Broken Love

by Ghiselle St. James

  “This is the list of those needing escorts this week. Get the girls and the few guys in, have them briefed, fitted and pampered,” he directs. “And Marlie, no one disturbs us –” he gestures between him and me – “until we’re done, okay? Unless there’s a fire.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lambert,” Marlie answers. She cuts her eyes to me, giving me a flirtatious smile. “Hello, Mr. Hayes.” Her voice is huskier.

  “Miss Trudursky,” I acknowledge with a curt nod.

  When she realizes how formal I am, she narrows her eyes at me then sets about continuing the task she had been doing before. I really don’t want to get myself in deeper shit; so if I have to ignore a few women and hurt their feelings in the process so I don’t end up hurting Delilah and getting my balls ripped off by her dad, re-stapled by Delilah then ripped off again, then so be it.

  We settle in Marcus’s large office taking in the view provided by the floor-to-ceiling windows. His office is sparse, but manly, evidence of under usage.

  “What’s on your mind, brother?” Marcus asks. Ever since high school he thought of Matt and me as his brothers.

  “I screwed up with my lady,” I inform him.

  Marcus’s face doesn’t betray a thing. I don’t know if he’s surprised, angry, disappointed or happy. He just reaches behind him in a cabinet and pulls out a half bottle of Bourbon and two crystal decanters.

  Marcus takes one look at me and notices the despair on my face and mumbles, “Better make that two,” and pulls out another full bottle.

  After a few minutes of silence filled by us imbibing three glasses of amber liquid, Marcus speaks, “Talk to me, bro.”

  Marcus knows about my preferences, he helped to foster it. So, it’s nothing to tell him everything that had happened earlier. He won’t judge me.

  “Molly came by.” That is the only way to start.

  “Shit,” Marcus curses, pouring another glass for both of us and sliding my glass to me.

  Marcus knows my history with Molly. He knows she’s trouble.

  I give him the sordid rundown of what had happened and express my guilt toward it all. I tell him how upset I am with myself and that I don’t know how I’m going to be able to go home to Delilah without looking guilty. Backtracking to when Delilah and I had broken up, I end up telling him how I had used Molly to forget her and that she had come to visit me in the hospital when Delilah was there.

  By the time I finish unloading on him, the guilt still hasn’t eased.

  “Shit, that’s heavy, dude,” Marcus mutters on a sigh. “First of all, you’re an idiot.”

  That I knew.

  “You broke up with her because your Dad was a cheating fuck?” He stares at me incredulously. When put like that, it was kinda stupid.

  Marcus is on a roll, though. “I won’t even get into the fact that your stupidity almost cost her life, but then, you go back to Molly?”

  “I didn’t go back to her,” I counter sulkily. “I called and she came to me.”

  “Ben, I don’t give a fuck if she crawled to you on all fours with a fucking ball gag in her mouth, you had a good thing. Instead of running away, you work it out.”

  I know that now.

  “And now,” Marcus goes on. “Instead of following your instincts, knowing that if it was business she would have called and arranged a meeting, you let Molly into your office and things got out of hand. You and I both know, as lifestyle practitioners, you don’t lay a hand on another person if you’re already in a D/s relationship. Punishing another person other than the one you’re with is just as much cheating as if Molly got down and sucked your dick.”

  I knew that…I knew and I still fucking did it. I’m an idiot. I groan, planting my forehead on his desk and stretching my glass out for a refill.

  “You betrayed Delilah, you know that, right?” I nod glumly. “You need to be completely honest with her,” Marcus advises as he pours more Bourbon.

  My head snaps up and I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Dude, from what I gather, you love this girl, right?”

  I nod, eager to know where he’s going with this.

  “And you wanna marry her, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I confess, both to him and myself.

  I have to spend the rest of my life with her, there’s no alternative. Without her, I can’t be the man she has made me. She’s my missing piece. My heart.

  “Well, if you want to spend the rest of your life with her, it’s best to do that with complete honesty, man, no matter how painful the truth is,” he explains.

