A phantom Rey leans over my shoulder. “You do understand that, for most people, this scene is in no way alarming. Especially compared with the scenes you’re usually involved in.”
Oh, shut up, Rey. Yes, I know. And I’m going to attempt to be one of them. I feel like an undercover agent or maybe an anthropologist trying to infiltrate a primitive culture. God help me if the natives find out I’m an imposter. Seriously, this is certifiable. This will be a fantastic story to tell Rey over dinner when he comes down. He’ll laugh. When he’s finished lecturing me, anyway. And Constance is in town. No doubt she’ll be entertained by Kit Bailey-Isles: Vanilla Edition’s exploits, too.
I sit for a while, fending off suitors who are not going to do anything for me. I’m about to give up when I see him. He’s wearing a nice suit, drinking a local craft beer, and best of all, he couldn’t look less like Crispin as he scans the crowd. His eyes fall on me, and the corner of his mouth tugs up in the cockiest smile I’ve seen in months.
Slade Lewis, we meet again.
*
Though I’ve heard his voice on conference calls and seen his pixelated image in the press, I haven’t seen Slade Lewis in person since he berated me to tears five months ago. There’s no way in hell I’m beating a retreat or waiting for him to make the first move, so I hop off my barstool and strut toward him. I am not afraid of you, Mr. Lewis.
I give myself a pep talk on the short walk across the bar to where he’s leaning against a wall in an empty corner. You’re going to crush this, Burke. You’re going to annihilate him. Slade Lewis is toast. Crispy, delicious, buttered toast, but toast nonetheless. And you eat pieces of toast like him for breakfast.
“Mr. Lewis, fancy seeing you here.”
“Ms. Burke. Preparing for tomorrow, I see?”
Queasiness comes over me, knowledge of how quickly this could go sideways and I could end up in tears again flipping my stomach. Toast, I remind myself, toast!
Slade’s hazel eyes, hot and hard as I remember them, haven’t left mine. He’s got the same fuck-me-or-flog-me look, although why those things have to be mutually exclusive, I’m not sure. Time to set the tone for this interlude, you cocky slice of man pie. You will not get the best of me this time.
I poke a manicured finger into the center of his tie, and he steps back against the wall, surprise widening his eyes.
“Look here, Mr. Lewis. I know you. I know your game. My boss doesn’t get it, but I do. If you fuck with me tomorrow like you did during our last meeting, I’m going to report your ass for sexual harassment so fast you’ll barely feel my stiletto kick you on your way out. Are we clear?”
He huffs, and his mouth curls up at the corner, a mocking imitation of Crispin’s sweet half-smiles.
“India.” He raises his hands in mock-surrender. As if. “I never touched you. In fact, if anyone could be cited for sexual harassment in this situation, it’s you.”
He’s right. But I’m not going to back down. Instead, I change tacks.
“Slade,” I purr, smoothing the glossy silk of his tie down his chest, “if you wanted to fuck me so badly last time, you should’ve just asked. Or can you not get it up to show a girl a proper good time, so you resort to mind-fucking? Is that it?”
I bat my lashes at him as innocently as I can while fondling his tie like a pro. His fingers sink into my hips, and he yanks me toward him until our bodies are flush against each other. From what’s pressed thick and rigid against my stomach, impotence is not Slade Lewis’ problem. He bends his close-cropped head down until his full mouth is level with my ear. “Is asking still on the table?”
“I might let you beg.” I’m enjoying myself, and I don’t quite understand why. This is so far from my usual tastes that it’s practically another planet, but enjoying myself I am. Slade might be the devil, but he’s the devil I know. “Are you also at the Portman?”
A quick nod confirms, and I curl my toes over the edge of the high dive before I jump in with both feet.
“Room 802 in twenty. Don’t be late.”
Chapter Eleven
‡
Slade is punctual and comes packing: a bottle of Prosecco, a box of condoms, and lube. I should be put off he could pick all this up and still be on time—he must know where to find them or keep them on hand—but I find myself grudgingly impressed instead of disgusted. I let him in and direct him to the desk chair. When he sits, I square my shoulders and put on my best sexy-bitch face.
