Chapter Eleven
The next day, instead of working at the shop and making deliveries like I’d normally do on a Tuesday, I’m sitting across the table from Roy. He’s eating the humongous breakfast Evelyn made for him while I nibble on a decadent chocolate croissant, or as Evelyn called it, a pain au chocolat. She said the French have it for Sunday breakfast. I must purchase a ticket to France.
Roy meets my eyes and gives me his sexy grin. I run my tongue over my lower lip, pretending to search for a crumb. His eyes immediately flare, and he moves in his seat to accommodate the growing hardness I know is causing him discomfort.
“We leave in an hour.”
“These look good.” I take a slice of mango off the fruit tray, slide it between my lips and take a bite. “Juicy.”
Roy closes his eyes and stretches his neck. “I meant what I said.”
I’m the epitome of all things innocent and sweet as I lick the mango juice off my lips. “I know. I understand.” No, I don’t. Not one bit. My libido is doing the samba and needs a partner. “Sure I won’t need to bring anything?”
He’s throwing a party in D.C. for clients. Some of the movie people will be there, which I’m not thrilled about, but he’s promised Jason is still in Los Angeles. I wish we could spend our last evening together alone, preferably in the shower. Unfortunately, this event was planned months ago and requires his attendance.
“I had my assistant procure dresses.”
Procure is such a business word. What’s wrong with I had my assistant buy clothes for you? And is the assistant like his real estate agent? I picture a rack filled with dresses meant to wrap around the non-existent curves of a tall and lanky woman. “I don’t care for anything flashy.”
He glances at me, stands, and takes his dishes to the sink, rinsing them out before putting them in the dishwasher. “I’ve got it covered.” He walks around the island and takes a curly lock of my hair between his fingers.
I turn and kiss his hand, running my tongue along his index finger. This is what I want to do if you’d let me, I tell him with my actions. “I hate that you’re leaving tonight.”
“I do too, baby. Leave your hair down, like it is now,” he says and walks out.
For reasons unknown to me, Mr. Lethal is keeping his distance, has been since I woke up this morning curled up against his chest with him lightly rubbing my back. It’s not that he doesn’t want me; if anything, he wants me more than before. I can see his desire simmering below his calm exterior. Something, I don’t know what, is working its way through his mind.
Well, the day is long, and I know I’m chipping away at his resolve. I’d walk across glass if it meant having him take me now, before he departs, maybe never to return. Leaving me a virgin forever, because I know with a certainty like fire will burn and water is wet that Roy is the match to my set. There will never be another Roy for me. And it makes me think of nutty things, like stowing away in his luggage, because the thought of him going away and being shot or knifed or something far worse is above my ability to deal.
I dig into the breast pocket of Roy’s shirt—I picked out a white Burberry this morning—and text Vincent what time we’ll be at the hotel for the party. With less than forty minutes to get ready, I tidy up, put my dishes away, and grab the breakfast trays. Not sure where they go, I place them on the counter, right next to the jewelry box.
Why couldn’t it have disappeared overnight like socks do in the dryer or earrings or…who am I kidding? It’s going to sit there and silently wait until I decide if I should wear it or not. I scroll through a list of pros and cons, the cons far longer. I snatch it off the counter and tip the lid back; the hinge is stiff like it hasn’t been opened in years, and the tiniest whiff of a scent floats up, of lavender and oranges and something sweet. I frown at the radiance of the emerald as it shimmers under the light. It’s a stunner of a ring. Gently, I roll it back and forth in the palm of my hand. It should be gaudy, what with the knuckle-sized emerald cut in a rectangular shape and the diamonds encircling it big enough to be the centerpiece of a ring. I walk over to the French doors with the ring pinched between my thumb and forefinger. The natural light bounces around the facets, creating tiny rainbows.
The ring can’t hurt me, I tell myself, and it might end this sooner. I’m having about as much luck convincing myself of this as I would if I were strapped to a parachute and ready to jump from a plane. I slide it over my finger and wiggle it past my knuckle until it’s seated at the base of my finger. Irrationally, I’m afraid it will lock in place and yank it off. “Don’t be crazy,” I tell myself, and slide it back on.
People with the gift, as Aunt Mae calls them, claim objects emit vibrations. All I sense is sadness, probably my own.
