Double Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  Is this who I am?

  Is this what I want?

  Does anything fucking matter?

  “One more chance before I make that ass as red as your cheeks.”

  I jerk to my feet. My breath comes in short pants. My fingers tremble as I lift my shirt over my head. Unclasp my bra and let it fall. Shimmy out of my jeans and underwear. Step to the side, away from the island. Exposed to him.

  With slow, measured steps, Liam rounds the island. I know—even before he unbuckles his belt—what he wants. Only he doesn’t realize it’s more reward than punishment to me.

  I am as he said—depraved.

  “On your knees.”

  The wood is unforgiving. I embrace the small pain in my joints. Let it heighten my other senses. The sound of his zipper going down. Pants hitting the floor, belt buckle clacking on impact. The whisper of his boxers following.

  The head of his cock drags over my lips. I open for him. Greedy for his taste. Unashamed in my surrender. He immediately thrusts to the back of my throat. I swallow, pulling him to my body’s limit. My eyes water, lungs burning as I suck what air I can through my nose.

  His fingers cradle my head, thumbs gathering the tears leaking from the corner of my eyes. When he draws back, I inhale swiftly—my only reprieve before he begins to move. Owning his pleasure. Owning me.

  A pulse along his shaft warns me he’s close. Sometimes he gives me a choice. Not tonight. He climaxes with a sigh, and I swallow his pleasure.

  For brief moments, I own him.

  I stay on my knees, my eyes closed as he pulls from my mouth. Boxers and pants slide up his legs. Zipper. Belt.

  I’m aching, throbbing and wet.

  My punishment.

  His footsteps move away. “I’m famished. Come on, dove, time to eat.”

  As much as I might resist the truth, Liam remains what he’s been since the first touch of his lips on mine. My obsession. My fixation.

  My escape.

  For tonight, I relinquish the fight. I let him take away the confusion, the fear. I give my shifting Self to him. He is the sun, blotting out the shadows in my soul.

  After dinner he draws me a bath, fussing over the temperature, lighting candles along the rim. He leaves, then returns with two glasses of red wine. He reads me James Joyce’s Ulysses, picking up where we left off before we took the exit to Crazytown.

  When the chapter is finished and the wine floats warmly in my veins, I ask him to tell me about growing up in Ireland. Expecting his usual redirection, I’m surprised when he answers readily.

  “It was rather dull, believe it or not. My mother and I lived with my grandparents in a cottage along the coast, a bit north of the town-proper. My grandfather was a fisherman all his life. My mother was young when she had me—eighteen. She worked odd jobs, two or three at a time.” His eyes twinkle at me. “Reminds me of someone.”

  I smile wryly. “Then you understand how weird it feels for me to not go to work every day.”

  “You deserve to relax a bit, Eden,” he replies. “You’ve worked your ass off for years.”

  I snort. “Are we pretending this is something other than what it is—a total upending of my life? Jesus, Liam, part of me thinks I should be in a padded room. This can’t possibly be happening.” Resting my head back, I close my eyes. “Maybe I’m already there. I had a psychological break and someone committed me. Right now, I’m strapped to a bed pumped full of drugs. Hallucinating this.”

  A fingertip traces my nipple. “Does this feel like a hallucination?”

  “Yes.”

  He pinches the tight bud, igniting a frisson of lightning between my legs. I gasp, my eyes snapping open.

  “How about that? Still wondering?”

  I glare at his smug face. “I think you can do better.”

  Sliding to his knees beside the tub, he leans forward until his lips graze my ear. “No games right now, dove. Are you ready for me to be inside you again?”

  Yes.

  No.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  He nips my earlobe with his teeth before sitting back on his heels. Mussed auburn hair. Eyes flickering between turquoise and cobalt in the candlelight. I watch him through heavy-lidded eyes, a plea pooling on my tongue, barely held back by my teeth.

  “I’d never force you,” he says softly. “You know that, don’t you? That I only want to give you what you need?”

