His Pawn

by Emily Snow

  "When you stare at my hand like I've cocks for fingers, I automatically assume you're afraid of what filthy things they've touched."

  I whip my head toward him, my nostrils flaring. "That's such an unprofessional thing to say. Which is what touching my boss is."

  "Believe me, Williams, I have every intention of being professional with you." Continuing to stare at me like I've offended him by refusing his help, he rings the doorbell. "I was trying to help you out of a snug place, not asking you to choose between flavors of lube."

  "Marketing 101," I say before he can murmur something lewder that will send my pulse and brain into overdrive. "It's best not to let clients hear you discussing politics, religion, sex, or—"

  But I lose the ability to speak when the door swings open. Oh … shit. I've completely got this situation wrong. Because instead of the elderly gentleman I'm expecting—the collector who likes to impress his friends with his extensive hoard of metal clocks and whatever else Jace designs for him—I come face to face with a pair of breasts.

  Large, naked breasts that make my C-cups feel underwhelming.

  Those breasts are attached to a statuesque, extremely bare redhead whose only accessories are diamond earrings, a metal collar and cuffs on either of her wrists. "Thank god you're here," she whispers to Jace, batting long eyelashes over cornflower blue irises. "We can't get the cuffs to hook, and we needed you here like an hour ago."

  She can't get the cuffs to hook.

  Oh. God.

  She can't get the cuffs to hook.

  And something tells me they're not hooking to a clock unless she's the living, breathing minute hand.

  Where the hell has Jace brought me?

  FIVE

  LUCY

  Blown away.

  Those are the only words to describe how I feel for the next hour of my life.

  I am blown away to the point of complete and utter silence, my fingers clasped tightly in front of my waist, and the edges of my hazel eyes burning because they spend most of those fifty-three minutes wide. Unblinking.

  Stunned.

  I've read stories about sex parties. After I indulged in a particularly kinky TV show on HBO and Googled a few of the terms that were mentioned, I saw a plethora of sponsored ads for local clubs specializing in the erotic arts on Facebook. Still, I've never witnessed anything like this first hand. Until tonight.

  Up until this moment, I believed swingers, real ones and not the people on glamorous TV shows or immortalized within the pages of naughty books, were fifty and sixty-year-old deviants that gathered in grimy clubs to screw away their problems—a sexual solution to an epic mid-life crisis. The venue of this party and the thirty or so people present, however, are the opposite of everything I've led myself to expect.

  For starters, the upstairs of the gated home looks like it fell directly out of the pages of HGTV Magazine: New England Edition. It’s decorated in stark white, with a splash of gray and powder blue thrown in here and there. An abstract painting that must have cost a small fortune hangs above the mantle and fresh winter white lilies adorn the gray console table directly behind the white leather sofa. I'm almost hoping Jace will tell me to just wait here, on the couch, because that’s where it’s safe.

  It’s a command I’ll gladly accept without so much as a whimper.

  He shits all over that wish when he holds out a large hand and demands that I give him my phone. I clutch it to my chest, looking up at him in a daze. “It’s a privacy thing, love,” he murmurs silkily. “So just give it to me and don’t argue.”

  His eyes penetrate mine for a tense pause before I shove the phone toward his outstretched hand. He stuffs it into the back pocket of his jeans then motions for me to trail behind the redheaded woman.

  “We’re going to the play area,” she tells me with a wickedly suggestive smile, and I release a choked sound.

  And once we reach that part of the house, which is the entire bottom level, I realize that the people darting in and out of the rooms on either side of the hallway are just as stunning as she is.

  Most of them are my age—Jace's age. While some are just as naked as Boobs McCuffs, who gives my new boss one final, longing look before she disappears with a wiggle of her bare ass into one of the rooms, several are fully clothed or in various stages of undress. When a woman sidles between Jace and me, and her latex jumpsuit squeaks against my skin, I stumble out of her way, clamping my eyes shut.

  How did I not see the signs?

  The lack of information I found on EXtreme when I applied for the job.

  Daisy's blank expression after I asked her if the company made clocks.

