“I have my own place, you know.” I cross my arms over my bathrobe, standing near the bathroom door and shooting daggers at the sex addict in front of me.
This is beyond anything I could’ve thought or imagined.
I didn’t sign up for this.
I really didn’t sign up to be ravaged multiple times at a party full of people until I could barely move. The only reason I was able to get back to socializing is because I nearly kicked him in the nuts so he’d let me go.
But, of course, Kingsley doesn’t let go. At least, not for long. He’s like a giant black cat who gives his prey a break just so he can pounce on them afterward.
And that’s exactly what he did. At first, he let me socialize on my own while watching from afar, but then he glued himself to my side and introduced me to some of his father’s friends.
I couldn’t exactly be mad about that, because making connections is vital in the legal field, and many of those businessmen are potential clients.
Not sure why he was doing me the favor, and even introducing me as a senior partner at his firm, which he never does. I would swear that he erased my position from his head a long time ago.
At any rate, he was in a suspiciously good mood and proved it by whispering filthy words in my ear as if throwing me off-balance was his favorite sport.
When we left the event—or I was leaving because his mere presence caused me sexual frustration—he suggested taking me home.
Or rather, he shoved me into his car.
And all that effort was so he could fuck me in his house all over again. Against the door, the wall, and just now, in the shower.
Thanks to his insatiable libido, I’m unable to move. Again. And I’m sore and achy all over.
Jesus. I’m not so young anymore.
And neither is he. So where the hell does he get this energy? He even looks ready to have a redo.
Maybe I need to make friends with Martha and ask her to smuggle me out of this place after I put sleeping powder in his drink.
His dark hair falls over his eyes as he uses a towel to dry it, sending the wet strands flying everywhere.
I try to glance away from his sculpted torso and fail. It doesn’t help that droplets of water slide down his abs and to the V-line that disappears beneath his boxer briefs. He has the type of perfect physique that belongs on the cover of a magazine.
“Your place is occupied by a certain mobster wife and her dogs,” he says in answer to my earlier statement. “As I mentioned, having an audience is not my thing.”
“How did you know Caroline has dogs?”
“When I talked to her on the phone earlier, she said Cain and Lucifer say hi. I honest to fuck hope those are only some edgy dog names and that you didn’t invite actual demons to your apartment.”
“Why did you even call Caroline… Let me guess, she told you where I was?”
“You guessed correctly.”
I’m going to kill Callie.
“Don’t be a stranger.” He motions at my proximity with a crooked smile. “I won’t bite you.”
“Won’t bite me, my ass. I have the marks to prove you wrong.”
“Allow me to correct my statement. I won’t bite you now.” He starts toward me with long, determined strides, draping a clean towel over his shoulder.
I grab the nearest object, a gold candelabra, and hold it protectively in front of me. “I swear to God, Kingsley. If you take a step further, I’m going to bash your head in.”
If I thought that would deter him, I’m proven utterly wrong when he keeps approaching with a wicked grin. “You have it in you to knock out my genius-level neurons?”
“Just like you have it in you to drain me.”
“Your pussy and your mouth don’t sing the same tune, sweetheart.” He stops a hair’s breadth away. “I bet if I put my fingers inside, that cunt will swallow them and keep them there.”
“Stop it…” I jam the candelabra against his chest, but something blinds my eyes.
A towel.
He removes the candelabra from my fingers with embarrassing ease. Then my sight is back when he starts to towel-dry my hair with both hands.
I tense, but he just continues his task. “Relax. I won’t fuck you again…for now. You need to eat and drink more water first or you’ll be dehydrated.”
My lips part as I stare up at him, honestly looking for a sign that this is a joke. When I find nothing, my throat dries.
Since when is he a caring person? Yes, I know that he dedicated his life to Gwen and is a loving father, but other than that, he’s been crowned a jerk.
I had assumed that he’d be the same toward his sexual partners, too.
A queasy feeling spreads through my stomach at that thought.
