Chapter 6
The Wolf’s Den
The wine was vintage, sweet, and much more delicious than Monica wanted to give Henry credit for. He had spared no expense on the gifts he brought her, beyond the wine. Truffles, exotic flowers, and a transparent light red shawl that glittered in tiny rubies. Since these were given to her publically in the foyer, Monica had no choice but to accept them graciously. The food stuff was put out for their dinner, the flowers sent to the dining table, and the shawl? She handed it to Sylvia and asked her to leave it in the front hallway of the master suite. No way am I wearing it outside to our dinner in his presence.
“I don’t want you to think I bought it to impress you,” he said, as they walked side by side upstairs and toward a small balcony near the master suite. Monica arranged for a two-person dining table to be set up, complete with a lantern and a silk tablecloth. It shouldn’t get too dark while they ate, but Monica understood ambiance like her billionaire clients understood the stock market. He’ll think I’m flirting. She was. She was flirting so hard the outcome pointed to Henry bending her over the railing and giving her what they both wanted.
“I don’t think you did that at all.” Monica opened the door and waited for Henry to step through. Sometimes I get to be a gentlelady. “Because you know I would not be impressed.”
“In truth, I didn’t buy it. I found it in my sister’s bin of things she wants to get rid of. Asked her if I could give it to someone and she said yes.”
“How… well, I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I thought of you when I saw it.” Henry pulled a chair out from the table for Monica to sit in. She accepted, and waited for him to sit adjacent to her, both of their seats offering a view of the sunset as it came for the gardens. “You make me think of the color red. Passionate. Straightforward. Strong.”
Only one other man had called her strong before. Ethan Cole, my ex. He called her that when she broke down crying in his home shortly after he took her away from that awful prison belonging to Jackson Lyle. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. A weaker woman would have died in there.” “You flatter me, Mr. Warren.”
“What is your favorite color, anyway?”
Monica looked right into those bright blue eyes. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know your favorite color?”
“It used to be black.”
One of the maids came out with wineglasses and ice water to get them started. She knew what to do. Bring out the bread. Then the vegetable and soup course. Then the main course. Then dessert. If the bread wasn’t out of the kitchen within ten minutes, someone would get fired.
Henry waited for the maid to go back inside before asking, “Used to be?”
“Yes. Used to be.” Monica loved the simplicity of the color black. Yet it was strong, resilient, and so useful and loved by millions around the world. Black was the color of “goes with everything.” It represented an innocuous coolness that everyone could relate to.
It also made her think of darker days now. Days that practically ruined her ability to love what the color black had to offer and why she should embrace them all. These days, she gravitated toward the color white to get her mind off it. White was refreshing and as versatile, in a cheerful sort of way. Except Monica’s room was still black and red. No wonder she felt chills every time she went to bed. Regardless of how much she tried to distance herself from her past, it was always there, waiting for her.
Henry leaned on his elbows and looked between her and the lamp in the middle of the table. “Black and red go well together.”
“Those are the colors of my room.”
Monica knew what hand she played, and she was not disappointed to hear him say, “I should like to see it.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr. Warren. I’m an impeccable decorator.”
“As stated by this entire mansion.”
The maid brought out the bread right on time. Henry insisted on cutting it up and buttering it while Monica watched the sun begin its descent behind a grove of trees. I should be doing that for him. Every time someone did something for her, Monica felt the compulsion to tell them, “No, no! I will do that. Please, let me serve you.” In a more common life she would be happy to work retail and waitressing. Maybe work up to being a maid like one of the workers in her Château. She loved to make other people happy and fulfill their needs. The day she realized she got off on it was a strange, yet liberating one.
“A part of me is surprised that you agreed to have dinner with me.” Henry left the bread on his plate but didn’t touch it. “I thought for sure that after my faux pas you would want nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not true.” Monica nibbled the corner of her crust and was grateful that a gentle breeze kicked up and washed away the crumbs. “I rather like you, Mr. Warren. I think you misunderstood the intentions going on.”
