Chapter 54
Genevieve
My sleep is serene, restful in a way I haven’t experienced in ages, months before I went to prison even. It’s not until I wake that things take a turn. I roll over, hit with the smoky, spicy scent of Ford, and I realize I’m not in my bed.
The last thing I remember was being scooped into Ford’s arms after coming on his lap from the most erotic spanking. I must’ve fallen asleep, but he shouldn’t have brought me in here. I’m not his.
You trust me. You wouldn’t be here, bent over my lap, living in my house if you didn’t. You don’t have to admit that for it to be true.
Even if it’s possible he’s right on some molecular level, I’m not interested in entertaining that. He proved his point, that he’s a Dom, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t let what happened last night happen again.
I fell for this man twice; I can’t risk it a third time.
My well of frustration rises as I shower and dress. By the time I’m striding for the elevator, still well before six, a lethal cocktail of lust and rage are all that fuel me, threatening to bubble over.
“Was this you?”
I turn, finding Ford. His bare torso is slicked with sweat, his chest heaving like he just got off the treadmill, the gritty yet smooth sound of Five Finger Death Punch’s “Bad Company” now floating from the direction of the gym.
He’s holding out his phone for me, and I glance at the screen, a bellicose smile sweeping across my mouth.
Gratification slithers contentedly in my gut like a snake that’s just ingested a prize meal.
Batting my lashes, I reply simply, “According to the headline, it seems Donna Hensley got herself in a bind. She probably shouldn’t have taken those bribes.”
His chest expands, his muscles and ropes of sinew popping and bulging in all the perfect places. I shamelessly look my fill of his exposed tanned skin, enjoying every divot and groove as I imagine how those cut lines and obvious strength might feel beneath my tongue.
When I’m finished admiring his chiseled abdomen and well-defined Adonis belt, I meet his eyes once more. He truly is a beautiful specimen of a man. It’s too bad I won’t get the chance to find out what that body might feel like entangled with mine, no matter how much I might crave the experience.
“This isn’t laying low, Gen. This is painting another target on your back.”
“Funny, I don’t recall agreeing to ‘lay low.’” My lips curl as I turn back around, ready to face the day with a newfound fortitude.
“What are you doing? What’s your plan?”
I don’t even glance over my shoulder as I answer, “Vengeance.”
Henry pulls up his pants, his hands still trembling as he fumbles with the button. I place the strap-on on the dresser to be cleaned later and move toward the bar, fixing myself a martini.
The cocktail shaker grows icy beneath my fingertips as I pour the contents into a chilled glass and garnish the cocktail. When I turn around, I find Henry staring at the wedding band adorning my finger.
“It’s true, you’re really married then?” His kind eyes hold a vulnerable softness, and I wonder if it’s from coming as hard as he just did or something else. “I saw it earlier but didn’t want to say anything until I had…permission.”
Brushing past him, I press a kiss to his cheek that’s now tinged bright pink.
“It’s true,” I tell him, sinking onto the sofa. At least, it’s undeniably my signature on the marriage license.
My ring sparkles from every angle. It’s gorgeous, and I find that wholly irritating.
I thought about removing it before seeing Henry this evening, but Corinne pointed out that I’d ruin the ruse if I was seen without it.
While she might be right, I think she’s got a soft spot for Ford.
I wish I didn’t understand that. There’s just something about him that’s disarming, which is how I got arrested in the first place.
Henry settles next to me, nuzzling close with a whiskey in his hands. I’ve already made him hydrate and when I’d suggested cocktails after we’d been curled up on the bed for a bit, he jumped at the suggestion.
“I’m just surprised you married anyone, especially Ford Crawford.”
An authentic smile captures my lips. “I certainly never saw it coming either.” Before he can comment further, I change the subject. “How have you been?”
“Worried about you, mostly.” His solemn expression conveys that he means that. “I was concerned that they’d come after you with Percy York’s anti-corruption campaign, but that was terrible, worse than I could’ve imagined.”
Taking advantage of his mood to share, I inquire, “Has York gone after anyone else?”
He shrugs, lifting his glass to his lips. “There’s a rumor that he’s behind the leak regarding the bribery allegations against Donna Hensley.”
