Intimate Mergers

by Raleigh Davis

He wants me all to himself. My pleasure is in his hands, not mine.

  So I hold back as he finds his way down my body, tracing the lines of my legs from thigh to knee to calf until he settles at my ankles. His hands wrap around my ankles, spread my legs wide, his grip as tight as shackles. My pussy is so exposed, a blush races over my skin.

  “You will not move,” he says. His brow is one long, deep, stern line. “No matter what I do.”

  He doesn’t ask if I understand or if I agree, because I’m clearly beyond that, my head thrashing on the bedspread even before he’s done anything. So cruel, so demanding, so intensely arousing. I’m helpless with need.

  When he lowers his head and kisses my pussy, I can’t help myself—I buck beneath him. I know I’m not supposed to, but my hips apparently didn’t get the message.

  He punishes me by lifting his head. The spark in his eyes is wild, unconfined. “You were told.”

  And then he punishes me by lowering his head and kissing, licking, sucking until I’m out of my mind with pleasure and almost out of my body. I’m one sustained, pitched sensation, and it’s too much. Too much.

  “I can’t. I can’t, I can’t,” I chant, although I have no idea what it is I can’t do. Keep feeling like this without shattering?

  “You can.” Oh, his tone is so stern, so commanding, heat flares in my belly. Paul reaches up, slips one, two fingers inside me and does some kind of twist.

  It’s too much and more than enough, and I come completely undone. My orgasm rolls through and over me, stealing my breath. And my thoughts.

  I’m panting when I come back to the world, sweat collecting between my breasts and my hair clinging to my cheeks. I must look a mess, but I don’t care.

  Paul leans over and licks between my breasts, his tongue cool velvet. It’s so dirty and unexpected and delicious. “Mine,” he says, all his fancy English gone. He repeats it in Mandarin, in case I don’t understand. And then in Cantonese. And again in English. “Completely.”

  He reaches into the drawer of the bedside table and comes back with a condom. His cock is stiff, straining, flushed red with need. Need for me. Once the condom is on, he comes between my thighs, his movements urgent, barely controlled.

  His gaze locks with mine. “I’ll try to go slow,” he says. “At first.”

  Try. Paul never has to try to hold on to his control, but he sounds as if he can barely do it now. I reach for his hips, pull him down and lift myself up, fitting us together in one thick slide.

  “I don’t want slow,” I say. “I want this. You filling me, hard and fast and complete.”

  His gaze loses focus and he drives into me, his pubic bone catching on my clit with each thrust. We’re both heated, glowing with sweat, our skin slapping together with every pump of his hips. God, but there’s such power in him; it shocks me all the way down to my toes.

  And with the shocks come another rising crest of pleasure. My pussy clenches tight around his cock, and I bite my lip at how full, how deep he is inside me.

  “Jesus.” He groans, thrusting harder, faster, his hair falling over his brow, his shoulders taut with effort. “Jesus.”

  I dig my nails into his back, urging him on. He’s close and so am I.

  At the first pulse of his climax, my toes curl, digging into the bedsheets. At the next pulse, all of me clenches around my oncoming orgasm. And then I’m coming with him, the both of us dissolving into pure bliss.

  After, he gathers me close, kissing my hair. Then my eyelids. Then my cheek. His mouth is light, generous, sweet. Cherishing.

  The beast is gone, satisfied, and the prince has returned.

  I nestle into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. He usually smells delicious, something luxurious and clean and smooth, but now he smells… a touch musky. Feral. I love it.

  “I should go,” I say with a sigh. We might have taken what we wanted in these few stolen hours, but I have to go now. The morning is coming, along with everything and everyone we need to pretend for.

  “Not yet.” It’s a sleepy rumble, but there’s a hint of pleading there. Like he knows I’m right but he’s not ready to let go.

  “Another five minutes,” I agree.

  We’re both asleep before even five seconds are up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Paul, where are your clothes?”

