by Roni Loren
I reached out, yanking down his boxers and pants, and smiled inwardly. Despite his anger and all of his protests, he was hard and proud, ready for me. Before I could lean forward to take him, he tightened his grip on my hair and guided his cock into my mouth, setting the pace, holding on to all the control.
I got the message. I was his to use however he wanted. He would offer me no kindness right now because I’d goaded him into this. Perhaps I should’ve minded that. Old me would’ve thought to object. But the move sent a buzz through my brain, activating all those lovely things that submission seemed to bring with it. I hummed with pleasure as the tip of his cock touched the back of my throat.
“That’s right. Make those pretty sounds. You like being used like my whore?” Foster asked through gritted teeth. “Because that’s what you’re asking for right now.”
The word whore would’ve cut me deep a few months ago. He knew that. And a rush of ire went through me. Hardheaded bastard. He was working really hard to run me off. But he wasn’t going to win this battle. I didn’t believe his bullshit. I lifted my gaze to his, determined, and rolled my tongue around the head of his cock, teasing and torturing. Seducing.
“Fuck.” He pulled out and stepped back, his hand still in my hair. I smiled up at him, challenging him. His mouth thinned into a firm, pissed-off line. “Get on the bed. On your belly. We’ll see how long you can hold that smile.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, quite demurely, embracing all the brattiness that I had in me. “You’re not going to break me. You realize that, right?”
His eyes flared—part fury, part unfettered animalistic lust. “Oh, is that right?”
He grasped me by the back of the neck and marched me over to the bed, bending me over the side of it. His hand came down hard on my ass and thighs in a quick, vicious volley of smacks. I cried out, unable to hold back the reaction, but holding still nonetheless, refusing to show any weakness.
“You’re so brave now, is that it? You think a few times with me and you can handle whatever I dish out?” He spanked me again, right on top of a fresh mark. I bit the inside of my cheek. “You have no idea what I’m capable of right now, have no idea.”
“I love you,” I said softly.
“Goddammit, Cela. Stop saying that,” he said, his voice strangled.
“No, sir.”
He stalked off and I heard the closet door opening. I braced myself, knowing that I’d pushed him even further. I was playing with fire near a propane tank, and we both knew it. The air shifted behind me, a cool breeze coasting over my burning skin as he moved back in place. Then whatever he’d grabbed was coming down on my back—biting, wicked lashes. Something he hadn’t used on me before, a belt of some sort maybe. One! Two! Three! I lost count after that, my thoughts blurring at the edges as adrenaline pumped hard through my veins.
I pressed my cheek into the sheets, my eyes starting to water. I couldn’t tell if they were tears or not. I didn’t care. I could feel the emotion behind every swing, the desperation channeling through him. Everything trapped inside him was pouring out into the blows.
Wham, wham, wham!
Finally, after what seemed like forever, I sensed the strength behind the hits draining. My skin was a raging fire—half-burning, half-numb. But everything else in me was soaring, endorphins flooding my system. I’d done this to push him to a certain place, but he was sending me to another edge of my own.
“Christ, Cela,” he said, the belt dropping to the floor. His breath was labored. I could feel his stare heavy against me. He ran his hands over my abused back, first simply touching, then kissing. One spot in particular made me flinch more than the others. “Tell me you’re still with me. That you’re okay.”
I reached back for him blindly, grabbing hold of his hand. Even that movement took all my effort. I felt . . . drunk. And so freaking turned on. “Very, very with you.”
He moved his hand between my thighs, finding me warm and wet, and groaned. “So goddamned sexy. All this pain, and you’re turned on. Spread your legs.”
I made the effort, but he had to help me most of the way. I was still bent over the bed in the prone position and really had no energy to move anywhere else. There was the shifting of fabric as he apparently shucked the rest of his clothes, then his palms were spanning my hips. Without preamble, he pushed into me.
I groaned at the feel of him filling me, of my body clenching around him. He buried deep, a tremble going through his hands where he held me—like he was drowning in the sensation as much as I was. The last of my will slipped away. I was truly his in that moment, whatever he wanted to do with me, I was in.
He eased back and thrust into me again, hard, his thighs hitting the backs of mine, reactivating the burn there, but also rocking my clit against the edge of the mattress—a killer combination. I whimpered into the sheets. “I know it stings and that I should be softer with you right now. But I need to fuck you, angel. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You told me I owned you tonight, and I’m going to take you at your word,” he said, strain in his voice as he rocked into me with a steady, rough rhythm. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I gasped, release thundering toward me, the stimulation to my clit and the rushing endorphins almost too much to take. “All yours.”
“That’s right,” he said, his words labored. “Give me your pleasure. Show me how much you like me using you.”
My nails curled into my palms, every molecule in my body starting to quake, but I was trying to hold out as long as possible. “Foster . . .”
He caught hold of my wrists and pulled my arms behind my back, holding them at my tailbone, as he continued his punishing rhythm. I could do nothing but receive him and every bit of pleasure he was wringing from me. Sweat dripped down my temple, and with nothing to hold on to, I fell apart.