“Oh? And what were those?”
She glanced at him, coolly, the corner of her mouth teasing her cheek with a smile. “You can’t buy my desire. You have to earn it.”
The wineglass was at the edge of his lips, It remained there, the white wine still in the glass as he gazed at her over the rim. “And how do I do that?”
Monica shrugged. “Make me trust you. That’s not an easy thing to do.”
Henry put the wineglass down and licked his lips. “I bet it wouldn’t be, considering what I know about you.”
“And what do you know?” The shields were up. Monica scooted back in her chair, ready to be angry at him.
“I know that you used to be with Jackson Lyle. After you two broke up, he was bought out of his shares at Jackson-Cole. Something happened.”
“Is that it? You want to know what’s going on in the business world through me? Because I don’t have any insider information. I didn’t know anything going on in his life besides what he wanted to do to me.”
She feared that Henry would push the issue… maybe ask what he wanted to do to her. Humiliate me. Hurt me. Bruises weren’t supposed to be a part of her lifestyle.
Henry didn’t say anything. All he did was place his hand next to hers on the table, where her fingers clenched a napkin and ignored the bread waiting to be consumed.
Monica did not accept his invitation to be touched. That was reserved for a man she could trust – and as attracted as she was to Henry Warren, she didn’t know if she could trust him yet. For all she knew…
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said. “Whatever you went through, it must have been awful. Nobody really likes that guy in the business world. We deal with him because we have to.”
“We?”
The hand disappeared. “Why, yes. I won’t say I know him personally, but he does pop up in many of my spheres. I’ve only met him on a handful of occasions. I never guessed he was into that sort of lifestyle.”
“You mean domination and submission.”
“It seems to be the sort of life that can easily turn dark. With the wrong person, that is.”
You have no idea. How could he, as a man? Men held all the power. That’s what Monica liked about the situation, but it didn’t save her from the evil that sometimes burst from it. She wanted a man to control her in the bedroom, to tell her what to do sometimes, to make her life easier… but not to rule that life. That’s what Jackson ended up doing, and she paid for it.
The maid returned with their soup course. Neither of them picked up their spoons. I’m being a terrible hostess. Making it all about her past, failed relationships… “Enough about me, Mr. Warren. Tell me more about yourself.”
“I’m terribly boring. My job is boring, my hobbies are boring. My house is boring because I’m too busy to do anything with it.”
“What do you do?”
“Mergers. Acquisitions. Buy places. Sell them off. Keep the profits. Time-honored tradition my great-grandfather started a hundred years ago, and now here I am. I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I intend to earn the right to keep it.”
“That’s noble.” Sounded like what Jackson and most men of old money did. Either that or they married rich before telling her that their own fortunes were crumbling. Monica looked like a woman of means, but she would hardly say that she was. If she lost the Château, she would have next to nothing. All the money I personally make goes back into it. Not the best financial planning, but she wanted her business to succeed before worrying about her own future. “At least you keep yourself busy. I’ve known men who rest on their laurels and pretend everything is going to continue the way it always has. Life doesn’t work out that way. It’s good to be prepared and stay busy. What do you do for fun?”
“I told you, my hobbies are boring too.”
“I highly doubt that. There must be something.” Even reading could be an adventure. Assuming Henry had good tastes, of course.
“Reading is perhaps the only hobby I can regularly indulge in.” Ha! I knew it. Finally, Henry touched his soup, declared it delicious, but still too hot for him to completely eat at the moment. “I’m fluent in French, so I like to read the original works of authors like Proust. Oh, and the Marquis de Sade. I assume you’ve heard of him.”
Monica’s mouth twitched again. “I have. I’m afraid I don’t think much of him, though.” Of course she knew the word “sadistic” came from that man. She also knew why. Many Doms heralded him as some sort of father of their sexualities, which perturbed Monica, since the Marquis was infamous for coercing his servants. Jackson admired him way too much. She hoped Henry wasn’t the same way.
