Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) Page 7

  That sent me running for the balcony. Had I really come here to hook up with Cantor, the married dungeon playboy? The idea of it terrified me, because it meant I was giving up on my safety, my staunch independence from entanglement and heartbreak. I hunched behind the balcony curtains, rubbing my temples, slowly losing my nerve. I finally convinced myself to leave, but not quickly enough. I ran into him halfway down the stairs, in the dark, claustrophobic stairwell, to the strains of Mozart’s Paris Symphony.

  “I was just leaving,” I said.

  He slid an arm around my waist. He was shirtless, a little sweaty, but he smelled good anyway. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I was an idiot. “Professor Cantor—”

  “I’m not your professor anymore. Call me Martin.”

  I clasped my hands in front of me like I was praying. It had been so long, so long, since anyone had held me like this.

  “I don’t know what I want,” I said. “But I came here, and I think I did that to see you.”

  “I’m here. How can I help you? Do you want to play? We don’t have to do anything complicated.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t. I don’t... I don’t know...”

  “You don’t know what you want? It’s okay not to know.” He let go of my waist and took my hand. “Do you want to get out of here? Talk outside where it’s not so noisy?”

  I nodded. Yes. Getting out of here was a great idea.

  We went out front, to a round concrete wall that banked the entrance. He sat down and gestured me to the space beside him. Aside from the tattooed bouncers, there were a few smokers standing around, and a Dom/sub couple engaged in a heated conversation. Groups of people flounced by on their way to other nighttime destinations.

  We didn’t say anything at first, just sat there next to each other. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Why do you like being lonely?” he asked after a while. “It seems like you try really hard to be lonely. I never see you with anyone. You don’t hang out with the other students in class.”

  “I’m older than them.”

  “You never talk to anyone at the club. You hide in that balcony.” He turned to me in the light from the street, propping an elbow on his knee. “Just so you know, anyone at Studio Valiant would play with you. Man, woman, Dom, sub, switch. You could take your pick.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true, Mistress Mysterious. I’m not the only one you’ve fascinated.”

  I looked at the nearby couple, whose discussion was devolving into a fight. “I’m not trying to be fascinating. Or lonely,” I added. “I’m trying to protect myself.”

  “From what? From whom?”

  “Everyone. Especially you.”

  He gave a small laugh and took my hand. I didn’t hold his hand back, and he let go.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “I mean, self-protection aside, what are you looking for? What would make you happy?”

  I didn’t even know how to answer that. I wanted something like what W had given me, but I didn’t think there was anyone else who could provide that. What he did to me wasn’t what the Doms at Valiant did to their subs. It wasn’t negotiation and “play” scenes. It was roughness, grasping, breathlessness, peril. Craziness and emotional manipulation.

  “I won’t be able to find what I want,” I said, because in my heart, I knew that I wouldn’t.

  “That sounds very negative,” he said with a sigh.

  “If you want—”

  “It’s not what I want,” he interrupted. “It’s clear to me that I’m not what you want. I’m trying to help you find what you want. I know a lot of people in the Manhattan scene.”

  “Did you ever know this guy...?” I paused, thinking how stupid it was to even ask. “Did you ever know this guy who was tall, blond, and kind of into rough stuff? I mean, really intense stuff, with no negotiation?”

  “No negotiation? That’s not safe.”

  “No, he wasn’t safe. But did you ever know a guy like that around Manhattan, in the scene?”

  He turned to me with a strange look. “Why? Do you know this guy? What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really know him.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asked. “Rough stuff? I know people who’ll do that, but they’ll want to negotiate first.”

  “Are any of them tall? Blond? Muscular? Around your age, with blue eyes? Maybe in a design career?”

  A hint of anger crept into his expression, just for a moment. I understood I was describing someone who looked nothing like him. “No,” he said, his voice still tight with an edge. “I don’t know anyone like that. Sorry.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest. What was I doing here? The fighting couple was a noisy metaphor for the upheaval in my soul. Cantor was right, I didn’t want him. I still wanted W, and hated myself for it. I uncrossed my arms and shoved myself up, thinking how to get out of here with the least amount of awkwardness.

  “Chere.”

  “I’m sorry if I led you on,” I said over my shoulder. “I shouldn’t have. I was confused. I thought maybe I wanted to play with you back in the club, but now I’m sure I don’t. Not that there’s anything wrong with you. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “My feelings?” He snorted and came over to me. “Don’t worry about my feelings. I’m a big boy. I would have liked to take a whack at that wall of yours, but it seems like you have someone else in mind.”

  “No, there’s no one else. I don’t want anyone else. I need to be alone. I’ve made so many bad choices. The fact that I don’t want to get involved with you probably means that you’re a good, healthy person, so you should feel flattered.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “You’re hurting my brain.”

  “I know. I’d better go. You’ll still have time to hook up with someone else if you go back in.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I think I’m going to go home.”

  He was going home to his wife and kids. His wedding ring shone in the neon glow of Studio Valiant’s sign. I knew I was doing the right thing, even if it left me feeling lonelier than ever.