If wearing this will help unlock the mystery, then so be it. I square my shoulders, toss my hair back, and resolve to be strong for however long it takes. When I pass by the library, Roy’s wide back is hunched over the long table.
“What are you doing?” I smooth the front of his shirt I’m wearing.
Without looking back, he responds, “I’m converting the broodmare barn—I think that’s what you call it—into an office space for my staff and me.”
“No horses or livestock?” He has too many acres to leave fallow.
He turns his back to the table and leans against it, his arms in front of his chest. “There’s a stable, along with an apartment above it. We could look into getting you a few horses to ride.” He lowers his head to make eye contact. “Well-trained, safe horses. And you in protective gear.”
I’ve never had my own horse. When I ride, it’s always one of Vincent’s mounts. I fight back the tears just thinking of hacking around Chadwick.
“Do you know the farm manager, a Mr. Luke Wolfe?”
I jump up and sit on the table, swinging my legs back and forth. “Sure, he’s worked on this farm for”—I think on it a moment—“as long as I can remember. He’s got a family. And he’s honest and discreet,” I add. Where there’s a lot of money, there are always people trying to take advantage. “And you can tell how well the farm’s maintained. Not a loose board in those miles of fencing. Never heard of any mismanagement. I think you should hire him.”
“I’ve been contacted by your hunt about riding through.”
I lay back, probably messing up his plans, but not caring, and laugh. “I’m sure you have.” I lean up on my elbows. “Anyway, it’s not my hunt. I’m not even a member, simply a guest of Vincent’s family.”
His eyes travel to my neck, linger at the large gaps between the buttons of his shirt, my stomach and…He suddenly goes rigid, fixed in place like he’s made of concrete.
I lean forward to ascertain where he’s looking. It’s the ring.
“Not that finger. Pick another.”
“I thought…” I sit up and pull it off my engagement finger. “Proctor said—”
“Proctor has the emotional grid of a crocodile, so don’t take him too literally.”
I’m confused. I thought he liked Proctor. “So I shouldn’t wear it?”
He takes it from my hand, rolling it between his fingers, and grabs my right hand, sliding it past my knuckle. “With nothing else to go on, it’s the best course of action. I don’t like it.” He kisses the palm of my hand and places it back on my thigh. “So, tell me how the hunt works?”
Shouldn’t we discuss the ring more? And what does it matter which finger it rests on? “You’ve seen the jumps in the fencing.” From the shaking of his head, I take it he has no idea what I’m talking about. “I’ll show you. The jumps are so we can ride across the land without having to open gates. The hounds get the scent of a fox. We follow them. We might ride through here, we might not.” I shrug. “Depends on what scent the hounds pick up and where it takes them.”
“So there’s an actual fox?”
I tip my head to the side, not knowing how to explain it’s the thrill of riding that’s the main draw. “We don’t kill the fox. Just chase it. It’s a way to keep the tradition alive. And there are hunt balls and hunt breakfasts.” His attention to the subject has waned as his eyes drift over the plans I’m lying on, and, to be ornery, I keep moving my body into his line of sight so he can’t see them.
With a grunt, he plants his hands on either side of my hips. “Like I told you this morning, no sex until I get back.”
Seems like such a stupid rule. “You want me now, though.” I toss my head back until my hair pools on the table.
“When I return, we’ll go away for a few days.”
“Where?”
“Do you like the beach?”
“Don’t know.”
He nudges between my knees and pulls me toward him, his big body spreading my thighs wide. “I’ll take you to St. John. Wrap this pretty little body of yours in a bikini.” He lifts me off the table and sets me back on my feet, slapping my butt before returning to his work. “Go on, find your knickers and get dressed.”
“Oh!” I rub the sting with my hand and turn back to see him giving me a questioning look.
“Like that?”
I suck my lower lip and nod.
He looks me over. “Go on, you little temptress, get dressed before I toss you over this table and give you a good hiding.”
But I don’t want to leave. I turn, taking a step closer to him.
“Go!” He lurches toward me, and I run squealing down the hallway like a little kid scared at a Halloween haunted house.
His laughter echoes through the halls as I trot up the staircase. This house should be filled with laughter and parties and family.
