Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (23 page)

I SLAM THE BRAKES on, bringing the car to an abrupt stop. The car following sounds his horn as it shoots past me, signalling the driver’s opinion of my careless driving. I am heading back to Veuve’s flat but I don’t particularly want to go back if she’s not home. I don’t want to put my foot in it with The Kid again—he was understandably subdued around me before I left. And I don’t want to be sitting there, wondering what she’s doing ... or who she’s doing. It’s a thought process that my mind has struggled with all evening and I’ve had enough.

I slam the car into reverse. I’m not far from Vouloir so I’ll go and see for my fucking self. I park in the alley behind the club and walk around to the front. I feel my feet begin to drag. I want to put myself out of my misery but I don’t want to be confronted by the truth. I want to walk in there and find her sitting chatting harmlessly at the bar but I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s ‘out back.’ It’s getting right on my fucking nerves.

I almost ask a kid approaching me if he can spare a cigarette and I don’t even smoke. I loathe the fucking things but I’m so agitated—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never felt so powerless and I fucking hate it. I’m a leader. A control freak. So what the fuck am I doing tangling with a Domme? Because I wanted to give up control in the bedroom, that’s why. I hadn’t bargained on all the other shit. I feel like a complete fucking loser.

I turn and begin to walk back to my car. I can’t go in there. This ... whatever it is, it will pass. It’s like some sort of infatuation because she’s different. Because she doesn’t chase me—in fact, she attempted to repulse me. Fuck knows whether that’s why she’s the first woman to get under my skin. Maybe it’s the promise of the unknown. It will wear off and I’ll tire of her, like I’ve tired of every woman who came before her. The pun doesn’t escape me but I’m in no mood for humour.

I get in the car but I can’t bring myself to start the ignition. I look over at the back door. She’s in there ... if she’s out back, she’s what? Around a hundred metres from where I’m sitting. I’m moping like a besotted teenager and she’s in there.

Slam.

The heel of my hand hits the edge of the steering wheel. I should go in there and if she’s
busy
I should pick up some slut—hell, no—let’s make it two, and take them out the back and get this agitation out of my system by fucking one as her tongue drives into the pussy of the other. Yeah ... I fucking should.

But I won’t.

I know I won’t.

Because it’s not what I truly want. That sleazy blonde proved that—fucking around is a waste of time. Sure, I empty my balls but there’s no satisfaction. If anything, it intensifies the hunger I have for her. La Veuve Noire. A hunger that feels insatiable. I should have insisted that I was the one she took out back tonight. I should have demanded that she do her worst.

A bitter laugh escapes me. As if ... the moment I demand anything of her, she’ll refuse in a display of authority and dominance—deservedly so. She’s the one holding all the cards. I’ve spent the evening stringing along a redhead—giving her a fake application and assuring her that I’ll drop a photograph in to the office in the morning because the booth I tried to use was out of order. Then flirting with her shamelessly when she looked unsure about swallowing the pack of lies I fed her.

My evening didn’t get any better as it went along. I’ve spent the last hour breaking into Nurse Gareth’s car and making sure that he’s going nowhere fast in the morning. Yet more criminal activity to help out the woman I long to fuck yet she’s in there right now and, as far as I know, is fucking whoever took her fancy when she swept through the door. Tonight is the sexiest I’ve ever seen her looking ... and believe me, she looks sexy 24/7 ... she defines sexy. And she’s the epitome of sin. Of forbidden pleasure.

And I’m sitting out here while some lucky bastard has his hands all over her. I should go back to my flat and do the bidding of the goons from MI6. It might not be strictly legal either but at least I’d be financially rewarded and there’s more chance of gratitude being expressed. I need to regain control. I need to get this fucking woman out of my damned system before I’m tempted to storm in there and tear the fucker limb from limb as he tries to satisfy her with his pathetic cock.

I start the car and stand on the throttle, tearing out of the alleyway in a screech of burning rubber and testosterone. I’ll fucking teach her to treat me like a eunuch.

I CREEP INTO MY flat, trying not to wake The Kid. It’s gone two but I note that Jones’ car isn’t parked outside. I guess he got an offer that was too good to refuse. And while I’m glad about that—I’m glad to have the flat to myself, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Unlike Prey’s cock ... that left a very pleasant taste and yes, I know I’m a fucking hypocrite but Jones is supposed to be learning and, as I told him, when he’s under my instruction, I decide when he can and can’t come. I doubt very much that he’s gone back to his girl’s at this time of night for a game of fucking monopoly.

