heart beating with anticipation as I hollow my back for him, the collar tightening around my throat. He pulls on it until the tension starts cutting off air. I don't mind. I don't need air. I need him.
Still, I moan gratefully when he lets go of the leash, using his hand to slip between my wet folds, carefully teasing my swollen nub.
Our eyes find each other, mine dazed with lust, his filled with desire.
He's smiling when he invades my core with not one, but two fingers, at once - and so am I.
Epilog
Ruby
~ Six months later ~
I take in a deep breath and fix my skirt for the millionth time, casting a superimposed smile at my reflection in the mirror. The girl who’s smiling back at me looks like an entirely different person, a person I haven’t seen in years.
When we went to the agency, so I could make sure they weren’t looking for me six months ago, I knew it would be the very last time I stepped foot in there. I will never know what happened to that last client of mine, the client who never showed up and who never reported my disappearance to the agency. Our madame, Miss Barry, was surprised to see me, because she thought I’d be with my client as planned. He may have copped out at the last minute without telling anyone, or perhaps he found another way to satisfy the desire he was willing to pay so much for - I will never know. It remains a mystery to me, just like my red coat, that was sent to the agency anonymously a few days after I showed up there. The package showed up out of nowhere, leaving Miss Barry just as confused as myself.
Neither Loran nor I had to face any repercussions from our more than unconventional meeting. Sadly enough, neither my parents nor my sister even noticed that I had vanished off the face of the Earth for three whole weeks.
Fate has its twisted ways in bringing people together. Loran and I are a perfect example of that.
I pull myself away from the mirror and leave the bathroom to go downstairs. My fingers absentmindedly search fort he bracelet around my wrist, twisting and turning the two little black hearts anxiously. I haven't been this nervous in months, and I don't think my heart has ever beaten this loudly. I make my way down the hallway, my fingers dancing along the wall on my right, seeking contact with the house that has become my home. It's only been a few months, but the intensity of my first weeks here evolved into stronger connections than any I've ever developed anywhere else.
I pass by our bedroom door and continue on my way to the stairs. I pause again before making my way down to the kitchen. I'm wearing a navy blue suit, the jacket draped over my arm, as I walk down the stairs on shaky legs. I'm not wearing my heels yet, but I still feel as unstable as a newborn deer.
His eyes meet mine when I reach the first floor and join him in the kitchen, where he has been preparing breakfast for us.
"So?" I ask, spreading my arms and giving him a little twirl so he can judge my get-up. "Do you think this will work?"
Loran is standing in front me, looking as marvelous as he always does, a dark suit hugging his broad, muscled frame. He's more used to wearing this kind of work attire, so he‘s not moving nearly as stiff as I am when he approaches me.
"Not sure I can let you go out like this," he says before placing a loving kiss on my lips. "Someone might kidnap you."
"Charmer,"
I say, winking at him. "I need an honest opinion!"
He chuckles and takes both my hands in his.
"You look perfect, Ruby," he says. "The dark blue goes well with your hair.”
“Doesn’t it?” I ask.
“Perfectly,” he reaffirms. “You have nothing to worry about.”
"Easy for you to say," I reply. "It's not your first day."
He smiles at me. "In a way it is."
I meet his gaze and can't help but agree with him. I'm starting my job as a management assistant at a young sister company of his main business. It was brought into being just a few months ago and is still in the fledgling stage, which increases the burden of responsibility for me, because I know he's putting a lot of trust in me by giving me this position.
I was the one who insisted on putting my college degree to good use, finally, but when I mentioned this in front of him, I didn't expect him to offer me a position, let alone a position of this magnitude. When I said that I wasn't sure whether I'd be comfortable working for him, he clarified that he wouldn't be my boss. In fact, he's barely involved in the affairs of this young marketing company other than being one of its founders and a shareholder. However, that didn't stop him from using his influence to guarantee me a chance at a job that otherwise would have been out of reach for me.
And I'm determined not to disappoint him. I was adamant about quitting my former job even before I met him, but I never thought about what else I wanted to do with my life. All I knew was that I needed something of my own, something that doesn't leave the bitter aftertaste that my former job as an escort did.
I want this, and I can't wait to start. But I'm feeling sick to my stomach because my nerves are getting the best of me.
"You'll do fine," he says, placing his index finger below my chin to tilt my face up to his. "I have complete trust in you."
"But I'm so fucking nervous," I utter helplessly, my lower lip quivering.
"Don't be," he says. "That's an order."
I smirk. "You're not the boss of me."
He lets go of my chin and hooks his finger underneath the slim sterling silver neck cuff encircling my throat.
“At home I am,” he whispers, pulling at the collar as if to remind me.
There's a little heart-shaped lock attached to it at the back, barely visible and as discreet as day collars come. He gave it to me when it was clear that I’d be returning to public life, giving room to the person I am outside the kink that brought us together. I now wear a subtle silver cuff around my neck, as well as the bracelet that sustained me during a very different time in my life.
"Yes, here you are," I agree, getting on my toes so I can leave a little peck at the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you," I say in a low voice. "Thank you for this opportunity."
"You don't have to thank me for that," he says, letting go of my silver collar and running the tip of his finger along my cheek, careful not to mess with my make-up, not today.
"It may just be a selfish move," he says.
"Selfish? How so?" I ask, leaning into his gentle touch.