  I remember this morning, being thrown to the bed, and the seconds before. My inner conflict. My defiance and fury.

  I recognize the war inside you.

  I’m merely proving a point.

  And he had.

  Even while hating him, I’d wanted him.

  I’m terrified that as the world around me continues to remold itself into something new, he’ll stay at the center of it. That no matter what I learn, what secrets Liam Rourke keeps, I will forever be powerless over what he does to me. Powerless over my need for him.

  “I’ll keep you safe, Eden. I swear it.”

  I close my eyes and sink beneath the water, remembering the same promise under very different circumstances.

  24

  six weeks ago

  As our third date nears its end, I’m plagued by thoughts that Liam isn’t as attracted to me as I am to him. Besides goodnight kisses, he has yet to seduce me. Physically, that is—I’m already mentally and emotionally seduced.

  Tonight, however, after a light dinner in Brentwood, he doesn’t drive me to my apartment as usual. Without bothering to ask, he takes me to his home in the Hollywood Hills.

  We don’t speak much on the drive there, and I barely notice my surroundings. My panties are soaked by the time he navigates up a winding driveway.

  Liam puts the car in park, eyes shadowed as they cut to my face. “Do you want me to take you home?” he asks softly.

  My voice comes on the third try. “No.”

  His lips curve in satisfaction. “Come on, then.”

  He leads me through the front door, which closes soundly behind us.

  “Do you know what I want?” he asks.

  I brace myself—body and soul—to be wrong. I’m weightless. Breathless with need and anticipation. Please, let this be happening. Let me be right.

  Lowering my eyes to the floor, I say the words I haven’t spoken in two years. I say them with relief, with an ache that burns so brightly inside me I can feel it. Heat and light.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A soft sigh. “Very good.”

  He walks toward me, fingertips whispering along the curtain of hair beside my face. I can barely feel the touch, only its aftershocks in my scalp.

  “And what should I call you, hmm?”

  It’s a rhetorical question—he’ll call me whatever he wants—but I revel in the dissolution of my identity. My remaking.

  Names are given such power over our lives. But they’re essentially impotent, a mere collection of letters assigned at birth. How can such a word define me? Does Eden mean something in and of itself?

  No.

  But this one will.

  “Dove,” he murmurs, a fingertip trailing down my cheek and beneath my chin. With gentle pressure, he guides my face up. “Soft. Innocent. Yielding.”

  I must betray surprise, because he chuckles. “You’re none of those, are you, Eden?” I shake my head. “Voice, please.”

  “No, sir,” I whisper.

  He pinches my chin lightly. Staring into his eyes, I see a future that terrifies and enthralls me. He’s smiling, the impish grin I’ve become accustomed to. That I look forward to. Dream about.

  But it’s the look in his eyes that peels back my layers and finds the dark center of me. The one that craves relief from the pressures of the world. That, if not exactly innocent, is both soft and yielding.

  “My dove,” he murmurs. “Do you trust me to care for you?”

  There’s only one answer, and it’s true.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. And
I will. I promise to keep you safe.”

  Liam takes me by the hand, leading me through the shadowed house. We ascend an elegant wooden staircase, one side open to the lower floor. Down a hallway, past several closed doors, and through the open one at the end. Large windows overlook the backyard, and in the distance, the glowing band of the city.

  “Sit on the bed.”

  There’s enough ambient light for me to see. I cross the room and settle on the foot of the bed, clasping my trembling hands between my knees.

  Liam crosses to a dresser. A drawer opens. After a few moments, he turns to observe me. There’s a length of red rope in his hands.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you don’t like verbal debasement.” As I scramble for a reply, not wanting to disappoint him, Liam cocks his head. “Innocent little dove, aren’t you? We’ll iron out limits another time. I’ll take it easy on you tonight.”

  He wraps the rope around his hand, the motion distracting me. All thoughts leave my head.

