by Virna DePaul
Her eyes are wider now, and I see her pulse throbbing in her neck.
She obeys me and holds perfectly still, except for a tremulous breath as I move to her right breast. I give it the same treatment, and she gently quivers beneath me once more. Then I’m scooting back, on my hands and knees, kissing my way down her flat belly, watching the muscles flutter.
I stop just above the waistband of those white lace panties. I lean down and breathe on the lace, watching it ripple under my breath. She inhales sharply. I lazily stroke her over the fabric, and with every pass of my finger she’s getting wetter. Her legs flatten against the floor, her thighs pressing tightly together.
She’s giving me the response I crave, so I raise my body and straddle her knees, watching her breathe heavier. I hook my fingers in the waistband and slowly slip her panties off, exposing her. Lifting her ass, I reach behind me to pull them all the way off.
I drink her in, gaze fixed on the small patch of blond pubic hair. The hair’s sparse enough, so I can see the folds around the perfect pink hood of her clit.
Leaning back slightly, I run my finger from her bellybutton down her warm skin, right to the top of the patch. The pad of my finger tantalizingly lingers there.
“Hands above your head,” I order in a soft, yet commanding voice. “Wrists crossed.”
Another hesitation. It’s hard to tell, but I think she might be nervous. There’s a flash of something in her eyes, and I suddenly get the distinct feeling the submission she’s giving me isn’t something she’s given to other men. She might be out of her depth.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
I half expect her to say something scornful or cold. But she gives the slightest nod and places her arms above her head, wrists crossed. Her back arches slightly, and with the next breath she draws in, her breasts rise up towards me.
Gorgeous. Gorgeous beyond reason.
Now, I slip my finger lower, across the surprisingly silky hair. Over her clit, not paying it any attention—not yet—and between her legs, parting her. She’s breathing hard and trying, I think, to stay quiet. Then she moans. It’s a sound of pure, deep pleasure. I gently but firmly rub my fingertip back and forth, spreading the wetness between her legs, working my way up toward her clit. I circle it, and she starts to pant, her toes curling, her knees coming up slightly.
“What did I tell you about staying still,” I growl, stopping.
She stares at me. Flushed, dazed, breathless.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
I grin. “Tonight’s the only night I’m gonna go easy on you.”
I climb off her, then tap her legs apart and kneel between them. I hook one hand under each knee and pull her legs up, spreading them wider. Then I lean down and kiss that patch of hair. Her belly quivers. I kiss just a little lower. She lets out a breath that might also be the word “please.”
Her smell is intoxicating, sweet and floral. I want to taste her. I want to learn every inch of her body. And I will, over the next month.
My tongue flicks out, tapping just above her clit and then sliding down. When I lick her clit, she gasps louder, but stays still.
I take my time, licking, sucking, and even nibbling on her most sensitive area, placing my finger between her legs again to explore. Soon, I’m rubbing the soft, wet flesh of her lips with my tongue circling her clit. She pants, legs tightening around me. She starts to whimper, softly at first, but then louder as I slip a finger inside her and gently thrust in and out. In and out. I move my tongue faster, wanting to cram all the frustration and loneliness of the past eight years into this moment. But, I also want to be gentle and make this perfect for her.
At last, her whimpers turn to cries. She pumps her hips in time with the thrusts of my finger, until I feel her contract. Two more thrusts of her hips, and her breath catches. Her body goes limp. She sinks her hips back onto the pillow with a sigh. I pause and just watch her.
Her face flushed with ecstasy, her eyes closed. Her body relaxed.
After a moment, her eyes flutter open. I smile down at her, before I remember that I ought to still be angry. She manipulated me when we were teenagers, and now she’s come into my life to manipulate me again.
“Well,” I say brusquely, rising to my feet. “You’ve still got…” I check my expensive-ass watch. “Half an hour before your meeting. That’s enough time to return the favor.”
I nod at my crotch. I’m hard and straining beneath my pants.
