Deliciously Obedient

by Julia Kent

  But being the object of his ongoing desire? Considering that was too great a risk for her carefully constructed reality that protected her from scenes exactly like this.

  Too raw.

  Too open.

  Too real.

  Too Lydia.

  With Jeremy she could slowly open the door to that self, one inch at a time, entirely on her own terms and with the buy-in of his respect for her no.

  With Mike?

  She didn’t have a no.

  And above all that he had done to her, the scars he’d left, the wounds he reopened before her, those eyes hungry for so much more than her sex, she suspected that he, too, was overwhelmed by the enormity of what connected them to each other.

  He had to say it first.

  She couldn’t survive being shattered again.

  The ball was in his court, and so far, he hadn’t hit a serve she cared to return.

  The server appeared with five small plates, each holding a different kind of food. Appetite dashed, all she wanted was more alcohol and time to sort through her feelings.

  “You ordered?”

  “I hope you like it.”

  Not giving an inch, was he? As the server described the dishes—more chevre-stuffed figs, tiny samosas, enchiladas with a delightful chipotle aioli—she found herself wondering how Caleb was doing at Jeddy’s, and made a note to herself to compare the food and give Caleb some tips.

  Right after she stopped thinking about Mike’s face between her thighs.

  When would that be? she wondered as she stuffed an extraordinary samosa in her mouth, flavor bursting all over her tongue and cheeks, as if her taste buds weren’t enough to capture every savory bit.

  Never. It would be never.

  Mike took one, too, and the shared look of appreciation made her see him in a new light. Nervous. He was more rattled than he was letting on. That made him seem more human. Fallible. Ordinary and approachable.

  All she wanted was to understand him, and for him to know her, and somehow—maybe—to forge a few shaky steps toward more knowing.

  That was all.

  Might as well ask for the moon.

  “Amazing,” he said, reaching for an enchilada. Following his cue, she took one and bit into it. Chicken and cheese and some kind of salsa verde blended with the chipotle aioli.

  “My grandmother would love this place.”

  “How is she?”

  The normality of the conversation—a man and a woman admiring food, talking about family—made each beat make more sense.

  “Recovering. They did a surgical procedure to help with some blockages around her heart, and pretty soon she and Ed will be back to their corsets and chains.”

  The choke of surprise Mike emitted made her giggle. “Excuse me?”

  That’s right. Mike had no idea about Madge’s…proclivities. And her openness about it. Jeremy knew, though. Hours of conversation and jokes and the slow reveal—already interrupted—gave him a better panoramic view of her.

  Mike only had the telescopic lens.

  And the video camera, of course.

  Leaning on the table, chin in palm, she smiled sweetly at him and said, “My grandma knows herself very well, and that self is a fiery sexpot octogenarian.”

  He nodded, wiping his mouth and taking a big swig of the double shot the server had silently replaced. “Good genes. Hope you inherited them.”

  Her turn to laugh. “I can only hope to be half the woman my grandmother is.”

  “You’re already more than enough.” His hand covered the back of hers. The room suddenly grew warm and still, everything in balance, her skin absorbing his heat with a pleasure she couldn’t deny. Mike—the very real Mike—was holding her hand at a table at a tapas bar in Waltham, and his eyes were kind and wanting, contemplative and pensive, but entirely on her.

  “Enough for two?” she joked. Wincing, she let herself slowly lower her defenses. Might as well, right? If there’s ever a time to be open and honest, it should be when you’re sitting across from the guy who indirectly made sure a billion people saw your gyrating ass and heard your sex voice, after just being encouraged by your boyfriend to fuck him.

  Or something like that.

  Her head hurt from the confusion. The drink? She needed another, reaching with her uncovered hand to pour a full glass, sipping it slowly while stealing looks at a very steady, very intense Mike, who stared right back.

  With a smile.

  Transformative. No other word applied, and no other word should apply. Truly—how could the man change so easily, and yet still retain the steel core inside him? He was a rock. Staying calm through all of this. Only now did it occur to her how much he had dealt with these past months. Really hit her—the emotional hit he’d taken had been equal to hers.

  Greater, in some respects.

  “How are you?” she said quietly, making his grin broaden, his cheeks rugged and full, the effect her words had on him evident in sparkling eyes that seemed to say, Thank you for showing up. Finally.

  “Never been better,” he said slowly, not at all intoning the familiar pabulum most of us exchange in daily life as we pretend to care. “I’ve truly never,” he added, squeezing her hand, sending a tingling through her, “been better.”

  “What have you been doing this whole time?”

  He looked away and released her hand. She grabbed his, making him tilt his head and smile again, this time without teeth, just a warm look of compassion that made her think that there was so much more to him.

  To them.

  In whatever form that took.

  Jeremy. He should have been the elephant in the room, and yet she’d barely thought of him for the past few minutes, and Mike clearly had thoughts only for her. The build of something greater than both of them—all three of them—began inside her, a foundation she would need to use as a surface that would support the weight of nonconformity.

  It better be strong enough.

  Because she wasn’t quite sure she was.

