“Here,” I say. “A replacement for the necklace you broke.”
She holds my gaze, frozen.
She hated that necklace. I’ve never seen a woman tear off a Cartier diamond necklace like that before. And amidst all the word vomit happening that particular day, I distinctly recall her comparing it to an animal collar, which she heavily resented.
I crack open the box and present a pair of champagne diamond earrings. Two warm, golden stones set in rose gold dance in the natural sunlight. “Try them on.”
Bellamy’s hand glides over her chest. “They’re beautiful, Dane. Thank you.”
“I know you hated the necklace.”
“I did.”
She takes the box and removes a diamond earring, cupping it in her palm and examining the facets and the way they dance in her hand.
“These are still an item of ownership,” I remind her. “But I hope this one will make you a little more comfortable.”
“These I can do.” There she goes with that smile again, the one that gives her rosy cheeks a faint glow and sends a shimmer to her sky blues.
This isn’t good.
TWENTY-FOUR
BELLAMY
My heart pounds hard in my ears, the same ears donning an exquisite pair of champagne diamond earrings.
The house is asleep. It’s just past ten. My father is sleeping at Kath’s tonight, and my sister and mother are out cold. A soft glow from the light above the kitchen stove lights the path down the stairs, and my keys are clenched tight in my hand, ensuring they don’t make as much as a jingle.
I’m a vision of mascara and lipstick, hair-sprayed hair, and Dane’s favorite perfume. Jeans and a t-shirt hug my body now, but they’re only temporary. Within an hour, I’ll be squeezing myself into the most elegant Italian silk dress I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I take the steps one at a time and in slow motion, my sweaty palm slicking down the oak railing. When I make it to the landing, I take a deep breath and tiptoe to the front door, pressing my body weight into the lock in an attempt to muffle any clicking sound that might echo through the quiet house.
A gentle snap and the careful twisting of the knob precede my freedom, and I pull the door closed behind me soft and slow. My heels click loud against the concrete of the front porch, and I waste no time yanking them off and sprinting barefoot in the grass until I get to the Land Rover.
As soon as I’m in, I press the ignition, and it comes to life, purring like a sleepy kitten. I glance up at the house one final time, ensuring it’s still as pitch black as it was when I left it and press the HOME button on the GPS.
“Forty-six minutes until you reach your destination,” the robotic woman’s voice informs me.
***
His road is dark and lined with a canopy of thick, ancient oaks and smack dab in the middle of nowhere. I spotted his estate from down the road, shining like some sort of beacon. A lavish party is happening behind those walls, the kind of event I never would’ve dreamt of being a part of in a million years.
I stop at the gate and press the call button.
“Golden Oak,” a man says through the speaker. “Name please?”
“Bellamy Miller.”
The black metal gates clink and part, and I drive forward, pulling up to a two-story porte-cochere and parking behind a white limo. A young man in a tuxedo runs to my door, opening it and doing a double take when he sees I’m in jeans.
My cheeks flush hot. I don’t think I’m supposed to come in this way.
“Is there another entrance?”
“Mademoiselle?” An older French woman in a gray dress comes out of the shadows. “Mademoiselle Miller?”
“Y-yes.” I point at myself.
“This way, please.”
She takes me by the crook of my arm and pulls me to a side door, whisking me up a private set of stairs. The faint lull of conversation mixed with laughter travels up the winding stairs.
“Monsieur Townsend is expecting you.” She smiles until her gaze falls to my jeans and t-shirt.
I follow her to a grand suite where my dress is hanging up against a tri-fold mirror.
“Anything you may need is in the en suite bath,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll wait out here and take you down.”
“Thank you,” I say. “What was your name again?”
“Mathilde.”
“Thank you, Mathilde. I’ll be just a minute.” I shut the door behind her and tear out of my clothes, careful not to unravel the flawless chignon I managed to twist my hair into before I left. A black lace thong and matching strapless bra rest in a pale pink box on a tufted chair in the corner. I slip into those and step into the black evening gown. A final spin in front of the mirror, and I’m ready.
When I pull the door open, I’m not expecting to see Dane, but there he is.
“Oh. Hi.” I bite away a smile, feeling my face flush from the way his eyes devour me from where he stands.
“I heard you were here,” he says, pushing into the dressing room and shutting the door behind him. “I couldn’t wait.”
“Who’s impatient now?”
“Watch the way you speak to me, Bellamy.” He reaches behind me, giving my rear a pinch. “Did you forget who’s doing the tying and cuffing tonight?”
“Are you threatening me, Master?”
I’m flirting with my Master, and I’m not even sure that’s allowed, but he’s letting me. Something about him feels different lately. Our dynamic has shifted. He’s lighter around me, shedding layers perhaps. I’m not sure he knows he’s doing it, but I’m not about to point it out.
He leans in, nipping my earlobe. The heat of his breath against my neck sends goose bumps down my arm that travel a bit further and exacerbate the warmth that’s resided in my core all week. The gentle scratch of the lace fabric against my cleft is torture, but being pressed against a tuxedoed Dane who looks about three seconds from ripping my dress off is even more so.
