by Warren, Skye
That’s how I turn away from the men, feeling their desire like a tether—and then snap.
Walking away from it. Someone will follow.
I stride blindly down a half-built corridor, not knowing where to go from here. This is how I ran away from the men all those years ago, my heart beating too fast, my body thrumming with urges I didn’t fully understand. It’s different now, because I’m running toward something.
A water fountain, still wrapped in heavy plastic, is the only indication that I’ve found the restrooms. I slip inside, relieved that there are actually stalls and sinks, even though the walls are unfinished.
Heavy footsteps approach, and I dash into a stall. My fingers fumble with the lock.
It could be anyone outside that door. A stranger. A dangerous man.
It’s not only part of the game. What if Asher Cook didn’t like my little show back there? He could have turned around and continued working. He could have let one of his men follow me instead.
A low chuckle bounces off the tile, and I shiver with relief because I recognize him. Anticipation races up my spine. My breath comes quicker.
“I know you’re in here. You may as well come out and make it easy on yourself.”
More footsteps, and I lean against the door, too afraid to make a sound. The lock isn’t working right. I think the door isn’t aligned. There’s nothing stopping him from coming in except my weight.
“Or you can make it harder on yourself,” he says, stopping outside my stall. “Maybe you’d enjoy that. Maybe you like getting men all riled up, thinking about them touching you with their dirty hands.”
A knot in my throat. “No,” I say, my voice breaking. “That’s not true.”
There’s a shift in the metal, and I realize he’s touching the door on the opposite side. Only an inch separates us. “I suppose we’ll find out,” he says, soft enough I have to strain to hear. “When I touch your pussy, we’ll find out if this is getting you wet. Won’t we?”
There’s a clench between my legs, and I know exactly what he’s going to find. “Don’t.”
The stall door opens despite my weight, inexorably, inevitably, until I’m standing there in front of him. His white T-shirt has black smudges that weren’t there before. It looks somehow more obscene than even my silk camisole with no bra beneath it. In his gaze I find an unexpected tenderness.
“Don’t what?” he asks, his voice gentle.
How far do I want this game to go? “I don’t know.”
“It’s a little late to ask for mercy, beautiful.”
I’m doing more than asking. I’m begging, after he made me come three times last night. He looks hard as steel beneath those jeans, and he didn’t climax even once.
Slowly, slowly, I sink to my knees in the half-built bathroom.
Asher’s eyes flash. “What are you doing?”
“You’re right,” I whisper, my gaze on his. “I do enjoy getting the men all riled up. I like thinking about the dirty things they’d make me do if they trapped me in a room like this.”
He takes a step closer, his body inches from mine. “Show me.”
My hands are clumsy on his belt buckle, but he makes no move to help me. He stands there like a god passing judgment. The tile is hard and cold beneath my knees; it makes this sharper. Sweeter.
The denim strains against the length of him. My hands tremble as I tug the zipper down, half afraid I’ll hurt him, half afraid he’ll hurt me. That’s what this is—a form of battle. One of us is going to lose.
There’s another layer, a thin grey cotton. It stretches obscenely around the length of his cock. I can see the shape of him with the vein underneath. I can see the outline of the flared head.
And a drop of precum darkening the cotton to black.
It makes me bolder, seeing the power I have over him.
I hook my fingers into the band of his underwear and pull down. My knuckles brush the hot iron brand of his cock, and both of us suck in a breath. Then his cock juts away from his body, proud and hard. And far too big to fit into my mouth. Without thinking I lick my lips, as if readying myself.
His dark gaze tracks my tongue. It’s a little late to ask for mercy, beautiful.
His cock jerks when I touch it, as if it’s alive, and I make a high-pitched sound of surprise. I have to force myself to touch him again. The warm skin moves beneath my fingertips, almost like velvet encasing steel. A solid construction, this cock. The core of him built to withstand anything.
Built to withstand my tongue, when I reach out and touch the tip. Bitter-salt flavor bursts in my mouth.
“Jesus,” he mutters, almost restless. His hands are in the air, those hands made strong and callused with work, as if he doesn’t know where to put them. In my hair. That’s what he decides. He strokes my hair, gentle, gentle, and then hard—a sudden yank that makes me gasp.
Tears prick my eyes.
“You can take more,” he says, uncompromising.
I open my mouth wider and push myself forward, letting my body open to him in the most natural way, letting the feminine softness of me surrender to the masculine hardness of him. The flare of his cock rubs against my tongue, and I flick him in retaliation. He swears in a long, obscene string.
“Too much,” I say, the words too muffled to understand.
He understands anyway, shaking his head and rocking his hips forward. “This is what happens to little girls who tease big, strong construction workers. You walk around with that tight little body. What do you think is going to happen? This.”
A deep thrust makes me gag, and I sputter around his cock, inelegant, defiled. “Wait,” I say, pushing away, shaking my head. I didn’t know how far I wanted the game to go, but now I know. All the way. That’s how far. And for that to happen I have to fight him.
And he has to fight back.
A cruel smile curves his lips. He reaches down to yank at the silky fabric of my camisole. Cool air brushes over my hard nipples. “What are we going to wait for?” he asks, mocking. “I can tell you want this. Look at your tits. They’re begging for me to touch them.”