  That secretive smile Jace himself had given me during the interview.

  The intensity behind his gaze when he filled me in on his no camera policy.

  The signs were all there, but dammit, why didn’t he come right out and tell me about this? Why hadn't I asked more questions? And even more importantly—most importantly—why the hell haven't I walked out of here and called myself an Uber? So many questions filter through my head that, when Jace pushes me against the wall to make way for a group of people who are passing by, I barely hear what he's saying to me.

  The sensation of his fingers closed around my wrists constricts my throat, so all I manage is a hysterical, "Hmm?"

  For a lingering pause, he studies my features. His blue irises go from my parted red lips to my flushed cheeks before finally ending at my eyes. Little by little, his mouth tugs into a cocky grin, and my senses take a dive into absolute chaos. He releases my wrists. I drop my arms by my sides, but the buzz still hums in my veins.

  It starts at my fingertips and doesn’t quit until it’s spread across my chest.

  "You didn't hear what I said?" he asks.

  I shake my head.

  To my horror, he doesn’t step away from me. Oh no, that would be too easy. Too kind. Instead, he dips his full lips to my ear, his stubble rough against the sensitive spot that always makes me shiver. He pulls in a shallow breath right along with me. "I said we're about to meet B, the owner of this house, so put on your best smile."

  B.

  Not even a full week ago, Daisy referred to Jace as Mr. E. I can't help but wonder if he's involved in this lifestyle. If, were it not for my presence, he would be one of the party-goers. Although I clear my throat several times, I can't quite find the words to tell him that I understand, so I bob my head up and down.

  Standing upright, he signals for me to follow his lead. I trail a few steps behind because I don’t want to look at him. Don’t want him to look at me. He steps into a lavishly decorated room with cushioned walls and Louis XIV style furnishings. The lights are dimmed, painting the room in a shade of red that smears tingles down my spine.

  I'm greeted with the sight of two women kneeling in front of a toned, beautiful man, their hands and mouths taking turns on his erection. His pants pool around his ankles, and the look on his face—one I'd seen many times in the happier days of my marriage—tells me he's incredibly close to release.

  Oh.My.God.I’m.Watching.A.Live.Blow.Job.

  I whip my stare away, centering my eyes on a set of handcuffs lying on one of the chair cushions, angrily asking myself once again why I haven't walked out on Jace.

  Speaking up between guttural groans and wild pants, the man with the short cropped dark hair and his dick exposed promises, "Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and I'll show you what I need."

  To my relief, Jace drags me out in the hallway. I stand off to the side chewing on my fingernail and looking like the ultimate sex party-pooper. My new boss, on the other hand, strikes up a conversation with every naked person who wanders by. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like we didn’t just witness someone getting his rocks off with two women at the same time.

  When Mr. B joins us a few minutes later, he's wearing a satisfied smirk and lounge pants that would make Hugh Hefner jealous. He guides us from room to room, where there’s a theme for every fa
ntasy imaginable. “We made that,” Jace quietly says nodding to an elaborate, human-sized cage with manacles swinging from the top bars. When I give my boss a bewildered look, he smirks.

  “In fact, we made everything down here. Even the toys.”

  Sweet baby Jesus, there is an abundance of chrome sex toys being passed around and used. And taking them all in, it finally hits me:

  EXtreme Effects has earned a killing designing for Mr. B.

  There are cages, chains, and devices I don't even have names for in the BDSM Room alone. Not to mention the intricate metal bed that's twice the size of a regular king with hooks lining each of the four posts and the headboard in the Couples Lounge. When we reach what Mr. B affectionately calls the Kink Playground, Jace excuses himself and leaves my side. He shows the redhead who answered the door—he calls her Sonora, and she looks at him like he hung the moon—how to properly clasp her cuffs to a large metal X that extends up to the ceiling. Then he leaves her to the mask-wearing man and woman who are anxiously waiting to do … whatever.

  At last, we make our way to the Voyeur Room.

