by M. S. Force
Smiling, I press my fingers to his lips to make him stop talking.
His eyes light up with silent laughter. He brings his free hand up to cover the fingers I’ve placed on his lips, and the next thing I know, he’s nibbling on my finger. The charge of heat that travels through my body sears me and collects in an insistent throb between my legs.
Overwhelmed by my reaction, I pull my hand free.
“Sorry,” he says, “I couldn’t resist.”
I’m undone and confused by the way my body responds to him. I’ve never experienced these particular reactions before, and I’m not sure what they mean. Am I reacting to Flynn the man, or Flynn the movie star? Even as I ask myself the question, I know it’s the former, and I’d be lying to myself if I said otherwise.
He has my full attention again when he runs his finger over the furrow between my brows. “Don’t overthink it, sweetheart.”
That makes me want to laugh. I overthink everything. I haven’t had a choice about that. When you leave your home and family at fifteen, overthinking becomes a way of life.
“I should go home—”
“Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks at the same time.
“Oh, um…” I check my watch. It’s only nine, and I don’t really want to leave, but I need a moment to get my emotions under control without his overpowering presence distracting me. “May I use your restroom?”
“By all means. You know where it is. Feel free to also use the tub, if you’d like.”
I laugh at that. “Thanks, but I’ll pass tonight.”
“The offer stands.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here.”
In the bathroom, I take a moment to practice the deep-breathing techniques my court-appointed counselor taught me. Any time I find myself out of balance or off-kilter, I breathe my way through it. I’ve been off-kilter since the moment I realized I’d crashed into Flynn Godfrey. And now… Now he’s asking me to go to California with him, to attend the Golden Globes, to meet his family. It’s too much.
I look in the mirror, and I’m shocked by what I see. My cheeks are flushed with color, my lips are slightly swollen as if I’ve been passionately kissed, and my eyes… My eyes are wide and somehow brighter. The rest of my body fairly vibrates with sensation, especially my nipples and between my legs.
Gazing at my reflection, I can’t deny that what I’m feeling—and seeing—is desire. It’s all new to me, so I can barely process the cascade of emotions that go along with this startling realization. After what happened to me when I was fifteen, I tamped down that part of me, the part that’s a young, healthy woman. Since then, I’ve avoided men and relationships and sex and all the things other young women seek out with unfettered abandon.
I can’t afford unfettered abandon. I survive by being in control at all times, and right now, I’m certainly not in control of my body’s reaction to Flynn. I use the facilities and then take a moment to run my hands under cool water. I bring my cold hands to my neck and face, hoping to regain the control that’s so critical to my new life.
I can enjoy the company of a handsome, charming, interesting man and hold it together. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it’ll actually be true. It’s probably time to go home, but I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t want this evening to be over. I just need to keep things in the proper perspective and not allow my puzzling reactions to govern my actions.
I’m in control at all times. I’ll never forget the excruciating journey that led me to this precious new life. I won’t let one handsome, charismatic man undo the hard work that allowed me to reclaim my sanity.
“Never forget,” I whisper to my reflection before I leave the bathroom to rejoin him.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks. “Movie or call it a night?”
Because he seems amenable to either option, I decide to stay awhile longer. “What do you have in the category of chick flick?”
He groans and makes me laugh with the look of agony he sends my way. “For real?”
“You asked. If it weren’t for you, I’d be home with Fluff well into a Lifetime movie by now.”
“Lifetime, huh? Wow, not sure I can compete with that.”
“Give it your best shot.”
He goes to the built-in entertainment center and opens a deep drawer that is completely full of DVDs. “Lady’s choice.”
“Do you have every movie ever made in there?”
“Only half of them. The other half is at my place in LA.”
“And you still buy the DVDs when you can stream most of these movies?”
“I like to own them. I’m a bit of a collector.”
“I see that.”
“Actually, you see a fraction of it. It’s a bit of an obsession. Film, VHS, DVD, Blu-ray. I have it all.”
“I suppose your obsession makes sense when you consider what you do for a living.”
“If that’s how you want to justify it. My sisters say I need a twelve-step program for this and my addiction to cars.”
“Better to be addicted to movies and cars than to some of the other things celebrities get hooked on.”
“See? That’s what I say, too, but they give me no quarter. Until their kids want an advance viewing of the next big movie. Then Uncle Flynn comes in awfully handy.”
“It’s not easy being you in your family, huh?”
“And you wonder why I like you so much. You feel my pain.”
I feel a lot more than his pain, and despite the talking-to I gave myself in the bathroom, I’m already spinning out of control again. It takes mere minutes in his presence to forget my vows, to be drawn in by his effortless charm and self-deprecating humor. There’s something incredibly attractive about a man who can laugh at himself, especially when the rest of the world holds him up as a deity of sorts.
Anxious for something to do with all the energy zinging around inside me, I squat for a closer look at the wide array of movies in the drawer. I home in instantly on my favorite movie of all time. Removing it from the drawer, I raise it for him to see.
His agony is immediately apparent. “Really?”
“Really. Lady’s choice and all.”
