by M. C. Cerny
Last week I turned her down for a reason, and if I don’t pick up the gauntlet in here, twenty men are likely to offer her assistance in my place—men who can’t possibly pay her father’s debt off the way I can and still offer her protection in exchange. The thought of another man exacting payment irritates me. Clenching my jaw, I’m mad because she’s forcing my hand by teasing these hacks, and I don’t like it. I hate it, and yet I admire her tenacity. When the jacket falls from her graceful shoulders like a fallen angel who lost her wings, I stand up.
“Dec, what are you doing?” Neil grabs the arm of my suit jacket, wrinkling silk and wool.
I sneer, shaking him off.
My club.
My rules.
My woman.
I shake off the last sentiment. She isn’t my woman—not really, and not any more than she could be some yuppie frat boy’s girlfriend, for all I know. It’s as if she’s begging to be treated like a woman instead of a girl with kid gloves. Maybe there is a bit of a lioness within her, and I won’t let her get away with it. She is a complication I don’t want or need.
I glare sideways at Neil, the voice of reason, and say, “I’m going to make sure the pretty girl understands what happens when she disobeys me.”
“Easy, Dec, she has no idea the monster she’s awakened,” Neil warns.
Of course she doesn’t. Nobody does.
“Then she should have stayed home to wash her hair tonight.” I straighten my shoulders and stalk toward the stage, my eyes never leaving my prey caught under my spell. Her hips sway in time to the music and her body reveals slim lines barely covered in garish red silk and lace that reveal far more than it possibly conceals. A blood-red corseted bustier cups small breasts, not quite a handful for me, but sufficient to get the job done. Breasts are still breasts, and her nipples peeking between taught floral lace beg for my attention. A scrap of pathetic silk covers her mound, visible under the sheer skirt that’s nothing more than a joke. Matching garters in red complete her ensemble, with heeled navy patent pumps that buckle at her delicate ankles. The contrast between red and navy make me think of a schoolgirl at detention. I rub my thumb across my lips to stop myself from speaking and wanting to touch the indentation of her ankle.
God, I dream of fucking her raw in those shoes until she cries for mercy that will never come.
Yes, Sydney Meadows is in a shitload of trouble with me, and nothing—not even God—can save her from my wrath. My cock presses against my suit pants and I run a tired hand through my hair and over my face and chin, deciding her fate.
I ask her the most obvious question: “Just what am I to do with you, Miss Meadows?” The song continues to play and I take a dangerous step toward her, ready to pull her down into a hell of my own creation.
She leans in and uses her hand to tap my chest. “Knock, knock, Declan.”
I smell the faint odor of alcohol and sweet mint. I think she’s drunk, maybe buzzed by the pupils in her eyes. Yeah, she’s light years away from heaven’s door as her lips pout, same shade of fuck-me red as her lace, and I haul her ass off the stage, angry with myself more than her at this point.
“Infuriating little imp.” I pick up her jacket from the floor, letting it whip and hit my thigh, castigating myself. I grab her by the arm, marching Sydney off the stage and right down a hallway that leads deeper into the club. Men jeer and boo as I steal their entertainment for the evening.
Too fucking bad for them.
“Oww! You’re hurting me.” She struggles to break free, hopping after me.
“Good—it’s no less than you deserve, showing up here painted like a little whore fresh from the corner,” I grit between my pressed lips, attempting to keep my cool until we’re out of sight of the club floor.
She snorts and I turn so fast she bumps into my chest, almost falling back until I catch her.
“I’m not a whore,” she mumbles, but the shame of being here is in her eyes and stains her cheeks.
“No? You’re certainly drunk,” I muse. If I’m hurting her, that will be the least of her worries tonight, because her luck has run out.
She gasps, pulling away and knocking into the wall. “I’m not drunk. I had one shot.”
I grab her by the back of her neck, squeezing none too gently. “You play in my house, Sydney, you play by my rules.”
