Casey blinked. “What?”
“My name…is Sara.”
He stood, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Fury was now in his gaze. Fury he could not hide by dark shadows and hurtful words.
“Dammit! I know who the hell you are. But to me you’re Mecenna!” His bark was as bad as his bite, if not more so. It caused a reactive flinch of the body and both felt that flinch as if cut by knife.
Stinging heat and blinding pain to the inner soul, Sara stood. She balled her fists alongside her hips. “I can’t be the woman you want me to be. I can’t be Mecenna any longer.”
“You never were Mecenna!” he yelled. “Were you?”
Sara flinched again from the violence in his words, but held her ground. “I know. I never was. But…”
She never got the chance to complete the rest of her sentence. Casey cut her off.
“Fucking Hell! You’re a witch in disguise! You play your little games, break hearts, but you’d been Mecenna to me!”
“Then who the bloody hell am I now? Another finger fuck—another whore for you to play with, at least until you felt the need to toss me away for one far better? Another wannabe stripper with big enough boobs to satiate a man’s desire, but lacking the brains to compensate for the wrong color of hair? That isn’t me.” She uncurled one fist and tapped her chest. “It was never me.”
The tears came to her eyes, threatened to spill, but Sara held them back by spite and fury combined.
“Then who are you?” he questioned softer. No longer were the veins in his temples sticking out to warn her of his thoughts. “Who are you…Sara?” he asked again.
Sara turned her head to the side. She wasn’t so sure anymore. Perhaps she’d never been certain; she’d gotten lost amongst all the lies.
She was the woman raised by a violent stepfather and a bi-polar mother, both caring little for her well-being. She was the little girl they locked into closets when she’d been bad, until so scared of the dark she would wet herself. She was the teenager who acted out the aggressions of home life by using sex as her tool throughout at least fifty guys before the old age of nineteen. She was the woman who’d fallen in love with only one man, and never really knowing how to love.
She was every one of all she’d ever been. Sara. Mecenna. Debra. They were all her. They could not be separated from her. Each of those women was a part of her body; each controlled her thoughts, her actions, and her misdeeds.
Sara’s mother had been bi-polar, yet Sara Rogan had been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder at the age of twelve. DID. Most, without medical degree, called it having multiple personalities. Sara called it living out her life while stuck in Hell.
Only one man in all those memories, actions, misdeeds and thoughts had ever achieved success at pulling her into one single person. Her sight rose to this one man.
For the life of her, for one brief instant, Sara did not want Casey to let this completed being go. She wanted him to hold onto her—as Sara. It finally felt good to be only one person.
He took a step forward, checked his actions, ruled against them, taking another step toward her.
Sara moved forward, as well. She went directly into his arms. The fury, the anger, the hatred, it all dissipated in a mere heartbeat. What she was left with was Casey. And it was enough—for now.
“You were never anyone but Sara to me.” His tongue slid down the length of her neck, trailing fire to the side of her face.
Casey’s mouth then found hers and it locked on.
Chapter Eleven
Griffen had been with a lot of women in his life. From the age of fourteen until now, women surrounded him like moths to bright flame. Most of those over the years had worked for him at the club. Others, he’d used for practical purposes, and eventually one-night stands that meant little to either—easily forgotten.
Others, he couldn’t even remember their names if still in his bed come morning. They’d been for sexual gratification and nothing more; surely not there for love.
Unfortunately, only one woman in all of his years had made a difference in how he viewed the world.
Sara.
Casey knew all about her personality disorder. He’d done his homework. He never hired a woman into his club if not doing a thorough background check— including medical history. It was against the law, of course, to dig into one’s medical diagnosis, or hold it against an individual for employment purposes. Nevertheless, his one stickler in life was if he was going to hire a woman, and she a potential conquest, either to him or to one of his clients, she damn well had better be disease free. Most often, the women would lie about their problems—mentally or physically. They never openly told a man they’d slept with far too many and their late night activities had finally caught up to them.
If Casey ever found out one of his girls lied to him, this caught her a quick pink slip and blacklisted from any other employment at the four other strip clubs within a hundred mile radius. Casey had connections, and he used those connections for a higher purpose. There were worse things than an annoying sexual disease of a hot chick, however—well he should know.
Not only was disease an issue in most of the clubs, criminal activity played a huge role in who he would write out paychecks to. If she was at all in trouble with the law, she saw the back exit door real quick; the moment it hit her in the ass. If not, he gave her a trial period of three months.
A man could tell if the potential was there, and he sure as hell couldn’t let a woman with sticky fingers into a place drawing him in nearly twenty-thousand dollars a night.
A woman with the crabs could kill a club owner’s business like gas set to flame.
The payoff to the foolproof system he’d created was what had him driving a one hundred fifty-thousand dollars sports car, owning three others, and living in a three million dollar mansion with every gadget imaginable. He was fucking rich but frugal—to a point.