  “I don’t think you know who Delilah is. She’s like Tamara,” I say, referring to his wife, hoping he gets my point, “but the only difference is that I actually see her fury before she springs it on me like a fucking rattlesnake.”

  I lean forward and give him a seriously scared-shitless stare. “I like my balls, Marky.”

  I think I’m drunk.

  Marcus laughs and knocks back another round. “I think I like this girl.”

  “She’s black,” I blurt out, settling back into my seat. “Fucking Jamaican,” I further say.

  Marcus winces. “Shit.”

  “Her Dad was Jamaican, but she was born in New York.”

  “Shit, nig…I mean, Ben. Damn,” Marcus sympathizes, almost calling me the ‘N’ word.

  It’s a struggle for him when he is surrounded by us white guys. He always complains that he needs black friends with whom he can be free to be black with. I never understand what that means.

  “Man, that Jamaican flava mixed with a whole lotta that NYC attitude is hard to tamper, especially if home-girl is pissed off.” Marcus knows his black women, so I trust his wisdom implicitly.

  I stare at him once more and say unequivocally, “I like my balls.”

  “I know you do, buddy. I know.”

  I stumble into the house, at something like one a.m., after the taxi had dropped me off. By the time Marcus and I got through talking, I was trashed and he wouldn’t allow me to drive, so he got me a cab and promised that he’d have my car back to me by morning.

  I strip off my jacket and drop it on the floor in the foyer and totter through the house, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

  “Shit,” I curse, not feeling up to climbing stairs in my very inebriated state.

  Dropping to the first step, I stretch across it, trying to find a comfortable spot to rest my head, completely forgetting that I had a perfectly comfortable sofa in the leisure room.

  “Stupid stairs,” I slur to myself, kicking my shoes off.

  I don’t know when it happens, but I eventually fall into an uncomfortable sleep.

  I groan, still needing sleep, but having someone poke me with what seems like a foot in the forehead.

  “Stop,” I demand, sleepily, but the foot is persistent.

  “Stop,” I say again, this time grabbing onto the foot.

  It is small and smooth. Shit!

  Delilah.

  Peeling my eyes open, I realize it’s still dark. I look up at her and she’s wearing my Aerosmith t-shirt and black boy shorts – the ones with the words Rock n’ Roll on the waist band. I know those by heart. So fucking sexy on her round ass.

  She is sitting two steps above me and with the light shining on her from outside, she looks pissed. What was it that Marcus had said about Jamaican chicks and them being pissed again? Shit! My brain is still fuzzy from the Bourbon.

  “You look like shit,” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth.

  “Feel like it, too,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work. She shoots me a hard stare.

  Maybe I can try being cute. “Baby…”

  “Don’t,” she interjects quickly. Foiled again.

  How about apologetic? “I’m sorry.”

  “For what exactly?” She stares at me, impassively. Does she know about Molly?

  I try to feign ignorance. “For coming home shit-
faced drunk.”

  “And?” she presses further, flat affect and flat tone of voice in full effect.

  And? Shit! So, it’s back to feigning ignorance. “Shit-faced drunk pretty much covers it, babe.”

  “Unbelievable!” she yells, getting up and stomping up the steps.

  “Delilah, wait!” I shout, scrambling after her. Bad idea.

  I stumble trying to get up and stumble some more trying to get up the stairs. When I finally get into the room, I stagger to the locked bathroom door where I can hear Delilah cursing to herself.

  “Fucking, fuck-ass drunk! And he has the nerve, the nerve, to not know what else he did! Ooh, I’m so mad!”

  “Baby,” I call out to her.

  She swings the door open and screams at me, increasing my headache, “Bastard!” She then slams the door in my face.

  This is mega-bitch mode, what with her period and me messing up big time. I don’t think I have enough wits about me to handle it all so, walking over to the bed, I fall flat on my face in its comfy goodness. Sleep claims me in seconds.

  “Wake up!” Delilah screeches through my sleepy haze. Crap.

