by Cynthia Dane
Henry withdrew his hand and straightened his jacket, probably in lieu of having a tie to adjust. “Trick question. I’ve dallied with submissives, but I’ve never found the one for me.”
“So you’re shopping around, and somehow think I can fulfill your needs.”
“I don’t assume anything. All I know is that I am intrigued by you and want to get to know you better.”
“Until now, I wasn’t sure what you meant by ‘get to know me.’ Now I think I do.”
“As long as we’re on the same page.”
“We’re not. As I told you, I’m not really ready for something like that again yet. And you still made the mistake of assuming I was up for patronage. Like a whore.”
“Then what are those girls? Are they whores?”
“Excuse you. What they want and what I want are completely different. They aren’t lifestyle submissives like I am. This is a job to them. I’m careful to not hire lifestyle women. They get too attached to their clients and cause a mess for me and them.”
“That is wise.” Henry removed his hand, clenching it on top of the table. Still, neither of them ate their dessert. “You really do have a good head for business. It must help that you have a lot of experience in this line of living.”
“If only you knew, Mr. Warren.” That was not an invitation. It is. It truly is. Monica pushed her plate of pie away. “Come. I want to show you something.” She stood up, pushed in her chair, and turned resolutely toward the door.
He attempted to follow, but the look on his face expressed that he had no idea what her intentions were. “You already gave me such a great tour last time.”
Monica touched the handle and looked over her shoulder. “Not of my room, I didn’t.”
That certainly got his attention. Henry moved to hold the door open for her, and the moment Monica stepped back into the Château she told the maid to give the pie to anyone who wanted it, and that she and Henry were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.
What Henry thought of these instructions she could only imagine. On one hand she was inviting him into her private quarters, beyond her office, but on another it was not a sexual invitation, as much as she wished it could be. But there was something that she wanted Henry to see, and he could only see it in her chambers.
They weren’t too far from the balcony. Just a few steps, and they were there, Monica unlocking the door that led to her private world.
Whatever Henry initially thought of her room, he did not let on. It wasn’t anything special. A large canopy bed, some antique dark wood furniture, and erotic art that she collected over the past few months.
“Everything you see in this room,” she said, pouring herself a glass of brandy and then offering another to Henry, “was procured in a short amount of time. When I left Jackson, I had only the clothes I wore on my back. I don’t know what he did with my old things. Maybe he threw them away. Maybe he created a shrine in which he venerates my image and vows to steal me back from my new life. I don’t care, but every time I look at these things, I’m reminded that I once had everything and then had nothing.”
“It’s still impressive.”
“I suppose. Most women couldn’t leave with nothing and build something like this up in such a short amount of time, true. I’m not most women. There are many different things about me that don’t hold true for other women I’ve met. ‘Normal’ women.”
“Is there really such a thing?”
He stood by the door, declining the brandy. Don’t act like you don’t want into my space. He would have to be mad otherwise. “There is such a thing as what the public perceives as being normal. I am not it.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that. I think a lot of women feel like you do, they just don’t know how to express it.”
“There’s expressing it, and then there’s living the lifestyle.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“What? Live the lifestyle?”
“Naturally.”
“As you said. Naturally.”
Henry eventually took a glass of brandy from Monica’s hand, his fingers lingering on hers. Keep finding excuses to touch me. I dare you. “You are right to be cautious. There are a lot of terrible people out there looking to take advantage of women looking for that kind of life. Unfortunately, as you prove.”
They stood in front of each other, Monica’s head tilted back so she could look up into his stoic face. “Are you a terrible person, Mr. Warren?” There was no whimsy in her voice. However he answered would decide the next thing she said to him.
It took a while for him to answer. During that time he sipped the brandy, murmured that it was a good brand, and stuck his hand in his pocket as if searching for his wallet or phone. “I like to think I’m not a terrible person. But all men are a work in progress.”
Damn him again. Monica wanted to hear him say that he was awful, that he was the best man in the whole world. Absolutes. That’s what she wanted. That way she could write him off as someone either too self-aware or too haughty to be trifled with. Monica drank her whole glass of brandy in one gulp, letting it burn her on the way down in hopes of washing away the memories bubbling up in her stomach. If they reached her brain, she was in real trouble.
Too late.
She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the situation, but Monica dropped her empty glass on the chair next to her and hid her face in her hands. The first sob to burst forth was powerful enough to shake her whole body, but the sound was worse: like an abandoned child wondering why she was all alone in the world yet again.
What was wrong with her? What made her so easy to abuse? What made any man, let alone the man she gave her heart to, decide to take her heart, her virtue, and her dreams for their future and crush them with his polished shoe? What made Jackson think he could hit her, spit on her, and force her to do things that went beyond the line of harmless sexual humiliation? She gave him several years of her life. In return, he gave her a prison and a broken heart.
