by W Winters
The conversation continues without me as the focus.
Travis comes to mind again, and it’s too much. It’s bringing up old emotions in a storm that won’t go away. I feel trapped on this cushion, just as trapped as if he’d tied me up, and I can’t stand it. It’s like I can’t breathe. I should have left. I don’t want this. I can’t do this. “I want out,” I say, interrupting them.
Declan turns to look at me, his face blank. “If you want to come out, you’ll need to tell me your punishment instead.”
Anger crashes over me as tears prick the back of my eyes. “Fuck you.”
“Get out,” he says, so quickly it shocks me. But he’s not telling me. He’s speaking to the other man. The stranger’s eyes go wide. “Get the fuck out.”
Declan
The door closes with a hurriedness in Joshua’s steps and with barely restrained anger, I rise and make my way to her. She’s no longer kneeling. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she sits on her ass, hiding herself from me. I command her, “Up now.”
“I want to leave,” she bites out, not bothering to even look at me.
“Like hell you’re leaving before I redden your disrespectful ass,” I grit out, my teeth clenched as I bend down to grab her. My entire being trembles with the need to punish her for speaking to me like that, then she doubles down, her words striking me with a force I couldn’t predict.
“You’re a psychopath.”
It’s as if she’s slapped me. I’m far too careful as I rise, standing tall and commanding her, “Get up.” I practically snarl. Why does she push me? Does she think I won’t punish her? That I can’t punish her in a way that won’t trigger her like it did earlier. Or that I won’t?
Heat bristles and I stay eerily still, waiting. “Stand up now, Braelynn.” The sentence is spoken so softly she finally peeks up at me, her wide eyes reeling.
I don’t know what the fuck happened. Something’s gotten into her head. Did she think I’d go easy on her because another man hurt her? That she could push and I’d let her. Hell, does my little pet want a fight?
“Stand up now,” I repeat and she finally obeys. “That’s better.”
“I just want to leave,” she tells me and her voice trembles.
“Walk to the desk and get into position, now,” I command her, ignoring her plea to leave. “Do not make this harder on yourself than you have to,” I warn.
If she leaves now … I don’t think she’ll ever come back. Chaos brews inside of me. What the fuck happened?
When she swallows, the cords in her neck tighten. Her arms are still loosely crossed in front of her. I watch as she takes the first step and then the next to the desk. She moves her clothes and then presses herself down, her legs spread, exactly how I like her.
Good girl.
The relief I feel is unexpected. Taking a step and then another, I watch her. The nervousness washes off of her in waves.
“Do you like pushing me?” I question.
“No,” she answers immediately and her voice tightens. The hardened veneer of her expression crumbles in an instant. She’s on the verge of tears again.
“Then what the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs and her breath comes in a shudder. She turns her head, to look away from me.
“No. You will watch me and I will watch you,” I order and with the harshness in my tone, she faces me. Something twists inside of me at the sight of her. Bent over, unraveling into utter vulnerability.
“That is my good little pet. Unravel for me.”
Her shoulders heave as she attempts to calm herself.
“I’ll pick your punishment for you.” I move each hand where she can grip to keep her steady. “Don’t move your hands off the edge of the desk.”
Instantly I know exactly what instrument I’ll use. The collection I curated for her can wait. The top drawer opens easily and a wooden ruler is lifted.
This will leave marks, welts perhaps.
“Every time you sit, you will think of how you chose to move from your kneel,” I tell her before shutting the door and coming to position beside her.
I nearly put it back, but then I remember the “fuck you” and name-calling. I bring it down against her ass in a swift strike.
Her lips part, her upper body comes up, and she cries out in both shock and pain.
Her hands, though, they stay right where they should.
With the ruler hot in my right hand, my left splays against her shoulder blades, urging her back down.
Tears brim and then leak easily down her reddened face.
“You will keep count,” I command.
“One,” she whispers and then pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, taking the tears with it.
I’m quick to land the second an inch from the first, leaving a bright red stripe across her plush ass. Her back arches, and she holds back a cry. “Two.”
I lower the next punishing blow to her upper thighs.
“Three,” she utters, her knuckles turning white as she grips the edge.
Rubbing a soothing circle against the red marks makes her wince but when I squeeze, her mouth parts with a moan. She writhes for me.
That’s what you do when you’re in pain. You take hold of the wounds and turn them into sinful pleasure.
With that thought in mind, the next lashing lands between the first two. Spreading the marks, I take care not to strike the same place twice.
Another one lands and another. I move to stand behind her, fisting the ruler and lean over her draped form. When I press against her, only the fabric of my pants separating her from me, she protests with the most beautiful sound. Kissing down her neck, I grind myself against her and it morphs like it should, twisting that pain into the only thing I ever want her to feel.
“Just imagine how this is going to feel …” I whisper down the curve of her neck before nipping her earlobe. Again she protests, pulling away as the sensations smother her. Grabbing her chin, I force her to look back at me to finish, “… when I fuck you like this and every thrust brings this with it.”
