Power Play

by Landish, Lauren

  He shakes my head slightly, triggering the tears in my eyes to spill over, down my cheeks.

  But I don’t push him away.

  I did this to him, to us.

  Maybe it would’ve been different if we’d just met on the street or at a bar somewhere.

  The fantasy plays out in my head . . . casually running into him after a big day at the office, flirting with each other, and he’d gently push a lock of hair behind my ear and give me that charming smile.

  I imagine dates and sweet sex and a relationship built on solid ground that nothing could shake.

  But that’s not what happened. The same voice that asks for the fantasy knows that if we’d met in a coffee shop, we’d have made eyes, maybe had a date or two, and then our lives would have gotten in the way.

  No, it took this fucked up situation to bring us together like this.

  I’m shaking, though, shivering in his hands as he tastes my skin. We didn’t get that fantasy. And now I need to see this reality through.

  “Why you?” he murmurs against the skin of my neck. “I didn’t want anyone. Ever. But why you?”

  He doesn’t want me to answer, more talking himself out of this, and that’s the last thing I want.

  So even though it shreds my heart, I tell him something else he doesn’t know.

  “If it’d been easy, you wouldn’t have wanted it. Wouldn’t have trusted that either. Fate set us both up.”

  “So you want to what, just start fresh?” he snarls, anger and desire sweeping through him in equal measure, judging by the darkness in his eyes.

  My fingers trace up his legs, so gentle he might not even realize they’re there, but I shake my head. “No, not fresh. But to continue, to right things from here. The only way was for it to be messy, but we can clean it up together. Get through all this . . . together. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, but I want you. This. Us.”

  The words ignite something in him, maybe touching the part inside him that’s never felt wanted, and he yanks me to my feet. He grabs the hem of my shirt, ripping it over my head as I hear a seam give way.

  Then he does the same to my jeans, swatting at my hip to get me to step out of them.

  In seconds, I’m naked before him.

  Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally as well.

  Anything he wants, any truth I have to give, it’s his. He’s fully dressed, just as he symbolically shuts me out, fortifying his shields.

  He reaches forward, taking my neck in his palm. Not choking like in the car, but off to the side, fingers wrapped around the nape and his thumb keeping my chin lifted.

  Slowly, he starts his punishment. I take it all, hoping we can scourge the ugly lies and come out the other side of this purified and clean.

  And together.

  He tweaks my nipple sharply, the cry escaping before I can stop it. And when Nathan’s eyes meet mine, they’re dark and deep.

  There will be no mercy here tonight.

  He repeats his torture to the other side, and when my nipples are sensitive and red, only then does he move his mouth toward them.

  Normally, I’d pray for a soft lick, a nuzzle to balance, but not this time.

  When he latches on and sucks forcefully, it’s everything I want. I arch my back, my hands moving to his head, not to push him away but to pull him in harder, hoping the sweetness of my skin can temper the venom in his blood.

  “Spread your legs, kitty.”

  I’m not sure if it’s a cut at the false name or an endearment. I’m not sure he knows either—likely a mix of both—but I spread my feet wider.

  He doesn’t trail a touch down my body, doesn’t cup my pussy like a lover.

  No, he rears back and slaps my clit. Hard. The first touch, but I’m already dripping wet so even the angry snap of it feels good in a twisted way. Just like us.

  I moan, a ripple going through my body as I sag.

  He takes my weight into his hand, propping me up by my neck before doing it again. My hips violently buck this time, the pain too bright and the desire too overwhelming.

  I watch an arrogant smirk spread his lips as he watches my pussy clench and release. “Bad kitty. There’ll be no relief tonight. At least, not for a while.”

  It takes me a moment to figure out what he means. But when I realize he’s intending to work me over and then deny me a final release, the tears slip down my cheeks faster.

  It’s not that I want him for the orgasms, but that his cruelty is so shocking. It shouldn’t be. I know what Claire said, how strongly she’s warned me, but Nathan isn’t an evil man. Hurt, suspicious, cautious, calculating, yes, all those things.

