Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Dean Anderson
S uch a pretty little thing all wrapped up in lovely dark blue that shows off her eyes to perfection. Only, as she sits across from me, they seem dull as opposed to when she was fighting me in my office. Following her gaze, I note her mother’s pinched face. It tells me all I need to know.
Even now, I watch as Ashleigh strains to keep her shoulders upright and her back ramrod. Such ridiculousness. As if I or anyone else here cares who has the straightest backs. I, for one, only care about who has the deepest pockets.
Leaning over, I bring my lips as close to her ear as I dare while in public. “You needn’t look so strained. Relax. Have a drink.”
“I’m not old enough,” she whispers.
“That’s right,” I tease, resisting the urge to glide my fingers up the smooth column of her neck. “You’re just a baby.”
She turns and spears me with a molten look. There. There’s that gleam in her eyes from earlier. “I’m old enough.”
My cock pulses at her blatant response. “Old enough for what?” I counter, desperate for her to say it, to make the first move.
Could I be forgiven if she comes to me willingly? Isn’t there some sort of plausible deniability if she throws herself at my feet, and I merely give into the temptation she offers? No. Not with who her parents are.
I might be able to get away with that if she was alone, desperate, and with no one to care about her reputation. Then again, if that were the case, she’d already be signing my contract the moment she sassed me in my office. Fucking politics.
“Old enough for what, Miss Hartwell?” I ask again, capturing her gaze with my own.
Her skin pebbles under my breath as her chest hitches, forcing the swell higher above the plunging decolletage. If only there weren’t so many witnesses. How easy would it be to slide my hand down the front of her dress to graze her nipple?
For a moment, I’m transfixed by the tremble of her lower lip as she darts her tongue along the pink flesh. Bold of her to come to an event like this with such minimal makeup, but I find that I like her fresh face in and amongst all these painted women vying for money and attention.
“John,” a voice rumbles next to me, shattering the moment between us.
Ashleigh pulls away and presses a hand to her cheek before grabbing a glass of water and sipping on it. At least I know she’s not completely unaffected. If anything, she seems far more affected than I actually expected.
Her arousal in my office could have easily been her body’s way of processing the pain she was forced to endure. Here, with all these people milling around and my paddle nowhere in sight, she still wants me. That’s good at least. It might make her more willing to submit to me whenever I find the weak link that will allow me to drag her into my fold.
“Thatcher.” I rise and shake the man’s hand, applying a touch more pressure than usual. If he notices, he shows no sign. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight. Your secretary said there was a chance you wouldn’t make it.”
His lips part into a predatory grin as he motions towards the people taking their seats. “And miss this? The drudgery of a benefit always makes the after party far more worth it.”
My lips thin as he speaks without any care to his words. Is the man a moron? Not everyone in attendance is a member of The Society. He should know not to be so careless.
Right on cue, the nosey reporter perks up and looks between him and me. “There’s an after party? Is this something I’m invited to as well?”
He glances down at her, and I watch as his gaze dips down the front of her gown. It’s as if he thinks he can catch a glimpse of paradise not even I have had the pleasure of looking upon. Jealousy rears its ugly head as I’m forced to introduce the girl to this snake.
“Thatcher, may I introduce to you Ashleigh Hartwell?”
He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, making a grand show of kissing the back while gazing into her eyes. “Hartwell. Any relation to Jackson?”
She goes to pull her hand from his grasp, but he doesn’t let go. To her credit, there’s no sign or hint of fear, only determination. “He’s my father.”
“I see. Such good stock. To be in the presence of a Hartwell is truly something worth celebrating.” Pulling her wrist closer to him, he turns it this way and that, studying it for a moment before looking down at her other hand. “But I see you have no bracelet on you. John, what is the meaning of this? Someone this ravishing should be wearing a bracelet.”
Don’t I know it? Only, if I had my way, she’d be wearing a lot more than a simple leather thong denoting she’s a Society submissive. She’d be wearing my collar around her throat and little else.
“She’s here to represent Lofty’s new newspaper, the Loftry Lantern.”
“Ahh. The press. I see.”
When he finally lets go, she brings her hand back to her lap and flashes him a bright smile. It’s forced, pinched, and doesn’t completely go all the way up to her eyes. Without him seeing, she surreptitiously wipes the back of her hand against the table linens, and it takes every bit of willpower I own not to laugh.
“I did not think a bracelet was necessary when wearing a dress this grand. It seems to make a statement all on its own. Don’t you think? A simple necklace and a delicate pair of earrings are all that’s needed to complete the look. But then, you don’t strike me as the type of man to actually give a damn about what a woman is wearing as long as she looks as good out of her clothes as she does in them. Am I correct?”
For a moment, his mask slips, showing just a glimpse of who he really is. And not surprising. Thatcher prefers his submissives to be arm candy and nothing else. Heaven help if they ever show even a hint of a backbone or a brain.
“Very astute, Ashleigh,” he grins, putting on his charm once more.
“You may call me Miss Hartwell,” she retorts. “We are not nearly familiar enough to have you address me so informally. My parents would be rather disappointed if I allowed you to call me by my first name when we just met.”
“My apologies, Miss Hartwell,” he grinds out as the muscles around his jaw jump.
