by Megyn Ward
You don’t come unless I say so.
She hasn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes before I’m ripping off my apron and throwing it under the bar.
“Gonna go help her pick out her shoes?” Conner calls after me, laughing at me when I throw the pass-thru up with a loud bang. “Maybe curl her hair?”
I flip him the bird before charging up the stairs.
Stepping into the living room, I slam the door behind me. The apartment looks normal. Worn leather couch, curb-find coffee table. Big-screen TV. Dinette set shoved into the corner, hardly used for more than a catch all. It all looks like it did yesterday, which is wrong because everything is different now. Everything.
I stalk across the living room headed for Cari’s room when I see the note card, tossed onto the coffee table. Her name is printed across the stark white envelope in heavy block strokes. I pick it up and turn it over, sliding the card from its sleeve. Reading it, I feel a little lightheaded.
Cari –
It was nice meeting you at the galley yesterday.
So nice, I’d like to do it again, maybe with food
this time. Dinner? If it’s a yes, I’ll send a car at 7pm.
I hope it’s a yes.
E. Chase
I read the note again. And then again, because I like torturing myself, before I slide it back into its envelope. I want to wad it up in my fist. Then I want to go find Mr. E. Chase and jam it down his fucking throat. I want to do all sorts of crazy, violent things that would probably land me on the evening news and possibly end with some sort of sentencing hearing.
Yeah, I want to. I really, really want to. But I don’t. Instead, I toss the card back on the coffee table where she left it.
Her door is open like it always is and I lean against the frame, arms folded over my chest, watching her while she flips through her closet. The painting that accompanied the dinner invitation is leaning against the bed like she didn’t know what else to do with it.
It’s worth about twenty grand and I want to put my foot through it.
She’s wearing nothing but a towel and a frown. Her hair piled on top of her head, the nape of her neck damp. She knows I’m here and she’s ignoring me. Or at least trying to. Like I’m going to let that happen.
“Guess I just missed the shower show, huh?” I say leaning against the doorframe. The thought of her in the shower, her skin wet and warm, makes me hard. So hard that I’m having a hard time breathing.
She scowls but doesn’t look at me. The birthmark on her chest is better than a mood ring. It’s a deep wine color. That means she’s pissed and Cari’s not the silent type when she’s angry. I’m inclined to wait her out.
It doesn’t take long. After a few minutes, she sighs, flicking me a glance. “What are you doing here?” she says, clearly annoyed. “I have a date.” She’s finished apologizing for what she did. For reasons I can’t even begin to understand, knowing that makes me even harder.
“I figured,” I say, careful to keep my tone casual. “That’s why I’m here—I mean, it’s my job to help you get ready isn’t it?” I give her a one-shoulder shrug. “Help you pick out a dress. Help you zip it up. Smile and wave goodbye when your douche de jour comes to pick you up.”
She glares at me and now I’m not just hard. My cock is throbbing. “Fuck you, Patrick,” she says, ripping hangers down the rod so fast she can’t possibly be considering half the shit she’s pretending to look at. “I tried apologizing. I tried explaining—you don’t want to listen. You just want to make me—”
“Wet? Come?” I say like I’m being helpful. “Scream my name so loud the whole neighborhood knows who’s fucking you?” I give her a grin, while her hand stalls on the parade of hangers and she pulls a dress out of her closet.
Not just a dress. The dress.
My dress.
I don’t feel good anymore. I don’t feel calm and reasonable. I feel like I’m going to blackout. “Don’t.” The warning comes out, rough and guttural, rumbling in my chest like I’m some sort of wild animal.
She hesitates for a moment before she turns and tosses it onto her bed with the rest of her maybes. “I’ll wear what I want, Patrick Gilroy.” She’s looking at me, her lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed with color.
Even keel has always been my default. I’m not easily riled. My whole life I’ve been the nice guy. Flexible, rational, go-with-the-flow Patrick. But that was before. Before I had her and now that I have, there’s no going back. She’s done something to me. Cari’s broken something inside me that can’t repaired. Something that can’t be fixed, no matter how hard I try.
