by Marata Eros
“Okay.” I grab my cell from the coffee table and text Jay, asking when and where.
A minute later, his response comes in.
“Done.”
My stomach rolls.
“See? Now there's no reason not to make arrangements to meet with Mick.”
If he'll agree.
My hand hovers over my cell, and Kiki's hand closes over mine.
“No... I think he's probably a little raw,” she says. “Go out with this dick lick, then reach out to Mick.” Her eyes remain on mine.
“What are you gonna do?”
I outline it briefly.
“So you're back to poles and hoping Ronnie doesn't pull a repeat?”
“Yeah... I mean, I don't know why he'd compromise his freedom for revenge.”
“Because he can. That sick perv is just pissed enough about things not going his way four years ago. He wants another shot.”
“He almost killed my mom! He beat and stabbed me. I'm thinking that's plenty.” I think about my trashed apartment, the mask he left at my job like a calling card. This is way too personal.
“Nah. Guys like him aren’t happy unless they’re forcing women beneath him.” She shakes out her hair, and it slips forward to cover her ample cleavage. “He's not a pimp by accident. He's a deliberate douche.” She snaps a big bubble, and it blows up, coating her cheeks.
“Damn, my makeup!” Kiki fumbles with the gum remnants.
“I'm going to bed.” I'm so tired from this horrible night's events that I'm trying to fall asleep where I sit. Plus, a small part of me wants to lick my wounds in private.
Or a big part.
Kiki kisses my cheek. “You know how much I love you.”
I hug her. “I know.”
I can't breathe from her grip, as if she'll never let go. No matter what happens, I'm so grateful for Kiki's unconditional friendship.
“Get this guy gone and nail Mick,” she says.
My smile turns into a yawn. “I think it's the other way around.”
I expect her to smile, but her face is serious. “You might be dying, Faren, but don't stop living.”
I have no answer for that.
~ 3 ~
I watch him come out of the Millennium, and I shiver inside my trench coat. I've become a cliché. The stalkee has become the stalker. My tears mingle with the rain.
Mick doesn't break into my apartment anymore.
There are no texts.
No calls.
Nothing for days going on a week.
It's like he saw a ghost, blinked... and then I disappeared.
Not that I can blame him. Or forget him.
It's Seattle, and the rain sheets down. It’s not big droplets like people who don't live here envision, but a fine soaking mist that drenches in minutes.
From a shadowed stoop across the street, I watch a lush, unflappable Mick stride out the entrance and down the red carpet, looking so much a part of the scene he appears to grow right out of the ground.
Like he's always belonged.
Where we shared so much... and not nearly enough.
Henry holds the door open with an umbrella between the open door and the plush interior of the limo.
My idea is such a risk, so unlike me, it just might work.
I'm counting on it.
Even with the umbrella sheltering him and the day as gray as living pewter, his hair glows like a low burning red flame. Embers cast to ash, I watch his head bend as he slides into the limo.
My eyes latch onto the disappearing slice of flesh at his nape and a soft sound escapes me. I have the sudden overpowering urge to touch him.
How could I ever have convinced myself that all I want from him is sex? When—if—he takes what I offer, he will take more than my innocence.
I won't have to suffer that long with the loss, as the clock of my life ticks.
I’m doing what Kiki says. Knowing my death is coming doesn't have to rob me of the life I still have left.
I wait as the long limo pulls away.
Looking both ways, I cross the street.
In a trench coat.
And nothing else.
*
“Yes, Miss...” the doorman begins.
I can tell by the way he looks me over that he recognizes me.
Of course he does.
I'm the tramp Mick slummed with and supposedly assaulted.
“Mitchell,” I supply.
His eyes move over my scarlet lipstick, heavy mascara that breaches the round sunglasses I’m using for concealment, and my long locks of almost strawberry blonde hair.
We both know it's bullshit.
“What may I do for you, Miss Mitchell?” he asks reluctantly.
“I...” This is where things get dicey. I have to play this just right and that's never been my best thing. “I wanted to save Mr. McKenna any embarrassment...”
He cocks his brow, a white gloved hand picking some lint off his immaculate uniform. “We do appreciate the courtesy.”
He knows.
“I thought I'd stop by and pick up some of my things while Mr. McKenna wasn't at home.”
Our eyes meet, and I can see him weigh his options. If he makes me wait until Mick returns, it might cause a media storm. The potential for negative press in their swank tower of million dollar plus condos is high.
However, Mick might be pissed if he finds out the doorman let me inside without his express knowledge.
Choices, choices.
The doorman scans the interior lobby. A chandelier anchors the ceiling in the center, casting golden amber diamonds across the ivory and mocha Travertine floor.
I do what works and flash a George Washington I can't spare. It disappears inside his pure white gloved palm.
Finally he appears to make a decision. “Fine, I'll key you through, but Miss Mitchell?
Make it snappy... I don't know when Mr. McKenna will return.”
I do.
Thorn told me.
“How's Mick?” I asked, pressing my cell against my ear.
