Chapter 59
Ford
I wake up alone, the sheets beside me cold to the touch but perfumed with the lingering scent of cherry blossoms. Glancing at the clock, I find that it’s half-past five in the morning and my alarm has been turned off.
I climb out of bed, dipping into my closet to pull on a pair of sweatpants before striding from the room.
As I step into the hallway, I’m met with the faint stench of something burning that has my feet moving a bit faster.
The last thing I remember, Genevieve was wrapped tightly in my arms, her steady breathing lulling me to sleep.
Did I push her too hard last night? Nobody has higher walls around her heart than Gen, and it’s an effort to knock them down.
Every time a brick seems to crumble, I worry she’ll just replace it.
I’m taking solace in the knowledge that she crawled into bed with me of her own volition and sliced herself open as raw honesty poured out. If she hadn’t killed Grady, I’d be doing that today. He didn’t deserve oxygen after what he did to her.
As she was talking, it was allI could do not to explode. I tried to remain calm, a presence she could count on for support, allowing her the space to tell her story the way she felt most comfortable doing so.
She never should’ve had to go through that, not when I was right there. I could’ve helped her, could’ve done something. She shouldn’t have had to flee all by herself. But after learning what happened, I know one thing for certain: I’ve never met anyone stronger.
If anything, I’m more in awe of her now than I was before.
While I’m pretty fucking sure she didn’t disappear on me in the middle of the night, the muted sound of voices that grows in volume the closer I get to the kitchen eases the small storm brewing in my stomach.
I’d hate to have had to track her down, but I would. I refuse to give her the opportunity to self-sabotage what we have.
Moving through the kitchen, I take note of the pile of dishes exploding from the sink and the pan on the stovetop that’s charred beyond recognition. Next to the range, there’s a plate with a stack of black…things. Toast, maybe? Or pancakes?
On the counter, my waffle maker sits open, but thankfully, unharmed.
What the hell happened in here?
Deciding to deal with the mess later, I step toward the voices.
I spot Genevieve standing in the center of the living room, wearing the same silk and lace nighty from last night, the hem scarcely covering her sweet pussy.
The dress could hardly be considered nightwear; leaving me with that same powerful need to strip her naked I found myself experiencing while she was in my bed.
The fact that we have company is the only reason I resist.
I take stock of the situation. Corinne sits on the couch next to Marcus with another, vaguely familiar stranger on her other side.
It only takes me a moment to place the lean, lithe man as one of the guys who was at the courthouse.
I think he might work for her; he’s certainly pretty enough.
That suspicion is confirmed when he catches sight of me and his lips spread into a devastating grin, dimples emerging.
“Everything okay?” I ask. Four sets of eyes fall onto me before swinging back to Gen, but she ignores them as she scans the exposed skin of my chest and abdomen, her gaze lingering on the scars just below my collarbone.
She’s silent for a few seconds, and I wonder if she’s deciding whether to let me in. I wonder if another spanking would hammer the message home.
“Last night, Liam’s client, Wesley Collins, told him that he was being blackmailed by Percy York to stop seeing him and start seeing one of the men who now work for him instead,” she explains.
“He wanted confirmation that his secrets were safe, that his confidence hadn’t been compromised.
They came over as soon as Liam finished his shift. ”
I could see why Collins might be nervous. The Californian congressman has a reputation for being squeaky clean, but there’s always something slimy about him when he’s on the television screen. He’s a little too upstanding, too pious.
I sink into a vacant chair and ask, “I’d venture to guess that York is bluffing.”
Genevieve strides over and shocks the shit out of me by dropping into my lap, her legs swinging over mine so she’s sitting sideways, likely to hide her pretty pink pussy from anyone’s eyes. If we didn’t have guests, I’d be tempted to part her legs myself.
Silence descends over the room, and I glance around to find Marcus’s and Corinne’s attention on the two of us.
Finally, Corinne is the one to break the quietude, a small smile on her lips as her eyes flick between me and Gen.
“That’s what we thought. But is that a risk we can take?
Even if he’s blowing smoke, if he does that with all the clients we have left, the business will be finished in a matter of weeks. ”
“You know I won’t let that happen. Everyone would be working for the shitty pimps of D.C. again. No, no way.”
I’m not entirely sure what she means by I won’t let that happen, but I’m not interested in finding out.
I’m not going to let her turn herself in, and there’s absolutely no way I’m allowing her to be arrested for a second time.