Wretched cries tore from my throat as every part of my body seemed to become laced with lightning—the sensitized skin on my back, my clit against the pressure of the bed, and the delicious fullness of being utterly, brutally taken by Foster. Tears leaked out my eyes mingling with the salt and sweat, and everything went hazy.
Foster let out a slew of filthy, dirty epitaphs and then let loose a grinding, primal groan as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside me, his hold on my wrists tightening until my fingers started to tingle.
When we were both gasping for breath, drifting down from our orgasm, he released my hands and draped himself over my back. All of my muscles seemed to give out and merge with the bed. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to get them to function again.
Foster kissed my temple, my hair, his body blanketing me with heat that was both a blessing and a curse. Blessing because I couldn’t seem to stop shivering, but curse because now that the orgasm was fading, the pain from the belt was setting in.
After a few long seconds, Foster pushed up on his forearms. “Sorry, angel. I’m probably smothering you.”
“Mmm,” I mumbled, too spent to form actual words. My mind still seemed to be sparking in fits and starts—aftershocks.
Foster lifted himself from the bed and pulled out. A rush of liquid heat came with him, sliding down my thighs. I knew I should probably get up and get a towel or something—vaguely, in the back of my mind I registered that these were new sheets. But something about having the evidence of what had just happened marking me seemed sexy and dirty in the best way.
“Motherfucker,” Foster said, the harsh word cutting through my afterglow.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, angel.” Foster touched a spot on my shoulder and I flinched. “I fucking drew blood.”
I turned my head to look back at him. His fingertips were smeared with blood. He glanced down his chest, finding a streak of red there, too. When he looked over at me, regret m
orphed his features. I let my head sink back into the bed. “I’m sure I’ll live.”
“Goddammit,” he said, obviously more disturbed by this turn of events than I was. “I just—fuck—what is wrong with me? You taunt me and I unleash on you, trampling over limits we haven’t even discussed. I should’ve never—”
“Don’t you dare take a second of this back,” I said, cutting him off with what little energy I could muster. “Or I will personally kick your ass—well, when I have the ability to move again. I told you to do what you wanted. And you did. Now you’re just raining on my afterglow.”
He let out a long, belabored breath. “Don’t move. I’m going to get you cleaned up and then there’s a bathtub with our names on it.”
—
An hour later, I was curled up in Foster’s bed, mellow and sated. He’d gently cared for me, bathing me, then treating the spot where the skin had broken and rubbing salve on the rest. Two ibuprofen had been swallowed down, the curtains had been drawn tight, and now I was ready for a nap. But even though his back was to me, I could sense Foster’s restlessness.
We hadn’t talked much after sex, and I was trying to leave him be. I’d pushed enough today. But there was also no way I was going to drift off, knowing he was still so tense next to me. I reached out and touched his hip. “You okay?”
He didn’t respond at first, but then reached back and laced his fingers with mine. “I don’t know what I am, angel.”
“That’s understandable. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through these last few days.”
He pulled my hand off his hip and drew it around his front side until I was almost spooning him. He traced my knuckles with his fingertip. “I thought I would feel better once I knew. I thought it would help.”
I pressed my lips to the back of his shoulder.
“But knowing all that happened to her . . .” A shudder worked through him. “I can’t even . . .”
“Try not to think about that stuff,” I said softly. “Remember her as she was.”
He drew me even closer to him, like he was holding on to a ledge. After a deep breath he said, “You know, earlier that same year, I got the flu for the first time. God, it was awful. I didn’t think I’d ever feel good again. That whole week was so miserable.”
I stayed quiet, not sure where he was going, but knowing that talking was moving in the right direction. I’d listen to him all day and night if that could make him feel better.
“My parents had warned her to stay out of my room, told her she’d get sick, too. But Neve didn’t listen. She would sneak into my room each morning before kindergarten and try to cheer me up. ‘I don’t want you to be sad no more, E,’ she’d say in that perky little voice of hers. That’s what she called me—E. She thought Ian was too long.” His voice caught, and it took a moment before he continued. “One day she dressed up in her dance class outfit and sang Debbie Gibson songs, another she cooked me my favorite dinner with her play food since I couldn’t manage to eat any real meals. She was like this joyous tornado of glitter and giggles.”
Tears stung my eyes. “She sounds amazing.”
“She was,” he said, his voice pained. “And that horrible day later that summer, I told my bubbly little sister to go away, that she was annoying me. All she wanted to do was spend time with me and my friends, and I treated her like she was a brat. That was the last thing she heard from me before . . . before she was, God . . .”
“Oh, Foster,” I said, my heart ripping in two for him, for his family, for that bright little girl who the world would never get the privilege of knowing. “Don’t.”
His body began to jerk with hard sobs. “I led her right to him, right into his sick fucking hands . . .”
I tightened my hold on him, my tears dripping and sliding down my cheeks, as Foster broke apart. “No, Foster, not you. Him. That sicko. What happened wasn’t your fault, baby. It was his fault.”