A knock at the door disrupts our private party.
“Monsieur.” It’s Mathilde. “You’re needed downstairs. The caterers would like a word with you, and Senator Harris would like to say goodbye before he leaves.”
“A senator?” I ask. “What kind of party is this again?”
“A charity gala.” He takes my hand in his, leading me down the stairs like a debutant. Before we round the corner to the final set of stairs, he turns to me and stops. “You look beautiful tonight, Bellamy.”
“Thank you.” I reach for my champagne earrings, twisting them.
“Tonight you’re my date,” he says. “Stay next to me. You don’t need to walk behind me or hang your head. Tonight you just need to be yourself.”
Dane brings the top of my hand to his lips, offering a small kiss that only serves to reiterate that I’m a classy lady tonight.
We float down the stairs hand in hand, all eyes on us the moment we hit the landing. A pianist plays on a polished Steinway in the corner, and I instantly recognize Chopin’s Nocturne 20.
“Chopin,” I say with a happy sigh.
“You like Chopin?” A server with a tray of champagne passes, pausing before us long enough for Dane to grab two flutes.
“I don’t like. I love.” Growing up, our music options were always relegated to classical or Christian. Chopin was my Nirvana. My musical escape.
Everything about this night has my name on it.
“Your drink of choice, if I remember correctly,” he teases, handing me a flute.
“Thank you.” I lift it toward him before taking a sip, my gaze traveling toward the haunting tune coming from the back of the grand piano.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“My sister does,” I say. “I took vocal lessons. She took piano.”
“Dane, thank you for the entertainment tonight.” A burly man with gray-flecked temples pats Dane on the back.
“Senator Harris,” Dane says. “Thank you for coming. Your donation is much appreci
ated. As is your support.”
“He does good work, this one.” Senator Harris grips Dane’s shoulder tight, flashing a politician’s toothy grin and letting his paw fall. A round-faced woman in an emerald evening gown smiles from behind him. She must be his wife. I offer her a knowing wink and a nod, from one date to another, and she returns my gesture with a smile.
I lift the flute to my lips, pulling in a careful sip that doesn’t smudge my lipstick. “So what’s this charity? What kind of work do you do?”
He studies my expression and lowers his drink. “I sponsor lost boys.”
“Lost boys…” I glance around the grand hall. “Like the boys who get kicked out of FLDS compounds when they’re teenagers?”
I’ve heard a handful of tragic stories, mostly involving teenage boys being edged out of fundamentalist communities by corrupt elders bent on skewing the male to female ratio.
“Exactly.” He places his hand on the small of my back.
“That’s an interesting charity to adopt,” I say. “What made you want to get involved with lost boys?”
He clears his throat, his gaze scanning the room before returning to me.
“Because I was one.”
TWENTY-FIVE
DANE
I don’t make a habit of opening myself up personally. I’m not fond of feeling or looking weak, and I absolutely abhor the way people look at me when I tell them.
“You were a lost boy?” Her eyes mist, and I hate that she’s feeling sorry for me.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?” Her hand covers my forearm.
“Don’t look at me like that, like I’m some lost soul you feel sorry for.”
“What those FLDS communities do to those young boys is awful. Of course I’m going to feel sorry for them. For you. You were a victim.”
I need something stronger than this Moet and Chandon, but right now it’s all I have. I toss it back and pull in a deep breath, wishing I could go back to the moment right before I told her and change course.
“I don’t feel sorry for myself, and I’ll be extremely displeased with you if you ever look at me like that again.” I set my empty flute on a passing tray, forcing her to release her hold on me.
“It’s okay to be vulnerable once in a while.”
“Not for me, and we’re done discussing it.” I adjust the knot of my tie. “Let’s make a final round before guests start leaving in droves. This party’s about to end, and a new one will be starting shortly.”
I extend my elbow, and her delicate hand hooks my arm as we veer toward a group of bishops mingling with a handful of lobbyists sponsored by wealthy benefactors. We’re all here raising money to fight the good fight.
No young man should ever be driven to a dirt road ten miles from the nearest town with no more than twenty dollars in his pocket and a sack lunch. Watching the red tail lights of the compound’s seventeenth Suburban disappear in a cloud of gravel dust was a defining moment for me.
I’d like to think that was the moment I first died inside. Discovering Jenessa’s secret was the second. I know for a fact, I’ll never meet death again because I’m already dead on the inside. I’m not capable of love, and I have no business fantasizing about such a fleeting, temporary thing.
“Dane, thank you so much for hosting this evening.” Margaret Hollingsworth floats up to my side, placing her hand on my shoulder. She has a mother’s touch and delivery of a ball-busting church elder’s wife. “We had a marvelous time. Do let us know if there’s anything you need from us.”
“You’re most welcome, Margaret. I have your number.”
We greet my leaving guests in a makeshift reception line, and after we’ve said the final goodbye of the evening, I turn to Bellamy.
“You’re quiet,” I say, eyeing the curved staircase that leads to the north wing of the estate. “Are you ready?”
Bellamy’s eyes close and slowly reopen before she releases a sweet sigh. “I’m ready.”
