Chapter Four
Chapter 4
SIENNA
I GET HOME FROM MY record store shift around ten, which is two hours earlier than normal. The place closed early because the damn looters attacked the department store across the street. I understand closing the store was for safety, but looters are usually after designer brands or household goods; I can’t imagine they’d care about dusty old records.
To top it off, one of the criminals bipped my fucking car even though I didn’t have anything in the back seat. There was nothing for them to steal, yet now I have to get my passenger side window replaced. As if my insurance isn’t already sky high. It also might rain tonight, and I doubt the plastic bag I taped over the window will hold.
I’m grumbly and tired by the time I reach the front door, kicking off my boots before I even step over the threshold. Despite my annoying evening, I’m ready to hash things out with Jada.
No one is home. The note on the fridge tells me that she and Mystical just went ‘out.’ And they must be planning to stay ‘out’ into the wee hours of the morning since they thought I’d be coming home around midnight.
Guess I’m alone with the jungle of plants.
After eating some cold pizza and taking a quick shower, I change into some thin cotton pants and a baggy shirt. Then I secure my locket around my neck. At work, I cleaned the outside with a cotton swab, but I’m still nervous about opening it. The picture is probably okay, but I worry I’ve tainted it. For now, I just press it against my heart, leaving it closed.
I flop onto my bed, my pink salt lamp providing some much-needed moody ambiance amidst the clutter. I sneeze. My room still smells like chemicals even though the window has been cracked.
When I roll onto my side, I gaze down at the ‘inspired’ drawing laying on the floor near my desk. I study the protective figure at the top of the stairs—the firm line of his shoulders, the relaxed tilt of his hips. It wasn’t intentional, but my frantic charcoal strokes make it seem as if light is spilling across his face, covering everything in shadow except a slight smile. I move to the floor, squatting to get a better look. Yeah. Definitely a smile.
I’m always amazed at what spontaneous, beautiful mistakes can appear in my work. That smile may have been from a slip of my finger, the edge of a nail grazing the page. But I love it.
A sudden urge to shred the entire thing bubbles up, so I scoot away, pressing my back against my bed. I’ve never seen Declan’s smile, yet now I’m putting it on a pedestal?
But…the figure in the drawing isn’t him; I need to erase that from my head.
I need to erase his presence from my life, aka the jacket. I don’t want to get tangled with anyone, even in make-believe.
More determined than ever, I get off the floor and snatch my phone off the bed. I send Declan a message: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you thank you for the contacts. Thank you. I really appreciate the work that went into that list, but I don’t know if I can use them. Please tell me how to return your jacket. I’d like to get it back to you tomorrow.
There. It’s done. No more jacket. No more obsessive thoughts about this stranger. No more connection with him, not even through people he knows.
My phone vibrates and I glance at the screen.
Declan: Are the contacts not helpful? I have more I can provide. Are you looking for traditional investors? Philanthropists? Tell me what direction to take and I’ll send another list.
I want to tell him, “No, please stop helping me. I don’t want to owe you anything. I can’t have any connection to you because it’s dangerous to keep feeling this pull, to have you inspire my work. It’s dangerous when I allow myself to get lost in a man.”
Instead, I glance at the time, chewing my thumbnail. It’s almost midnight, so I figured he wouldn’t see the message until morning. I hope I didn’t disturb him.
Mistake after mistake after…
Me: I’m really sorry if I woke you.
Declan: I was awake.
My shoulders relax from that info, and I lay back on my bed, knees hanging over the side and feet flat on the floor. I’m debating how to respond and ask about returning the jacket again, when he texts: What is your name?
Pressing my phone to my stomach, I shake my head. This is why I don’t get involved with anyone—too many questions. Jada and I work as besties because she doesn’t get curious. She lives in the moment, taking me as I am now, and never digs deeper.
One day, when I first learned that her parents live in Seattle, she casually asked about mine. I just said, “My childhood was good. Yours?” And she replied, “Good.”