  “These are the ground rules. Pay attention.” I focus with effort; my breath hitches as he walks toward me. “When I say ‘Eden,’ I’m checking in. Green means continue, yellow means slow down, red means stop. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He strokes my cheek with his knuckles. “That’s a good girl. Now I want you to stand up and take off your clothes. Fast, slow, doesn’t matter. Then present yourself to me with your wrists together and extended.”

  Liquid dark eyes pierce me. Unveil me. I sit frozen.

  “Now, dove.”

  Nothing in his voice but calm certainty. He will be obeyed. I will be his. He will take my darkness and replace it with himself.

  Oh, sweet relief.

  I jerk to my feet. With Liam’s gaze sharp and hot on my movements, I step out of my skirt and kick it to the side. My tank top comes off next, then my bra. Cool air skates across my breasts. My nipples tingle and harden under his gaze. Finally, I remove my body’s last defense. My thong flutters to the floor.

  Before he asks, I offer him my wrists. Smooth nylon coils around them. His hands move surely and swiftly, a blur of skill as the rope draws up around my torso, swings around my neck. Confident fingers sweep my hair up and out of the way. There are knots, a final tug as he finishes, but I hardly notice.

  I’ve never been claustrophobic. Instead I feel like a piece of art. Discovered and brought to life. My breasts are forced high and tight, rope around and between them. The binding isn’t uncomfortable, but the pressure on my throat does give me a moment’s panic.

  “Breathe,” he says.

  I do. Slowly and evenly until my pulse settles.

  “Eden?”

  I blink up at him. His tense jaw and furrowed brow. Then I understand. “Green,” I whisper.

  He pinches my nipples lightly, tugging with increasing aggression until they’re distended and red. The pain is distant, soothed the instant it flares by soft flicks of his tongue.

  “Spread your legs, dove.”

  With a whimper of need, I spread my legs. Air touches my most sensitive skin. Anticipation brings a fresh surge of blood. I pulse. I pound. Desperate for his touch. As my hips jerk toward him, Liam smiles. He cups my sex in his hand, spreading me open.

  “Drenched,” he growls, eyes flashing up. “Get on the bed, dove. I need to fuck you right now.”

  I scramble onto the bed. It’s not easy with my arms bound, but I make do, wiggling until there’s space below for him. I finally still as Liam’s pants hit the floor.

  In the shadows, all I can see is that he’s fully erect, long and thick and curving slightly upward. My womb clenches in mingled desire and trepidation. He’s big—far bigger than I dared to imagine.

  I begin to pant as he strokes himself a few times before rolling a condom on.

  “Breathe, dove.”

  Not until he says the word do I realize I’m hyperventilating. A wave of mortification crashes through me. I must freeze, or stop breathing altogether, because Liam seizes my ankles in his hands. His touch grounds me, calms me. But only for a moment.

  I yelp as he yanks me down the bed and throws my legs apart. One finger, then two thrust inside me without warning. A third joins, stretching and priming, pistoning hard until I release a ragged moan.

  “Eden?”

  “Green, green, green,” I chant.

  His hand disappears. I gasp at the withdrawal, but then I feel him, blunt and thick, sliding through my wetness and teasing my entrance.

  “Please,” I beg.

  “Again.”

  “Please, please, sir, please.”

  Seizing the rope between my wrists and neck, he thrusts inside me. It takes a good minute for my body to accept all of him, for my mind to sort through all the sensations—the constriction on my throat, the incredible fullness, the completion and surrender.

  Wetness rolls down my temples; I realize I’m crying.

  “Eden,” he snaps.

  He’s called my name several times. He’s inside me but unmoving, the rope slack between us.

  I sob, drag air into my lungs, and scream, “Green!”

  I come on his fifth savage thrust, bucking against him with the rope tight around my neck. My vision washes red, then white. I can’t cry out, can’t breathe, the pleasure so exquisite it dissolves any remaining sense of self.

  With a gentle tug, the rope falls free. I suck air greedily, still pulsing around him. The aftershocks of my orgasm are powerful enough that they feel like separate climaxes.

  “You’re bloody perfect,” he murmurs, hips rolling languidly against me.