I select a white, off-the-shoulder minidress that falls an inch too high on my thigh for comfort. When I twirl in front of the mirror it’s perfect and flirty and the right mix of sexy. Did the assistant procure this? If so, I think I might like what she’s picked out for tonight.
Like Cinderella, my foot slides easily into the red, strappy heels. My long hair is curly and a bit wild, and for once I don’t try and tame it. My shoulders are creamy and bare, and I have a huge smile on my face.
Roy’s waiting impatiently in the foyer, dressed in a suit and tie, looking like an erotic fantasy lover who invades women’s dreams. The stubble on his face—he needs to grow what beard he can for the upcoming trip—gives him a more feral quality, and my heart beats a little faster. It’s a heady high, taming the savage beast.
“You look stunning.” His eyes travel over my bare legs and shoulders before resting on my eyes. “I like you in heels.”
I’m wanted. Roy desires me. I’m not frigid. It’s miraculous, and I take his hand and walk with him to the car. “This is new.” Not his usual Suburban or Range Rover. It’s black, of course—a Mercedes, sleek and almost feline-looking. “You’ll fit in this?”
He registers my comment with a smirk and easily slides into the car.
I run my hand over the leather and lean my head back. “I’m always in the van or my old car.” I sigh as the classical music surrounds us.
“I’ll buy you one. What color do you want?”
I turn in my seat. “Are you serious?
“Or you can have this one. It’s only a few months old. Not many miles.”
“You can’t give me a car.” I guiltily roll my thumb over the Rolex crystal. “I wasn’t fishing.” I’m discomfited he thought I was trying to guilt him into buying me something.
“You forget—”
“You’re Midas? You paid cash for this farm. You want to buy me horses and give me a car. You do realize how much it costs to maintain this farm, right?”
“You don’t have to worry.” He squeezes my knee with his hand.
The music’s interrupted by a call.
“Mr. Blackwood, sir,” a female voice says through the speakers, “I have Gavin on the line for you. Do you want to take the call?”
“Inform him I’m not alone.”
“You wouldn’t want him to say anything unwise,” I snap. Is this the assistant? Her voice sounds young, though you can’t always tell.
“It's common courtesy,” he answers.
“Roy.” There’s static in the background. “Flight was delayed. I’ll still make it in time to meet you at the hotel. You owe me.”
Gavin sounds like he’s on the North Pole or somewhere equally remote. His voice is gruff, plus he has an accent, maybe Scottish or Irish.
“I know, I know,” Roy responds. “Just get here.”
“Aye.”
Music fills the car again but doesn’t lighten my mood. “Great. He isn’t happy about this either. Maybe Jason’s sorry and won’t bother me. And the stalker…” When did he become a stalker? Oh, the moment Proctor made it abundantly clear it wasn’t my mother. Yeah, that’s when. “Could have decided I’m not worth the effort.”
“Sure and I’m going to sprout breasts and need a training bra.”
“Well,” I giggle. “You never know.”
He smiles and rolls his eyes, and I go to lean over to kiss his cheek except for the ring of another call.
“What,” he snaps.
“Ah, Mr. Blackwood, sir.” His assistant is clearly frazzled. “I received word the departure has moved up.”
“Goddamn it, when?”
“Nine hours from now.”
He grips the steering wheel until the white bones of his knuckles are clearly defined. “Confirm. Inform the team. Gavin’s flight was delayed. Whatever it takes, make sure he arrives before I leave. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I apologize for yelling at you.”
“No need, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He disconnects the call. “Not enough time,” he says to himself and seems to retreat inwardly. His hands twist the steering wheel until I think it will snap in two.
I kick off the heels, place my feet on the dashboard, not giving a damn if my skirt rides up to an indecent level, and pull out my cell phone to check messages. Vincent’s sent me a video of him walking through the hotel. What a goof.
“Thanks for inviting Vincent.”
Roy’s rough hand slides over my leg. “Is he bringing a date?”
“Are you kidding? Vincent isn’t big on dating. He has sex once, and that’s it. Life’s too short for encores. That’s what he says, anyway.” I’ve made him sound terrible. “He’s not a bad guy. He’s nice, only not ready.”
“No need to explain. I understand.” Roy clears his throat. “I’ve meant to ask. Have you thought about birth control?”
