A FRIEND of mine told me that good things come in threes.
Him: number one.
Him…
Clay Butcher—the man sitting at his desk across from our bed with the glacier look of importance, of power portrayed through pursed lips and two pinched dark brows. Blue eyes focus on his laptop screen. His chair is an iron sword and shield away from a throne.
Through the large full-length window, the morning sun sets a soft glow to the room, accenting the curves of muscles across his bare torso with light and shadows.
I’m glad he is still here.
This man is breathtaking. I’ve always believed in auras; my mum swore she could see colours around living things.
I wonder what colour she would’ve seen around Clay Butcher.
One thing is for sure, whatever the hue, it exists as thick, tangible supremacy that even a blind person can appreciate. So, when he is gone—at work or the warehouse—his absence makes my entire world cavernous.
My entire world… Well, that’s him… This house. The maids. Jasmine. The pillow stacks. The new sofa lounge by the poolside and the old wrought-iron one that now sits as an ornament in the garden. As it should be.
My whole life… this.
I’m not allowed to leave it or expand it. Not until he finds my dad and… kills him. Of this, I’m sure. Death is what awaits the man I share blood with, the one I don’t know.
I tuck my hands beneath my cheek and shuffle my legs along the sheets, settling in further. Unable to tear my gaze away from Clay Butcher’s level of perfection, I simply watch him work. And while he hasn’t acknowledged I’m awake, he doesn’t have to.
He knows.
He always knows.
‘Come here,’ he says to the screen, and my lips quirk into a little smile. I roll my shoulders, and the silk of his bedding slides down my naked body as I stand.
I’m always naked in this room.
That’s how he likes me.
My bare feet pad over the floor towards him, and just when I’m within arm’s length, he shuts his laptop, slides it to the side, and leans back slightly, making space on the desk in front of him.
An action that speaks volumes.
Smiling softly at his silent order, I perch in front of him on the polished wood with my feet swinging, my knees pressed together, my hair dangling in long straight ribbons down each breast. He considers me with a knowing gleam that forces both nerves and excitement to the tips of my toes.
I wiggle them. His gaze darts down to watch my toes and then back up to settle on my face.
‘You slept well, little deer,’ he says in a husky purr that assists the gleam in igniting my pulse. ‘You didn’t even move when I came to bed. That’s very good. Did you dream?’
‘Of burning Maggie’s chicken pie.’ I chuckle, remembering when our lovely cook had to use the fire extinguisher. Then, blushing, I lay my hands on my bare thighs to hide the way my knees inadvertently squeeze together as I say, ‘And of you, Sir.’
He reclines further into his big wingback chair, saying, ‘Show me what dreaming of me looks like.’
My heart does a double tap, but outwardly, I only worry my bottom lip while I hike my thighs up and let my knees fall apart. His eyes are unwavering from mine, but his intent blazes within them. After a few seconds, he drops his gaze to between my legs.
I blush immediately.
He drags his thumb along his lower lip, his eyes trained on my pussy and the underside of my backside pressed to the desk. The heat from his gaze prickles the little blonde hairs I have newly grown for him.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and he raises his hot gaze to meet my apprehensive one. ‘I said, show me, little deer.’
He watches my throat roll, noting everything. He’s always made me nervous, always set butterflies to flight within me, but now this part of our relationship is both absolute intimacy and a test for me to pass.
Can I touch myself and be present?
Am I comfortable in my own skin?
Have I moved on from what I saw—what I know—happened to me?
No. It’s an easy answer.
No.
He knows this, too, but I try to please him, lifting my hand and touching the lips between my legs that are already slick in my desire for him. The wetness is a point of embarrassment as my finger slides through the thin slick result of my deep arousal.
I open my mouth, ignore the echo of grunting in my head—the blood-curdling sounds of my foster brothers’ pleasure the day they all took turns with this body—and part the flesh at my core for the man who lies to keep me safe, who protects me with unwavering focus.
Even from myself.
The man whose touch can drown the voices, the discomfort while everyone else’s, including my own, still scorches like a fire.
I touch the inner bud, and my backside pulses off the table when sensation zaps through me. A reaction of both phantom pain and real pleasure. I groan from my throat, hating the feel of my body as it responds without my consent, but I mask the sound. Mix it with a moan that is visceral because I’m torn in two wanting closure, to please him, to play and show him how comfortable I am in my body but also wanting no one to lay a finger on my skin but him…
Not even myself.
