Hostile Takeover (18 page)

Jesus, he had to get out of here.

As he walked into the main room, Jon looked up. He was stretched out on the couch, a cup of tea in hand, reading a massive book about the wisdom of ancient civilizations or some bullshit like that. He looked entirely too calm. Ben shook his head, lifting a hand before he could speak. “Thanks. I’ll be back for her tomorrow. I owe Rachel a yoga mat.”

“Ben—”

“Not now.” He stopped at the door, looked back at the man. “Thanks for your help, yours and Rachel’s. I just don’t want to talk it out right now, all right?”

Jon nodded. “I’ll call if she needs anything we can’t provide.”

“Okay.”

He slid out the door, relieved to breathe the open air. Though the limo was waiting, he would have preferred his own car, so he could open it up on the quiet rural roads around Jon’s house, feel the blast of wind and cathartic roar that came with pushing it, feeling the lift over the few hills as if the car was about to take off like a plane.

He told the driver to drop him off in the French Quarter. This time of night, Bourbon Street was revving up, but he bypassed the traffic and noise, getting out at Royal Street to head for the place where the night sky was close and there was full dark.

The St. Louis cemetery, the oldest one. His childhood haunting ground.

Fortunately it seemed pretty quiet tonight. A homeless person or two were probably settled into the shadows, which was fine. He slipped along the maze of vaults, the various sizes that housed whole families. As a kid, he’d come through here plenty times. Hiding from other predators, the cops, or just to be by himself. Out of habit, he traced one of the many trios of sideways crosses etched on Marie LaVeau’s tomb. Didn’t really know why he did it; just always had. Sometimes he left a few pennies there, because the shrewd voodoo queen liked copper. Never hurt to network and make friends where you could.

When he reached the Italian Society vault, he glanced around, verifying he was alone and unobserved. Taking off his shoes, he held the laces in his teeth, then used handholds on the sealed drawers to climb to the top, take a seat amid the tufts of grass that grew untended there. Putting his back against the cross that crowned the area, he looked out over the acres of the dead and gone.

He wished he had a bottle of whiskey or a six-pack of Guinness, but then again he didn’t. He knew he shouldn’t drink in this kind of mood, but lately it hadn’t stopped him. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the cross. Mistake. Marcie was beneath him again, all that pale cream skin, her hair brushing her shoulders. She was biting her lips, tears in her eyes as she concentrated on taking him inside of her, managing the pain, her cheeks flushed with arousal. Her pussy had been soaked, sucking eagerly on his fingers. When she took his dick in her mouth, she took him like an experienced hooker. How the hell had she learned to do that? When? With who?

He recalled again the letters about her losing her virginity. She’d liked the boy, but with her penchant for strategic planning, it was kind of a “to-do”—getting it out of the way. At the time it had bugged him, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. It was the way most
guys
were about it, after all. Get it done, the sooner the better. But maybe that was why it bugged him. Marcie wasn’t a guy.

She’d asked why she hadn’t climaxed, and whether it would get better. Recalling the advice he’d given her, he winced. That poor guy. With the practical streak Marcie had, she probably used him as a guinea pig, exploring every possible thing and asking a million questions about male anatomy until the kid was clawing and screaming, trying to get out of her room. Was that where she’d learned about the throat thing? She knew how to take a larger-than-usual cock, in both her ass and mouth. She’d known how to work with him.

It pissed him off. He told himself it had nothing to do with her experience or lack thereof. He was pissed because he wasn’t supposed to have fucked her at all. When he’d made her call him “sir”, she thought she’d lost. She didn’t realize he’d been scrambling to regain the upper ground, which was a fucking joke since he’d already lost it. In Jon’s house, no less. Jesus.

Rising, he crossed his arms and stared down into the cemetery like one of the stern angel statues. One clothed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit. He wanted her back at his place tonight, in his bed, so he could turn to her during the night and do whatever he wanted to do to her, make her sob with pleasure, wear her out. Give her the rest of those cane licks to make her behave.