Sex, was an entirely different story. With sex, Casey was a total tight wad. He never paid for it. He never asked for it. It came his way free of charge, and without any personal complications or emotional baggage. He never left his partner of the night wanting more. But, if he was going to put real effort into it, she left his bed with a smile on her face and his name branded on her lips for a least the next year or two.
Casey could satisfy a woman. There was never a question to that. There would never be a question to his capabilities.
Sara Rogan was a whole other path for a man to take. She was physically disease free. She’d never been in trouble with the law, as much as he knew. However, she was mentally flawed. And he’d watched Sara as Mecenna, for months on end, just to see if any personality slip would ever crop up into her work. Her pink slip kept on hand, stuffed into the top drawer of his office desk, was there in case it was ever needed.
If she’d lifted money, or stole other things out of the club, he would have easily handed her that slip of paper without missing a beat.
Sara never did. She never took out of the till. She never slipped out of the character of Mecenna. The only time she’d ever taken anything not hers was when her and Lace emptied a full bottle of his tequila while practicing on the pole; forgiven, if not incredibly fun to have watched from the shadows.
The women had worked hard that week—they’d earned a little free time.
He knew he gave Sara shit for it far more than Lace, and made her squirm that night, but it really hadn’t bothered him all too much that she’d taken the tequila; especially, when she gave him just as much shit back upon his finding out.
As long as each girl in his employ put in their shift hours and at a hundred and ten percent, made him money, Casey was fine with a little theft of spirits. Therefore, the only thing ever stopping him from having the physical act of sex with this woman was she’d disappeared on him. The night he locked her into his mirrored room, his every intention had been to make love to her—after she danced for him. If she could have pu
lled it off, he would have made it worth her effort. She may or may not have wanted to be his mistress, but sooner or later he would’ve been able to charm into agreeing.
What were her words said to him? He was to show her his pecker…or something to this effect. He only wished he’d taken her dare.
For six long months, Casey had been worried sick about her. He’d wanted to know if she laid dead on the side of the road, if she had enough money to keep afloat, or a warm place to stay. Imagine his surprise when he found her at Tepper’s, happy as a lark. Then, for her to tell him she and Tep had never slept together? He was talking about Sara Rogan—a confirmed Sex Goddess. Hell! If he’d been a woman, he would have slept with Tepper! Le D`oun was loaded in every single definition to the word. Head to toe, and monetary, the guy was a fucking God, according to that God, and Tep put Casey at the bottom of his throne, second in line to any leftovers tossed his way.
Casey told Sara he and Tepper did not share. Well, there had been a time or two when they had—and this sharing done in the same damn night! Poker night came with incredible benefits, and usually a few hookers for whoever won the kiddy.
When Tep called him a week ago, said there would be no hookers, Casey had been a bit surprised.
He’d been flabbergasted when he walked out onto the patio and the only female in sight was Sara.
His first shocked instinct was she was the nights’ fun, and for one quick instant of his more than exciting life, he’d felt remorse for all those other women used on poker night. He did not want Sara to go through that. Five drunken men in one night would have been too much for her. Five large men would have damaged the goods—in many irreversible ways.
Then his fury overtook remorse. She’d been missing for six long months, and he found her as Debra? He never once suspected this at all by the way Tepper talked about the woman. Surely this Debra Tepper was so crazy about, would have been a mousy, bookish, near-librarian.
Casey never put thought Tep would purposely pick a hot, unstoppable Mecenna as his more than competent Debra.
Nor, should he have put more thought to it, have expected Sara as Mecenna.
Each of her personalities was a world apart. Each had their own quirks. Each came with their own traumas.
Yet only one woman contained all three very different identities.
After a little private investigation, Casey discovered why this was. Sara Rogan was an abused child. This was not in any medical records, and not in any police records. His private investigator uncovered this vital information by going straight to the woman’s past. He’d interviewed Sara’s old neighbors, her school friends, even a couple of her conquests. She’d had multiple conquests.
Casey told his investigator to stop at the first ten. He hadn’t wanted to know about the rest, nor what they’d seen of her body. He’d only wanted to know why…and who made her the way she was. He was told she’d had a bi-polar mother and a drunken, abusive stepfather.
No wonder she’d been terrified of what he’d done to her. He’d locked her into a mirrored room, amplifying her flaws. Sara’s abusive stepfather used to lock her into fucking closets! He couldn’t imagine what that did to the psyche of a child. But all he had to do was look at Sara as a grown adult, feel the trembling in his arms, and he could see the aftereffects of such a tragedy, as if his own.
Sara Rogan was in his arms—not Tepper’s.
Sara was crying her eyes out on his chest—not Tepper’s.
She was going to make love to him—and not do so with Tepper.
For once in his life, Casey had upped another man.
The physical act would be by the end of this night, laced with compassion and heat. Moreover, if the cards were laid all out and the cosmos aligned, this was going to be a night filled with a little kink and a whole lot of lust. He hadn’t worked out the specifics in his head, but he knew they would both be satisfied come morning.
Emotionally satisfied was a whole other story.