That was the one major lie I ever told her, and it worked because I’ve always sensed she’s hiding secrets about her past, too. Neither of us cares what happened before the day we met and so our friendship is perfect.
But this man, I feel it in my bones that he’ll ask questions.
Me: No names.
Declan: But you know mine.
Me: You gave it to me. I prefer no names.
A minute later, he writes: My assistant can retrieve the jacket. Just let me know where he can meet you.
I stare at the message, suddenly curious about what Declan might do for work. He’s clearly rich if he can afford millions in donations and has an assistant. Maybe several of them.
Regardless, this is good. Good. I could probably have the assistant meet me at school or a coffee shop, somewhere simple. It’s a clear, concise way to sever this unexpected connection, to return Declan’s jacket and with it, any lingering trace of him in my life.
As my thumb hovers over the screen, ready to reply with a meeting location, I feel a strange hollowness in my chest, a sense of something slipping away before I even get a chance to understand it.
I remember the way he touched my hand outside the gala, protecting it from the cold like it was second nature.
“I’m glad you’re alright.”
My gaze drifts to the jacket hanging on a hook. In the soft glow of the salt lamp, it looks almost ethereal. Dreamlike. The gold rose pin glints in the light, the diamonds along the petals sparkling.
I know it’s ridiculous—it’s just a jacket, a piece of clothing that doesn’t belong to me and never did—but I want it. I want it desperately. It’s all I’ve ever wanted my entire life.
All I’ve never been able to possess, no matter how much of myself I’ve given away as trade.
The reasonable part of me switches off as I send a risky message to Declan: What did you mean when you said you were a man with particular tastes?
My heart is thrumming wildly as I anticipate his response. Part of me wants to power down my phone, delete his number, so I’m never tempted to ask something like that again. But the demanding, curious part of me keeps waiting.
Finally: I like to be in control. I set the rules and expect to be obeyed.
My entire body is buzzing as I ask: What if someone doesn’t like your rules?
Declan: Then I stop. Being in control doesn’t mean disrespect, harm, or breaking a boundary. If something isn’t pleasurable, I stop immediately. You can always say no, and I’ll listen. But unless you utter that refusal, you listen to me.
My breath hitches. That wasn’t a subtle invitation, and I’m not sure how to respond. Heat is already burning in my core because even through text, he’s such an overpowering force. An act of nature. Can I handle him? It sounds like he’s requesting every ounce of my submission.
I’ve really never been in a situation like this. My previous experiences with a man were more animalistic. He focused on his own needs first, and it was usually quick and powerful. There wasn’t room for ‘play,’ which is what I think Declan is hinting at.
What would sex with him even look like? Are there toys involved? Silk ropes? Cages? Any references I’ve ever seen about one person being in control while the other obeys are usually on the more extreme side of ‘play.’
Except for saying no, I can’t speak up at all? Can’t initiate a kiss? Would I just lay down and let him do whatever he wants with my body?
My core pulses.
Well…letting him do what he wants doesn’t sound completely bad. Though certainly not something I’m used to.
While my head is reeling, a new message pops up: Would you like me to call?
I’m jittery, aching, hot and cold…fuck.
Me: I don’t know what to expect.
I thought, considering how much scary shit I’ve seen in my life, that nothing could ever faze me. This conversation proves that assumption wrong.
Declan: If you’re unhappy and I’m not pleasing you, hang up.
That makes sense, but…why am I even thinking of going down this path? I don’t want to get mixed up with this man.
I don’t, but…I’m curious.
And he has my body feeling unbearably flushed.
And it’s only a phone call.
I type “yes” before I convince myself not to.
Me: Yes. But no video.
He’s never seen my face without a mask and it needs to stay that way.
A split second later, my phone jingles. I tap the green button, sealing my fate.
I open my mouth to say a wimpy “hello,” but he speaks first.
“Don’t say anything yet,” his voice rumbles, washing over me with the force of a dam breaking. “Just listen.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I want you wearing my jacket, so strip naked and wrap yourself in it.”
