by Shandi Boyes
Reading my inner monologue from my eyes, Serenity says, “Now tell me again all guys aren’t assholes?”
I look her straight in the eyes, my expression deadpan. “All guys aren’t assholes.”
Her mouth gapes. "If the purpose of your visit was solely to torture me, you’re shit out of luck, Sherlock." She places her hands on my shoulders and guides me into the industrial kitchen of Links.
The small grin on my face turns massive when I spot Lexi in the corner of the room. The sleeves of her shirt are crinkled around her elbows as she scrubs a large stainless steel pot in a sink of bubbly water. When she discovered Links was seeking volunteers, she pledged to help every Monday morning before school. I'm glad to see her naughty weekend with Jackson didn't alter her obligation.
“I stupidly agreed to let your sister cook the porridge this morning. Big mistake on my behalf. The pots may never recover, and don’t even get me started on the people brave enough to eat that mess,” Serenity grumbles, her tone half-amused, half-mortified.
The smile on my face sags when we stop in front of three pots with bottoms so black, they thrust an image of Delilah’s wilted heart into the forefront of my mind. I sling my head sideways so I can glare at Lexi with an I can’t believe you made such a mess face.
“What?” Lexi shrugs her shoulders. “How was I supposed to know you have to stir porridge?” She leans in close to Serenity and me, ensuring we will be the only ones to hear her next sentence. “After my night, I can barely stand up, let alone move my arms. I swear muscles I didn’t even know about are aching.”
"Hell-to-the-yes, Sister," Serenity replies, holding her hand in the air for a high five. "I saw that sweet thing who dropped you off this morning. My god. . . heaven wrapped up in delicious milky skin."
My eyes rocket to Lexi when she accepts Serenity’s high five while saying, “Preach. Although after he spends his morning searching antique stores for a replacement entranceway table before my neurotic sister returns home, he may double guess our next exchange.”
Serenity’s beautiful giggle shrills into my ears when she throws her head back and laughs. “You were right, Cleo. I do love her. She is perfect.” She wraps her arms around Lexi the best she can without getting her crushed linen shirt wet. “Don’t ever change for no one, girl.”
When a lady shredding lettuce on our right calls out Serenity’s name, Serenity raises her index finger into the air, requesting a minute before drifting her eyes back to me. “I’ll let Marcus know you’re here?”
Since her statement comes out sounding like a question, I nod. “Since she is my responsibility, I guess I should help clean up the mess she made,” I mumble, nudging my head to the stack of burned pots.
Any reply Serenity attempts to give is doused with laughter when Lexi stuffs a handful of bubbles into my face. I cough, choking on the tingles racing up my nose from inhaling the bubbles unexpectedly. Serenity shakes her head, like she knows all too well how taxing younger sisters can be before padding over to the lady requesting her assistance.
After wiping my face with a tea towel, I shift my eyes to Lexi.
“What?” she remarks again, her tone telling me she knows exactly what my stare is referring to.
When she maintains her quiet front, I mutter, “You broke the entranceway table?”
“No,” she fires back, shaking her head. “Jackson did.” Her sentence is heavily muffled with laughter. “What about you? Any broken furniture I should know about?” She waggles her brows, her mood a drastic improvement from the one she had yesterday.
I wrap an apron around my waist before setting to work on the first pot. "No. All furniture was left intact." I wait a beat, fighting not to let my maturity stoop to Lexi's level. Clearly, it's a complete waste of time when I add on, "A priceless painting may never recover, though."
I shush Lexi when she loudly hollers, “I knew some of Mom’s rebellion was in there someone!” She rakes her eyes down my body, her stare outrageous enough to make a hooker blush. “I thought you looked a little different today. It’s a good look for you. You should wear filthy Cleo more often.”
Suddenly, she freezes. "Oh, you gave your notice today, didn't you?"
I smile while nodding.
“How do you feel?” Lexi asks, even though she can read the answer from my brightened gaze.
“Brilliant.” I overemphasize the word in a dramatic purr.
“Good,” Lexi replies, playfully barging me with her shoulder. “You should have done it years ago.”