“His works are fascinating, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons.” That was all Henry said on the matter, and Monica did not press him further.
Over the course of dinner she learned a few more things about him. Henry’s parents were alive, but they lived in their favorite vacation home in Montana, where his father had a ranch and his mother made jewelry for a “living,” not that she needed to. He currently lived in their main house with his younger sister, who was in grad school getting her MBA. They almost sounded like a normal upper middle class family until Monica remembered that Henry Warren was probably one of the richest men in the country. He could do anything with his life… so why was he spending it with her?
“I also like to paint here and there,” he said at the beginning of their final course. “Nothing in particular. Just whatever moves me.” Henry pointed to the sunset, now sinking fast behind the trees. “Like that. I would like to paint that if I had the chance. The way the light passes through the branches of those evergreens and illuminates the labyrinth is simply breathtaking.” He glanced at her. “Looks nice on you as well.”
Flattery would get him nowhere. Monica knew what he was up to. “Thank you.” She would take the compliment anyway.
“So what do you do for fun?” Henry was on his second glass of wine. Monica was still on her first, but she could see the bottom of her glass. “I have a hard time believing you do this for fun all the time.” He motioned to the Château.
“Believe what you will or won’t. My work is my life now.”
“No movies? No books?”
“I read occasionally, but I’ve found recently that most of the stories I used to enjoy now only frustrate me.” They reminded her of her old relationship. Monica devoured books – dark and comedic – about alpha males and their unwitting women. She particularly enjoyed the recent trend of billionaires and mafia bosses and, and, and… Nope. Too much like real life. Few women could say that!
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you can enjoy them again soon.”
Henry’s voice wasn’t empty, nor was it full of sarcasm. When they made eye contact, Monica saw nothing but warmth in his eyes. It’s a ruse. A game. That’s what she had to tell herself in order to survive. No man actually cared that she enjoyed “A Billionaire Love Story” ever again. Because they’re not real. She thought she had that kind of love once. Perhaps she was too jaded by the heartbreak.
“If I may ask…” Henry’s fingered the stem of his glass, leaning back in his chair with one leg over the other and his eyes downcast. “What happened between you and Jackson Lyle? You were a famous couple in our circles, even if only by legend.”
What a strange thing to say. “Bad things.”
The awkward silence she created was not lost on the man dining with her. Henry continued to stare at the table before finally looking up and gazing at Monica’s figure in her chair. The maid came, taking away their empty plates and replacing them with a dessert of key lime pie. Perfect for a warm evening.
Yet Henry continued to gaze at her, those unwavering blues caressing Monica’s body as if they truly touched. If she closed her own and also leaned back in her chair, she could pretend that Henry stood right next to her, truly caressing her arm, her cheek, and even her hair as he wrapped each dark strand around his fingers and promised to make her feel better.
I’m tragic. What was even more tragic was how pointless it all felt. Henry Warren couldn’t cure her of her heartbreak. She was a stupid girl to even pretend that it was possible, even in her fantasies. It was those fantasies that made me hang on to him for so long. When in love, the heart fucked shit up. “He hurt me. In ways you could never imagine.”
It was too easy unloading her secrets onto him. Henry was a courteous listener, at least, not once interrupting Monica as she attempted to put into words the horrors she went through.
“Everything started innocent enough. Isn’t that how it always goes? One day I was a girl in a lounge looking for a little trouble. I found it. His name was Jackson, and he bought me a drink and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s young girls like me back then who fall for that shit.”
“Long story short, he became my Dom. I was happy to serve him. We were deep into the lifestyle, you see. It’s how I wanted it, and he grew accustomed to it. He would come home, I would take off his clothes for him, make sure there was a bath ready, order his favorite foods, and then do whatever he told me to do. Sometimes it was sexual, and sometimes he told me to leave him alone, so I did. I suppose this sounds boring, the way I’m telling it. To those in the lifestyle, it is boring. We were just another sub/Dom domestic pair.”