  We're not the only audience members behind the glass wall separating us from the people occupying the spacious love nest, but I pretend not to notice anyone else who's watching. I’m petrified of their reaction to the show unfolding before us.

  Plush, foam cushions and wedges in addition to yet another massive bed decorate the brightly lit space, but the group having sex ignores the furniture in favor of doing the deed on the floor and against the wall. At twenty-seven, I’ve never made love with the lights on. And, to be perfectly honest and prudish, I’ve never watched porn in my life.

  Now, my heart is lodged in the back of my throat as I witness another person—scratch that, several other people—have sex in front of me, the lights illuminating every inch, every curve, of their bodies.

  Somewhere nearby, I can hear snatches of B and Jace's conversation. Mr. B wants to do a massive upgrade to the Voyeur Room. He wants the cushions and bed removed in favor of a large metal table, one that spins like a Lazy Susan because he thinks a game of “Spin the Body” sounds like fun. My boss strokes his ego, swearing that the man who owns all this has the most brilliant ideas.

  Yeah, he’s brilliant all right because all I can do is focus on the scene unfolding in front of me.

  I need to look away. No, I should look away. But ... it's damn impossible. With every thrust and sigh, each hair tug and slap of skin on skin, there's a sharp pull deep in the center of my core. This isn't something I want myself, isn't something I'd do under any circumstances, but it doesn't stop the heavy weight from building in the pit of my stomach. It doesn't stop the heat from gathering between my thighs.

  And it sure as hell doesn't stop the thrill that plunges through me.

  I don't realize I'm gripping the opened collar of my white shirt until I feel a hand on the small of my back and long fingers spread over my skin.

  I swallow the moan that threatens to push past my lips.

  "Lucy," a low voice murmurs my name. It reverberates through me, seizing me by my core. It drags that breathy sound I was so desperate to subdue from the back of my throat. I fist my hands by my side, willing myself to be professional. To not let this affect me. To not punch Jace Exley in his goddamn face.

  Putting on a blank expression, I lift my chin until my eyes lock with his. Jace’s full lips twitch, and I don't know whether he wants to laugh at me or tell me I'm already fired. Right now, I'm not sure I would argue with the latter.

  "Yes?" I exhale.

  "We're done here." He moves his hand from the base of my spine and steps away from me, toward the exit of the viewing room. "It's time to go ... unless you'd rather stay, that is." Mockery drips from the edges of that statement, and a mixture of scarlet and black spots prance in front of my vision.

  Fuck him.

  I hate saying that word—hate thinking it—but fuck. Jace. Exley.

  I shake my head and slide my palms down the front of my blouse, a wave of mortification rumbling through me when my palms stroke over taut nipples. He must have noticed—there's no way he didn’t—and I shove past him without sparing a glance in his direction.

  "I'm more than ready," I snap, my voice twice as harsh as I intend. Because the shock I felt for the last fifty-three minutes has finally worn off. It's been replaced by an even stronger emotion.

  And I, other than the moment I found out my ex was cheating on me, have never been more furious in my entire life.

  SIX

  JACE

  The numb expression on Lucy-I-Know-Fucking-Everything’s face takes me back to our junior year of high school. When she’d accidentally stumbled upon Reese Hawthorne, one of the cheerleaders, and me behind a vending machine.

  I never found out where she was headed in the middle of a pep rally—knowing Williams, it was probably to get an early start on schoolwork that wasn’t due for months—but the second she spotted us, she froze. Standing with her pretty mouth open, her eyes darted from Reese’s vise-like grip on my hair to my fingers, which were showing my own version of school spirit beneath the cheerleader’s skirt.

  Since Reese’s back was turned, she never knew Lucy was there, but I did. Warmth had spread across her creamy skin when I lifted hooded eyes and raised my chin to acknowledge her presence. She had lurched in the opposite direction, toward the sound of some awful eighties victory anthem rattling from the gym sound system, but I’d smirked and shook my head. I wasn’t ready for her to go.

  Not until I saw her reaction.

  I’d circled my thumb over Reese’s clit and crooked the fingers inside her cunt at the same time, drawing a noise from the back of her throat that had left prim and proper Lucy Williams flushed and shaking.