I nod in full agreement.
A small stretch of silence passes between us as we tackle the coated-on porridge scorching the pots. The pots are so far gone, if I weren’t mindful of our bank balance, I’d throw them in the trash and purchase new ones. But with me handing in my notice, my penny pinching just firmed to a whole new level. If people thought my budgeting was pedantic before, they have no idea, because it just became ten times worse.
A short time later, the hairs on my arms prickle with primitive awareness. Before my body can fully register Marcus’s arrival, he bands his broad arm around my waist and draws me backward. I rest my head on his chest and inhale deeply, relishing the scent of his unique smell activating every one of my hot buttons.
With our impromptu romp in his office stretching our time a little thin, he ran out of time to shave this morning, which means the stubble on his chin scratches my neckline when he drags his mouth to my ear to whisper, “You were supposed to call me.”
My pulse quickens from his stern tone. From the affectionate way he is holding me, I failed to notice the anger radiating out of him. Only now do I realize the heat warming my back isn’t based on affection; it's anger.
When I attempt to spin around to face him, he tightens his grip on my waist, denying my request. “You were supposed to call me. Why didn’t you call me?” he snarls viciously, sending my heartrate haywire.
“It was five blocks; I decided to walk. It’s a nice day for it.” I’m planning to tell him about my confrontation with Dexter, but not in the presence of the dozen or so pairs of eyes gawking at us.
Marcus’s fingers flex painfully on my hip, sending a tingle of pleasure to my core. “You walked here?” he asks, his tone brimming with even more unbridled anger.
I wait a beat before cautiously nodding, mindful I’m admitting to being disobedient in a place funded by his BDSM club revenue. Thank god we are in public, or who knows what his punishment may have entailed?
Marcus manages to keep his furious growl in—barely. I felt it rumble up his chest, so I didn't need to hear it to know of its existence. He tugs at the cords wrapped around my waist, dumps the apron onto the scrubbed-clean pots, then clasps my hand in his. His pulse is so furious it pulverizes my hand.
“Say goodbye to your sister,” he instructs me, his tone stern.
I glare into his eyes, informing him I don’t appreciate his commanding tone. My pussy may be shuddering in anticipation, but for once, my astute brain is overruling my lust-driven body’s desire.
“Would you rather be punished in privacy or in front of witnesses?” Marcus questions, his tone so low only those closest to us can hear him.
When I float my eyes around the room, I realize we haven’t just gained a handful of spectators; everyone in the kitchen has their eyes rapt on us. Some are clutching elaborate trinkets curled around their necks as they inconspicuously peer at us through lowered lashes, where others just stare without shame, not hiding their interest in the slightest.
I drift my eyes back to Marcus. My first thought is to continue with my stubborn stance, but with my ego already dealing with two knocks I didn't expect today, I gather my purse and turn to face Lexi.
“Goodbye,” I grind out through gritted teeth. “I have to go as my boyfriend is being an insensitive jerk.”
A collective gasp booms around the kitchen, revealing to me that I said my statement louder than I intended. Pretending I can’t feel Marcus’s irate gaze, I wrap
my free arm around Lexi’s shuddering-with-laughter torso and give her a quick hug the best I can since Marcus is still clutching my other hand.
“Oh, Cleo, some furniture is about to get broken.”
“Furniture or body parts?” I reply, my pitch snarky. “And I’m not referring to my body parts.”
There has only been one time I’ve wanted to cause physical harm to another human being. It was when I kneed Richard in the balls. If Marcus doesn’t tread carefully, he will end up being my second slip up.
Lexi laughs. “If anyone can bring a master to heel, it will be you, Cleo,” she mutters, encouraging my defiance. She gives me one final squeeze before pulling back.
After dipping his chin in farewell to Lexi, Marcus exits the kitchen, dragging me along with him.
“I recant my earlier statement,” I mumble to Serenity as her wide eyes track us crossing the rec room. “All men are assholes.”
My admission angers Marcus more. His grip on my hand turns so lethal, my knuckles turn a pasty white color.
