Chapter 17
ELLIE
Two nights.
Two nights of lying in the dark with my eyes open and my body replaying a loop I can’t shut off. Every time I close my eyes, his hand is there, between my legs, inside me.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear myself say please.
And every time my body responds the same way. Heat building low in my stomach, spreading downward, the treacherous wetness returning…
Twice, I pressed my thighs together and willed it to stop.
Once, at 3 a.m., I gave in with my own hand, my own fingers, eyes squeezed shut, chasing the ghost of what he did in under four minutes.
It wasn’t the same. Not even close.
I’m not doing this again. I’m not lying in the dark thinking about a man who made me orgasm on his kitchen counter and walked away. He disappeared. Two days, no sign.
It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. I won’t let it mean anything.
I throw myself into work. Since I arrived, she’s gone from shy to full conversations and a sense of humor that emerges in flashes.
Bernard the sparrow has evolved.
What started as a math device, a simple character I invented to make multiplication less painful, has become an entire fictional universe, and I’m no longer entirely sure who’s in charge of it.
“Helena wouldn’t say that,” Anya tells me, not looking up from the illustration she’s adding to today’s chapter. “She’s not so mean…”
Helena is the crow. Bernard’s best friend, a character Anya approved of immediately.
“You’re right,” I say. “How would she say it?”
Anya sets down her pencil, thinking about the question.
“She would say, Bernard, I’m not saying your plan is bad. I’m saying you haven’t thought about what happens if it rains. ”
“That’s better.”
“I know.”
Then there’s the pigeon. The nemesis. Anya named him Gerald. He steals seeds from other birds, claims the best perching spots through dubious means, and has an ongoing rivalry with Bernard.
“Gerald would definitely try to mess up the swimming lesson,” she says, picking her pencil back up. “He’d tell Bernard the pond is deeper than it actually is.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Gerald doesn’t want Bernard to learn new things. If Bernard gets better, Gerald can’t win anymore.”
I watch her draw, concentration furrowing her brow.
The pride I feel fills my chest.
We’re walking back from the sunroom with Anya’s hand in mine, her steps matching mine in the way she’s started doing lately, syncing her rhythm to mine. That’s when I hear him.
He rounds the corner .
White shirt. Dark trousers. Sleeves rolled. His hair is pushed back. He looks like he’s been working, or fighting, or doing whatever it is that makes the muscles in his neck taut and the veins in his forearms visible and?—
Stop. Ellie. Stop.
“Papa!”
Anya releases my hand and moves toward him with a speed that catches me off guard. She doesn’t run but walks fast, faster than I’ve seen her move, and when she reaches him, she wraps her arms around his legs.
He immediately drops to one knee and wraps his arms around her. She disappears into him, small against large, her dark hair against his white shirt, Mr. Whiskers crushed between them.
Next to her, he looks even bigger than usual. The scale is almost absurd. His hand spans her entire back, and his arms could wrap around her twice.
He holds her. His eyes close for a fraction of a second.
When his eyes open and find mine over Anya’s head, the unguarded expression vanishes.
“Good afternoon, Miss Calloway.”
That’s it. That’s what he says. As if the last time we were in the same room, his fingers weren’t inside me.
I want to scream. I want to grab him by his perfectly rolled sleeves and shake him and say, You made me beg on a kitchen counter two days ago, and you’re going with GOOD AFTERNOON?
“Good afternoon, Mr. Belov,” I reply instead.
He turns his attention back to Anya.
“Malyshka. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“What kind of dinner?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” She challenges him .
“Within reason,” he answers with a sincere and innocent smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
She considers this. “Can I pick what Angelina makes?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “Can I have dessert before dinner?”
“No.”
She shrugs. “It was worth trying.”
“It always is.”
She nods up at me. “Can Ellie come too?”
Rolan’s eyes swing to me. His gaze is level.
“If Miss Calloway would like to join us,” he says, “she’s welcome.”
Every instinct I have says no. Every rational cell in my brain screams that sitting across a dinner table from this man while his daughter eats between us is a terrible, catastrophic, category-five idea.
“I’d love to,” I say.
He nods and stands. Passing us in the corridor, he’s close enough that I catch his scent, clean and dark. The scent that my body now associates with kitchen counters and the word please .
I stand in the hallway with Anya’s hand back in mine and a dinner invitation I can’t cancel and the distinct certainty that tonight is going to be a problem.
My phone buzzes while I’m choosing what to wear.
I glance at the screen, hoping it’s Mare so she can help me out.
Unknown number
The blood in my veins goes cold.
I know what unknown numbers mean. Landon changes phones the way other people change socks, cycling through burners, erasing trails, making himself untraceable while keeping me permanently traced.
I open the message.
Hey baby. Missed you. Swung by your place and you weren’t there. That’s not cool, Ellie. I travel for a few weeks, come back and my girl isn’t where she’s supposed to be? We need to talk. Soon. Clear your schedule.
P.S. This isn’t a suggestion.
I stare at the screen. The letters blur.
He went to my apartment, and I wasn’t there.
