by Angel Lawson
I swallow, every nerve on alert. “I can’t. Not like this. Not with people…around.”
“I think you can,” he replies, pumping his fingers in and out. My knees catch and he slides his other arm around my waist. “You know you want it. Jesus, just look at you. So fucking close, you’re shaking.”
I bite back a gasp. “That’s fear. You’re scaring me. Someone may catch us.”
“That’s not fear. It’s want, Cherry. It’s on the inside. Your pussy is quivering for me.” His thumb brushes over my clit and a jolt shoots through me. “You want this over? Then come for me.”
I want to tell him that he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know my body, can’t possibly understand it. But once again, my body shamefully revolts. With every thrust of his fingers, my hips begin chasing them, wanting them closer. Every time the heel of his hand presses into my clit, I buck against it, seeking the friction. My heartbeat bangs against my chest, blood growing hotter with every step that brings the students closer. Suddenly, the thought of him stopping seems more unbearable than being caught. Spurred on like some mindless thing, a wave of electric, greedy adrenaline courses through my body.
“Come for me, Story,” he demands, voice quiet but hard like stone. It’s like a switch flips. My body turns hot, skin prickling with an aching rawness. Sweat begins building, and when I hear the footsteps right behind us, I can’t hold back any longer. The orgasm ricochets through me like an explosion, spreading sweet and sharp from the center of my body. I swallow my voice, biting down hard on my bottom lip to hold my cries inside. It washes over me like a wicked wave, pulling me beneath the surface. Tristian, large body draped calmly over mine, holds onto me as I ride his hand and shatter into pieces.
“That’s a good, good girl,” he purrs, slowing his movements.
I grab onto the railing with both hands to hold myself upright. Glancing behind me, I’m convinced the other students will all be there, gawking at us. But they’ve already passed by, none of them the wiser.
Even with that reassurance, I step away from Tristian and smooth out my skirt, pretending that I don’t still feel the ghost of his fingers inside of me, or the warm afterglow of an incredible orgasm.
In this moment, I hate myself.
I hate my body, and his skilled fingers. I hate it as much as I did back then, that night in the laundry room. I hate this library. I hate all three of them, for being so cold and callous, but somehow still managing to make me feel this sparking heat.
This heat that won’t stop. My neck prickles with sweat and the edges of my vision go dark, tunneling. I feel myself sway, but am powerless to stop it. I shoot a hand out to catch myself, but everything goes black.
I don’t even feel the fall.
I rouse in increments. It’s the smell that hits me first—a strong, floral perfume. After that I begin receiving snatches of sound. Shoes shuffling on the floor, indistinct voices, whispers.
My name. “Story? Wake up now.”
Tristian.
Feeling a hand on my forehead, I squirm away, slowly opening my eyes. It takes me a long moment to remember. Tristian. The orgasm. Everything fading to black.
Now, there are people standing over me. Not just Tristian. There’s a group of guys, but also a gorgeous girl about my own age, with dark, curly hair and smooth skin.
Her hazel eyes bore into mine. “Do you know what day it is?”
I blink at her, trying to orient myself. “First day. Monday. The eleventh.”
The girl—woman—nods. “It looks like you passed out. Do you have any medical conditions?” When I shake my head, she hums. “When was the last time you’ve eaten?”
“Last night,” I croak, gently levering myself up onto my elbows. “But before that…” I trail off, suddenly feeling mortified.
She glances back at the group of guys. “She’s probably just got low blood sugar or something.” Looking at me, she gives a rueful grin. “I’m Sutton, the Countess. I’m pre-med, but that mostly just means a bunch of impossibly hard science classes they make us take to weed out the weak.”
“Oh.”
She throws Tristian a sharp look. “Is it LDZ tradition to starve their Lady, or are you just particularly negligent?”
Oh, god. Tristian.
He’s standing stiffly beside me with those cold eyes glaring daggers at the group. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business. She’s our Lady. We’ll take it from here.”