  But that my actions have driven him this far, this deep into depravity, saddens me. Because nothing else has. Not the lonely childhood, not years of seeing atrocities in the service, not the death of his father.

  None of those broke him.

  I did.

  Guilt consumes me along with a promise to fix it, fix him. Whatever it takes. I steel my core, knowing it’ll take all I have.

  His fingers move against me, brushing my clit. It’s so good, almost exactly what I need. So he takes it away.

  He does it again and again. Touches so light I can barely register them, but my body does, mixed in with rough rubbings, slaps, and even pinches to my clit. And my pussy reacts powerfully to every bit of it, my honey making his every move slippery and easy.

  I’m going mad, only standing because of his continued grip on my neck as I beg. “Oh, my God, Nathan . . . please.”

  But he is immune to my pleas, just continuing the delicious torture, taking me to the edge again and again but never letting me fall over into the abyss.

  “Your mouth lies time and time again, but your pussy tells the truth. Whatever you wanted from me when you walked into that party, this wants my cock.”

  He cups my pussy roughly. “This is truth right here.”

  He sweeps his fingers through my juices, bringing his messy fingers to his mouth.

  “Fucking delicious. Your truth is delicious.”

  He shoves his fingers into my mouth, making me taste myself. I lick and slurp at his fingers, even when he pushes a little too far and I gag a bit. He chuckles darkly.

  “Truth is hard to swallow, huh?”

  My eyes narrow, and I suck his fingers hard, hollowing my cheeks and not letting them go. But he gets them free of my mouth, so I say, “I want the truth. All of it. Nothing between us, no lies, no secrets.”

  He spins me, pushing me over the arm of my living room chair. Face down, ass up, I hear him undoing his jeans. And God help me, I wiggle my ass like a red cape in front of a raging bull.

  I hear a rustle of fabric, and he’s naked behind me. He grabs my shoulder with one hand, forcing me to arch, and uses his other to line his thick cock up with my slit. There’s a sweet moment of anticipation, just his crown touching my entrance, which pulses like it’s kissing his cock.

  His moves his hand to grip my hip and slams into me, one powerful thrust to the hilt.

  I cry out at the invasion, so good but so full, and my walls spasm around him instantly. He smacks my ass hard. “Don’t you dare fucking come, Emma. I’m gonna fuck you rough and hard, punish you for your lies. And you’d better not come. Understood?”

  I nod, my cheek pressed to the seat cushion of the chair, and agreement received, he does as he promised. A man of his word, even if I’m not a woman of mine.

  Each pounding stroke shakes my body, my ass jiggling in waves from his power. He takes each cheek in hand, squeezing so hard I know I’ll have bruises where his fingertips are as he spreads me wide.

  I try to look back over my shoulder, trying to meet his eyes and see if there’s anything there or if this is as cold as it feels.

  But his eyes are locked on our junction, watching his cock disappear inside me with every stroke.

  True pain washes through me, and I bury my head back in the cushion.

  Maybe I was wrong
.

  Maybe I can’t fix this, can’t save us.

  I’m giving him everything, and on some level, it physically feels good.

  But whereas I’d hoped it’d be a cathartic cleansing, emotionally, it seems like he’s even further away than before.

  I cry out in pain.

  My soul, not my body.

  His hips pause a moment and his eyes flick up to check on me. And there, I feel it. Deep underneath the anguish and anger, it’s there. Hope.

  “Fuck, Em,” he says, and I know he feels it too.

  He probably senses even more than that because whether this is hopeless or not, I feel something big for Nathan.

  “Look at me,” he rasps, and I look back as he starts again, hammering into me, using his grip on my hips to guide me at his punishing pace. Forcing me to ride him even as he fucks me. My clit rubs along the chair, and I’m so close, but I won’t come. He told me not to, and as much as my body wants it, my heart knows I need to stave it off this time.