No, nope. I’m not going to think about his fuck buddies, army of escorts, and the fact that I’m one of them.
I am not.
I just let him fuck me to get all the tension between us sorted out. That’s it.
That’s all.
I try to grab the towel. “I can do it myself.”
“Stay still.” He gives every red strand individual care as if he’s on a mission.
“I’m not a baby,” I grumble.
“No, but you’re careless about your body’s needs.”
“I can towel-dry my own hair.”
“Which you didn’t. Stop making this into a fucking event and finding an issue with everything.”
I open my mouth to give a scathing reply but choose to close it. I’m being defensive, completely and utterly so, and if I say anything, it’ll only serve as proof against me.
“I gather you’re not used to people taking care of you,” he speaks softly in the silence of the room—or as softly as Kingsley can.
“I’m independent.”
“Is that another word for I’m scared to open up?”
“Only a sexist asshole would assume an independent woman is that way because she’s scared of something.”
“I’m not assuming, sweetheart. I know it for a fact, and if sexist is the label you want to slap on me, by all means. Whatever helps you sleep at night. The fucks I have to give are 404 not found. Just know that no amount of resistance on your part will change my mind about what I’ll do to you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you heard. I’ve decided you’re mine for the time being, and that means no other man will touch you aside from me. Oh, and you’ll come here every other night and spend it in my bed.”
I hate that something squeezes in my heart and my stomach tightens. What the hell? “Spend it in your bed?”
“Or shower or counter or wall. Basically, any surface that can be used to fuck you senseless.”
“And you just decided that all on your own without, I don’t know, talking to me about it or anything?”
“The part about you being mine is absolute. The second part, which concerns you showing up here, is negotiable, but if you want me to go to your apartment, kick the audience out first.”
“Wow. You sound so confident about the fact that I would agree to be yours.”
“I’m rich, handsome, and illegally smart, not to mention I have a dick you can’t keep up with. I’m a catch. Highly recommended. So why wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know, due to the fact that I don’t even like you, maybe?”
“You don’t have to like me to fuck me, sweetheart. Your pussy would gladly back my claim.”
I slap a hand on his chest and push him away—or try to, anyway. “Allow me to use your favorite line and decline.”
He removes the towel from my head but doesn’t give me back my space. The color of his eyes darkens like a storm brewing in the distance with pure intention of mass destruction. “Your stubbornness isn’t so cute anymore.”
“It was never supposed to be.” I glare and his jaw clenches.
We remain like that for several long beats. Like a tug of war between two powerful generals. It’s almost impossible to maintain eye contact with him for an extended time, but I’m ready to be drained to zero if it means holding my own.
“Let’s hear it,” he finally says.
“Hear what?”
“Your counterargument.”
“This isn’t a relationship. Only fucking, that either of us can walk away from at any second. And I’m not yours or anyone else’s. I belong to myself.”
His eye twitches, but other than that, no reaction shows on his face. “So you want us to be friends with benefits, minus the friends part. So should it be called enemies with benefits? A hate-fucking relationship?”
Now that he puts it that way, it sounds more fucked up than it did in my brain. But it does sound plausible enough and I can stand my ground, so I give a sharp nod.
“How much control do you have, Aspen? A mountain’s worth? Two? I want you to remember this moment when I force every inch of it to crumble to the ground.”
“Does that mean you agree?”
“To what, exactly? An open relationship where you act as if you’re not mine and I get to jam my dick into the city’s available holes?”
A bitter taste explodes at the back of my throat at the image he’s painted, and a weird negative energy perches on my chest.
It takes me a few moments to find my voice. “If you fuck another woman, I’ll fuck a man and make you watch.”
“Oh, I won’t be watching, sweetheart. He will, as I make you scream my name while you bounce on my cock like a filthy little whore, and just when he gets a hard-on, I will slice his throat and fuck you on all fours in his blood.”