“As the years went by, we went deeper. Maybe it happened naturally. Maybe it was all his machinations. Whatever happened, the next thing I knew he was picking out what I wore and who else I slept with. You see, sometimes he would bring home another girl and tell me to do things with her. I did them. I wasn’t disgusted. It was fun, really. But they weren’t things I would have asked for or pursued on my own.”
“I called him Master. I didn’t leave the house unless he accompanied me. When we were home, I stayed in our room until he invited me elsewhere. I couldn’t even go outside for a walk without his permission. To me, that was normal. I trusted him.”
“It may have happened on one day. It could have worked its way up to it. All I know is that one night he had me chained up like always. And then he slapped me.”
“He never laid a hand like that on me before. Not a violent one. It stung so much, and the glee in his voice as he laughed at my reaction made me feel sick to my stomach. After so many years together, though, I forgave him. It was a one time thing. Then he did it another night. Then another. Then he hit me so hard I had a bruise and no excuse for it.”
“One night he nearly broke my arm. He grabbed it so hard and turned me around to throw me on the bed so quickly I could feel a pop. I wish that was the worst thing that happened that night. When he was done with me, I felt like I could barely walk. That’s all I’ll say about that.”
“The final straw – because I was so weak – came when he literally kidnapped another woman and intended to make her his sex slave. I woke up that day. I stole his keys and his gun and got both that woman and me out of there. I never looked back.”
She let her words dissipate in the sunset, each one harder to dissolve than the last. By the time she realized her key lime pie remained untouched, Henry Warren grabbed her hand, making her fork clatter on the table.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” His grip on her tightened. Monica stiffened, not out of fear, but out of the sense that this man was too good for his own benefit. “It wasn’t right. That man doesn’t know how to appreciate what he has.”
Yes, that was the problem Monica wanted to roll her eyes, but she was frozen in her seat, reliving those awful memories. Closing her eyes was dangerous. If she did that, her brain would place a scene on the back of her eyelids. Maybe the night Jackson slapped her and called her a whore because she always agreed to whatever he wanted. Didn’t he understand that I wanted that too? Serving him, making him happy…
“No, what he didn’t get was what a submissive is. We’re not toys, Mr. Warren. We’re not vessels of pleasure to be used however a Dom wants. Our joy and pleasure comes from bringing our Dom happiness. Of course we have our preferences and the lines we draw, but at the end of the day, we’ll try anything once if it brings him or her joy of any kind. That’s how we become so vulnerable. We bare our souls from the first meeting. If we’re put in the wrong hands… men like him knew that. I fear for any woman he cons next. He’s handsome and wealthy. There will be someone.”
“There are none that I know of.”
“That you know of. He keeps that shit private.” For good reason. He was the type of man to understand what wasn’t socially acceptable. But he did them anyway. “Forgive me. You didn’t need to know any of that.”
“Correction. I didn’t want to know any of that.” When Monica turned her head toward him, bemusement clouding her countenance, he explained, “I don’t get any glee or pleasure in hearing what that callous man did to you. Yet I needed to know it. I needed to know what you’ve been through, so I understand where you come from.”
“Where I came from is obvious to anyone who Googles my name.” Monica pulled her hand out of his. “Where I’m going, on the other hand, remains a mystery to most.”
“Even to yourself?”
“Perhaps. I take things one week at a time.”
“Perhaps you will be a little old lady running your Château a good forty years from now.”
“And I will be happy to do so.”
She knew what that look meant. The one telling her, “Are you going to hide in your mansion of everyone else having pleasure but you for the rest of your life?” She would if it meant she was never hurt again. Monica could sustain herself on the ambiance of her insular world and never again be touched by another person. She could die happy that way.
