by Watson, Meg
He gave a low chuckle, settling back into the seat a bit more and knuckling his chin distractedly as he stared out the window. After a few more seconds, I saw the 712 Club door roll by again.
Oh my god, we’re going in circles.
And now he knows where I live.
My paranoia was beginning to re-bloom, and I struggled to crush it out. Plenty of people knew where I lived, and his words didn't carry any weird, threatening overtones. He was perfectly natural and neutral.
I must be going nuts.
A long silence passed between us before Rafe turned his head to me, crossing one leg over the other, his voice as flat and disaffected as his expression. I smiled shyly, the corner of my mouth twitching nervously.
“Take your skirt off.”
Or not.
I stared, mouth dropping open slightly. “Excuse me?”
“Take your skirt off.”
He cocked his head at me, the way he had at the bar. Apparently my hesitation did not compute with his worldview. Blinking his coal-black eyes, he simply stared me down. That dispassionate gaze remained on me, though his fingers began tapping lightly at his slacks.
“Why would I... take my skirt off? I don't even know you.”
Rafe leaned forward then, his brow coming down a bit.
“I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with, but I am not in the habit of repeating myself,” he growled. His breath swirled over my bare neck, sending gooseflesh racing over me.
“You're going to take your skirt off. You're going to pick that ass up and wiggle out of it. Panties too.”
I gasped as a bolt of excitement shot through me. What the fuck was that? I jammed my thighs tightly together, the throbbing at my clit telling me what I hadn't wanted to admit to myself.
I loved the way he was talking. Every time he gave me a command, I wasn't just compelled to obey—I wanted to. It wasn't just my body dragging me along on whatever self-indulgent adventure it had in mind. In fact, I’d practically begged him to boss me around, if I was honest. Hadn’t I been antagonizing him with question after question just to get him to this point?
I felt like I had won something.
Without another moment of hesitation, I brought my hand to the side of my skirt, yanked the zipper, and pushed it down my legs after lifting my ass from the seat. My thumbs hooked the sides of my panties as I did, and they were both heaped on the floor in one quick motion. If I was going to do it, there was no point in wasting time. Like pulling off a bandage, quick and sure.
I felt incredibly exposed, even with my legs closed as they were. Rafe slid close to me, laying a hand again at my upper thigh. Fingers curled in a C, he squeezed that some spot as if to remind me.
He leaned in, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel the heat of his breath as he whispered softly, “Spread those legs for me.”
Nothing in the world could have made me refuse a single command the man gave me, even if I wanted to. I could feel the raw strength of him, his hard body pressed against mine, the soft brutality of that hand squeezing ever-firmer at my thigh in anticipation of their parting.
My breath came slow and soft, shuddering at the words he spoke. I spread my legs for him without hesitation, though not as far as he wanted. The hand came to shove my other leg out roughly, forcing my foot up onto the seat, exposing me completely.
His hand slipped in toward my now-soaked slit slowly, fingertips trailing along my skin, the tingling intensity of it causing me to jerk back a little. His touch followed me no matter how I squirmed or shifted, and I found myself with my eyes fixed firmly on his fingers in anticipation. I wanted it faster. I wanted those fingers inside me, pumping me, rubbing at my clit—anything but this agonizing teasing.
His eyes were on mine, but there was no smile on his face. I think he was enjoying it, but he almost seemed to be studying me and my reactions. Every stuttering breath, every hitching moan as his fingertips brushed over my skin, the loud gasp as his middle finger slid down the length of my slit.
“My, you're wet,” he growled so softly in my ear that I had to strain to understand him. “It's exciting, isn't it? A man you've never met—the sort you may never meet again—desiring you this way. Ah, the things I could do to, and with, you...”
My hips pushed forward against his hand slowly, and I released a soft, drawn out moan as I nodded. I could easily imagine the things he could do to me, and a series of pornographic images flickered through my mind’s eye with alarming swiftness. He slipped his finger down and into me unexpectedly in one quick motion, and I gasped at the sudden sensation. Before I could process the feeling, he was slowly pumping my pussy with his thick middle finger and rubbing at my clit with his thumb.