Henry’s arms wrapped around her, a much welcomed veil of protection from the world she was too exposed to. I don’t need this… She didn’t need these welling feelings overflowing in her body, telling her to cling to him, to feel the strength of his arms, his chest, and his shoulders enshrouding her. He was so tall that Monica easily nestled into his embrace, hoping that he would hold her there in their small world forever.
She wanted a lot of things. Like the pat on her back, the nose in her hair, and the kind words that said she was worth more than any man must have shown her so far. I’m so weak. As if he read her mind, Henry said, “You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. Who can come back from something like that and do as much as you have? I’ve seen men crumble from less.”
No matter how much Monica wanted to tell him that it was an absurd thing to say, the words still sank into her brain, and she thought of the very few men in her life she ever saw cry. None of them had been her lovers. She wasn’t even sure Jackson was capable of producing tears – besides tears of laughter at her expense. “Why am I such a mess?”
Henry tipped her chin up and gazed into her tear stained face. There should have been something comforting in the way he looked at her, but all Monica could think was that this man had seen her cry. That was her second most vulnerable.
The first was…
Her heart exploded into a burst of sparks when he kissed her, Monica’s brain screaming no while the rest of her resisted reason and gave in to her strongest desires.
She hadn’t kissed a man who wasn’t Jackson in so long that she forgot men all did it differently. Henry, in particular, kissed with the entirely of his lips, not favoring one side or the other as he devoured the woman in his arms, each kiss stronger, more intoxicating than the last. Monica clung to him, her arms stretching to reach up around and bring him down closer to her, body slipping toward the sofa behind her with Henry following.
How liber
ating it was to give herself away, freely and without reserve. The heavy breaths hitting her skin were laced in an aphrodisiac that made Monica’s legs spread around Henry’s hips and her head fall back against the arm of the couch. Her chest heaved toward his mouth, which descended to her bodice, ripping apart the buttons of her dress and kissing both mounds of her breasts. Every time he thrust against her thighs, Monica whimpered, her hesitations unraveling the longer Henry Warren showered her with comfort.
Isn’t this what she expected when she invited him into her room? A part of her certainly hoped that her flirtations would lead to this. To deny that she wanted Henry was a grievous mistake. Monica knew herself too well to know that she could fool her heart like that. I won’t call it love. She wasn’t looking for love… but she needed passion. She needed to know that there were men out there still willing to take her how they pleased, their bodies using hers while still thinking of nothing but the woman they held in their arms and pushed into with every famished movement. Monica begged for him to have her, to rip away the one thing separating them and let her know him. Carnal knowledge was the next best thing to enlightenment.
“Mr. Warren,” she whispered, her skin bruising from the forceful way he kissed her throat and the shoulder that quickly emerged from her tearing sleeve. “Henry!”
He was too strong, too eager to deny any longer. Monica melted around him, her legs locked around his waist as he thrust against her. He’s hard already… And unless Monica was mistaken, Henry Warren had a lot to offer. Now. Right now. Her hand pushed between them, determined to open his zipper and pull away her lingerie so he could have her as he liked. I know men. I know what they like. Lucky for them that she liked it too.
Monica wouldn’t stand to wait another minute. “Take me, Henry,” she whimpered again, her breaths ragged as he sucked her nipple through her bra, his tongue dipping into the padding in a futile effort to taste her intimately. “Ravage me.”
She wanted it like she wanted to breathe the sweet air flooding her bedroom. For the first time in months, maybe years Monica looked forward to the fearless pleasures of sex. Not just any sex. The kind that made her scream into a man’s ear that he was tearing her apart, and to not stop until she was incapable of feeling a damn thing anymore. Henry could take her like this, right on her couch, but she would rather he take her to bed and mount her there. And it had to be now. Quick. Even forceful. There was time to serve him better as a sub later. Now was about sating the desires fueling her like mad and making her fantasize about Henry Warren throwing her down on her bed and defiling her body – and not only with some hair pulling and dirty, disgusting words.
“Deep down you’re a wild one, I see.” Henry took her wrists and held them above her head, his demeanor primal as his stony blue eyes drank in the skin she showed him. Her skirt slipped down her leg, exposing the white of her thigh and the black satin underwear she wore that day. They’re wet already. Now, damnit! He could have his fill of her in fewer than five minutes. Even at his biggest and roughest he could probably enter her with no hesitations. The more she thought about it, the more Monica wanted to claw his arms and scream at him to fuck her. “Like a sweet, pretty wolf.”
Now he pulled her arms back down, pinning them to her sides as her back arched and she presented her chest to his mouth again. Henry did not indulge.
“I’ve trapped you, queen of the wolves. Right here in your den.” His voice, low and vibrant, sent shivers throughout Monica until she nearly wept from frustration. “Do you know how badly I want to shoot you in the heart?” His lips ravished the valley between her breasts, his tongue wetting her skin, caressing her nipple, and making her pelvis shudder against his hips. “Do you know how much I want to leave my mark in you?”