My pulse races as I release her, those dark eyes swirling with every emotion imaginable. Her chest rises and falls just as mine does.
“Please stop,” she begs just as my arm is raised, to color the other thigh with a stripe.
“You have three more, Braelynn.” I pause, offering her mercy. I keep forgetting this is new to her. She said she wanted this, but does she even know what this relationship entails? “Or do you want to apologize?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay still.”
“For calling me a psychopath.” The pain I felt leaks into the correction and I hate it. I hate all of this.
“You wouldn’t let me leave,” she says, turning slightly to face me. Whatever’s written on my face, she sees it and her answering expression is one of sorrow.
“You didn’t use your safe word. You never stopped it when you could have. You didn’t even fucking try,” I mutter with the disappointment evident.
She blinks, as if coming back to me from wherever the fuck she went. As if realizing the extent of what’s occurred. “I’m sorry—”
“I would never call you a name to hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you. Not real pain.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She’s quick to apologize and for a moment it seems like she’ll turn to face me, to beg me, but her hands don’t leave, they hold her back.
She has no idea how many times I’ve been called a psychopath by men who died minutes later. Their voices shriek at me from the depths of my memory. They were right. She’s right. I’m a psychopath. I’m a murderer. I’m going to hell once I’ve finally been killed. I’ll burn for the things I’ve done.
“Get your clothes on and get out.”
I don’t know where it’s come from, but I need her to leave. With the emotion that swarms me, the realization of the power she has over me, to compel me to feel this, I can’t be around her right now. �
��Now.”
“Declan, I’m sorry,” she repeats, slowly standing but not reaching for her clothes just yet.
“You can go home for the rest of the night,” I add as I move away from her attempt to press her hands against my chest. Dropping the ruler to the drawer, I detach myself.
“Get dressed.”
“Please, Declan. I’m sorry—”
“How many times must you make me repeat myself?”
“I’m sorry,” she pleads as she obeys, slipping her dress over her head.
“… you would do anything to stay, wouldn’t you?” I doubt if I should be so sure that she’s not the one who’s the informant.
“I didn’t realize it would hurt you like that.” Brushing her dark hair from her face, she tells me, standing awkwardly by the desk, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“When you say that … I believe you.” A whisper at the back of my mind reminds me that this isn’t some paid service or a rendezvous with a flame. She could be working with Scarlet. Using me. Fucking me just to get close. And yet, I can’t stop the words from slipping out. “So don’t hurt me. I don’t ever want to hurt you either.”
A shuddered breath shakes her shoulders as she nods up at me. “I won’t hurt you. I promise,” she tells me in lowly spoken words. Her longing gaze reflects an eagerness to start over, to leave all of this conflict behind.
Today has been difficult, between her admission regarding her abusive ex and our current dispute. There’s a tension between us unlike what’s been there before.
Glancing down at the desk, I consider telling her to bite down on the ruler and fucking her from behind, giving both of us exactly what we need. That’s all we need right now and then all of this goes away. It’s what I’d planned on. Every thrust from behind would give her a hint of pain, heightening the pleasure. It’s what she needs. I need it too. The haze that clouds my judgment vanishes as my phone rings, disrupting the moment.
It’s Jase, no doubt with more information about the informants.
“Declan?” My name is a whispered and cautious question on her lips. Her cheeks are blotchy and her hair disheveled. I should love this look on her, this obvious need to make things right with me, but I loathe it.
What the fuck am I even doing with her?
“Get your shoes on,” I command her and she’s quick to move. I assume in hopes that this conversation is over, but it is far from over. “If you behave like that again, I’ll lock you in a real cage.” Pausing in her movements, she peers back at me silently. “Do you understand?”
She nods and swallows thickly before saying, “Yes.”
The phone rings once more and I answer it. “One second.” Bringing the phone down to my chest, I watch as Braelynn fixes the sleeve of her sweater dress. It’s not until she’s somewhat composed that I speak.
Although it’s more than evident that she’s emotional and still shaken.
“If you keep secrets from me, I won’t know and you’re going to end up hurting yourself.” Fully clothed, she stares back at me with her eyes glistening, her arms crossed over her chest. Her bottom lip wobbles and the thoughts that flit through my mind are insane. Truly deranged.
The desire to hang up on my brother, to coddle her and love on her until she doesn’t look at me like that any longer … it’s unfathomable.
So I do what’s best for her, what I should have done from the very beginning. “Go home, Braelynn.” She should have left the first time I warned her and never come back.
She doesn’t respond verbally, only with a single nod before briskly leaving.
The moment the door closes and I answer my brother, all I can think is she might do just that after today.
She may never come back. It leaves me with a sinking feeling in my chest, and a chill and numbness that stay with me for the remainder of the night and into early morning. I stay up the entire time knowing all too well, if she were smart, she’d never step foot in this office again.
Braelynn
Last night I cried over Declan Cross.
