by M. S. Parker
Worry overrode the pleasure I'd been feeling and I reached out to touch his cheek. Before I could, he caught my hand and stared at me. Suddenly, a look of abject horror flooded his features and he scrambled backwards so fast, it left my head spinning.
“Don’t,” he said, choking the word out.
“Dominic—”
“Don’t!” This time, he shouted it and he was shaking. His eyes were wide and filled with self-loathing. “Fuck, Aleena…I just…how can you stand there like that after what I just did?”
I moved towards him slowly, not understanding. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Dominic. What did you just do?”
“I threw you to the floor and…” He tripped over the words and as I watched, he backed into the wall, shaking his head the entire time. “I…”
“You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”
His eyes hardened and he gave me an icy stare. It was the stare I’d seen his mother give. Pretty impressive, really. “You like being thrown on the floor, somebody’s hand silencing you, Aleena? I guess I’ve been topping you all wrong.”
“Don’t,” I said firmly as I closed the distance between us. I thought I understood. “Don't you dare.”
I reached out and put my hand on his cheek. When he tried to jerk away, I went with him. His eyes were wild, but I knew he wasn’t seeing me when I leaned close to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his lips. His entire body was tense, shaking. His hands clenched into fists.
I got it now.
“You’re not him.” I spoke slowly and clearly so there'd be no mistake. “And I’m not you. I don’t mind playing rough, Dominic. And we both know if you’d been hurting me, really hurting me, you would have stopped.”
He still didn’t say anything. I slid my arms around him, ignoring the stiffness of his body. I pressed his head against my chest and stroked his hair, my heart breaking for him. I held him for several long minutes, and would have continued to do so if the timer from the stove hadn't chimed.
The first time, I just ignored it, but it did it again and he slowly stirred, like a man rousing from a deep sleep. He raised his head. “If that’s food, you should take it out,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Before it burns.”
I looked down and saw that he was staring at me, his eyes haunted.
“I made you dinner,” I told him softly.
An expression I couldn’t quite recognize flickered across his face. His eyes bounced around for an endless time and then returned to me. Finally, he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face and nodded. “If you made me dinner, we should eat it.”
I released him and got to my feet, keeping my face carefully blank as I felt his seed running down my leg. Anything that reminded him of what we'd done might set him off again. I held out a hand.
His gaze flicked to the spot on the floor.
“Dominic,” I said his name gently, coaxing him back to me.
He looked at me and took my hand, letting me help him to his feet.
“Go get cleaned up and I'll get the food.” I released his hand and headed into the kitchen, ignoring the way my pussy was throbbing from how hard he'd driven into me. I felt his eyes on me as I disappeared around the corner and I wondered what had happened to him today.
I didn’t say anything throughout dinner. I didn’t want to disturb the peace, or his fragile state of mind. The silence wasn't uncomfortable between us, but there was a distance. It wasn't cold or angry, but I could tell that he was still distracted. What we'd done had taken his mind off of it for a short while, but he was thinking again.
Later, as we sat on the couch, I leaned against his chest, my fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. His arms were around me, solid and reassuring, but the motion of his thumb brushing across my knuckles was almost absent.
I wanted to ask. I needed to ask. I needed to know what was going on inside his head and what had him so grim, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. Maybe, I thought, he just needed to relax a bit more. Maybe in a less...aggressive way.
I sat up and turned towards him. He was already staring at me, his gaze troubled and intense.
I managed a lopsided smile that I was sure did nothing to hide the way my heart skipped a beat. Before I could second-guess myself, I asked, “Do you want to take a bath with me?”
“A bath?” He looked startled by the suggestion.
“Yeah.” I reached up and lightly traced his lower lip with my fingertip. His mouth twitched when I did it and I laughed softly.
Dominic Snow, billionaire, control freak, was ticklish.
I repeated the caress and he caught my wrist, glowering at me. My heart gave another funny little leap.
“A bath,” I said again. “You know, water in a tub. A hot, lazy bath.” I put my free hand on his chest, reveling at the feel of the muscles beneath his shirt. My chest tightened. Damn, I loved his body. I gave myself a mental shake. I couldn't get distracted. I smiled at him. “Somebody had fun with me this weekend. My body’s still kind of achy.”
“Somebody, huh?” He slid his hand down my arm, around my shoulder and then up my spine, curving it around my neck. His skin was hot against mine. “Yeah. We can take a bath.”
He leaned over and flipped up the arm on the couch. I watched as he punched in a few buttons then I rolled my eyes. He cocked his eyebrow in an unspoken question.
“It’s too complicated to just get up and go to your room and run the water, huh?” I teased.
“The whole point of designing a home with things like a remote control bath is so you can start running the water from anywhere,” he countered. He smiled, but it still didn't reach his eyes.
I shook my head. Both he and Fawna had shown me the ‘smart house’ attributes when I moved in, but I had to be honest. I didn’t see the point in poking a few buttons when it was just as easy, in my opinion, to walk to the bathroom and turn a knob. That way, I could make sure I had the temperature right. I didn’t know if one hundred and two degrees would feel all that great unless I sat in it. Then again, I supposed this was another instance of trusting him to know what the right temperature would be.