“Ground rules.” I tick my demands off on my fingers as I go. “First, Cooper knows I’m with you.” That’s a flat-out lie, but I’m banking on him not calling my bluff. It’s better than nothing as an insurance policy. “Second, you tell anyone about this and I will nail your ass to the wall. Third, I like it rough. Fourth, you try to humiliate me and we’re done. I don’t care how blue your balls. Fifth, if I ever hear about you embarrassing another person like that again, I will castrate you myself.
“Here’s your etiquette lesson for the evening, Slade: There are people who are into that shit. Find them and mind-fuck them stupid, but don’t you dare get your rocks off with people who don’t know your MO. If you have a problem with any of that, you should get out and leave the Prosecco.”
If I’m not going to get to play, I might as well get to indulge in one of my other vices. But from the look on Slade’s face, it’s not going to be a problem.
“Sold.”
I don’t know what it is about him, but despite my inclinations, he doesn’t spur me to my knees. Maybe it’s because I know him in a work context or perhaps it’s that I find him despicable, but he makes me want to mouth off.
“Show me what I’ve got to work with, hot shot.”
Like a good boy, he doesn’t argue, but stands up and strips down to nothing. Fortunately for me, Slade Lewis is even better looking with no clothes on. That’s not always the case with the type I like. A finely tailored three-piece suit can hide a multitude of sins. But instead of looking diminished without his power suit, he’s become more masculine, more virile. He doesn’t look like a professional anymore. He looks like a caveman who’s about to club me and drag me back to his cave. Not if I club you first, Slade.
He’s not one of those pretty boys who’s waxed every hair off his body either. The mat of hair on his chest is achingly macho. I’m going to yank on that pelt so hard I’ll make him squeal like the pig he is. Oh, yes, I will.
“I showed you mine. Now show me yours.”
He challenges me with a lift of his chin, and I strip off my suit jacket, kick off my shoes, and divest myself of the rest of my clothes. If nothing else, Slade and I are going to look hot fucking. I almost wish there were a photographer here. I’d like a record for posterity, but that’s gotten me into far too much trouble before. But there is a mirror on the closet door. Excellent.
He’s staring at me, his eyes raking every inch of my body. “Turn around.”
I do, putting my hands on my hips. What the fuck is this, show-and-tell? We’re supposed to be having raving, rabid hate sex, not painting a fucking still-life. I tire of his inspection and turn around.
“So do you want to fuck or what?”
He’s taken aback but twists his mouth into what might pass for a grin.
“Yeah, baby, I want to fuck. I thought—”
I cringe and want to scream. Don’t. Call. Me. Baby! But I can’t because I’ll sound like a crackpot. I settle for, “Don’t do that. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“You think you’re so tough, don’t you? I’m going to have you on your knees begging by the time this is over.”
“If you really want to impress me, you’ll have to aim higher.” Getting a submissive to beg isn’t exactly a challenge for a raging Alpha like himself, but I’m not going to volunteer that. That’s not the game we’re playing. “Sex me so good I forget to loathe you for a second and we’ll talk.”
He grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me hard toward the bed. The bedframe hits the back of my leg
s, and I collapse, bouncing onto the mattress, Slade on top of me. Good man. One of his hands is already knotted in my hair, and he gives a good pull. I groan, half in fury and half in horniness as he grips my throat, pinning me down. But the stupid man has left my hands free. I take the opportunity to rake my nails down his arms, leaving thin red weals in their wake.
I don’t know what’s come over me.
I don’t get off on hurting people. I don’t. I was terrified the one time Rey talked me into topping. But this… I have no illusions about who really has the power here. Slade’s got about eighty pounds and almost a foot on me. There’s no way I could actually hurt him. Nor has he signed himself over to be under my care. This isn’t kink; it’s vanilla hate-sex. The only contracts involved are the ones for the receivership, and at the office, I’m untouchable. Except by him. Well, fuck that. If he wants to mess with me at work, I’m going to thrash him here.
