Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) (67 page)

“Yes. But you’re the only one, Monica. The only one.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

But I did, and we both knew it. I looked down at him, with his tourmaline eyes and copper hair, and believed him despite my better judgment. I forgave him despite my misgivings. I loved him just because I did. My heart wasn’t sensible or guarded enough. Not by a sight. I was a walking raw nerve ending of emotion, as if the years I’d spent away from men and sex had made me more emotional, more vulnerable, more foolish. I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling like the victim of a crime of consent.

“Can you stay with me a few hours?” he asked.

“Let me clean up, then I’ll let you know.”

H
e was on the back patio, sock feet on the table, phone pressed to his ear. I watched him, thinking about how much had changed since the last time I watched him on that chaise, talking to Jessica on the phone. I’d left without saying goodbye. How long ago was that? A little over two months? Leaving without saying goodbye again would be unforgivable.

I slid the door, the change in pressure making a clack. He looked up, and when he saw me, he waved me outside. He’d hung up by the time I reached him.

“My lawyer slash sister,” he said, holding out his hand. I took it but sat in the chair, swinging my legs over the arm.

“That sounds awkward.”

He laughed. “You have no idea. And don’t get too comfortable, because she wants to meet you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Lawyers don’t get weekends. She has no kids or husband, so she works.”

I sighed. I wanted to spend the next hours soothing myself with his body, trying to rub away feeling manipulated and used. My disappointment must have been evident, because Jonathan pulled me up, wrapping his arms around me.

“I owe you. I know,” he said.

“Fine.”

Lil drove. Apparently, we were headed out to Beverly Hills. Traffic was pretty terrible, even for a weekend. Jonathan and I sat in the back seat. I had a leg hitched on the seat so I could face him. He leaned in my direction but faced forward.

“Are you going to wait for your sister to debrief me? And which one is this?”

“This is Margie. She’s the oldest. She’s very straightforward. I think you’ll like her.”

“And she’s going to tell me everything in legalese, because you won’t say a word about getting picked up at the airport and put into a police car while smiling like your Mirandas were a big joke.”

“I was smiling for your benefit.” He took my hand, weaving our fingers together. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m worried. Very worried. I was sick to my stomach until the cops came and told me what happened.”

“Which was false.”

“Then I was worried about you and mad at the same time. So, fail. And stop avoiding.”

He leaned his head back and looked out the window.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

“We don’t know. We’ve got radio silence from my ex-wife.” He sat up and faced me. “The prosecutor’s going to want to talk to you.”

“I’ll tell them the same thing I told the cops.”

“I don’t want you to think lying’s going to protect me.”

We just stared at each other for a few seconds, maybe more. It felt like forever and not long enough before I had to break it. He put his fingertips to my cheek, brushing his thumb on my lower lip. His hands were magical, igniting a fire, touching a fuse that ran to the core between my legs by way of my heart.

“I know you have lying in you,” I said.

“My lies are all white.”

“Flake white.”

“The brightest, most guilt-free of the whites.”

“And the one so toxic it’s illegal.”

A smile curled one side of his mouth. “I’m not lying about Jessica or about anything that matters.”

“Who decides what matters?”

His hand slid off my throat and down my chest, resting on my sternum. “You matter. We matter. I haven’t touched another woman since I had you at the Loft Club. Monica, it’s you. Being with you is all I can think about. It’s all I want. We are bound. I can’t be unfaithful to you any more than the sky can be unfaithful to the sea.”

“Nice words.”

“Your nipples are hard.” He brushed them with the backs of his fingers. “Your body won’t deny what your mind fights.”

“If I decide to believe you, understand I know there are things you’ve lied about.”

“Such as?” He drew a nail over my nipple, the fabric like Teflon, letting it slide across. My lips parted.

“I don’t believe Kevin got picked up just because,” I said.

He pinched my nipple hard, giving a little twist. My back arched.

“Who cares?” he whispered.

“I do. About the truth.”

He put his hand under my skirt. I was a little sore from the hate fuck in his living room, but my wet lips fluttered under his touch.

“Open your legs.”

