Chapter 23
Genevieve
My phone vibrates against the black-and-white marble vanity in my ensuite bathroom as I freshen up after my session with Donna.
Liam might be taking clients once again, but I’ve officially poached Donna as my own.
Now more than ever, I think I need to keep the justice close—and on her knees for me.
Liam wasn’t left empty-handed, though. He filled the time slot with the president of the Stock Exchange.
After drying my hands, I reach for my phone to find Superman on the screen, and I’m caught between the urge to squeal in delight and my better judgment to send his ass to voicemail.
Closing my eyes so that I can’t see the critical, disapproving look that’s surely on my face, I swipe to answer.
“Hello, Genevieve.” The deep, husky words roll right off his tongue and down the length of my spine. I shamelessly shiver.
Reminded of the last time I heard that voice, the way it commanded and captivated me, I find myself recalling how I nearly unraveled on his whip, wishing it were his cock.
I lied, and everyone in that playroom knew it. I wasn’t concerned about how Ford would handle a sub safe-wording. He’d proved he was more than capable with Sloane, but I wasn’t going to admit that I safe-worded so I wouldn’t climax. I couldn’t come undone with him.
But I underestimated how it would feel to lie in his arms and have his hands threaded in my hair.
If I think about it, I swear I can feel the ghost of his touch gliding over my body, nuzzling me in his embrace.
Now that I’ve experienced what it’s like to be held by him, I’m finding it difficult to shut the memory out.
The entire lesson was a fucking mistake from the moment his dirty words shot me between the legs like some kind of salacious bullet. It only got worse when I agreed to be mounted to the cross. Why the fuck did I say yes to that?
While I couldn’t get away from the scene fast enough, it took two frantic orgasms in my powder bathroom to finally feel like myself again.
The man threatens to own me every time he opens his mouth, and I desperately need to reduce the number of times I hear him speak whenever possible. Yet I just answered his call…
Peeling my eyelids apart, I shake my head disparagingly in the mirror, condemning my body’s wanton behavior.
“What can I do for you, Superman?” I ask matter-of-factly. He doesn’t need to know how he affects me.
“I want to see you.”
An audible sigh leaves me. We’ve been over this. “You’re Sloane’s client now, not mine. Our lessons are over.”
“I don’t want her.” His tone is domineering, sounding like the dark authority that’s, apparently, my kryptonite.
“Would you like for me to connect you with a new sub? Are you and Sloane not a good fit?”
Although, I find that hard to believe because Sloane is a Dom’s dream; well, unless you’re into brats, then she’s not your girl. But I know Ford and he’s not the brat-taming type.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean?” I inquire, my eyebrows creasing in my reflection.
“I haven’t touched her. I can’t.” He’s silent for a moment, his admission dangling in the air by a noose before he adds, “I don’t want her, because I want you.”
I want you.
“Ford,” I warn, despite the twist in my chest and the tightening of my nipples. I’m unsure what, specifically, I’m warning him against, but I use my Domme voice so he knows I’m serious.
He needs to lose my number. This can’t happen. No matter how much I want to slide between the sheets with the first man who’s caught my attention in years.
There’s too much at stake, especially with danger breathing down my neck.
He hasn’t touched her… He doesn’t want to, my subconscious whispers, and I rub at my temple like that’ll miraculously stop that knowledge from sinking in. It doesn’t. What his words do, however, is fill my belly with warmth.
I need to shut things down and create some distance, even if I have to ignore the tingling sensation coiling in my belly every time he speaks.
Ignoring my caution, he barrels on, “Go out with me.”
“I don’t date clients.” It’s the truth as much as it’s a reminder for myself.
“Fine,” he huffs. “Then I’d like to pay you to go out with me.”
In the mirror, I arch an eyebrow as I lean back against the wall. “You want to pay for a date with me?”
“Are you a matchmaking service or not?” He throws my words back from the first night we met.
I don’t submit.
