Her eyelids fell to half mast, and her pants grew louder. In desperation, perhaps? Arousal? Upset? Remorse?
Alexander banded himself to Eric “Rebecca, get closer.” She awkwardly inched her knees closer so she and Eric had their faces buried in each other’s necks, giving the nipple chain some slack.
Perhaps it was the male ego in him, or some unfounded thought Eric could take it, but Alexander spared none of his strength as he began to fuck Eric mercilessly. The man groaned and pushed his hips backward, meeting each thrust. The cords in his neck strained, his skin’s color rising to crimson. Rebecca panted in obvious frustration, the limo’s interior ambient lights reflected on the skin of her slick thighs.
Somewhere over the Memorial bridge, as the limo clunked a rhythm under its tires, he came inside Eric.
He unchained them, removed plugs, and wiped skin and faces with damp clothes. He wrapped Rebecca in a blanket to lie on the back seat, still undulating a little as she held ungranted orgasms inside her body. Eric cleaned himself up, a sly smile on his face, fully sated as Alexander had granted him a climax into his own hand.
He sat back and rapped on the privacy screen. “Home, Tony.”
They’d eat in his room, not the restaurant, where he’d eventually release Rebecca himself. Eventually. This woman had his heart, and truth told, Eric had begun to creep inside, too. He’d be damned, though, if he’d ever let his affections be toyed with and crushed by anyone. He would ensure today would be the last time they’d leave without telling him.
35
Rebecca leaned back in her chair and gazed over the Library. Apparently, the rich not only made problems disappear but could throw a party for over one hundred people in less than one day. What was once a playground for sexual play was now a Martha Stewart magazine spread. One hundred and fourteen people sat at round tables draped in starched white tablecloths under tree branches threaded with little white fairy lights, strings of red berries and fall leaves. Gleaming white plates edged in gold, cut crystal goblets with red and gold napkins spilling out in an origami-worthy spray, and gold and silver place settings glinted and sparkled as if brand new. They probably were. Martha would be so proud.
Alexander, at the head of the center table, had ensured she sat on his right. She had the oddest sensation of being in the eye of a whirlpool, all that people energy swirling around her. Or perhaps it was the wine.
“May I pour you more, madame?” A white-suited waiter hovered with a white wine bottle over her glass with a questioning look.
She waved him off. “No, thank you.” Three glasses of chardonnay over three hours was plenty, and she had people’s names to remember. She had engaged her best reporter trick equating characteristics with their names to etch them in her mind, especially the wives of the Tribunal Council. Christiana, London, Isabella, and Samantha turned out more Vanity Fair magazine cover model than the soft-spoken seamstresses of an Amish sewing circle she’d once envisioned.
Christiana, wife to Jonathan, resembled an innocent Madonna. London, wife to Carson, looked every inch the sophisticate, like the city. Isabella, married to Marcos, had a femininity true to her lyrical name. With any luck, all that would stick.
Samantha was easy to remember, as she’d forever be etched in Rebecca’s mind as the mother of little Alexander who now bounced on the lap of her Vikingesque husband, Derek. His arm was thrown over the back of his wife’s chair in a protective stance, his other hand rubbing circles on their baby’s back, so loving and sure. Seeing them comforted her, the conventionality of their family clear even though she understood they were also part of Club Accendos. The alternating domesticity and heady sexual energy of the group had her head spinning—even if her experiences to date, even the limo scene, were thrilling, and pleasurable, and honestly desired. She’d been oddly comforted by Alexander’s vehemence about keeping her close. However, not every day can be a trip to the candy love store.
She tried not to stare too long at the baby and his huge blue-green eyes, his lids drooping a little after polishing off a baby bottle while nestled against Derek’s neck. Little Alexander was so beautiful Rebecca had found her gaze drifting to him a dozen times since they’d arrived.
That could have been me. Her eyes darted to grown-up Alexander. He would have been a magnificent father, albeit a little strict in the discipline department. She could have been the counter force to that, taking their son out to the garden to watch the butterflies and count the birds.