That’s the only explanation I have for what I do next.
Twenty-eight
Cari
I had no intention of wearing that dress. The dress. The one I was wearing when I finally pushed Patrick too far. I was flipping through my closet, ignoring him while trying to find something that looked professional but not matronly. Feminine but not sexy. Because I’m not even sure why I said yes other than the fact that Patrick was standing there, watching with such a passive, accepting look on his face that I wanted to do something—anything—to wipe it off.
This dress definitely does not fit the look I’m going for but seeing it, touching it, makes me remember how it felt to have Patrick pressed against me. His hands fisted in its skirt, pulling it up my hips. His warm, slightly uneven breath skate across the back of my neck.
And thinking about it makes me wet, the dull ache in my pussy starting to throb.
“Don’t.”
I hear it in his voice. It’s not a request and it’s not a suggestion. It’s a warning.
One I have no intention of heeding.
“I’ll wear what I want, Patrick Gilroy,” I say tossing the dress on my bed with the others, meeting his gaze, challenging him. He’s got that look again. The same look he had in the shower this morning when I barged in on him. When he was… I lower my gaze, letting it slide down the length of him until I find what I’m looking for. He’s hard, the length of his cock pushing against the zipper of his cargos. And he’s making no attempt to hide it.
I’m remembering the way it felt to have Patrick move inside me, his hips pounding against mine. His mouth, sucking my swollen nipples through the silk of my robe.
That fucking robe.
I’m mesmerized. That’s why I don’t see him move.
One second, he’s leaning against my doorframe and the next he’s in front of me, snatching the dress off the bed and tossing it at me. I catch it, holding the lace and silk against me, eyes wide with surprised confusion. And then he’s standing over me, so close the steady pump of his chest brushed against me with every breath he takes. I take a step back, bumping against the wall, less than an inch from where I was standing.
“Go ahead,” he says his tone easy, reaching up to trail a finger across the top of my breasts. “Put it on.” He leans into me, pressing a tender kiss to the scorching hot spot below my collarbone before lifting his head, lips brushing against my ear. “See what happens.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“Are you sure that’s what you really want, Cari?” He seems to know it isn’t because I feel the curve of his mouth lift into a smile before it moves lower to press a soft kiss against the pulse that’s hammering against the skin of my throat. “If it is, all you have to do is say it again. Tell me to stop, I’ll stop. Walk right out the door.”
I open my mouth to say exactly that. I’ll tell him to stop and he’ll go away. I know he will. He different than I’ve ever seen him but I know he’d never force himself on me. If I tell him to stop, he will... “I hate you,” I whisper instead, my eyes fluttering closed. “I hate you, Patrick Gilroy.”
“So you keep saying…” He laughs, warm breath skating down my neck, the tips of his fingers sliding along the inside of my thighs until he finds the edge of the towel. “Let’s see how much, shall we?” He grips the towel and gives it a tug and I let it go, a soft whimper catc
hing at the back of my throat. Dropping it on the floor he reaches up to brush the pad of his thumb against my nipple, growling low in his throat when it stiffens under his touch. His other hand touches the inside of my thigh, his fingers slipping into their juncture. “Open your legs.”
I want to tell him no. That he can’t just tell me what to do. Issue orders and expect me to follow them. But I don’t say anything. I just do what he tells me. Because I don’t want to tell him no. I want him to touch me.
He cups my pussy, the heel of his hand pressing against the top of my mound while his fingers slide along its swollen, wet seam, his touch instantly bringing me to the edge. “Yeah… fuck,” he says, his voice rough and uneven, breaking over the last word as he slips a finger inside, pushing deep, its way eased by my arousal. “Yeah, you hate me alright,” He replaces the heel of his hand with the pad of his thumb, giving my clit soft, feathery strokes that have me moaning his name. “It’s hurtful, really, all this animosity. I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your… oh, god.” He adds a finger, thrusting into me, stroking my clit until I’m breathless. “I don’t need your help,” I say, opening my legs wider, begging for more.
