Before She Was Mine

by Amelia Wilde

  I bring my hand down on one ass cheek, not holding back, and she gasps, cries out, relief in her voice, and when I slip my fingers between her legs she’s already wet.

  I bring my hand down five more times on her ass, the pink handprints blooming under my palm, wetness running down between her legs, before I can’t wait any longer.

  Belt undone, pants falling, I free my cock from the prison of my briefs and turn her, shift her so she’s facing away from me, and drive all my thickness into her in one hard thrust, reaching around and clasping my hand over her mouth in time to catch her scream of pleasure.

  Here is the edge, here she is trembling before it, and I fuck her until she goes over, her body spent, quaking, gripping me, loving me, mine.

  24

  Cate

  He spends Saturday and Sunday at my apartment. We spend every hour fucking on every surface available in my apartment. We don’t speak much. I don’t want to.

  I don’t want to hear that this is it, that this weekend is the peak of our agreement, that it’s still over.

  The way he sounded when he said my name didn’t give me that impression, but I’ve learned one thing about Jax Hunter: you never know.

  So on Sunday evening, when he shrugs his shirt over his shoulders, kisses me once, deeply, stroking my cheek, and then slips out the front door, I don’t say anything.

  Silent still, I climb into the shower and let the hot water run over every inch of me. I don’t want the scent of him to disappear from my skin but even the air conditioning couldn’t compete with the heat that exists between us, and I need to get clean.

  My body is relaxed in a way I thought it might never be again, and while I stand in the warmth of the shower, my eyelids start getting heavier and heavier.

  By the time I step out from the shower and towel off, I’m practically sleepwalking and fall naked into my bed, tumbling into a dark, dreamless sleep.

  In the morning I pay the price.

  I’m so exhausted, so spent, that I don’t hear any of my alarms and wake from a dream about sirens at 7:50, my mind instantly screaming at me to get up, get going, this could ruin everything. I’ve completely missed my session with Carl, but as soon as I step out of bed I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle it anyway.

  It feels like I’m trying to run underwater.

  Forcing my eyes open is a torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and my hands won’t follow my instructions as I struggle into the first outfit I pull out of my closet and wrestle my hair into an acceptable shape. This is what I get for going to sleep without drying it.

  Mark is waiting outside, the car idling by the curb, and when I get there he has his phone in his hand. I probably have several missed calls from him, wondering if I’m all right. He’s a good man, and when he sees me, his face fills with concern.

  “Cate? Are you—?”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “I overslept. We have to hurry.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth, the words difficult to form. I need time to wake up. If I could get some coffee, I’d be fine.

  After I apologize for being so rude, I call ahead and have Manuel get the coffee order ready in advance. I’ll need to take it up myself this morning. If I get there in time. If this is the one morning Sandra shows up early, I’m screwed.

  I spend the entire ride fantasizing about what it would be like to be my own boss. To set my own hours. To make the decisions about what stays and go. Books—I could work with books. I never have time to read anymore. I got into the magazine business because I loved writing and reading, not fashion, but now fashion has taken me over.

  Things haven’t improved much by the time I collect the drink carrier from Manuel, but being in the Basiqué building at least forces me to get into some semblance of work mode. I hold myself upright as best as I can, but people keep giving me looks, their foreheads wrinkled, corners of their mouths turned down.

  Once in the office I breathe a sigh of relief. Sandra is not here yet, but I only have a few minutes at best.

  Coffee on desk. Carrier in recycling bin. Dusting is out of the question—how will I raise my arms, it would be so tiring. I get myself to the door to meet Sandra on her way in. Barely.

  She’s already talking as she hands me her purse and a gauzy shawl that matches her outfit, and it’s an incredible effort to get it into the closet, hung up, her purse on the hanger. My hands shake as I grab for the notebook and follow her into her office.

  I’m standing right next to her desk but her voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.

  Rodarte, I write on the notepad.

  Reschedule approvals on menswear feature, I scribble, but the last two words blur, run into each other, seem to slide off the page.

  “Catherine,” she says sharply, and I look up into her narrowed eyes. “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” I shake my head emphatically, which is a mistake. It makes my vision go hazy.

  “Good.” When I look up again, Sandra is looking back down at something on her desk.

  I can get through this.

  I will get through this.

  Another stream of instructions from Sandra and I pull my shoulders back, trying to remind myself that I’m at work, that I need to be on top of this, I need to perform, but now the words are coming too fast, my hands can’t keep up, I have a splitting headache, it’s blinding, blinding…

  There is a sound at the door and I lift my head, it weighs a hundred pounds, a thousand pounds, and Jax is framed in the door, he’s saying something to me, his eyes serious and wide, he’s reaching for me, but I’m falling, falling…

  I don’t know how long I’m out.

  The gentle sound of beeping is what brings me out of it, little by little.

  At first I hear the sound, and then I feel the cool blankets over me, the rougher fabric of a hospital gown against my skin.

