ON THE FLOOR in my temporary bedroom, my avocado, bacon, and tomato sandwich sits half-eaten on the plate beside me as I hunch over with my notepad in my lap so I can list all the things that make me comfortable. The pen, annoyingly small, makes it harder to control—at least, that is my internal reasoning for why my print isn’t elegant and cursive.
And why I’m writing very little.
The truth is, I still have no idea what makes a person comfortable in their space.
Without knocking, the door opens. Jasmine always knocks, so I’m not entirely surprised when I lift my head to see Clay. What drops my mouth to the floor is the sight of him in navy pants forming perfect coverage over his muscular thighs, a white dress shirt tucked in casually, and a tan belt, that for reasons I can’t quite fathom reminds me of a certain threat involving my arse.
I haven’t seen him since the mild stroke I had last night when I decided to be an anti-Marie Kondo and throw his neatly organised living room into chaos. He didn’t make me feel crazy, though. He understood.
He understood me.
My heart pitter-patters. His eyes coast across the room, stopping over the top of my head, glued to the seating area where he… and I… I take a big breath, forgetting for a slip of time about my little log, then close it quickly and stand, unable to be on the floor while he stands at over six foot.
‘How tall are you?’ I ask, holding the notepad by my thigh, hoping he finds its presence unintriguing. A notepad? Oh, it’s just a dream log… love letters… Ignore the hearts with little B’s in them. I swallow thickly as the B for Benji turns into a B for Butcher.
‘Six-five,’ he states, his eyes doing a quick perusal of my waist-high short shorts and the slip of skin between the pink crop top, landing briefly on the item in my hand before settling on my face. ‘Do you want to please me?’
My cheeks are not warm; they are icy cold as blood leaves them. I don’t know what to say to that. ‘How would I… I mean… Yes… but—’
He chuckles softly at my paling face, and the deep timbre moves into my soul to be stored away with the crashing of waves and early morning bird song.
‘I’m taking you shopping,’ he states, his phone coming to life in his pocket. ‘Get ready. I’ll meet you in the car.’ He answers the call, ‘Butcher,’ before strolling from my room.
He’s taking me shopping?
He’s taking me shopping!
Don’t smile.
I shrug at his retreating back. ‘Sure, whatever.’
Then dart around the room to get ready. I slide my tan ankle boots on, pull my hair into a high ponytail, the blonde lengths dangling halfway down my back, and grab my boho geo-print silk jacket, which tickles my calves, being much longer than my shorts.
As I dash from the room under a wave of nerves and excitement, the butterflies create a nice stir in my stomach while my brain tries to rein in my heart’s eagerness. This is just shopping, my brain scolds. Yes, my heart thinks, but it’s shopping with him. Real, quality time that doesn’t involve a chance encounter at midnight.
Passing the living room, I halt for a second to see my pillow pyramid and books still plopped open on the cream sofa. The roses are gone, though. I groan at myself, blaming the hormones and the fatigue and the goddamn confusion this house and that man inflict. Stupid, really.
I stare at the messy room.
He left it…
No, not just left it. No. His house staff would have been down here at the crack of dawn to tidy this up, so that can only mean… He must have deliberately asked them not to stage it again.
But why?
Does he like the ruins of my silly moment?
And now that I’m looking at it in the glow of day, I think the space does look more comfortable. Strange, but… welcoming somehow.
Ha. I spin and head for the door.
At the front steps, a fleet of shiny black cars idle. Two SUVs and a central car, a long sedan of some sort. Only when a greying man, who still looks capable of cracking someone’s spine in half, steps from the driver’s side of the sedan, rounds it and opens the passenger door, do I know which car is his.
As I step inside, the rich scent of leather surrounds me. My heart does strange flutters that mimic the butterflies set to a chaotic flight down low. There are two couches in the back that face each other, and he is on one, with his legs man-spread like he owns the city—which, I suppose, he does—and his phone to his ear.
I sit still, folding my fingers together, fiddling with them. He scans me, his brows pinching in when they still on my head.
‘No. I’ll be out of the office,’ he states to the man on the other end of the call and then mutters, ‘Take your hair down,’ to me before continuing to talk through the phone. ‘It’s simple. If he wants the building permit, he’ll need the approval, and for that, he’ll need to have Max’s signature on those documents. Now, I’m busy today. He will accept the commission, or he can kiss his permit goodbye and that land will remain dirt until he dies. Are we clear?’ He nods, listening. ‘Good. Don’t call me again today.’
Then he hangs up.
God, power is sexy as hell.
His eyes pin me to the seat. ‘Take. Your. Hair. Down.’
My hands refuse to do as they are told, thrown by his tone on the phone, unaffected and commanding, and by his brazen demand. ‘Why?’
