Strict (Part Four)

by Hannah Ford

Alanna rolls her eyes. “Are you talking about your dime store bracelet? The one with the fake-ass sapphire? Because to think that I would steal that is ridiculous.”

  “Please,” I say. “Just give it back.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t have it. But if I did, I wouldn’t give it back. You’re playing dirty, Chloe, and you can’t get upset if other people get pissed about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sleeping with Gage Stratford to get ahead? It’s shitty. Much shittier than stealing some cheap bracelet.”

  “I’m not sleeping with him,” I say automatically, but again, I know it’s just semantics. Just because we haven’t technically had sex doesn’t mean that what I’m doing isn’t inappropriate.

  “Oh, please,” Alanna says. “Don’t even. You really expect me to believe that Gage Stratford is interested in a company that produces dog collars?”

  “He said they’re sustainable,” I say.

  “Come on, Chloe. Get with it.” She shakes her head and looks at me with pity, like she can’t decide if I’m really that stupid. “Gage Stratford is working with real companies, companies that have the ability to make billions of dollars. Jesus, Geniven is working on a self-serve blood machine that will instantly give you a full blood count just by sticking your finger through a slot and getting it poked. You think Gage wants dog collars?”

  I frown. “That’s what River’s company is doing? That sounds amazing.”

  “It is amazing, which is why Gage doesn’t want us anywhere near it. He doesn’t want us anywhere near anything he’s even remotely interested in.”

  I flush.

  “I didn’t take your stupid bracelet. And unless you have proof that I did, leave me the fuck alone.” She shuts the door in my face.

  Chapter 4

  CHLOE

  “Good evening, miss,” the driver says, tipping his hat to me.

  I waited until I got the text alerting me he had arrived until I left my room. The last thing I wanted was to be caught hanging around the lobby of my building where someone might see me getting into a car with Gage. But it turns out my fear was unfounded, because Gage isn’t in the car.

  “You can call me Chloe,” I say to the driver as he holds the door open for me.

  “Yes, Miss Chloe.”

  “No, just… just Chloe. And your name is?”

  “Warren.”

  He shuts the door and I pull my seatbelt on, the scent of new car and leather enveloping me.

  “Would you like something to drink, Miss Chloe?” Warren asks as he starts the car.

  “No thanks. I just… do you know where we’re going?”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but Mr. Stratford requested that our destination be kept a secret.”

  “And I’m not supposing you could be bribed into telling me where we’re going?” I root around in my bag. “I have a Fenty lip gloss that’s only been used once. It’s Crimson Flush.”

  I catch a glimpse of Warren’s smile in the rearview mirror.

  “No, miss,” he says.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I sigh and settle back into the supple leather seat. I wonder what it says about my furniture choices or financial situation that the seats in this car are more comfortable than any chairs I’ve ever owned.

  Warren guides the car expertly through midtown, until we’re on Avenue of the Americas, near the New York Public Library.

  I feel a brush of panic. Why would Gage want to meet me somewhere in midtown? I figured we’d be going right to his apartment, or least somewhere a lot less public. What if someone sees me out with him? Gage is famous enough in New York that paparazzi follow him, take pictures of him and whatever model or actress he’s with that night. What if that happens? Not that I’m a model or actress – they wouldn’t care about taking a picture of me. But they’ll definitely care about Gage.

  I think about the phone call I have scheduled with my advisor tomorrow, how Dr. Truett will feel if she sees a picture of me out with Gage splashed across TMZ before she calls. Not that she seems like the type to pay attention to TMZ. But still.

  “I’m not… is this close to where we’re going?” I ask, sitting up.

  “Just a couple more minutes, miss,” Warren says, deftly sidestepping my question.

  All around us, the city is bright and bustling, the streets crowded with tourists and businesspeople, horns honking, trucks backfiring, lights shining off the pavement. Definitely not the area of New York you take someone for a private date.

  Warren guides the car down a tiny opening between two buildings – it’s more of an alley than a road, and now my panic intensifies.

  Maybe it’s actually the opposite of what I was thinking – maybe Gage isn’t taking me somewhere public, but somewhere very dark and private, the kind of place where nobody would ever find me if something bad were to happen.

  Warren pulls to a stop in front of a plain black door.

  “This is…is this where we’re going?”

  “Yes, miss.” He reaches behind him and hands me an envelope.

  I open it.

  A key falls out, along with a note.

  Chloe,

  Use this to open the door.

  G

  Wow. Talk about not mincing words.

  “Um, is…I’m… do you know where Mr. Stratford is?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but –”

  “I know, I know,” I say, sighing. “You’re not supposed to tell me. Thank you, Warren.”

  “Of course, miss.”

  I sigh again and survey the door through the car window, searching for any clue as to what could be waiting inside. With a sigh, I step out, then look up and down the alleyway.

  It’s dark and empty.

  I glance at the door in front of me, heavy and unmarked.

  I walk to it, then slide the key into the lock.

  I’m all in, I think.