Not my untrustworthy hands. The same ones that gripped Jake’s shoulders when he thrust into me. That convinced him I enjoyed it… Did I? Did I convince him? Did he honestly believe I consented with my hands that night?
If not with that, then with my pussy. I consented with that.
Didn’t I?
When I touch myself, the muscles inside me consent when they pulse. And I hate it.
My finger trembles on my slit as these thoughts flood me. I don’t want to feel what Jake felt. “A few minutes ago, you were hugging me so tight with your pussy you didn’t want me to leave.’
It wasn’t me.
I did want him to leave.
‘So pretty,’ Clay says, a hoarse timbre wrapped around his voice. ‘You still don’t trust yourself, sweet girl. Don’t be fake with me.’
I stop touching myself and deflate on a little sigh. ‘Is it trust?’ I ask softly. ‘I just want you to touch me. That’s all.’
‘You don’t trust your body anymore. Your pussy. Your fingers. Yes. You still trust me, but I need you to show me what’s mine. Open yourself up in front of me and show me what your pretty young pussy looks like, but you’re not ready. ‘ He rolls the chair an inch closer to me, reaching out to grip the wood either side of my thighs. Enveloping me is the scent I love more than cookies and bread and melting chocolate and all the mouth-watering luxuries I now enjoy daily because of him—the scent of his cologne, of sweet cigars, and warm male flesh. ‘Do you want me to play with your body, sweet girl?’
I nod. ‘Yes, please, Sir.’
‘Such lovely manners… But you have to do something for me first.’
I smirk, thinking about taking his cock into my mouth, sucking him until he is the one who is raw with me. ‘I’ll do anything for you, Sir.’
A soft smile settles on his lips as he knows this to be true. I mean those words to my core. I’d do anything for this man. I’ve forgiven him for lying. For using me as bait to try to lure my father out of hiding. For hiding the truth from me.
Because he is my thorns.
The only person in this entire world to believe me, to care for me, to hold me accountable, to want me.
His smile flattens. ‘You covered the mirrors yesterday, sweet girl,’ he says, and I cast my eyes down to hide my shame. ‘You forgot to take the sheet in the dressing room down before you left the room. How long have you been doing that?’
Fuck. Henchman Jeeves—my personal henchman/butler/rat. I know he’s meant to watch me, keep me safe, but he doesn’t have to share all my fucking secrets.
I mumble, ‘HJ is such a dobber.’
‘Bolton is paid to be… a dobber.’ His finger goes to my chin, and he lifts it until I’m anchored in his crystal-clear blue gaze. ‘And you know this.’ He suddenly stands up, a wall of muscles erected before me and so close, so perfect, I struggle not to reach out and roll my fingertips down the rippling plane. I crane my neck to keep eye contact. ‘Come,’ he orders, offering me his hand to take.
‘That was the whole idea, Sir, but I’m still waiting,’ I say, my teasing cadence laced with false strength.
His lips tick in a corner, but he says nothing, turning to guide my defiant feet towards the dressing room.
What does he want?
For me to look at myself in the mirror?
I can do that.
I only covered the mirrors because there are so many, too many, and I’m stuck in this house, and they are like shadows following me around every room, and I’m constantly glancing over my shoulder and—
He sits me on the ottoman in front of the mirror, that entire bullshit spiel halting on my tongue as I stare at the girl from the incident reflected at me.
My brows pinch into a scowl.
She’s like a train wreck—I force a smile at the reflection of the breathtaking man towering over me in nothing but his black cotton pants because I can’t trust myself to speak to him right away.
He drops down—the deadliest man in the city on his knees for me—blocking the mirror for a moment with his head. His eyes heat. ‘Now lean back on your hands, spread your pretty white thighs, and watch me worship you.’
He slings my legs over his shoulders and dips his head. The mirror comes into view, the girl in the reflection already painted in the crimson glow of arousal just as his mouth sucks at my flesh.
Instantly, I mewl around, assaulted by my reflection and by the eating motion of his lips.
His touch soothes.
And I’m whole. His.
His tongue presses in through the walls clinging with needy desperation to the steady penetration. I want to squeeze my eyes shut so I can focus on him. Avoid the sight of me. I want to grab his head, but I can’t stay upright if I don’t brace on both hands.