  And the pressure of a hand in mine.

  It’s hard to open my eyes, so hard, so I take my time, but when I get them open, blinking in the light of the hospital room, there’s Jax, sitting by the bed, holding tightly to my hand, looking into my face.

  He gives my hand the gentlest squeeze, and swallows.

  “You should know,” he says softly, “that I love you, Cate. I love you.”

  I lick my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, before I answer him, and when I do it’s an exhausted whisper. “I love you, too. Please stay?”

  “Of course,” he says. “Sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

  25

  Jax

  After two days in the hospital getting treated for what the doctors say is a case of exhaustion that needs to be carefully managed, I bring Cate back to the penthouse.

  “This is where you live?” she breathes as we step off the elevator.

  “Here, and the floor beneath.” Cate isn’t nearly as small town as she thinks she is. Her time in the fashion industry has given her an acute sense of the value of the things money can buy, and living in New York City will give anyone an appreciation for how expensive space can be, when people climbing the career ladder live six to an apartment.

  I was one of those people once.

  Never again.

  She looks up at me, somehow glamorous in black yoga pants and a matching tank, and her smile is skeptical and delighted at the same time. “You need two floors? For you?”

  “And you.”

  Cate shakes her head. “Be serious. Two floors?”

  “It’s not just me. My gym takes up about a third of the space. There’s a separate guest suite, and then space for my staff.”

  Her expression turns incredulous. “How many people work here?”

  “I have a full-time chef, a personal assistant who’s here about four hours most days, a driver, a personal shopper, a housekeeper, and a bodyguard.”

  “I’ve never seen your bodyguard.”

  “You wouldn’t have. My driver, Peter, doubles as security during times that aren’t particularly threaten
ing, like my trips to the Basiqué office. Lance is on retainer in case of unforeseen circumstances. Right now—” I check the time on my phone. “—Laurence is here, Gloria has already made her rounds, I don’t need anything purchased today, and there’s no reason for me to think a threat is imminent. Would you like to meet Laurence?”

  “Laurence is…?”

  “The chef. He’s here almost all the time and will make you anything you want to eat.”

  She nods, her eyes bright but her skin still pale. One introduction is enough for now.

  I guide her to the massive kitchen, which divides itself between pristine luxury appliances in stainless steel and polished wood paneling that hides the refrigerator, the espresso machine, and a microwave with more features than some people’s smartphones. Laurence is fiddling around at the Italian marble counters, his curly hair barely contained by his chef’s cap. When we step into the kitchen he turns with a massive grin on his face, showing off his dimples.

  “Miss Catherine,” he says, rushing around the island to take her hand in his. “My name is Laurence, and I’m the personal chef for Mr. Hunter. If there’s anything I can make or find for you—anything at all—come to me at once, or call.”

  “Please, call me Cate. And—call?”

  Laurence hurries to the wall where an intercom unit has been installed, its recessed edges making it easy to miss. “I’m button number two. Anything at all—don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.” Pink rises to Cate’s cheeks and it makes my chest swell with warmth to see her enjoying the luxuries I have.

  Now that we’re past the ugliness of trying to force ourselves apart, I feel like a new man.

  No telling how long that will last, says the asshole in the back of my mind. I internally roll my eyes. It’s a miracle that I’ve made it this far in my life.

  Cate yawns dramatically, interrupting my train of thought, and everything in me snaps back to giving her my full attention. The doctor’s words ring in my ears. She needs to rest, or she runs the risk of ending up in a worse situation than before. I have no interest in watching her collapse to the floor again.

  “Good man, Laurence,” I say, putting my arm around Cate. She waves to Laurence over my shoulder.

  It’s not a very long walk to the main guest suite. I had Gloria make sure it was absolutely spotless and switch out the bed coverings for pieces similar to what Cate has at home—but the finest versions money can buy—so it’ll feel familiar and comfortable.

  Her eyes go wide at the size of the room, the king-size bed, the carefully placed throw pillows. But the tour is postponed. She goes directly to the bed and stretches out atop it, falling asleep right away.

  Cate rests for three days, and I cancel all my appointments to wait on her hand and foot.

  Well, me and the rest of my staff. Laurence makes all her favorite things—pancakes, tacos, strawberries with cream—and we watch every movie she hasn’t had time to see since she’s been working at Basiqué.

  We spend time talking.

  “Where did you grow up?” she asks me, nestled into the crook of my arm. A perfect fit.

  “Outside the city.”

  “Not here in this building?”

  “No,” I laugh, picturing my parents’ two-story house in New Jersey. “My parents had money, but not nearly this much.”

  “What did they do?”

  A wave of sadness bubbles in my chest, followed by a spike of anger.

  We’re here. We’re at this point. It’s time for me to loosen my stranglehold on personal information…at least with Cate.

  “My mother was a teacher until she became a housewife. And my dad…” I clench my jaw involuntarily. It takes work to release it. Cate presses against me a little harder. “My dad was a stockbroker. And in his later life he ran a Ponzi scheme that got his ass parked in jail for fifteen years.”

