To Hold (2 page)

At seven, Pam comes in, gently knocking on the door. I sit, watching my father sleep, a tray with our dinner sitting to the side.

“I’m sorry, but time’s up. We have to start night rounds.”

I nod, stretching as I stand, meeting her kind eyes with a grateful smile. “Thank you Pam. For everything. He speaks so highly of you.”

She beams, clasping her hands together before her generous bosom. “He is one of our favorites, and lucky to have a daughter like you.”

I force a smile, hoping that it looks authentic. This staff knows me as I am now. A devoted daughter, willing to authorize any expense to ensure her father’s comfort and well-being. The previous, state-run facility knows the truth. They know that he was alone during the first six months of his sickness. They know the lonely old man whose insurance was running out, the one whose daughter didn’t bother to visit, or even send flowers. Actually, according to the blank faces and irritable responses I received on my first visit — they don’t know him at all. He was a bed number, one of hundreds. The week that I spent there, before Nathan was able to move him, made me appreciate Crestridge so much more. I appreciate their false view of me, and the genuine care, love, and attention that they show to Dad. With every visit, with every bond that renews between him and I — the guilt lessens. I can’t make up for six months of neglect. But I am trying as hard as I can.

Word: 3 letters; comprised of two vowels

Clue: the part of the mind that mediates between the conscious and the unconscious

A
s the private plane moves closer to home, my nerves tighten. I can physically feel them, a bundle of nerve endings being twisted, tighter and tighter, bulging and straining, testing the limits of their strength. I spend all week looking forward to Wednesdays. And I spend all week nervous about Wednesday night.

I walk off the plane, the press blissfully absent, the FBO empty, save one aircraft handler who flashes me a friendly smile. “Good evening, Ms. Dumont.”

“Good evening.” I walk through the empty lobby, heading down a long hall that will lead to the exit, my heels echoing on the wood floor. Fifty steps to my car. Seven miles to the house. An unknown duration ‘til his hands.

Honestly, I have nothing to dread — nothing to fret and panic and work myself up over. When he reaches for me, when his hands travel over my skin and his mouth claims my own, I melt. I enjoy every second of his touch. I think my dread is more for my heart. With every experience with him, I guard it fiercely. And with every experience, I feel it crack a little more. On Wednesday nights, I am at my weakest — my heart warm and grateful for the opportunities he has afforded me and my father. On these nights, I can feel it, the warm tendrils of emotion slipping uninvited into my heart.

I reach for the handle of my car, a sleek black Mercedes, the car sensing the key’s proximity and unlocking at my touch. Then the large iron gates are opening, and I am heading home. Home sweet home.

Drew waits for me by the entrance, glancing at his watch as I park the car in front. “He’s been waiting,” he says quietly, opening the door as I approach.

“Our flight hit some weather, so we had to go around it.” My words travel with me as I step inside, and my steps stop as I see Nathan standing by the large windows, his back to me, his eyes on the cityscape. I glance at Drew, a question in my eyes. His expression gives nothing away, and I set my purse down, passing my keys to Drew.

“Mr. Dumont, I’ll park the Missus’s car. Will you need me for anything else?”

“Yes.” My eyes close briefly at that response, hoping that tonight isn’t like other nights, where Drew has stood by while we have fucked, his purpose unknown to anyone but Nathan. Saying that, I know the purpose. Control. It is a food that Nathan feeds on, devours with a vulgarity that clashes with his smooth exterior. He wants to control me, and he wants an audience — an audience that he controls in the process. I always wonder what Drew is thinking, what thoughts go through his head when I am with Nathan. He feigns disinterest, his head cast to the side or down to the floor in a preoccupied, respectful manner. But sometimes, when my head flips back, or when Nathan suddenly spins me around, I catch his eyes on me. Burning green eyes that pin me in place. And in that fire, in that intense stare, I think I see arousal. I think I see want.

Nathan continues, gesturing with a hand to the back lawn. “Wait for me in back. I want to spend some time with Jenny, then I will meet you out there.”

From my peripheral I see Drew nod, see him turn as he leaves, hear the purr of my engine as he takes my car to the garage. Tomorrow it will be detailed back to showroom condition.

“How is your father?”

I smile. “He’s okay. He is very grateful for the new facility. Thank you for moving him.”

