Burying His Desires (Taboo Erotica)

by Ophelia Bell

  Burying

  His Desires

  Ophelia Bell

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Books by Ophelia Bell

  About Ophelia Bell

  ***

  Chapter 1

  The lurch of the landing plane jarred me out of sleep and I blinked, drawn out of the most bizarre dream. The residue of it lingered, leaving my skin tingling from the invisible touch of the faceless man and his urgent fingers. God, what an experience. I closed my eyes again while the plane taxied, trying to hold onto that feeling before it slipped away, as it always did. Big hands sliding over every inch of my skin, kneading my soft flesh, slicking through quivering wet folds, spreading me open for his imminent invasion. I shifted in my seat, the uncomfortable wetness letting me know that my body had been paying as much attention to the dream as my mind had.

  The dream was an easier thing to face than what I had to face after disembarking. I’d spent the last six and something hours trying to avoid thinking about what lay ahead.

  The call had come at 3AM that morning, my stepfather’s gruff, anguished voice so alien from its normal irreverent tone that I loved so much.

  “Brit... Something bad has happened.” He said it in his too-careful voice that reminded me of the day my goldfish died.

  “Dad? What is it?”

  “Your mother. It was a drunk driver…They said—the doctors, I mean—they said they tried everything, but…”

  The bottom dropped out of my belly. The icy cold of the realization caused me to nearly drop my phone. I lurched up in my bed, ignoring the irritated complaint of my roommate in the dormitory bed on the opposite wall. I sat up and pressed my forehead against the icy pane of the window, staring blindly at the lit quad outside. I had to force myself to take a breath so I could speak again, but somehow the sense of my stepfather’s pain overrode my own and all I could think of was how to comfort him in spite of the deep ache of loss that settled itself in my own belly. I knew what was coming, as much as I hated it.

  “What? What happened?”

  My stepfather’s anguished sob hit my ear next, and in the midst of it when he could find breath for words, all I heard was, “She’s gone, Brit. Oh, God, she’s gone.”

  The rest was a blur. A solid shift of necessity in the midst of grief. None of it registered as I made the calls and clicked the keys to secure a ticket back to New York. I’d sworn never to go back, after the last fight Mom and I had over my chosen path. I didn’t want to be an actress like her, in spite of moving to Los Angeles to try to be my own person. I guess I’d considered Mom to be immortal. I failed at that prediction. How many more would I fail at?

  His voice echoed in my mind as I disembarked from my flight at LaGuardia. She’s gone. My mom, the strongest, most beautiful woman I’d ever known. The figure I aspired to. Tears threatened to break through even as I wrestled my overstuffed carry-on down from the overhead. A large hand grabbed it and handed it to me. I was too choked up to even force out a simple thank you.

  Mom had been a force to be reckoned with in the city. After a Broadway career when she was younger, she’d switched gears entirely. She’d been a city council member for the last two years, and had a spectacular career after that. Women as driven as her couldn’t just die. She had too much to live for. The fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous didn’t hurt.

  She’d married my stepdad, Michael in spite of warnings against the union. A rebel, everyone called him. He was insanely rich, but he was ruthless and calculating. I didn’t really know that side of him until I was thousands of miles away and read about him on the news. The most recent victory of his had resulted in the hostile takeovers of several small, failing companies. Yet the news had painted him alternately as a thief and a saint. He’d made millions, and he’d saved hundreds of people’s jobs in the process.

  To me he was just family.

  When he and Mom got together I was too young to have an opinion. Two year olds aren’t the biggest experts on relationships, after all. He became “Dad” to me for the next six years until Mom came clean when I was eight and let me know he wasn’t really my dad—the man who held that honor had died in the war. I hated them both for a day, then simply resorted to calling him by his real name rather than “Dad.” From then on, he was simply Michael.

  Except in dire circumstances somehow I had a weird reflex and called him Dad again. Like I had when I crashed my car at age 16 and was scared out of my mind that Mom would be pissed, so I called him first. Or like I had earlier that morning when he’d called to let me know Mom had been hit by a drunk driver and hadn’t survived it.

  I stepped off the escalator to baggage claim and wasn’t surprised to see the suited man with the sign blaring my name, “Britannia Vale.”

  Wow, Michael had been together enough to send a man to meet me. Actually, now that I gave it some thought, that was unlikely. His secretary had probably been given the bare bones of his plans and done all the work. I didn’t even know the woman and she was already looking out for me. I knew he would undoubtedly be planning mom’s funeral. There were always certain things he would insist on doing himself rather than delegate.

  Sign guy directed me toward the exit with a terse message that he’d deliver my luggage. There was no arguing with Michael’s directive. I knew that much. College had given me a pass for the last few months, but now that I was back in the bubble of his influence I had to expect the interfering presence of his various lackeys. I hated this part of him. When I grew up he was a sweet guy who indulged my juvenile fantasies. There had been no limit to the things he would do for me as a child. He was my hero.