My stomach tightens, and for a moment, I wish he’s joking or that this is a twisted hallucination, but the dark gleam shining in his eyes is nothing short of a lust for violence. A twisted possessiveness that I’m the subject of.
“You’re sick, Kingsley.”
“And you’re blushing.”
“I’m fuming.”
“Semantics.”
I release a long puff of air. “I mean it. No other women.”
“Sure thing. The price is admitting that you’re mine.”
“No.”
“We’re doing it my way then, and believe me, you’ll regret this decision.” He tosses the towel on the floor and turns around, his shoulders crowding with tension. “Come down when you’re ready.”
The room gains an unusual coldness once he leaves and I have no clue why I shiver like a stray kitten caught in the rain.
It’s not dread.
I refuse to believe it’s dread.
After throwing on one of Kingsley’s shirts, which swallows me whole and reaches my mid-thigh, I pad down the stairs.
I’m thankful he doesn’t have any live-in staff, which should be expected in mansions like his. They seem to come during the day and then leave before he gets home.
I pause in front of the demon painting. Now that I know its meaning and the story behind it, it’s gained a different, more sinister light. I can’t help thinking about a younger Kingsley staring at demons that might or might not reflect the ones inside him.
He’s had them for a long time. Since he was in his teens. And they might have been what attracted me to him in the first place.
Shooing that uncomfortable epiphany away, I follow the sound of clinking dishes that’s coming from the kitchen.
It’s spacious, has a built-in marble counter, and contains steel equipment that’s fit for a chef’s kitchen.
Kingsley’s back seems to have lost the tension from earlier as he stands over the stove.
But I know not to be relieved, because if there’s anything I’ve learned about this man, it’s that he has a PhD in hiding emotions. What he shows is almost never what he harbors.
I trudge to his side and take a moment to focus on all the ingredients and dishes in the making.
Some lentil soup, I assume. Mushroom sauce and something with lamb.
When did he even get groceries? More importantly, why does he look like he’s in his element chopping vegetables into minuscule, perfectly symmetrical pieces?
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says without looking at me.
“When did you learn?”
“Early in my childhood. My grandfather used to say that the secret recipe to being a powerful leader is to know when, how, and for how long one should mix the people at their disposal. Cooking a meal is the same. Every ingredient has a pattern and a purpose—to make a perfect meal.”
“Did you just compare people to meals?”
“Ingredients. The meal is the result, as in the money they bring to the table whether by working or indulging in consumer culture.”
“You’re a capitalist pig with a Machiavellian state of mind.”
“Sue my bank account.”
“Just because you’re rich and attractive doesn’t give you the right to exploit people or treat them as if they’re cattle.”
“I only heard the rich and attractive part.” He pauses when he finally lifts his head and focuses on me.
The fire-like storm that ignites in his eyes leaves me breathless. He has a way of looking at me as if I’m his favorite meal. Not a mere ingredient.
It takes everything I have not to squirm or give away what I’m thinking.
“You look hot as fuck in my shirt.”
I clear my throat, completely unaware of how to accept compliments. “I thought this was better than traumatizing both of us by borrowing Gwen’s clothes again.”
“We agree on something.” He retrieves a plate, still appearing completely in his element.
He must’ve cooked for Gwen all the time. Nate mentioned she’s a good cook and an even better baker.
Two qualities I definitely don’t have.
I live on canned food and takeout, and recently, Callie’s burned dishes.
“Were you close to your grandfather?” I ask, then pause at the nagging sensation in my head.
Why do I want to know more about him when I just drew a firm line upstairs?
“Not really, since he died when I was young. I do consider this house his legacy and not my father’s, though. Because my father used it as collateral, lost it, then rebought it. So this is definitely not something he valued.”
“Because he gave it to Susan?”
“That and the fact that he put it up for collateral several times even after he lost it.”
“Susan could’ve manipulated him into it.”
“Unless Susan has black magic talents, she didn’t force him to do anything. He was pussy-whipped but not enough to lose his mind. Still pussy-whipped, though.”