Sutton scoffs, standing. She offers me a hand to help me up, and I take it without thinking. “Easy there, Lady. You good?” I nod, carefully avoiding Tristian’s gaze as I steady myself.
One of other guys—a Count—chuckles. “Should have known. I wouldn’t put a puppy in the Lords’ care, let alone a whole-ass woman.”
Another Count meets my gaze, mouth curving into a grin. “Hey, Lady. Blink twice if you’re being held against your will. We’ll feed you something.” He grabs his crotch in emphasis.
Tristian smoothly steps between us. “That’s kind of sad, actually. A girl would have to be pretty desperate to think your dick was worth putting in her mouth.”
The Counts all laugh. One says, “At least the Countess is still standing. At this rate, you’ll be Lady-less by Friday.”
Another Count pipes in, “Jesus, they can’t even feed her. Times must be pretty rough over there. Maybe we should send them a care package. Girl’s looking a bit too thin anyway.”
Sutton meets my gaze, lips pressed into a tight, unhappy line. But like me, she remains silent.
Tristian grabs my hand. My hackles are already raised at the sight of his stony, expressionless face, but it’s even worse at the sound of his voice. Flawlessly even, and still somehow cutting. “Being a Count must be difficult. Always second from the top, but never quite able to achieve glory.” He shakes his head, giving them a look someone else might mistake for sympathy. We can all see the lack of sincerity in it, though. “I’ll let this pass on account of feeling sorry for you. Well, and because your Cuntess seemed so helpful.”
With that, he tugs me away from the group, down the marble staircase, and out of the library.
I try to keep up.
His jaw is rigid when he finally breaks the silence. “Do you have any idea how that made us look?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Fucking ridiculous. How did you not eat breakfast? Lunch?”
He’s not really looking for an answer, his narrow eyes fixed straight ahead, flashing with ire.
I give him an answer anyway. “If you recall, none of you would let me eat breakfast.” Paying no mind to the way my voice sounds—curt, scathing—I add, “And I had things to do during lunch. I was in the student center working out my course schedule.”
“Fantastic,” he mutters snidely. “Killian and his fucking temper. You and your fucking willful disobedience. I can see now that I’m going to have to make myself in charge of these things.”
Swallowing nervously, I ask, “What things?”
His eyes cut to mine and he pauses, some of that sharp tension draining from his features. He lifts my chin with a finger and grins. “Taking care of you, Sweet Cherry.”
The restaurant we walk to isn’t what I’m expecting. It’s a formal type of place, with mood lighting. The staff are in suits. As Tristian talks in low, smooth tones to the host at the front, I shift awkwardly, looking down at my absurd outfit. I’d feel less out of place if I’d just come in naked.
“This way,” the man says, leading me and Tristian to a table in the back.
For his part, Tristian blends in perfectly, even being dressed in a casual button-down and jeans. “Sit,” he orders, and then to the man, “We’ll start with two glasses of water and some bread. And not that processed crap you send out for free. I want your bakery’s special. If I see even a hint of bleached flour at this table, I’ll be very unhappy.”
The man doesn’t skip a beat, giving a nod before loping off.
Tristian opens the menu, not bothering to spare me a gl
ance. “You need a good protein. Something fresh. Organic, if we can manage it. Do you eat meat?” Despite the question, he doesn’t even leer at me.
I still wait a moment, just in case I’m walking into a trap. “...yes?”
He sighs. “That’s disappointing. Being vegan makes it a lot easier.” Just then, a waiter arrives with the water and a basket of bread. Tristian asks, “Is your chicken antibiotic-free?” While he and the waiter go over which meats are ‘poisoned with unnatural chemicals and hormones’—Tristian’s words—I mull over his question.
When the waiter has left, I ask, “Being vegan makes what a lot easier?”
“Eating fresh and clean.” He tosses the menu aside, nudging the basket of bread toward me. “Well? Go on. Can’t have you fainting like some Victorian handmaid again.”
He doesn’t look angry anymore. The soft light from the centerpiece’s candle casts his features in a warm, deceptive glow, even as his cool eyes watch me. I get the startling, unwelcome realization that this is what Tristian might look like on a date.