“Have they discovered what is wrong with him?”

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with him. He is perfect
. “No.”

He steps away from the window, moving to a chair and settling into it, setting his drink on the table. His eyes watch me as I move around the couch, stopping before him. I wait for the command, my body tightening, the silk of my panties already beginning to stick between my legs.

“Come here.” He slides a little lower in the chair, his head against the white leather, his chin tilted up, blue eyes staring out from chiseled masculinity.

I move closer, his legs coming together, then I am straddling him, my skirt pushed up, his hands reaching around me to pull down the zipper. I lean forward, my fingers loosening his tie, his hands gently gripping my waist, his eyes on mine as my fingers work, neither of us saying anything in this moment.

I love his eyes. They are the only way I can read him. His body gives so little away; he controls his emotions so well. But his eyes are traitorous to his carefully maintained control. They blaze when he is angry, they soften when he is yielding, and they grow heavy with need when he is aroused.

Right now, he is aroused. I don’t need his eyes to know that. I can feel it underneath me, straining against the fabric of his dress pants.

His fingers move to the buttons of my cardigan, thumbing the small pearls as he releases them, one by one, his large hands slipping underneath and palming my breasts through the thin fabric of my camisole, the sensation causing a shiver to ripple through me. He yanks at the last button, the pearl popping off, causing a giggle to rise in my throat. Then the silk blend is tossed aside, his hands pulling and tugging on my cami until it joins the cardigan, and my upper half is bare before him.

“No bra?” he questions, a dark look in his eyes and his hands move, brushing across my nipples, their skin puckering in the cool room.

I shake my head, biting my lower lip, stifling a gasp as his hands grip the weight of me, one breast in each hand, his eyes taking on a gleam of ownership. He pushes with his hands, communicating his desire, and I begin to move my hips, my lace and silk mound grinding over him, the want beneath my panties visible through the fabric.

I need to see more of him, the desire taking over me, causing me to pant softly. My fingers tremble as they move, unbuttoning his shirt, spreading it open so that my hands can explore his skin. I lean forward, lowering my mouth to his hot surface, skimming my tongue and teeth over the hard planes of his chest. His pelvis unexpectedly tilts, pushing me higher ‘til our faces are level, and his mouth is on mine.

I get lost in his kisses. It is the one moment when I communicate with him freely, my mouth recklessly pouring out emotions that are best contained. Our tongues have no filter, the heat of our kisses lighting a fire between us that can only be put out with his cock. I reach down, my frantic hands grasping and pulling on leather, clasp, a button and zipper, moving in hurried motions until I have him in my hand, hard and ready, his skin stretched tight, moisture already present at his tip.

He pulls me down, my hands quickly positioning him beneath me, tugging wet panties aside for his entrance. His mouth reluctantly releases me, his eyes watching me hungrily, fixed on my face as he thrusts up and into me.

My skirt is pulled over my head and thrown aside, his hands running through my hair and gripping it tightly, pulling it slightly so that my neck is exposed to his mouth.

As his lips kiss and caress my neck, I groan beneath his touch, his hands and hips lifting and pumping, taking me on a wave of pleasure until he has had his fill. And when it is time, when he buries me deeply onto his cock, his mouth finding mine, his moan against my mouth. He gives one last shuddering thrust into my hot core, my thoughts flicker to Drew and how this must look through the glass walls of the house.

Word: 9 letters; last letter is ‘S’

Clue: a child’s game often possesses twenty of these

B
oredom is a dangerous bitch. Boredom allows the mind to wander, gives credence to idle thoughts, and gives legs to dangerous ideas. Boredom seems to be item number one on my daily agenda.

7:00 AM: Wake up.

7:15 AM: Shower and dress. Be prepared in case Nathan wants sex before work.

8:30 AM: Eat breakfast, which consists of only items preapproved by Beth, evil bitch that she is.

9:00 AM: Boredom begins.

10:00 AM: Boredom continues.

11:00 AM: Still bored.

12:00 PM: Lunch, unless I get wild and push it to 1:00 PM.

12:30 PM: Nap, which is often interrupted by landscaper noise.

2:30 PM: Twice-weekly personal training/torture session with Beth.

4:30 PM: Shower and dress. Wait for the sound of Nathan’s car.