“You sure about that?” he says, his tongue tracing the line of my throat, his fingers working in and out of me, slowly, like he has all the time in the world. “You’re a mess. What kind of friend would I be if I let you go out in public like this?”
My knees nearly give way at his words. “I can do it myself,” I say, risking a move to reach out and wrap a hand around his arm, digging my fingernails into his skin because I’m dizzy, my breath coming quick and shallow. “I don’t need you to make me come.” My hips call me a liar, bucking against the pressure of his fingers inside me. “I can do it myself.”
He makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, his hand closing over my breast, pinching its nipple hard enough to make me gasp. “But you didn’t.” He says it against my mouth, his tongue licking along my lower lip, his fingers moving inside me, slow and languid, drawing me closer and closer to orgasm with each thrust. His lips skim along my jaw line while his hand slips up, along my shoulder to cradle the base of my skull.
“No.” I whisper it, my pulse banging against my throat, that tight, heavy feeling gathering in my belly, my orgasm growing inside me.
“Why not?” he says, catching my lower lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough to send a sharp, stinging pain rocketing down my spine, straight to my pussy where it mingled with pleasure, pushing it higher. Making it sweeter.
“Oh… I told you.” I grip his wrist, the one between my shaking thighs, holding him inside me because I’m so close, so fucking close, and if he denies me again, I’m going to die. “It feels better when you do it.”
“Jesus, Cari,” he groans, low and guttural, the hand at the base of my skull tightening in my hair, grabbing it by the roots before crushing his mouth against mine. He consumes me, his tongue swirling and rubbing, licking and sucking until I can’t breathe or see or feel anything but his mouth on mine. His finger inside me. His hand in my hair. The soft fabric of his T-shirt brushing against my swollen nipples.
He adds a third finger, filling me, stretching me with each stroke, touching the place deep inside me that has me spinning higher and higher while his thumb works my clit so perfectly that I’m delirious, writhing against him. Panting into his open mouth. Clawing at his skin, my hips pumping to meet each thrust, pushing against the rock-hard length of his cock. I want it inside me, thrusting and pounding into my pussy. I move my hands to his waist, my trembling fingers fumbling with the button of his pants, trying to tear them off. “Please…” I’m whimpering, desperate to get him inside me. “Please, I need—”
His hand tightens in my hair, giving me a quick jerk, hard enough to make me gasp. “No.” He breaks our kiss to press his face to my neck, his breath harsh and uneven against my feverish skin. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” He sounds angry, his hand in my hair pulling my head back, baring my neck, the thrill of it shoots straight down my spine when I feel his teeth graze the soft skin of my throat. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”
I don’t know what to say and I’m too far gone to think right now. “I need…” I whimper. “Please, Patrick…”
“You need me to make you come?” he says in my ear, his thumb rolling over my clit, the pressure of it so exquisitely relentless it boards on cruel.
“Yes.”
“Say it.” His fingers stroke me, filling me until my knees give and the only thing keeping me from sliding to the floor is the hand in my hair and his hand between my legs.
I moan. “I want…” the thought spins away from me. “Please...”
He pushes his erection against the inside of my thigh, the head of it straining against my belly, “Not until you say it, Cari.”
“Oh, my god—” I can feel tears forming behind my closed lids. Need and frustration tearing down the last of my defenses.
“Say it,” he growls at me, his mouth against mine. “I want to hear you say it. Say, I need you to make me come, Patrick.”
“I—” I gasp, his teeth closing over my bottom lip, nipping so hard I almost give in to the orgasm threatening to tear me in half. “I need you to make me come, Patrick.”
The hand between my legs push deeper, his fingers buried, his palm cups my pussy, the tips of them stroking the spot that makes me forget my own name. “Come for me, Cari,” he says quietly, his voice tight and straining.