My backside rocks and lifts, so he slides his hands beneath each cheek to control me as he relentlessly fucks between my folds with his tongue, as he mouths me, as his lips rhythm crash sensation with sensation. Plunging through and out. Then massaging the supple soft lips as he withdraws only to spear me again.
My nails dig into the ottoman.
I do as he commanded, watching myself in the mirror with Clay Butcher on his knees between my thighs.
My eyes grow heavy when he slows down, flattening his tongue and licking up and down, then dipping in, only to lap over that quivering flesh again.
It’s meticulous.
Like everything he does. As soon as a part of my pussy wants attention he is there, reading the pulsing muscles like I’m connected to him through tangible waves of sensory information. Like I’m an extension of… him.
I’m so wet; I still shiver with shame for that fact—my response to him will be smeared and dripping from his lips and chin.
He growls into my pussy, his feral enjoyment vibrating for a moment through me as though he is ready to actually bite down and rip off flesh. He’s dirty and carnal. This regal man is completely at odds with everything he shows the world.
My mouth goes wide, moans soaring through the dressing room as the sensitivity that has me weeping into his mouth turns into severe heat. My backside clenches in his palms, so he grips the plump globes, spreading them to deepen his kiss further.
I buck again.
He laps his tongue up from my opening to my clit, where he sucks the bundle of nerves between his teeth, clamping on and flicking, igniting fireworks within me.
I whimper.
My legs jolt up.
My body convulses. But his grip on my arse is unyielding, holding me to him.
‘Oh. Sir.‘ My eyes roll with dizzying pleasure. ‘I can’t. It’s, it’s too—’ A long moan rolls up from deep inside me as I’m hit with a bat of pleasure, blackening my vision for a dreamy moment.
I tense up as my orgasm continues.
My arms shake under my weight.
I pant his name like I’m conditioned to do, watching my reflection as I begin to come, my hips grinding shamelessly on his face to increase the pressure, to intensify each perfect lap of his tongue.
I bat my eyes until they close under the weight of arousal. The rough bristles around his jaw graze, easing the needy skin as he refuses to relinquish the suction on my clit.
‘Oh God!’ I cry out, my arms buckling. My back meets the ottoman while my hands fist his crown, my fingers desperately knotting his dark hair for control.
I arch my back as the final waves of sensation swim through me, and he keenly changes his pace to suit the flow of my orgasm.
Slowing down, he mouths me between the legs as if he were kissing me better after a bruising make-out session. And it is a ridiculous thought, but I instantly wish he would kiss my lips like he is kissing my pussy. It is something that still seems rare between us—a simple kiss.
I run my fingers through his dark hair adoringly, the light above us highlighting the sparse greys that drive me crazy. Flattening my body to the ottoman, I hum my enjoyment to the chaste motion of his reverent mouth.
My body warms as he worshipfully moves up, skating his lips between my hips, along the plane of my stomach and between my ribs as I arch into him.
His tongue slides out to taste the sweat between my breasts, and then I lift further, desperate to meet him.
Our lips connect.
He’s kissing me…
My world explodes into stars as we kiss with his possessive groans mingling with my exhausted, sated moans that are wrapped in deep everlasting sentiment.
For this man.
I feel everything for this powerful man. There is no one else. Not a friend, siblings. Nothing. Only him.
My number one good thing.
Hitching my legs around the back of his, my naked body slick with perspiration slides along him. His hand moves up to grip the column of my throat, his thumb lifting my chin to direct and control our lips.
Cupping his jaw to deepen our kiss, I feel his arousal brazenly hard between my legs, bruising and teasing.
I wriggle until his erection is thrumming along the sensitive flesh between my folds. I begin to grind on him, needy and desperate for more. To pleasure him. To pleasure me. I rub along him. Back and forth with my hips.
His mouth becomes fiercer on mine. I keep kissing him even as it hurts, even as his teeth flare and his fist tightens, hissing air from me.
He locks his jaw.
Stops.
Stilling his movement, our kiss becomes one-sided as he says, ‘You want more? That’s very pleasing.’
I have come to learn he enjoys watching and feeling me as I move on his body. He could toss me aside if he didn’t like it, but he doesn’t. He likes me rubbing on him like a cat. Perhaps, he likes my desperation. Lifting my hips off the ottoman, I slide along his shaft, spoiled for more pleasure.