Some nights he doesn’t return. I sit in the guesthouse with the doors open so that I will hear his car. I sit and wait, the television on low, a magazine or book ignored in my hands. If he doesn’t return by eight, I eat. At ten, I close the curtains.

Not that curtains have ever stopped him. Neither has the lock on my door, a lock that every employee of the house seems to have a key for. Drew and Mark think nothing of walking right into my house, regardless of the hour or of my state of dress. Nathan has never made the short trek to my home. He has never set foot in my room, never seen the pile of clothes that dominates the large walk-in closet, never seen my books or movies or perfume bottles. When he wants me, he sends Drew or Mark to fetch me. Like I am another employee of the house, which in a sense, I am. We are all here to serve a purpose. I fuck, Drew handles our personal security and travel arrangements, and Mark is Nathan’s personal bitch. The man seems to demand an audience, never calm unless surrounded by someone.

“He’s not really in danger, is he?” It is the boredom that makes me speak, too many thoughts flitting around my head, one pushing unannounced to the surface. I sit at the kitchen island, munching on a carrot. It’s too cold, like someone’s changed the refrigerator’s temperature control and frozen everything solid.

Drew regards me carefully from his place by the fridge. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at you. You’re supposed to be his security, right?” I hop off the stool and walk to the fridge, pulling open the door and searching hopefully for some bit of yumminess that Beth might have overlooked.

“Among other things.”

“So if he’s in danger, then who’s protecting him right now?”

“Mark is with him.”

I roll my eyes. “I know that Mark is
with
him, but Mark isn’t like you — all tough and dangerous. Mark just takes up space, with a build that is mildly intimidating.”

“Are you done eating? You should return to the guesthouse.”

“Stop calling it the guesthouse. I’m the only one there, and I’m not a guest.”

“Okay, time to return to
your
house.”

“Why can’t I stay here? Why do I have to be locked away in there all day?” I pull out a bottle of juice and shut the fridge, twisting the cap as I lean against the island. “Nathan works in development, right? Hotels, resorts, apartment complexes?”

He says nothing, which my boredom takes as an excuse to run free. “Development isn’t dangerous. If it weren’t for his last name, no one would even know who he is. Half the time he doesn’t even lock the front door.”

“Your point?”

I shrug, taking a swig of icy mango. “Just seems like you are expendable.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“And what’s with making me sleep outside? Why can’t I hang out in the house during the day? Or sleep in his bed at night?”

“Do you
want
to sleep in his bed at night?”

His tone gives me pause, and I set the drink on the counter. “It’d be nice not to sleep alone at night.”

I mean the comment to be lighthearted, a flippant response that will be ignored. But he says nothing, and an awkward silence stretches between us in the big kitchen. I pick at the wrapper of my juice. “How long you worked for Nathan?”

He crosses his arms and shoots me a pained look. “Why the sudden questions?”

I crunch happily on a carrot in a way that I know he will find exasperating. “Answer one of them, and I’ll go on my little way like a good girl.”

“Which one?”

I think, grabbing a fresh handful of orange sticks. “Is he really in any danger?”

“Wealthy men are always in danger. Now,
move
.” He ends the order with some form of a snarl, emphasizing the last word and unfolding his arms, like he is going to forcibly remove me from the kitchen.

I laugh, popping a new carrot into my mouth and bumping my hip against him as I round the island and head to my prison. “Fine … but your answer sucked. I’ll get you with a better question tomorrow.”

He glowers at me, a look that would have terrified me two months ago. Now, it causes me to beam — this brief bit of human interaction is well worth the sexy death stare.

Word: 9 letters; second letter is ‘E’

Clue: an act of open resistance to an established ruler

I
need a hobby. The marital agreement states that I can have a hobby, as long as the hobby doesn’t interfere with my wifely duties. Nathan’s schedule seems to reliably keep him out of the house from nine to five. It shouldn’t be that difficult for me to find a hobby that will fit during that window. The agreement also states that I may have friends, but it is pretty hard to find friends when living in the middle of a neighborhood designed to keep neighbors at a five-acre distance. I check my watch. 9:04 AM. Nathan should have left by now. His schedule is precise, a subtle indicator of his controlling tendencies. According to Mark, he leaves by 9:00 so that is he able to be at his desk by 9:30.