Owning Violet

by Monica Murphy

  Yours,

  V

  I hit send before I can second-guess myself or add more. My gaze snags on the flowers and I stare at them, reaching out to rub my finger over each individual petal. I’m torn between wanting to leave the pot on my desk or take it home. Maybe I can do both?

  My cell beeps and I grab it, smiling when I see Ryder’s name.

  I see you.

  Glancing up, I find him leaning his shoulder against the door frame, gazing at his cell phone. He slowly lifts his head, those beautiful blue eyes locking with mine, and I remain still in my chair, waiting for his next move.

  “Come home with me,” he says, his voice low, his gaze heavy.

  Everything within me goes hot and fluttery at his request. His demand. I’m scared to say yes. Going home with him is a risk. I could lose my head. My body. My heart. My soul.

  But I’m more scared to say no.

  “Violet,” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “Yes.” I stand, pressing my fingers against the edge of my desk, as if that can brace me somehow. “I will.”

  We left the office and have been riding to his apartment building mostly in silence, sitting in the back of a taxicab while the driver listens to a baseball game on the radio, turned up at maximum volume. The crowd cheering with every play grates on my nerves and I tap my fingers on the empty space between us, tracing the cracks in the vinyl seat.

  I’m desperate to reach out and touch him, but I don’t.

  Keeping my gaze affixed to the window, I watch the city pass us by as we head downtown. I have no clue where we’re going. I know nothing of Ryder’s personal life besides what he shows me.

  And he doesn’t reveal much.

  Another ball is hit and the crowd roars, the sound coming from the tinny speakers within the car deafening. I wince and close my eyes, hating how nervous I feel. Hating more that Ryder won’t talk to me.

  Maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.

  I feel something brush against my pinky and I still my fingers, almost afraid to look. But I know it can only be Ryder touching me. His finger strokes over mine tentatively. Like a test. I keep my hand steady, pressing my lips together when each of his fingertips settles over the length of my pinky. Stroking up and down in the softest, most sensual touch I’ve ever experienced.

  Goose bumps form on my skin and a shiver steals through me. My nipples harden beneath my bra. I grow damp between my legs. I feel restless. Uneasy.

  Aroused.

  His hand slips over my fingers achingly slowly, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll push him away. Deny him. I keep my gaze averted, not wanting to look at him, scared of what I might see. Or what I might not see.

  I’d rather savor the way he’s touching me and pretend it means something to him.

  His hand covers mine completely and he curls my fingers into his grip. He runs his thumb across the back of my hand, along my knuckles, and then releases me, his hand sliding almost completely away before it comes back and covers mine. His warm, wide palm over the back of my hand, his fingers over the top of mine, he threads our fingers together, interlacing them, connecting us.

  My heart is pounding an incessant beat. My body is on fire. All because of his hand linked with mine.

  “Violet.” He says my name reverently and I close my eyes. “Look at me.”

  I turn my head, my gaze meeting his, and I see so much yet not enough in his eyes. I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is clogged with emotion and I’m scared I might burst out crying if I open my mouth and try to speak.

  So I don’t.

  “You said you hate me.” When I frown, he continues. “Earlier. On the phone.”

  I let my gaze drop, ashamed that he’s confronting me with my words, but he squeezes my hand tight, forcing me to look back up at him.

  “I can’t blame you. You should hate me.” His eyes close and he leans his head back against the seat. “Having you near … all I can think about are the filthy things I want to do to you.”

  Heat sizzles through me, settling in between my legs. I want that too, but I also need more. I feel so close to him, that we’ve experienced so much together in such a short amount of time. Does he feel the same? I want that connection. I want truth and loyalty and, dare I think it … love.

  I’m just afraid to ask for it. Afraid he’ll deny me. He can’t stop reminding me that what we share is temporary. It hurts, even though I know it’s most likely the truth.