Alexander’s hand came down on hers. “Feeling all right?” His sophisticated veneer was back, a sharp contrast to yesterday’s lion growling at his pride. His eyes bathed her in all the warmth missing then.
“Fine. Time for water, that’s all.” She lifted an etched crystal goblet to her lips and swallowed down a lump in her throat.
The screech of Alexander’s chair made her straighten in her seat. He rose with his wine glass in hand, clinked it with a knife.
“Friends, family.” He glanced down at her and then back up to the crowd. “Thank you for being here. Thanksgiving season is a time for gratitude, and this year I have extra blessings to be thankful for. My first gift to you during this holiday season is a short toast.”
A titter ran across the room.
His lips inched up into a mellow smile. “My first blessing. Rebecca.”
The sound of chairs shifting and fabric adjusting nearly knocked her off her seat. Her skin prickled. So many faces were turned toward her. What did they see? The aging travel writer? The childless woman with a tragic past? Alexander’s submissive?
“I count being reconnected to you as an undeserved gift, but I promise to keep hold of it with both hands and all my heart.” He reached for her fingers with his free hand, raised them to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “You were my first love, and I promise my last.”
Yes, they were in love. She stared up into his blue eyes, let herself sink into them. She’d never doubt he loved her, and she him. Was love enough? They’d never have a conventional life of children, a white picket fence, Sunday dinners with just the three of them. Their life together would be … She ran her gaze around the room. This. Every emotion possible ran up and down her spine. Every. Single. One. A thesaurus couldn’t have helped her name them all. How about anxiety, aching, affection, aggravation, amusement … and that was just getting started on the A’s.
“And, Eric.” Alexander held his glass toward him. “You have been a special gift to me. To us.”
Eric’s cheeks colored, something she’d not seen happen often. He dipped his chin toward Alexander but didn’t say anything. Instead he lifted his glass and took a sip. Men didn’t have out-of-control emotions as she did, and she was glad Eric had been acknowledged.
“Happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you.” Alexander raised his glass in the air accompanied by lifted flutes, tumblers, and etched goblets from the one hundred and fourteen guests, creating a crystal forest.
As soon as he took his seat, a line of waiters with soldier-straight backs appeared behind each of them, and at the exact same time, like a choreographed dance, lowered plates overflowing with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cranberry sauce. She took another sip of water and gazed at Eric, who laughed heartily with the beautiful African-American woman sitting to his left, Cindy. “Sexy as sin,” was how she’d remember her. Cindy reached under the table, and Eric winced but smiled. His hand rose up, holding hers. Ah, so she’d had to cop a feel. No jealousy, she reminded herself. An impossible feat where he was concerned, but she should at least try.
Carina, who sat across from them, sent a scolding if not amused look toward Cindy. Rebecca laughed inwardly as her friend signed to her, I’m watching them.
You are a true friend, Rebecca signed. She then picked up her fork. She had to get some food in her stomach.
“So, Rebecca, have you gotten lost yet?” Christiana smiled sweetly at her.
“There really ought to be an Accendo
s app. Ow, there, big guy.” Derek pulled his baby’s fist free from his hair.
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Alexander retook possession of her hand.
Rebecca ripped her gaze from the baby. “That would be helpful. I’ve already gotten lost three times today.”
“Happens all the time,” Christiana said. “But someone will always show you the way.”
“That’s why you, my lovely, wear this.” Jonathan, her husband, who sat next to her, ran his finger over the mermaid nestled at her throat. “In case anyone thinks they can spirit you away in the wrong direction.”
“Not that you’d ever let her out of your sight for one second.” Derek laughed into his drink as his son bounced up and down on his knee.
“That’s a beautiful choker,” she said to Christiana. “A mermaid?” A mother of pearl mermaid dangling between two shells hung from a choker encrusted with diamonds, sapphires and pearls. It could have been a museum piece.
“Thank you. It’s my collar. My wedding present.” The words were delivered with such honesty and lack of self-consciousness, Rebecca found herself sitting back against her chair.