“How the fuck do you think he is? We sort of tag-teamed his ass. You ripped off his dick, and I stabbed him in the back. Yeah, he's doing goddamned peachy.”
I sighed.
“I have a plan.”
After I told him my plan, he answered with a low hissing whistle. “Holy fucking smokes, girl. It's your damn funeral.”
I envision him scrub his short hair with an agitated palm.
How close he is to the truth without knowing it.
“Will he hurt me?”
I won't lie, I was nervous as hell.
“Hell no, Mick's pissed but he's not a chick beater.”
“Just a dude beater.”
Thorn gave a low chuckle, “Yeah, he's damn fine at that.”
“What about you two?”
“I'm not ready to share.”
“Are you... guys okay?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did he fire you from Black Rose?”
“It's more complicated than that.”
“What did you tell him?”
Thorn doesn’t answer right away. “He wasn't much interested in my bullshittery. It was all he could do not to kick my ass some more. But I think it's safe to say he thinks I coerced your lily white ass into doing laps.”
He didn't. We both know it.
I said, “I think when I'm all through here... he'll see things differently.”
“He'll see somethin'.”
“Faren?”
My heart beats faster when he calls my name. Two syllables said with an almost frantic intensity. “Yeah?”
“Be careful with Mick. He's not... as hard as you think.”
He will be.
“Okay,” I said, but not like I meant it. I had a plan and I was sticking to it.
Remembering our conversation reminds me why I'm here. The doorman and I ride the elevator to the level below the penthouse. The still-unfinished penthouse will eventual
ly become Mick's domain.
We reach his floor, the nineteenth story, and I step out.
The doorman walks to Mick's half of the story and slides a card through a coded slot.
He pushes the door open, and I finally notice his nametag. It’s jet black, and the name is just another texture in all that glossy darkness.
Tom.
“Thank you.”
He steps away, hands to his chest. “I don't know how you got in, so don't thank me. Just... get your things and get out.”
His brows jerk up as he waits for my response.
“Right. Yes,” I confirm.
He nods and moves swiftly to the elevator.
I walk inside and latch the door, looking around.
I can't help that my ceaseless thoughts continue to churn through the machinery that is my mind.
I need to visit my mom.
I want to protect what's left of my life from Ronnie.
I'll have to date Jay one time to get that money.
I need Mick.
The wheat-colored trench coat swirls around my ankles as I move. My high heels offer a lick of bright red as I walk toward Mick's bedroom.
I walk in as though I own the place and stall out, suddenly uncertain.
One wall is solid glass. If there's a seam somewhere, I can't find it. His bed centers the room. It’s orgy-sized, custom for sure. It takes up the entire wall and is surrounded by the same wood as the floor. The burnished walnut looks like mauled whiskey, with knots and pockmarks lending to its rustic elegance. The smooth lines of the built-in shelving counters the weathered wood, and they combine to look homey.
I can imagine myself in that bed.
Beneath Mick.
I don't want his last vision of me to be my naked body on top of another man.
A man I could never want the way I want him.
I turn around, absently moving to the built-in dresser that mimics the bed across from it.
Sparkling cufflinks are scattered around the top like discarded jewels.
I pick up the ones he wore the first time I saw him.
I close my good hand around them and the precious metal warms inside my palm. I set it down with a sigh that sounds like a sob.
I make the rounds to the closet. It's the size of my apartment and a laugh boils out of me.
I put my fist to my lips. The floor-to-ceiling closet is a sea of walnut with nooks, crannies, and rods. An island stands in the middle like some people have in their kitchens.
I'm so entranced, I miss my cue by a mile.
“Like what you see?”
I whirl, my hand automatically coming to my chest, where a bird the size of a house tries to escape.
Mick stands there with dewdrops of rain on top of that rich auburn hair.
He doesn't look angry. I expected anger.
What I see instead is so much worse.
Indifference.
I don't have to be wise to understand that hate is not the opposite of love.
I don't know if I'm brave enough.
“Get out, Faren,” Mick says calmly, like repeating the local weather forecast.
I know I'm not brave enough.
But his dark eyes do hold heat.
Not desire, but anger. I guess that’s better than the vacant lack of care that was there first.
I carefully undo the tie on the coat.
His eyes track my fingers.
I fling it off in one of the most graceful moves I've ever executed. No dance, no pole, nothing has ever mattered more than this moment.
I stand there perfectly nude, the crimson heels my only accessory.
The sun breaks through the clouds and cuts through the room like a golden promise.
Dust motes travel between us like floating specks of molten gauze.
Mick's deep brown gaze travels my hair that I know looks as though it is on fire and lingers where his mouth has been.
My face.
My sex.
Those burning eyes slow... then travel to my feet.
When they return to my face, his expression has changed.
Mick doesn't utter a word. With catlike grace, he crosses the room and stops abruptly in front of me, so close it would be easier to touch.
The tables have turned. I am the aggressor.
I grab his buttocks with both hands and jerk him against me.
Mick's face tightens, his body stiff and unyielding.
