HostileTakeover

by Joey W. Hill

  “I surely hope so. I don’t think I could be any plainer about it.”

  “Marcie, cut it out now, or your internship is over. Got it?”

  “I don’t care about the internship. We’re close to Club Progeny. Just a cab ride away. Why don’t you take me there, do everything you want to do to me, that I can feel you wanting? I’ve been to clubs, I’ve—”

  “Stop.” The word was a knife, cutting her off. Taking her arm, Ben led her back to her chair, this time going through an opening in the iron fence that required them to wind past the other closely placed tables. He motioned to the waiter as he held her chair, pressed her back down into it, his fingers gripping her nape in a way that made her shiver.

  “A chocolate torte to go, and the check.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He sat back down. Before, with the bistro table being so small, and the other tables so close, his knee had ranged alongside her crossed legs, his other foot placed beside hers. Now he set the chair back toward the rail, putting a more circumspect distance between them. She was losing ground fast, but she’d made enough progress this battle wasn’t a complete loss. Picking up her wine, she took a bracing swallow, regarded him. She’d been on the debate team in college, she knew how to hold her own. That is, if she imagined him as anyone other than Ben, who was looking as if he could eat her in three sharp bites.

  “You’re in over your head, and you need to quit this.”

  “If you think that, take me to the club and show me what it’s really like. I think what you’re really worried about is that I won’t scare. How would you punish me? Spank me? Tie me up. Fuck—”

  In a snap of motion, his hand closed over hers, forcing the wineglass back to the table. He caught her chin, leaning forward so she was staring into brilliant green eyes.

  “Where is the key to this?”

  Since her senses were reeling from his proximity, it took a moment to realize he was asking about the collar.

  She could go with the coy, smart-ass answer, like “Where do you want it to be?” or “Why don’t you search me to find it?”, but while she knew what she was, it was more fantasy than experience. She’d never had it tested under the searing regard of a fully unleashed Master. This wasn’t a practicing Dom with protocols and reasonable discussions of limits. Ben was an actual, in-his-blood Master, who demanded only one response from a submissive. The unembellished truth, delivered promptly.

  “It’s… The key’s attached to my navel jewelry.”

  His gaze still locked on hers, he dropped a hand to pull the blouse free of her skirt. When he found the tiny key, his attention dropped to examine the connection. She bit her lip at the pressure on the catch bead, a jeweled flower that provided the fastener to hold the key there. His touch passed over her navel, and she couldn’t help it, a small noise came from her throat, her thighs tightening at the moisture that came from her sex. His eyes flickered up to her face. “Part your legs,” he said in that same hard tone.

  She obeyed, but as she did, everything quivered. Her nipples were stabbing against her bra, and her palms were damp.

  He unhooked the key, smoothed her blouse back down over the area. “Lift your chin.”

  As she did, he fitted the key to the lock. The collar loosened, came away in his hands. He laid it on the table between them. Her neck felt too bare, too light without it. Once she’d made her decision about Ben, she’d put it on, resolved not to take it off, and she’d been wearing it over a year. His gaze lingered on her neck, then lifted to hers. “Look down at the table, and don’t look up unless I give you permission.”

  She was going to hyperventilate. Everything was tightening up inside. Her skin was cold and hot at once, and that trembling continued. It was as if she had the flu. Was he having the waiter box up the dessert to take her to the club? Was he going to agree to her desires? Was she ready for that?

  “A slave doesn’t collar herself,” he said, his voice low. Uncompromising. “If you’ve ever set foot in a club, that won’t happen again. That’s not your world. You defy me on this, I won’t hesitate to take it to Cass and Lucas.”

  He was chastising her like a child, but his orders, his touch, had been that of a Master taking sexual control. Another emotion swept through her now.

  Anger.

  She lifted her gaze, locked with his. Before she could respond, the waiter came back, carrying a to-go box. Ben rose, lifting his hand for one of the slow-cruising cabs patrolling for evening patrons. The waiter handed her the dessert box when Ben brusquely gestured for him to do so, then the man wisely retreated. They were too crowded in the dining area for her to try digging in her heels, so she set her chin, allowed herself to be guided back to her feet and out of that area to the waiting cab.

