Hostile Takeover (32 page)

It was time to fall back, regroup, or she was going to prove herself an obsessed stalker after all. She’d climb through one of those windows and beat him to death. Nothing said love like a two-by-four applied to soft tissue areas.

She marched toward the limo. Max was still leaning against the car, arms crossed over his broad chest. There was some sympathy in his gaze, some sardonic amusement. Apparently his scope of responsibility hadn’t included stopping her. She would have liked to see him try. She was more than ready to kick someone’s ass. Instead, she was going to have him take her home. She was doing exactly what she’d intended today. Mostly.

She’d call Research and tell them she’d report Monday, because she was in no mood to be at K&A today. She’d take care of that Pickard job in the early evening hours, but then she was going to a club, damn it. Not Progeny. She’d go back to Surreal, because she wouldn’t run into someone she knew, and she was already familiar with their layout. She’d tell Cass she was driving up to Baton Rouge for an overnight to follow up on the Pickard work, which was plausible, because there were a couple things she could check out there after she handled the Dumpster job here.

Catching a movement in her peripheral vision, she noticed one of Ben’s neighbors standing on the sidewalk, a trio of apricot toy poodles in her arms, too stunned to be yappy. The woman was staring at Marcie in a fascinated, horrified way. Marcie gave her a dignified nod. “He deserved it, I promise,” she said.

The woman’s lips twitched. Putting the poodles down, she continued on her morning walk with only a couple backward looks.

Max handed her his handkerchief. When Marcie glanced at him, puzzled, he touched a fingertip to her face, letting her feel the tears. “Oh shit,” she muttered. She mopped her face with it, blew her nose with a ferocious snort that had his brows rising. “Please take me home, Max. I want to stop on the way for a brownie from Starbuck’s. I’ll treat you to a coffee and you can have this omelet. I think I’d choke on it at this point.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, a glint in his eyes. Then he held the door for her.

Holy hell. He’d hit the floor like Peter under enemy fire when those first stones came through. “Fuck,” Ben snarled, under a shower of glass. Only two things kept him from shoving up from the floor to wear her ass out. One, he got hard as steel from the thought of punishing her, which undermined the whole getting-rid-of-her scenario. Two—more importantly—he deserved her anger. It was his fault for letting it go this far, and so he would take the cost. Which was apparently eight perfectly preserved panes of pre-Civil War glass. Fuck, fuck and triple fuck.

Once she was done with her diatribe and he heard the limo pull away, he fished out his cell. Staying on the floor, he put in a call to his maid and maintenance services for glass cleanup and window replacement, respectively. But every word she’d shouted at him was echoing in his mind. He could imagine how she’d looked yelling at him, those gorgeous brown eyes flashing, her hair a swirl around her face, breasts heaving and fists clenched. Damn it, he was getting stiff against the floorboards, thinking about how he’d deal with her in such a temper.

I swear to God, I’m going to have to cut off my own dick.

Ben rolled to his back. He didn’t feel like getting up yet. He’d heard her threat about the club, but he also heard the waver of uncertainty behind it. She was just working off a mad, even though he had no doubt she’d end up there by herself at some point if he didn’t give her some direction. She was that stubborn. He’d make sure she had the numbers of those other Doms he’d talked about. Once she calmed down, she’d be smart enough to take them, even if her initial motive in doing so was to make him jealous. It wouldn’t. That’s what he told himself. They were nice, young, calm and sedate guys. Doms she’d find so boring they’d put her to sleep.

They were too lighthanded. Even when she was crying out from every blow, her ass kept rising up to the cane, the spatula, the flogger. Those strikes made her wet, made her beg for more.
Christ.