He'd turned nearly all the way toward me, his full lips still nearly touching my ear. “Mm. Nice and tight. You don't get fucked as much as you'd like, I imagine. Do you masturbate often, Jolie?”
I felt my lips tighten, my body seeming reluctant to answer, but my mind was all too willing. I simply nodded, tucking my bottom lip between my teeth as his pace quickened.
“And what do you think about when you touch yourself?”
I turned my head slightly toward him as he spoke, filled with the desire to answer the question just right. I wanted desperately to please him so that he would continue to please me.
“Being touched like this,” I gasped between strokes. “Being... fucked, hard. I don’t… Ahhhh… I don’t know. A lot of different things.”
He gave a low chuckle.
“Well look at you. You're obeying well, now. Just needed a little incentive, I suppose.” He slid his finger from me, giving a firm tap at my clit, causing my body to tense as I jerked back from the sudden slight sting of the impact. “Ah... beautiful.”
I relaxed slowly against him and his finger returned. A second pressed into me quickly. He slowly spread his fingers as he began pumping again, stretching me agonizingly slowly. I didn't want fingers anymore. I wanted him. I turned my head to him, my lips parted expectantly, but never found his on them.
As ever, he hovered only inches away, the grin on his thick lips turning wicked.
“Oh, it's not that kind of party, Jolie. We're just having a little fun, aren't we?”
I gave a soft nod as I pulled back a bit and closed my mouth. My eyes met his for the first time since he touched me, and I could see a strange sort of fire burning behind them that I hadn't seen up until that point. He was enjoying this immensely, but I don't think it was that he was finger-fucking me. I think it was that he had my complete obedience. I was eager to follow his every command, and the thought of that had me wetter still.
He leaned in a bit, following me as I leaned away.
“I'm going to make you come,” he growled. The word shot through me like lightning: come. Make me come. “You're going to thrash, scream—perhaps even cry. Ah, that'd be... beautiful, wouldn't it?”
His thumb began a strange sort of swirling/strumming pattern at my clit, and I felt my climax building rapidly.
“O-oh! That's... that's perfect. Please, more... just, just like that.” I bucked my hips against him hard, hoping to urge him on.
My pleasure only seemed to drive his hand away and widen his grin.
“Ass on the seat, Jolie. Such a desperate little thing you are. You will come when I tell you to, understand?”
I gave a quick nod. God, anything to keep him touching me. His fingers lingered just far enough to barely brush against me for a long, agonizing moment before he returned to his decisive pumping and rubbing at my clit. Every time I responded by grinding my hips or moaning, he'd pull away completely, pausing with his hand just outside my entrance as my sex throbbed more and more painfully. By the fourth time, I was on the verge of tears.
“Please! I... I'll beg, please, make me come. I need it, so bad, don't... please don't tease me any more!”
His lips curled into a hungry snarl, exposing perfect, white teeth.
“I did promise, did
n’t I?”
I nodded fervently. He seemed to consider it for a few seconds longer and I held as still as I could, listening to my heart thrum like a trapped rabbit.
Then with a single, sudden thrust of a third finger into me, all three curling up hard as he rubbed wildly at my clit, I was brought into a mind-shattering orgasm. The world seemed to fade around me, and I could only see—and feel—Rafe and his beautiful, skilled hand. I stared into those coal black eyes as I came, screaming out unrestrained, grinding my hips wildly against his open palm.
It was only once I began to come down that I realized how loud, how wild, how desperate I'd been. I sounded unhinged, feral. Like I’d been holding that cry inside me forever, just waiting for him to unleash it.
I fell back into the seat, panting hard as he withdrew his fingers. He placed them at my lips, giving a single firm command.
“Clean.”