His words were so delightful that Monica could barely form any of her own. “Be a menace. Hunt me down and claim my body.” She pushed her hips forward, rubbing against the hardness straining against his trousers. “I’m yours for the taking.”
Monica almost got off on the situation alone. Her, the dangerous she-wolf, chased into her den in the lonely woods, her hunter too strong to resist. Truly, her only hope was that he would mount her well and good, a mate worthy of calling her alpha. Based on what she felt between her legs right now… The odds are good.
She thought Henry would fuck her there and then. His breath was harried against her breasts, his hardness still rubbing against her clothed, wet slit. Monica wanted to reach between them and show him what he had done to her, but her arms were still stuck to her sides. Hold me like this and take me. Being immobilized was one of her biggest turn-ons. Henry was doing a fantastic job speaking to her kinky mind.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Or do you want me to struggle?” Like a wolf who would bite until the end.
“I want you.” If that was so, then why wasn’t he doing it? What did Monica have to say or do to get him to have her? “I want you so much that I know now is the wrong time.”
He released her, sitting up on the couch and doing his best to ignore the response between his legs. Monica also sat up, covering her chest with her torn clothes and the hair that fell out of her pristine bun. “What do you mean it’s the wrong time?”
“You said so yourself that you’ve been through so much. I’m the first man after that, aren’t I?”
Monica didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to be patronizing, but I wouldn’t feel right doing that until you were sure it was what you wanted. And I mean sure. Not from the heat of the moment, but because your heart and mind are also ready, not just your body.”
Monica didn’t argue with him. A part of her knew that he was right. When he came to visit that day, she had no idea that this would actually happen. That it would feel so good. After her last relationship, she had vowed to eschew all future ones unless she was absolutely sure she would not be as hurt should something happen. For as much as she wanted Henry, Monica knew it wasn’t enough.
“I won’t come back here,” he said, and for a moment a flutter of panic struck Monica’s heart. “Not until it’s the right time. If that time ever comes.”
He kissed her, not with the ardor of earlier, but with a warmth that said “No hard feelings.” Henry straightened out his clothing before seeing himself to Monica’s door.
“This isn’t farewell,” he said, hand on the door. “Only goodbye for now.” He left.
Monica had never felt so alone in her room before.
Chapter 7
Love Letters
When Monica received her first letter a few days later, she thought she was losing her mind. Nobody sent letters anymore. Certainly not to her.
But that was definitely what she received the morning a courier deposited a thick envelope in her hand before asking her to sign for a package containing better knives for the kitchen. “There’s no return address on this,” she said, signing the courier’s device but not looking away from the letter. “I thought you couldn’t accept those.”
The courier merely tipped his hat and wished her a good day. As soon as the front doors to the Château closed, Sylvia said, “That means someone paid him to personally deliver that.”
Monica could only think of one person who would do such a thing. She handed Sylvia the package, told her to take it to the chef in the kitchen, and darted upstairs to her room.
She never thought she would hear from Henry like that again. In the back of her mind she had pushed him aside as a momentary fling – the type of man who had wanted her one moment and then rejected her the next. When he never even bothered to call her, Monica assumed the infatuation was over.
Not so. The moment she tore open the envelope, a piece of paper fluttered to her desk. She snatched it up, eyes devouring every word.
***
“It’s been three days since that small amount of time we spent together, and since then I’ve done nothing but think of you. My intention was to put some space between us so
we could sort out how we really felt. In truth, we’ve only met a handful of times. I admit that I pushed things too quickly by sending you that gift. From the moment I laid eyes on you, Monica, I’ve thought of nothing but making love to you.
“Although we need space, I don’t want to give it to you anymore. You’re beautiful, yes, but you are also so much more. Since getting to know you better, I see a brilliant woman with a shrewd mind and a great sense for business. Not everyone could be in your position and do as well as you do. When you told me your harrowing tale of that other man, I felt my heart break on your behalf. There are foul men in this world. I like to think I am better than that. I also need to think about whether or not I can give you what you need.
“You’re not a woman who can be won with flowers and jewels. I’ve known women like that. You’re the type who must be won with deeds and reassurances. I can reassure you that I only have the best intentions in my heart. If I have ever wronged or offended you, or if I ever do so in the future, know that you are free to chastise me so that I may become a better man.
“Even so, my need for you burns. Your beauty caught me so off guard that it took me days to process your soft skin, sweet dimples, and hair enveloping your body. The other day I wanted nothing more than to make love to you, like an animal, like a man, everything in between and something that transcended both at the same time. You’re a woman who deserves only the finest sexual pleasure. I want to deny you it until you feel as if you’re dying. Then I want to give it to you until we both appreciate what this life has to offer us.
“It’s not that simple, is it? The other day I came to your Château with every intention of seducing you into bed. Yet after you told me what you did, I knew that it couldn’t happen. I won’t tell you how you feel or how you’re recovering. All I can do is prevent myself from becoming your next mistake. Now, before you protest, let me explain.