Interesting.
Taking down Hensley was simply a warning shot, a reminder to the clients who abandoned me that I still own them.
“Have you had any…trouble yourself?” I probe in an effort to confirm what I already know to be true.
“Certainly not. I trust you.”
Ford is in his study when I arrive back at the penthouse, papers spread out on the desk before him, his hand thrust into his hair as he stares at them.
I pause in the doorway on the way to my bedroom.
His attractive face is etched with concern and bewilderment, and a small piece of me wants to ask if he’s alright, if he’d like some help.
The bigger part wins.
After changing into shorts, a sports bra, and doing my best to pull my hair into as much of a ponytail as my short bob will allow, which is really just seventy-five percent of my hair, I reemerge. I’m on the stationary bike in less than five minutes.
An hour and a half, and a good sweat later, I’m passing his office once again.
This time, I notice how unraveled he appears: shirtsleeves rolled up, hair disheveled, his eyebrows slashed low.
It takes more of an effort not to inquire if he’s okay, but I bite my tongue and head to the bathroom for a shower.
Later, I find dinner—oven-roasted salmon and a summer salad—in the refrigerator.
After heating it up, I take a seat at the kitchen island and dig in.
While I eat, I confirm a scheduling slot with Eliott for tomorrow and scroll through some headlines, the bold text informing me of Hensley’s retirement making me smile around my fork.
It’s quiet, too silent, in the penthouse, and I sigh, giving in to the urge that’s becoming harder to suppress.
After heating up a second plate, I carry it to the study.
“I brought you dinner,” I announce quietly, stepping into the dark study. The smell of black pepper and tobacco fill every inch of the room, every atom absorbing Ford’s scent. It’s heady and addictive, a smell I want to bathe in, which means I should leave.
His head flicks up, his eyes landing on mine. They’re gentle in the low, warm lighting. “Thank you.”
I simply nod, placing his dinner on the corner of the desk. This is when I should back out of the room, leaving him to whatever paperwork is driving him insane.
Alternatively, I find myself glancing around the space, taking in the two walls of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with old books with yellowing pages.
The gas fireplace is lit on a low setting, the marigold flames shifting to ice blue as they dance.
The room is decorated in dark, masculine colors that give it a cozy ambiance that tempts me to curl up with a book.
“I like your office,” I find myself saying.
He cocks his head to the side slightly, assessing me before dipping his chin in a short nod, his attention snagging briefly on my wedding band.
I avoid looking at his. We scrutinize each other for a moment, and I wonder if he’ll speak.
I don’t know what I’d want him to say. If I thought he could undo the last several months of my life with a statement, I’d beg him on my knees to curl his tongue around the syllables.
But there are no words that will alter the course our lives have taken.
I’m set on the path of destruction. There’s no deviating now, not even if I want to. I’m desperate to reclaim the position of power I’ve granted myself, to control those who seek to control others. I want it back: my business, my family, my authority.
It’s such a shame that Ford couldn’t be the man I thought he was when he was posing as a sub in my playroom, the same man who would make my heart race and my knees want to bend with only a look.
It’s too bad he couldn’t be the same man I’d spend my nights messaging online, the man who became my refuge.
Pain sears my chest like a branding iron, and I find myself speaking from the point of agony. “When did you know it was me?”
As he leans back in his large leather chair, his gaze finds mine.
“Your reaction to being called doll should’ve been my first clue, but it wasn’t until you mentioned trusting the wrong person that things clicked into place.
And when you said you hated that 3 Doors Down song, that’s the moment I knew exactly who you were. ”
He never stopped looking for me. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. It’s obvious that he held on to the things I told him fourteen years ago, hunted for me in every conversation, wanted to find me around every corner.
I can’t say I did the same. In fact, I forced myself not to think of him. It was easier to move on if I told myself that he was a dream lost to time.
He’s silent for a long moment before adding sincerely, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you back then, whatever or whomever it was that kept you from me.”
My throat burns, and I twist my lips, biting my tongue hard to shut down the emotion building. “I saved myself,” I assert cryptically.
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
“Is that why you rescued me from prison like some kind of white knight?” I don’t hide the derisiveness from my tone.