“I need my coat,” I advise when he takes a sharp left at the end of the rec room, heading to the back entrance of Links instead of the front.
"I'll buy you another," he mutters, his tone so low, I'm confident the devil felt its shudder.
I dig my heels into the ground the best I can in these shoes. “I don’t want another coat. That’s my coat. I want my coat.” I know I’m acting like an immature imbecile over an article of clothing that cost me twenty dollars three years ago, but with my annoyance hackled to a record-breaking high, my astuteness has completely vanished.
Marcus muffles something under his breath. Although I couldn't testify on a Bible, I'm reasonably sure it was a curse word. Releasing my hand from his, he trudges to the entrance of Links, furiously yanks my jacket off the coatrack, then stomps back to me. In silence, we continue our trek.
The Links patrons’ faces light up when they notice Marcus strolling down the corridor where the rooms are located. None approach us, though. Marcus's rueful expression is enough warning for them to stay away. I don't blame them. I love this man, but I'd give anything to have a few continents between us right now. I don't know what his problem is. Yes, I failed to call him once my meeting with Mr. Carson was over, but my head wasn’t screwed on straight after my impromptu lunch date with Dexter, so a bout of forgetfulness can be excused.
Besides, I've walked the streets of New York many times the past twenty-six years. Half the time the sun wasn't even up. So if he is worried about me getting hurt, there is no need, I’m capable of taking care of myself.
When I say that to Marcus, he steps come to an immediate halt on the cracked sidewalk at the back of Links. He glares at me, his jaw ticking so profusely the entire left side of his face twitches. He looks like he wants to say something, but not a peep seeps from his lips.
“I’m not a damsel in distress, Marcus. I don’t need you to rush in and save me.”
Steam billows out of his nose when he inwardly grunts. “Don’t push me, Cleo. Not today.” His tone guarantees I can’t mistake his warning as a suggestion.
After helping me into the passenger seat of his car, he throws my jacket in the back seat before running around to the driver’s side. His speed out of the alleyway is so manic, he narrowly misses a homeless man rummaging through a dumpster halfway down the alley.
“Jesus Christ, slow down.”
Acting like he didn’t hear a word I spoke, Marcus demands, “Put your head down.”
I smack my back molars together before doing as requested. The flashing of paparazzi lights commence the instant we merge out the alleyway. Although the traffic around New York is bumper to bumper, I’m thrusted into my seat when Marcus finds an opening relatively quickly. It's only when I hear beeping horns and curse words directly following his merger into traffic do I realize it wasn’t a clear opening.
His engine revs as he exerts the power of his flashy sports car on the unsuspecting motorists he weaves through dangerously. The tendons in his cut arms flex with every change of the gears. Even my plummeting mood can’t deny the visual of an angry Marcus is an enticing one.
Approximately five minutes later, the flashing lights stop hindering my vision.
“I lost the paparazzi,” Marcus informs me, confirming my suspicion.
Lifting my gaze from my intertwined fingers, I lock eyes with him. His hands are clutching the steering wheel for dear life, the skin on top of his knuckles is void of any natural skin coloring. His jaw is pulled tight, ticking and grinding in sync with the mad beat of his heart, and his eyes are narrowed into tiny slits.
“Why are you so angry?” I ask, shocked at his sudden shift in composure.
I’ve become accustomed to my rollercoaster moods of late, but this is the first time I’ve seen Marcus exert this level of aggression. He wasn’t even this angry the night he discovered Richard killed Stephen.
Keeping his gaze locked on the dense flow of traffic, Marcus sneers, “You were told to call me. You said you’d call me.”
“And I decided to walk. Big deal.” I roll my eyes, acting as immaturely as he is.
“Was the decision to walk made before or after you had Toloache tacos for lunch?”
I stare at him, shocked and blinking. “How do you know about that?”
He remains quiet, ignoring me.
“Do you have someone watching me?” I ask, my anger rising faster than my snarky tone.
“No,” Marcus eventually grinds out. “But after today’s performance, I may reconsider.”