  “Can I see you to your place first?” he asked.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  We walked together to my building, a long, quiet, awkward walk while I questioned my decision. What was better? Settling for a relationship I didn’t really want, or living in loneliness? It seemed like the answer never changed. It was better to be alone, in control of my own miserable destiny.

  I didn’t ask him to walk me upstairs to my door, although I think he still held out a glimmer of hope. I just apologized again. When he asked if he could hug me, I said yes.

  It was a respectful hug, a friendly hug. He held me against him longer than I was comfortable with, but he didn’t do anything wrong. He just made me realize how dead I was inside, because I didn’t feel anything. Loneliness, sadness, all of it bundled inside me like some insidious tumor, growing bigger each day.

  I headed into the lobby and up to my apartment. Exhaustion washed over me as I turned the key in the lock. I was so tired, so wrung out from my fucked-up night. I threw my keys in the basket on my kitchen counter and went to the fridge for a water bottle. As I twisted off the cap, I heard a knock.

  I froze. Cantor? No, he wouldn’t have a key for the elevator. I took a sip of water, hoping whoever it was would go away. The person knocked again, louder this time. I put down the water bottle and moved toward the door. The lock turned before I got there, and the padlock too.

  Shit, shit, someone was breaking into my apartment. I ran for the kitchen, gunning for my phone as the door opened and shut. The intruder grabbed me before I could reach it, and plastered a hand over my mouth.

  “Don’t scream,” said a voice against my ear.

  I knew that voice. I knew the body, the height, the strength, the scent of his cologne. I knew the scratch of his stubble against my jaw and the feel of his hand over my mouth. He’d stifled me that way so many times. I lifted my eyes and looked into the mirror across my apartment and saw him behind me, holding me.

  I couldn’t believe for a moment that it was him, but his body curved around mine the way it used to. He looked the same, like he’d left the note for me just last week. Good luck, starshine. His eyes were half closed in the dim light. He took a slow breath.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Chere.”

  He was here. He was in my apartment.

  Two and a half years. It had been two and a half years.

  Motherfucker.

  I started to struggle, snarling and yanking at his hand. He moved his fingers up to cover my nose. Motherfucker. Not today. I drove my elbow into his ribs and was rewarded with a grunt. He released me and I spun on him. I didn’t understand why he was here. I didn’t understand his dark expression. All I understood was that W was in my apartment after two and a half years.

  I flew at him, to hurt him, not embrace him. “Motherfucker,” I cried, my voice breaking. “Tell me your fucking name.”

  Price

  I’d followed her and Cantor in the heat of anger, after I saw them leave Valiant together. If she’d brought him up here, I would have kicked his ass and thrown him out. It was her apartment, but it was also my apartment and he wasn’t allowed in it because he was a soul-dead, manipulative user.

  I hadn’t come here to bring her back into my life. That was what I told myself, that I was only here to warn her about Cantor, but as soon as I touched her, my will and anger disintegrated into need.

  She was so beautiful, so much more beautiful than I remembered. As soon as my body aligned to hers, I lost it. I lost words, lost action, lost intention, everything. I couldn’t move or loosen my grip on her, even when she started to shake.

  I was surprised by her elbow to my ribs, or I wouldn’t have let her go. She came at me, furious, which I totally understood.

  Chere, sweet Chere. I love that you’re a fighter.

  I let her light into me before I lit into her, because she was going to get what was coming to her either way. She’d been a bad girl. She was supposed to be taking care of herself, protecting herself, and she’d left Studio Valiant with fucking Cantor.

  “Tell me your name,” she demanded as she punched me in the chest.

  I grabbed her wrists after she landed a few blows. “Is he coming back?” I asked. “Is Cantor coming back here?”

  “None of your fucking business.” She pushed away from me, panting for air. She was flushed and beautiful and raging, her freckles standing out against her bronze skin. Her hair was a mess. She ran her fingers through it and glared at me.

  “What are you doing here?” she shrieked. “Were you following us? Have you had a key all this time?”

  “Of course I’ve had a key.” I glared back at her. She was so close. Right there. I wanted to kiss her but she was too furious, and so was I. “Thank God I had a key, you little fuck up, because you’re on the brink of making a terrible mistake.”

  “It’s been two and a half years,” she yelled. “You left. You went away. I don’t understand why you’re here!”

  “I’m here because you need to stay the fuck away from Cantor. He’s a bastard. You’re too good for him.”

  She drew up taut, her hands in fists. “What business is it of yours, if I hang out with him or anyone else? You disappeared from my life two and a half years ago. You didn’t even bother to say goodbye.”

  “What did the two of you talk about?” I pressed. “Are you fucking him?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Are you fucking him?” I shouted over her.

  “Yes,” she screamed back. “We fuck like crazy every chance we get. He fucks me in every fucking hole. He makes me come harder than you ever did.”

  She was lying. She was upset. I grabbed her and shook her. “That’s fucked up, Chere. He’s your teacher.”

  “Not anymore. And how do you know he was my teacher?”

  I swept away her stupid question with a wave of my arm. “Are you involved with Martin Cantor? Give me a fucking answer.”

  She pushed at me. “No! Is that why you’ve come back after all this time? Because you think I might start fucking someone else? I’ve fucked a thousand guys since you left me,” she said, sticking out her chin.

