The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  “You.”

  I could tell her I feel the same. I could give her that thought, but I won’t do it here. Instead I unhook the clips and point at the floor, needing to see her agreement, acknowledge its true worth in this world of mine. Not that I truly care for its pronouncement. Only that I need to know she does. It’s intrinsic in my guts, a part of who I am. A part of what we’ll need to survive this storm she’s creating in me.

  She looks a little startled for a moment, as she raises to sit on the table, but does exactly what my little dove should do before she gets a punishment. She drops to her haunches and lowers, gracefully accepting the position and giving me that part of her she fights against.

  “Crawl for me,” growls out, as I start walking away, partly amused by the notion that she’ll follow on her knees wherever I ask. The humiliation of it in front of this crowd should remind her who I am, give her a sense of my wants. But the feeling of watching her as I pick up her dress and she begins following, her ass high in the air and begging to be fucked, proves the sentiment of humiliation incomplete. I’m not enamoured by the humiliation, I’m enamoured by the way she moves. Captivated by her trail after me. It stirs more feelings of love as I watch her frame come for me, the position of it as decimating as the burden she’ll carry for me.

  Good little dove. Charming.

  There’s noise in the room again as I walk to the curtain, hooking it back for her. Hollering and cat calling, an uprising of jeers and disappointment at my lacking show. I don’t hear it, nor care for its opinion on what I am becoming because of her. She softens this monster of mine. Contains him somehow. Perhaps smooths his explosive edges to a more familiar breed of respectable. Either way, we’re going on a date of her choosing. A place she can see differently because of this bond we have created together. She can have her dinners and her wine. Drink until she’s drunk and show me who she is that way, rather than me forcing it though my magicians tricks. We can be honest with each other. Attempt a consideration of respectability.

  “A little disappointing,” Oliver says, his yellow suit arriving in my eye line. I’ve backhanded him before I’ve recovered from the insult, my other hand letting the curtain fall back behind Alana’s ass. He tumbles away clutching his face as I turn and glare at his rudeness, ready to deliver another blow to rowdy fucking mouths who do not get to judge me. No one here gets to judge me. Only Eloise’s dead eyes have that right, and perhaps this madam kneeling at my feet should she choose to play with that thought.

  “Enough? Or another to prove my worth?” I snap, buttoning my jacket up as I do and holding a hand down to Alana. He snarls as she takes my hand, his face a picture of contempt. “You can get up now, little dove.”

  “Really, Mr Jacobs. What am I supposed to do with them now? You’ve left them baying for blood.”

  I’m not interested in blood. For once, I’m interested in anything but blood unless it’s seeping out of steak and accompanied by a good Beaujolais.

  “You can go back,” Alana says, her hand wiping at her knees. “I don’t mind.” We both stare at her as she rises back up, astonished at her superiority given her crawling 30 seconds ago. “Finish the performance with something that will enjoy it.” She takes the dress out of my hand, her smile a picture of refinement in this back stage bedlam. “I know you want too.” She looks at Oliver, a sneer embedding onto her features. “And if it’s so fucking important to his little performance then ..”

  “No,” I cut in, pushing Oliver out of the way. I don’t want to. I want dinner and dates. I want what she asked me for. I want to revel in this feeling she forces into me, perhaps dance some more then go home and fuck until she bleeds. I don’t give one fuck about the crowd. “We’re leaving.”

  My hand reaches for hers without thought. Oliver throws his arms around, proclaiming something that’s of no interest to me or the woman in my hold. We’re gone from here. This is all as desolate as the place I used to live in before her. It’s lonely here. It reminds me of times I don’t want anymore, memories I’m not wanting to reside in any longer.

  “That was brattish,” I snap, dragging her along behind me as she reaches for her bag and snatches a bottle of champagne as we go. “Oliver has power here.” She laughs, the bottle going up to her mouth as we keep walking through the throng of bodies. “It was rude of you to chastise him.” Rude enough that I should beat her for her insolence.