  I want to share my most innermost secrets with him, but will he push me away? I’m reminded of the night he kept trying to push me physically. That’s not what hurts.

  No, what hurts are his words. They tear me apart inside.

  “I don’t deserve you being with me tonight,” he whispers, his eyes opening to stare into mine. “You should tell me to fuck off.”

  A little sigh escapes me and I shake my head. I still don’t say a word, employing his favorite tactic. He brings our linked hands up to his mouth and brushes a kiss to my knuckles. My eyelids flutter at first contact and I release a shuddering breath. His mouth feels so good on my skin.

  “What if I confess something important to you?” I ask, my voice shaking. I’m nervous. I want to admit my darkest secret to him. Am I doing it as some sort of test?

  Probably. Is that fair?

  Not really. But the way he treats me and the things he says are sometimes not fair. If he really cares, if he really wants to pursue a relationship with me, then he won’t turn me away. He’ll listen, he’ll understand, and he’ll want to take care of me.

  That I’m about to confess all in a taxicab is crazy. But I’m feeling a little on edge tonight.

  “What do you want to confess?” There’s a wariness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.

  “Something happened to me a long time ago, when I was in college.” I pause, swallowing hard before I forge on. “I was attacked.”

  His eyes narrow and he shifts away from me, as if he needs the distance. “What do you mean, you were attacked?”

  I drop my head, my hair falling forward so I can’t see him. “He was an old family friend, I grew up with him, and when I first got to the university he was the only person I knew.”

  “And he raped you?” He sounds incredulous and as ridiculous as it sounds, I love that sign of worry and anger that I hear in his voice.

  “No.” I lift my head and stare at him, wishing I could reassure him. Wishing he would reassure me. “No, I was able to stop him before it went too far. It turned into a physical fight and I … he hurt me, but I hurt him worse. I got away and reported it to the police.” I remember how terrified I was. How it felt like such a betrayal, that Alan would try to hurt me when he was supposed to be my friend.

  What hurt worse is how angry Father was after he learned that I’d reported the attack to the police, that I made it public. Heaven forbid I tarnish the Fowler reputation, even though I did nothing wrong.

  Ryder moves in close to me, grabbing my shoulders so he can pull me into his arms. I feel safe there. Protected. Cared for.

  “Alan was so angry when he came after me. Completely unhinged,” I admit, my voice muffled against his chest. “And when I testified against him, he yelled at me in the courtroom, and the look on his face was pure evil.”

  “He yelled at you in court?”

  “He didn’t like it, when I described how I fought him off on the stand. It made him mad, that a female bested him.”

  “He sounds like a real piece of shit.”

  “He is.” I pause again. “He’s also just been released from prison.”

  “What?” Ryder shoves me away from him, his hands still gripping my shoulders, a worried expression on his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “His sentence was reduced and they let him out early. Or it was on a technicality? I don’t know.” I shrug, trying my best to act nonchalant, but I’m trembling inside. “He’s in upstate New York. Father says I shouldn’t worry.”


  “Do you think … he’ll come after you?” His brows furrow in concern.

  “No. I don’t know. It’s so hard to explain. You see …” I pause again and close my eyes briefly, struggling to find the right words. “Father didn’t want me to testify. My grandmother didn’t want me to at first either, but I was determined. Alan scared me. I was afraid he’d do this again and again, and keep hurting innocent girls. I couldn’t be responsible for that.”

  “Of course. Jesus, Violet.” He pulls me to him and holds me so tight, I almost can’t breathe. But I like it. Being in his arms makes me feel safe. “You did the right thing, baby. Know that.”

  His words are ringing in my head when the cab finally stops and we climb out. They still echo as we enter the modest building and ride the elevator up to his floor. There’s no doorman at Ryder’s building, no opulent lobby, and the elevator is old and rickety. When we exit from it, the hallway is dark and dim, not all of the lights are lit, and I glance around, surprised that he lives in such a place.