Crossing his arms and shaking his head, he says, “Well, I knew you were too good to be true. No one is perfect.”
“If you don’t like it, why do you have it?”
“It’s my mom’s favorite. My parents stay here when they’re in the city, so I keep some of their favorites on hand.”
I smile widely at him. “Your mom has excellent taste in movies.”
“If you say so. I’ll watch it on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You have to sing all the songs to me.”
“Done.” He has no idea what he’s in for. I know every word to every song in the movie.
“Crap, I figured you’d say no way to that.”
Laughing at the disgusted face he makes, I say, “Guess you haven’t got me totally figured out yet.”
“Maybe not, but I’m definitely making headway.”
She knows every word to every song in The Sound of Music, and her voice is crystal clear, angelic even. Singing about how she must’ve done something right to find the love of her life, she can’t bring herself to look at me. Her color is high, and I detect the slightest tremble in her hands. It’s all I can do to refrain from pulling her into my arms and kissing her senseless. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more desperately than I want to kiss her right now.
We’ve engaged in a spirited debate about what exactly constitutes schnitzel with noodle, and I want to send her something inside a brown paper package tied up with string. Perhaps some schnitzel with noodle? My mother and sisters love this movie. I’ve always considered it saccharine torture, but watching it with Natalie and witnessing her love for all things Von Trapp, I’m even more captivated than I was before.
Who am I kidding? It’s not the movie. It’s her. She’s sweet and unaffected
and adorable. And I have absolutely no business spending time with her, let alone allowing myself to wonder what might be possible. She’s too pure for my world. Being with me would ruin her, but knowing that doesn’t stop me from wanting her like I haven’t wanted anyone in longer than I can remember. Perhaps ever…
I have to hold myself back so I won’t give in to the urge to run my fingers through her long dark hair, to stroke the sweet heat that floods her cheeks whenever she looks my way, to press my body against hers to show her what she does to me just by sitting next to me singing silly songs with such unabashed glee.
She’s far, far too good for me, and if I weren’t such a selfish asshole, I’d take her home and forget I ever met her. That would be best for her. But I already know I won’t do that. I can’t do that. She hasn’t yet left my home and I’m already craving more of her and making plans to see her again—hopefully tomorrow.
Her lips move in time with “Edelweiss” as the captain performs at the music festival, and I notice her eyes are suddenly bright with unshed tears.
“Natalie?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
She nods. “It’s this song… It gets me every time. Makes me homesick.”
“When was the last time you were home?”
She seems to consider her answer carefully, which I find odd. “It’s been a while. A long while.”
“You didn’t go home for Christmas?”
She shakes her head. “Not this year.”
“You miss your family.” I pose it as a statement rather than a question, eager to see how she replies.
Without taking her gaze off the TV, she nods. “Yeah.”
I have a sudden, powerful feeling that there is much more to her story than what she’s let on.
“This is my favorite part,” she says of the nuns holding up parts from the Nazis’ cars.
“You gotta love a clever nun.”
She smiles at me, and I’m slayed, ruined, destroyed. Though it would be best for her—and probably for me, too—if I call it a night and try to forget about her, I won’t do that. I can’t do that. I want to know why she hasn’t seen her family in a long time. I want to know everything there is to know about her.
But she must never, ever find out everything there is to know about me.
The movie ends with the Von Trapps crossing the mountains on foot, and I offer to take her home. I hope she’ll ask to stay a little longer, but she agrees it’s time to call it a night. I retrieve her coat and hold it for her, again fighting the powerful need to touch her in any way I can. But I don’t. She’s made her feelings clear, and I want to respect them even if I don’t agree with them.
We take the elevator to the garage, and I help her into the Bugatti. The ride downtown is quiet, even as my mind races with things I’d like to say to her. I want to see you again. I want to be with you. I want to know you. Please come to California with me. I’ll show you my life, introduce you to the people I love. I want to beg her to tell me what she’s thinking. Did she enjoy herself tonight? Does she want to see me again? Will she come to the Globes with me?
Christ, Flynn. Act like you’ve been here before, will you? Yeah, I’m a mess over this woman, and I like how it feels. I like how I feel when I’m with her. I want to continue to feel this way for as long as I possibly can. These thoughts are reckless in light of who I am—not who I am to the public, but who I am in private. I have no business or right becoming involved with someone like Natalie. Yet I’m already involved with her. I’ve been involved with her since the moment she crashed into me and her little beast of a dog bit me.
I pull up to the curb in front of her building and kill the engine. Before she can tell me not to bother, I’m out of the car and going around to help her from the low-slung vehicle. She takes hold of the hand I offer, and I give a pull. Maybe I pull a little too hard on purpose so she’ll tumble into my arms, so I have no choice but to catch her, to bring her body in tight against mine.
“That was graceful,” she mutters against my chest, drawing a low rumble of laughter from me that belies my immediate reaction to the feel of her in my arms.
“I might’ve pulled a little harder than necessary.”
“Now the truth comes out.”
“Sorry.” I reluctantly release her, but she surprises me once again when she doesn’t immediately let go of my coat.
“I had a really nice time tonight. Thank you.”