Wow. From Vincent’s man-whore ways to my use of birth control. “No.”
His fingers caress the delicate skin of my inside thigh, sending delicious goosebumps over my body.
“I was close to losing control last night.” He pats my leg and puts his hand back on the wheel.
“I wish you had.”
“No, you don’t. It won’t happen again.”
I mull over his comment.
“I’ve always used a condom, but I thought if you want…”
I turn to face him. “You’ve never had sex without a condom?”
“Bastards and disease are two things I don’t need.”
“Ouch.”
“I’ve been tested, so you know.”
“For AIDs and such?”
“Yes, I’m clear.”
“And the bastards?” I hate saying the word.
“Children should be brought into this world because they’re wanted and not because some asshole forgot to put on a rubber.” He places his hand back on my thigh.
He’s too adamant about this point for it not to be personal “Are you…” I bite my lip.
“Yes, Daisy, I’m a bastard. I wouldn’t wish my childhood on my worst enemy.”
Am I? “I thought you didn’t know your parents.”
His fingers slide closer to the lace of my underwear. “Are you regular?” The abrupt change in our conversation has me confused. “Are your menstrual cycles regular?”
I don’t even talk about this with my aunts, well, not since I was fourteen.
He gives me a quick glance. “If you want to be in a sexual relationship, you need to be an adult about this. Women bleed; it’s not a mystery.”
“No.” I move my leg away from his wandering fingers. “I’m not.”
“Dr. Johnson will be at the party. If you want, she will consult with you there. Or you can handle it. Or I’ll keep using condoms.”
“Are you always going to be two steps ahead?”
“Baby, I don’t even know what you’re thinking now.”
“I’d tell you, but you’d accuse me of being a tease.”
He taps my leg. “Sit up. We’re pulling into the hotel.”
Immediately, I bend over, grab my shoes, and shove my feet in, trying to get the straps wrapped around and behind my heels.
“Mr. Blackwood, sir.” The deep voice makes me turn. That’s no parking attendant. He’s clearly one of Roy’s people, as he calls them. I want to pretend Roy’s an ordinary guy with a regular job, but I’ve got to face facts. Roy’s business is dangerous.
Too soon, he’s opened my door and is waiting. “A second.” I get the right shoe wrapped and buckled well enough to make it to the room—I think.
“Daisy.” Roy holds out his hand while I wrestle with my left shoe.
I exit the vehicle, careful to keep my knees together and pivot out of the car—don’t want to give anyone a free show, as Aunt Stella always reminds me—and take a few steps. The blasted shoe strap is coming loose.
“Mr. Blackwood.” A concierge meets us in the lobby and immediately walks us toward an elevator. “The Federal Suite is ready for you.”
Keeping up with them as we walk through the lobby of The Hay-Adams is impossible in these heels, as the strap loosens until I have to stop fix it. “Go on. I’ll be right there.”
Roy halts, and a man walks up to him. As I kneel, I see them shake hands.
“Can I have a moment of your time? It’s about the autoloaders you ordered.”
“I'm all right, almost done,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the elevators.”
Roy looks over my head and nods to someone. I turn and see Proctor proceeding toward me.
Roy hesitates until Proctor is almost on me and then walks with the man to the elevators.
“May I help you?”
That’s not Proctor’s voice. “No,” I reply, finally getting the strap untwisted and back in place and stand up. The man who spoke is dreamy, like Robert Redford was in Barefoot in the Park. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Proctor steps up to the man. “Run along.”
“He was trying to help.”
Proctor doesn’t blink, only aims a constant, icy glare at the man.
“Are you fine?” Dreamy Robert asks. “He doesn’t seem your type.”
I blink. He thinks Proctor is my boyfriend. “Ah, yes, just had some trouble with my shoe is all.”
Proctor steps into the man’s space.
Robert lifts his hands. “Maybe I’ll see you at the party.”
Proctor’s focus changes, and I follow his gaze. Roy is standing by the elevators, watching. He jerks his head to the side. If you weren’t looking straight at him, you wouldn’t see the motion.
“Daisy.” Proctor turns his back on the man and blocks him from my view. “Come with me.”
This is wrong, but I walk beside him and look back to see Robert—or whatever his name is—watching me go.