  “You haven’t.” Even knowing it was a lie, I couldn’t bear to hear her say it. “You haven’t been with anyone. I would have let you— If you’d found a good man—” I broke off, aware of everything I was revealing. “I would have left you alone,” I shouted. “But Martin Cantor is a fucking piece of shit.”

  “What do you… How do you…?” Her voice wavered. “You’ve been watching me?”

  She stared and tried to back away, but I wouldn’t let her go. Her eyes. I’d forgotten the depth of her copper-brown eyes, and how easily she could use them to slay me.

  “All this time, you’ve been watching me,” she said. It wasn’t a question anymore. “You’ve been watching me, you motherfucker. You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

  “I had to watch you to protect you,” I said, the first thing I hadn’t shouted at her. “I watched you to be sure you were safe.”

  I shouldn’t have come here. I realized that now. I’d made a horrible, impulsive mistake. She wasn’t for me, she could never be for me. I couldn’t take her over and enslave her the way I’d fantasized. But now that I’d touched her again... Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

  “I don’t understand what the hell is going on here,” she said, shaking off my tightening grip. “Let go of me. I hate you. I fucking despise you. Why are you here? Why are you back? How dare you put your fucking hands on me?”

  “Chere.”

  “I hate you! Do you understand that? I’ll never forgive you for what you did to me, for the shitty way you abandoned me.”

  “Abandoned you?”

  “Yes, abandoned me! You abandoned me when I needed you most. You left me, and now you’re standing here confronting me like you have any fucking right to do it.” She pushed me back again, tears spilling from her eyes. “Fuck you. No. I hate you.”

  “Chere—”

  “You left me!”

  She lunged at me again but I was ready this time. I caught her in my arms and put my hand over her screaming mouth, not too hard, just hard enough to silence her. I pulled her closer with my other arm, squeezing her waist. Oh God, the solid feel of her against my body.

  The more she struggled, the harder I held her. Just like old times. I dodged her kicks as I tugged up her skirt to get at her panties and rip them off.

  “No,” she groaned against my hand. “No.”

  “Yes.” Now that we were this close, I couldn’t resist. Her body went taut as I thrust two fingers into her pussy. She was hot. Wet. Aroused. I felt her teeth against my palm and repositioned my hand before she could bite me.

  “No teeth,” I hissed, and gave her a hard smack on the ass. This wasn’t playtime. I was here, and she was in my arms. Never mind that she’d just finished screaming at me through tears. I had to have her, all of her. Now.

  “I’ll use a condom,” I said. “I have condoms in my wallet.”

  “No,” she cried against my palm, but her body was melting into mine. Her pussy was getting wetter by the second, and her hips arched toward me, trapped beneath my hand. She was my beautiful, lost, angry Chere, and I had to be inside her. I smacked her ass again, felt her gasp and press closer.

  My cock was so hard, too hard. I might kill her if I took her now, but that wasn’t going to stop me. She made a pleading sound in her throat and ran her hand over my fly, pulling at the button and pushing down the zipper. She should have been tied up, bound and hurt before I fucked her, but God, yes, take me out, that’s right, touch me...

  I let go of her mouth and grabbed her face. I kissed her hard, molding my lips to hers and then biting her until she whimpered. I walked her from the middle of her living room over to the wall. I could see this wall from my apartment. Now I was going to fuck her against it.

  “You want it?” I growled. “You fucking want this?”

  She grasped my cock, hungry, needy, unashamed. I pushed her hands away, fuck, fuck, fuck... I groped in my wallet for a rubber, ripped the package open. I need to be inside you...

  I rolled it on with one hand and shoved her against the wall with the other. Through her dress, through her bra, I squeezed her breasts and pinched her nipples hard. “Say you want it,” I barked. “Say you fucking want me.”

  “I want you.”

  “You better fucking mean it.”

  She groaned in answer, arching her hips even as I hurt her.

  I knew she hadn’t hooked up with Cantor. Their thing would never have worked, because what she needed was this, force and ownership and brutal hands making her hurt. I pinched her harder, as hard as I could through the goddamned material, and slapped one of her breasts. I mauled her everywhere, grasping, groping, scratching the skin I could get at while she humped mindlessly against my cock.

  I wanted her naked, I needed her naked, but there was no time because if I didn’t get inside her in the next three seconds, I was going to die. I yanked up one of her thighs, draped it over my arm and impaled her, everything, all of me balls deep inside her as I crushed her against the wall. The sensation, the explosion of bliss paralyzed me for a moment. I went rigid, feeling every inch of her hot pussy enveloping me.

  She gasped and shoved at me, looking down between us. Poor thing, to find herself so suddenly filled up. I didn’t move, just held her hips and waited, buried deep inside her where I’d longed to be for the last two and a half years. She squirmed, my tight, wet, tortured victim.

  “Oh, please,” she gasped. “Please.”

  I pressed her to the wall until she couldn’t breathe, all the while jamming myself inside her. I wanted to rip off her clothes so there was nothing between us. My pants were around my ankles but I couldn’t stop even to kick them off.

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