Well, he’s certainly not wasting any time.
“Okay,” I say. Then I wince. “Sorry. Was that disobeying you?”
His light chuckle eases my nerves. “Yes. But I’ll permit it.”
“What if I slip up again?”
His voice is still holding bits of amusement. “Are you trying to test me? Put on the jacket.”
I start to say “yes” but catch myself, snapping my mouth closed. It’s a little freeing having him direct me. And a lot hotter than I anticipated.
Air cools my warm skin as I slip out of my PJs. Declan can’t even see me, and yet I feel exposed, raw. A thrill shoots up my spine, making me shiver.
The floorboards creak as I pad over to the jacket, then I ease the soft, luxurious fabric over my bare skin, loving the caress of the silky smooth texture. It’s so large that the hem almost touches my knees, and the scent leaves me delirious. Since he’s giving me permission and wants me to wear it, I let myself fall into the jacket’s comfort and safety. Just for tonight.
After returning to the bed, I press my phone to my ear again and release a soft hum to let him know I’m back.
“Now tell me if you’re wearing my jacket,” he says. His tone is as firm and fluid as ever.
“I’m wearing it.”
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Um, nice?”
“You don’t sound very confident. Try again.”
I swallow, a little uncomfortable at how wet I’m becoming from his demands. He sounds so relaxed and certain about every word he’s speaking; my body is responding with pure trust.
“How does the fabric feel against your skin?” he says a little softer, trying to prompt me.
I ease back on the bed, propping my head on a pillow as my finger circles a jacket button. This isn’t what I had been expecting, but it’s way better. When he had used words like ‘obey’ and ‘rules,’ I had immediately pictured something rigid and unpleasant. But the slight gentleness in his tone, the care he’s taking to help me relax into this…it’s not unnoticed. It seems there may be a certain ebb and flow to this kind of play, and I’m really starting to like it.
Still, the part of me that swore to be more careful around men is resisting the idea of giving him so much control.
Just enjoy the moment.
It’s only a phone call.
I have the power to hang up, and he can’t take that away.
Closing my eyes, I try to think of the words to describe what I feel; I’m definitely better at expressing myself through art than I am speaking. “It’s, um, soft. A little heavy. My…” I touch my chest, feeling my hard, pebbled nipples.
“Tell me,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for refusal and yet holds care.
“I…I like how it feels against my breasts.”
I hear a very slight exhale come through the phone. It was so slight that it was probably my imagination, but it was like noticing the first frayed edge on a brush. Instead of smooth paint, there’s now a small, rough imperfection on the canvas.
“Rub my jacket against your nipples,” he says.
I press my palm over a lapel and make gentle circles, focusing on the silky fabric moving along my skin. My nipples are aching now, so I pinch one, pulling slightly. I wish I had both hands free to do more.
“Can I put you on speaker?”
“Good girl, asking for permission. Yes. Put me on speaker.”
I smirk at the ‘good girl’ because it’s a little silly. Yet, why does it also feel so damn satisfying? Any lingering hesitation fades, and I’m ready to do whatever this man asks of me.
Which is scary. I shouldn’t be willing to do whatever a man asks. Ever. Though I did feel safe with him at the gala, why am I so ready to give myself to a stranger?
That’s always been a dangerous part of my personality.
I shove the worries aside because he’s not actually here; this phone is my barrier. This is only a fun, fleeting game. That’s how it needs to stay; a man will never get all of me.
Never again.
Now on speaker, I lay my phone near my head and touch my chest with both hands. I fall silent, just enjoying the sensations.
“Describe what you’re doing,” Declan says.
My words are flowing easier now. “Enjoying the feeling of the jacket on my nipples. I really like it. I’m wet and I want more.” I squirm as I fondle myself, my senses enhanced by Declan’s scent that’s now all over me.