Roy wraps his arm around my waist, and Proctor turns back toward the unsuspecting man.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” I protest.
But Roy’s not listening to me as he propels me forward to the elevator. “Can’t leave you for one minute.”
“It was a polite gesture. Don’t send your henchman after him.”
“Don’t start with me, not right now.”
“This is insane. I thought you said you weren’t a jealous man.”
His eyes roam over my body. “Apparently, I am now.”
“Proctor won’t hurt him, right?”
“Of course not.” He steps out of the elevator, and we walk to the end of the hall, where a brass plate identifies double doors as the Federal Suite. He unlocks and swings the doors open for me to walk inside.
“Holy shit,” I exclaim. It’s opulence, Russian Tsar-style, with gold everywhere and plush upholstery and high ceilings and huge paintings and thick carpet underfoot.
“Do you like it?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. He takes my hand and leads me through the suite. The bedroom is off to the right. The bathroom, almost as large as the bedroom, has a sunken tub and windows, at a discrete height, all around. We return to the living area and through another set of double doors into an office.
“Come.” He pulls me out a set of doors onto a balcony.
“That’s the White House. Right there. This is amazing.”
“You should see it at night.” He smiles at me.
I will, I think, but he’ll be gone by then.
“I’m sorry.” He smooths his hand over his immaculate tie. “I wish I could take you sightseeing.”
I try to keep my face from dropping.
“Meetings. Planned in advance. Before I knew…”
Before he knew I’d be here with him. “I understand.” My head does. My heart is a different matter.
“I’ve made a reservation at the spa with instructions regarding your care. Manicure. Pedicure. Massage. Whatever you want. And there’s an indoor pool and a gym.”
“Oh.”
He sweeps me into his arms. “Or I can have them come to the suite.”
“I just…”
He leans back trying to read my face. “I’ll cancel my meeting. It can wait.”
“No.” I force my lips into a smile. “Go.” I wiggle out of his hold and walk back inside. “Are these meetings about your trip?”
“It’s a convenient time to meet clients in person. I’m sorry. I’ll be back in a couple hours. And when I come home from overseas, we’ll go away.”
“To the island.” But I want him now. I don’t want to be in a strange place without him. It reminds me of Charlie at the dance. No! I close my eyes and force it from my mind.
From behind, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest. “I promise we’ll have a few days alone.” His lips brush the shell of my ear.
I want to melt in his arms and forget about everything but the feel of him. Before I can, a knock at the door interrupts our quiet calm.
He kisses my neck and turns me in his arms. “Do you need me? I can stay.” He steps back and tugs at his shirt cuffs. “Nothing is more important to me than you.”
I want to say yes. I don’t. I smile. “I’d like a massage.” I wiggle my fingers towards him like I’m putting him under my spell. “And maybe some festive nail polish.”
“Thank you.” He grasps my fingers, turning my hands over to kiss each palm. “For understanding.”
“No need.” I walk with him to the door and watch as he exits. The click of the latch as the door shuts sends a shudder through my body. “Now what?” I stroll through all the rooms. Go back to the balcony. And walk back to where I started with me facing the door like a puppy waiting for its owner to return home.
“We’re alone now.” Charlie hisses. “Want to play a game?”
God forgive me, but my eyes glance over to the desk. A silver letter opener sits like a temptation from the Almighty.
Not waiting for Charlie to say more, I march to the door, open it and step into the hallway. After the door closes, I realize I don’t have a key.
“The spa?” Proctor’s voice, flat and emotionless, startles me.
“Are you guarding me?” Nothing from him, not even a blink. “Fine. Whatever. Lead the way.”
Silence as we ride in the elevator. Keeping pace with him is difficult in the high heels. I wish I’d worn flats. We round a corner and there is the spa. Like a small palace of glittering glass and crystal chandeliers and smiling staff waiting to assist.
Proctor opens the door for me and steps inside. Is he going to stick by my side the whole time?
“Miss Aldridge.” A woman with grey hair and kind eyes greets me. “We hoped you’d come. What can we do for you?”
To the left are hairdresser chairs, empty. I don’t hear any activity. “A haircut.” I cough and clear my throat. “Maybe a manicure and pedicure.”
“Of course.” She waves her hand toward the back. “And a massage. If you like?”