Her legs tangle, nearly tripping her as I throw her over my shoulder, stopping her struggles with a swift spank to her virtually bare ass. Her ass is aimed at the room for all the salivating dogs to admire, pissing me off when it’s mine. I toss Sidney into my office, slamming the door behind us and blocking out the catcalls still coming from the stage. My heart pounds in my chest. I’m out of breath from the excitement of the chase hunting her down. Her jacket lands against the wall, falling to the floor in a heap like her dignity will be when I’m finished with it. She might have won this round, but I will win the war.
Chapter Four
Sydney
I stumble back from Declan’s iron grip. He’s laser focused, staring me down, and I gulp back a smartass reply. I’m nothing but a newborn deer trying to get away from the predator on weak legs while my brain short circuits from his crisp masculine smell. I feebly attempt to cover my bits, barely covered by lace, as I gain my footing. My ankle turns and I wince, righting myself. Clearly this is a mistake, but I’m here and with no options left.
“What the hell did you think was going to happen?” he whisper-shouts, gritting his teeth, fists clenching.
I wait for him to slam his hand against something, but he doesn’t. If he were an animal, I imagine him tearing into me, ripping flesh with each word that cuts me deep. He’s stunning in his anger, and despite my mixture of fear and desire I bite back my smile of admiration, which he won’t appreciate in the heat of the moment.
“Answer me Sydney,” he growls.
“I-I…” I stutter, having nothing of substance to say beyond getting his undivided attention—which, now that I have it, I have no idea what to do with. I’m hopeless. I try to think what Selma would do, but I can’t because this is completely out of my element. The shot of alcohol I drank earlier for courage bubbles in my stomach.
“Nothing to say?” Declan paces his office, running both hands through his hair—maybe so he doesn’t touch me instead.
I left Dad’s house after checking up on him to come here when a group of guys showed up wanting money. They banged on the door, demanding a down payment that neither of us had. Foolishly, I helped Dad lumber out the back door and I hid inside the house. Crouching down in my old bedroom closet isn’t the way I pictured my life going, sweat dripping between my breasts and staining the borrowed silk outfit I wore as my chest heaved in the dark with worry. They trashed the house, luckily not finding me. I barely escaped before shoving a handful of miniature tequila bottles in my purse.
“Please don’t hurt me.” I don’t know where those words come from, except that the men from the house frightened me—not that I expected sympathy or Declan to care.
“I’m going to do more than hurt you, pretty girl. What the fuck were you thinking coming in here in that getup, dancing on my stage in my club full of men eager to drill you into the wall?” His chest heaves as he takes a step closer.
His heat emanates through his crisp black dress shirt barely open at the collar. My mouth waters, cleansing the taste of tequila from my mouth in a burning desire to taste him. His chest is covered by a three-buttoned suit vest like armor, but I know Declan Natas is no shining white knight come to save me. He is the all-consuming darkness ready to decimate and corrupt what’s left of me. My legs rub together, feeling the slip of silk between my legs, and shamefully I’m turned on by his rough voice and disappointment in me. I’m so tired of being good, always good, and for what?
Nothing.
I had no idea what I thought beyond saving my only remaining family member from certain death or dismemberment.
His eyes narrow and a lock of dark hair falls fo
rward. My fingers reach to move it but stop when he advances toward me. I turn, scoping out exits, knowing he’s the one thing between me and the door.
False bravado carries me as I glance over my shoulder, cocking my hip to the side before snidely replying, “As if you weren’t appreciating the view.”
His eyes contract and narrow in a critical assessment. I swallow back anything else that’s smart-mouthed in nature. Dark orbs trail over my bare shoulder and down my back, resting on the curve of my ass that’s barely covered by the red thong and miniscule skirt. A bead of moisture escapes from between my thighs and I press them together to ease the throbbing ache that’s activated by the rasping of silk with each step I take. I’m wet and nervous, unsure how to handle what’s happening.