  I don’t spin like a guilty teenager at my mother’s voice behind me, the fridge open before me, but I almost do. I’m way too old to jump like I’ve been caught out. Even though I am trying to be sneaky.

  “I am wearing clothes,” I say idly, pretending to study the contents of the fridge. Track pants and a T-shirt count as clothes, although Mother might not think so. She probably thinks I should never leave my room not wearing a suit.

  “I hope you’re not going out like that.”

  I face her, slowly. Like I’m not trying to hide the fact that I came down here to get breakfast for Grace, who’s still sleeping in my bed. “No, I’m not. I just wanted something to eat.”

  “Why are you cooking for yourself?” Mother is already dressed, her hair and face done. She’s visibly appalled at my rooting through the fridge. “You pay a chef. Two of them, in fact.”

  Because I discovered I like doing things for myself. Sometimes. And I was looking forward to bringing Grace breakfast in bed, enjoying the intimate space we carved out together last night.

  I sigh and shut the fridge. “I’ll call one of them.”

  Twenty minutes later, my mother and I are eating in the north breakfast nook, not to be confused with the south breakfast nook. The north nook has views of the forest jutting against the end of the estate, while the south nook has views of the valley below.

  I managed to snag a passing maid and ordered her to take Grace some breakfast without Mother hearing. I still wish I could have brought it up myself instead of being stuck here with my mother.

  We eat in silence for several moments, and it feels… serene. When she’s not springing an unexpected fiancée on me, I actually enjoy my mother’s company. She’s my mother, and I love her in spite of everything.

  “Where were you last night?” she asks as she stirs her tea. She picked up the habit of putting milk and sugar in her tea during her years in England, where my father went to the London School of Economics, before I or Lucy appeared. “Auntie May was very put out that you didn’t attend.”

  It’s not true—Auntie May is very understanding. And I know for a fact she likes Grace. “Grace wasn’t feeling well. I told you.”

  My mother snorts with delicate grace. “Is she pregnant?”

  I choke on my coffee. “No. Jesus, no.”

  “Good.” My mother takes a satisfied sip of her tea. “Because you can’t marry that girl.”

  I go stiff, anger locking my joints. “And why not?”

  It takes me half a heartbeat to remember that of course I can’t marry Grace and a respectful son would never take that tone with his mother.

  My mother’s mouth flattens, but she doesn’t scold me. “Because she’s too nice.”

  I try to work through that one. “Too… nice?”

  “Yes.” My mother makes a hand gesture that I think is supposed to make sense. “This family will grind her to dust. Nice is nice”—she holds up a hand when I start to interrupt—“and I like her very much. And I know that you love her. But your marriage can’t be for your benefit alone.”

  There’s a lot to process in there. So much that I struggle to answer. “Of course it’s not just for my benefit,” I say, but what I can’t stop tripping over is I know that you love her.

  Why would my mother say that? She never comments on my emotional state, not even when I was a kid. And I can’t be in love with Grace.

  But the part that really gets me is Mother’s insistence that I can’t marry Grace. It’s the only true thing she just said, and it’s the point I want to argue hardest. The point that cuts at me the sharpest.

  Mother sighs. “If you were
staying here, I wouldn’t say anything about it. But your wife can’t only make you happy. You have to defend this family against outsiders who would harm us and the ones inside the family who’d ruin everything through their own stupidity.”

  There’s a beat where we’re both thinking of Archie, although we don’t say his name.

  “And I’m thinking of her too,” Mother says. “Society will be brutal to her. This family will be brutal to her. She’s… she’s not one of us. And they’ll never let her forget it.”

  “You were one of them, and they fought you for decades when you took over everything.”

  She blinks, just the once, short and sharp. “That was different. I was a woman. Archie will come around once you’re in charge.”

  “He won’t. He’s been holding this grudge for decades; he inherited it from his own father. He thinks they were cheated, and he’s not letting go.”