  I open my eyes again, realizing that it’s still dark out. I can’t have been asleep for long.

  “Baby, let’s do this in the morning,” I croak, sounding as terrible as I felt.

  “No!” she yells. “We do this now!”

  “D, you’re seeing your period right now, I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

  BIG…MISTAKE.

  “What?” Her voice is calm, soft…eerie?

  I raise my head and peek at her with one eye open. All notion of inebriation gone, replaced with fear and lots of it.

  “What…did you…just say?” She punctuates the sentence in the same calm tone, her eyes ablaze with barely contained fury. Crap, crap, crap, crap!

  “Huh?” It’s back to feigning ignorance for me.

  Delilah smiles, one of those evil genius smiles, and launches her foot into my ass. Hard.

  “Fuck, Delilah! What was that for?” I jump up, rubbing my butt cheek. Shit hurt like a motherfucker.

  I should’ve stayed down, though. Like a raging bat outta hell, Delilah jumps into me and starts swinging, clocking me in the jaw. She is screaming, out of control like a wildcat, flailing her arms and kicking her legs. My sweet girl knows how to fight. She kicks me in the knee, bringing me down, then smacks me in the face. She grabs my hair and tilts my head up to look at all the rage in her eyes. I nearly wet myself at what I see. This is scary Delilah.

  “You don’t call,” she grinds out. “You come home motherfuckin’ drunk. Then, you gon’ play the period bitch card?” I can hear her thick New York accent now. Boy is she pissed. “Well, baby, you ain’t seen bitch yet.”

  She throws my head back, releasing me, and stalks into the changing room. I hear the familiar sound of the Fulfillment Room doors opening and closing and I am left alone.

  Yup, I messed up. Big time.

  And she doesn’t even know the full extent.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  I feel tossing and turning next to me, like, seriously aggravated tossing and turning, mixed with angry huffs and mumblings. Somewhere during my worry about Delilah coming back into the room with a butcher knife to Lorraina Bobbet me, I had fallen asleep. Now, it seems, she is on the bed and torturing me. Thankfully, it’s finally morning.

  One thing is for certain, though, I still feel like shit, with a side of hung-the-fuck-over and Delilah’s constant moving around is certainly not helping my plight.

  With a final huff and growl, Delilah throws the sheet off of her and gets off the bed. I do the only smart thing I’ve done in a twenty-four hour span – I pretend to still be asleep. She takes a shower and this seems to calm her right down, because she comes back into the room, whistling to the tune of Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Either, she’s okay now, or she’s plotting my demise to the tune of a happy song.

  Pretending to still be asleep it is.

  I do this for the next thirty minutes, listening intently to every move she makes. Right now, she is downstairs so I make my way to the bathroom and take a quick shower, getting dressed even faster. I quietly make my way to my home office to look over a few documents for work before deciding it’s time to leave.

  Taking my time going downstairs, ensuring the coast is clear, I grab my briefcase, hoping to make a quick run for it. I am stopped in my tracks, though, by the decadent smell of bacon…and eggs…and coffee…and singing.

  I am lured to the kitchen and am assaulted with a view of Delilah’s ass bent over, picking something off the floor. She is wearing a pair of baby blue booty shorts with the word Hot Ride scrawled across her cheeks, and a white tank top that had slid up and is now exposing her soft skin. My dick starts thumping and I gulp hard.

  I try to convince my feet to move and my eyes to look away, but both are glued. I think it’s safe to say that I am a little distracted.

  Delilah snaps upright and turns to face me. She breaks into a beaming smile, and, like she’s June-fucking-Cleaver, she chirps, “Good morning, babe!”

  I’m gonna die, is my first and only thought at this point. Why is she being so utterly…sweet?

  “I made breakfast.”

  Somehow I missed the glorious spread of scrambled eggs, sausages and French toast topped with whipped cream and strawberry slices. It’s that ass of hers, I swear. Oh, God bless it.

  On the counter, there is a glass of chilled milk – with ice cubes, no less – and a pot of freshly brewed coffee.