I opened my mouth, sticking my tongue out just slightly, still panting and reeling from the climax. He drove his fingers past my lips, pumping them over my tongue as I sucked and cleaned them, my tongue slipping over and between his knuckles.
As I sucked, he spoke in a hard, cold tone that sent a shiver down my spine.
“From now on, I expect immediate obedience. Do you understand me?”
I gave an earnest nod as I eagerly laved those beautiful fingers, my fluttering eyes fixed on his. When he began to withdraw I shifted in the seat a bit, fully ready to be taken.
He drew back his hand when he felt I'd finished, then gave a firm knock at the side of the car. Just as quickly as it had taken off with the first knock, it slowed to a stop and pulled off to the side. Rafe stepped out of the limo and turned back to face me, leaning against the doorframe all calm and collected, leaving me half-slumped in the seat and completely thrashed.
“You'll be taken home now.”
He shut the door without another word, though I heard heard him relaying my address to the driver. I squinted hard through the dark windows on the largely unlit street where we'd parked, and I was surprised to see him simply walk off into the night as the limousine pulled away.
Collecting myself as quickly as I could, I dragged my panties and skirt back on, trying to fix the tangled mess of my hair, licking my lips clean. I wanted to feel ashamed of what I'd done, but I could only think of the way he looked at me as he made me come. He had seemed... intrigued. I had his complete attention and his gaze was so intense that I had wanted to turn away but couldn’t. Watching him watch me… finding me that fascinating. That was something. I tried to remember if anyone had ever looked at me like that and couldn’t think of anyone.
The ride home was a blur. Whatever Rachel gave me was coming on again, another wave seemingly triggered by the intense orgasm. I found it hard to keep my eyes open, swaying and struggling to stay conscious. When I saw our tiny red apartment coming up on the right, I placed my hand at the door, sitting up a little straighter so I wouldn't just go tumbling out when I opened it.
The second we came to a stop, I opened it and made for the front gate, slamming the limo door shut behind me. I stumbled up the stairs and slipped inside the apartment building with my card key, breathing a heavy sigh of relief once I was inside. Sanctuary.
What are you so embarrassed about anyway? He probably sees that sort of thing all the time.
I took the creaking, smelly elevator up to our floor, made it to the apartment and crashed out directly on the couch. I seemed to make it just in time, because I could hardly get comfortable before I drifted off into a soupy, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 10
The relentless sun beat down through the living room window, and as I stirred, I brought a hand up to shield my eyes and turned in toward the back of the couch. My head was throbbing, every part of me numb and largely useless. Even bringing my arm up to cover my eyes took ten times the effort it should have.
I sat up slowly, bleary-eyed and disoriented, leaning forward in my seat enough that I had to grab the cluttered coffee table to keep myself from falling off of the couch. As I clenched my legs to keep myself upright, I felt the same pulse between my legs I'd felt when I laid down. The events of the night before came flooding back, and I immediately found myself aching for Rafe's touch.
I remembered the way his fingertips danced so lightly over my skin, the way he teased and taunted me, his commanding tone and presence. I found the hand not grasping the table sliding up my thigh at the memory.
Pointless. Not him.
For all I knew, it wasn't coming down from the drug that had me so desperate to get inside the apartment, so absolutely wrecked that I’d only been able to cling to consciousness long enough to fling myself on the sofa. Maybe it was Rafe. Maybe he had just thoroughly wrung me out.
I shook what fog I could from my mind, trying to put the memories of his expert touch aside for the moment and willed the living room to come into focus.
Stumbling across the cluttered floor, I picked my way carefully to avoid stubbing my sensitive toes on Rachel’s collection of accessories and boxed appliances. Only a thin path led to the back hallway. Everything else was covered in wrapped gift boxes, bags from high-end boutiques, and imported shipping crates.
People were always stashing stuff at her apartment or offering her luxe gifts she didn’t need, she groaned with an irritable wave of her hand the first time I had seen the place. I just stood there with my mouth open at the expensive, careless mess piled in unstable towers that nested against the cracked plaster walls.