  “All the more reason for you not to marry Grace.” Mother gestures with her teacup in triumph. “She doesn’t need to spend the rest of her days dealing with him. Or the rest of them.”

  “But Amelia does?”

  Mother’s gaze dips briefly. “Amelia knows what she’s getting into. And marriage would help her find some… direction.”

  “Amelia has all the money and time in the world,” I say. “If she hasn’t found her direction by now, she never will.”

  Lucy was right: Amelia is a coward. Too much money, too much indulgence. She’s never had to take a stand, and she never will.

  Grace, on the other hand, has navigated more dilemmas than I ever will. And she’s still wrestling with them. The strength in her…

  The teacup rattles as Mother sets it on the table. Her expression is drawn, cloudy. Like she doesn’t want to say what she’s about to. “I realize that perhaps bringing Amelia here was…”

  “Too much?” My tone is as dry as her toast.

  “You weren’t ready for it.” She folds her hands, sets them on the gleaming tabletop. “I simply have your best interests at heart. If you’d been born anyone else, you could live the life you wanted here, marry whoever made you happiest. And I wish you could have had that life. But you’re my son and your father’s son. And that means something. The responsibility for an entire family is a weighty one.”

  For a moment sadness flashes through her eyes. Regret too. Perhaps she’s imagining all the things she might have done after Dad died, things she’d dreamed about. Things that had to be set aside so she could assume responsibility for an entire family.

  I wouldn’t call my parents’ marriage a love match, but they did seem happy in my memories. Perhaps if they’d been given more time together, she could have done those things she’s dreaming of with Dad.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. She’s right—I was born to a very specific role, one I can’t cast aside without hurting the people I love the most. A role that requires a very specific kind of partner.

  But when I try to imagine anyone but Grace in that role, it won’t work. I’m not only what my mother sees in me or my family, and I’m not only what the Bastards see. I’m all those things together.

  And maybe… maybe only Grace can see all of me.

  I drop my hand, force my expression to be neutral. “I know that.”

  “I’m thinking of Grace too,” Mother says. The kindness in her voice is a surprise. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. She has no idea what it will be like. The attention, the pressure… all of it.”

  This is my chance to fix all this. To tell Mother that she’s right, that I won’t be marrying Grace, but Amelia’s also not in the running and to give me time to look for a different bride. It’s my exact plan, only I can make it happen sooner than expected. If I do it, Grace and I are both off the hook.

  And then Grace gives Fuchs the name he wants and her visa problems are gone. It’s the happy ending both of us wanted from the very beginning.

  Except I can’t make myself say it. I can’t say Fine, I won’t marry her.

  I can’t make this decision for Grace, to continue our charade. It would be a dick move, and she’s been pushed around by rich assholes enough—and I’m one of those assholes. But…

  But I can’t.

  Mine. That’s what I said to her last night, and it wasn’t supposed to leave my bed, but it’s here now still. Insistent, real.

  “You underestimate Grace,” I say. “She can handle anything life gives her. Even our family.”

  It’s true. It’s also true that I’m only delaying the inevitable, that we’re going our separate ways in only a few weeks. No matter how my subconscious insists that she’s mine, it’s not happening.

  That space we carved out last night is the only place I can think that. But I’m going to be a selfish bastard and keep that space for as long as I can.

  And maybe… a plan starts to spin in my mind. Bigger, more ambitious than a simple fake engagement. Something more like a real engagement.

  But my mother is right—being my wife won’t be easy. My duties will be exhausting, the demands of the business and the family all encompassing. I know I can stand it, but I need to make sure Grace can too.

  I’ll give it until the gala, keep up the pretense that we’re still engaged. I’ll see she fits into my life, how much she’ll enjoy it. And how well she’ll survive more contact with the family. Then I’ll propose. For real.

  “Paul?” Mother is looking at me as if I’ve got a fever. Her hand is even hovering in the air between us, as if she’s about to check my temperature. “Are you all right?”

  I force myself back into the present and out of my planning. “I’m fine. I’m serious about Grace.”