  “Give the cookies a few more minutes and breakfast will be all set,” she adds.

  Cookies? “Cookies?”

  “Yeah, chunky chocolate chip cookies,” she responds with a smile.

  My stomach growls at the mention of chunky, chocolate chip cookies. Now I know she’s trying to kill me…and with my favorite. How does she know I love chunky chocolate chip cookies? Is she some kind of cold, calculated killer and I didn’t know?

  Oh, this is beyond evil. But what a way to die! Gorging on cookies. There are better ways to die – like dick-deep inside Delilah’s warm sheath of pleasure and watching as her beautiful face contorts in satisfaction – but this will have to suffice for now.

  I don’t want her to think that she has me just a little bit afraid, so I school my features, an impenetrable mask sliding over my face; trying to channel my dom-mode.

  “If you’re trying to kill me, Delilah, this is hardly the way,” I say, trying to sound bored.

  “Kill?” she sputters, her eyes wide and etched with confusion and surprise, and then she laughs; clutches her belly and laughs hard.

  I give her a hard stare and she stops immediately, though choking back little jolts of amusement.

  “Babe,” she mutters, shaking her head and wiping her tears of mirth.

  I don’t allow her to continue, “I seem to remember that you were extremely mad at me last night and I owe you some time on the spanking bench for the way you attacked me. I have been too soft with you and you’ve taken advantage.”

  She stops smiling immediately, concern taking over her face. She looks down and she looks so broken, so hurt. I didn’t want her to feel bad, just…contrite.

  “I’m sorry for the way I behaved,” she whispers. “I…I get crazy sometimes.”

  Now, to reestablish the lines.

  “Kneel, Delilah,” I command.

  Shakily, she falls to her knees, looking down on the floor. Her submission always takes my breath away. For someone as strong as she, who has been through more than someone ought to have gone through in their life, to will herself to me is an exquisite experience, and I will honor her submission always.

  “How did you behave, my sweet girl?”

  “I acted shamefully and disrespectfully,” she answers.

  “And do you think your behavior deserves punishment?”

  “Yes,” she breathes, and I sense her arousal.

  “And me?” I
ask.

  Her head snaps up so fast, shock registering in what seems like triplicate. She tries to read my face, read my intentions, but they are pure. I was no innocent in this. She had every right to be mad at me last night, more than she even knows.

  I drop to my knees in front of her, bowing my head to her in supplication.

  “Me, angel,” I whisper. “Do I deserve punishment?”

  Her breaths come in faster as my heart beats in tandem. This, more than her initial submission, is turning me on; and not the idea of her taking the cane or flogger to me, just the act of submitting myself to her, knowing I messed up and manning up about it…before her.

  For long moments, she doesn’t say anything. I bring my eyes to hers and see tears in them. Bringing my hands up to her neck, I trail them up and cradle her face as I stare into her brown depths.

  “Tell me, Delilah, do I deserve punishment?” I ask again, needing her to answer me.

  She nods her head shakily then croaks out, “Y-yes.”

  I nod my head and drop my hands from her face. “Good, and what punishment do you suggest?”

  Delilah licks her lips and her eyes gleam wickedly when she responds, “Flogger.”

  I lean forward and take her lips, kissing her hungrily. Her light whimpers are like music to my ears. I’m dying for her period to be over.

  “Good choice, angel.” I stand to my feet and take her palm in mine, bringing her up.

  I sit at the island and pull her down in my lap, wrapping my arms around her middle and nuzzling her neck.

  “I’m sorry about my behavior last night,” I mumble, placing light pecks on her exposed column. “It was deplorable, irresponsible and downright reprehensible.”

  She doesn’t say anything so I continue speaking, “Last night you were ready to cut my balls off and feed them to me and you would’ve been well in your right to do it.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Molly but I delay. Partly because I’m a coward and partly because I fear that she might leave me.

  Her hand comes up and finds the back of my head and she runs her fingers through my hair, soothing me. There is so much comfort in that one act, so much love.