From the front door of the tenement, I had assumed I would be walking into something a lot more Spartan. The other apartments in the building were probably nowhere near as well-appointed, but almost all of it seemed to be unopened or at least unused. I counted at least three espresso machines in boxes and the two mismatched leather sofas still had thick plastic on them where they butted against each other.
“What,” she had said with a disinterested shrug. “Men just like giving me things.”
I picked my way gingerly down the hallway to the bathroom, flicking on the light switch, my eyes widening at my appearance. My eyes were shadowed and haunted, mascara and liner smudged in dramatic swipes in the hollows above my cheekbones. My skin was sallow and porous, pasty with a suspicious cluster of blotches along my jaw. Just how strung out was I?
I pulled a brush through my hair, wincing hard. Deep in my belly I felt my guts flopping over themselves, warning me that I needed to eat something soon or suffer the consequences. But there was no food here. The last time I had opened the refrigerator out of desperation I had found only a jar of French mustard and a container of salt. I needed coffee, maybe groceries.
What I need is money, though. Dammit, Rachel why couldn’t you have paid me my share before you left?
With another ominous gurgle from my belly filling the tiny, rust-stained bathroom, I knew I didn't have time for a shower—I had to find Rachel. I straightened my clothes, giving a soft, groaning sigh as I regarded myself in the mirror.
It’s good enough to leave the apartment, at least in this neighborhood. And I should leave some evidence of last night on me in case she doesn’t believe me. I bet my story's better than hers, for once.
I cracked a little smile at that, finally beginning to feel the weight of the strange night lifting. She was going to be proud of me, I knew it. Maybe even a little jealous if I was lucky. Slipping my sneakers on at the door, I grabbed my purse and headed out for the neighborhood where Rachel worked.
It was a short enough walk, and one I'd taken a few times before. I trudged among the grey-yellow weeds in the sidewalk cracks, head down against the wind. Though it was warmer than the night before, the sky was still low and close and every few steps I felt a gust of wind whistle into my thin windbreaker.
The street she worked on was always an odd, surreal sight. The rowhouses were seemingly endless variations on a single theme. They were all tall and narrow, with slight variances in color between them and incredibly
cramped together. Slanted window boxes hung untended off front windows, choked with withered former flowers. The bottom floor windows were all barred on the outside and curtained on the inside, as though keeping the outside out as well as the inside in.
I'd become accustomed to crummy apartment living just fine, but something about the sight of these run down, beat up houses made me a little uneasy. Houses meant independence. They were supposed to be neat and tidy. Pristine examples of the American dream. Something to aspire to.
As I walked past a rusty, swaying gate a chorus of dog barks shot out into the street, making me nearly jump to the curb. Cursing my nerves, I just hunched into my jacket and walked forward faster.
I figured that Rachel was bound to pass by or see me eventually, so I forced myself to slow down and wait, make myself obvious. I couldn’t remember which houses she worked in, but there were at least two possibilities and so I stood halfway between them. I felt an uneasy pit in my stomach with the crumbling sentinels standing over me, their paint chipping and wood rotting.
Stealing furtive glances up toward the windows, I hoped to just luck out and find her standing in one of them so I would know which house it was. But every window was blanked out with drapery like a blinded eye.
This was one of the worst blights in the city as far as most people were concerned, but it was more than that. It was neglected and overlooked for a reason. The tenants were the ones society wanted desperately to forget about: the elderly, the infirm, the addicts, the disturbed.
Rowhouses in other neighborhoods were usually reserved for decent middle class families, which only made this place all the more disturbing. Somewhere along the way this neighborhood had just been forgotten and left to rot. It was structurally like so many others, but fetid and shabby.
There was probably a moment in history where it could have gone either way. Some tipping point. Some point where everything could have been reversed: the eaves painted, the flower boxes perennially filled, the gates repaired. But then everything turned, and it could never be retrieved.