He needed to get to Houston. If he was smart, he’d stay there for a couple months. Or he’d come back tonight, go to Progeny himself. No, too much risk of dealing with someone he knew. He might go to Surreal. Take a taxi from the airport, hang out there until closing, have one of the limos pick him up and bring him home. He’d find a sub who’d help him forget how he’d fucked this up. He’d call Lucas later, maybe, explain the situation, though he wasn’t really sure how to do that. Maybe he’d wait and see what Marcie was going to do. She might not tell them. She was mad, and her pride was probably hurt.

He wanted to ignore the niggling thought that it went deeper than that, but he wouldn’t duck that responsibility. He’d taken her too deep, let her get too close. It was better to wound her now, when it wasn’t mortal.

He’d take her anger. Her tears would destroy him.

Ben: Congratulations on the five thousand you raised to help the off campus domestic violence shelter. Cass said you’ve been volunteering there. She also told me about that run-in with a husband ignoring a restraining order. She said you wouldn’t let him come into the house, basically backed him down. You have a tendency to take things to extremes, brat. A guy won’t stop to think about assault charges when he’s got a red haze in front of his eyes. Btw, we’re matching the funds you raised, and I’ve already authorized having a security system and panic button installed at the shelter.

Marcie: My knight in shining armor (lol). You guys are so overprotective, but I know the shelter will really appreciate it. As far as the asshole (aka husband) I just had to prove to him I had bigger balls. I did
JJ
. Seriously, don’t worry about me. I’m no different from you guys. If I don’t stick up for what’s right, for what I know is truth, no matter what the world throws at me, then what kind of person am I?

Ben: Not a corpse. Just be careful, brat. Who will interrupt my day with her incessant letters, texts and emails if you’re not around?

Marcie: That’s true. I’m not sure if most of the women you date are literate.

Email exchange between Ben and Marcie

Chapter Eleven

Marcie paused inside the foyer of Surreal, breathed deep. She’d chosen to spend some of her K&A intern salary on a car service to bring her here, because she’d made a deliberate decision to down a couple shots of tequila from Lucas’ liquor cabinet before she left the house. The effect was still coursing through her veins, making her feel wild and loose, but she wasn’t drunk. Underneath the storm waves, she was all deep ocean, focused and intent.

She’d gone through an extreme experience with a Dom less than twenty-four hours ago. She could handle any Master here. Tonight she’d get some nice marks to overlay Ben’s, sashay into the office Monday, flip up her skirt and show him before she flounced down to her “place” in Research.

Of course, she’d have to use a Sharpie and circle the marks that were from her visit to Surreal. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to distinguish them from his, or those that had resulted from today’s Dumpster adventure. She’d added a couple aspirin to the tequila to deal with that. She couldn’t believe she’d let that security thug get the jump on her, but maybe she’d been spoiling for a fight. He’d gone the intimidation route, the usual tactic for big guys, and it had become ugly. Unfortunately, he also got the raw edge of her temper, so it was a fair trade. At least the mask covered her black eye. Nothing could cover swollen testicles, so he’d probably taken the night off.

Yeah, she was a badass. A badass whose palms were sweaty. She ignored that, handed her credit card to the hostess, a gorgeous ebony-haired pixie in corset, tight skirt and boots. When she’d come here masked to observe Ben, she’d had a definite plan, a focus. To watch him, gather information. He’d commanded her attention so decisively, nothing else had intruded on that path. No room for this open-ended anxiety, the what-if or what-trouble-am-I-going-to-get-into feeling.

The hostess nodded to the pirate chest full of rubber bracelets. The various colors denoted categories of play. She hesitated long enough that she had to move aside to let more decisive people pick up their choice. Then, feeling the hostess’s curious glance, that sense that she was about to be asked if everything was all right, if she needed help, she firmed her chin and snatched up a silver one. It said she was a moderately experienced sub, that she was unattached and interested in invitations to play.

Of course, the fact she was here alone, and her outfit, made that patently clear. Her wet latex leggings looked poured on and rode low on her hips. They laced up the back, from crotch to just below the twin dimples of her pelvis, following the seam of her buttocks. She’d laced them snug enough that nothing was graphically revealed, but as her cheeks twitched along in a sauntering walk, interested parties might strain their eyes to see if they could discern any details through that shadowed sliver of exposure.