“Is that why you went out of your way to prove that he was senile in the months before his death? A last ‘fuck you’ of sorts?”
He grins. “With a rest in pieces sign for his death. I even had a plate made specifically for the occasion that said ‘unbeloved father and married to a plastic gold digger.’ Susan had it destroyed, for obvious reasons.”
“You do realize all these shenanigans with Susan are useless, right? You have the house, the upper hand, and more money to crush her. Wouldn’t it be better to let her and, therefore, your grudge go?”
“Not until she becomes a beggar on the side of the street. Just like the day she came into this family. In fact, I’ll take this a step further and make her kneel on my mother’s grave and beg for her forgiveness. Maybe then I’ll let her go.”
I see it then. Hatred, anger, and all the negative emotions that shouldn’t exist within one person. “Oh my God. Is this your way of doing something for your mother now because you had no power when you were young?” He remains silent, but I know I hit the nail on the head. “It is, isn’t it? It’s why you refuse to let the Susan thing go. You’re stuck in the past.”
“That makes two of us, because the mere mention of your father turns you into a trembling leaf.”
“My father is alive and a very serious threat.”
“So what? Unless you want to go down that road, I suggest you don’t go sniffing near my closet. My skeletons don’t concern you.”
I purse my lips and he takes it as a hint that I’ve dropped it.
Damn the asshole. He tells me I’m stubborn, but he’s as headstrong as a bull.
When I say nothing, he motions at the counter. “Sit down. The food will be ready in a bit.”
“I’m not really hungry…I wouldn’t say no to a drink, though.”
“You will be eating, and there will be no drinking alcohol under my roof.”
“Why the hell not? You have a wine cellar the size of Texas and with as much precious liquor as its oil wells.”
“Didn’t know you read articles about me.”
“It’s…a known fact.”
“The better known fact is that you’re bordering the line of being an alcoholic with your daily drinking habits and even going to the lengths of disguising a drink as coffee. You’ll quit that habit.”
“Too bad you don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“In my house, I do. Besides, your drinking while on the clock is enough reason to take your ass to the board and report you to the bar. Maybe you’ll have a wake-up call when your license is in jeopardy.”
“So this is what you’ve been doing all this time? Finding out my weakness so you can boot me from W&S and even from practicing law?” I knew I shouldn’t have let the bastard see the secret parts of me. He’s no different than a snake who slithers to its victim, and when it comes in for the kill, it’s already too late.
“If I wanted to boot you, I would’ve started the process.”
“But you’re threatening me.”
“I’m not threatening you, I’m pointing out your unhealthy drinking habits that you need to get rid of. And don’t give me that victim speech. I don’t give a fuck about your success rate or how many clients you have under your belt. If you’re drinking on the clock, it affects your productivity and could cost your clients more than they’ve bargained for.”
“It’s not like I get drunk or that I don’t have access to my brain. I just do it to numb unwanted thoughts that I can’t escape when I’m sober.”
“Still a no. Find a healthier coping mechanism.”
“Says the man who punches trees at night.”
“That doesn’t go against my codes of conduct as an attorney. Your drinking habits do. End of fucking story. Now, sit down.”
I glare at him. “And if I refuse, which, for the record, is a one hundred percent chance?”
“Then there’s a thousand percent chance that I’ll haul you onto my lap, further bruise that sore ass of yours, and eventually shove the food down your throat.”
I hate how my thighs clench at the image he paints in my head, and it takes all my self-control to hold on to my cool façade.
“Brute,” I mutter.
“Never claimed to be otherwise. Now, are we going to do this the nice way or the brute way?”
My glare is all the answer he needs to practically throw me over his shoulder.
I can’t control the excited yelp that leaves my lips or the moans and whimpers that follow when he proceeds to do what he promised.
By the time I come all over his hand, a gloomy feeling hovers over my head.
Is this what he meant by coming after my control? Or is it so much worse?