  And then—

  “I’ve spent the last month renting a lovely cabin at this really beautiful little wonderland,” he said, his thumb slowly caressing the soft web of her hand, hypnotic and enticing.

  “Really? Where?” Before the words were out she knew.

  Knew.

  And he knew she knew.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped, snatching her hand away and using it to cover her horror. Or to hold in the pain. She wasn’t sure which was more true.

  Probably both.

  “You infiltrated Camp Charles?” He started to smile, but buddy, she wasn’t joking around. “Camp Charles” was what they’d called their home in the off season, when it was just the eight of them and specially invited guests, relatives coming for holidays and weekends, when Mom and Dad could just be themselves and not spend their days like a spider monkey with an espresso pot, helping campers with anything and everything.

  “I guess I did.”

  “Either you did or you didn’t.”

  “‘Infiltrated’ is rather harsh.”

  “So is stalking me like a crazy motherfucker after getting me out of the country.”

  “Not one part of that sentence makes sense.”

  “Neither do you!”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Don’t patronize me!”

  “I’m agreeing with you.”

  “I can’t tell the difference with you.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “It sure as hell isn’t mine!” Breathe, Lydia, breathe. The words flowed through her like an in breath, then an out breath, pushing her pain out, her sense in.

  Nope. Didn’t work.

  Were they talking in circles, or was that the wine? Lydia couldn’t tell anymore, though she suspected she was deluding herself by trying to attribute even one sentence of this conversation to the alcohol. Coherent, strong and clear, Mike’s words were exactly what they seemed to be, on the surface or underneath.

&n
bsp; There were no layers now. It was all right here. He wanted her. Jeremy wanted her.

  They wanted her.

  First things first.

  “Make the argument for lying about your identity, renting a cabin and living like some kind of spy among my people.”

  “You make it sound so anthropological.”

  An arched eyebrow was all she could muster. And then she muttered, “Anthropological assholes abound.”

  “Good point. Miles is a bit like something out of Gorillas in the Mist.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  A self-satisfied chuckle from him made her heart rate soar, and not out of passion. Insufferable. Full of himself, so, so, so—

  God damned hot.

  “I’ll talk, but you have to listen. And none of that.” One finger pointed to her face.

  “None of what?”

  “Those looks you give me.”

  “What looks?”

  “Just like that. You’re doing it now.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Judging me.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she rolled her neck and gave him a cocky half-smile. “Look, buddy, you can make plenty of requests of me. You can even issue orders—”

  That made him raise his eyebrow.

  “—but you cannot dictate how I react to something you say. None of this works like that. I get to feel what I feel and I get to express that however I want. And I’m wearing my big-girl panties tonight, which means I can handle the consequences of that.”

  “I’m sad you’re wearing any panties at all.”

  Whatever words were on the tip of her tongue, ready to joust with, came to a sharp halt at that.

  “I—”

  “I’ll tell you my story,” he said, reaching for her knee and patting it with an infuriatingly condescending gesture that she wished would turn into a sly slide up her thigh. But didn’t.

  “You have to shut up and listen.”

  Biting her lips, she did as told.

  “After I realized we were caught on camera, something in me that had just come to life was instantly frozen, as if I’d found nirvana and then glanced at Medusa’s eyes.”

  That was one hell of an image.

  “Getting you out from under the camera’s eye at the office was my top priority in those moments. I went into damage control. Normally, when I kick into that mode I’m a robot. It’s all about initiatives and targets and goals. Dissembling and becoming an emotional basket case because of you wasn’t in my programming.”

  Mike paused and chucked back the rest of his drink. “We went to that Asian restaurant, and the entire time my brain was a million miles away, scheming and strategizing to suppress the video, pay off the producer—do whatever it took to contain and control.

  “But,” he added quietly, rubbing his chin, “what I didn’t realize was that containment and control doesn’t work when it comes to my feelings about you.”

  Blink. All she could do was blink and absorb as the rest of the restaurant disappeared.

  “I made love with you at your apartment not because I was using you, or for a quick lay, or a good fuck.” His eyes twinkled with a slight smile and she could read his mind, because it had been a good fuck.

  A great fuck.

  “Go on.” She leaned across the table and let her hand rest within an inch of his.

  “That night was the best goodbye I could muster. Except you had no idea, and I was torn inside, so conflicted and utterly destroyed, knowing I had hurt you and you—you had no idea. Not yet. And the colossal reach of that damn video was going to blow you out of the water and make your world explode.”

  “It nearly did. Thank God for Diane,” she muttered.

  His brow lowered with a thought she couldn’t discern, and he started to say something, then shook his head imperceptibly. “Yes. Diane’s entrance was…serendipitous.”

  “A genius couldn’t have planned that,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” His voice was tight and different, so she shut up. No interruptions. She gave him a look of encouragement, and touched the back of his hand. Instantly, he turned his palm over and clasped hers.

  “Nothing I did with Jonah—the producer—mattered. Some intern must have gotten the clip and made it go viral. I had no power.” He made a noise of disgust. “Michael Bournham without power.” His eyelashes fluttered against his lower lids, then those baby blues centered on her. “You’re my Kryptonite.”