His idea of a leisurely Sunday at home would be to tie her over a spanking bench, totally naked and legs spread. He’d keep her there through most of the day, her pretty mouth sucking his cock before he fucked her with it. He’d make her beg for food, water, trips to the bathroom. He’d blindfold her and paddle her ass at unpredictable intervals, keeping her on edge. One evening at the club, he’d done that to a seasoned sub for five hours, until she was so deeply mired in subspace she was speaking in tongues, begging to be fucked, for pain, for anything he wanted. The memory sent a shimmer of heat through his blood, especially with Marcie overlaying that picture.

Fine line between fucking sadist and a Dom, asshole.

There was no doubt he was a sadist. He needed to give pain to release something inside of him, and a sub craving it, willing to take higher and higher levels of duress just to please him and because she herself got off on it, she was a drug.

How did Marcie know that about him? How did she know so damn much? He thought of her body stretched out on the car hood, her glistening pussy lips. He’d like to taste what was there. Yeah, he might like assfucking, but he liked diversity, would take full advantage of the other pleasures a woman’s body could offer. Those piercings made him hot as hell. He liked that she didn’t have tattoos, all that creamy skin unmarred. He could mark it with his teeth, the suction of his mouth, the touch of a whip or paddle. He grinned like a feral animal, thinking of the play paddles he’d seen with words cut out of the wood so they’d imprint on the flesh. Slut. That would be hers, for sure. She wore the name like a badge of honor.

He sobered. It was a puzzle, how innocent she truly was, how inexperienced as a submissive, all of it bravado, and yet she sassed and defied him, begging for the worst punishment he could inflict. As if she’d known him as her Master for far longer than this one day.

Because she trusts you, asshole.
It was like Matt had said. She followed her natural cravings because the environment told her she was safe, that she could make that leap and someone would catch her. Either that or she was just that damn brave.
Fuck.

She’d followed him to Surreal. How long before that had she been studying him? What he wanted, what he liked. Jesus. She wanted to be an investigator, was top of her class…

He shook his head, climbed down off the top of the vault. Hearing a poignant ballad being wailed out on a sax, he followed a familiar track to its source. Sticking to the shadows, he watched Marvin Troxler stand before the grave simply marked “Bernie, Musician” and play his latest composition. Best fingers on a sax Ben had ever heard locally, but Marvin only shared with Bernie. If anyone appeared while he was playing, he stopped, walked away. His communication skills weren’t the greatest, but there was a pain burning in his eyes Ben recognized too well.

Ben had first heard him a year or so ago. Figuring out his habits, he’d tailed him home, figured out that he was a low-paid dock worker. He’d arranged an accidental meet one day at the docks, and offered the man a different job. He worked in one of Kensington’s warehouses now, earned better pay and had a decent apartment, but as far as Ben knew, he never sought gigs or any public outlet for his music. Ben never asked him about it, never revealed that he knew about Marvin’s midnight serenades. There were wounds that were private. That no one should touch.

Turning away, he slipped back through the vaults. Stopping at one that had fallen to ruin, he readjusted the broken head plate to make sure it stayed upright. To show someone remembered. Swallowing, he moved away. Couldn’t get into that shit. He had a damn good life. Friends who cared about him. The only reason one of them hadn’t tracked him tonight was because he’d deliberately had the limo drop him at Bourbon. If they checked, they’d think he’d gone to Progeny or one of his favorite watering holes.

They all had families who needed them. They didn’t need to be chasing after him. He knew the fact he was alone bugged them, but that was his choice. Marcie might think she knew what he needed and that she could handle it, but he’d decided long ago that was too much to ask of any woman.

Yet he remembered the way her fingers had covered his, the way her beautiful brown eyes had studied his face, seeing things she shouldn’t be old or wise enough to see or understand.
“Your heart is closed. But it’s okay, I’m here.”

“Shit,” he muttered. He was way too aware she was here. That was the problem. He’d agreed to mentor her, and he needed to live up to that, but he was also way too aware that he wanted more than that. He wanted to take her over, Master her, show her the ropes literally and figuratively.