“Jesus fuck, you’re a crazy little thing,” he growls right before his lips meet mine. Like the rest of him, they’re hard and demanding. He’s not a bad kisser. Better than most, not as good as—oh, drop it, India. It’s been three months. If Crispin wanted me back, he would’ve come for me. Move on.
Our tongues thrash each other, our teeth gnash together more than once out of unfamiliarity and aggressive passion. He pulls my hair again—he’s one of those—and I scrape some more DNA from his skin. When I tire of the kissing, I press against him, and he takes my hint. He pushes up and grabs my breast, squeezing hard enough to elicit a hiss.
“You have great tits.”
Old news.
He manhandles me, and I acquaint myself with the muscles of his back, hard and ropey, too tense. I jerk him back down by his hair and sink my teeth into the base of his throat. His skin is clean, coated with a sheen of salt. He tastes good as I run my tongue over the bite marks I’ve left. I’ve branded Slade Lewis. I’ll think about having literally sunk my teeth into him when he’s staring a hole in my head during tomorrow’s presentation. He works a hand between us and finds my clit, using my own wetness to slick over it, and starts a pleasant rhythm.
I push against him, demanding more. I want penetration, something to fill the void. He teases me until I wrench his too-short hair. “Stop fucking around and get on with it.”
He pauses before he grabs me hard at the waist and rolls to the side so I land in a straddle over his hips. I reach for one of the condoms littering the bedside table, rip open the foil packet, and roll the latex down his length. Positioning myself over him, I sink down, digging fingers into his shoulders as I guide him into me. When I’ve surrounded him to the hilt, I look into his wicked hazel eyes, glowing with animal lust.
“I’m going to fuck you as hard as I hate you.”
“Do it.”
It’s not often I’m on top. I don’t care for it, and both Crispin and Hunter preferred to do the fucking. This is novel. Different enough from my usual fare that it’s not as painful as it could be. It doesn’t remind me so much of everything I’ve lost. I impale myself on him over and over, and his eyes go glossy while he watches my desperate thrusts. At least he fills me. Slade’s got that much going for him.
My hands are clenched in his chest hair, and I tug on the springy curls in time with my plunges. He’s directing me by my hips, instructions I’m ignoring. I don’t know what Slade’s stamina is like, and damned if he’s going to leave me all sexed up with no place to go. I work him, use him, fill myself with him. I force my legs wider, as far apart as they’ll go. Come on, India. Use this shithead for the only good he’s ever going to do you, a real-life sex doll.
Slade reaches for my breasts, exploring. When he grabs my nipples and twists, I hiss, “Yes.”
I rear up, giving him room to play. He accepts my invitation, twisting, tugging.
“Fuck yes, Slade.” At my groan of encouragement, he goes at me harder. Thank god. I’m so fucking close. I need…
Ah! “Oh.”
With a particularly vicious tug, he’s set off a chain reaction in my body. The sensation shoots straight to my overstimulated groin, and my muscles contract around him. I pull hard on the mat of hair in front of me before letting go and dragging my nails down his pecs. That’s going to leave a mark. He politely (well, as polite as one can be while you’re fucking like animals, at any rate) lets me rub out the rest of my orgasm, losing the rhythm that got me to the breaking point. When the aftershocks are all but gone, he rolls me to my back, grabs my wrists, and wrenches them over my head.
“My turn.”
If I was fucking him before, he’s certainly fucking me now. Christ, he likes it rough, and that’s fine. Sensual lovemaking would feel wrong with Slade, but loathe-shagging feels just right.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since I set eyes on you. I wanted to fuck the smug right off your uppity face.”
“Still. Time,” I huff in between hard thrusts. Take a shower, maybe a catnap, and I’ll be well ready for round two of Burke v. Lewis: who’ll win the fucked-up, heavy-weight sex championship of the world? He pulls my hair, hard this time, and I snarl, narrowing my eyes and baring my claws.
“You bet your ass there is.”
“Time. For. That. Too.”
Slade’s mouth drops open in surprise but also into his O-face. Not bad. He doesn’t look ridiculous like some men do. He doesn’t lose control over what was, let’s face it, mechanically damn good sex. Note to self: anal turns Slade Lewis on. File that away for a rainy day.