No one blinked at the young woman’s words. She studied the other women and noticed for the first time their elaborate neckwear did resemble collars. London’s choker was made of pearls and diamond-encrusted filigrees that bore a pendant of a bird with rubies for eyes. Isabella wore a twist of silver metal with a diamond-encrusted ring in the center. Only Samantha didn’t display one, but that may be more due to the fact little Alexander’s fists kept grabbing for anything close by.
“Is that what you’d like some time, Rebecca?’ Alexander whispered in her ear. All the wind left her lungs. Alexander’s hand found its way to her neck, and her throat reacted with a nearly imperceptible ache. A collar. She’d never given such a thing a thought before, and now all she could think about was what something like the beautiful mermaid dancing at Christiana’s neck would feel like.
She grew dizzy. Food, her stomach growled. She took a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“So, Rebecca, I hear you’re a travel writer. That must be so exciting,” Christiana said.
“It can be.” No need to burst anyone’s bubble on what it was really like. Writing about resorts, fighting jet lag, tucking spiral-bound notebooks into her cargo pants pockets to scribble down notes on bumpy bus rides, grabbing sleep where she could. “No place is paradise,” a wise editor once told her, which bore truth. Even when staying at a five-star tropical resort, battling mosquitoes, sunburn, and impossible humidity was on the menu. No one’s life is perfect, she reminded herself, no matter that Christiana’s hair shone like spun gold under those fairy lights and London looked tan even in the dead of winter.
“And what about you?” she asked Christiana.
“I intern for Steffan’s company.” She nodded toward the tall blond gentleman next to Sarah, whom she’d been introduced to. She sent a silent thanks to Christiana for saying his name. She’d forgotten already. Laurent was the name of the other man sitting next to Sarah. She noted how each took turns, turning inward to her, touching her.
Eric should be here, next to her. He’d say something in his jovial way, and whatever was swirling in her belly would settle. Maybe she’d go over to him, though he seemed quite entertained by sexy Cindy.
Christiana’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m working on a project related to the impacts of industrial and agricultural activities combined with climate changes that threaten major alterations to the hydrological cycle.”
What? “That sounds very important.”
“The next war will be fought over water,” she declared. It was unfair to believe a beautiful woman wouldn’t also be smart and savvy, but Rebecca was not prepared for the level of articulation from the young woman. Then again, everyone here appeared quite accomplished. She’d learned London ran her own public relations firm at the ripe age of thirty-two and was married to a high powered attorney. Samantha had her studio, and Isabella, whose submissive demeanor was more pronounced than anyone else in the room, ran her own nonprofit that put green spaces in urban areas.
And what glorious accomplishments could she boast about? Articles about safaris and who had the best mojitos in Key West, Florida.
Jonathan tugged a strand of Christiana’s perfect hair. “Lovely, no shop talk on a holiday.”
She nodded at Rebecca. “Sorry. I’m just passionate.”
All accomplished, independent, yet all collared. Her mind grew dizzy at the seeming dichotomy. “I can tell, and that’s a wonderful thing.”
Jonathan’s arm had found its way around the back of Christiana’s hair, his thumb moved up and down her arm in a subtle caress. Christiana grew still, her lids dipping slightly.
Rebecca suddenly felt like a voyeur, viewing something so intimate she felt compelled to pick up her water glass and hide her face behind it. It was hard not to stare at anyone in this place—so much beauty, so much power, so much … everything. All the obvious, subtle dominance surrounding her made very un-Thanksgiving thoughts flood her mind. But then little Alexander’s gleeful high-pitched squeal broke through. It was impossible, but she would have sworn her chair legs lifted off the floor—that she was floating, shrinking, the air constricting around her limbs as if she was being squeezed into an invisible box.
She touched Alexander’s arm, and he broke off his conversation with Jonathan. “I’ll be right back. Ladies room.” The claustrophobic moment required a moment of escape.
I’ll escort you.” Alexander placed his napkin next to his plate.
“Oh, no, I can find it. Even without an app.” She laughed a little, but he frowned as if he didn’t believe her.