  “Fuck Oliver,” she says, another gulp sinking down her neck. And that certainly was. Although, the sentiment’s correct, and my smile just keeps spreading regardless of the filth in her mouth.

  “That deserves a beating.”

  “Good. Because, honestly, if I don’t get to come sooner or later I’m going to fucking explode.”

  The tone of her makes me laugh as I duck through the hall, searching the corridors for somewhere useful to let her come in. “And fuck you, too.” That makes me halt and spin on her, considering just doing it here for the damned world to see. She raises a brow and lifts the champagne to her lips, challenging me with all she’s got.

  “Be careful, little dove.”

  “Please? Does that help? The begging? I can beg again if you want,” she says, her fingers hitching her dress up as she leans against a wall, like my good little slut. “Just one little orgasm, please?” I smirk at her as she shakes her hips and widens her legs. “Baby girl’s desperate. Needy.”

  Good, baby girl can fucking wait for her treat then. I drop her hand and snatch the champagne to throw it in the trash, amused with her brattish behaviour, but not giving her the reaction she wants.

  “You can’t wind me up that way, little dove,” I say, leading her out through a quiet entrance of the building. There’s only one way she can get what she wants out of me, and it’s to do with her reaching inside me and pulling my heart to pieces with those nails she owns. “Do you know how many brats I’ve tamed?”

  “No, don’t care either,” she says, sullenly, her hair flicking in my face as we arrive at the car. “You don’t want a tamed brat, Blaine. You want a brat who you can tame on occasion.” I smirk, opening the door for her and watching her slide in, slapping her ass as she goes. She laughs, making me smile wider. It pisses me off as much as the analogy she’s foraging her way through in an effort to find what I hide. “You could have any of those other brats drooling over you the entire time, I’m sure.” True. It’s as monotonous as the tedium life was in before her. “You want someone to know when’s the right time to submit, and when’s not, don’t you?” Bitch. Loathsome, exasperating, beautiful bitch. “You want a woman to argue with, fight with.” I slide in beside her, turning to face the font of all fucking knowledge as she fucks around with her dress and reaches for my hand again. “And whether you want to believe it or not, you want to love.”

  Bitch.

  Chapter 10

  Alana

  W e’ve been dancing all night, slowly, to music I wouldn’t have considered his style. It’s been refreshing, offering me a side of him I’ve only seen on a few occasions. He’s been light-hearted, even sweet a few times. I’ve not paid for a thing, not been allowed to open a door on my own, and not even been able to go to the loo without a chaperone. It’s been rewarding in some ways, like I’ve been offered a reprieve for my behaviour with him. Been given my date. Been shown who he is without the force attached to his hands. It’s also been clichéd, something that’s made me realise this isn’t him. It isn’t us.

  We’re sat in a restaurant come club, two bottles of red wine on the table as I stare across them at him, and something akin to the tango we danced to earlier going on in the background. The whole place is full of dramatic theatre, not unlike the place we left earlier, but far more luxurious. It’s high end, full of other people wearing expensive clothes and expensive suits. A small band is playing the music while a woman sings her heart out to no one in particular. Waiters scurry around, their uniforms as pristine as the venue itself. It’s lacking in something, though. Lacking in d
irt maybe. It’s as beautiful as it should be and yet so cleansed of filth it makes me want to run back to Oliver’s cabaret, odd as that might sound. Maybe it’s Blaine being here with me, reminding me of a few hours ago when I begged for him to fuck me on a table in front of sadists. Maybe it’s just him, because I should be enjoying this. This is the kind of date I went on before him. Wined and dined. Subtle gestures of appreciation. The occasional brush of a hand, a smile, the last of the red poured into my glass before he orders another one. But it all seems redundant, as if the very heart of me wants nothing to do with its dreariness.

  “Ask me about my life,” he says, breaking me from my musings.

  “What?” I look at him as he shrugs out of his jacket and lays it down beside him, the tie coming loose as he tugs at it.