She’d left her tunic top in the Surreal locker room, so all she wore waist up was a shelf bra that pushed her up and almost out. The bra was the same bronze shimmering color as the leggings. The lace edges that barely covered her nipples were black, matching her five-inch stilettos.

Okay, she was tense, but it had nothing to do with the environment. The very first time she’d gone to a club, she’d expected to be nervous. Instead, watching the many different ways that Masters and subs fulfilled their mutual needs, soaking in the atmosphere through all senses, she’d felt like she’d come home. She’d known this world innately, even before she stepped across a club threshold.

She’d had a chance to let her guard down, immerse herself even more, when she’d visited clubs in New York City with Lucas’ friend Marcus. She recalled how Thomas, Marcus’ spouse and devoted submissive, had stood at her side. He’d slid an arm around her, letting her lean against his attractively half-naked form, since he wore only a pair of snug jeans and his wedding band, permanent proof of his bond with his Master. Looking down at her, he’d given her his slow, sweet smile that told her he understood exactly how she felt. Marcus had kept her close to the both of them on that initial trip, because she’d nearly floated off into a trance from voyeurism alone.

No, her tension was because of what lines she might cross tonight, and whether she could face herself in the mirror tomorrow. Everything about last night continued to haunt her, making her shiver at inappropriate moments.

She shoved that sentimental trash out of her head. This was her choice. If Ben refused what she offered, then she was going to see how she handled what else was out there. The copper-and-black eye mask bolstered her courage and hid the risk of tears.
Okay, Marcie. Go out and get what you want. Or, if you can’t have that, let’s prove he isn’t going to change who you are just because he can’t pull his head out of his ass.

Taking one more deep breath, she stepped into the public play area. She was ready to be adventurous, to have a great orgasm and get her ass spanked. To hell with Ben O’Callahan.

Then she saw him at the bar.

He was cozying up to a blonde with tits so big they were practically in his drink. His hand was on her hip, giving her an idle stroke that ran his fingertips over the curve of her ass.

It hurt so badly, for a moment she hated him. From the beginning, she’d had to fight all the despicable voices of logic that said she was mistaken, that what she felt from him was imagined. That he truly wasn’t interested in her, that she’d been throwing herself at him. But he hadn’t been humoring her last night. She’d seen his eyes. Which made seeing this even worse.

She swayed on the five-inch heels. She couldn’t do this. She really couldn’t. She didn’t want what she was about to do here. Ben had always been caring, compassionate, funny. He was being something he wasn’t, she knew that, but his dysfunction didn’t give him the right to be such an asshole. She loved him, truly loved him, and seeing him touch another woman like that, making it obvious he’d probably fuck her tonight, after all he’d done to her last night…

She was strong, but this required superhero strength. She didn’t have it in her.

“You’re trying to make someone notice you.”

She stiffened at the warm comment. Glancing up and back, she found herself flanked by a man with red hair to his shoulders and direct blue eyes. The calm confidence, even more than the black bracelet, said he was an experienced Dom. He looked in his late twenties.

“Are you looking to play tonight?”

She turned her back on Ben. “Yes. Yes I am.”

He took in the jut of her chin, the flash of her eyes. “I see. Have you played before?”

“Yes…but not like this. I was sort of…with a Dom, but now I’m not.”

“Would you like to hang with me a little bit, see what might pique your interest?”

When she took a deep breath this time, there was a little shudder to it that translated into a twitch through her limbs, a quick jerk.
Damn it.
“I’m sorry.”

“No apologies necessary.” Giving her a reassuring smile, he took her fingers in a warm hand and rubbed them. “Relax. It’s a playground, and we’re all children here, looking to have fun. Is it all right if I touch you a little bit, help you relax? You can tell me to stop at any time, or if I’m doing too much.”