He rose and held out a hand. I took it and we cut through the kitchen, stopping so he could get a glass of scotch while I poured more wine. Then we started toward the tub, the big, sunken one in his private bathroom.
My heart was in my throat the entire way.
We undressed ourselves in silence as the water stopped. I gestured towards the tub and he climbed in. I allowed myself to admire the long, lean lines of his body as he sat down, the water coming halfway to his chest. He looked at my body as I stepped into the tub, but he didn't meet my eyes. Tension turned his muscles to knots as I straddled his lap and looped my arms over his shoulder. Despite our nudity, his cock was soft beneath me. His hands held my hips as his eyes held mine and he sat there. Waiting.
I wished I didn't have to do this, that he'd just tell me what was wrong, but I knew it wasn't easy for him to talk about personal things. I needed to take the lead on this. It was my turn to take care of him.
Still, the words were harder to form than I'd thought. I forced myself to speak just as he did the same.
“I won’t ever be that rough—”
“What’s the matter—?”
We both stopped.
Looking away, I said, “Dominic, you’ve been rougher with me than that and I’ve begged for it. Why are you beating yourself up over this?”
He didn’t answer and I started to suspect he wouldn’t. His head bowed and he pressed his face against the valley between my breasts. I curled my arms around him, wishing I could protect him from the whole world. From anything. Everything. All things. But what had hurt him was his past and I couldn’t fight that.
His breath was warm and soft against me when he spoke.
“He liked to hurt me, punish me if I disobeyed. Sometimes he wanted me to scream. One time, he told me to be quiet, but what he did hurt...” He took a shuddering breath. “It hurt so bad
that I couldn't stop screaming, so he held his hand over my face so hard, so tight...I got sick. Choked on it. Passed out.”
I dug my fingers into his hair, wishing it were possible for me to take away his horrific memories.
“When I came to, he was off in the corner. He just stared at me. Then he started asking me a bunch of questions. Like my name. Who I was. What year it was…” A shudder ran through him. “He’d had me for a while at that point, so I wasn’t even sure. But I think…”
The words trailed off and he was silent for a while. I didn't speak, wanting him to finish on his own.
When he did begin again, his voice was a ragged, raspy sound, coming from low in his chest. “I think he scared himself. I think he almost killed me that time. He left that night. And…”
Now he lifted his head and stared at me. Fire burned in his eyes. Fire, fury. The remnants of fear.
“That was the night I escaped. He left in a hurry. Didn’t secure his basement door as well as usual. I waited, kept thinking he’d be back and punish me for trying to run. Make me stand for hours without a break. Beat me. Torture me.” He shook his head. “But I heard the car leave and I took a chance. Escaped.” He looked away. “After what I did, you should escape...before I lose control and hurt you again.” His voice was scathing, filled with something beyond loathing. It was hatred, all directed at himself.
“What he was doing to you wasn’t rough sex, Dominic.” I gripped the sides of his head, forcing him to look at me. Our eyes locked. “It was rape. Brutal, sadistic torture. What you do to me...it's nothing like that.” I brushed my thumb across the side of his mouth. “You don't hurt me. You protect me. You take care of me.”
His hands tightened on my hips, eyes darkening. He reached up and cupped my face between his hands, the touch gentle. Without taking his eyes off me, he pulled my face towards his until our mouths touched. Slowly, softly, he kissed me, so different from the frantic hunger I'd felt from him before.
When he finally broke the kiss, he moved so that we were looking at each other again. “I think I’d go crazy if I lost you,” he said quietly.
My heart lurched. He smoothed his hand down my back, settled it low on my hip. I leaned against him and felt my body relax.
That lasted all of two minutes.
“I went to the club today.”
I jerked upright, barely missing hitting his chin with my head. “You what?”
A faint, but real, smile twitched his lips. “I went to Olympus.”
I tensed. I knew what kind of club that was, what went on there. In theory anyway.
He brushed his thumb across my mouth, wetting my lips. “Relax, Aleena. I didn't go there to have sex. I haven’t since I met you. I was just…”
He stopped and rested his head on the back of the tub. He said nothing for a long time, and I waited. My stomach twisted into knots, but I'd learned my lesson. I trusted him and I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt.
And then he was talking. Telling me about his meetings with a private investigator. Telling me about his mother—his birth mother. Telling me that he thought he just might have been stolen away from her. By the time he finished, I was gaping at him in blind shock.
“So I went.” Dominic shrugged and looked away. Water lapped at his chest, at his arms. His eyes were hooded, staring off into nothingness. “I wanted to get out of my head and then I get there and all I could think about is you.”
I’d been dealing with shock at what he'd said, but as soon as he mentioned the club, a stab of jealousy had gone through me. Now though…I leaned in and rested my head on his shoulder.
“All I can think about is you,” he said again.
I curled my arms around his neck and kissed his ear.
I bit my lip, excitement and anxiety coiling in my stomach at the same time. Not wanting to lose my nerve, I said, “Maybe next time you feel like you need to go to the club, you can take me with you.”