  Mother’s mouth pinches up. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And just remember, divorce is out.”

  It’s not; Cousin Jeffery is on wife number four, and Mother hasn’t disinvited him from any of the family gatherings yet. But Jeff’s divorces wouldn’t be front-page news like mine would.

  “No divorces,” I say. Which is why I have to make absolutely certain Grace comes into this with her eyes wide open. “Do you think you could be a little more open-minded about her?”

  If I am going to marry Grace, she and Mother have to get along. Or at least pretend to.

  “I told you I like her.” Mother’s mouth remains flat.

  I’m tempted to tell her to show Grace that, but I know better. Admitting that even just to me is a big step for my mother.

  “I like her too,” I say quietly.

  It’s as much a lie as anything else I’ve told my mother about Grace—I much, much more than simply like her—but my mother hears what I’m not saying, giving me a significant look as she finishes her tea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything quite like this shopping trip.

  Lucy whirled into Paul’s bedroom this morning while I was still working on breakfast in bed. My cheeks were flaming at being caught in her brother’s bed—with no clothes on either—but Lucy didn’t seem a bit surprised.

  “We’re going shopping!” She tossed back the curtains with the kind of excitement six-year-olds have for Disneyland. “We are going to find you the most gorgeous gown in the world. They will be vomiting with envy when they see you at the gala.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  She shushed me with a wave of her hand, then whisked me off before I had a chance to see Paul.

  Now here we are, in a store so exclusive it doesn’t even have a sign. Lucy took us down a back alley in Union Square, lined with dumpsters and the air reeking of something foul, then knocked on a bare door in a specific rhythm.

  And then we were whisked into a wonderland.

  The store is more like a studio with bare white walls. There are paintings hanging from the walls that look like they’re from the Qing dynasty, and I don’t think they’re reproductions. The images are delicate, elegant, and I’m pretty sure I had to learn some of the poems on them in school.

  Luc
y and I are sitting on a low couch, each of us holding a flute of champagne. Here I don’t have to lift a finger hunting through racks for my size. Everything is brought right to me, and my champagne flute is always full. There’s even a dish of caviar on ice next to us, although neither of us has touched it.

  I’m desperately afraid I’ll spill something on the gorgeous clothes the clerks are bringing out for me and suddenly find myself $50,000 in debt. So I hold myself very still and very far away from the dress spread out before me.

  Lucy isn’t a bit afraid though. “Come closer. You’ll never see it properly from there.” She grabs a handful of the fabric and I gasp. “It’s so light, but luxurious. And this dress is sexy, but not too sexy. Like you.”

  “Um…” I shift on the couch. Was that supposed to be a compliment? I think so. Which means I should say thank you. “Thank you.” That’s too close to a question, so I say again, “Thank you.”

  Too firm now. The salesclerk gives me an odd look. Clearly she knows I’m very much out of place here.

  “You are.” Lucy turns to pin me with her stare. “I’m serious. This dress is fresh and beautiful and demure. But also sexy. Just. Like. You.”

  I lean over, holding my champagne flute as far away from the dress as I can. The fabric is silk, and it moves like water through Lucy’s fingers, thick but sensuous. But the pattern is red and pink poppies, and something about it is off-putting. Like it’s trying too hard to be… something.

  “It’s nice,” I say.

  Lucy doesn’t hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice, probably because she has too much herself. “Try it on. You’ll see.”

  I suppose it couldn’t hurt. After all, how often will I get to wear something that costs more than my yearly salary?

  The clerk takes me back and has me undressed and in the gown faster than I expect. I shouldn’t be surprised though—this is her job and she does it for some of the richest people in the world. Of course she’s very accomplished at it.

  When I come out, Lucy starts applauding. I smile weakly, then climb up the dais to see myself in the half circle of mirrors there. The silk of the skirt is heavy as I kick my way up the stairs, the poppies flashing red in the corner of my vision.