How would it feel to have the real Declan over me? I close my eyes and let my imagination run wild. I’m sure his body is a masterpiece—strong, symmetrical, every movement done with skillful intention. I bet he’d fill me so completely that I…
A moan escapes me, and I hear another frayed edge in Declan’s breath.
I want more. He’s the one in control, but that doesn’t mean I can’t unravel him.
When I give him another moan, he responds with a slight grunt.
His voice has dropped and taken on a gritty tone when he says, “No more talking. Just listen.” I think I hear fabric shifting.
My core clenches and I squirm again from the anticipation of what he’s going to tell me.
“The jacket you’re wearing is custom tailored from imported fabric. It cost eight grand. Right now, I want nothing more than for you to ruin it.”
I squeeze my thighs together, desperate to touch myself but trying to do my best to wait until he commands me. Before I blurt out “How?” I bite my lip to keep quiet.
His voice is a dark, throaty rumble that moves through every vein. “Since you like the feel of my jacket so much, rub yourself on it. Make a mess. The next time I see it, there should be evidence of what you did. And don’t hold back. I’m going to jerk off to every moan and sound you make.”
I barely manage an exhale because this man has stolen all my breath. The heat under my skin is so intense that I moan like he’s penetrated me as soon as I press the jacket sleeve against my pussy. I pull the fabric along my crease, moaning again and savoring the satisfaction of hearing Declan’s heavy, ragged breathing.
Imagining how he might be stroking himself to only my voice is driving me nuts. I wish he was here. I wish it wasn’t his jacket getting messy from my wetness, but his hands, his mouth, his…
I moan, pushing two fingers inside myself while my other hand continues to wreck every inch of jacket I can press between my shaky thighs.
Thankfully, my moans are preventing me from saying something stupid, like giving him my address, begging him to come fuck me in any way he pleases—I bet he’d be here in a heartbeat.
What a strange kind of comfort…it feels like I could ask him anything and he’d comply. So really, who has the control? I smile at the wicked thought.
His heavy, completely erratic breathing through the phone wraps around me, and I cry out as the tension builds. I rub faster and harder against the ache, my hips bucking. When a groan comes through my phone—a sound that’s unraveled yet strained, as if Declan was trying to hide it—I crumble inside his jacket.
Another groan from him causes a second wave of electricity to pulse through my body. I tremble and inhale his scent and continue to rub myself with the most luxurious, expensive fabric I’ve ever worn.
It’s ecstasy.
But when I come down, I crash hard.
I bolt upright, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed to ground myself and find my breath. The bottom of the jacket is crumpled and damp against my thighs, the sleeves stretched out and wrinkled and messy. So very messy.
Declan’s heavy breath drifts through the speaker, adding to the knot that all my swirling emotions are weaving. He wanted the jacket ruined, but I shouldn’t have ruined it. It’s not my jacket; I don’t belong in it. I shouldn’t be claiming it with my own scent.
What might he expect now? To meet in person? Date? I didn’t establish any boundaries for what we’re doing, I only let myself fall into it.
Stupid. What I’m doing is stupid and dangerous.
I let a man invade my thoughts, ‘inspire’ my art, then I willingly opened myself to him, let him command me, hear me, know me in an intimate way…
The last time I stupidly gave myself to a man without thinking, I became someone I hated.
I lost myself.
I hurt people.
Even though Declan hasn’t shown me any red flags, I can’t be doing this. Sienna doesn’t do this stupid shit. She’s cautious and a loner and focused solely on living a good, uneventful life. She’s a decent person and I won’t let her slide backwards.
“Tell me your name,” Declan says, sounding more composed again. “Please.”
It’s the ‘please’ that makes me hang up on him.
It’s an awful thing to do.
I’m awful.
But that ‘please’ is a request for information.
A request to know me.
He wants me to open doors I’ve sealed shut, and I just can’t. I won’t.
When I lose myself in another, bad things happen.
I’m sorry, I message him, tears already streaking my cheeks, but fuck me, I wipe them away and don’t let more fall.
No more tears for anyone.