I did, and he hitched up my dress until it gathered just under my breasts. He placed my heels on the seat until my underwear was the only thing between me and his eyes.

“The truth, Monica,” he said, putting his thumb lightly on my clit, using my juices to slide over the skin. “The truth is that I love you. The rest is unnecessary complication.”

“I disagree.” But I was lost. It didn’t matter if I agreed or not. I wanted some part of his body to rub against me. He flicked my engorged clit, and my breath hitched with the pain and pleasure.

“You won’t.” He took a small box from his pocket, opened it, and plucked my diamond navel bar from its velvet bed. He kissed between my legs, over my underwear, breathing on my clit to make it warm and receptive. His lips traveled to my naked navel, which he kissed gently. “You belong to me. That means I take care of you. Your body and your heart.” He slid the navel bar through the piercing. “That means I’m committed to your happiness. And it means there is no other woman.” He slid the smaller diamond cap on top, sealing the gem to me. “I don’t share. And you don’t have to either. You have to trust me.”

“I can’t.”

“It’s a choice. Make it.” He slid to his knees before me and slipped his fingers under my panties. I lifted my butt, and he pulled them off. His tongue ran from my knee to my thigh. When his tongue found my folds, I thought I’d burst.

“Oh...” I put my fingers in his hair.

He looked up and said, “Hands under your ass.”

I sat on them.

“Keep these legs open.”

The commands turned me on, sending another wave of pleasure through me. By the time his tongue found my clit, I was non-verbal. He licked so gently, flicking it, then circling my hole, making sure every inch of me was on high alert. A little suck, a flick with his fingers. Sweet, exquisite torture. He slid those flicking fingers in me, then sucked my clit again.

“May I come, sir?” I asked in a breath.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “Keep these legs spread for me.” He ran his tongue over my clit again.

“Oh, God.”

He slid his thumb in my cunt, and when he drew it out, he traced the line up and down me. Another flick made me bite back a scream.

“Let me come, sir.”

“Say please.”

“Please, I’m begging. Please.”

“Are you mine?” he asked.

“I’m yours. You own me. My cunt is yours. Please let me come.”

“Am I yours?”

“I own your sorry ass and everything it’s attached to, please. Please.”

He licked my clit again, sucked it through his teeth, and made my ass lift off the seat. He got three fingers in my cunt and hooked them, pushing into the rough spot inside me. His name left my lips over and over, and I tried to keep my legs open when they just wanted to clench around him. His tongue and teeth worked me until a tidal wave of pleasure broke through, sending shocks of fire through me. His fingers inside me did something else, blinding me with a different note, a severe release that felt sharp as a razor, strong as a sledgehammer.

I pushed into him, holding myself up on the hands he’d commanded under my ass. I hissed his name through my teeth so Lil wouldn’t hear through the glass. My orgasm abated, fading like the end of a song. His tongue’s ministrations slowed. My hips twitched around him.

I ran my fingers through his hair as he kissed the inside of my thighs. “Jonathan?”

“Monica.”

“One day this will stop working.”

“But not today.”

W
e went into the elevator with a man in a grey suit, putting our backs to the wall and watching the floors light up above us. Jonathan’s hand hooked mine and clutched it.

He was holding my hand in an elevator. Like a normal person. I looked at him, and he turned to me.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Grey Suit got out, and the doors slid shut.

“Margie litigated my divorce,” Jonathan said, still facing the doors.

“Okay?”

“We had a lot of talk about irreconcilable differences over sex. How it was had, et cetera. There were gag orders that were broken. No pun intended.”

“Okay.”

“My sister may look at you in that way you were afraid of. She’s still curious about the whole thing.”

“That’s awkward.”

“You have no idea.”

My face hurt from holding back a nervous smile. “If she’s curious, you should send Debbie at her with a riding crop.”

He glanced at me, and I knew he was trying to hold back nervous laughter as much as I was. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. “Madame Silk would have her crawling on the floor in a second.”

“I knew it!” I exclaimed.

He put his arm around me, and we walked into the hall. He opened glass doors for me. Two receptionists sat behind a stark white counter topped with red blooms. The older seemed to know him and picked up the phone when she saw him. He still had his arm around me.