  “Anything. I’ll tell you.”

  I stare again, unsure what someone asks of a man like him. It’s odd all of a sudden, confused in my mind. Like I’m uncertain if I even care about his past anymore, or what he’s got up to in it. This isn’t me writing a book anymore; this is me being in love with a sadist, enjoying him, letting his wants and desires explode on my skin because I need him there. He fidgets a little as I gaze, his finger playing with a napkin as he looks away for a second. He’s nervous of these questions, uneasy because of them. I pick up my glass and rest into the plush seat, wondering when the last time I had any pills was. Everything seems so clear lately, like there isn’t any reason to be muddled or need them. Well, apart from working out Mr. Jacobs, anyway. I laugh lightly, thinking how it all seems so long ago, as if the last week has taken a lifetime to achieve, but the impact of him has been so profound it’s changed everything. I sigh out, not knowing how to word the conversation I want to have about where this goes from here, how I return to normality without him once my stay is over. It’s barely plausible to imagine myself in my own apartment at this time, the creams and light tones echoing a life I thought I knew. I should be there now, writing. I should be like Bree will be—nose down, mind driving me on to another chapter as I attempt to get lost in a character. Instead, I’m here, blissfully unaware of the texts, notifications or emails that usually keep coming at me, and contemplating my future with a man who’s shown me something I knew nothing of. A new kind of life.

  I shake my head at the thought, a small smirk lingering on my lips because of it, and grind my sore backside into the chair.

  “Okay. Why did you stop teaching?”

  “I do teach,” he says, reflecting my smirk. Arse.

  “No, you know very well what I mean.”

  He takes a sip of his drink and lowers it to the table carefully, his hands clasping together as he looks at me. Something about the move makes me question whether the truth’s going to leave his lips. He might as well tell me it all. He’s got nothing to hide from me. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does really, only the feel of his skin on mine, or the smell of his aftershave as he leans over and fucks into me. Everything else is becoming a blur of nonsensicality. I’m not even sure what I’ve been doing with my life before him. The thought of going back now, of doing what I did, of trying to achieve those deadlines and targets feels like a million miles away and slipping further every day.

  “Something happened that made it an impossibility to teach in that way anymore.”

  “Like what?”

  “That I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He cocks a brow at me, his smirk disappearing to produce a look of confusion, one that suits him less than the look of sorrow I get on occasion.

  “Because your opinion of me will change, Alana. I’m not ready for the outcome of that change. I’m not finished with you.”

  He says the last with such finality I know I won’t get it out of him, and I don’t really care anyway. It’s not like he’s a killer or anything. And I doubt men like Blaine molest anything underage. Anything underage would break in his hands. What use would that be to someone like him? The thought sickens my stomach, turning it over as I gaze at questioning eyes, perhaps wondering if I should ask anyway, just to be sure. I shake my head at the outlandish idea, relegating it to the back of my mind as I drink down a glug of wine to cleanse the thought. It’s horrendous, frankly.

  “When will you be done with me?” He smiles, nothing more. No answer, no gesture of time constraints, and certainly no offer of the commitment I’m still after from him. I sigh at the lacking result, unsure about bothering to push the conversation. He’s clearly not in the same place as me at all. Or if he is he’s not going to talk about it until he’s ready. “Okay, well your turn, I suppose,” I say, not able to form another in the myriad of questions I’ve had for weeks.

  “What made you dye your hair?” I laugh slightly, stunned at the question.

  “Of all the questions you could ask, you ask that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I guess I got bored. Needed a change perhaps.” I twirl a lock of it, snorting at the colour and wondering why I chose purple in the first place, then I remember him picking up my first trilogy. The thought warms me as I stare at him, recalling how much passion was in those words all that time ago. “You don’t know what my life is like in the real world. It’s just a continuation of the same day after day. Same words, same love story. Same meetings, same offices. It’s why I started this story. A new pen. Fresh perspective. I needed the change of direction.”

  “And I’m a change to your monotony, am I?”