He’d waited six long months for this woman. He was going to have Sara…and she was going to put his name to her lips and his size into her core without complaint.
His tongue, sent deep in her mouth, suddenly battled with hers. She did not push him away. Instead, she drew him in with each breath taken; pulled him closer with each beat of her heart. She collected him, as no other woman had done so before.
Casey eased his mouth back, his eyes locked into hers. He saw his reflection mirrored.
Sara could not hide what she wanted of him any more than he could hide his desire for her; this desire hard and painful between his legs.
To make it hurt worse, she pushed her hips into his, crushing the incredible want against her pelvis. Her hands slid from his lower back to his hips.
Casey had to grab for breath during this sudden caress of the woman’s more than tempting fingers to ward off losing control far too quickly. She then moved those hands to the front of his jeans and dragged her knuckles across his thickened shaft.
Christ! He was more than ready for her. Only a fool would have thought otherwise. But he had to take this slow, savor it, use caution to make it last. If went at this too fast, she would disappear again and he couldn’t chance any more disappearing acts from her.
His hands dropped from her hair to gather her wrists into his palms. He wanted to get the idea of taking things slow into her head, without actually having to say the words aloud.
But Sara wasn’t cooperating with these plans. She took a step forward and put her mouth to his jaw line, dragged her tongue over the course stubble and down the side of his neck; dragging a deep, relentless groan from out of his throat.
As he let her tongue discover a trail of ecstasy to follow, Casey kept firm grip onto her wrists. He knew if he let her go, she would open up the zipper and all hell would break loose. And he was not about to make love to her while they stood inside his living room.
Casey wanted to make love to Sara while they lay on his bed, perhaps in the shower, and then on the floor. Even on the billiard table seemed like a good idea. He’d always wanted to try a little creative sex surrounded by pool cues, blue chalk and an eight ball shoved into the side pocket.
His plans were to fuck this woman every way he could, every which way to Sunday…while he actually cared about doing it. How it happened, where it happened, or why it happened, would be up to the hands of fate. Nevertheless, it damn well was going to happen.
Even fate dared not screw something bound by destiny.
****
Sara feared what she felt inside her body. Warmth unstoppable took over. The desire built to beyond imaginable, and that warmth got well out of her control. In fact, all of the control leading toward tonight slipped from her grasp—the second Casey took her in his arms and set his mouth to hers’.
She gave him what he wanted of her; lend more to the desire than simple lust, since she had no more secrets to hide. He knew exactly who she was, and why she did whatever she had to, to get by in life. Those secrets had kept her safe over the years; they’d protected her. A shield made out of traumatic memories and the consequences of childhood formed of thick steel.
Sara no longer had to hold any shield up to protect her psyche from harm. She no longer had to be afraid of discovery. Casey wouldn’t harm her.
She gently tugged her wrists out of his grasp, sliding her fingers up the length of his muscular torso. She would take this slow, though her body screamed otherwise. She would make this perfect—a memory that would never need any shield to hide behind. She would give the man all he wanted of her, because desperation was fueling her need, as much as it looked to be fueling his.
Life did not revolve around taken breaths and steadied heartbeats. There was a good pain and a bad. Sara knew both.
Casey’s deep blue eyes drifted closed by her touch to his ribs. As she put her forehead to his frame, she asked him, without reservation or regret, “Make love to me.”
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
With indrawn breath, his mouth lowered to hers. Casey tasted her, accepting her lips as a hearty meal. He wound his hands around her back, pressing his huge arousal tight to her body. There was never a question that he lusted for her. The only question unasked was if he wanted her as Sara, or expected her to be Mecenna when the clothes came off.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—be both.
He scooped her into his arms and strode purposefully to the staircase leading up to his master bedroom. He took those stairs two at a time, while she nuzzled her face against his strained neck muscles. He physically kicked the door inward and rushed them inside. The action slowed as he lowered her feet to the floor and set her directly in front of him.
Casey did not touch her for one long moment. His eyes gathered in every nuance of her as a being. Then, he very slowly put his hands to the hem of her shirt and pulled the material over her head. It wasn’t much material, but it was enough to keep temptation stuck on an adrenaline rush, and the high of what came next a delectable aphrodisiac.
Sara’s lacy bra had the man drawing in a breath. He put his hands to her back and slipped the catch free. He brushed his fingertips under the straps to release the garment from her shoulders.
With infinite skill, he headed straight to the button of her jeans. One deft movement he removed the single button from its hole, another slide of the hand ran the zipper down.
Sara stepped back and removed her jeans, shimmied the material down her legs. Far too rushed to get completely dressed once forced to leave Tepper’s, she now stood naked in front of his unwavering gaze. This made Casey groan all the more, likely unready to see she’d skipped the need for underwear.
However, his eyes saw no flaws. His ears heard no complaints. His mouth turned up in one corner, and deep shameless dimples sunk heavily into his cheeks.
For the first time in her life, Sara felt vulnerability by her nudity. Never before had this happened to her.
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