I look down at her looking up at me, and the desire to kiss her is primal. But I don’t act on the urge. I exercise more self-control than I ever would’ve suspected I possess and take hold of her hand to walk her up the stairs to the door. “I had a really nice time, too. Thanks for giving me a chance.”
“Thanks for sitting through The Sound of Music.”
“It wasn’t as torturous as I remembered.”
She smiles again, and I feel like I’ve won something priceless because I made her smile. “I’d better go in before Fluff blows a gasket.”
Now that she mentions it, I can hear the little beast howling. “We can’t have that. Sleep well, Natalie.”
“You, too.”
Not likely, I think as I wait for her to use her key and step inside the vestibule. “Good night.”
“Night.” The door clicks shut behind her, and I have to tell myself to move, to go down the stairs to my car when every fiber of my being wants to be inside that building with her. Leaving her feels wrong, as if I’ve left something essential behind. Astounded by the way she has tipped my entire existence so precariously out of balance in the scope of one day, I pull away from the curb and head back uptown.
With my body alive with unspent desire and frustration and other emotions that defy easy definition, I know there’s no way I’ll sleep. Rather than go home, I head for the Park and East 65th building that houses the Quantum offices, among other things. It’s the other things I’m interested in tonight.
I take the ramp to the underground parking garage and place my hand on the palm scanner. The metal doors slide open, and I drive into the garage and park between Hayden’s black Porsche 911 and Jasper’s silver Audi A-8. I also notice Marlowe’s sleek white Bentley and Kristian’s gaudy red Lamborghini Aventador. I hate that car, but he loves it, so I keep my opinion to myself.
The whole gang is here tonight, and I’m eager for some time with my closest friends and business partners. We came up together in Hollywood. Hayden is a director, Jasper a cinematographer, Kristian one of the top producers in the business, Marlowe and myself the token actors who have starred together often enough that the paparazzi love to speculate on our personal relationship. Despite the drooling lust of the Hollywood press, since a brief romantic relationship ended years ago, there’s been nothing but close friendship between us. She’s like a fourth sister to me—the one who doesn’t report directly to my parents.
Thanks to the extreme secrecy and security in effect at Quantum, no one knows much of anything about the five of us or our sexual “predilections.” Beside the elevator, I place my palm on yet another scanner, and the doors open for me. Inside, I’m faced with a decision—go upstairs to the offices or downstairs to the playground, as we call it. I’m too wound up to concentrate on work, and I’m way too wound up for the playground, but I know I’ll find my friends there at this hour on a Saturday night, so down I go.
The doors open into what might be mistaken, at first glance, for a nightclub. It is that, but it’s so much more, too. While music thumps a low and sexy beat through the sound system, Jasper stands over a naked woman strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross. Flogger in hand, he speaks directly into her ear.
Dressed in leather from breasts to thighs, Marlowe is berating her naked sub for some infraction that will require stiff punishment. The man, president of one of the biggest banks on Wall Street, weeps from the pain of Marlowe’s stilettos cutting into his back. She’s a harsh Dominatrix with a line of subs waiting for a chance to experience her bran
d of punishment.
At the bar, I drop onto a stool, and Gabriel, the bartender who is also our head of security and club manager, puts a glass of my favorite Scottish single malt in front of me. “Thanks, Gabe.”
“Rough night?”
“No, a good night.” A great night. A fantastic, life-changing night. I take a sip of my drink, and the Bowmore burns its way through me. “How are things here?” I spot Kristian on one of the sofas, fully clothed and speaking with a woman I don’t recognize.
“Same as always.”
“Who’s that with Kristian?”
“A new member.”
Though Gabriel knows the full story on everyone who steps foot into the club, he’s good about staying out of the personal business of the five celebrities he works for. When Kristian wants me to know more about the new member he’s brought in, he’ll tell me himself.
“Is Hayden around?”
“In the dungeon with Cresley.”
“This I’ve got to see.” I take my drink with me when I cross the room, waving to several other members of our exclusive club who are making use of the sofas and sitting areas to get to know each other. Perhaps they’re negotiating the terms of a Dominant/submissive relationship or maybe they’re talking shop. The Hollywood lifestyle is as present here as the BDSM lifestyle is. Both are a big part of my life, which is why I have no business starting anything with Natalie.
“I won’t sleep with any man unless I’m married to him.”
What would she think of this place? The thought, which I would normally find amusing, saddens me. I’ve been a part of this lifestyle for most of my adult life, and have long ago stopped feeling like I have to explain myself to anyone. My need for sexual domination is as much a part of me as my parents’ DNA or the chin that comes straight from my paternal grandfather.
I lay my hand flat against another palm scanner and gain entry to the stairwell that leads to the dungeon in the basement. This area is available only to the five principals and their guests, all of whom are subjected to the same in-depth background checks and medical testing that prospective members endure. The difference being that full members are required to pay million-dollar initiation fees and sign confidentiality agreements that make it clear we’ll ruin them if they ever speak of what goes on here. Guests are only required to sign the confidentiality agreement, and we let them know we’ll enforce every word of it without hesitation.