He wasn’t going to go back for her in the morning. He’d send the limo, have her taken home, and that was the end of it.

* * * * *

Marcie slept restlessly, even though Rachel had done a good job. She was only sore in the right ways when she rose, but her nerves felt all raw and exposed. He’d been inside her, around her, surrounding her. It made her twitch or shudder at odd moments as she was getting cleaned up and dressed. Rachel had hung up the clothes Ben had taken off her, a vision she couldn’t forget. Her nipples became erect at the least brush of contact.

He must have found her panties in the drawer and brought them along last night, because they were part of what Rachel had included with the clothes. Along with a silk blouse of Rachel’s, a pretty pale pink that went well with the skirt and was thick enough the tan bra with its mesh top, though faintly visible, didn’t look out of place beneath it

Ben had told Marcie she wasn’t going to work, in front of Rachel, but Rachel had provided her a new blouse. If Marcie decided to go into work, she wouldn’t be wearing the same top she’d worn yesterday. Did Rachel understand her that well? Probably.

Marcie’s lips twisted. Should she do it, go on in to the office, even though he’d forbidden her to do it? He had hard limits, but she hadn’t quite figured out the shape of that line. He’d committed himself to mentoring, so that was progress. However, if she broke the rules too stringently, would he use that as an out? The mentoring was the only true foothold she had right now.

Sighing, she left the guest bedroom and headed to the main floor. Jon was still here, sitting at the kitchen island, working his way through scrambled eggs, tomatoes and toast. He had one foot propped on the opposite chair, elbow resting on the counter as he held a piece of toast in that hand and an engineering drawing in the other. Though he was wearing slacks, his dress shirt had been shrugged on but not yet buttoned, the tie draped over the back of the chair where his foot was propped.

As a woman, she was obligated to pause, appreciate that view. Every one of the K&A men was an utterly edible male and Jon was no exception, with his jewel-blue eyes, dark hair to his shoulders and his lean grace. His current pose demonstrated the casual flexibility that came from advanced yoga, something he and Rachel did together. The smooth pecs and ridged abdomen, the shape of his tight ass in the slacks, made her an absolute fan of the ancient practice to sculpt the male form.

Rachel was dressed for her work as a physical therapist, in attractive black slacks and a shirt that clung to her curves in a sexy but professional way. As Marcie came down the stairs, Jon glanced up. It was unsettling, how he assessed her physical and emotional state in a series of steady blinks.

But Jon was a Dom, and this was the world she wanted to inhabit. So she kept her chin up, her walk steady. When she met his gaze, she lowered her eyes, nodded, acknowledging what he was before she lifted them again.

He was a Master, but not her Master.

“Toast and eggs, love,” Rachel said, sliding another plate next to Jon’s. “The jelly is fresh, from the berries in our garden. I need to get to an early PT appointment, but Jon said he’ll stay here with you until Ben arrives.”

“Ben’s coming here?”

“When he left last night, he said he’d be back for you in the morning.” Jon caught Rachel’s hand when she was picking up his orange juice glass to top it off. He held her there as he dipped his knife in the jelly, put a bit of it on her wrist. Bringing it to his mouth, he licked it off, considered the taste thoughtfully. Rachel held still, and Marcie saw the pulse leap in her throat, her gaze riveted on her Master.

“Hmm. It’s good on toast, but better on you. Leave some of that out so it can get room temperature. I’ll want to see what else I can spread it on tonight.”

Rachel gave him a smile, then glanced at Marcie. “Do you want some juice, love?”

Wow. Just like that. She’d wanted to be at the adults’ table, and suddenly they were doing things in front of her they never would have done before. Of course, she had nearly shattered their glassware with her screaming last night. Regardless, the change was both exhilarating and a bit unnerving.

“Yes. I can get it.”

“No, you sit.” Rachel gestured to the stool next to the one Jon was using as a prop for his foot. “Relax a little bit, since you have the day off.”