“I’m going to show you what I think of the view.” Declan grabs me again, dragging me toward his desk. Hard wood jabs my middle as he pushes me over the top and clears the paper contents with a sweep of his hand, letting everything fall to the floor in a cacophonic mess. His hips bump mine as he sits on the desk and pulls me over his knee. Butter-soft dress pants rub against sensitive skin. The muscles of his legs feel thick under my ribs and stomach, knocking the wind out of me.
His hand rests on the top round of my ass that curves into my lower back. I feel the air conditioning sweep over my exposed flesh as he flips up the ridiculous skirt I wear. His hand cracks down on skin and I squeal like a pig wriggling in slippery mud to get away—only I can’t because his grasp is too tight in the dents of my hips, bruising my tender skin.
“You’ve been a real pain in the ass, Sydney Meadows.” His hand cracks down again, making me grunt.
“Are you going to fuck me?” I ask, biting my lip.
He pauses in the moment.
“Good girls don’t know what a good fucking is,” he says, palming the hot skin that itches with sensations I don’t know how to describe.
I swallow. “S-so are you—going to?” I tense.
“I should make you count the strokes. I told you not to come back here and that I don’t care about your paltry little problems.” His short nails dig into my flesh, stabilizing me over his lap. His dick is a thick ridge pressing into me. He can’t deny he feels something.
“My dad’s life isn’t some little problem.” Twisting, I cry out, attempting to reason with him. Dad is my last connection to Mom. I can’t lose him. He’s all I have—except for an Aunt Shirley clear across the country in Anaheim.
“Well it sure as hell isn’t mine.” He slaps me repeatedly, changing the spot on my backside and igniting a fire on my skin, each one hurting more than the one before. Fucking me might be less painful, even if less desirous. The slaps echo inside the confines of the office, vibrating the energy in the room. I swear the picture frames swell and shake near to falling off the walls with the restrained force he uses. He finishes and his hand lingers, pushing my thighs apart over his lap, leaving me ungracefully hanging over him and scrambling to grip the edges of the desk.
I’m a numb jumble of frayed nerve endings resembling something close to a pack of exposed live wires blitzing and jumping with current. His hand scorches against the exposed skin of my innermost place, and my brain short circuits with impulsive desire to want more from Declan Natas’ Midas touch.
I shouldn’t want anything from this man. His touch should have destroyed me, but instead I’m questioning everything. I want anything he’ll give me, scraps included.
“Do you like that, pretty girl?” His voice is a low, cruel, silver-tongued whisper puffing out the hair covering my ear.
I wish my hair was tied back and not sticking to my neck but the bobby pins are scattered on the floor along with what’s left of my senses. His hands play me with more skill than my piano-playing fingers, lazily trailing a tune. I don’t know the song, but I crave to learn its words, tempo, and the impending crescendo.
His hand dips farther between the recesses of my legs, and like a dirty girl I edge my legs open wider. My nose is overwhelmed by the scents of musk, bitter alcohol, salt, and the man holding me. Declan chuckles and rubs the wet fabric covering my hot slit like he’s strumming a concert cello. Together we could make a scandalous two-person ensemble as I moan in a high violin wail and grunt like an ill-played cymbal when he tugs soaked silk against my clit, pulling it tight. I want more, so much more, and my voice cracks, afraid to ask for something I know nothing about.
“You like it, don’t you? My finger strumming your sloppy little cunt.” Crass words follow his blunt finger pressing against me, and I feel the edge of his nail scraping against flesh so sensitive I could burst at any moment.
I’m biting my lip but he demands an answer.
“You want it rough, don’t you?”
The likelihood of embarrassing myself with a grotesque display of emotion ranks high in the moment.
“Please,” I moan, hoping he will end my torment instead of leaving me writhing in his lap. Hot sweat beads on my brow and trickles down, landing in sad droplets to the wood floor below. A sick part of me wonders how many other women he’s taken like this in his office. I bet the janitor for this place has waxed a million droplets of sweat and cum into the shine of the wood floor. I squeeze my eyes shut to block it out.
“Oh and you ask so nicely.” He’s mocking me as his digit raises high only to sink lower, pressing deeper, leaving the silk scrap of underwear an abrasion on my pussy lips—separating them but preventing his invasion inside my quivering walls. I’m strung tight and I fidget in his grasp.