  The limo surged into motion. I settled back, eyeing the tiny bar in the side of the vehicle, contemplating a drink. Mom was dead. Nobody would criticize me for it if I showed up shitfaced. But that really wasn’t the kind of numb I needed. The kind of numb I believed I needed was something only another human of the male persuasion could provide and I knew the chances of that happening were close to nil. Old school friends were likely to show up at the funeral… Mom had been the opposite of unpopular. I could have my pick of grief leaches if I wanted from my old friends. But no…I needed more than a fuck. A bottle of liquor would be safer, and less problematic in the aftermath.

  But if I did try for human contact, I needed a man who actually understood the despair that lived like an irritating squatter in my belly. One who might know how to help me evict it. I might’ve found that in any of the rough bars near the university I just left, but it wouldn’t happen in this city with Michael’s eyes on my every activity. He was too protective. Alcohol was the best alternative.

  Unfortunately, the limo lurched to a stop before I had a chance to obliterate myself with its bar.

  Chapter 2

  Their penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side was new to me. Mom had raved about it over the phone just after Christmas. In a way I was grateful that I had none of my own memories of the place to contend with when I walked through the door. Still, the place was infused with Mom’s presence. Even though she was a Broadway legend, Margaret Vale had never been the kind of woman to reinvent herself. If people couldn’t love her as-is, she had no use for them.

  The same little antique entry table greeted me just inside the front door when the doorman let let me in. It had been refinished and polished, its mahogany glowing with new life in a way only Mom could have brought out in it.

  I left my coat and suitcase in the
foyer and went looking for Michael. I’d called on the way from the airport, but had only reached his voicemail. The doorman had assured me he was home, but I could find no sign of him anywhere. All I found were more and more reminders of Mom. Signs of the woman who had lived here. It had only been a few months, but Mom’s presence was unmistakable.

  I hadn’t objected to the move from my childhood home after I left for college, because I firmly believed anywhere Mom and Michael lived would feel like home to me. I hadn’t been wrong, but it was a bittersweet realization just now. This was home, and it was full of Mom’s ghost.

  “Brit.”

  I jerked at the sound of his voice and turned. I only caught a glimpse of his strong face pinched with the effort to contain his feelings before my own emotions welled up and sent me running into his arms.

  His solid, capable warmth sank into me when his strong arms wrapped around me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d held back my grief until I let go in Michael’s arms. The sobs came out in a torrent. My tears drenched his crisp shirt. He just held me, stroking my hair while I cried.

  “Oh fuck, I’m messing you up, a lot.” I leaned back after a moment, the embarrassment of it all dampening my grief.

  Michael’s sweet blue eyes gazed down at me like they always had. He brushed the hair away from my face and tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket. While I blew, his expression darkened and grew distant. “I don’t know what I’ll do without her.” He stepped away, walking into the sunlit living room and staring out the high windows.

  “Me neither.” I moved up beside him and clasped his hand. He held mine in a bone-crushing grip that betrayed the effort it took him to hold back his emotions. He was trying to be strong for me, I realized.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Brit.” He cast a quick glance down at me, then back out the window at the skyline of the city beyond the vista of Central Park.

  “She’d want us to move on, right?”

  He let out a skeptical snort. “Yeah, she would. I can hear her voice now, telling me what to do. I loved her. She was perfect.”

  He moved to the bar and poured himself way too much bourbon. I stood with him while he drank, both of us staring out the same window as though we could find Mom somewhere in the city beyond the glass. When he started to teeter, I guided him to his bed.

  Too many memories clung to Michael, in spite of the move to a new place. His strength had always astounded me and as I undressed him for bed, I saw every sinew of muscle that lived beneath the crisp shirts he wore. He had scars and tattoos I had never even known existed.

  “I love you Maggie.” Me murmured Mom’s name into his pillow as I struggled to pull his pants down over his ass. When they left his ankles he turned.

  “Maggie, baby, I need you,” he said, his fevered eyes resting on me. His unmistakable erection pointed right at me.

  “Dad, you need to sleep alright?” I pushed him down and covered him up. The back of my hand brushed against his hot erection, and I paused with the heat of him resting against my skin. He was solidly passed out, but still hard as a rock.

  I swallowed thickly, thinking how easy it would be to just touch him, to give him the imagined pleasure he begged for and hope he believed it was still Mom doing it for him.

  I banished the thought and tugged the blankets up to his chest, then shook my hands in an attempt to rid them of the feel of him. But the tingle of the contact of his cock against my skin lingering long after I left his room.

  Chapter 3

  I fell into the cool sheets of my own bed vibrating with heat. One erection in a million shouldn’t even faze me, but my own stepfather’s had sent me spinning. Anguish over Mom’s death lingered, but I needed something to forget it. Why did the sight of Michael’s hard cock make me so goddamn hot?

  “He’s not my dad, really,” I whispered as I slipped deft fingers between my slick folds and went to work, thinking of what could have happened if I’d given in to the urge I’d had to touch him.

  The next morning he was like a normal dad. He made pancakes, served me juice, then sat down and ate with me, devouring his own breakfast like a hungry kid.