Part of me wants to pump my fist in the air and egg my girl on as she goes toe-to-toe with one of the more dangerous members of my deviant club. Unfortunately, to do so would be to show my interest. Knowing Thatcher, he’ll take that as a challenge and not give two shits whether she’s actually our submissive or not.
“John. Thatcher. Seems as If I’m not too late. What a surprise.” The thick Russian accent booms from the aisle as Grigori makes his way toward us.
Honestly, I’d never been so happy to see the Bratva enforcer as I am now. Off to the side, Sergei keeps his eyes peeled as he shuffles back and forth. It does my heart good to know my friend has such a loyal man by his side.
“Grigori,” I smile, sliding my hand in his before slapping his shoulder. “Just you tonight? No Chelsea? She usually enjoys such occasions. I’m surprised you were able to keep her away.”
His lips thin as a pained expression crosses his face. “Trust me. She would have been very uncomfortable if I made her attend after our little...” He pauses for a moment and taps his lips. “Discussion. Also, Please be assured, her grades are sure to make a dramatic upswing after tonight.”
“Is Chelsea your daughter?” Ashleigh asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.
He glances down at her wrist then over to me. At my nearly imperceptible shake of my head, he nods and smiles. “No. She’s not my daughter. But she has enough brat in her to count as a child. She’s my Lyubimaya . Or, how do you say, my dear one. Though some days she’s more like my exasperating one.”
“Miss Hartwell here is writing an article for the university paper,” Thatcher butts in.
“Ahh. I see. Then I’m sure Chelsea will be sorry she missed you.”
“Oh? Does she have an affinity for the press? I could use another writer.”
Grigori throws his head back and laughs. “Not unless you’re starting a gossip column and will allow her to be as scathing as she wants to be.”
For a moment, she looks so very alone, so very small, as she gives a helpless shrug. “Food review?”
This time, it’s Sergei’s turn to snort? “Bitch picky eater. More like food not reviewed.”
When the three of us laugh, she glances up at us with a look of bewilderment on her face. Thatcher, asshole that he is, shrugs in false solidarity. “I guess I’m just out of the joke.”
Grigori shakes his head, a smile on his face. “If you’re ever unfortunate enough to meet her, you’ll understand all too well.”
“Sounds like you really don’t like her,” Ashleigh pipes up, her interest re-engaged.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’d die for her, but she’s definitely an acquired taste. And not everyone is fond of her flavor. But, as they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you drink. Luckily, I have enough top-shelf vodka to last for several lifetimes.”
Thankfully, one of the board members goes up to the podium, causing a hush around the room. The longer we all talk, the more I’m sure something will slip, something she’ll latch onto and ruminate about. This was all a mistake.
It was insane to bring her here. What was I thinking? She’s already far too curious for her own good, but now that she’s surrounded by Society members, every word is suspect.
Grabbing my glass, I sip the expensive wine, using the alcohol to calm my brain. Thankfully, Ashleigh doesn’t seem too concerned by the double conversations happening around her. As long as she doesn’t ask too many questions, it should be okay.
As predicted by the reporter herself, everything drones on and on with clapping here, and oohing and aahing there. If not for the rampant curiosity at watching Ashleigh scribbling away in her notebook, I’m sure I would have fallen asleep by now.
Thankfully, dinner is a fine rescue, keeping her mouth and hands busy while we all discuss business around the table. And as with all of these benefit dinners, school business and society business come together until they blur as one. It’s maddening speaking in code, but while Ashleigh is with us, we don’t have a choice.
Damn me for thinking it was a good idea to bring her. Normally, my brain is what runs the show. However, it seems like the moment little Miss Hartwell stepped into my life, I can only think with my dick.
I’m so consumed with my thoughts that I barely register someone else coming toward the table. It’s not until Sergei steps forward that I see the younger man with tux leaning over Ashleigh. He’s not a student that I remember, but then, so many come through these doors that I might have missed him.
“Care to join me for a dance?”
Even though she slips her hand into his, I note the pained expression on her face. There’s nothing to be done. To rebuff him would be to bring undue attention over my way.
As they slip off into the crowd, Grigori leans over to me. “What’s the story here?”
Thatcher also comes closer, his eyes gleaming as he waits for salacious details that will never come from my lips. Arching back into my seat, I stretch and open my hands. “What’s there to tell? She’s a student. Nothing more.”
“She’s the press,” Thatcher hisses. “Do you know how dangerous it is to have a newspaper on campus?”
“Yes. I weighed the pros and cons and decided to do it. That is my prerogative, after all.”
“Oh,” he replies. “And I’m sure it had nothing to do with that innocent cunt between her thighs.”
Sergei steps forward, his hand resting over where I’m sure his gun is concealed. Raising my hand, I motion for him to back away.
“She is a student, and she is the press. I brought her here to keep a close eye on her. Nothing more. I’m not an idiot, despite what you obviously may think.”
“So she’s fair game then?”
Murderous rage blazes deep inside my gut. Under the table, I close my hand into a tight fist, but leave it there. No sense in causing a scene.
“From what I can tell, her parents already have plans for her. Seeing as you’re not the one who took her to the dance floor, it’s safe to assume they don’t include you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Unable to stand his presence any longer, I make my way to the dance floor. She’s been with that pathetic excuse for a boy long enough. Now, it’s my turn.