I shake my head. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with a stranger’s hands on my body.
“Very well. Come with me.”
I turn back to see Proctor standing at attention just inside the door.
I’m tucked into a thick robe and should be having a relaxing time. I’m not. I don’t care for this, at all. I want Roy. I want to be home. But I make the most of it.
A lovely lady does my nails. They’re buffed and polished in a nude shade. The manicurist applies a small band of sparkling polish at my nail tips. I smile and thank her.
My hair is washed and conditioned and trimmed until it falls in beautiful curls down my back. Not a hint of frizz to be found.
Finally, I’m done. Proctor is right where I left him. I don’t think he’s moved a muscle.
“Tell Mr. Blackwood we thank him for his business,” the receptionist says.
I nod and follow in step behind Proctor. I’m antsy in the elevator. Surely Roy is back in the suite. I rush ahead of Proctor and shift my weight impatiently while he uses the keycard to open the door.
“Roy,” I call out just as the door closes behind me.
“You didn’t think he’d be here, did you?” Charlie asks.
I’m transported back in time. I’m at the dance. Wearing the beautiful dress my aunt’s made for me. Abandoned. Discarded. Unwanted. Like my mother left me. Just like Charlie. Like Roy.
I’m two steps from the desk with the awaiting letter opener before I realize it. I freeze like I’ve stepped on a landmine. Roy is a business owner. He’s busy. He will be back.
“Maybe he will, but soon he’ll tire of you.”
“Shut up,” I scream.
The door slams. I whirl around. Roy is standing in the room.
“Daisy,” his voice is cautious. “You look lovely.”
I’m excited and happy to see him, yet I step back, stumble in the heels, and grab hold of the sofa to remain upright. I yank the straps free and throw the offending shoes across the room.
“Everything alright?”
No. Anxiety is mainlining through my body. “Yeah. Sure.” I plant a smile on my face. “Do you like?” I flip my hair this way and that.
“You cut it.” He remains rooted in place.
“A couple inches.” Maybe three or four, but who’s counting. He’s not buying my act. “I snatch my mobile from the side table and open the balcony doors. Street noise filters through the room. “Come on,” I urge. “Let’s take a picture. I promised my aunts I’d put something good on my Facebook page.” My eyes keep flicking to the letter opener.
Finally, he moves toward me. “Delete your social media accounts.”
“What? Why?” I’m now on the balcony. My chest heaving as I use all my energy to keep a calm exterior.
“Do it,” his voice snaps like a whip. “No pictures. Nothing.”
My back is now against the railing. I should be running into his arms. Why do I feel trapped? “I don’t understand.”
“Because bad people target military operators and their families. Terrorist groups have a price on my head.”
Enemies. He said he had enemies. And now he’s going right back to war. My emotions boil over inside me. I spring off the railing and almost shoot past him, but he grabs my arm. “Let me go!”
“Tell me,” he implores.
The thought of him being killed because of something I posted online makes me want to vomit. He releases me and I wrap my arms around my chest. This is insane. He’s going to leave me, and then what?
I back away from Roy, needing space to… The pressure has been building inside me since last night. I knew it would be bad when it reared its head again, just never expected it so soon.
My hand shakes as I snap the band repeatedly against my wrist. This morning, Roy showed me how a simple hair band around my wrist could halt my compulsion.
“Here.” He’s gentler as he takes my hand, stilling it. “You’re bruising yourself.”
“I have to.” I wrestle out of his grasp.
“We”—he leans in and tries to catch my eyes—“need to learn how to manage this better. Can you articulate what’s going on inside your head?”
“It’s all too much. You’re leaving. Going to someplace horrible. Enemies. People trying to kill you.” I point at his shoulder. “Or hurt you again. Someone stalking me. You’re leaving me.” I wheeze out, hating myself. “And Charlie, he won’t stop talking in my ear, making his nasty comments.” It just fell out of my mouth, and now he’ll think I’m crazy. Not that he doesn’t already.
“Charlie was a stupid young man hounded by his own demons as much, if not more, than you.”
My brain feels cleaved in two. I’d never thought Charlie could have been hurting inside and that he had been lashing out. There is something I’m not catching, or something I’ve missed. It’s a sensation of having a taste for something you can’t identify.