He does more than touch them. He pinches my nipple. Hard.
I gasp, and he uses the moment to shove his cock back inside my mouth. I could bite him, if I wanted him to stop. But I don’t want that. It’s hotter to pretend I can’t bite him because he’d only get angry. He’d only make this harder on me. The only safe thing to do is please him, and I suck harder.
A heavy pressure builds below my stomach, something more severe than pleasure. It feels like an earthquake is coming inside me, and I’m afraid of what happens if I break.
I look up at Asher, imploring him, hoping he understands.
He watches me suck him, working his cock in and out of my mouth. One hand reaches behind him to tug the white T-shirt off, revealing muscled abs that clench on every flick of my tongue.
I can’t deny that he likes my breasts, small as they are. He pinches and pinches me until I’m gasping around his cock, rocking my hips, mindless. I’m kneeling on the bathroom floor and I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
He pulls me to stand and drags the camisole over my head, dropping it to the bathroom floor.
My heels are next. My slacks. My lacy red panties.
And then I’m standing there naked in a half-built bathroom, a whole construction crew not twenty feet away from us. I shiver, but I can’t deny the excitement grows deeper.
A hand wraps around my neck.
He pushes me flush against the cold tile wall. Then his other hand works between my legs, two fingers pushing up inside me. A strangled sound escapes me, cut off by his mouth against mine. He eats up my protest, my pleasure. My pain.
When I come something moves inside me, a seismic shift. I hump his hand to wring out the last flickers of pleasure. He pulls his hand away before I’m done, and I moan.
Two fingers pull through my wetness, gathering it. He spreads it over his cock. The proof of my des
ire glistens on his ruddy flesh. He fucks his slickened fist, grunting in a way that’s more animal than man.
“I’ll make you dirty,” he says, his voice low like this is a solemn promise. “I’ll make you fucking dirty on the bathroom floor. Make you come so hard you don’t know your name, but when we’re done you’re coming home with me. You got that? You’re mine.”
Mine. I should tell him no. I should fight him, but I don’t want to win that battle.
I want to lose.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Triumph lights his eyes, and he lifts me up. Something blunt nudges at my sex. That’s the only warning I get before he thrusts inside me. His hands are firm across my ass, thrusting me forward and back, impaling me on his length. It’s too much. Too fast. The only thing I can do is throw my arms around his shoulders and hold on. I press my face into his neck, breathing in the salt-sweat scent of him.
“Again,” he demands, his muscles straining. He’s in the middle of his own earthquake.
“I’m yours,” I say, made breathless by his thrusts. And then louder.
“Again. Fucking again. Fucking forever.”
“Yours.”
It’s too soon for me to come again. My body is pliant and sated, only here to help Asher come. That’s what I think until he changes the angle. His cock jabs at some place inside me, insistent, almost painful, and then my legs start to shake. “Wait, wait, wait,” I cry, but that only makes him do it faster.
“Come,” he mutters, his face pressed into my neck. “Fucking milk me. I want to feel you come around me, want you to gush on my dick. Want to feel it dripping down my balls. Fucking do it.”
The words are hard and coarse, and that’s what makes me climax. My whole body clenches down, giving him exactly what he wanted, an impossible squeeze, the spill of arousal. His roar bounces off the tile. He grasps me against his body, hard enough to leave ten finger-shaped bruises on my ass.
We pant in the aftermath, me clinging to him, him holding me back.
“Again,” he says, his voice almost slurred.
I turn my face against his, loving the way his bristle scratches my cheek. “Yours.”
His lids are heavy, eyes flashing black. “I’ve been waiting for you, June Li.”
A shiver runs through me. The good daughter wasn’t only obedient. She was also kept guarded. It was a way of keeping myself alone. Until him. He climbed the tower.
He carried me down.
I drop my hand down his broad chest, and there in the ripple of muscle, in the coarse hair, over the flat of his male nipples, I write my own four letters. MINE.
Asher Cook is hard and crude and dirty. I’ve spent my whole life locked away. I’ve been waiting for you, he said, but I think I’ve been waiting for him, too. He’s the only man who’s ever seen through the cable knit sweaters and plaid slacks. The only man with the determination to peel away my layers to the surrender underneath.
His broad chest rises and falls in even breath, a blank canvas for what comes next. A dark gaze meets mine. So still and so patient. So determined it makes me shiver, because he fills his life with beautiful things. A Tudor house with ivy climbing the side.
A painting of cherry blossoms in full bloom.
And me, because I belong to him now.
I’m his, and he’s mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The blooms may be delicate, but cherry blossom trees are strong. The oldest tree is 2,000 years old, with a trunk perimeter over forty feet.
It becomes a regular thing—the way he takes me to his worksites. The way he corners me in a bathroom or a storage closet and has his dirty way with me.
The way I surrender to his every demand.
He makes the most money on his massive development contracts, skyscrapers and shopping centers and monolithic parking garages. Modern lines and materials. His heart belongs to the restoration projects, such as the theater with a rather illicit past.