‘Good girl,’ he growls, the twisted timbre revealing his arousal and restraint. ‘You try so hard, little deer. Can you have an orgasm all by yourself for me?’
I roll my hips shamelessly, chasing the sensation.
God, I’m tight all over, desperate for—something. Something is missing.
I become feverish.
After his mouth’s assault on me. And now this. I need to prove I can, but I can’t. I need him to finish it for me. ‘Please—’ I let out the words through a tight moan. ‘Please, help me.’
Clay’s lips slide into a smirk against my mouth as I continue to kiss him clumsily. The taunting sensation burns in my ears. My pussy leaks all over his pants in anticipation.
‘God,’ I growl, reaching for my climax while it eludes me, feeling as though I will combust if I don’t get off again.
Using his body to get there—
‘Don’t cover the mirrors again, little deer,’ he orders, lowering one hand to slide a finger inside me so easily a second joins almost immediately. ‘Oh, you’re so wet. So tight. My sweet, sweet girl.’
I close my eyes and clench around him, but when he thrusts in, he draws back out in quick succession. I buck to chase the deep penetration. ‘That’s it. You’re doing very good.’ He pushes in again. ‘Do you want another finger?’
‘Yes…’ I barely manage to speak, laboured breath beating hard against his mouth.
‘You’re so greedy.’
‘You make me feel this way.’
There is amusement in his voice as he says, ‘I know.’
‘What about you, Sir?’
‘Your pleasure is for me.’ He adds a third finger and it’s unbearably snug inside me, so when he starts to move all three with the talent of a well-oiled machine, I’m blanketed in stars. ‘I need to stretch you. You’re tiny. You have a little hole and a small frame. Every time I fuck you, you end up sore, and I need your body ready to accept mine. I need you weeping the moment you feel me, hear me, see me. I need you ready to take me. You will be shaped to fit my cock, walking around with my cum filling your knickers—’
My orgasm rips through me with a husky cry. ‘Oh.’ I pulse around his fingers as he rubs and wrings my climax from me. ‘Sir, so good.’
His cock bucks with bruising need between us, but he is the master of control, ignoring his obvious arousal. With the gentle massaging motion of his fingers sliding leisurely in and out of me, he brings me down from my second orgasm instead of thrusting into me like I know he wants. He hasn’t taken me in such a way in weeks. Not since I saw the recording and watched my body being used like a toy by my foster brothers.
I squeeze my eyes at the thought. Focus on him. He peppers kisses over my face as he says, ‘You haven’t had many pleasures in your life, sweet girl. I promised to spoil you. I’ll spoil your sweet pussy for attention.’
I roll my head on the ottoman, groaning.
His kisses gently bring me down from the wave of pleasure I’m riding. They simmer with sentiment as my muscles unfurl and relax to the reverent affection.
Looking at him again, I tilt my head to see his are now closed, his dark brows pinched, his lips a tender rushing stream over my skin.
Then they are gone, and he is standing with me in his arms. A weightless extension of him. He walks me over to the bed and lays me down on the mattress, placing a hand either side of my head. And I know this routine.
‘What will you do today?’ he asks, and I deflate, knowing he’ll be gone all day and I’ll wait for him. ‘Don’t look so sad, sweet girl.’
I break our gaze, looking absently into a corner of the room. ‘What can I do?’
‘Anything you want.’
‘You won’t let me leave the house.’
He grips my jaw gently, moving my face until my eyes relent and meet his—crystal-clear blue orbs bordered by dark lashes. Breathtaking. Commanding. ‘We have been over this.’
‘I know,’ I say, disappointment coiled around my tone. ‘I know. It’s not safe. I guess I’ll have more clothes brought up, or perhaps I’ll cook that pork belly again or watch another movie or hang out with Jas—’
His brows weave. ‘This doesn’t please you?’
‘I should be grateful,’ I mutter honestly, although the humility is seemingly a tatted echo in my mind. I want to want things. I want to demand them. Yet, there is this voice, the same outdated voice, a small and breathy resonance, that reminds me to accept, to shrink myself, to fit in.
He steels. Then pushes off the bed, striding over to the dressing room, the lights growing at his presence. ‘I’m taking care of you, little deer.’ He speaks to the room as he dresses. ‘What do you want? Use your voice. Tell me.’