She gazes up at me, her breathing slowing and her breasts still heaving. The mask comes down again. Her expression cold and flat.
The she rolls onto her side and gets to her knees. Her hands cross behind her back, all business. I step toward her, unzipping my fly.
She takes me in her mouth without preliminaries. She’s skilled, but I’ve never been blown so efficiently before. She doesn’t moan and doesn’t even bother to act like she’s enjoying it. I try to concentrate on the physical sensation, on the fact that this is Bella Prince on her knees, but that unsettling feeling has returned and it’s bothering me. As long as she’s got that armor on, it feels like I’m using her. Or she’s using me. Or both.
Still, I’m only human, which means that despite the lack of connection or emotion, it still feels good.
After only a few minutes, I come hard, my hand resting on the back of her head. She swallows everything I give her. Then, while I’m struggling to catch my breath, she rises, once again the picture of grace. She wipes her mouth daintily with the back of her hand.
What’s wrong with you? I want to shout. Why are you playing with me this way?
But to her, it’s not a game. Her father’s wellbeing is at stake. And, for whatever reason, she’s suddenly decided she cares enough about him to give herself to me.
She collects her clothes and dresses quickly.
“Tomorrow,” I say tersely. “Be here at 8:00 p.m. sharp.”
“Of course,” she says, without looking at me. She pulls on her panty hose carefully, to avoid tearing them.
“I’m gonna take you so many ways, baby.” The words sound hollow and douchy, even to my own ears.
“I look forward to exploring some new territory.” She steps into her shoes. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of being ‘taken.’”
She stresses the word pleasure somewhat bitterly.
What the fuck does that mean? She can’t mean . . .
“You’re a virgin?”
I almost stutter the question, because it seems impossible. I’ve pictured her with so many men, from the guy I’d seen through the window to artists in Paris.
“No, Davis, I’m not a virgin.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, men still believe that sex is when a man puts his penis in a woman’s vagina. As if there aren’t three billion other ways to have sex. Including what we just did. But no, I’ve never had . . . intercourse.”
I’m stunned. Almost speechless.
Somehow, I manage to get out, “And now you want to? With me?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m yours for a month. This is about what you want.”
My jaw clenches. Part of me rebels against the idea that she’s just along for the ride, ready and willing to give me what I want to protect her father, regardless of what she wants. But the other part of me recognizes this isn’t just my chance to be with Bella, it’s my chance to finally have her. Body, heart and soul. I’ve just got to break through the ice she protects herself with and get to the heart of her that I know must still exist.
But then I remember her betrayal, and my heart hardens.
“While you’re with me, no running off to other men, like you did before. I don’t care if it’s for intercourse or any other damn thing. For the next month, you are mine and only mine.”
Her forehead creases. “Like I did before?”
“I saw you with him, Bella.”
“Davis, what are you talking about?” She sounds genuinely puzzled.
“I saw you!” My voice rises
, frustrated and pissed that she’s making me relive it all over again. “I came by for our tutoring session. You had your hand on his chest. He was leaning in to kiss you.”
Her face relaxes. For a second, she looks like she’s going to laugh. Then the ice queen expression is back.
“Davis, he was the son of my father’s client. What you saw was me acting as if I liked him and tolerating his advances, just so I wouldn’t screw up my dad’s business deal with his parents. My hand was on his chest to push him away. When he tried to kiss me, I shoved him back and threatened to go to my father.”
What? I can’t speak.
“Jesus, Davis.” She’s shaking her head. “What you saw was me being sexually harassed.”
She shrugs into her cape, then her heels click across the floor as she goes out to the hall and takes her coat from the closet.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I want to accuse her of lying, but I can see the truth in her eyes. It’s real and it’s there. In every movement of her body while she buttons her coat, fingers moving deftly.
“Bella,” I begin, my heart pounding.
“No,” she snaps. “Just no, Davis. The past is just that. The present is all that matters. And the present situation is that we have a bargain. I’m yours—for one month—and in exchange you’ll leave my father alone. After that, we’re back to being what we’ve always been to one another. Nothing.”