  Once Reese’s cries died down, Lucy stalked off without so much as a sigh.

  She had never mentioned it directly, but that moment always hung between us. It was in the back of my mind whenever she gave me hell about forgetting my homework—she did enough for the both of us—or every goddamn time she cast those hazel eyes my way.

  At the end of the day, I hadn't given a fuck that she saw me that day in the hall because I’d loved witnessing the look on her face.

  I’d loved shocking her.

  My motivation for tonight was to get her unfiltered response to my world; if she thinks she can sell my gear, she’d better get used to groups like B’s. They pay our bills—make us successful—and I’ll be damned if I let Lucy’s holier-than-thou attitude come through around my clients. But even though I was looking for a reaction, I expected to feel a little more satisfied when Williams discovered we don’t make clocks.

  Seeing how she’s huddled against the door of my car with her arms crossed tightly over her firm breasts, though, I feel … guilty.

  It’s the second time that’s happened this week.

  “You’re quiet, love,” I say over the song booming from the radio. She hangs her head low, and her inky hair tumbles over one shoulder. I want to reach out and brush it back, but I have a feeling she might bite my goddamn hand off.

  "Say something,” I implore.

  She tightens the corners of her mouth and glares down at her lap.

  You want to do this the hard way, Lucy, so be it. "Was it everything you expected?"

  Jabbing the radio's power button, she ends the song in the middle of the lead singer bragging about parents crying when women bring him around. She whips her head in my direction, and the fury behind her stare catches me off guard. “Sorry, but I couldn’t listen to that anymore. It was so fitting for the type of man you are, I could scream,” she spits out. “What do you think I expected, Mr. Exley?"

  "I expected you'd be better prepared, Williams." I concentrate on the dark highway, speeding up. She’s so pissed off she doesn’t bother to highlight that I’m going twenty over. "I expected you wouldn't just stand there with your mouth dangling open, looking like you were just invited to join in on the fuckfest and—"

>   "You. Tricked. Me!" she shrieks before I can finish reminding her of the Voyeur Room. I was distracted the entire time I spoke to Bailon because she looked like she was seconds from writhing on the floor. Seeing her like that, with her skin flushed pink and her red lips quivering, had fucked over my train of thought.

  "I didn't trick you, you just didn't do your research." I loosen my grip on the steering wheel because pain shoots through my knuckles. "You always were the sort to research every fucking detail so you wouldn't look like an arse when you forced your opinion down some poor bastard’s throat. I figured you already knew just what you were getting yourself into. You seemed so confident in what you were saying in my office."

  "So that's what this was? You decided not to clue me in because you have a vendetta against me for forcing my point on you when we were kids? Thanks for being such an adult, Jace."

  "I don't hold grudges." I glance her way, and her breath hitches as our eyes lock. "Yes, you were a bitch with all that underachiever shit when we were kids, but I don't hold that against you. If anything, it motivated me to be more. Better."

  "So if it’s not a grudge, why didn't you say anything? Why did you even hire me if it wasn’t just to get a good laugh over stupid, naïve Lucy Williams?"

  To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t wanted to hire her because I don’t like being physically attracted to her. It’s dangerous; a disaster for business, and that’s one thing I do enjoy—my business. The people who work for me are my family, and I don’t need someone coming in and fucking that up.

  I’d hoped her references would throw her under the bus. That would have made saying no simple and going with someone with less education and experience even easier. But then Lucy’s ex-husband had begrudgingly admitted the woman could sell crack to a crack dealer—just before he told me what a godawful bitch she is.

  Godawful bitch or not, I knew I needed her. Not just because I thought she’d take us to a whole new level but because something about her ex’s snide tone made me want to give her the job.

  My dick can find a distraction. Just so long as it’s not her pussy doing the distracting, I told myself last night when I called. I was ready to tell her everything about EXtreme. But then she’d assertively claimed she’d have our name out in every corner of the world within the year—because she thought we made clocks and that excited her. And I knew right then that I didn’t want to warn her.