I don’t know that I can do this. It’s not just money and lust. I’m not okay and I keep crying every time I glance at the clock. With the shift of the red digital display, it turns to 4:00. I have two hours before I’m supposed to go back to him and my stomach is still in knots.
Rubbing my eyes, I splash cold water against my face and rub them again.
I’m so torn on what to do, I feel both drained and sick.
It’s been two weeks since I started working for him, but it feels like a lifetime. I swear a part of me feels as if I know him, but he doesn’t know me and really, what do I know about him?
Other than this compulsive need to be beside him. The only thing I’ve done today is stare at the expensive bottle of wine he had delivered this morning. My check came wrapped around it. Does he think that will make this better? More importantly, am I supposed to pretend yesterday didn’t happen? Am I supposed to be okay with this?
I collapse onto the sofa, peeking at the clock again and wishing I could pause time. Just enough to feel better, even a hint better. As every minute ticks by, it all feels heavier.
I’m still on the couch, wrapped in my blanket, when I get a text from Amy. She’s a friend from a lifetime ago, and the perfect kind to have. She checks up on me here and there since moving to California to start a better life, but there’s never any pressure between us. We always pick up right where we left off. It’s good, because sometimes my life goes through drastic changes. Like when I left Travis. It never shocked her; she only wanted to make sure I was okay. She was the first person I told when he hit me. We were young and dumb and only nineteen.
I’ll never forget that lonely feeling, like I couldn’t tell anyone. I could always tell Amy everything, though. And she could do the same for me.
Amy: How’s the new job going?
Honesty is not at the tip of my tongue. I tap out a text telling her it’s all fine, just getting up to speed still, and send it. Chewing the inside of my cheek, it feels like I’m back years ago. Hiding from the truth and unwilling to tell a soul. When deep inside I want to scream it.
Maybe I should show up drunk, thank him for the bottle that sits on the coffee table, and then quit. That’s what a very large piece of me wants to do.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, there’s a knock on the door. I abandon my blanket and pad over. I check the peephole first.
Fuck. My blood goes cold and a nervousness rattles through me.
“Braelynn.” His voice is calm as he looks directly at the peephole. “Open the door.”
At the sight of Declan standing outside the door, goosebumps cover my skin. I fumble for the knob and pull it open.
His strides are steady and firm. His frame is so large in the small foyer.
He walks in with no hesitation, as if he owns this place as much as he owns The Club. It’s shocking to see him here, especially given last night, that I don’t notice the bags at first. He holds up takeout. Chinese food, from the scent. It only takes him one look around to find the kitchen. His worn jeans and gray Henley are a change from the norm. As is all of this.
By the time I’ve shut the door, he’s going through the cupboards and pulling out plates. He rummages through the drawers until he finds the forks and knives, then pulls paper napkins from a holder on the countertop and wraps two sets of utensils.
My arms crossed over my thin sleep shirt, I dare to ask, “What are you doing?” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I remember I look like hell. Not an ounce of makeup and my hair is a frizzy mess.
“Feeding you,” he says, matter-of-factly. I watch him put food on the plates, his hands capable on the boxes. He glances to his right, to what should be a dining room but the table itself is still absent. Then he glances to the left, the living room, which is small and still filled with boxes. “Where do you like to eat?” he asks casually.
I take a moment, watching him. There’s something different, calmer and more r
elaxed, but he also doesn’t look me in the eye.
“The couch, mostly,” I admit. “It’s not the classiest thing in the world, I guess, but I like to flip through the channels while I eat.”
He nods, “’Cause you’re alone …” he peers back at me, “when you eat.”
There’s a touch of sadness in his tone that catches me off guard. “Yeah.”
He nods and then carries both of the plates and silverware out to the living room, setting it all on the coffee table.
As I take the seat beside him on the sofa, the couch groans. It’s so cheap beneath him. My face feels hot with him seeing this part of my life, even though there’s nothing special about sitting on my own couch. He places the plate in front of me on the coffee table and takes the seat next to me.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper. I’m starving and my stomach growls in protest of my statement. I could devour this plate in an instant. Instead the fork teeters in my hand.
“Yes I did.” His answer is immediate.
“You could have called,” I suggest, staring at his profile and willing him to look back at me.
“I was afraid you would tell me,” he starts, taking in a deep breath, and staring ahead before he falls silent. A car honks its horn outside, sounding like it’s coming from the parking lot of the yoga studio across the street.
“I can be … a lot,” he says, after a minute. The sound of him swallowing is the loudest thing in the room. “It’s been a while and I forget sometimes …” He seems to consider his next words. “I need you to communicate with me very openly. Very, very openly.”
“What do you mean?” My ears burn.
“If I ask you what happened or why you feel a certain way, I need you to be blunt.” He licks his bottom lip and then stares deep into my eyes. “I’m not good at guessing, Braelynn. And I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to tell me everything.”
The way he stares at me, as if he needs this, he needs me as if he’s begging me, I can hardly sit so close to him. The air in the room seems to thin and it’s only the two of us.