I square my shoulders, steeling myself. “Yes, but—”
“Great, then I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he insists, interrupting me. “Add it to my invoice.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeeze my eyes shut against the blooming headache. I don’t think he’s going to back down from this. Relenting, I breathe out, “I’ll give you two hours.”
Two hours is perfect. Nothing bad can happen in two hours.
“Four.”
“What?” I blurt as shock roils through me. Surely, I misheard him.
“I want four hours with you.”
Fuck, how do I turn down forty grand in one night? At least that’s the excuse I make for myself.
“Pick me up outside my office.” I end the call, dropping my head back against the wall with a thud.
Humidity sticks to my bare legs like tape as I step through the open door to my building, and I wonder if the short, black designer dress I chose today was a mistake.
“Call if you need me,” Marcus murmurs before closing the door behind me. “But for the record, I don’t like this, Gen. I wish you’d let me come. I could sit outside, and I’d be there if you needed me.”
I smile at Marcus, my gratitude and affection genuine.
I don’t approve of off-site visits anymore unless there are extensive security measures in place beforehand, which is why I’ve curated a safe place where everyone’s needs could be met.
It reduces the risk for all parties involved, but especially my employees.
Agreeing to meet Ford outside of my building is unlike me, but there’s something about him that makes me feel as though I’m in no physical danger, just emotional.
“Thank you, Marcus. You’ve always been such a good friend to me. I’ll be careful, and I’ll text you when I leave.”
A man I don’t recognize opens the rear door to the black SUV, smiling as he says, “Miss Watts, I presume. Mr. Crawford asked me to escort you this evening.”
Ignoring the twinge of disappointment blossoming in my belly that Ford isn’t here himself, I smile at the man as I slide elegantly into the backseat.
Closing my eyes briefly, I savor the smell of black pepper and tobacco that envelops me, both calming me and urging me to bolt from the now-moving vehicle.
I’ve made many bad decisions over the course of my lifetime, but I can’t help but think this might be the worst of them all.
Dusk descends as glimpses of the darkening city sail past my window. Soon, the driver pulls up in front of an old bar, the wooden sign hanging above the door swaying gently in the breeze, reading: Living Hell.
I swallow hard, my stomach churning. What a terrible name for a bar. I’ve never been here before, never even heard of this place. I expected to be whisked to his home, or possibly a high-end restaurant, not…this.
The driver gets out, and I wipe my palms on my tweed dress. I have my shoulders squared and my mind—mostly—right by the time he’s rounded the car, opening the door for me.
With my clutch in hand, I follow him to the entrance, and he swings the door open for me, explaining, “I’ll be here when you’re ready for me to take you home. Have a nice evening.” He dips his chin politely, closing the door behind me the moment I step over the threshold.
It smells of slightly stale beer, aged wood, and ancient cigarette smoke that still lingers in the air from a time when it was acceptable to smoke indoors.
The lighting is dim, the interior made entirely of old mahogany, with stickers and graffiti covering one side wall next to the entrance for the restrooms. Brownish-red tufted booths line the wall to my right, with low-hanging pendant lights above each table that almost appear to be covered in a tacky substance.
Past the booths are pool tables and dartboards with a smattering of high-top tables placed throughout.
There’s no other way to describe this place: it’s a dive bar.
But the most notable part of this establishment is the fact that it’s decidedly empty, not another patron in sight, except for the bartender, whom I happen to know.
A groan slithers up my throat, and I grind my molars to keep it from spewing from my lips as I take in the sight of his lean, muscular form.
The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows as he leans a shoulder against the back counter of the bar, endless shelves of liquor behind him.
Even in the low light, I can’t help but admire the way his black slacks hug his thighs just right.
He’s certainly attractive, but that’s never been the problem.
“Thanks for coming, Genevieve.”
“Gen,” I find myself correcting him without thinking better of it. “If you insist on calling me Genevieve, that is.”
It’s silly for him to call me anything else at this point. The time for pretenses is over…at least where my moniker is concerned.
The corner of his lips moves almost imperceptibly, like he’s fighting a smirk, but it’s gone in a flash.