He groans, his forehead leaning down to rest against mine for a heartbeat. He locks his eyes on mine and picks me up. I lose my grip on his hard ass and cling to his shoulders.
He tosses me the six feet onto the bed.
I bounce when I land in an ungraceful pile, legs spread for his perusal.
Suddenly I'm looking into eyes that have all the lust I want... and something more.
Maybe hate.
My desire turns to something heady and more sinister.
Fear.
~ 4 ~
“You want this?” Mick growls, grabbing the straining package at the crotch of his trousers.
I widen my legs in silent reply, the spikes of my heels digging into the plush coverlet. I kick up my chin in defiance and watch Mick struggle with a myriad of emotions.
I can tell he doesn't want to take me in anger; he wants to take me any way he can.
My stare locks onto the rigid outline of his cock as his hands remove clothes in angry quick movements.
His jacket cascades to the floor. Nimble fingers undo the buttons of his shirt one at a time, then in sudden impatience he tears it off.
Buttons scatter across the wood floor like plastic rain.
Mick unwraps himself like a sensuous, volatile package. The rose tat at his left shoulder bleeds into his chest as his muscles flex and dance. It has vines of ebony with a scarlet bloom, and I belatedly understand the symbolism.
I finally answer. “Yes.”
His eyes are hard with anger, his body tense with lust.
“We're getting something straight.”
I shake my head, and his hands clench into fists as the last scrap of reason leaves him.
I do the thing that will break him and bring him to me without words.
I stuff a pillow under my head and touch myself with my good hand. My bad hand cooperates for once and tweaks my nipple.
My breast shivers and jiggles with my attentions.
Mick makes a strangled sound, his eyes locked onto my tit like a warhead.
“My way, Faren.”
His pants slide to the floor, and he climbs across the bed between my legs.
“My way,” I whisper.
Mick's expression tells me no, but he keeps coming. His penis bobs as he nears me, and I sigh. I fling my arms behind me. He wraps his strong hands around my forearms and pins them there.
Then his hands slide down to my elbows as his mouth lands on my sex.
My hips buck, and he dives harder, his tongue boring into my wetness. I shout his name, knowing I can't lie anymore.
I’ve fallen so deeply that I drown in the moment. His tongue plugs me like a hot spear of heat while his hands hold me down.
I whimper and he lifts his head. “Keep your legs spread, Faren. No more lies... no more acting.”
My eyes fly open. I haven't told him.
He doesn't really know.
Mick doesn't read my expression though, because his mouth is on me again. He uses the flat of his tongue to rub my clit faster and faster. One of his fingers enters me and misses my barrier, sliding against and inside me. He must mistake the tight fit for something other than what it is.
I stop thinking as he stabs back and forth with a single digit. His tongue's heat never lifts, never leaves my soft sex. A deep throb stabs through my core, and I know I'll blow.
I gaze down my body as his tongue works me, his left hand has circled my upper arm, as his mouth nails me.
The erotic sight fills me, and I can't escape—don't want to.
He re
leases my arm and uses his hands to spread my thighs. My knees flatten against the bed. He plows his tongue against me in a hard stroke, entrance to clit, and I shatter.
My hands rake through his hair as I shriek. The pressure of his mouth lifts, and my orgasm shivers at the chasm of more. The return of his soft lips and hot breath pushes me over that shining edge. The orgasm crashes back to me like a tidal wave coming to shore. My legs shake underneath his hands.
My arms fall to my sides, and I feel his tip at my opening.
It's the moment of truth.
I've forced his hand, used his feelings—anguish, anger, care, lust—in a deadly combination to further my ultimate goal.
We look at each other, and he shows a hesitation I won't allow. His hands are on my ass, my hips lifted slightly off the bed.
I watch him barely nudge inside of me. Before Mick can do anything, I shove my body against him, forcing him to the end of me.
I take my own virginity in a brutal plunge.
Mick's jaw goes slack, his head thrown back, as our bodies joined in a marriage of flesh and fresh agony.
My breath slides out of me in a hiss of pain. It hurts so much worse than I imagined. My pussy feels as if someone stabbed it with a hot poker. I'm so full of heat, pain, and lust that I can't decide which one I’m feeling more.
I feel torn, filled, divided... alive.
Mick's deeply inside me, his cock a throbbing mass of pain and pleasure. His strong hands cup my ass.
Neither of us move. When his eyes open, his face levels with mine. His eyes hold anguish; they hold awe.
“I didn't know.”
His dulcet tones caress my wounds like salve.
Mick dips his head, covering me with his muscular body and our foreheads touch. His lips graze my cheek and his hips pull back, my walls grabbing at him.
I hold his naked ass, feeling my muscles clench and stop his escape.
“Don't,” I command. It hurts... I want more.
“Faren,” Mick says, “I don't know what kind of screwed up game you're playing...”
“Just fuck me, please. It's what I want.”
He closes his eyes. “I don't know if I can stop once I start.”
He rocks into me deeply, kissing my womb, pulls out, and drives deep again.