Like his words flip a switch, I give in. “Patrick.” I scream his name, coming so hard, bolts of light and shadow streaking across my vision while my pussy clamping down on his fingers like a fist, heaving and shuttering as my orgasm rockets through my body.
His hands loosen in my hair, the hand running down the length of my bare back. “Shhh…” He keeps fucking me, gently now, my tender flesh quivering around his fingers, his lips pressed against the hammering pulse at my neck while his other hand glides slowly along my spine. “Shhh…”
For a moment, I feel cherished. Special. The way I imagined being with Patrick would make me feel and I smile.
He slides his fingers free, cupping my pussy for a moment before sighing, his warm breath against my bare skin stirring something inside me. Lifting his head, Patrick straightens himself enough to look me in the eye, the ridged length of him pressed against my thigh.
Moving his hand from between my legs, he lifts it to my mouth slowly and I catch the scent of my arousal in the air between us. Gaze locked on mine, Patrick touches his glossy fingers to my lips and they part, letting him push them into my mouth. The taste of my juices on his skin against my tongue sends a flush of heat radiating from my belly, stiffening my nipples.
“That’s what your hate tastes like,” he tells me, his tone measured. Calm.
He steps away from me, putting enough distance between us so he can bend down and pick up my towel to clean his hand. “You should finish getting ready. You don’t want to be late.” He drops the towel in my hamper and starts to walk away. “Sure you don’t need any help?”
I shake my head, my chest tightening painfully. “I think you’ve helped enough.”
“Okay.” He laughs, holding up what he has in his hand. My dress. “But if you try to leave the building in this dress, I’ll rip it the fuck off you before you clear the stairs,” he tells me, tossing the dress on the bed before walking out the door.
Twenty-nine
Patrick
I expect Conner to talk shit when I come back down stairs but he doesn’t. He just looks up from the taps where he’s drawing a round of domestic pitchers and gives me a look. “Got it all worked out?” he says, lining the bar with pitchers. In the back of the bar I can see a large party—local guys, wearing baseball jerseys from some park league.
“Yup,” I say even though my dick is hard enough to cut glass. Walking over to the bar sink, I start washing glasses, getting ready for tonight. It’s Saturday a
nd we’re gonna get slammed. After washing and drying every glass I can find, I stock the well and garnish stations. Keeping myself busy so I don’t have to talk to Conner about what happened upstairs.
He thinks I went upstairs to fuck Cari. If I’m honest, that exactly what I went up there to do. I wanted to fuck her. To claim every inch of her. To ruin her for every other guy on the planet.
That’s what I wanted to do—it was what I was going to do. But then she pulled that goddamned dress out of the closet. Acted like she was actually considering wearing it again, even after what happened last night, and I lost it.
I was too keyed up. Too angry. Too dangerous. I’d been angry last night and a part of me fucked her to get even with her. To prove she wanted me just as much as I wanted her. To punish her for making a fool of me. To make her feel just as out of control as I do. As angry as I was then, it’s nothing compared to how I’m feeling now. That’s why I didn’t fuck her.
Because this isn’t me. None of it. I’m not this guy. The guy who takes his fingers out of a girl’s pussy and pushes them into her mouth so she can taste just how much she wants me. Who keeps going, even after she says no—no matter how wet she is or how hard her nipples are for me. I’m not this guy. I’m not.
I’m totally fucked up and Cari Faraday is the reason why.
She comes downstairs a few hours later. The baseball team at the back of the bar has been joined by a couple dozen tourists, and a handful of college bros, getting a jump on their Saturday night. I’m wiping down tables, my back to her but I don’t need to see her to know she’s there. Moving on to wipe down the next table, I turn, angling myself so I can see her.
She’s standing at the base of the stairs, ignoring me even though I know she’s just as aware of me as I am of her. She makes a show of checking her phone and slipping it into the little black purse she’s carrying before letting her gaze flicker over me for a moment. The second our eyes connect, a flush rushes over her skin and she looks away.