“I won’t pretend to understand,” Henry said. “Obviously I have never been in your position before. All I know is that the world would be a much lonelier place if you never ventured into it again.”
Monica blushed. “The world doesn’t know who I am.”
“I do.”
See, this is what’s dangerous about this man. Henry had the influence to sway Monica back into the world of powerful relationships. Powerful within, and powerful on the outside. There was the power they exuded on each other behind closed doors, and then the power they presented when they stood before others as a unified front. If I go out into the world, then I do nothing but wander around it, looking pathetic. Dominant men were the accepted norm in the business world. They came, they saw, and they conquered the piss out of everything.
Submissive women, on the other hand, looked lost. People often approached Monica when she sat in cafes by herself, asking if she was all right, if she needed help, etc. And that was when she was in a relationship! When people found out she ran her own business, they were floored. People didn’t respect submissives as smart, intelligent people who had a lot of will to get things done. Just because Monica wanted to live a life of submissive love and pleasure didn’t mean she couldn’t do things on her own.
“You continue to flatter me. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Warren, you don’t know me from the mole on your back you’ve never seen before. Like I keep telling you, I’m a sub, not a naïve girl who believes everything a handsome man tells her.”
“So you think I’m handsome?”
That knowing smile could sink ships. Like the one capsizing in Monica’s stomach right now. “I think you know you’re handsome. Men who are handsome always know that they are.”
“Meanwhile, beautiful women need constant affirmation.”
“Can you blame them?”
“No. And can you blame me for trying to get to know you better?”
“Mr. Warren, may I remind you that you sent me a silver and diamond sub collar? That’s not getting to know me better. That’s…”
“A friendly BDSM way of saying hello there gorgeous, I know.”
He said it so flippantly that Monica snorted into the back of her hand before giving herself over to overflowing laughter. Her voice echoed in the gardens below, bouncing off the topiaries and rousing a flock of birds into the air. “And what do you know of BDSM, Mr. Warren? I mean, truly…”
Henry wasn’t laughing. “A lot more than you probably figure I do.”
Monica stopped guffawing and rested her hands on her stomach. Her pie was still untouched. “Do you practice?”
“No, I don’t practice.” Henry grabbed the half-empty wine bottle and refilled his glass, then Monica’s, a set look of determination flickering in the growing lantern light. “That’s definitely not the word I would use.”
“And what word would you use?”
This time he did not take her hand. Monica didn’t even know what he was doing beneath the table until she felt him touch her knee, his delectably warm palm and fingers curling around her bare skin. Shots of desire, both welcomed and menacing, plotted a wavering course up her skin and straight to her groin. Or maybe those were his fingers, treading dangerously close to her thighs and a warmth she kept to herself.
She didn’t push him away. Nor did she tell him to stop or change his ways. Deep down Monica wanted him to touch her intimately, to know what her body felt like beneath his touch. God knew it felt good on her end.
“Rather experienced.”
Monica concentrated her breathing, a practice she hadn’t had to use since the days she was driven to the edge of orgasm but forbidden from indulging in it until her Dom said it was okay. Deep breathing meant she could stave off her pleasure… it also meant she could keep a level head. “So you tell me now. And here I thought you were bumbling along.”
“No you didn’t. You never thought that. I told you, Monica, you know who I am. Do I really have to tell you who and what I am?”
She shook her head, eyes darting between his stern visage and the hand tightening on her thigh. Just a little farther and I won’t be able to resist him anymore. The closer she let this man get to her intimately, the harder it became to deny him. “I know who you are. What surprises me is that you knew me so quickly. How many subs have you had?”
Henry withdrew his hand and straightened his jacket, probably in lieu of having a tie to adjust. “Trick question. I’ve dallied with submissives, but I’ve never found the one for me.”
“So you’re shopping around, and somehow think I can fulfill your needs.”
“I don’t assume anything. All I know is that I am intrigued by you and want to get to know you better.”