Snubbing his sneered comment, I stare straight into his eyes while asking, “Then how did you know where I went to lunch? There are thousands of restaurants in New York. There is no way you could have known where I’d eaten unless you have someone following me.”
Marcus's eyes drop to my cell phone resting on my thigh. It's only a quick glance, but long enough to spill a lifetime of secrets. I call him every derogatory name I know under my breath while attempting to pry apart my cell phone. It takes me hitting it on the shiny dashboard of his car to get the back to crack open.
“Cleo. . .” Marcus growls in warning, his tone as feverish as the blood scorching my veins.
I ignore him and continue with my mission, not the slightest bit concerned I'm wrecking a phone I can't afford to replace. My anger is too intense to think lucidly.
My fury reaches fever pitch when I find a small black device thinner than a sheet of paper planted under the battery of my cell. Even not being friendly with computers, my years as an investigative reporter assures I can’t mistake what this item is.
Fuming in anger, I peg the battery of my cell at Marcus's head. My teeth crunch when it misses its mark. It hits the driver's side window before crumbling to the floor.
“You planted a bug on my cell!” My statement is not a question; it's a declaration. “Why the hell would you do that? Did you not learn the first time what happens when you invade my privacy?”
Not waiting for him to reply, I yank on the latch of my door.
“Jesus Christ, Cleo. We’re in rush hour traffic,” Marcus roars, like I’m not aware we are surrounded by a sea of vehicles. I’m aware, but my desire to get away from him is more potent than concerns for my safety.
“Unlock my door.”
After everything that has happened today, finding out he bugged my cell is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I am beyond ropeable he did this. Being controlling in the bedroom is one thing, but taking that trust and exploiting it outside of that environment is a hard limit for me—a very hard limit. That's one of the main reasons I wouldn’t sign on to be his sub. The idea of giving up all my power was more than I could bear.
“Unlock my door!” I shout when Marcus pretends he didn’t hear my first request.
“No,” he answers, his tone precise and without concern.
“Let me out!” I scream, my voice so loud, I gain the attention of the vehicles on each side of us.
When Marcus continues to deny my request, I secure anything I can and peg it at his head. My lip gloss, a set of keys, my purse, they all go sailing across the car, more hitting their target than not.
“Goddamn it, Cleo, stop it!” Marcus roars, his words so furious, they rattle my ribcage.
Even with panic overtaking my anger, I continue with my assault. My mind is too blurred with seeking revenge to stop and consider the consequences of my actions. When I run out of supplies to hurl at him, I remove my shoes and throw them across the confined space. A tinge of hesitation passes through me when the heel of my shoe hits Marcus just above his furrowed brow, leaving a scratch mark visible enough even my squinted-with-anger eyes can see it.
My body crashes into the passenger side door when Marcus unexpectedly pulls down an alley. Before I can comprehend what he is doing, he throws back the driver's seat, seizes my wrists, then drags me across the console of his car. With my head buried in his crotch and my ass perched in the air, the flare of my dress bunches around my waist. I freeze when the warmth of one of Marcus's hands yanks my panties down my thighs, while the other one pins my lower stomach to the console. The sheer lace material of my panties is no match for his strength. They crumble to my knees like sheets of tissue paper.
I suck in a shocked breath when reality dawns. Oh, hell no, he is not spanking me now. We’re in public for crying out loud!
Before my inner monologue can be articulated, Marcus places a firm smack on my right butt cheek. I call out as fiery warmth spreads across my burning backside. His second hit is just as firm as the first. It adds to the heat turning my skin pink while also increasing the dampness between my legs. By the time he inflicts his third hit, I’ve stopped thrashing against him, my body too immersed in controlling the raging fire rapidly building in my core to consider the absurdity that I’m being spanked like a child.
He completes another two spanks before he switches to soothing the burn his hand made. The sound of his ragged breaths is the only thing I hear when he caresses the globes of my stinging ass with gentle squeezes and soft rubs. His pulse is raging through his body so uncontrollably, I can feel it surging through his thighs my head is resting on. He is also hard as steel, the heat of his flesh unmissable since it's pressed against my cheek.