“Charlie’s unimportant. What do you need?”
Something is bashing against my thighs. I look down at my hands, rolled into fists, shaking out of control. I close my eyes and try with all my might to control my body. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Why? I scream inside my head. Why now? Why so strong? I’ve never had it hit me like this. Not when I’m happy. Am I? Was I? Roy, wonderful as he is, has tossed my controlled world into chaos. My emotions maxed out most of the time. I’ve been putting a Band-Aid on a bleeding artery.
“I’m sorry. I have to cut. Let me?”
“I forbid it. No!”
“Please, let me go to the bathroom for a moment. It will only take a moment.” I plead with my eyes. “Only one cut, I promise.” I hate myself. I’m nothing but a filthy junkie.
“I’ll call the therapist. She can be here in less than thirty minutes.”
“Don’t!”
“Daisy I’m not going to stand here while you go cut yourself.”
No, of course, he isn’t. But I can’t remain like this, and I can’t talk to a stranger. I’m sweaty and chilled at the same time. My eyes scan the room in desperation. Roy loosens his tie and yanks it free with his hands, those big rough hands. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
A particularly bad wave rips through my nervous system, and I know I’ll die if I don’t get relief. “Please,” I beg. “Spank me.”
“What? I’m not going to hit you.”
“If you care for me, you’ll do it now, and don’t stop until I tell you to.”
“This isn’t right. You do realize an assault caused this problem. And now you want me to—”
“Yes, I know what I’m asking.” I throw my hands up and march toward the bathroom. He grabs me around the waist and clutches me so close I almost can’t breathe.
“Alright, alright.” His chest heaves. “I’ll do it.” He pulls back to glare at me. “Are you sure?”
Of course, I’m sure. “Yes.”
He retrieves his mobile from an inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Proctor, we’re good now. I’ll see you at the party.”
I’d forgotten he was right outside the door. What did he hear? Yet another item added to my list of shame.
Roy tosses the phone on the desk and cups my face in his large hands. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
I heave in a deep breath. My heart hammers a painful melody inside my ribcage. “I need release and pain. I need everything to spew out of me until I’m empty.” I loathe the pity I see in his eyes. “Make me only think about what’s happening.” My bones feel like they’ll shake free of their joints. “Take control.”
“Alright, alright. On one condition.”
I’m misery incarnate. “What?”
“I’m making an appointment with the therapist.” He points his finger at my chest. “And you promise to go and speak with her about this.”
I nod, not really registering what he’s asking of me.
He lowers his head, rolls each shoulder and his neck, and, finally, lifts his head to look me in the eyes.
I take a step back, and another one, because his eyes are primal, like an animal ready to spring on its prey. I didn’t expect this, and it makes me a little scared. He has my undivided attention focused on him and what he’s going to do.
Eyes still on me, he asks, “Are you sure you want to play this game?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
I see his resolve weaken for a brief moment and his jaw hardens. He rolls his injured shoulder and takes a step closer. “Go pick up your shoes and bring them here.” He takes off his jacket and places it on a chair back.
Right about when I’m ready to argue, he lifts his eyebrow. It’s such a small movement, yet it conveys a large threat. Immediately, I grab the shoes and walk back to him.
“Stand still.” He crouches and puts one on, carefully wrapping the strap around my ankle. He does the same to the other shoe.
I’m a shivery mess of panic and lust and fear, each vying for supremacy inside me.
He stands up tall and looms over me. “Do you still want this?”
“Spanking, right?” I ask because I’m not sure where Roy’s going with this. Which is both good and bad. Good that I’m not thinking of dying or Charlie or cutting or anything else. Bad, in I’m not sure I know what I’m getting into. Who am I kidding? I have no idea what wheels I’ve set in motion inside Roy’s head.
“You need release.” He says the word release as I imagine Lucifer would when enticing a saint to sin. “I won’t have you hurting yourself when I’m perfectly capable of taking care of the situation.” He eyes me from neck to groin. “Take off everything but the shoes,” he orders, while unbuttoning his shirt and rolling his shoulders free. “I’ll stop when you say the word.”
I close my eyes for a second, knowing if I keep looking at his powerful body I’ll be like Icarus and turn into a ball of flames.