  However, once there, she stopped and faced him, extricating her elbow from his grasp. He’d pocketed the choker, and she wouldn’t wrest it from him, no matter how much it meant to her. If he was right, and she knew he was, it was his to put back on her. She wondered if he’d read the inscription on the back of the pendant. If he did, would it have the same meaning for him it had for her?

  Giving her a hard look, Ben spoke to the cab driver, telling him Cass’ address and handing him enough to cover fare and tip. He opened the door for her. “Get in. You’re going home.”

  She set her chin. “I’m twenty-three. I’m no longer a child, Ben. Cass and Lucas don’t have any say in my decisions about this.” She drew a breath. “If you’re not willing to be my Master, you don’t either.”

  The anger was strong enough she was tempted to tell the driver to take her to Progeny instead, right in front of him. But she wasn’t going to go without him, and she couldn’t bluff a man like Ben. She had to be willing to do everything she said she was going to do.

  She got into the car with quiet dignity, though she was vibrating with emotion. As he closed it, he stepped back without saying anything more. He’d reverted to that unsmiling expression, his eyes so calculating, seeing so much. She wondered if he was going to end her internship, try to block her from seeing him again. But that was what could happen tomorrow.

  While she hadn’t been completely prepared for the emotional impact of his rejection, she had anticipated something like it happening. There were always snags in a negotiation, setbacks. The key was a backup plan, and she had one. When she’d come up with it, she’d wondered if she’d have the bravery to pull it off. Now, galvanized not only by his stubbornness and anger, but those moments she’d seen and felt something entirely different from him, she had the courage to use a battering ram if necessary.

  As the cab moved away, leaving him behind, it gave her the space to take some deep breaths, marshal her thoughts. It was time to stop reminding him of the child she’d been and hit him full force with the woman she was.

  * * * * *

  Ben brought the choker back out. It was still warm from her skin. Staring at the forget-me-nots pressed under the glass, he knew he needed to go to Progeny himself. He’d find a submissive, fuck her brains out, work her over hard. He’d pay a staff member to do the aftercare so he could walk away. Finish out the night at his favorite bar filled with questionable characters and the odor of stale beer. He might get a drink, or two or three. The Irishman’s crutch. He knew the dangers. Which was why he’d probably go straight to the bar.

  Progeny wasn’t where he wanted to be. Doing a scene with a submissive required precision, control, artistry. A mutual exchange of pleasure. What he needed was a down and dirty whore, one who’d blow him off, let him fuck her in the ass with enthusiasm, and then leave him with a knowing half-smile and a pocketful of his money.

  In the past when this mood took him, he’d go find one of the guys, hang out at a sports bar or one of the classy burlesque clubs, eye naked females, and it would be okay after a while. When Peter had been single, they’d often trawl the streets together until dawn. It was why they’d called the ex-National Guard captain Nightcrawler. Ben had even given him an original s
igned cover of the famous comic book character for his birthday. It was framed on the wall of Peter’s office.

  But things were different now. Savannah was seven months pregnant. Matt wasn’t going out in the evenings right now, because her pregnancy hadn’t been an easy one and she was on bedrest until the baby came. Lucas and Cass still had three of her siblings at home, Cherry, Talia and Nate. He could call Peter and Dana, or Jon and Rachel, but it felt wrong. It all felt wrong.

  He’d told her she was asking for trouble, and she’d parried with that half-smile, the taunt in her gaze. But she hadn’t been making light of the threat it was, and that made it worse. If she would act like a clueless kid, reckless and naïve, he could brush it off easier. But the knowledge was in her eyes.

  She wasn’t experienced; if she’d been to a club, he’d bet money she’d only watched, not participated or given herself to a Master. Something ugly tightened in his chest at the thought of her being anywhere near a Dom in that setting. He pushed past that. No, she wasn’t experienced, but she understood. She knew what she was, what he was. She was daring him to let it loose, wanting to see if she could handle what he’d dish out.