He stares at me expectantly, a soft smile settling on his handsome face. ‘Because it will please me if you do.’
I reach up and pull the band from my ponytail; the long blonde curtain falls around my shoulders. ‘Are we spending the day together?’ I ask pointedly. ‘Just the two of us?
He relaxes further into his seat. ‘Why?’
I try to hide my smile as I say, ‘Because it will please me if we do, Sir.’
The car moves, and he looks as if he is about to leap across the console and make good on his threat to drag me across his lap and spank me raw.
I shuffle as he stares.
With a tight jaw hidden beneath a cool smile, he says, ‘You aren’t afraid of me, are you?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘After what you have seen. Heard. What happened with the fucking gardener? You still aren’t afraid. Tell me why.’
I stare out the window now, unsure how to answer that question given the reason for my being here is still a purposeful omission of sorts. ‘My mum told me my dad was dangerous. I’m not surprised that you are too.’ There is silence as I watch the white dashes down the road blur into a continuous line, feeling his eyes on me but too hesitant with where to settle mine to look away.
He hums, carrying a hint of disapproval through the air. ‘Your mum, like your dad, failed you. Did she make this lifestyle seem worthy of awe? It isn’t.’
‘I know that.’ Twisting, I find his face again. ‘I know what you are.’ Say it, Fawn. ‘You’re in the Mafia.’
‘No,’ he purrs, his tone an auditory tonic of lust and danger. ‘In the District, I am the Cosa Nostra.’
I inhale deeply. Hearing it from his own lips for the first time, I run my brain in circles, trying to find fear or resistance or nervousness within it but find only relief. I’m relieved he is who my mother said he was. That they are the dangerous men I wanted to speak with. I think about my silly fascination with the roses last night. My father could have been my thorns, could be this boy’s thorns, allowing him to be soft and beautiful. ‘And my father?’
‘An associate… Yes, also in this thing of ours… But you, little deer,’—he shakes his head once, his piercing blue eyes arrow on me, pinning me to the seat—’have no place in this dangerous world.’
Rejection spindles through me, but I grit it back. I’ll let my father be the judge of that. ‘Well, I never planned on staying, you know that. So, I’m sorry if I’m putting you out, Sir. I’ll be out of your hair the moment my father comes for his property,’ I say, noting the tic in his jaw.
The blue in his devasting gaze shrinks to nothing as the blacks expand to consume them in darkness. ‘What did you just say?’
‘Sorry?’
My heart and head and the butterflies all agree for once, shuddering and hazing and diving for cover, all on the same page but a little too fucking late.
‘Stop the car,’ he states, raising two fingers to the driver, who closes the dividing screen while the vehicle rolls to a stop. I take shallow breaths as he frowns at me, his gaze feverish, not only angry, but hot with warning. ‘Take your shorts off. Lay over my knees.’
With a shaky hand, I sweep a piece of hair from my face. ‘What?’
He taps his thigh. ‘Underwear. Face down. Over my knees.
There is no denying the gravity in his fixed blue stare—an icy haul, nearly palpable as it demands I comply. My body buzzes with adrenaline, never having been spanked. Not once.
I actually, kind of—fuck, what am I thinking? I fight against the distant voice of argument, the one that says this is inappropriate, and indecent, and— I drown that voice.
I want this, want to know what it feels like to have him spank me, to have him care.
Breathing deeply, I peer around the car, the black tinted windows, the sleek, elegant design offering privacy.
He leans back, lifting his hips slightly as his cock spans across his thigh, creating a thick bulge in his pants. I shrug off my jacket and shimmy out of my shorts before crawling across his lap on shaky limbs. I can feel him pulsing beneath me. ‘I wonder if Dustin’s little girl likes it when I spank her,’ he says, his tone twisted, strained. I quiver when his hand caresses my plump curve. ‘You are not allowed to say sorry anymore. Ever. It’s your default response. It means nothing now.’
His fingers slide my underwear into the seam of my backside, exposing more flesh. He hisses as he strokes me like he might the fur on a pet, then his hand comes down, the sound piercing. I cry out, bucking over his erection, the sting shooting through my veins, tightening every muscle. The shock resonates along all the sensitive nerves between my legs; my pussy ripples and swells. I become slick. I cover my face as two fingers trace the material bunched between my cheeks, stopping to touch the lower dampening spot. ‘Did you like that, sweet girl? Don’t lie. The truth is right… here.’ His feather-light touch creates subtle circles over the wet fabric, alarming me, shaming me, and all the while sending my mind reeling with pleasure.
My cheeks burn. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you want more?’
Slowly I nod. ‘Yes.’