“Until now, I wasn’t sure what you meant by ‘get to know me.’ Now I think I do.”
“As long as we’re on the same page.”
“We’re not. As I told you, I’m not really ready for something like that again yet. And you still made the mistake of assuming I was up for patronage. Like a whore.”
“Then what are those girls? Are they whores?”
“Excuse you. What they want and what I want are completely different. They aren’t lifestyle submissives like I am. This is a job to them. I’m careful to not hire lifestyle women. They get too attached to their clients and cause a mess for me and them.”
“That is wise.” Henry removed his hand, clenching it on top of the table. Still, neither of them ate their dessert. “You really do have a good head for business. It must help that you have a lot of experience in this line of living.”
“If only you knew, Mr. Warren.” That was not an invitation. It is. It truly is. Monica pushed her plate of pie away. “Come. I want to show you something.” She stood up, pushed in her chair, and turned resolutely toward the door.
He attempted to follow, but the look on his face expressed that he had no idea what her intentions were. “You already gave me such a great tour last time.”
Monica touched the handle and looked over her shoulder. “Not of my room, I didn’t.”
That certainly got his attention. Henry moved to hold the door open for her, and the moment Monica stepped back into the Château she told the maid to give the pie to anyone who wanted it, and that she and Henry were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.
What Henry thought of these instructions she could only imagine. On one hand she was inviting him into her private quarters, beyond her office, but on another it was not a sexual invitation, as much as she wished it could be. But there was something that she wanted Henry to see, and he could only see it in her chambers.
They weren’t too far from the balcony. Just a few steps, and they were there, Monica unlocking the door that led to her private world.
Whatever Henry initially thought of her room, he did not let on. It wasn’t anything special. A large canopy bed, some antique dark wood furniture, and erotic art that she collected over the past few months.
“Everything you see in this room,” she said, pouring herself a glass of brandy and then offering another to Henry, “was procured in a short amount of time. When I left Jackson, I had only the clothes I wore on my back. I don’t know what he did with my old things. Maybe he threw them away. Maybe he created a shrine in which he venerates my image and vows to steal me back from my new life. I don’t care, but every time I look at these things, I’m reminded that I once had everything and then had nothing.”
“It’s still impressive.”
“I suppose. Most women couldn’t leave with nothing and build something like this up in such a short amount of time, true. I’m not most women. There are many different things about me that don’t hold true for other women I’ve met. ‘Normal’ women.”
“Is there really such a thing?”
He stood by the door, declining the brandy. Don’t act like you don’t want into my space. He would have to be mad otherwise. “There is such a thing as what the public perceives as being normal. I am not it.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that. I think a lot of women feel like you do, they just don’t know how to express it.”
“There’s expressing it, and then there’s living the lifestyle.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“What? Live the lifestyle?”
“Naturally.”
“As you said. Naturally.”
Henry eventually took a glass of brandy from Monica’s hand, his fingers lingering on hers. Keep finding excuses to touch me. I dare you. “You are right to be cautious. There are a lot of terrible people out there looking to take advantage of women looking for that kind of life. Unfortunately, as you prove.”
They stood in front of each other, Monica’s head tilted back so she could look up into his stoic face. “Are you a terrible person, Mr. Warren?” There was no whimsy in her voice. However he answered would decide the next thing she said to him.
It took a while for him to answer. During that time he sipped the brandy, murmured that it was a good brand, and stuck his hand in his pocket as if searching for his wallet or phone. “I like to think I’m not a terrible person. But all men are a work in progress.”
Damn him again. Monica wanted to hear him say that he was awful, that he was the best man in the whole world. Absolutes. That’s what she wanted. That way she could write him off as someone either too self-aware or too haughty to be trifled with. Monica drank her whole glass of brandy in one gulp, letting it burn her on the way down in hopes of washing away the memories bubbling up in her stomach. If they reached her brain, she was in real trouble.
Too late.
