Crowne Rules

by Reiss, CD

  “Hey!” I called, catching up to him in the parking lot.

  “Hi,” he said with a smile, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek, which I accepted.

  I took in the feel of his body so close, his lips on my skin, the raw, earthy smell of him. His face lingered near mine as if he was taking me in the same way, then he backed up, clearing his throat.

  “You look good,” he said.

  “Thank you. So, what are you doing here?”

  “On the ass end of WeHo?”

  “We call it home but okay.”

  “There’s a penthouse on Doheny I’m looking at for a new club. I was thinking about you.” He changed the subject whiplash quick, before I could feel good or bad about his thoughts. “For my mother. She has a thing. An event. She has a room full of gowns but says she doesn’t have anything to wear.”

  His smile could light up the city, but there was something off about it. The instinct to ask him about it was hard to quash, but I had to. His family was none of my business, and prying would be awkward under circumstances I’d describe as sexually tense and emotionally fraught.

  “She can call me,” I said, tapping the button on my key fob. “It was nice to see you.”

  “You too.”

  I walked to the car, turned, and found him still standing there with his paper cup.

  “What?” I asked.

  His reply was to come two steps in my direction—all he needed to tower over me.

  “I remember how you feel.” He whispered the seductive reminiscence as if it was as normal as it was arousing. “When you come, I have to hold you down to keep you on my cock.”

  I felt him inside me, stretching the muscles, demanding my body accommodate him, and the rewards of its submission. “Are you asking if I remember too?”

  “I’m asking if you want it again.”

  The city pressed against me—its noise, its people, its eyes everywhere.

  “We’re not in Cambria.”

  He smirked and touched my collarbone, watching his fingertips as they traced a slow line along it. “I’ll strip you naked anyway. Open your legs. Tease you until you cry and beg. Let you come, then make you come, then break you until you come again.”

  His finger stopped, and his eyes flicked up to mine, checking to see if I was flushed, panting, lips parted and eyelids fluttering—then he split-second smiled and lowered his hand, leaving my skin tingling for more.

  “One night?” I asked. “Or two?”

  “Make it three.”

  He thought he had me, and there was a time when he would have, but I was tired of limits and sick of fear. I was the way I was, and though I didn’t have to give my heart away to the wrong man ever again, I didn’t have to pretend my heart was hard either.

  “And then?” I asked.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m not built to use you,” I said, moving my gaze away from his with a monumental effort.

  “So don’t.”

  “Are you offering something with no rules?” I put my hand on his chest, where his heart beat, sure he was ready to refuse me. “More than sex, Dante.”

  He pressed his lips into a line. Had I said too much? Asked for more than I was entitled to?

  No. I hadn’t. Not at all. But he was going to refuse me because they all did. Every man I’d ever wanted walked away when I asked to be loved just a little more.

  “Yes, Mandy. Yes, I am offering you that and everything else. I won’t try to protect you or—God help us—myself.”

  My hand slid down, but he grabbed it before it could fall to my side.

  “You’re saying yes?”

  I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think he was lying. He wasn’t trying to get in my pants. He wasn’t toying with me. He was giving me what I wanted, and when he kissed my palm, my heart stopped beating with the shock of it.

  “You’re mine,” he said. Intensity radiated from him like the ring of light around a solar eclipse. He was blinding. Hotter and brighter than he seemed, with a dark circle blocking the best and most dangerous parts of him.

  Even sure that I deserved to be loved without boundaries or limits, I didn’t know what to do with being accepted.

  Maybe Couture Mandy was as bullshit as Discount Mandy.

  Maybe I needed to be a completely different person that couldn’t be defined by price.

  “I have to go.” I backed up a few steps before I melted from the heat of his intention. “Give your mom my number.”

  “Can I use it?”

  I had to pause for a moment. He was asking. Asking. Not demanding or assuming compliance, but requesting permission to call. I was already off guard, but that pushed me outside myself, as if I was living two lives at once.

  “Sure,” I said. “Any time.”

  * * *

  I didn’t know what to do with what Dante had given me. It was like wishing for a Maserati your whole life, then finding it sat lower than you thought it would and the engine was louder, and both those things were fine but unexpected, and a driver had to get used to being loved instead of shunned. So, I went about my life waiting to feel different, or shiny and new, or sporting more horsepower, but nothing like that happened.

  I was still me—but with a few more choices.

  “This is your color,” my patternmaker, Pia, said, big, brown eyes bordered with lines, softened with years, and sharp with expertise and experience. She stepped back to look at me in the bank of mirrors.

  The dress was perfect from every angle, the shape of my body sheathed in the sky blue of Dante’s eyes. It had been a full day since I’d seen him last, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the heat in the cold color.

  “It is.”

  “Any changes?” she asked.

  “It’s perfect.” I twisted to see the place where my waist and my back met. Yup. Perfect.