My pulse is like a drone in my ears as his hand meets my burning flesh again. I cry out, then moan uncontrollably, grinding my hips into his leg.
He does it again.
Each slap creates a pulse of shock in my clit. Vibrating on his lap now, the sensation is like dropping through a hole in the ice, shock—paralysing and confusing. This doesn’t seem normal. Natural. Sane. I don’t know whether to hide my face as I drip from between my legs or beg him to please never stop the punishing pleasure.
He rains down slap after slap, until I drag my nails down the leather seating, carving into the material as my orgasm carves into me.
I pant, face down, tears dripping from my eyes but not from sorrow. I’m all wrong. This is all wrong.
Everything I want from him is all wrong.
Then he lifts me from his lap, dipping down to scoop me up, and cradles me in his arms. He kisses my temple, and I think I might die, my heart skipping off its tracks, no longer on the same trajectory. Lost in him.
‘That’s my good girl.’ He strokes my hair, and I nuzzle into his chest. ‘Don’t be ashamed. That was beautiful. You’re safe…’ He pauses for a moment, but I want more words, so I lean up to see his face. His intense blue eyes collide with mine, and he repeats, ‘You’re safe here. You have no place being here, yes, and you will leave once it’s all done, but for now, you’re under my care. You have my word.’
‘Why do I feel like this?’ I ask him, feeling incomprehensibly wrapped in content.
‘You trust me.’
My eyes widen in shock while my head nods in slow acceptance. ‘Yes.’ I inhale steadily, and his mint-laced breath mingles with mine. While holding his gaze, I become willingly lost in the lines and swirls of the crystal-clear blues in his irises. ‘I don’t do that often, Sir. I’ve had a lot of bad luck.’
‘I’m surprised you believe in luck. It’s only real to those who hang on to it for every move. You have raised yourself. All your achievements are on account of you.’
I snort contemptuously. ‘And that’s why I have so many of them.’
I feel the brunt of his stare intensify. ‘You’re stronger than that, my girl. You’re better than that thought.’ His hand comes to my lower stomach. ‘You are better than them. You don’t need anyone,’ he states, his tone deepening with severity. The cadence of his voice sends tingles inside me, forcing me to really concentrate on the words while my head spins in the wonder of his affections, of his attention. ‘You will survive everything the world throws at you because you have learned how to adapt. You will survive. Just like you have survived everything else in your life. You’re a very brave girl. Wilful. Stop apologising for being you.’
I like his lessons… Still, I chuckle softly and pretend they don’t mean the world to me. ‘You’re bossy.’ A little flitter of euphoria dances beneath my skin, through my blood and bones, a little high off him, light-headed, and hopeful—invincible.
Gah, Mum was right.
‘Yes.’ He smiles at me. ‘I am.’
With that, he grips my hips and slides me to stand in front of him. Ducking, I manage to avoid the roofline. Not that my short arse—my throbbing arse—has to dip much at all.
He reaches for my shorts, and I place my quivering hands on his shoulders before stepping into them. It’s the endorphins. A constant buzz at the tip of every cell.
When he taps the seat beside him, I instantly comply, sitting down. As he leans across me to buckle me in, I barely notice the way my arse stings under my weight.
He belted me in.
It’s the little things. The small actions. Such a tiny gesture, but oh my God, I’m not sure anyone in my past would have even noticed if I was fastened in or not, let alone taken it upon themselves to secure me like a fragile item.
The car starts again.
As he looks out the darkened windows, I stare at him. He drags his thumb over his lower lip in a contemplative way, his distant gaze narrowing in thought. For a moment, just a split second, a flitter of exhaustion crosses his eyes. I think about his admission to having nightmares. Such a seemingly common issue for such a powerful man to be bothered by.
Failure…
I imagine him frowning when he’s pulled from slumber. Do you know who I am? Clay Butcher, that’s who. I don’t have time for your insolence, little nightmare.
I chuckle at my own inner monologue.
Though, if I fail—I look down at my stomach—inconvenient things happen, but if he fails, does the whole city fall apart? Do people die? What is at stake if he fails?
After the past ten minutes, our distance feels wrong. Reaching out, I grab his hand and place it on my thigh because I want him to touch me, want to know that the attachment we shared won’t vanish and challenge my sense of reality. Is this the first time I’ve touched him? It feels like the first time, because like with any first, I’m worried I’m doing it wrong.
Too firm.
Too soft.
Too early.
I just want to know what it feels like to have someone strong and dependable put their hand on my thigh like they do in the movies when the relationship gets real, gets emotional, and now they are in comfortable silence in the car.
‘You’ll survive too,’ I whisper. ‘You won’t fail.’
Then he squeezes my thigh.
The rest of the drive is like that.
His hand on my thigh
My heart on the line.