She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the situation, but Monica dropped her empty glass on the chair next to her and hid her face in her hands. The first sob to burst forth was powerful enough to shake her whole body, but the sound was worse: like an abandoned child wondering why she was all alone in the world yet again.
What was wrong with her? What made her so easy to abuse? What made any man, let alone the man she gave her heart to, decide to take her heart, her virtue, and her dreams for their future and crush them with his polished shoe? What made Jackson think he could hit her, spit on her, and force her to do things that went beyond the line of harmless sexual humiliation? She gave him several years of her life. In return, he gave her a prison and a broken heart.
Henry’s arms wrapped around her, a much welcomed veil of protection from the world she was too exposed to. I don’t need this… She didn’t need these welling feelings overflowing in her body, telling her to cling to him, to feel the strength of his arms, his chest, and his shoulders enshrouding her. He was so tall that Monica easily nestled into his embrace, hoping that he would hold her there in their small world forever.
She wanted a lot of things. Like the pat on her back, the nose in her hair, and the kind words that said she was worth more than any man must have shown her so far. I’m so weak. As if he read her mind, Henry said, “You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. Who can come back from something like that and do as much as you have? I’ve seen men crumble from less.”
No matter how much Monica wanted to tell him that it was an absurd thing to say, the words still sank into her brain, and she thought of the very few men in her life she ever saw cry. None of them had been her lovers. She wasn’t even sure Jackson was capable of producing tears – besides tears of laughter at her expense. “Why am I such a mess?”
Henry tipped her chin up and gazed into her tear stained face. There should have been something comforting in the way he looked at her, but all Monica could think was that this man had seen her cry. That was her second most vulnerable.
The first was…
Her heart exploded into a burst of sparks when he kissed her, Monica’s brain screaming no while the rest of her resisted reason and gave in to her strongest desires.
She hadn’t kissed a man who wasn’t Jackson in so long that she forgot men all did it differently. Henry, in particular, kissed with the entirely of his lips, not favoring one side or the other as he devoured the woman in his arms, each kiss stronger, more intoxicating than the last. Monica clung to him, her arms stretching to reach up around and bring him down closer to her, body slipping toward the sofa behind her with Henry following.
How liberating it was to give herself away, freely and without reserve. The heavy breaths hitting her skin were laced in an aphrodisiac that made Monica’s legs spread around Henry’s hips and her head fall back against the arm of the couch. Her chest heaved toward his mouth, which descended to her bodice, ripping apart the buttons of her dress and kissing both mounds of her breasts. Every time he thrust against her thighs, Monica whimpered, her hesitations unraveling the longer Henry Warren showered her with comfort.
Isn’t this what she expected when she invited him into her room? A part of her certainly hoped that her flirtations would lead to this. To deny that she wanted Henry was a grievous mistake. Monica knew herself too well to know that she could fool her heart like that. I won’t call it love. She wasn’t looking for love… but she needed passion. She needed to know that there were men out there still willing to take her how they pleased, their bodies using hers while still thinking of nothing but the woman they held in their arms and pushed into with every famished movement. Monica begged for him to have her, to rip away the one thing separating them and let her know him. Carnal knowledge was the next best thing to enlightenment.
“Mr. Warren,” she whispered, her skin bruising from the forceful way he kissed her throat and the shoulder that quickly emerged from her tearing sleeve. “Henry!”
He was too strong, too eager to deny any longer. Monica melted around him, her legs locked around his waist as he thrust against her. He’s hard already… And unless Monica was mistaken, Henry Warren had a lot to offer. Now. Right now. Her hand pushed between them, determined to open his zipper and pull away her lingerie so he could have her as he liked. I know men. I know what they like. Lucky for them that she liked it too.
Monica wouldn’t stand to wait another minute. “Take me, Henry,” she whimpered again, her breaths ragged as he sucked her nipple through her bra, his tongue dipping into the padding in a futile effort to taste her intimately. “Ravage me.”