  He thought about calling Lucas, sounding him out on it, then played out how that conversation would go. “Hey, just wondering. Did you know your wife’s little sister is a submissive, and oh, by the way, have you been taking her to clubs to have her ass smacked by random Doms?”

  Oh yeah. That would go over well. Luc would say, “Stay right there, Ben. I’ll be by directly with a baseball bat to beat your fucking brains into the sidewalk.”

  He returned to the table, paid the check. He had some work he could handle at the office, but he wasn’t in the mood to go back and do that either. Jesus, she’d be there tomorrow. Alice was gone for two weeks. It was too much to hope he’d taken care of the problem tonight, spooked her. He’d read the stubborn jut of that chin when she got in the cab. She’d been one breath short of telling the driver to ignore his directions and take her to Progeny. If she’d done it, he would have yanked her out of the cab and blistered her ass right there up against it until she was moaning…

  Holy fuck. He’d walked down the street several blocks, and now he decided to sit down on a bench. Seedier elements who kept an eye out for the solitary pedestrian traffic gave him considering looks and he met their gazes square on. Yeah, you want to be fucked up, you give it your best shot.

  There were some working girls, and he motioned to one of them. When she approached, he shook his head before she could start her spiel. Instead, he nodded to the cigarettes in her purse. “A fifty for one of those and a light, darling.”

  “For a fifty, I’ll give you two, sugar.” When he handed over the cash, she proffered the two cigarettes. He cupped his hands over hers to protect the flame as she used her lighter. She had wicked long nails, scarlet with some flashy stuff on it. Nodding, he sat back, and she trawled back to her friends, recognizing a man who wanted to be alone. Good whore. On another night, he might have taken a second look. Yeah right. He hadn’t tapped that risky kind of pussy since he was a dumb-ass teenager.

  Drawing deep, he closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall of the old brick building behind the bench.

  Marcie lost her virginity at nineteen. Christ on a cupcake, she’d called him to talk about it. He’d given up lecturing her on what was appropriate to discuss with him. The last time he’d tried, she’d teased him, told him he was her best girlfriend, earning a snort. Then she’d become more serious.

  You listen. You always give me the right kind of advice, and you know when not to give me any at all. You’re my friend, Ben.

  She didn’t know him or what he was. He and that whore had way more in common. It was showing in the smoking, in the proliferation of f-words in his vocabulary lately. His increasing apathy about all of it.

  Marcie had sex at nineteen. By the time he was nineteen, he hadn’t been a virgin for years. Those experiences weren’t innocent gropings in the back of a Mustang. They were the type of memories best left buried like the rotting corpses they were.

  He didn’t want to dwell in those dark spaces, so he thought back to that phone call. In truth, he’d been surprised she’d waited that late, given that most teens these days lost their virginity in high school. She’d stumbled around a bit, but she’d wanted to talk about it. The guy had been an okay sort who’d done a decent job, not completely screwed up. She didn’t say so baldly, but he could tell she hadn’t had an orgasm, not unusual for a girl’s first time, but she’d felt those stirrings that suggested it could go that way sometime down the road. He’d confirmed her experience was normal. Without endorsing her going out on a Debbie-Does-Dallas pilgrimage to find the ultimate orgasm, he’d told her it would get better.

  He’d cautioned her to be careful, told her what to watch out for. She’d gotten a little teary. After he made sure the tears were just typical female catharsis over an important turning point, and not because Bill What’s-His-Name needed to have his dick twisted off, he’d reassured her they were normal too.

  Not too long after that, the letters and calls stopped coming so regularly. Cass had said she didn’t have a steady boyfriend, so Bill hadn’t lasted. However, dinner tonight clearly suggested she’d figured a lot of things out, and not just about sex.

  Was the brat smart enough to realize the importance of that break in contact with him, setting a clear demarcation line between the relationship that had existed between man and teenager then, and man and woman now? Plotting it out so she could show up in his life as a sexy, grown-up young woman, homing in on him like a sleek barracuda? That kind of calculation was a bit scary, but she’d always been precocious.