  When I’ve calmed enough to open my eyes, Liam covers me. My legs lock around his hips. I open my mouth for his tongue, clench the firm skin of his waist in my fingers.

  And slowly, so slowly, his mouth never leaving mine, he drives me once more over the glistening edge.

  25

  “What are you thinking of, dove?”

  I turn my gaze from the white tile next to the tub. Memories of our first night together are still vivid in my mind and body. Schooling my expression to disinterest, I reach for a washcloth and bar of soap.

  “The first time we fucked.”

  Liam grunts. I don’t look at him, but I know he’s wearing an expression that’s all too common where I’m concerned. Mingled amusement and surprise.

  “Miss the rope, do you?” he murmurs.

  “No,” I lie. It’s my favorite of his toys, and he knows it.

  Ignoring his smirk, I build suds on the washcloth and drag it down each of my arms. My movements are economical, artless, but I hear his breathing deepen.

  The knowledge that he still wants me doesn’t change anything. I still want him, too, but the once-bright space between us is now twisted and dark.

  “Why do you think Maddoc wants to find… Elizabeth?” I’d almost said my mother, but she isn’t. Not really. I have a mother and she’s in Oregon, likely worried out of her head about me.

  Liam drops back onto the plush bathroom mat, propping himself on an elbow to watch me. He’s hard behind his zipper, pressed tight against the material of his slacks. It must be uncomfortable for him, but from his implacable expression, he’s not about to admit it.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps she took something of his. That’s the simplest explanation.”

  I wash my armpits. “Like what? Money? Drugs? Seems a little greedy when he has more than enough of both.”

  “Spoken like a woman with no earthly idea of the world she just stepped into.”

  My hand with the washcloth stills. “And whose fault is that?” I snap.

  His eyes narrow. “Not mine. If it were up to me, you’d still be blissfully in the dark.”

  I scoff and lift a leg onto the side of the tub, scrubbing roughly at my skin. I don’t even know why I’m washing—I showered this morning—but can’t seem to stop. To avoid psychoanalyzing myself, I think about
the woman who birthed me.

  Elizabeth Sharpe.

  “Do you know anything about her? What she was like?”

  “A little. She was gone by the time I came to the city, but people would talk. Especially in front of a boy they didn’t think was smart enough to listen. If you take the word of gossipy women for fact, their love story was a fairy tale. She was nineteen, beautiful, from an unremarkable background. He was thirty when he first saw her, with a growing empire, good looks, and Irish charm.”

  Washcloth forgotten, I stare at him. “Where did they meet?”

  “A jazz club. She was a cocktail waitress. Story goes he swept her off her feet, showered her with everything money could buy. They married within six months. You and Alexis came along two years later.”

  Eyeing the tension in his shoulders, I ask, “What are you not telling me?”

  Liam sighs, falling smoothly onto his back with his arms folded behind his head. Candlelight flickers along his tall frame; I notice he’s not aroused anymore.

  To the ceiling, he says, “Maybe he hit her. Abused her. No one knows. But there was talk about how she changed in the months prior to your birth. She’d withdrawn from her usual social circles. Some thought it was merely a difficult pregnancy. There were other rumors, though, that maybe she could no longer stomach the life her husband led. The payment extracted for all her creature comforts.”

  “And what kind of payment is that?” I ask, wanting the answer as much as I don’t want it.

  Instead of answering, he says, “Did you know that until Maddoc came to Los Angeles, the city was known as the Gang Capital of America?”

  “What? Isn’t it still?”

  He gives a short, humorless laugh. “Looking in from the outside, maybe.” Sitting up, he meets my questioning gaze. “There’s only one way a man becomes what Maddoc now is. He knew his history, knew that the Irish had failed in New York, Chicago, and at home because of lack of organization. He changed things. Took a page from La Cosa Nostra, ruling with order and an iron fist. Maddoc’s road to power was paved in the blood of his enemies. Enough of them that his interests are respected—sometimes even protected—by other branches of organized crime in this city.”