His body froze under mine. For a moment, he said absolutely nothing.
Finally, I looked up to see him staring at me with a shocked expression on his face. “Are you serious?”
I grinned. “Yes, sir.”
4
Dominic
I’d never been one to shy away from the hard shit. I might not enjoy it, but if it had to get done, then it had to get done.
Which explained why I had my morning cleared and drove myself to the elegant manor just nearly an hour out of the city to speak with Jacqueline St. James-Snow.
I loved my mother. She might not have given birth to me, but she had raised me. She had stood by me after my father turned his back. She had been there when the vast majority of her friends had whispered behind her back about all the vile things that child must have done while he was…gone.
Because of course it had been my fault. I'd been a wild kid, and had gotten what I'd deserved. They still hadn't found the man who'd destroyed me.
I’d spent a small fortune trying to track him down, but by the time the police had gotten involved, the evidence had been pretty much eliminated and I hadn’t proved to be much use. My memories of that time were mercifully incomplete. Post-traumatic stress had turned my mind into a piece of Swiss cheese. What I did remember was bad enough. I didn't think I could survive remembering everything.
As for everyone else, it hadn't matter that he’d grabbed me, that he’d drugged me off and on for the better part of a year or that he’d held me down, beaten me, tortured and raped me, warped any part of me that might have been normal.
It would've been bad enough if I'd been a woman. People still would've blamed me. I knew how they talked. A girl wears a mini-skirt and she's just asking to be gang raped. As a fifteen year-old boy, I'd already been six feet tall and strong, evidence of the unspoken thought that men couldn't be victims.
You must've wanted it, twisted pervert.
Men can't be raped so stop lying.
Why didn't you fight back?
My mother had always been like that.
Not about me though. She'd stood up for me.
She loved me. I knew that. But after today, I didn't think she would like me very much, but I had to know the truth.
As I pulled up the twining, elegant curve of the drive, I stared up at the house where I’d grown up for bits and pieces of my life. Before the divorce, my family had spent summers and holidays here. After the...incident, Mom had wanted to keep me close so we'd stayed here. It hadn't bothered Dad that he didn't get to see me much.
I hadn't really cared much either, but after a few months of being at the house, I'd started going stir crazy. Mom, however, hadn't wanted to let me go. I knew she hadn’t meant to make it into a prison, but she had.
Sometimes, when I came to visit, I wondered if a convicted man might've felt like this, taking a last gulp of free air as he walked toward a prison, knowing the doors would swing shut behind him, wondering if he’d ever breathe free air again. Logically, I knew I could leave anytime I wanted. But there were parts of me that just didn’t understand logic.
I hated coming here.
Today it seemed even worse and I knew why. It was dread, plain and simple. I thought about what Kowalski had told me and I thought about the questions I had to ask my mother.
Those damn questions. I blew out a breath and shoved a hand through my hair, suddenly realizing I’d already clenched it into a fist.
How likely was it that she'd even answer me? Tell me anything? How likely was it that I'd learn anything?
Except perhaps the truth.
Not that she would intentionally tell me. I didn’t expect that, not in a million years. She would look at me and she would lie. But I would see it. If she lied about the questions I had for her, I'd be able to tell. She had never been able to lie worth a damn. Truth or lie, though, the questions would hurt.
The final few yards lay between me and the massive entryway and each step closer drew my muscles tighter and tighter. I realized some part of me had alre
ady known the truth. Not the details of course, but that I wasn't part of this world. Almost from the moment Kowalski had told me what he suspected was going on, I'd started to understand why I’d never fit in.
I wanted to run. I knew how to run away from ugliness. I'd been doing it for a long time. And when I couldn’t run, I found other ways to deal. Alcohol and drugs as a teenager. Sex as an adult. Kinky, controlling sex. Work. My entire life had been about dealing.
The front door opened as I stood there, lost in thought, and I found myself staring into a familiar, ageless face.
George.
I nodded at the older man. Like with Maxwell, the driver who'd spent most of my teenage years chasing after me, I’d taken to George. I’d related to the butler better than I’d ever related to my parents. He’d been the one to tell me about being safe if I absolutely had to go out there and get crazy about the girls.
I’d been thirteen and he’d found me making out with some girl—I couldn't remember her name now—in the pool house in the middle of a cocktail party. He’d dragged me away from her and sat me down for an embarrassing talk about condoms, diseases, pregnancy and some other things that had turned my face red.
As a smile spread across his face, I did something I’d never done. I moved in and hugged him. It was awkward, something I wasn’t used to doing, but I found myself needing that quick, hard hug more than the handshake he’d always offered in the past.
That was when it hit me. That was why he’d started offering me the handshakes instead of a cordial nod. Formal as it was, he'd known I’d needed the contact.
He squeezed me back, just the same way I’d squeezed him, releasing a quick moment before I was going to. “Are you well, Master Dominic?”
There was no point in lying.
“It’s all a matter of degrees,” I told him with a tight smile. “And it’s about to get worse. Where is she?”