He unbuckles his belt and yanks it through the loops, causing a snapping sound when it’s freed. I jump, and his smile is not friendly. Next, he slips out of his shoes and pulls off his socks, until he’s standing with only his trousers on and the belt slapping against the palm of his hand.
Frantically, I shake my head. “Not with the belt.”
He tosses it aside. “Take off the dress.” He meets my eyes. “Or I will. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
My fingers aren’t cooperating. The zipper snags. I’m standing there immobilized under his heated gaze. Roy is big, massive, but he’s fast and before I know it he’s looming over me.
“You weaken my control.” He touches my waist, causing me to jump, and walks around to my back. “No one has ever done that.” The zipper breaks, and the dress is rent apart between his hands and falls in shreds around my feet.
“Roy,” I whimper. “I loved this dress.”
“I’ll buy you more.” He doesn’t wait for me to take off my panties; instead, he tears the straps. “Bend over the sofa.”
Out of nowhere, I blurt out, “I’ll die if you don’t come back.”
He whirls me around to face him. “Is that what this is about? You’re afraid I’ll die over there?”
“Yes…partly,” I whimper, and my eyes well with tears.
He holds my neck and uses his thumb to wipe the drops from my cheeks. “Believe me when I tell you I’m good at what I do.” His eyes hold mine, and he says every word with a vehement sharpness. “If need be, I’ll lay waste to the whole godforsaken country to get back to you.” Too quick to protest, he spins me around, bends me over, and places his large hand on my back to hold me in place while he slides his finger back and forth between my legs. “You’re dripping, baby.”
I’m teetering on the high heels with my butt thrust up in the air and his hand working me, and right now it’s exactly where I want to be.
“I’m doing exactly what I didn’t want to, mixing sex with pain.” He kisses my back, whispering in my ear, “I’ll never forgive myself if I fuck you up with this. Would an orgasm work, like last night?”
He’s worried about fucking me up? I’m thinking he’ll need a therapist after dealing with me. And no, I don’t think an orgasm will work, and I shake my head.
His hand presses harder. “You only need to say stop. You hear me?”
“Ye…sssss.” Before I finish the word, his hand connects with my right ass cheek, and the pain explodes out of my mouth in an animalistic cry. I’m squirming and bucking and trying to get away but he’s got me pinned. My left cheek is next, and it’s a white-hot pain that hurts worse as the seconds tick by. “Enough, okay, enough.”
“Did you think spanking wouldn’t hurt?”
Fuck, he’s serious about this, and it sends a spike of adrenaline screaming through my body. Skillfully, he spanks my right cheek and my left and back, again and again, until I’m desperate and my arms are flailing about, trying to grab the edge of the coffee table. I kick his shins until he sidesteps and try to cover my ass, but he moves my hands away. It’s impossible to deter him from his mission as my ass is inflamed and hot and stinging like a swarm of wasps has attacked me until I’m raw. “Roy, please.”
“No more cutting.” Smack. “You hear me?” Smack. “If I have to do this all night to get it out of your head, I will.” Smack.
Hysteria sets in, and I’m no longer Daisy. I’m a wild animal, twisting and turning and always ending up in the same space, with my ass in the air and Roy giving me what I asked for. And the pain brings me around to the humiliation of being bent over for punishment, which makes me loathe myself for needing to cut, and spirals around until the pain of his hand brings me right back to the humiliation. And on and on as he methodically and clinically wallops my ass until I’m crying and my nose is running. I’m limp and spent and unable to struggle anymore, and that’s when I realize it has passed—the compulsion is gone. I yell, “Stop!”
Instantly, I’m lifted and wrapped in the warm cocoon of his chest and arms and carried to the bed. Gently, he places me on his lap, and I flinch from the fabric brushing against my tender flesh.
“Daisy, you break my heart.” His voice cracks. “Did I make it better? Or worse?” He’s hugging me and running his hand over my arm and brushing my hair from my face.
His touch is the balm my jagged emotions need. And as crazy as it sounds, I’m filled with a sense of serenity and peace and utter calmness. “Better,” I whisper. “So much better.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It was perfect.” I nestle against his chest.
He knows what I need and holds and rocks me back and forth until the tears dry up and I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open and drift off in his arms.