"You're a part of me," he says. "By handing this responsibility over to you, I could be following a wish that's been driving me for a very long time."
I look up at him, my face slightly tilted to the side and my eyes wide and questioning. "What wish?"
"The wish to truly build something of my own," he explains. "You know, I've never been involved in my family's business too much, it wasn't wanted - either by them or by me. I've always wanted something of my own. My own family business - a family empire even."
The smile on his face strengthens, and it’s joined by a strong sense of hope.
"You're helping me to build just that,” he adds. “And you look so damn good doing it.”
"Family," I reply, getting up on my toes to steal another kiss from him.
"I like the sound of that."
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Violent Ends
or
The Velvet Rooms
Chapter 1
Elene
I can't do this anymore.
I thought it would get easier. I thought I was just going through a phase, because I remember a time when things were different. It hasn't always been like this. There was a time when I almost enjoyed this, a time when it came easy to me and I felt like the luckiest girl on Earth, because I found a way of making money that comes natural to me and leaves me with a degree of freedom that is unknown to any 9-to-5 office slave. I only had to work two days a week, if even, but I still made more money than most of my friends.
It was great. I felt great.
But at some point, things changed. I started to doubt myself. I started to doubt this profession. I started to doubt my moral compass and my own emotional health.
I started to dislike what I was doing. But that's normal, right? Everybody hates their job once in a while, don't they? It's called work for a reason. It's not a hobby, not fun. Most jobs aren't fun.
But my job is all about fun. Fun and pleasure. Not mine, though. It's the client's pleasure that counts.
The service I provide is a taboo, unthinkable, dirty, immoral. I've never been bothered by that since I first started, but now it seems that all those societal judgments are catching up to me. I'm incapable of shutting down the voices of self-doubt. They've been gnawing at my conscience for too long. Things that came easy to me no longer come at such ease.
I want more than this.
Or at least something different. Something… better.
I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Because… now is not the time to think about all of this. I have to focus.
I have work to do.
I close my eyes as I wrap my lips around his cock, a smaller than average version that almost disappears inside my hand when I close my fingers around it. He's rock hard, so I know I can't expect a lot more than this. This is all he has. Poor bastard.
I don't care. I don't need to care. This is not about my pleasure; it's about his.
I moan and squirm beneath him, moving my hips seductively while I feel his eyes on me. He's panting heavily, standing tall and tense before me, his right fist clenching around a riding crop. He's almost ready to burst, and I know I could make this end any moment now. I open my eyes and look up, trying to catch his gaze, but just to make sure he's too deep in the zone to realize where my eyes wander next.
His eyes are closed. He's not even looking at me while I'm working his pathetic cock. I decide not to care and peer over to the nightstand next to the bed at the clock that belongs to neither him nor me. Still twenty minutes to go. He paid for a full hour, and I need to provide. I can't make him come just yet.
He lets out a desperate moan when I retreat, keeping my fingers locked around his member while my eyes wander up to his sweaty face. He's old enough to be my father but in good shape and generally good looking. He wants me to call him "Sir" and that is all he is to me. I don't know his real name and I don't care to know, even though he's one of my regulars. The fact that he can afford our services multiple times a week speaks of his wealth, as does his appearance. His expensive suit, the obvious – and somewhat tacky – Rolex on his wrist, the Salvatore Ferragamo shoes that are waiting for him next to the door. He's fucking loaded, and I know I'm not the only girl at this agency who serves him regularly.
I have no idea who he is, but he's one of the big guys for sure. He might not even be from this area. He might be married, even though I've never seen a ring on his finger. He might have kids, a family. He
leads a life that's completely unbeknownst to me, because I'm not a part of that life.
All I am to him is this.
I am his whore.
He has his own schedule, just like every other regular. He wants to see me about every other week, always for an hour, always in this particular room, always with a similar procedure. He is all about routine. He likes black and never wants to see me in any other color; he always expects to see the same hairstyle and the same make-up. He always wants to hear the same words from my mouth, and he always wants to come on my face to finish.
He is so fucking boring.
"Slut," he breathes, glaring at me with a look that's supposed to deliver dominance but seems somewhat misplaced on his face. "You're lazy today."
He always calls me "slut" and never cared to learn my real name. Most of them don't.
"Seems like you need a little encouragement," his voice thunders above me, shortly before the riding crop meets my skin, sending a hot wave of pain through my behind. I flinch and yelp, exaggerating my reaction for his benefit. Another blow strikes my skin, then another one, and the one following after that is strong enough to rob me of my breath.
Shit, that fucking hurt.
My pulse speeds up and my head is painfully clear within an instant. It happened again. I drifted away. I retreated back into my head, dwelling on how much I am starting to resent this job.
Soon, I won't have a choice but to quit, because I won't be good at this anymore. And that's a big fucking deal, because I've always been good at this. No, not good… great. It's not arrogance that makes me say this, but I know to be one of the best. It shows in the prices the men pay for me, and it shows in the amount of times I've had to say "no" to a new client. I can say "no," because I can choose my own clients. I don't have to fuck every moneybag that comes around.
I groan when he hits me again, closing my eyes as my hand tightens around his cock. His strikes are painful. Deliciously painful. Each blow makes my core tingle with heat, making me yearn for more. It's the best I can get out of this and my key motivation to disobey. I crave the punishments, the pain. Agony is the only thing that my body responds to.