  The door clicks open and I step inside.

  Chapter 5

  CHLOE

  The door shuts behind me automatically, leaving me in complete darkness. Then a red light goes on over the door, and then slowly, like when the lights go down before a show only in reverse, the room starts to fill with light.

  I blink, trying hard not to panic and turn for the door.

  My hand is still on the knob, and I turn it, just in case I need to make a quick escape. But it’s locked. Of course.

  My eyes start to adjust to the still-dim light, and I take in a deep breath and look around, expecting to see all kinds of torture equipment, whips and chains and paddles.

  But I don’t see any of that.

  All I see is shelves of books.

  I’m in a library.

  Or a bookstore, or… I don’t know exactly.

  It’s a huge room, the size of a small store or bodega, and it’s filled with floor to ceiling shelves, all of them stacked with books.

  There’s a long corridor down the middle of the room, which leads to another door on the opposite side of the room.

  Gage steps out from one of the stacks, and my pulse kicks into gear. He’s wearing dark jeans, gleaming black sneakers, and a navy sweater that stretches over his broad shoulders and emphasizes his flat, muscular stomach.

  He has a baseball cap tugged down low over his brow, the same way he did the night I first met him in that club.

  Holy hell, he looks sexy.

  I raise my chin into the air defiantly. “If you’re looking to beat me with books, Mr. Stratford, I’m sorry to tell you that I might enjoy it.”

  The side of his mouth quirks up into a grin, and I flush with pleasure at the fact that I’ve made him smile.

  “I do not plan to beat you, Ms. Cavanaugh. At least not with books.”

  I realize for the first time that I’m standing on top of a little platform, with three steps that lead down into the room, and I descend the steps and walk toward him.

  “You look beautiful,” he breathes, and before I can
ask him what this is, where we are, his arms encircle my waist and he pulls me to him, his mouth meeting mine for a kiss. His hands are on my hips, holding me pinned to him, his body strong against mine.

  When he pulls away, his golden eyes are dark and smoldering, and he takes a step back.

  “You need to stay away from me,” he says, his voice rough and raw, so different than the teasing tone he’d just used a second ago.

  “What?” My head is still spinning from the kiss and the anticipation of not knowing exactly where I am or what he has planned.

  He scrubs his hand over his face, where his five o’clock shadow has started to darken his cheeks. “You need to stay a few feet away from me while we’re in here,” he says. “I don’t want to touch you. Not yet. If I do, I won’t be able to stop.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “What is this place?” I turn around, inhaling the scent of fresh paper, running my finger along the neat, colorful spines. All of the books are paperbacks, shiny and new.

  “It’s a secret bookstore.” He leans against the end of one of the long shelves, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching me carefully.

  “Like a place where rich people come to read?” I pull one of the shelf. “Hey! This is the new Mariah Wilkes book. This isn’t out until next year.” I look again. “And the new Jeremy Reynolds.”

  Gage nods. “None of these books have been released yet. The publishers put them here, for certain people to access, in the hopes that they’ll say something nice about the book and give it publicity.”

  “Certain people?” I say. “You mean, like rich, famous people?”

  “Yes.”

  “So wait,” I say, shaking my head and looking around at the sheer amount of literature in here. “You can take whatever books you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “For free? Whenever you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. Rich people really do get everything they want, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Stratford.” He’s still standing there, watching me carefully, hands still in his pockets. I can feel his golden gaze on me, warming my skin the same way his voice does. “So why did you bring me here?”

  “I read your internship application,” he says. “You indicated that you love books.”

  “I do.”

  “So that’s why I brought you here.”

  “So you wanted to make me happy?” I press.

  “I wanted you to be able to choose any books you wanted.” He reaches for a black leather bag on the floor and hands it to me.

  “Is this your idea of a date?” I ask as I take it and begin to peruse the shelves. Hanging lamps from the low ceiling cast a warm glow over the stacks of books, and there are red and blue patterned throw rugs on the floor.

  “I told you,” he says firmly. “I don’t do dates.”

  “Oh.” I swallow and try to hide my disappointment. I remind myself again of what this is, just a hook-up, a possible BDSM relationship, not the kind of relationship where we go to the movies and dinner and watch whatever we’ve DVR’d while eating bowls of ice cream on the couch.

  “I’ve made myself clear on that?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I select a book by Jeffrey Adams, sliding into the leather bag. I’ve already found four books that I want, and I haven’t even gotten through one shelf. “But then why not just take me to your house?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t trust myself with you at my house.” He appears next to me, my shoulder brushing against his side. “Here,” he says, taking a book off the shelf. “Take this one. It’s excellent.”

  It’s a thick paperback, a psychological suspense with a crown of roses on the front, one of the thorns thick with a drop of blood. I slide it into my bag, wondering when the hell he has time to read while running a multi-billionaire dollar company and sticking to what’s obviously a rigorous workout schedule.

  “Why don’t you trust me at your house?” I ask.