I’d whisk her to Nicaragua, Bolivia, or Cuba before she got locked up again.
We’d be safe anywhere that wouldn’t extradite us.
I’d just sell Crawford Enterprises, and we could live contentedly in luxury somewhere.
I don’t tell her that, though. I’ll deal with that if the need arises. Instead, I simply rub her back, ignoring the confused, curious glances from Gen’s two closest friends.
“Do you know anyone on York’s staff? Like the Solicitor General or the First Assistant AG? Even his Chief of Staff?” I question, meeting Genevieve’s gaze.
She sighs and shakes her head, just before her eyes light up, the hazel hue dark in the low light. “But I know someone on the Senate Judiciary Committee and he’d be able to get me the contact information for Percy’s Chief of Staff.”
An hour later, when Marcus and Liam stride for the elevator, Corinne hangs back, glancing between me and Gen before her kind brown eyes flick toward the kitchen.
“Are you guys…together?”
Yes, I stress in my mind, but I remain quiet, opting to allow Genevieve to field this question. Besides, I don’t know where her head is at, and I’m dying to find out.
I hold my breath, but I don’t get much of an answer as Genevieve simply smiles, but it’s a gesture that only Corinne must understand, because she nods, unsuccessfully stifling her grin. “I’ll see you later.
Once everyone has left, Genevieve turns toward me, and I’m about to ask her what that silent conversation with Corinne meant, but the crease between her eyebrows stops me.
Her eyes are fixed firmly on the three distinct scars on my chest. Lifting her hand, the pads of her fingers gently graze the flesh-colored mottled skin.
“Where did you get these?”
I sigh. “A gift from the FBI.”
“What happened?” She circles them again, the frown on her face deepening.
Is she concerned for me?
“I was working an undercover job, and when the targets got spooked, my cover was blown. I requested to be pulled from the op but was denied since the FBI and ATF were going to move in two days later. I got shot and abandoned by the government. The only reason I’m still alive is because Drake got wind of it through his buddy who worked for the ATF.
The bust got blown and twelve people died, but Drake got me out before I could make lucky number thirteen. ”
Her pupils widen a fraction, her fingers abandoning my chest as she backs away. I step forward, playing right into her cat-and-mouse hand, and she smiles, but the expression doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
Before she leaves my space entirely, my hand encircles her wrist, stopping her. She spins back to face me, and I gesture toward the kitchen sink with my chin. “What happened in there?”
“Oh,” she starts, her fingers brushing over her mouth.
A rare blush pinkens her neck and touches her cheeks as she bites her lip, shrugging one shoulder sheepishly.
“I got up early so I could make you breakfast. Waffles and eggs. The kind that aren’t freeze-dried or powdered.
I got interrupted before I was able to start the waffles, but that’s probably for the best.”
“Gen,” I breathe, taking a step closer, pulling her into my body. She remembered my cravings.
Truthfully, I haven’t had scrambled eggs since I got out of the Marines, but I don’t tell her that. Had they not ended up charred, I would’ve enjoyed every bite because she made them.
“I forgot just how bad I was at cooking. It’s been a while since I was in the kitchen to do something other than reheat food,” she admits, her nose scrunching as she steps back again. “But now I remember why I’ve never managed to make anything remotely edible.”
I chuckle. “Go get dressed, and I’ll make us some breakfast and tidy things up here.”
“Thank you.” When she smiles at me this time, it’s genuine. “Oh, I also left you something in your study.”
She winks before disappearing, piquing my curiosity. I move to turn on my state-of-the-art coffee machine. With a steaming mug of coffee in hand, I stride to my office, deciding to make the waffles later.
The stark-white piece of paper seems to glow like the full moon against my dark mahogany desk. Dropping into the wing-backed chair, I reach for the pages that are stapled together in the corner and smile.
It’s a completed list that’s familiar to me, but this time, it’s not my own preferences that stare back at me in black ink, but hers. I scan the items, noting all the things she’s into and even a few soft limits.
It’s not until I reach the second page that I find her first hard limit. She’s marked any variation of group activities in red and my heart aches a little, thinking of what she went through.
When I reach the fourth page, entitled Praise and Degradation, my brain perks up.
She’s indicated that she’s interested in nearly everything on the list. The next page is filled with various types of impact play that she seems to be into as well, and I think about how much fun it’d be to touch her this way, implementing the things we both crave.
I can’t help but read this as a permission slip of sorts. It must mean that she’s finally accepting of us, of me…right?