  Pia gathered her pins and chalk into the gray plastic box she brought to fittings. “You’ll wear it on Saturday?”

  “I will.”

  “In blue?” She smiled as if that pleased her.

  “In blue,” I replied, not mentioning the inspiration for the color.

  “Good.”

  She left, leaving me on the platform, surrounded by multiples of my reflection in a new color for the new woman I was.

  My phone dinged from my bag. I fished it out and found Dante’s name on the screen. My belly went liquid, and my spine tingled.

  —Have you used your

  left hand yet?—

  I had, and the sight of his suggestion flooded my body with warmth again.

  —Maybe—

  My coy answer resulted in a wait for the next text, as if he wasn’t prepared to be unsure.

  —The roof is fixed now.

  Ready for the next rainy season—

  Rain was so infrequent in Los Angeles that we celebrated when it came, walking around without umbrellas, eating on open patios, and laughing at our lack of proper shoes and coats.

  But I missed it for a different reason—the patter of raindrops on an umbrella would always remind me of him.

  —I still have your clothes and boots—

  —At the risk of saying something

  cliché… what are you wearing?—

  I took a picture of myself in the mirror and sent it, remembering that the last time he fucked me, I was in his clothes. They were washed and folded, sitting on the chair next to my sink. I thought of him when I brushed my teeth, when I curled my hair, when I took a bath.

  —What do you think?—

  —The color is shocking—

  —To me too. I keep looking at

  myself in it. I wonder if anyone

  will recognize me—

  —They will. And they won’t be able

  to stop looking at you—

  I didn’t expect him to show up for Ella’s event. In all the years I’d known him, I’d only seen him out a handful of times. He wasn’t a gala kind of guy. He was the kind of guy who wore a four-t
housand-dollar suit five days a week and barely pulled his jeans down to fuck you against his truck the other two.

  Three dots trailed at the bottom of my screen. I couldn’t take my eyes off them because he was probably going to say something perfectly nice, and I would be disappointed. We’d agreed not to fuck, and this wasn’t fucking, but it was a breach just the same—a breach I shouldn’t have let him make.

  And yet, I wanted to be broken, torn open, rendered down to heat and liquid.

  —Pick up your dress and

  show me what color you

  are underneath—

  The relief was so strong and came so fast I nearly sobbed, then I smiled.

  I picked up the skirt, faced the mirror again, and showed him yellow underwear that was just starting to get damp.

  Again, I stared at those three dots, heavy where my legs met, nipples hardening under sky-blue silk.

  —That’s not what I meant—

  My cheeks and chest flushed pink. Had I assumed too much? Had I humiliated myself?

  I started to type an apology, deleted it, started over with something sexier, and tapped the backspace key as another came in from him.

  —I meant…—

  More waiting. What would inspire him to hit SEND after “meant,” for fuck’s sake?

  Control.

  Keeping me waiting gave him control over me, and my willingness to accept it gave him even more. Those two things together soaked the panties I’d just shown him.

  —Spread your legs—

  My knees almost stopped working completely.

  Another text came right after.

  —It stopped raining, and your

  cunt is still mine. Show it to me, amea.

  Let me see what a whore you are for me—

  I had a choice to say no, but I didn’t. Every nerve ending in my body vibrated to do what he demanded.

  Sitting on the platform, I hiked up the skirt, spread my knees, and moved the crotch of my panties aside to reveal the aching, glistening mess between my legs.

  I didn’t pause before I took the picture, but I hesitated for a split second before I hit SEND.

  If the pictures got out, I’d be humiliated again. If Dante was even slightly careless, it would be all over the internet.

  But he wasn’t careless. He was careful. And I trusted him at the same time as I didn’t care.

  SEND

  —My beautiful little slut—

  The arousal hit so hard I gasped.

  This was on.

  I was all in.

  —I’m a dirty whore.

  I need a good spanking—

  My bottom had healed since he’d punished me, but it tingled with the memory.

  —Spanking’s too good for you—

  —Show me how you touch yourself—

  All in was all in. I took a picture of myself with my left hand under my panties. In the dull, unromantic lighting, sitting on a platform covered in gray industrial carpet with silk charmeuse gathered around my waist so I could expose my pussy, I looked degraded and vulnerable—a whore being skillfully used by the one man she’d intended to use.

  Perfect. I sent it.

  —Sluts as filthy as you

  get special punishment—

  I ran my fingers along my clit.

  —Tell me how you’re going to do it—

  —You won’t like it—

  —Will it hurt?—

  —Yes. But you’ll come when I allow it—

  —Now?—

  —No—

  —Tell me, please—

  He told me in a series of texts that came one after the other, except when he made me wait, as if he could time my orgasm from wherever he was.

  —You’ll be naked in front of me.

  On your back. You’ll draw your

  knees up and spread them.

  You’ll lay your hands on your ass

  and spread yourself apart for me.

  I’ll push your knees back farther

  until I can see your tight little asshole.