Chapter Three
Bella
As soon as the door closes behind me, I let out a long sigh. I stand there in the hall for a moment, looking down at the ridiculously expensive carpet. I’m weak-kneed, a little breathless, and what I want to do more than anything is collapse in a chair and breathe deeply for twenty minutes. Maybe that would help.
Instead, I hurry to the elevator and chew my lip during the entire twenty-story plunge to the lobby. I hurry past the front desk and then past the doorman, my high heels clicking as I walk. People are staring, I know they are, and I don’t care. I’m used to it, and anyway, I’ve got more important things on my mind.
Once outside, I start breathing a little more normally. A couple of blocks away, there’s a little park, and I find a bench to sit on for a second. I don’t actually have any scheduled meeting. I’d just needed an excuse to leave Davis’s place, and leave on my own terms.
But now, some crazy part of me is wishing I could have stayed longer. Why?
God, I’m dizzy and confused. This isn’t like me at all. But the shock of seeing him after all these years is startling.
He wasn’t the boy he’d been at Thornbridge. Now, he’s a man, tall and broad shouldered and muscular enough to make me want to just grab him. Even so, there were still traces of that boy in him. I’d glimpsed a few moments of shyness, uncertainty. Charming geekiness.
I think it’s those glimpses that gave me the courage to go through with my proposition.
When we were teenagers, my crush on him was real. Whatever he thought of me, that I’d been playing him or I’d slept around, just wasn’t true. I was a shy girl, though I hid it well. And I had seen something in Davis that had appealed to me, made me feel safe.
Idiot. You’re never going to be safe. Life is just gonna keep throwing shit at you until . . .
Until what? I knew the answer to that. Until I wasn’t around anymore as the universe’s target practice.
I glance back up at Davis’s building. I’ll be back tomorrow, as instructed, to begin my role as his sexual plaything.
Part of me is excited and more than a little surprised. I went in there expecting my offer to be all business, that anything I did for and with him would be exclusively for the sake of my larger plan, but just the memory of his kisses is making it hard to concentrate.
If that was just a preview, what else will he want to do with me?
I slept with a few people in Paris, both men and women. It was oral or hand jobs, but nothing like the way Davis claims he’ll take me. The idea excites me. It’s not that I believe intercourse is any more ‘real’ than other types of sex or that it’s somehow better or that I won’t be ‘complete’ until a man has entered me.
But it would be new . . . and I like trying new things.
I think about his large, lovely cock. The way it twitched in my grasp and filled my mouth. While I did deliberately avoid showing any emotion, I’d enjoyed myself. It was powerful owning Davis that way and making him lose control. Especially after what he did to me. I press my legs together hard. I can still feel him kneeling between my legs, his lips brushing my clit, his tongue flicking across—Bella, get a grip.
But I know that he’s going to take me and use me. What else will he do to get me to submit? Tie me up? Spank me? I’d be lying if I said I’d never watched porn to that effect and never indulged in that kind of fantasy. I’ve also never given myself to someone. Not openly, not completely. Never let anyone touch me with the intent to hurt me.
Not since Kyle Tarrington, that little fuckhead who’d pawed at me all those years ago. All while his parents sat with my father in the living room, talking business. That douche was the reason Davis had spent years hating me. And even Kyle, I wouldn’t say he’d hurt me. Someone that pea-brained couldn’t hurt me. He was a nuisance, not a threat.
And yet still, sometimes, I worry about my ability to stand up for myself. My painting teacher warned me years ago that if you’re pretty, especially blond and curvy, you’ve got to prepare for men to try and own you. They’ll worship me, which is just code for stroking their own ego by getting me all melty and omigod, you’re the best lover I’ve ever had and bending me to their will.
So, I decided right then and there that no matter what men did to me—whether they grabbed my butt or stared at my tits or kissed me when I wasn’t willing or fucking lied to me since the day I was born—they would never break me. I would always be in control.