Caterers swirl around us, and the pianist packs up his sheet music. The cleaning crew sweeps, and spritzes, and runs about with bags of trash.
But right now, it’s just us.
No one else exists.
No one else matters.
I take her hand, leading her upstairs, and she trembles. Warmth radiates from her tender cheek the second I stroke my hand across it and cup her face. The moment we’re around the corner, I press her body against the closest wall and claim her mouth with mine.
Her tongue is champagne and velvet. The kiss is deep. Needy. I’m not sure who needs it more, but I’m not about to ruin this moment by giving two fucks. All that matters is this is happening.
I grab the back of her dress, yanking it apart in two pieces straight down the back. She gasps, pulling away from me for a second.
“I’ve been dying to do that to you.” I flash a crooked grin before smashing her lips once again. We let the dress fall to a heap on the hallway rug, and my hands slide down her back before cupping the underside of her cherry ass. She climbs me, her legs hooking around my hips, and I carry her to the last room at the end of the hall.
I kick the door shut with the bottom of my dress shoe and deposit Bellamy on the center of my four-poster bed. The lace lingerie she dons looks amazing, but I know for a fact, a naked Bellamy would look even better.
She kicks her heels off and pushes herself back against a mountain of pillows, her chest rising and falling as she watches me loosen my tie. I remove it with one fluid pull and work my buttons. My cock throbs, pressing against my pants and aching to be inside the beautiful ingénue who belongs only to me.
I’m not insensitive to the fact that this will be her first time knowing what a real cock feels like inside her. As much as I’d love to push her limits and fuck her seven ways from Sunday, I’m going to have to find some satisfactory middle ground.
“You’re on my bed, Bellamy, but I’m slightly confused as to why you’re not naked yet?” My pants fall to the floor, and I climb across the bed, delighting when I catch the faint scent of her arousal.
“Waiting for your command.”
“Good.” I reach toward her breasts, feeling the peaked nipple protruding from her lace bra. My palm rakes against it, pressing the fabric against her sensitive buds until her head falls back into the pillows. “Do you like that?”
“Yes,” she breathes. “Please don’t stop.”
I pull away, reminding her I call the shots, and I’m still very much in control here. The drawer in the left bedside table contains a few items I intended to use tonight, so I reach across and slide it out.
Restraints. A blindfold. Some toys. A condom. Since it’s her first time, we’re going back to basics.
I slip the red satin blindfold over her eyes and graze my lips across hers just enough to tease her with the false promise of a kiss. Restricting her vision will make every touch, every lick, every graze, a thousand times more potent.
“Give me your wrists,” I say. She doesn’t hesitate, and she doesn’t say a single word as I secure the black straps to the bedposts and tighten them. “Ankles.”
Her shapely legs drag up the bed cover, finding my hands in the dimly lit room. After securing her to all four posts, I retrieve a feather tickler. I skim her full lips before softly dragging it down her neck between her breasts and swirling it over top of her mound.
“Would you like me to undress you all the way?” I offer.
“Yes,” she heaves. “Please. I’m ready.”
I yank her panties off, dragging them across her constricting belly before unhooking her bra. Her breasts react to the cool evening air, swollen and pert. My mouth takes a nipple, swirling and sucking before releasing it.
My fingers trail down her stomach again, and it caves in response. I stop at her mound, forcing her to wait a few extra seconds because I can, and then I slip a single finger between her wet folds.
“God, you’re so wet.” I push a finger inside her, followed by
a second, as my thumb circles her clit. “Every part of you is extremely turned on right now.”
“All week,” she pants. “You knew what you were doing.”
“Of course I did,” I smirk. “It was your punishment. You withheld yourself from me that first weekend, this week I returned the favor.”
I retract my hand and lean down, running my tongue along her seam and barely grazing her clit. Her hips buck from the tiniest level of sensation I gifted her, and she whimpers.
“You want that release, don’t you, Angel?” I rest my hand on her inner thigh, feeling it shake and tremble. “You’ve been waiting all week for this, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” She pushes her back into the pillows and tugs on the restraints. “I’ve been so good. I’ve waited, just like you said.”
I massage her again, just enough that she bucks her hips.
“Fight it,” I direct. “Not yet.”
Her knees fight against the restraints, wanting to buckle together, but I pin them flat, giving her inner thighs a light slap. “No, no, Angel. You’re giving yourself to me tonight, just like you wanted. Do you still want to be with me?”
“I do.” Her tongue glides across her bottom lip. “Please don’t make me wait. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”
“You can and you will.”
I climb between her spread legs, lowering my tongue a bit more. As much as I’d love to devour her all night, the struggle is real. A few more licks and she’ll come all over my tongue.
She moans through tightened lips, her hands gripping and pulling at the restraints.
I’m hard as a rock, literally aching. This demonstration in self-control is just as much mine as it is hers.
“Please, Dane.”
My activity pauses.
She called me Dane.
Not Master.
Eyeing her writhing body, I know damn well it’s too late to stop any of this. She wants me, and God, do I want her. But we’re not Dane and Bellamy. This isn’t some sensual, erotic romance filled evening.
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