He pulls into a wide cobblestone drive and past the fountain with a beautiful sculpture. Then to the back, where a couple of black SUVs are parked. A man leans against the side, his muscles bulging in a black T-shirt, black cargo pants molded to his legs, one booted foot crossed over the other. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s dangerous.
Asher insists that I wait for him to open my door, a sort of old-world chivalry at odds with the filthy way he treats me when we’re alone. He introduces me to the man as his fiancée, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck. My cheeks heat at the intimate gesture in front of a stranger.
“Blue Eastman,” he says, his cerulean eyes alight with amusement.
“Do you own the Grand?” I ask, curious about the place that has been the subject of intense rumors. In its heyday it was one of the largest theaters in the South, hosting orchestras and operas of international renown. Its owners went bankrupt during the depression, leaving the building abandoned. It was then made into a glittering strip club, a dark and glamorous place.
Only very recently was it renovated and turned back into a theater. Many people in Tanglewood society accepted the venue into its fold, delighting in the scandalous past and the high-quality shows it brought to the city. Others, like my father, continued to snub it, so I never attended.
Blue shakes his head, his lips quirked. “No, I can’t claim that honor. I’m head of security here.” He glances at Asher meaningfully. “That’s why I called you. One of the performers has her own entourage. They’ve made some requests to change our protocols, as well as to the structure.”
“Bet you love that,” Asher says with a familiarity that makes me wonder if Blue was still head of security when the Grand was a strip club—and if Asher had visited as a customer back then.
“The recommendations are sound,” Blue admits. “Especially with the level of celebrity we’ll be dealing with for this tour. Not only the musicians but the patrons. They’re premiering the tour here so we’ve got A-listers clamoring for the boxes.”
“You’re saving a couple seats near the front for us, of course,” Asher says, in a mild tone that says he isn’t making a request; it’s mandatory.
“Of course,” Blue says, his tone sardonic.
“Is this the Harry March tour?” I have a whole playlist on my phone dedicated to Harry March, the celebrity tenor who’s topped the pop music charts and been in the tabloids.
“He’s headlining,” Blue confirms, “but he won’t be the only one. There’s a couple of gymnasts from Cirque du Monde. A Juilliard-trained pop star. A child prodigy in violin.”
“And Beatrix Cartwright,” I say, recalling that fact from the Life & Arts section of the newspaper. She lives in Tanglewood, but she’s very reclusive. Very mysterious. “Oh, I’m so excited to see her.”
“Then let’s see about these changes,” Asher says, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead. “You’ll be fine on your own a few minutes?”
“Can I look around?” I ask, trying to hide my eagerness. I want to see if any hints remain of the strip club past, beneath the beautiful and historically accurate façade.
Asher gives me a small smile like he can read my mind. He leans forward, whispering in my ear, “There’s a pole left somewhere in the building. Maybe I’ll have you give me a show.”
My blush still flames as the two men walk away, heading into the basement where they’ll discuss structural changes and unnecessary exits and the city fire code.
I head into a plain door in the back of the building marked CAST ONLY. The hallways are empty, doors open, windows in the offices letting in light. Dust motes dance in the sun. It’s a rare look at the building in the day, like glimpsing an actress without her makeup. I can see her wrinkles and her age spots, but also her innate beauty.
The sweet strains of a violin touch my ears, and I follow the sound down the hallway, where it’s darker, windows disappearing, shadows deepening.
My breath catches as I turn a corner and vi
ew the stage in its glory.
The parquet floor gleams even in the relative darkness. A single spotlight is on from the wide array of lights and equipment above. The curtains have to be at least five stories tall; they frame the view of the seats, making them look almost like a doll house. Rows of red velvet waiting for people to occupy them. The boxes and balconies are only shadows from this position—I’m not sure that would change during a performance.
The audience would seem so far away.
A single woman sits on a chair, playing a violin, the sound haunting. Her clothes are strangely ordinary for the masterful way she plays, a T-shirt and jeans. Flip flops more appropriate to a college campus than a world-class stage.
The song stops suddenly, and she stands to face me.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, mortified that I bothered her. “I didn’t mean to stop you.”
“No, don’t. I’m just a little jumpy,” she admits, looking sheepish. “I tend to get lost in my own world. It’s always a shock to realize it’s not real.”
“You’re the child prodigy.”
“Oh.” She gives a little laugh that somehow emphasizes her innocence. “I’m not really a child anymore, but the title follows me around.”
“Well, however old you are, that sounded absolutely perfect.”
“Thank you.” Her expression is almost shy. It occurs to me that she might be unaccustomed to performing, despite her obvious talent.
No, she’s not really a child anymore. Now that I’m closer I can see that she’s around my age. She only feels young, because of her innocence. There’s something very untouched about her, especially compared to the Harry March of Instagram renown.
“I’m June Li,” I tell her impulsively. “I live here in Tanglewood. If you need anything while you’re in town—the best sushi, a girl’s afternoon to get a manicure—let me know.”
Her brown eyes brighten. “That would be amazing. I don’t know anyone here.”
“Then I’m your girl,” I say, meaning it.
“We’re doing rehearsals for the whole tour, so I’ll be here for a few months.”