  For him. A sign of trustworthiness, loyalty, sacrifice.

  He must feel my walls clenching, squeezing him too, and I know he feels me lift off the chair, changing the angle he enters me so that I’m not getting the extra stimulation. He misses his rhythm, thrusting erratically for a moment, and then he pushes me back down against the chair.

  “No, kitty. Do it. Come for me.” It’s a permission I didn’t think to hear. It’s one I don’t think he thought he’d give, judging by the raspy way it forced its way out through his clenched teeth.

  But I push back, both of us catching a flawless rhythm, and with three strokes, he comes violently, bellowing my name. “Emma!”

  Emma, not Kitty and not kitty. Because there’s a difference to all three.

  He collapses over me, his slick chest to my back as he buries his nose in my hair and his cum in my pussy. I feel a sharp bite at my shoulder and I find myself coming too.

  The spasms are never-ending as we ride out our orgasms together, connected as one for at least this moment.

  The sparkles at the edges of my vision slowly fade, and I become aware of us both panting for breath.

  Nathan pulls out, leaving a void inside me and taking his heat away as he pushes off the chair, standing back.

  I move my hair out of my face with a shaky hand, realizing that might’ve been it for us. At least for him.

  My heart stutters as I turn around, lifting off the chair to stand.

  His eyes roam my body, and his voice is awed as he looks at me. “Jesus, are you okay?”

  I look down, seeing the hickies already blooming on my breasts, the pink scratch lines along my hips, and feeling the dots of bruises on my ass. Plus, what little makeup I had on feels like it’s smeared all over my face, there’s sweat everywhere, and I can see my hair in my peripheral vision so it must be a mess too.

  In short, he’s utterly ravaged me. Physically.

  But it’s nothing compared to the turmoil inside.

  “I’m okay. I’m better than okay,” I say with a sad smile, “if we’re okay.”

  He wipes at my cheek with his thumb but gives up at whatever smudge he’s trying to wipe off. Instead, he pulls me to him, cradling my cheek to his chest. I can feel his heart racing.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

  He’s talking about the rough sex. I can hear it in his tone.

  I pull back, meeting his eyes. “Nathan, physically, I could do that again with you right now. I love it when you touch me, in any way, in every way. Bruises will fade, and Pantene’s damn near my best friend. But what I need is here,” I say as I touch his chest over his heart, “and here.” I touch his temple.

  He sighs, sadness in his eyes. “Emma, you’re tearing me in half. I know what I want to believe, what feels true, but I don’t know if I trust you. Or maybe it’s that I don’t trust myself. I need time, I think.”

  It’s a reasonable request and one he has every right to. It’d be so easy for him to walk away, and that he’s not gives me hope that maybe there’s a chance.

  But if not, I need to lay it all on the table. “No secrets, Nathan. I—"

  He presses a finger to my lips, stopping me, though he obviously knows what I was about to say. “Not like this.”

  He doesn’t say it either. I wouldn’t want him to.

  Not when he’s uncertain.

  But I don’t doubt what’s in my heart, not a bit. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other or how we started. I know.

  Chapter 22

  Carly

  I take one last sip of my espresso, tossing the three-pack of biscotti Strega wrapped up for me into my carry-on bag. I’ll likely eat them all on the plane, but that’s okay. Strega’s baked goods are better than anything Alitalia’s going to serve me.

  “Tesoro, you’re coming back, right? You promised,” Strega calls from behind the counter, her arms open wide for a hug. I wrap my arms around her considerable size, wishing for the umpteenth time that she was my mother. Life with her as a parent would be a hoot, and I would’ve felt actual affection growing up. I sink into the hug for a second longer, memorizing everything about it.

  “I’ll be back,” I reply as I pat her on her back. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll be back. I promise.”

  My eyes drift over to the chair I always think of as ‘Kyle’s.’

  It’s empty, same as it’s been for two weeks since he made the big step forward. I’d expected the reverse, but his backslide has been worse than I thought it’d be. I haven’t seen him, not at Strega’s, the market, my shows . . . anywhere.