“Did Madame Silk ever get her crop on you?” I whispered.

“We discussed it and decided against.”

“How thoughtful and sensible of you.”

He pulled me to him. “It was much, much more complex than that.”

“Mister Drazen?” the receptionist called. “Come this way.” We followed her past the desk and into the belly of the office. He held my hand the whole way.

Margie was almost as tall as I was, and she shook my hand like a man. She did not size me up, nor did she give me the impression she had an ounce of curiosity about what I did in bed with her brother. Either Jonathan was wrong and she didn’t give a shit, or she was as in control as he was. Her sage pencil skirt and tapered jacket were tailored to exist without being noticed as anything but part of a God-created whole. I knew her age, and she wore it well. She had the alertness of a child, yet her comportment was so graceful and self-aware, she was more adult than I thought I’d ever feel.

We sat across from her desk like recalcitrant schoolchildren, facing huge windows that looked over the city. We shared small talk, a few lines about their family I didn’t understand, a word or two about traffic on the 405, and a couple of innocent questions about waitressing and music.

Then Margaret Drazen put her elbows on the desk and indicated her brother while speaking to me. “So what did this one tell you?”

“He lied. As usual.” I glanced at Jonathan. He leaned into the arm of his chair and rubbed his upper lip as if he was trying to hide his mouth. I knew he was biting back a smile.

“Which lie was it this time?” Margie asked me.

“The one where they both had their clothes on and there was no touching.”

“This the same scene where he hit his ex-wife with a belt?”

“That one.”

Margie leaned back. She looked as if she was going to fall out the window and get poured over Los Angeles. “This is so fucking fascinating. See, he tells me this story, and I’m thinking assault and battery. You hear the exact same story and think infidelity.”

Jonathan broke in. “You’re going off the rails, Margie.”

“But, Jonny…”

“We talked about this,” he said, his posture still relaxed.

“It’s very simple,” I said, my voice clipped and brusque. “His belt is for holding up his pants, binding me, and hurting me. His body, any part of it, is to give
me
pleasure and pain. If he gives any other woman either of those things with his body or any clothing accessory, it’s cheating.” I turned to him. “The fact that we were officially broken up notwithstanding.”

“You said she wouldn’t want to talk about it,” Margie said to Jonathan.

“Apparently I was misinformed.”

“You two need to talk more.”

“Sorry if you’re an hour behind the curve.”

Margie put up her hand. “Okay, that was fun, let’s move on.” She turned back to me. “First. Let me tell you about the great state of California. We’re a preferred arrest state. Any domestic violence accusation with some merit warrants an arrest.”

“Define merit,” I said.

“You’re sharp. Merit means she had a recording of the incident on her phone and pictures of a reddened ass consistent with getting hit hard with a belt. Since she provided all of this to the police, the prosecutor decides how to proceed. But with the multimedia presentation available to him and the years of rumors, if he didn’t arrest Jonathan for felony battery, he’d lose his job. Even if she drops the charges or recants, the prosecution still has to continue.”

“Felony battery?” I said softly.

“They’re required to arrest as a felony,” Margie said. “The DA can bump it down to misdemeanor, but if the Ice Queen remains trenchant, a reduction’s unlikely.”

I couldn’t look at Jonathan. It sounded so dire, and yet, what he’d done to her wasn’t a fraction of what he’d done with me. “I don’t understand how this will lead to getting her husband back.”

“Ex-husband,” Jonathan grumbled.

“Agreed,” Margie said, “especially not with the mandatory order of protection.”

“This is very simple.” Jonathan twisted his whole body to face me. “My ex-wife doesn’t want me back. At the time, I didn’t know what she wanted, and I was trying to get it out of her. You don’t have to like the way I did it, and if you want me to apologize again, I will.”

“You can stick your apology.”

“I’ll be sure to do that. You and I were broken up, but I knew you were coming back.” His face flashed with that cocky confidence then changed to something more sincere. “But what I wanted to tell you was that at the time, I didn’t know what she wanted. Margie and I figured it out last night.”