“Declan, please. I’ll do anything.” And I would, too, to feel the pressure pop and release, letting my body snap back like an overused rubber band to lay limp and sated. No touch of my own creation has ever left me feeling this wanton and heady. He is a master conductor of sexual tension and desire, and the bastard knows it.
His mouth finds my neck, tasting me in a proprietary kiss before he speaks softly, buzzing into my ear. “Do you know I can smell you?”
His lips pepper a light kiss on my cheek.
The musky heat fills my nose, drugging me. I heave a breath in, attempting to relax on the exhalation. It’s a mistake because the panties tear and Declan spanks me three more times in painful succession, making me cry before plunging his finger deep inside, pressing down on the front wall of sensitive tissue. I’m back to being the writhing pressure cooker speared open with nowhere to go as my wet walls squelch with untamed desire.
“Stop. It’s too much.” Not his finger, but the sensations that threaten to drown me or split me asunder—I can’t figure out which.
“But you said anything, pretty girl.” He’s rough and commanding, forcing the wave of yearning to crash into me, knocking me over without a lifeline to shore. I’m convulsing, choking on tears and begging nonsensical words of no import as he thrusts in and out of me.
I’m shivering—not hot, not cold, just overwhelmed and more confused than before. Declan is talking, but I don’t hear the words in my haze. He slides me off his lap and I fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs and damp thighs that stick together, shaming me. The floor bruises my bare ass and no dignity is spared. My useless legs spread wide, trying to get up, while my head remains confused and my heart sputters to jump start. He tosses my jacket to me. My hearing is in a vacuum, and before I realize it he’s picking me up and adjusting my clothing, kicking me out of the club.
“That’s what bad girls get for trying to top me. Get out and stay out.” Declan pushes me through a side door in the back and leaves me by the curb before walking inside. His footsteps echo on the pavement, and the sound of a flicking lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke are the only things that jar me back to reality. I scan my surroundings but don’t see anyone.
I’m alone, shivering with cold, pulling my jacket as tight as it will go and hoping it gives me a shred of the woman I was before I walked into his club. Declan has done something to me—changed me in some fundamental way there are no words to describe. I barely recall getting
home; a man named Neil I’ve seen once before puts me inside a paid cab. He apologizes. Something about not being able to get Stevens and Rhodes to drive me home. He tells me to drink hot sweet tea and take a bath when I get home. I mumble that all I have is leftover wine on the counter and a shower with cracked tiles in black and dingy white checks. He frowns and says something about subspace when he shakes me to look at him. His eyes are soft but the angles of his face remind me of Declan. He pays the driver a roll of bills and I figure the wine will do, despite its warm bitter taste.
I forgo a shower. Flopping back on my bed, I attempt to block out the night and the ever-throbbing weight between my legs that’s only grown heavier in Declan’s absence. I try rubbing the feelings away, but can’t get the right pressure to trigger a response. I want Declan’s fingers spearing me wide open, but what I want is not what I’m going to get. The weight on my heart cracks under the pressure of the past few years, and I cry into the night, feeling utterly depleted. The last letdown is Declan’s rejection.
I fall to sleep replaying childhood memories that give me little comfort. My dad hasn’t been that man in years, and I’m not a child anymore. The only option left is to find the man he owes his debts to…Andre LeHavre.
Chapter Five
Declan
They say church can change a man. They also say that about fine wine and a good woman. I think it just makes the jagged little sinning pill easier to swallow—but I’ve always been the cynic. My mother made us a deathbed decree, inducing parental guilt to attend—something about saving our souls. I think the pain of the cancer near the end must have addled her brain. What can I say—we’re Irish, and stubborn as hell comes with the territory. Tabby hasn’t come since her attack, and I don’t blame her. Neil is usually hungover, preferring a rave with his latest batch of partygoers to a serious lecture of moral fortitude. That leaves me, the eldest, to carry out Mother’s word and suffer.