  He’s always dressed impeccably. His suits are expensive, his watch pricey. I figured he’d live in a palace, an apartment as showy as Zachary’s because everyone knows Zachary loves to show off his wealth, even though he obtained plenty of it via credit.

  Ryder stops in front of a door with the number 426 on it and pulls a key out of his pocket. I watch his nimble fingers as he unlocks the door and then holds it open for me so I can enter. I do so, my eyes widening when he flicks on the light switch close to the door, illuminating everything within.

  “Home sweet home,” he says sardonically as he closes and locks the door.

  It’s simple. The living area is small and the kitchen is galley style. There’s a black leather couch and love seat with a coffee table in front of it and a flat-screen TV on the wall. Typical for a bachelor pad. There’s not one single picture anywhere. Not a photo or a painting or a sketch. The walls are blank and white; the entire apartment has a blank quality to it, and seeing it makes my heart hurt.

  This apartment isn’t a home. It’s just a place for him to rest his head, shower, and keep his things.

  “It’s not as nice as your place,” he says as he approaches me from behind, his hands settling on my shoulders. “But it works.”

  I don’t tell him that I think it’s awful. I don’t want to insult him.

  Instead I turn and loop my arms around his neck, smiling up at him. “Take me to your bedroom.” I need to feel his hands on my naked body. I need his mouth and his words to cleanse me.

  More than anything, I crave the connection only he can give.

  He grabs my hand and leads me down a very short hallway, reaching into a dark room and flicking on the light so I see the giant bed that dominates the room. I walk inside, noting yet again that there are no photos, no anything covering the walls.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s very … efficient,” I say for lack of better term.

  He chuckles. “You hate it.”

  “It needs some prettying up. But I’m a girl. That’s what we’re supposed to say about bachelor pads.”

  “Are you okay with this?” His expression turns solemn, and fear rushes through me that he’ll think I’m too delicate, too frayed after what I confessed.

  But I feel clean. Free. All I want is him.

  Just him.

  “I’m perfectly okay with this.” I go to him and wrap my arms around his neck. “I want you, Ryder. Please?”

  “How can I resist when you say please?” The relief in his gaze is obvious and the smile on his face wicked. “Did you see what’s hanging above you?”

  I tilt my head back, a gasp escaping me when I stare at my reflection. “You have a mirror above your bed?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. Don’t know why, though, since I never bring any women back here.”

  So silly, but this admission pleases me. Not even Pilar? I’m not brave enough to ask because I’m afraid of his answer. “Then why do you have it?”

  “I don’t know.” He glances up at the mirror again. “I watch myself sometimes when I jack off.”

  My cheeks warm. He says it so casually, like it’s no big deal. “You don’t bring women back to your place at all?”

  His gaze meets mine once more, intensely dark. “You’re the first.”

  I wonder if he’s telling me the truth. He’s had plenty of experience. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” He drops a kiss on the tip of my nose.

  “I just find it so … strange.”

  “You know what I’d like to see?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “What?”

  “You. Naked. On my bed.” He disentangles my arms from around his neck and steps away so he can study me, his gaze unwavering. “Strip, Violet.”

  I turn my back to him and he undoes the zipper for me. I let the dress fall off my body then step out of it, wearing only my heels and my bra. I step out of the shoes and shed the bra, getting naked quickly before I crawl to the center of the surprisingly firm bed. Rolling over onto my back, I spread my legs and stretch out my arms, staring up at my reflection, startled by what I see.

  Me. Completely naked. Completely open. I reach behind me and pull the band out of my hair, letting it fan across his stark white pillow. My breasts rise when I reach and I touch them. Cup them in both hands, play with my nipples with my thumbs.

  “Having fun?” he asks amusedly.

  I laugh and shake my head, closing my eyes against my image before I turn my head to look at him. “I’ve never watched myself like this before.”

  “Overcome by your own beauty?”

  “You make me sound incredibly vain,” I admonish, embarrassment surging through me. “Besides, I’m not the prettiest one.”