  His abandon subsided quickly, though. As he polished off his breakfast his face took on a businesslike expression.

  “I have to go meet with the funeral director.”

  “Do you want me to come?” I asked.

  He looked out those damn windows again, his jaw clenching. Seeing a powerful man broken down was heartbreaking. He probably did need me there with him, but he was way too proud to admit it.

  “No. I’ll take care of everything. You should start going through your mom’s things. See if there’s anything you want. The rest is going to charity.”

  “Alright. Call me?”

  He didn’t call, of course. He was in control as always and that meant keeping me out of the loop until he deemed it necessary. So I did what he’d asked.

  Her closet was huge. Bigger than our last place which was also massive.

  “God, Mom, I knew you were such a clotheshorse but you went hog wild this year.”

  I flipped through the hangers and identified a half dozen different designers. I didn’t love designer clothes the way she did, but I still loved trying them on. Every so often mom would give me a random piece of clothing that had a designer label, but I always thought it was an outlet find. Now I knew better. There were dozens of dresses hanging in Mom’s closet now and I doubted by the quality that they were all random.

  And I had nothing better to do.

  “I kinda think you’d love to see me try all this shit on, wouldn’t you, Mom?”

  I stripped naked, picked a short, blue slinky number, and threw it on over my naked body.

  It clung to me just like I thought it might’ve done to Mom. Everyone had always said we looked like sisters, just before I went to college. She’d had me at age twenty and we’d been close as I grew up. I always thought Mom was more beautiful. I always wished I could be more like her, too.

  I lost track of time as I scoured her collection, trying on dresses and separating clothing into various piles.

  The last dress was an evening gown with sparkling silver sequins all over it. It fit me like a glove, the slick silk lining sliding against my hips, clinging to me in a way none of the others had. I stepped out of the closet to find the full-length mirror and see myself better.

  I looked like Maggie Vale at a Broadway debut. I could do more with my hair, but I had the same golden waves that were part of Mom’s trademark. My breasts filled out the bodice just the way hers might, and the dress accentuated my hips and ass, making me feel like a star.

  “Take it off.” Michael’s voice chilled me with its unfamiliarity. I froze for a moment until I registered his profile reflected in the mirror.

  “Michael? I was just going through…”

  “Take the fucking dress off. What were you thinking?”

  “You wanted me to look! To see if there was anything I wanted.”

  “Not that dress. Jesus, Brit…” He trailed off and moved toward me slowly, his gaze sliding down my body. Heat flickered within those blue eyes, along with something else. Something primal and terrifying, but the lower it went, the hotter I got. What the hell was he seeing? I was just his little girl playing dress-up. I’d done it hundreds of times and been caught by him. He’d told me how pretty I looked and agreed with me when I asked if he thought I’d be as pretty as Mom when I grew up.

  But he’d never looked at me like a hungry predator ready to devour me before.

  Fear churned in my belly at that dark look, but something else hit me lower.

  When he spoke again, his voice was alien to me, frightening. “Take. It. Off.”

  “Okay, I will.. But…”

  “Now!”

  In an instant he reached out, clutched the bodice of the dress and ripped.

  I jerked from the force, then fell backward. My breasts spilled out and sparkling sequins skittered across
the hardwood floor. The multiple mirrors of the closet doors reflected my half-naked shame.

  Michael’s hot glare was the last thing I saw before he clasped my head violently and pulled me to him. His lips crashed bruisingly against mine and his tongue shoved between, relentless. His crushing grip left my upper arm and the hand clutched my breast, his soft thumb swiping back and forth across my nipple. The roughness of his touch did nothing to cool me off. It was beyond wrong, but my body responded. I pressed against him and moaned into his mouth, too dizzy from the surprising pleasure of his touch to know any better.

  His tongue withdrew, leaving behind lips that were hot and soft. Each shift of his mouth pulled at my lips, pulled at my defenses. This kiss was beyond anyone’s control, least of all his, and he showed no signs of stopping. His tongue plunged into my mouth once more and I devoured it, sucked it deep and teased like the whore I must be if I had succeeded in seducing this man without even trying.

  He pulled back, dazed, and released me with a sudden, harsh shove. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  Before I could even catch my breath he disappeared through the bedroom door, slamming it behind him.

  I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. My body thrummed with desire beyond any I’d ever experienced. I’d had sex before and enjoyed it, but never had as strong a driving need for it as I did just then. Not a single man I’d ever met had driven me as mad with lust. But this one I had to forget.

  Chapter 4

  I peeled myself out of the ruined dress and threw it in the trash, then slunk back to my room to shower. Once I had, the truth seemed clear. I had to forgive him and hope he’d forgive me, too. We could move on if we did that. We were still a family, even if it was only just the two of us. I didn’t want to lose that.

  I donned the least attractive pajamas I owned—a simple tank top and sweat pants—and went to find him.

  He sat slumped over his desk, his bare, muscular shoulders shaking with sobs. A tumbler of amber liquid rested by his hand, a half-full bottle next to it.