  She had self-confidence, determination, and the Dom in him who recognized it, recognized what she was, hungered for it. He wanted to hurt her, give her pain, and she acted like she’d welcome it. She was off limits, but a big portion of him—entendre intended—was just not giving a rat’s ass. The combination of innocence and sexual drive made her damn near irresistible.

  So if that was all there was to it, why wasn’t he going to a club to blow off steam? Or calling up his preferred reputable escort service to take care of his more functional and dangerous cravings?

  Because she was in his head. Hell, her scent was still on his clothes, where she’d rubbed up against him during the dancing. He’d smiled at her during the Cajun two-step, and kept smiling. It was hard not to appreciate her, especially when she was utterly serious and yet had that dancing light in her eyes.

  It had reminded him of something he couldn’t deny. While he may have helped the teenage Marcie let loose and laugh again, her dry wit and self-deprecation, unexpected for her years, coupled with the occasional dose of teenage omniscience on every subject, had kept him grinning and impressed back then. Plus, as the others had found their “one” and gotten married, affecting him in ways he hadn’t expected, she’d seemed to understand when it was getting to him. She’d loosened up things inside him about that.

  That was the problem, wasn’t it? His relationships with women were about the physical, and the pure psychology of D/s. Marcie had an emotional connection to him he couldn’t deny, something no other woman—other than the K&A wives who had more clear boundaries—had with him.

  He imagined her eating that dessert at home, alone, the chocolate melting in her mouth. The tines of the fork imprinting on her lips, her moist tongue coming out to catch a bit of sweet. He could see her brown eyes, thinking over the evening, analyzing, planning her next attack. Hell, Marcie had started studying for her SATs when she was eleven. Superhuman focus and drive was a family trait. Except in her older brother Jeremy, unless you counted a superhuman determination to self-destruct.

  He drew on the cigarette again, a shadow passing through his mind at the thought. It had been awhile since he’d asked Lucas how that was going. For the past few years, Cass went to Thailand monthly to visit Jeremy. She took one of the kids with her each ti
me. Sometimes Lucas went. Through him, Ben knew Marcie had made the trip a few times as well. But the last report Lucas had given the group said Jeremy’s time was running out.

  Of course, if Jon hadn’t found that clinic trying an alternative treatment, and mixed it up with some Eastern hocus pocus by having Jeremy stay in a Buddhist temple near the clinic, the kid would have been dead over six years ago. With full-blown AIDS, he’d been living every day on borrowed time, a fucking miracle. Of course, all of them were living on borrowed time, weren’t they?

  Lately it felt like he wasn’t doing shit with his.

  Jesus, he wasn’t even fit company for himself. He was beating himself up for sending her off in that cab. He thought of the way she’d sneaked in those little brushes of her body, her wandering hands during their dance. He’d had her turned against him once, her backside soft against his groin. It would have been so easy to cup her breasts, hold her tighter against him, bury his nose in her hair.

  He was going to go home, stand naked under a cold shower, wrap his fingers around his dick and jack off until his legs buckled. He already knew he’d be imagining her on her knees, working him in her mouth, that blonde hair slick on her skull. He’d probably have to spurt three or four times tonight. When he was finally drained, he’d lie in bed, stare at the blinking light of a mute television, make his way through a bottle of whiskey, and try not to think about the fact he was starting to backslide into a person he’d vowed he’d never be again. But the monsters were always waiting, weren’t they?

  Some shit was best not stirred up, and she was like a great big wooden spoon, ready to attack that cauldron with a double-fisted grip. She’d get scalded, and he couldn’t allow that.

  Marcie: I can’t believe you couriered French bread and capellini to me in a warmer. It was so fresh, it was as if I was sitting in the kitchen at home watching you pull it out of the oven. The only thing more perfect would have been if you brought it yourself, though maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea, since half the girls on the floor are now in love with you.