  I even went by his apartment, banged on the door until the neighbors came out and said they hadn’t seen him either.

  “I’m worried about him. Will you keep an eye out for him? And if he comes in, stuff him full of biscotti and cornetti and FaceTime me right then so I can give him a piece of my mind. I don’t care how late or what time it is in NYC, okay?”

  Strega’s smile is sad. “Just because you cannot save them all does not mean you stop trying. Stronzino, he is a hard case, I think. Maybe choose easier next time you want to play guardian angel.”

  It’s wise advice, motherly, I think with another pang.

  “The heart wants what the heart wants,” I reply wistfully. It’s a common phrase in Italy, used for everything from wanting the bad boy to drinking too much wine with dinner. It’s uselessly and endlessly used to excuse a myriad of things.

  “Ah, but the brain must sometimes get involved and tell the heart to sit down and shut up.” She zips an imaginary zipper across her lips and tosses the key over her shoulder. “You think about that next time, Tesoro. But yes, I will watch for him.”

  Walking out of the café feels final somehow, though I do have every intention of returning. But I have floated far too long and far too wide to make guesses about where I’ll go after being with Emma. I’m perfectly willing to go wherever the wind blows.

  I just wish it wasn’t back to NYC.

  The fourteen total hours to get back to New York go smoothly, mostly in a doze in my seat, and I do end up eating all three biscotti. The heart wants what it wants.

  I’m glad I don’t have to mess with baggage claim. It makes TSA easy, but it does seem a bit sad that my entire life can be contained in one carry-on suitcase and a big backpack.

  But long months of trekking through Europe carrying everything by myself has made me selective and an excellent packer. I could give Marie Kondo lessons in decluttering.

  I finally make it out to the public space and scan, looking for Emma. Her blonde hair peeks out from behind a reuniting family and I squeal. “Emma!”

  In an instant, my suitcase wheels are flying over the tile, clicking madly as I airport-run as fast as I can toward her, and she waves, seeing me.

  “Carly!” she squeals back, running for me too.

  We meet in the middle, hugging and jumping up and down in a circle. We probably look like loons to anyone watch
ing, but I can’t give them a second’s thought with my bestie right here with me. Finally.

  “Oh, my gosh! You cut your hair!” she says, playing with my current shag. I laugh, not wanting to tell her that this time, it’s simply six months of growing out after a self-chop in Sarajevo.

  “Yeah, about fifteen times,” I laugh, shaking my head. “You too! You look great!”

  I yank her back in for another hug, stockpiling them today like I’ll never get another.

  A throat clears from behind her, and at first, I think we’re in the way. But when Emma looks over her shoulder, I can see the affection in her eyes as plain as day. I grin big and wide, scanning him from head to toe.

  He’s nowhere near as sexy as Kyle, in my opinion, but Emma certainly knows how to pick some USDA choice beef. I offer my hand. “You must be the ‘It’s Complicated’ man.”

  He raises a brow and glances at Emma, who rushes to do introductions. “Carly Edwards, this is Nathan Stone. Nathan, this is Carly. My best friend in the whole wide world.”

  We shake hands and he smiles tightly. “You must be the Europe-hopping rebel.”

  I glance to Emma too, and she throws her hands wide. “What? I’m not wrong about either of you. Come on, we’ve got things to do!”

  Nathan leads the way, letting us catch up as he clears a path for our mindless walking. Honestly, if he wasn’t directing traffic for us, I’d probably walk into a pole, I’m just so excited to see Emma.

  As we move, I whisper so Nathan can’t hear. “Oh, my God, he’s a hunk!”

  Emma beams, her eyes fixed on Nathan’s butt in his tailored suit and a blush creeping across her cheeks. “I know!”

  I lift my brows, still knowing Kyle’s . . . hunkier. Is that a word? “You’re sure he’s not married? No kids, no parole violations, no secret dungeon where he wants to tie you up?”