Pushing off the counter, he leans over the bar, his exposed arms visible as I step up to the wooden surface.
For a second, I simply stare at his hand, the veins on his forearm woven in a pattern that reminds me of an intricate river system on a map, some wider and longer than others, but all of them beautiful.
“I’m glad to learn that we’ve moved past the Madam Allison facade.” He winks, and my chest rises with a sharp breath, tightening the bodice of my dress for a split second.
“We can always go back to that if you think you might be capable of kissing my shoe now. It’s due for a shine.” Unable to stop it, I grin.
His nostrils flare, his gaze darkening, voice dropping an octave as he replies, “I’ll do it, if you do it.”
My smile vanishes, and I glance away in a feeble attempt to escape the heat of this moment. The worst part is that I want to do that…for him. Every time he opens his mouth, I seem to lose another skirmish in my war against this man.
He blessedly saves me by asking, “Can I get you a drink? A dirty gin martini, right? Four olives?”
He memorized my cocktail order? How? If only that didn’t make my stomach clench and my brain hum as I ponder what else he’s noticed.
The realization that he’s been observing me so closely slams into me as if I wasn’t watching where I was going.
But I have been paying attention to where I’ve been walking.
It’s why I’m slightly unnerved that I didn’t catch on until now.
“Filthy,” I emphasize, purring the word, my eyes on his. “And a splash of lemon.”
“You got it.” His dimple makes an appearance before he turns, grabbing a chilled martini glass from the small refrigerator and reaching for the gin and vermouth.
While I observe him measuring the clear liquor into the shaker, the short hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and my spine stiffens as I go on alert.
Before I can pinpoint the source of my unease, he’s stirring the ingredients—because that’s the only way to serve a martini—the metal spoon clanking against the walls of the shaker, drawing my attention.
“So…” I glance around the vacant bar, still searching for what put me on edge. “Where is everyone?”
“Beats me, but they aren’t here. It’s ours for the night.”
He slides the martini to me, the four skewered olives perched delicately on the rim. I lift it to my lips, holding it by the stem, and practically moan at the tangy flavors.
“How’d you manage that?” I question with a lifted eyebrow. Reaching for a bottle of scotch from one of the taller shelves, he pulls it down, the crystal catching the light as he expertly pours a measure into his small Glencairn glass.
“You’ll find that I don’t half-ass anything, doll.”
The particles between us feel like they’ve been injected with electricity, and even as I suck in some air, my blood sizzles. I really need him to stop calling me that, but I must be a masochist at heart because I don’t correct him. Instead, I’d love to hear it again.
His targeted attention is more lethal than the revolver tucked in my purse as he says, “It’s easy to shut the place down when you own it, though.”
I’m not all that surprised to learn that he owns this place, considering just how much of the Eastern Seaboard that Crawford Enterprises commands.
With his scotch in hand, he rounds the bar, coming to stand next to me.
He drags out a bar stool for me, and I settle on the edge, my knees now between his spread legs.
Scanning the warm, inviting ambiance of the bar once more, I find myself endeared to the place.
It reminds me of a time when I was younger, when Corinne and I would splurge on a night out.
Those moments were rare, which made them all the more special.
Sometimes, I miss certain aspects of that time in my life, when I was less jaded, still young and more optimistic.
“How long have you owned this place?”
“Not long, but my best friend and I have been coming here for almost twenty years. So, when I heard they were selling, I couldn’t let anyone else have it.”
He reclines on his barstool, his arm draped casually over the dark wooden bar top, appearing at ease. It hits me like a physical blow that he brought me somewhere that meant something to him, and my chest tightens further.
Just as I open my mouth to reply, he goes on. “It was this or cook for you, and I decided I wanted to save that for our next date.”
Butterflies flap their paper-thin wings in my gut. “Oh no, this is a one-time thing, Mr. Crawford, and it’s not a date.” But even as I say it, I wish there was more heart behind my words.
A devilish smirk inches over his rosy-colored lips until the dimple is visible. “We’ll see.”