  Cate’s mouth opens in surprise.

  “What about…what did your mom do about that?”

  “They got a divorce. But she’s…she’s not well. She has Alzheimer’s. She’s in one of the best senior care facilities in the city, but there are a lot of bad days.”

  She leans her head against my chest and commiserates in silence.

  I ask her about where she grew up.

  “Where did you come from, Catherine Schaffer?”

  A smile spreads across her face as she pictures home. “Winthrop Harbor is a town off of a postcard. The whole thing is on a lakeshore, and it’s about the cutest shit you’ll ever see in one place. It was pretty idyllic to grow up there. I have no complaints.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  She sighs a little.

  “My sister Bee was always a go-getter,” she says, pursing her lips. “In one way I wanted to outdo her—go farther, get a better job. But I also loved fashion, and this is the place to do it. I came here to get ahead, but I stayed because…” She trails off. There’s something she’s hesitant about telling me, something deeper than the surface level that we’re carefully treading on.

  There’ll be time for that later.

  Her body in the curve-hugging outfits she wears is irresistible, but I don’t push it.

  Until the fourth day.

  I’m coming back from a session with my trainer, expecting to find her still asleep in her bed…but she’s not there. The bed is neatly made, even though Gloria will be in to do that later.

  I find her in the walk-in closet. I had most of her clothes brought here while she was still in the hospital so she’d have them if she needed them, but she hasn’t changed to another outfit for relaxation.

  She’s dressed for work.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I keep my tone light and joking, and though she smiles at me when she turns to face me, her eyes are serious.

  “Going back to work.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do.” She turns back to the full-length mirror, putting in her other earring.

  “Cate, you need to take it easy. You shouldn’t be back to work for at least another week. Maybe two. I made it clear to Ms. Sarzó—”

  “You did what?” There’s anger in her voice.

  I could do any number of things, but instead I step forward and cover her mouth with mine, tasting her sweetness.

  Instantly, she melts against me, and I fold her into my arms.

  When she comes up for air, I bend my head to her ear. “Stay in bed with me today.”

  She doesn’t resist when I lead her by the hand to the bed, strip off all of her carefully arranged clothing, and proceed to take her so slowly, so gently, it brings tears to her eyes.

  26

  Cate

  Words don’t begin to describe how sweet things are with Jax.

  Or how intense.

  He didn’t want me to go to work yesterday, and it was all too easy to give into him. I know his dominating nature is still there, waiting for the right opportunity to reappear, but my stay in the hospital seems to have calmed him.

  It’s only temporary, I know.

  I can’t say I mind seeing this softer side of him. The way he’s cared for me over the past week is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

  In the middle of our second day of full-time lounging in his enormous living room, I was completely overwhelmed by the desire for movie theater popcorn.

  “Do you like going to the movies?”

  I was curled up against his chest, tucked under his arm, and he twisted to look down at my face.

  “I don’t mind the movies,” he said. “There are definitely a few theaters I’d choose over others. Why? Do you want to go out? I don’t know if—”

  A look of worry crossed his face, and my heart warmed up to see him so concerned that a trip across town to the movies might be too much for me. It wouldn’t have been, but I rubbed his arm and laughed a little. “No, no. I love movie theater popcorn. I’d watch three hours of previews with a bucket of that popcorn and be so thrilled.
”

  By the time I was finished talking he was pulling his phone from his pocket.

  “Who are you—?” I laughed, still half disbelieving that this was real life.

  “Michelle? Are you occupied at the moment?”

  I couldn’t hear her reply.

  “I’ll cover the fee if you go to the theater on Broadway between 83rd and 84th right now and return with two buckets of popcorn. Fifty as a bonus if it’s here while it’s still warm.”

  Anything.

  He’d get me anything.

  All my life, I never aspired to wealth like Jax’s. It seemed like such an impossible goal and such a burden at the same time, and I do see that—how he takes his responsibilities so seriously.

  In the middle of the movie we’re watching—The Devil Wears Prada, in a twist of irony—he puts his hand on mine. “If you could be doing anything for a job, what would it be?”

  “Wow. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

  I’m silent for a few minutes while I turn the question over in my mind.

  “I didn’t start out loving fashion,” I say finally.

  “No?”

  “No. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a writer. But I didn’t think it would pay the bills, so in college I double-majored in marketing and creative writing. When I moved to NYC I got a job at Basiqué in editorial, and I probably would have stayed there if my boss hadn’t recommended me to Sandra as a potential assistant.”

  “So you’d be a writer?”

  “Maybe one day. But I always thought—this is so stupid, because the Internet exists now—that it would be fun to own my own publishing company. Now it would be more complicated, having to come out with digital books and all that, and probably nothing like what I’m imagining it was in the old days, but…that’s what I’d do.”

  “Read for a living.”

  “Yes. Read for a living.”