  “Oh, you most definitely are, Mr. Jacobs,” I reply, amused. He pulls in a breath and leans away, his eyes looking to the dance floor and over the rail we’re behind as if he’s offended. “I didn’t mean you were a one off, you know? I’m not saying that this is...” Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. And he’s the one who said he’d fuck the monotony out of me. He has. Well done him. “I didn’t mean that you’re a fling.” Or maybe I did. Maybe that’s exactly what this is, regardless of the love I feel.

  There’s no movement from him as he carries on gazing downwards, his body leaning into the rail. He smiles, enough to make me wonder why he’s smiling at all given my frenzied ramble. I look down, too, and see an older couple dancing. The man’s hands are placed carefully, the woman perfectly balanced in his arms.

  “You think they knew, all those years ago?” he asks. Knew what? “They’re married. They’ve been dancing in this building for years, regardless of the two generations after them who run it for them. The atmosphere might have changed, but they remain. Still dancing to the same beat.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Renovevi,” he muses, nodding his head at them. “I’ve watched them dance here for years. I always wondered how they knew, if they knew.”

  “You’ve come here often?” The thought bothers me. I don’t know why. Perhaps because I thought he didn’t do dates. He told me that. Why would you come here to eat alone? Especially given the first place he took me to eat, which was nothing like this.

  “Never on a date, Alana. Don’t be brattish.” He chuckles and leans back into his seat, presumably amused at his own acknowledgement of the word. “My parents used to bring us here when we were young to teach us our table manners.” He sits back and gazes at me, his fingers reaching for the wine again. “Cole would behave like a brat and produce a face similar to yours now. Stop it,” he continues, pointing at me from his glass. “Clearly our mother’s swatting didn’t work on him. Mine will on you.”

  “You lived around here?”

  “Mmm. In the hills. Penchley Estate. This is my hometown.” The thought makes me grin. He might not have parents who are alive, but we’re here in his hometown. It’s akin to introducing me to them, making me realise that all isn’t quite as it seems under that thick skin of his.

  “You brought me home, Mr. Jacobs.”

  “I guess I did, Miss Williams.” He chuckles quietly and gazes at me for a minute. It’s a sweet momen
t, filled with feelings neither of us are saying. It still seems so strange that we can’t talk about this. All the things we’ve done. All the holes he’s been inside. All the tension he’s put me under. Saving me from the sea only to cause more pain again. And yet here, now, there’s an uncomfortable air from us both. “So, what do you think? Did they know they’d be together forever when they met?”

  I look down at them again, smiling at the vision of the two of them in their old age. They’re so in tune with each other, her feet moving along with his, not one part of her faltering or changing direction until he shows the way. The sight highlights Blaine’s hands on me, the way he holds me together, regardless of the direction he chooses to take me in. The pain he causes.

  “I’d like to think so. Wouldn’t everyone?”

  He stands up abruptly, making me frown at him as he smiles back and offers me his hand.

  “Shall we?”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again.” I chortle and put my wine down, moving the tablecloth to get out and stand next to him, his hand linking into mine before I have a chance to fathom why he wants to keep dancing. Not that I care. I’d dance with him all night, all year even, just to feel the heat of him and his sense of ownership around me. I smile at him as he leans in, his mouth filtering a soft kiss on my lips, his other hand tugging a lock of my hair gently. “As much as we can, Alana, before I take you home and forget this part of me exists.”

  He turns and walks on, his hand towing me with him, part of me in a daze at his words as I try to figure out why any of this needs to be forgotten. This, him being like this, is as much a part of him as the other version. I just need to get to know him better, need to feel this around me. He needs to show it to me more often, let it become normal for him.

  “You don’t have to, you know—forget him I mean. I quite like this side of you.” He tugs me to him as we reach the dance floor, a vicious pull that snaps my body into his, my chest bouncing on him as I collide with it. It makes me grunt with the force of it, air puffing out of me as he wraps a hand around my back and holds me close to him.