Foster shook his head against the pillow, but he was past words now. Everything that had been locked inside him seemed to rush out in a deluge. His body wracked with the force of his grief. I grabbed hold of him and rolled him over, wrapping him in my arms and holding him against me. He didn’t fight it. Gone was the bravado, the tough man, and all that was left was the little boy who’d made a simple mistake and suffered the worst of consequences, a boy that’d been abandoned by his parents for it.
I cried silently with him, his pain becoming my own, and didn’t let go.
I would never let go again.
FORTY-ONE
Foster scanned through his email, not feeling very motivated but at least feeling somewhat human again. Cela had refused to leave his side for the last week and had even helped him make it through his sister’s memorial service. At first, he had protested her going, but trying to talk her off that was like trying to talk a brick wall into crumbling. And in the end, he’d been happy to have her there.
His parents had attended and they’d talked with him briefly—like a vaguely polite business relationship—but Cela hadn’t let them get away with the brush-off. She’d cornered his mom and dad, telling them how sorry she was, of course, but also sharing how inspired she was by 4N and Foster’s work for missing children. She’d thrown in a few, “You must be so proud of the man he’s become” type comments.
It’d made his parents visibly uncomfortable, and he’d even caught a flash of regret cross his father’s face. But, to his surprise, his mother had really looked at him for the first time in years, her blue eyes holding remorse for so much time lost, and said, “I am. More than he knows. Foster has probably suffered more than any of us for all of this.”
It hadn’t been an apology, but the acknowledgement had closed some gaps inside him. No matter what he’d done, what mistakes he’d made. He hadn’t deserved to be left behind. No child deserved that.
Cela stepped up behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders and dragging him out of his thoughts. She leaned over to peek at his laptop. “What’cha working on?”
“There are some buyers interested in the company. I’m setting up meetings.”
“Still stuck on that, huh?” she asked, her opinion clear in her tone.
He sighed. He’d come a long way in the last few days, but he still didn’t think he could spend the rest of his life running 4N. He’d started the company for Neve, and now every day he went in, he’d be reminded of how he’d failed her. How he’d never be able to help her or add a gold “found” plaque beneath her photo on the wall. It all seemed so . . . pointless now. “I think it’s for the best.”
“Can you take a break from it?” she asked, stepping around him and sinking onto his lap. “I thought all three of us could bust out of these walls and go out tonight. Pike has tickets to a swanky record release party.”
He frowned. “I don’t think I’m ready for any parties, angel.”
“Come on,” she protested. “There will be alcohol and we can get all dressed up. It will do you good to get out for a while. Plus, I have a dress Bailey lent me that shows a lot of leg.”
The pleading look on her face was more than he could handle. So much for the dom having all the power. One look like that and he was fucking toast. He pushed her hair behind her ears and cupped her face. “Fine. But only because you promised me leg.”
She laughed and kissed him. “Good. Now go put on a suit, so I can drool over you all night, too.”
He smiled, even with all the sadness still sitting on his shoulders, Cela could manage to cheer him up. “You’re getting mighty bossy, slave girl.”
“No worries. You can punish me later.”
“Brat.”
“You know it.”
—
Cela was way too excited about this party. Foster was trying his best to be peppy, but really, he’d been to these record shindigs with Pike befor
e and had never been all that impressed. Hopefully, he and Cela could have a few drinks, stay for an hour, and head back home.
Pike had lined up a limo and had asked Cela’s friend Bailey to come with them. The girl seemed absolutely beside herself sitting next to Pike—her hands constantly smoothing the material of her dress, and her gaze regularly sneaking over to her date. Pike had told Cela he’d made it clear up front that he was only taking Bailey as a friend. Cela didn’t seem bothered either way, but Foster knew Pike wasn’t going to mess with a friend of Cela’s—especially one so young and starstruck. Even he had his limits.
They pulled up to the place where the event was being held, and Foster was surprised to see the grand entrance of Hotel St. Mark through the window. He nodded toward the building. “Hey, look at that. What are the chances?”
Cela just smiled and grabbed his hand. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
They climbed out of the limo and headed toward one of the ballrooms. The hotel, of course, looked the same as it had when he’d taken Cela here that first night, but God, so much had changed. He’d sauntered into that hotel that evening looking for a fun, kinky night with his sexy neighbor. Never would he have guessed he’d end up here again with Cela on his arm as his girlfriend.
Cela guided him through the lobby toward the back of the hotel, where the ballroom was located, but before they stepped through the doors, she turned and gave him a quick kiss. “Just remember, if you want to be mad, take it out on me later. But right now, I need you to smile.”
“What?”
She tugged him through the door and into a room buzzing with people. He was still trying to process what her cryptic comment meant, when he saw the large banner above the stage on the far end of the room. 132 Lives Saved—Thank You, 4N!
He froze, his feet fastening to the floor. “What the hell is this?”
Pike stepped up behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to your party, bro. You’re a hero.”