  “Prettiest one what?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

  I turn away from him and stare at my reflection once more. I assess myself as objectively as possible. Boring brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Average nose, too-large mouth that kids made fun of when I was in school. Decent body. I’m no great beauty like Rose. I’m not an outrageously sexy bombshell with a body that makes men drool like Lily, either.

  I’m just … me.

  “The prettiest Fowler sister,” I finally say with a sigh. “When you compare me to Rose and Lily, I’m definitely lacking.”

  I barely get the words out before he’s right on top of me, his bent legs on either side of my hips, his hands going to my wrists and hauling them up above my head, his face in mine. He looks … angry. “Are you serious?” he asks incredulously.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” His ferocious expression, the sound of his voice—he’s scaring me.

  I can’t ignore the trickle of arousal that runs through me at the way he holds me down, his fingers tight around my wrists. That he makes me fear him and want him all at once is so confusing.

  But I feel safe with him. Always, always safe.

  “You think you’re lacking?” He slowly dips his head until his mouth brushes against mine and he breathes, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  I don’t close my eyes. I can’t. It’s fascinating, looking at him like this as he holds me down. I’m helpless, at his mercy. He could hurt me so easily. He even said he would hurt me, but he doesn’t. He never has.

  More than anything, Ryder has shown me how to let myself go and be free.

  “You have the prettiest, darkest eyes,” he says when I don’t say anything. “All that long hair I like to pull.” He releases one of my wrists to thread his fingers through the ends of my hair and gives it a tug, making me wince. “And your mouth …” His voice trails off and I blink up at him in confusion.

  “What about my mouth?” I gave up long ago trying to hide my too-big lips. I wear both the brightest and the darkest lipstick colors as much as possible. I may as well play up the asset that will help sell Fleur lipsticks.

  “I like kissing it,” he whispers and does just that, pressing his lips to mine in
a sweet, lingering kiss before he adds, “I love kissing you.”

  Oh, God. A tremble moves through me and I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotions that bombard me.

  I open my eyes to find him staring at me, his face so close I can make out the stubble covering his cheeks and chin. I love it, too, when he rubs his rough face against my sensitive skin, making me shiver. Leaving red marks all over my body, imprinting himself on me in all the various ways he has. “I love kissing you too,” I whisper.

  He smiles and releases his hold on me, pressing his face against my neck so he can deliver a kiss there. Slowly he slides down my body, running his mouth across my chest, over my breasts, his tongue teasing each of my nipples quickly—too quickly—before he moves on.

  I sink my hands in his hair, trying to hold him to me, but he keeps going, his warm, damp mouth drifting along my stomach, his tongue circling the dip of my navel. My skin heats from his attention and I grow wet and achy between my legs. Anxious. Needy.

  Always needy.

  He knows. He knows exactly how to elicit a reaction from me, how to make me want him so bad I lose control. He’s using it against me, driving me purposely crazy as he pulls away and starts to slowly unbutton his shirt, his legs straddling my hips once more as he looms above me.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He tears off his tie viciously and tosses it to the floor, then finishes unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of it, revealing all that smooth, muscular skin.

  I let my gaze wander, taking in the colorful tattoos that cover his upper body. His abdominal muscles ripple as he moves and I want to lick them. The dark hair that starts just below his navel and trails beneath the waistband of his pants, God, I want to lick that too. The silver rings in his nipples glint from the dim light in the room and I want to suck them into my mouth, tongue his nipples, hear him moan and tell me to stop.

  My gaze drops. His cock strains against the front of his pants and I want to free him so I can draw his erection between my lips, just like he wants. Unable to help myself, I reach out and touch him, drifting my fingertips along his turgid length. He tenses, doesn’t move as I curl my fingers around him and grip him tight. I prop myself up on my elbows and move my head closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his covered cock, exhaling hotly against him, my gaze never leaving his.