  Laughter bubbled up from her and he squeezed her hand. “You’re equating being a CEO with Superman?”

  “In this culture?” A dark chuckle joined hers. “Practically.”

  Reaching over, she playfully touched the center of his chest. A sharp inhale of lust was his response. “Where’s your suit?”

  “I’ll undress and you can find whatever you’re looking for.”

  Could it really be this easy? Pushing aside the past two months, pretending he hadn’t virtually set her heart on fire in front of one seventh of the world’s population, turning a blind eye to her time with Jeremy and the emotional intensity that had brought—all so they could just have a fantastic time in bed and she could audition for the part of their…threesome?

  What had just been comfortable and amusing suddenly became grim, squeezing all of the air out of the room. How could she banter and tease and give weight to the surface while kicking her own injured heart down, pushed subterranean so she could…what?

  What the hell did she really want?

  An unwelcome sense of shame rose up in her, short-circuiting everything good about seeing Mike, all the pleasure associated with just being in his presence and connecting once again.

  She needed to get out.

  “So that’s what this is about? Come back to the source for a little more ass?” She looked behind her back. “Or a lot?”

  Shock registered on his face. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t protest. Didn’t take on her shift.

  “All you want is some pussy, Mike. Only this time off camera.”

  “I want you.”

  “Point made.”

  “What point do you think I’m making? You’re warping everything I’m saying.”

  Fuck this noise. Sometimes you just needed to run away.

  Worked for Mike, right?

  Didn’t work for you in Iceland. Sabotage and undermine—that was all it ever did.

  Fuck you, voice in my head.

  It stopped.

  Grabbing her purse, she stood, wobbly on feet that felt a bit distant from the rest of her body, bones at odd angles and heart threadbare and worn. “If arguing is what you wanted out of the evening, then I’m leaving.”

  “Sit.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  “Sit, please.”

  “No.” And with that, Lydia reclaimed the only remaining shred of anything that resembled normalcy.

  Her own damn will.

  Stronger than Mike or Jeremy realized, she turned to it when there wasn’t much left of her. The court of last resort. Plan B. The Hail Mary pass.

  Storming out of the tapas bar, she marveled at how warm and comfortable most of her body was. Loose and happy, aside from being treated like a fucking badminton birdie between two rackets called Mike and Jeremy, the evening was going swimmingly well.

  So much anger.

  So much pain.

  So much want.

  More than that…so much desire. Taking deep breaths, letting the chilly fall air spike her lungs with pinpricks of ice, she let herself breathe, just taking everything in and letting so much more go.

  Mike’s warm hand encircled her arm, and as much as she wanted to push him away and stomp off, she couldn’t.

  She simply couldn’t.

  Call it weak, or wanting, or crass, or—whatever judgmental word you want to pick out of a hat, Lydia’s bottom line was turning out to be so much more cogent than she wanted it to be.

  Because the complications were all
figments of her over-worried mind, the one that couldn’t let itself see what was startlingly obvious now, as she kept her head turned away from him, but didn’t move to shrug off his hand:

  She wanted what they offered.

  Both.

  Having Jeremy and Mike would solve as many problems as it would cause, wouldn’t it? People didn’t do this—one woman, two men? She could barely manage her own sexuality and its multifaceted approach within a strict orientation paradigm. Two men? Two sets of needs, two…well, two of everything?

  “I don’t think I can do this.” Her words came out as puffs of truth. Because she didn’t think she could do it. Not really. Wanting something never automatically meant you could actually do it.

  “Can’t? Won’t?” Calm eyes studied hers. “And do you mean us? Or something more?”

  “I mean all of this.”

  “Why do you have to tackle all of this in one fell swoop? You can eat an elephant, but it has to be one bite at a time.”

  “You’re comparing me, you and Jeremy to a pachyderm?”

  “I’m experiencing significant cliché failure tonight.”

  “Is that like erectile dysfunction?”

  “What?”

  “Neither one gets the rise you expect.”

  The groan that came out of him cut through her gravid seriousness, making her tilt her head up and laugh to the moon. Mike just shook his head and watched her while she enjoyed being watched, reveling in having him so close, so near, after so many weeks of not knowing what he really felt.

  “Let’s walk. Can we have a truce?”

  “Only if you surrender.”

  “Fine. Give me your panties.”

  “Why?”

  “White flag and all that.”

  “Mine are black tonight.”

  “Don’t tell me that,” he growled, the hand on her arm sliding up to her elbow, then migrating to her ribcage, the motion spontaneous, his eyes darkening with a smolder she felt in herself.

  The kiss was inevitable.

  When they were done, she pulled back and asked, “How far is your apartment?”

  Lydia couldn’t believe she’d just said that. The mystery and competing self-interests weighed heavily on her, pushing the air out of her lungs as her fingers and toes tingled with anticipation. It would be so easy to say no. A moral code from a part of her that had been so sure, so solid, just days ago screamed out rules that she must follow. Deceptively simple rules.