She wanted it like she wanted to breathe the sweet air flooding her bedroom. For the first time in months, maybe years Monica looked forward to the fearless pleasures of sex. Not just any sex. The kind that made her scream into a man’s ear that he was tearing her apart, and to not stop until she was incapable of feeling a damn thing anymore. Henry could take her like this, right on her couch, but she would rather he take her to bed and mount her there. And it had to be now. Quick. Even forceful. There was time to serve him better as a sub later. Now was about sating the desires fueling her like mad and making her fantasize about Henry Warren throwing her down on her bed and defiling her body – and not only with some hair pulling and dirty, disgusting words.
“Deep down you’re a wild one, I see.” Henry took her wrists and held them above her head, his demeanor primal as his stony blue eyes drank in the skin she showed him. Her skirt slipped down her leg, exposing the white of her thigh and the black satin underwear she wore that day. They’re wet already. Now, damnit! He could have his fill of her in fewer than five minutes. Even at his biggest and roughest he could probably enter her with no hesitations. The more she thought about it, the more Monica wanted to claw his arms and scream at him to fuck her. “Like a sweet, pretty wolf.”
Now he pulled her arms back down, pinning them to her sides as her back arched and she presented her chest to his mouth again. Henry did not indulge.
“I’ve trapped you, queen of the wolves. Right here in your den.” His voice, low and vibrant, sent shivers throughout Monica until she nearly wept from frustration. “Do you know how badly I want to shoot you in the heart?” His lips ravished the valley between her breasts, his tongue wetting her skin, caressing her nipple, and making her pelvis shudder against his hips. “Do you know how much I want to leave my mark in you?”
His words were so delightful that Monica could barely form any of her own. “Be a menace. Hunt me down and claim my body.” She pushed her hips forward, rubbing against the hardness straining against his trousers. “I’m yours for the taking.”
Monica almost got off on the situation alone. Her, the dangerous she-wolf, chased into her den in the lonely woods, her hunter too strong to resist. Truly, her only hope was that he would mount her well and good, a mate worthy of calling her alpha. Based on what she felt between her legs right now… The odds are good.
She thought Henry would fuck her there and then. His breath was harried against her breasts, his hardness still rubbing against her clothed, wet slit. Monica wanted to reach between them and show him what he had done to her, but her arms were still stuck to her sides. Hold me like this and take me. Being immobilized was one of her biggest turn-ons. Henry was doing a fantastic job speaking to her kinky mind.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Or do you want me to struggle?” Like a wolf who would bite until the end.
“I want you.” If that was so, then why wasn’t he doing it? What did Monica have to say or do to get him to have her? “I want you so much that I know now is the wrong time.”
He released her, sitting up on the couch and doing his best to ignore the response between his legs. Monica also sat up, covering her chest with her torn clothes and the hair that fell out of her pristine bun. “What do you mean it’s the wrong time?”
“You said so yourself that you’ve been through so much. I’m the first man after that, aren’t I?”
Monica didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to be patronizing, but I wouldn’t feel right doing that until you were sure it was what you wanted. And I mean sure. Not from the heat of the moment, but because your heart and mind are also ready, not just your body.”
Monica didn’t argue with him. A part of her knew that he was right. When he came to visit that day, she had no idea that this would actually happen. That it would feel so good. After her last relationship, she had vowed to eschew all future ones unless she was absolutely sure she would not be as hurt should something happen. For as much as she wanted Henry, Monica knew it wasn’t enough.
“I won’t come back here,” he said, and for a moment a flutter of panic struck Monica’s heart. “Not until it’s the right time. If that time ever comes.”
He kissed her, not with the ardor of earlier, but with a warmth that said “No hard feelings.” Henry straightened out his clothing before seeing himself to Monica’s door.
“This isn’t farewell,” he said, hand on the door. “Only goodbye for now.” He left.
Monica had never felt so alone in her room before.