I tiptoe into my room and begin to unlace my boots. If Jones can’t follow the rules, I’m perfectly within my rights to strike him off my client list. He’s too much of a wildcard. Too dominant to undertake a submissive journey. It’s for the best. I’ll have to pay him for the work he’s done, trying to gain access to Thierri because once he’s done that, he’s history. If The Kid wants to go and live with him, that’s his choice—he’s family after all. My life can get back to normal at last.

My chest feels oddly constricted and I need to get this damned corset off to get my breath. But I can’t unfasten the cords at the back—they’re knotted or something. I almost dislocate my fucking shoulders trying to get free but it’s no use. I’m stuck. I consider creeping into The Kid’s room but it feels wrong. Yes, he’s seen me almost naked at Jones’ in the middle of the night but that was accidental. I’ve just been to Vouloir ... when I think of sneaking into his room and asking him to untangle my knotted cords after I’ve just fucked to within an inch of his life a man whose name I don’t even know, it almost makes me cringe.

If Jones were here, I’d ask him to do it. Although, at the mere thought of him, the man I kept picturing on and off, the whole time I was with Prey, the opinion that it would be inappropriate presents itself as fact. I pause from grabbing at the cords in desperation and consider that.

I never feel dirty. I never feel ashamed. So why am I suddenly glad that Jones isn’t here after my mammoth fuck fest with Prey? I never worry about being judged and I damn well never judge myself but here I am, reeking of sex and wanting, more than ever, to be able to get this freaking corset off so that I can get in the shower and wash Prey off me before ...

Before what?

Before Jones gets back?

Before Jones gets back reeking of sex with some young slapper?

That thought pisses me off more than the thought of him smelling another man on me. Before I can reason with myself, or consider just how much this fucking corset cost, I find myself under the powerful jets of my shower. I can’t describe it, this irrational need to be clean before I see him again. I’m too tired and for some reason, too emotional to argue. I just scrub myself clean until I feel tears pricking behind my eyelids.

Fucking hell, my hormones must be completely out of control. I’m a mess. I feel old and so tired. Bone tired. I sag against the wall and let myself sink until I’m sitting under the spray, crying my fucking eyes out and I’ve no idea why. All I know is that fucking Prey didn’t give me the release I’d desired—nothing to do with him or his prowess, he was as impressive as I’d hoped. It was me. I felt disconnected somehow. Jones’ fucking face and tattoos swimming into my mind didn’t help. Maybe shedding a few tears after the emotional few weeks that I’ve had is all I need. The problem is that now they’ve started, I can’t seem to stop them.

WHY IS IT THAT when you’re pissed, you can never unlock or open a door quietly? Trying to be quiet always seems to generate more noise than if you hadn’t bothered. I’m dying for a piss so I tiptoe, probably making more noise than a herd of wildebeest, along the hall to the bathroom. Fuck! The door’s closed. Bollocks. The sound of running water tells my brain that someone’s in the shower and my bladder that I really need a piss. Like now.

I wander down to Veuve’s room and find that the door’s ajar and light is spilling out. I tap it gently and, when there’s no reply, I give it a tiny push. I can see the room’s empty. Just what I need ... a female in the shower—isn’t that supposed to take hours?

Heading into the living room, I see there’s a pillow and a sleeping bag waiting for me on the sofa. Any last hope I’d had about sleeping in a comfortable bed, evaporates in an instant. But then, do I really want to sleep next to her if she’s full of another man’s spunk? I sit down heavily, regretting my harsh thought ... I don’t know for sure that she has dominated a man to within an inch of his life tonight. But the fact that she left here looking even more like a sex goddess than she usually does, coupled with the fact that she’s in the shower for the second time tonight kind of suggests that she has. I feel my lip curl.

I’d spun off from Vouloir with every intention of going home but I knew I’d regret it. So I did the sensible thing and found a pub that wasn’t too far from Veuve’s that had a rear car park, tucked my car in the corner and downed four pints, one after the other. I kept picturing her naked ... naked and with another bloke ... he was pleasing and pleasuring her in ways that were foreign to me. It made me feel inferior. I felt I had every right to pick up some whore and fuck Veuve out of my head. I picked one up alright ... get this—I crooked my finger at some bird who must have been in her mid-fifties at least, wearing something slutty and provocative from Next or some such as though she was about twenty, and she scooted straight over, fluttering her fake eyelashes.