I sit up and watch him. ‘I don’t know.’
His phone comes to life, cutting through the air like a knife severing our conversation. I frown as he stares at it. ‘Whatever you desire, I will do. Think about what you want.’ He grabs his suit jacket and the phone as it rings perpetually.
Then he approaches the bed, leaning down on his hands, his shoulders rolling, his chin dipping so his lips can take mine. His intent is a quick, firm, breathtaking kiss, but I know this, so I cup his strong jaw to demand more than a moment of goodbye. Deepening the motion of his lips, I channel all my want into them until a groan moves through his throat.
He breaks our kiss, his lips hovering close, commanding mine to stay still as he talks against them. ‘I want a list. Think on it. You will tell me what you want, sweet girl, and I promise to give it to you.”
He vanishes through the door, and I’m left confused. I don’t know what I want. Does he think I’m withholding something? Is that a thing? Like the charades of my intentions?
I don’t know who I am.
How am I supposed to know what I want?
THE WATER of the swimming pool ripples as I swing my legs through it and watch distractedly as the substance twinkles and moves below the sun.
What do I want?
I’m learning to cook, which sings to my maternal side, and I know I won’t be locked in this resort-like gilded cage forever, just until he finds my dad… And kills him. I swallow thickly, clearing my throat as heavy footsteps pour down the path.
‘Fucksake,’ Henchman Jeeves pants, dropping forward with his hands to his knees.
My henchman/butler/rat…
Not happy with you.
He breathes through a kind of panic, having exerted himself to the point he’s vibrating to get air.
Three guards are now halting from their run behind him, sighing with relief when they see me sitting unfazed by the poolside.
I blink at the dishevelled men. ‘What?’
Henchman Jeeves catches his breath before saying, ‘For the love of God, how did you get down here?’
And I know it was stupid and that Clay won’t approve, but I don’t lie when I answer, ‘I climbed down the fire escape on my balcony.’
‘She’s going to get us killed,’ one of the henchmen hisses, spinning and sauntering off, curses soaring around him.
Henchman Jeeves slowly shakes his head. ‘Why? Why would you do something so dangerous and—’
I shrug, interrupting petulantly. ‘Looked like fun? The ladder is perfectly safe. It isn’t like I climbed down a fucking drainpipe. I wasn’t escaping. The ladder is right there on the side of the balcony. I just had to climb over the railing.’
The remaining henchman grumbles behind him, wiping his rigidly set brow. ‘Don’t tell the boss, Fawn, or…’ His voice continues to run, but the words are mumbled through annoyed breath.
Henchman Jeeves frowns at him, scolding him with one snap of his gaze. ‘Miss Harlow.’ He turns back to me and offers me a faux smile. ‘It would be best if you don’t tell the boss that you were by the poolside alone.’
Fawn. I don’t correct him and ask him to call me by my given name. He slips up often, but I know he must call me Miss Harlow now. I don’t even know who Miss Harlow is, really. It doesn’t seem like my name; I never felt like a Harlow. I was hoping to find my identity as a Nerrock. And I’ll probably never be a Butcher… I sigh. ‘Would you get fired?’
Shaking his head slowly, he laughs without mirth. ‘I wish the answer was yes.’
‘He’d kill you?’ I whisper as the other guards wander back inside the house, clearly annoyed, leaving HJ and his fixed gaze that delivers an undeniable answer to that question. ‘I see.’ I nod towards the retreating backs of the other men. ‘They don’t like me very much.’
He sighs, pity tumbling through his voice. ‘You do talk to your food more than you talk to them.’
‘Clay told me not to talk to them.’
‘I’ll have words with them. Don’t worry.’
My hero. ‘They don’t treat me like they treat Aurora. They treat me like a ward. Like they are babysitting… So do you now. We used to joke.’
He looks regretful. ‘Fawn. It’s respect.’
And it isn’t his fault or theirs. I’m an eighteen-year-old unrequited daughter of a mob boss and the lover of his enemy. Bound in inadequacies and eighteen years of an orphan identity to boot. No idea what to do from one moment to the next or how this half of society lives.
Privilege is kind of boring…
So, I get it—they don’t know how to treat me.
Just like I don’t know how to behave.