She rose and slowly made her way through the maze of tables, teetering a little on her kitten heels. Oh, yes, three glasses of wine had her head swimming. She’d merely drunk too much. Her body wasn’t going all Alice-in-Wonderland on her. She wasn’t shrinking and becoming invisible. Really, I’m not.
36
With three stalls and three sinks, the bathroom could serve a crowd, and its muted lighting put a visitor in the kindest light. She stepped into a stall, hell, more of a small room and sat. She took long, deep breaths and tried to empty her mind. The quiet, except for the faint sound of strings, was soothing. Wait, music? She peered up to find a circular speaker embedded in the teak paneled ceiling.
“Teak. On a bathroom ceiling.”
“Everything all right in there?” A smooth upper crust female voice startled her.
She unrolled some toilet paper, rattled the brass holder. “Everything’s fine.”
She made a production of flushing the toilet and rustling her skirt, which was sooo stupid. She opened the door to find Sarah standing just inside the door. Her gaze momentarily locked on the woman’s bright red pencil skirt. Another one? She stood mute for a few seconds, feeling like the country mouse who’d been transported to Oz. Sarah broke the stalemate. She smiled and strode forward in impossibly high heels with such grace Rebecca wanted to ask where she’d learned how to do that.
“Rebecca?” Sarah touched her arm, tenderly.
Her eyes began to sting with emotion.
“Uh, oh.” Sarah reached for a tissue. “Holidays can be overwhelming with all that forced cheer.”
“I thought no one was forced into anything here.” She took the tissue and dabbed under her eyes.
Sarah laughed. “Beautiful and intelligent. No wonder Alexander wishes to keep you all to himself.”
She didn’t know where the sob came from, but it was as if a bomb released from her chest. She couldn’t stand upright. Her muscles wouldn’t obey, and her arms banded around her middle. Somehow, the back of her legs met a velvet—because of course, it was velvet—settee along the wall. Sarah had pulled her down to it.
The woman held her hand, and Rebecca lost it in an ugly, emotional, pitchy-sounding spate of sobbing until snot ran down her nose and her eyes squinched shut. More tiss
ues found their way into her hands. When that emotional wave finally subsided, like a tide receding, she pressed wadfuls of tissues into each eye. Through the swollen slits of her lids, she stared down at smudges left on the damp issues. They resembled mini Rorschach tests. An inane giggle followed.
She was officially losing it. “I don’t know where that came from. I might be a little drunk,” her voice rasped. She lifted her eyes to Sarah despite the fact she probably looked like an escaped insane asylum patient. “You’re always catching me falling apart.”
“Not at all, Rebecca. You’ve been run over by a truckload of memories along with a caravan of new experiences and people in a very short period of time. You’re handling yourself remarkably well.”
Sure she was. She sniffed. “That’s so nice of you, but I think not, and I have no idea why I’m reacting so poorly. I’m good with new.” She shrugged. After all, her job was nothing but new all the fricking time.
“Ah, but I imagine your job wasn’t personal. Here, everything is. Care to talk?” she asked gently.
She blinked up at her. That made sense, the first thing that had that day. Was her life before so barren that a sudden influx of intimate connections, family, friends—a baby—would hurtle her into bouts of hysterical sobbing? Apparently so.
Sarah cocked her head and waited.
Oh, what the hell. “Two weeks ago, I was alone. I didn’t always know what the next day would bring, but it was just me, and I’m pretty self-sufficient. Now I’m with Alexander and Eric, and I didn’t think things through before agreeing to come here. I hadn’t expected his life to be so … ” What? Decadent? Full?
“Big?”
“Public. Yet … oddly private.”
“He’s created his own world.”
And she’d traversed the world on the outside. “I thought we’d ease into things. I’m a willing participant. I asked him to bring me here because I wanted to help Alexander move on. Repay him for the years he was unhappy because of me.” She beat her fist against her chest. “Because, you see, I broke his heart once.” God, it felt good to say that aloud.
Invincible (Elite Doms of Washington Book 6) Page 17