The thought all at once disgusts and fascinates me.
Reluctantly, I pluck a roll from the basket, tearing off a bite. Hoping to break some of the strange atmosphere, I wonder, “Are you vegan?”
“Sometimes,” he answers, perfectly still. The flickering candle reflects in his eyes. “You do know what happened back there, don’t you? At the library, before you got acquainted with the floor.”
The bread is suddenly like swallowing sandpaper. “It was a lesson,” I guess.
He raises an eyebrow. “And? What did you learn?”
My brain combs through the fog for the answer. “That you can do what you want to me, whenever and wherever.”
“Yes, that’s right.” He gives me a patronizing smile. “And?”
“And I need to be where I’m supposed to be, and only speak to men with your permission.”
“Yes. Exactly.” He reaches out and pushes a sweaty piece of hair off my cheek. “And this, what we’re doing right now? You realize this is a reward, don’t you?”
Reward.
The word travels sourly down my esophagus with the bread. “A reward for what?”
He lowers his hand and it lands on my wrist, right over the cuff I’d fastened this morning. “You didn’t speak to the Counts. You wouldn’t even look them in the eye. That’s loyalty.” He lifts my wrist, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of my hand.
His eyes pin mine as he does it, an oddly sweet gesture, gently returning my hand to the table afterward.
The way it makes me feel inside is foreign and unsettling. It’s a soft, wistful sort of feeling, offset by something strangely wounded, as if the better half of me has just realized how very fake it all must be.
I think I prefer punishments.
10
Killian
Every muscle in my body aches by the time I finally get home from practice. I park my truck in the garage and wince from the soreness. Our first game is Saturday and Coach decided to put us through the gauntlet to make sure we’re prepared. I collect my bag from the back of the truck and approach the house, knowing what’s waiting for me inside.
Not that I care.
I don’t. But the awareness of her presence is a hard thing to shake, like being fucking haunted. It’s an annoying thing to reconcile, the half of me that wishes Story hadn’t ever come back, and the half of me that’s salivating at the thought of owning her.
I hang my gear on a hook by the back door, feeling my aching muscles strain. The truth is, I don’t mind a little pain—especially when it’s the result of a hard practice or a well-played game. Each hit, each blow gives me somewhere to channel all this pent-up energy I have swelling inside. It’s something concrete to fight.
That’s another reason I agreed to have Story as our Lady.
Especially after dominating so hard last year, I need a challenge. Shit here’s gotten too lax. It’d be easy to fall into the complacency of it. To stagnate. To become less powerful in the process.
Ms. Crane is hunched over the stove when I enter the kitchen. She gives me a sidelong look. “Still alive, I see.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, shrugging off my jacket. The scent of her cooking slams into me like a freight train. “What’s for dinner?”
“Lasagna,” she answers. “And I better not hear any lip from Satan’s right testicle in there. Damn sick of hearing his big blond bellyaching.”
“Tristian?” I ask, peering back to see into the dining room. “You know how he is.” Tristian’s hateboner for Ms. Crane is a thing of legend, and it’s completely mutual. They were doomed from start, since he has to have his special fucking organic, non-GMO, locally-sourced yadda yadda bullshit, and I’m not sure Ms. Crane knows how to cook anything that doesn’t come frozen or in a jar.
Pausing, I give her a look. “Right testicle? Which one of us is the left?”
She pulls a knife from the drawer and I have to actively stop myself from stepping back. Ms. Crane can be a scary bitch sometimes. “Oh, the other one.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “What exactly does that make me?”
Her grin bares a row of stained teeth. “You’re the foreskin, kid.”
I glower at her. “I don’t think paid help is supposed to be quite this insolent.”
“I don’t think I give a fuck,” she responds, glowering right back. “I’m not one of your little bimbo bitches. Now shut your damn face hole and get the plates down. You’re not too old to put over my blade, boy.”