  “Because at my house, I’ll do things to you. And I wanted you to be able to ask me your second question before we do that.” He looks at me, and my skin prickles under his intense gaze. “A deal’s a deal, Ms. Cavanaugh.”

  “Okay.” I turn to him, taking his wrist in my hand. His whole body stiffens, his shoulders pushing back, his jaw tightening. “How did you get this scar?”

  He pauses, his eyes meeting mine, and for a second, I feel him try to pull away from me, to take his wrist from mine, but I tighten my grip on him. A deal is a deal, like he said. And if he expects me to give him virginity tonight, then he’s going to have to stick to his part of the deal, which is two questions, unlimited follow-ups.

  “River gave it to me.”

  “How?” I run my hand over the scar, tracing the shape of it, like a dagger over his skin.

  “Chloe.”

  He’s almost never used my first name before, and something about the way he says it is almost more of a warning than when he’s calling me Ms. Cavanaugh.

  “Gage.”

  “I need to tell you that when you ask questions that you might not want to know the answer to –”

  “A deal is a deal.” I cut him off, and look him in the eye, my hand still tight on his wrist. “How did you get this?”

  He lowers his eyes to the floor, his gaze hooded under the rim of his ball cap. Then he pulls his chin up and when his eyes meet mine, it’s like I can feel the hurt there, the emotion, the damage and the rawness.

  It’s so intense it’s like a burst of heat from a fireball, and my instinct is to move away from it, to take a few steps back.

  Instead, I stand my ground, my hand still on his.

  “What did River do to you?” I press.

  Something in his expression changes then, into something that’s akin to ‘you asked for it, and now I’m going to tell you whether you like it or not.’

  “You want to know the story, Ms. Cavanaugh?” His voice is hard now, hard and bitter, and his eyes flash with something stone cold and dark. “River beat me in a contest. And hurting me was his prize.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “My stepfather used to pit us against each other. John is very into competitions. He loved to see who was better.”

  “At what?”

  “Anything. Usually it was physical. This particular contest involved running on a treadmill as fast as we could while John stood next to us, upping the speed until we fell off.”

  “And you hurt yourself falling off?” I’m still holding wrist, and I run my finger over the dagger-shaped scar. I don’t what to pull away from him, don’t want to make him feel like I’m scared of any of this.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I lost. By .1 miles per hour.”

  I stay quiet, the sick feeling in my stomach making it hard to concentrate on what Gage is saying.

  “River won, so he got to take one shot at me. John took us outside to the backyard. He held my hands behind my back, and told River he got one punch to my face.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Jesus.” Old enough to really hurt someone. Old enough to remember every single moment.

  “River went to hit me, but I’d had enough. The rules were to keep your hands behind your back, to not fight back, to take your hit like a man. But fuck that. At the last second, I wrenched away from John. I was strong enough by then to do it. I put my hands up to cover my face, and River’s watch cut my wrist.”

  I force myself not to close my eyes, not to look away from the scar on his wrist, to make sure that I give Gage the security of actually listening to his story, to hearing him.

  “John was incensed. He let River take another swing. This time it landed, hard on my jaw. And then John went inside and got the bleach, poured it on my cut. Told me that anytime I didn’t want to play by his rules, there would be consequences.”

  “And your mother…”

  “Didn’t give a
fuck.”

  I take in a shuddering breath, my eyes filling with tears. One of them drops onto the scar, and I wipe it away quickly. If there’s one thing I know Gage Stratford won’t want, it’s pity.

  But he still needs to know that what happened to him was horrific, that it wasn’t his fault.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “You know that, right?”

  He looks at me, a wicked grin pulling at his lips. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.”

  “Yes, it does!” I shake my head. “Your stepfather is a monster. I saw the way he pulled that gun out, the way he –”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats. “He doesn’t matter. What matters is what it did to me.”

  “What did it do to you?” My voice is a whisper.

  “It made me want to push you to your knees.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and does exactly that, pushing me down to the ground. “It makes me want to take my cock out and slap it against your face. To push it down your throat until you choke and cry.”

  I swallow and close my eyes.

  All around us, the air is heavy.

  My knees ache from the hardwood floor, but I force myself to look up at him. He’s staring down at me, the question in his eyes lurking below the façade of pain. He’s asking me if I can accept this part of him. “Punish me, sir,” I say in answer.

  He pulls his cock from his pants, pushes it against the seam of my lips. He’s already hard, but he hardens even more as he brushes it against me.

  I expect him to be gentle with me – at least, I expect him to teach me, to tell me what to do – but there’s none of that.

  Instead, he pushes past the resistance of my lips, right into my mouth, the velvet steel of his cock surprising me.

  For a moment, I can’t breathe, and then I take in a breath through my nose, my lungs filling with air.

  “Good girl,” he says approvingly. “Take my whole cock.”

  He’s pushing into me, all the way back until I can feel the head of his dick pushing against the back of my throat, making me gag.

  My eyes water as he grips my chin, pulling his dick out of me just a little bit before shoving it back in.