Chapter 32
CHAPTER
T he drive to my mother’s house is silent.
Usually, I turn on a podcast or music to occupy my mind.
But tonight, only the slow patter of rain on the windows and the squeak of the windshield wipers keep me company.
Today was a lot to digest—too many voices, too many people, and all of them telling me how perfect my mother was, how lovely, such a good mom .
I grind my teeth just thinking about it.
And then Father Preston, telling me I should tell him my sins . . .
I wish I knew what my mother told him.
When I pull into the driveway and cut the engine, I’m not ready to leave the car. This place hasn’t been my home in a long time, if it ever was at all. It was always hers.
I survey the peeling paint, the door that hangs wonky in the frame, long-dead flowers in cracked terra-cotta pots.
I blow out a breath, manage to put the key into the ignition to restart the engine.
I don’t want to be here. Not now. I don’t think too hard as I back out of the driveway, pull onto the road, and start driving toward town.
Maybe I’ll go to the bar again. Noah won’t be there.
He said he was heading home. Perhaps a drink with a stranger.
We don’t even need to exchange names. We could go to a hotel, have meaningless sex to help me clear my mind for a little while.
But then I remember the only hotel in town is a place I’m not stepping foot into.
I take the turn that leads to downtown, but before I hit the main street, a face pulses through my mind. A smile. A promise. Dimples.
But then . . . another face flashes—not his , but his father’s.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white and force my thoughts back to Noah—how he showed up tonight, how he somehow charms me even when I’m feeling uncharmable. He can make me forget.
I turn the steering wheel and make a sharp right at the last second. No longer headed for the bar and a drink and a stranger, instead headed for Noah.
His house is dark, silent. I glance at the clock—9:40.
Not too late. He did say he’d be home. But maybe he went to the bar instead, or maybe—maybe he went to sleep?
I slip out of the car, unbothered by the idea of waking him.
At the front door, I knock lightly, then almost immediately try opening it, and it whispers as it swings wide.
Never in a million years would I have let myself into a man’s house before today, not even Sam’s.
But my adrenaline is pumping, and I justify my actions by telling myself Noah left it open for me.
I step in, listening for him—for any sound at all.
But there’s nothing.
I remove my shoes and pad silently through the downstairs of his dark home.
No one is down here, so I continue over a rug, up the stairs, until I reach the hallway leading to his bedroom.
A shallow stream of light slices across the floor.
I inch up, lean forward until I can see him.
He’s sleeping in bed, head resting on a thick pillow, the comforter pulled up over his hips, but his chest is bare, abs showing.
Their definition is apparent, even in this gray half-light.
I stand there for too long, just watching him, tracing the outline of his jaw, his straight nose, with my gaze.
The way Mr. Sawyer watched me.
A rush of emotions hits—anger, vulnerability, sadness, hatred, and last, though not least, desire .
Isn’t that what always got me in trouble?
My sins , as my mother would say. Maybe.
Definitely. But right now I don’t care. The desire is too strong.
I picture it: stalking across the room, waking him from his slumber by biting his collarbone or gripping his hair in my fist, drawing a cry of pain.
I’m not in a healthy place mentally, but I’m with it enough to know that my wanting to inflict pain, on Mr. Sawyer’s son of all people, is fucked up .
Maybe I’m more Jocelyn right now than Elizabeth, and I want revenge. There have to be a million psychological reasons for me wanting to hurt Noah Sawyer, but I’m not willing to stop and analyze any of them.
I unzip my dress, slip it from my shoulders, leave it in a pile by the door. The cool night air sends goose bumps over my body. I exhale, walk to the bed, slowly lift a knee and climb on, feeling the plush fabric of the comforter against my skin.
I’m just about to straddle his hips when Noah’s eyes flicker open. A rush of adrenaline races through my body. His lips curve into a cocky grin.
He knew. He knew I’d come tonight. Probably left the door unlocked because he was that certain of himself.
And from that smile, I’d say he’s pretty damn happy he was right.
I settle my knee, finish straddling his hips, and drape myself over him, pressing my lips to his. His hands come up, cup my jaw, pulling me closer. As we kiss, Noah reaches down, grabs my hip, and starts to move me, taking control.
But that’s not how this is going to go. Not today.
I smack his hand away, catch his wrist, and press it to the bed.
A rush of power floods me as I pin it at his side.
My other hand reaches for his jaw, caresses its way down to his throat, where my fingers splay wide.
When he tries to sit up, to push me back, I bring my weight forward, onto my hand at his neck, and squeeze his Adam’s apple.
My heart slams against my rib cage as his face starts to turn pink.
A half laugh comes from his throat, and his eyes light up—excited—as he gives in and settles beneath me. Good boy.
I make my way down his body, raking smooth skin beneath my nails as I go. When I reach the waistband of his boxers, I stop, wait until our eyes meet, then slide them slowly down, peeling at the elastic until he springs free.
My hand wraps around his girth. “Is this what you want?”
Noah’s eyes close, his lips part, and he inhales soft, shallow breaths. It takes him a moment to come back, to look at me, to nod fervently.
“Good,” I say. “But too bad . . .”
And then I stop and climb off him.
“What are you—”
“Out of bed.” I stand, snap my fingers, then point to the ground. “On your knees.”
He watches me, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing. But then that intoxicating grin comes back, the one that has reeled me back time and time again, and he slides out of bed, onto his knees, gazing up at me like he’s ready for anything, like he trusts me.
Just like I trusted his father.
But Noah doesn’t know what he’s in for, not yet.
“Don’t look at me.” I grab his hair, force his head down. “Eyes on the ground.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls. But he sneaks one last look—and in those eyes, I don’t see Noah. I see him . . . And for a breath, I want to do something awful. And then I think, Why not?
I walk around to his back, run my nails across his skin until welts appear. “Lean over the bed,” I command.
He complies immediately, still on his knees, big hands bracing himself against the fabric. I look around the room—a pair of pants hangs over a chair in the corner, and I grab them, whip the belt through the loops, and wrap it around my fist, bringing it down in a firm smack across his ass.
A grumbling laugh comes up from his chest. “Elizabeth,” he whispers, not upset, but more excited. Suddenly, an image flashes in my head—me on my knees in that dimly lit hotel room. I’d liked those first smacks. They were more playful than painful, until they weren’t anymore.
“Quiet,” I hiss.
And I do it again, and again, and again, using all my might.
Eventually, after he’s stained with marks, swollen with welts every which way across his flesh, we end up in bed. Me on top, his hands tied to the bed frame. I ride him until he’s about to come, and then I stop. Pull away. He groans in pain, and I smile.
“Did you enjoy your punishment?” I undo the knots at his wrists.
“I liked you riding me. But what was I being punished for?”
“Your sins, of course.”
“Well, I got plenty of those.” Hands free, Noah rubs one wrist, then the other, before reaching for me. “Now come here, let me finish what you started, darlin’.”
I step back. “Sorry. But we’re already finished. At least for today.”