I roll my eyes. I know better than anyone that Ms. Crane has the cred to back up her threats, but if she really wanted to off me, she would have done it when I was a rowdy, pissed off kid, taking refuge in her squat little office on the off weekends. And God knows Tristian would have been dead forever ago. Her soft spot for me is understandable. She’s practically family—like a cranky, old, gin-drinking, chain-smoking, ex-felon aunt. But she has a soft spot for the others, too, I guess. After all, we did pretty much rescue her from South Side.
While she’s puttering around in the pantry, she says, “I met your little toy today.”
I peek back in the dining room, not seeing her. Clenching my jaw, I voice the question that’s been kicking around in my head since I pulled in the driveway, “Where is she?”
“How the hell should I know?” Ms. Crane answers, emerging from the cupboard with a bottle of grated parmesan. “Fed her a snack and sent her on her way. She didn’t seem inclined to attend dinner with the sentient manifestations of Satan’s genitalia. Can’t say I blame her. You’ve got the personalities of an anal itch. Don’t know how I stand it.”
“You’re really on a tear today, Ms. Crane.” I narrow my eyes. “What the hell crawled up your ass and died?”
She waves the knife at me. “That girl? Whatever you think she is, she’s the opposite. I know the look. She’s gonna fuck you up, kid. Can’t say I won’t laugh when she does.”
“You don’t know anything about her,” I grind out, snatching a plate from the cabinet.
“Oh, I know her better than you ever will.” Hobbling past me, she sends me a raspy chuckle. “Birds of a feather. Don’t matter if we only just met. Me and her go way back. You’ll see.”
Fucking cryptic old crime widows.
“You cannot be fucking serious,” Tristian says, sneering at the food she sets on the table. There’s a vein popping out of his forehead and Rath and I share a look at the building tantrum. “Do you have any idea what’s in this cheese? It’s not cheese. It’s shelf-stable saw dust! The pasta…this can’t even be legally referred to as pasta! This bread is full of preservatives and chemicals, and I don’t even want to know where you got the meat in there.” He rubs his temples like he’s grasping for his last shred of control. “I can’t eat this garbage, Ms. Crane!”
Ms. Crane stabs a serving spoon into the middle of the lasagna and says, “You can eat this or you can eat shit. I don’t give a damn either way,
you putrid lump of horseshit.”
Tristian’s eye twitches as he watches her leave the room. “I’m getting sick of her crap! Why is she our housekeeper and cook? She shouldn’t be getting paid for two jobs if she can only do one and a half.”
Rath shoots him a glare. “Leave Ms. Crane alone. It’s not her fault you’ve got some kind of food-related mental illness.”
“Caring about my body isn’t a mental illness,” he responds, standing. “And I’ll get the last laugh when you’re both eaten up with cancer and have failing organs.” Rath and I roll our eyes as Tristian storms from the room.
“I swear he gets worse when he’s not getting any,” Rath says, serving himself a helping. “Shit’s about to get really tense around here. What do you think that’s about anyway? The fidelity clause?”
I can’t imagine how many calories I burned at practice. It must have been thousands. I heap three big spoonfuls of pasta onto my plate, trying not to think too hard about the clause my bitch stepsister added to the contract. “Trying to piss us off.”
Rath looks doubtful. “Nah, there has to be something tactical there. A whole academic year with the three of us, and she knowingly bars us from fucking anyone else? That’s just asking to get railroaded at every turn.”
“She thinks we can’t do it,” I explain, chewing my food blankly. “She thinks we’ll fold, and then the whole contract will be null and void.”
Tristian returns then, plate in hand. “Luckily, I still have leftovers from my little date with Sweet-ass Cherry.”
I stop chewing. “Your what?”
Instead of answering, he says, “I’ve put myself in charge of her general wellbeing now. Any withholding of meals needs to go through me first.”
Now, I set down my fork. “How the fuck do you figure?”
“I figure,” he begins, chomping into a piece of bread, “since she fainted in the library. In front of the Counts. Because she hadn’t fucking eaten today. It made us look like bad Lords. You’re too pissed off to look after her, and Rath isn’t reliable enough to look after himself most days.”