He finishes inside me, thrusting brutally a few more times before he strips off the condom, wipes himself down, and collapses to my side, breathing hard. Mr. Lewis, you’re out of shape. That was nothing. He lies beside me, panting for a few minutes before he looks over.
“Do you want to…”
Do I want to what?
He extends his arm toward me, and I snort. Cuddle? Oh hell, no.
“Slade, no offense, but I detest you. One round of hot sex does not cuddle time make. If you want some snuggles, you’re going to have to work a lot harder.”
His mouth curls into that cocky grin. “Just you wait, Burke. You’re going to be eating out of the palm of my hand by the time we’re through.”
Again with the meaningless challenges. Eating out of my Dom’s hand is a treat, you moron. But fuck if I’ll ever get on my knees for this man, so I smile sweetly. “Bring it on. When will you be ready for the next round, old man?”
That starts a fire, and he rolls me to my stomach. “Stay.”
I catch myself from mumbling, Yes, sir, but do as I’m told. He vaults off the bed and grabs me by the ankles, tugging me down to the foot of the bed until I’m bent at the waist with my legs hanging over the side. I’m impressed he could get it up again so quickly, but I’m not in for a second round of fucking. Not yet. Instead, he slaps my ass. Hard. Who knew? Slade Lewis, ladies and gentlemen, emotional and physical sadist. Sexy, smart sadist. If only I didn’t find him abhorrent, he’d be perfect. Perfect for what, India? It’s been established that I don’t do relationships. I need to accept the punishment of never getting what I want because I’m too fucked up to deserve it. A second-rate spanking from Slade Lewis will have to do.
As the inferior quality blows rain down on my ass, I miss Crispin so badly. I ache for him, his touch both gentle and rough, whatever I need, whatever I crave. He lights up my body in the most incredible way, takes advantage of how the wires have been crossed in my brain, plays up my body’s responses to whatever stimulus he lays upon it—caress or whip—deciphering my responses as if he’s read books about me, cracked my code.
And as much as I’d like to pretend it’s about the physical intimacy, it’s so much more than that. He’s allowed me the space to be myself with no apologies, no hiding. He values me, just the way I am. But no. All that should be in the past tense. Because even though he was enough for me—truth be told, exactly what I want—I wasn’t enough for him. He’s gone, and I’ll never get him back.
But
what I can get back… Oblivion. Not caring. Hurting so much I can’t think about anything else, the physical pain I know how to deal with masking the emotional agony I don’t know how to face. So I beg Slade to hit me harder, with fists, not open hands—anywhere except my face. To strike me so violently that each blow makes my stomach lurch. I don’t protest when he shoves me against a desk and grinds my hipbones into the edge in a way that’s all pain and no pleasure. I plead with him to hurt me more, not caring if he knows my secret. For all the fucking good keeping it has done me.
I slink out of my hotel room the next morning, leaving him asleep, snoring in the tangled sheets. We’d had a few more go-rounds before exhaustion hit us both and we collapsed into a sweaty, sated mass of limbs. I’d woken to him spooning me, which was less revolting than I’d have thought it would be, and bruises blooming in places they shouldn’t. Slade might be a sadist, but he’s clearly had no training in how to be a safe sadist. Not if he gave in to my self-destructive demands. I wish I could give him Rey’s number—he’s got potential—but I’ve already revealed too much.
I head off to the gym to attempt to run off that Prosecco on the treadmill, though I feel like I got hit by a train. Hopefully when I get back, Slade will be long gone and I’ll have some time to divest myself of any hint of sex before our meetings start.
Three hours later, my presentation on the state of LAHA has concluded. I get questions at the end, including a few from Slade, but except for an annoying smug and rakish aspect on his part, he’s surprisingly docile. Sex will slay every time, especially a wolf like Slade. The rest of my audience is impressed. We’ve done a pretty remarkable job, considering the shitstorm we walked into. They’re waiting for the combine that is Slade Lewis to rip me to shreds anyway, but it never comes. Only a subtle grab of my ass on his way out; no one else notices, but it causes air to hiss through my teeth. That’s right, people, I’m that amazing. I’ve tamed the beast.
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