  My cock will already be wet with your

  spit, but I’ll be kind, and I’ll put my

  fingers inside your cunt to wet you more.

  My filthy little whore loves it, but when

  I put the head of my cock against

  your virgin asshole, your eyes go wide,

  and I push in. I destroy you. Stretch

  you so wide you think you’re going to

  die. I thumb your clit. You don’t know

  whether to cry or come. I won’t let you do

  either until you say what I want to hear—

  The pause was too long. I ran every possibility through my mind, then decided to come no matter what he said, but I couldn’t. My pussy was wet and swollen to bursting, but it wouldn’t release without his permission.

  Then I knew what he wanted to hear.

  —I am yours—

  —Good girl—

  His words filled me from the inside, ripping me open as if I’d been overstuffed with choices and will. Consciousness spilled out onto my fingers with his simple command to accept that my orgasm belonged to him.

  —Amanda—

  His next text came in when I was still panting, on my back with my dress around my waist.

  Shit.

  I’d been so good, then I’d given in so I could sext.

  What was wrong with me?

  —Thank you for that—

  —My pleasure—

  —Come to my place tonight. Show me what it looked like when I gave you permission—

  Before I left for Cambria, I’d said I wanted to use a man the way I’d been used, but I hadn’t. Dante and I made an agreement and fulfilled it to both our benefit. The implications in Los Angeles were wilder, less restrained, and though I didn’t want boundaries around our potential, I needed to protect myself and fast.

  —I have to go—

  He hadn’t used me in Cambria.

  But with the casual avoidance of the content of his last text, I’d used him.

  Chapter 31

  DANTE

  Since arriving back in Los Angeles, I’d felt out of sorts and hadn’t realized it.

  Taking control of five minutes of Mandy’s time had snapped me back to life. I’d gone to Cambria intent on finding dirt on the Hawkinses, gotten distracted by her, and with a few texts, been brought back to life by her.

  I still wanted Caleb Hawkins out of my affairs, but now I had even more incentive. I wanted to go to Mandy again, fully open to anything she wanted from me, but I had to be free of anything that could hurt her, including an enemy.

  He didn’t stall or play games but agreed to meet me at the InterContinental bar that night. The executive lounge was a fine and quiet place to meet, but he insisted on the bar with its throbbing music, boys with backward caps, and women in shirts with no backs. He was against the far wall in a bank of leather couches, slouching with a beautiful woman who seemed delighted to be in his company.

  I stood in front of him. He looked up at me, a fall of blond hair crossing his left eye.

  “Dante fucking Crowne,” he said as if I was an old friend before turning to the woman and saying something I couldn’t hear over the music.

  When she left, Caleb’s eyes followed her, and he bit his bottom lip over the shape of her ass.

  His eyes were half-lidded. Drunk? Stoned? Or was it an act?

  “Have I told you you’re disgusting?” I said.

  “What?”

  I needed to be heard, so I sat next to him.

  “You want something?” he asked. “They’ll spike it with whatever I say.”

  “I’m not here for the company.”

  “Poor Crownies. Can’t afford to have the sticks removed from your asses.”

  “I’m not here for medical advice either.”

  “So.” He lazily swung his arm. “Why are you here?” He turned to look me in the eye, and his suddenly weren’t at half-mast. “
Motherfucker.”

  “We have a box.”

  “Congratulations.” He looked away and flicked his fingers at a waitress who was bending over us in a heartbeat. “I’ll have another one of these.” He swirled the ice around his glass. “And bring my friend here a Crowbar.” Just when I thought he was done, he called her back. “That girl over there? With the ass? Get her whatever she wants.” He leaned back.

  “Are you done?” I asked. “Stalling won’t change anything.”

  “I’m done. Tell me about your box, Dante. I’m all a-fucking-quiver.”

  “It was Dave Fallon’s. From Thoze.”

  “May he rest his case in peace.”

  “It’s got documentation of blackmail.”

  He turned toward me as if I’d piqued his interest but not his fear.

  “Oh, well, that’s just the kind of thing we’d leave around, so tell me more.”

  I’d worked out the story carefully, cutting it from a whole cloth and checking it for runs and holes. “The tapes are from 2005—”

  “Tapes?”

  “Phone calls. Your lawyer, Dave Fallon, and the FCC chair.”

  “Privileged phone calls?” He pushed himself up from a deep slouch to a crouch and put his drink on the table. “From when I was eighteen? And you were? How old? Oh… right. Fucking my mother.”

  “Your ass isn’t on the line, but it’s going to affect your father and your bottom line.”

  “Sure.” He laughed derisively.

  Our drinks came, and he stalled, buying one for another woman across the room. When he was done, he handed me mine and clicked it quickly before drinking.

  “So,” he said, centering the glass on his coaster. “You want to make a gentleman’s deal. You and me. You give me this box or whatever, and I give you… what? It’s a little late for my stepmother, bro. She had three kids already.”