So why, if I’ve supposedly got Davis right where I want him, does part of me feel dirty and cheap? Did I really just exchange my body for my father’s safety? How much more patriarchal could you get?
Of course, my father isn’t even asking me to do any of this.
My heart aches when I think of my father. The same father who’d exploited boys and young men, training them to be like him.
God, I’d felt so foolish for not knowing. Sure, there were hints here and there that he might be up to something shady. He’s never been a particularly warm-hearted man, though I admit he showed a gruff, paternal affection towards both me and the boys at the orphanage. He has a way of making you feel special, listened to. That must be how he’d persuaded all those impressionable boys to pitch in doing his dirty work. Also, he does have a heart. He just doesn’t like to show it.
Like father, like daughter.
I sigh. And I wonder how much Davis has really changed from the boy he used to be. Despite accepting my proposition so swiftly, despite his sexual dominance over my body moments earlier, could he still be the kind, loving person I remembered?
I only had a month to find out.
Fear grows cold in the pit of my stomach as I remember I might not have much more time left to live period.
I received the diagnosis in Paris. Paris, the city of lovers. The city that had been my sanctuary for so long. I’d walked hurriedly through the city each day with my folding easel, high heels clicking. I always wore tailored suits or dresses despite the fact that I’m a painter, not some fucking CEO. I’d earned quite a reputation as the stoic, rigid blond in the designer suit. I’d spend my days painting by the Seine, ignoring the tourists and frowning angrily at my work, while slashing the brush across the canvas in stiff, cold movements.
I’d been happy, though. Or, as happy as I was capable of being within the confines of my self-imposed exile. At least there’d always been something to distract me. A party, a gallery opening, a new club to go to. My Parisian acquaintances had appeared to enjoy the novelty of the icy, silent American woman who was always dressed to perfection, never hugged or k
issed anyone, and barely laughed. I’d taken lovers. I’d lived my life . . . until the diagnosis had blindsided me. Then the treatments began.
Until I’d finally accepted it—I’m going to die. Soon.
I’m not only running out of time; I feel time is speeding up faster and faster. I just need to make sure my father will be okay after I’m gone. And even though it’s completely unreasonable to feel this way, even though I can see how well Davis has done for himself and I should have put him out of my head long ago, I need to make sure Davis will be okay too.
Chapter Four
Davis
As soon as Bella leaves, I immediately pour another drink and knock it back in one fiery swallow. I can’t tell whether I’m devastated or relieved she’s gone. She’s an intense woman, even when she isn’t saying anything. I’m replaying every second of our encounter in my mind, wondering what I could have or should have done differently.
The revelation she’d never meant to hurt me—that she’d merely tolerated that guy’s advances for her father’s sake—still has me buzzing. In a way, I feel vindicated. Triumphant.
She doesn’t hate me! She didn’t reject me!
But of course, I also feel like complete shit. Her words keep ringing in my ears. “No, Davis. What you saw was me being sexually harassed.”
All right, all right. Fine. I’d been a horny pimply-faced dickweed who’d assumed that her distress was really all about my ego. But how could I have known.
I jiggle my leg impatiently. Who the hell does she think she is coming in here, asking for favors, offering herself to me when she doesn’t care about me at all? If she hadn’t been playing me then, she’s definitely playing me now. And yet, I still want her. With every cell of my being, I want her. Her smell and her skin, her hair falling though my fingers, her lips soft and pliant as I crush them to mine.
I’ll show her. I’ll show her who’s making the rules for this new game of ours.
But is that really what I want? To show her up and be in control? If so, I don’t stand a chance of winning. She already owns me. It’s like she’s already tied a leash around my dick. And some uncomfortable part of me, a part of me I buried long ago, cares about her. Wants not to control her, but to break down her walls, the way I had for those few minutes I was going down on her. Wants to get her to see me, not as a pawn in whatever larger game she’s playing, but as a man. A man she wants. Needs. Who can care about her the way she deserves to be cared about.