The last payment went through on time. I’ve been compliant. I’ve been quiet. I thought — stupidly, naively — that compliance would buy silence. That he’d take the money and leave me alone.
He was traveling. Busy. Occupied with the prostitutes he kept even when we were together; women he paid for with the money he squeezed from people like my father. He wasn’t quiet because he’d moved on. He was quiet because he was busy.
Now he’s back and wants a meeting.
I sit on the bed, holding the phone, and think it over.
I need to go.
The problem is that I can’t go. I can’t leave this property without Rolan’s permission.
I need to ask.
The thought makes my stomach turn. Asking Rolan for permission to leave is already humiliating, a grown woman requesting clearance to walk through a gate.
Asking Rolan for permission to go see Landon is a whole other territory.
It requires explanation and context. Vulnerability I’ve been hoarding like currency.
But the alternative is worse: Landon finding the estate, showing up at the gate and asking for me. Whatever Rolan is — businessman or whatever — I do not want those two worlds to touch .
I check the time. It’s 5:00 p.m. Dinner is at six. Angelina confirmed that Rolan is back this afternoon. He’s in his office.
I swallow my pride. It tastes like ash.
I knock on his door.
“Come in.”
He’s behind his desk, looking like he did the first time I came to this office.
“Miss Calloway.” He glances up from his laptop. “What can I do for you?”
I bite my lip. A nervous habit. A terrible nervous habit in front of this man, because his eyes track the motion — a flicker, barely perceptible, his gaze dropping to my mouth and returning to my eyes in under a second.
But I saw it. And my body, the traitorous, short-circuited, still-recovering-from-the-kitchen mess of a body, responds with a flush I can’t control.
“I need to leave the property,” I say. “This Sunday. My day off.”
I brace for the no. The flat, monosyllabic no from last time. The wall.
He doesn’t say no.
He stands and moves around the desk but stops at the front edge, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his chest. The position pulls the shirt taut across his shoulders.
“I believe I was clear,” he says. “No exit without authorization. Until further notice.”
“I understand. But this is important. A personal matter that I need to handle in person. I’m asking for an exception.”
He studies me. The arms stay crossed. The posture stays casual — deceptively casual.
“If you want to leave,” he says, “you’ll have to pay for it.”
The words land.
Pay for it .
The transaction model. Everything in this house is a transaction.
“How much?” I ask. Maybe I can portion some amount from my salary.
Changing his expression, he uncrosses his arms. He doesn’t move toward me, but the energy shifts. The temperature drops. Or rises. I can’t tell anymore.
“Sit down,” he says, nodding toward the chair across from his desk.
I hesitate. The last time he told me to sit, I ended up on a counter with my shorts on the floor. But this is a chair. A normal chair. In his office. During business hours.
I sit.
He remains standing, leaning against the desk and looking down at me.
“How badly do you want to leave?” he asks.
The question is a trap. If I say very, I give him leverage. If I say not that badly, he says no.
“Very,” I decide.
He nods. A single motion. Decision made.
“Take off my belt.”
The air exits my lungs.
I look into his eyes, searching for the joke, the test.
My hands are shaking. I stand and lower to my knees on the rug. The chair slides back behind me. He’s right there, inches away, his belt at my eye level.
The belt is black leather with silver buckles, not ornate or flashy.
I gulp… and reach for it. My fingers find the metal. The buckle is warm. I work the prong free and pull the leather through the loop. The whisper of the leather sliding against fabric is louder than it has any right to be.
“Continue,” he says .
My fingers work the button, and the fabric parts. The zipper is next — metal teeth opening under my fingers with a sound that makes my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
His trousers drop an inch. Then two. Held by his hips, by the lean cut of his body, but the V of the opening reveals the waistband of his black briefs and beneath them, unmistakable, is the outline of what I already knew was there. Hard. Straining against the fabric.
I stop and wait. My hands hover, my breathing is shallow, and the space between us is charged.
“Finish,” he says.
I hook my fingers into the waistband, yanking it down. The fabric clears him, and he’s there. Thick, hard. The size is proportional to the rest of him. Considerable.
I’m not surprised. I shouldn’t be. A man with Rolan’s build, with hands that size and shoulders that width… But the reality still makes my mouth go dry and my center wet.
“Open your mouth,” he commands.
I look up, his face is above me. Far above. The angle is steep, his jaw defined from below, his eyes looking down into mine. He’s not asking.
My body, wired now to the frequency of his voice, responds before my mind can intervene.
I open my mouth.
He doesn’t move immediately, letting the moment exist — my mouth open, his body hard. The patience is cruel.
Then he steps forward. Slowly. The first contact is careful. He presses the tip of his cock against my lips, my tongue, the width of him stretching my mouth in a way that makes my jaw ache.
My eyes water, and the sensation deep in my core clenches with a want so sharp it borders on pain.
I take him.
My hand wraps around the base — the part my mouth can’t reach — and the girth of him in my palm makes my fingers barely meet.
I stroke in time with my mouth. It’s a fluid motion, coordinated, and when I find the right pressure, the right pace, the right combination of tongue and hand and suction?—
He makes a sound.
Low. Guttural, between a groan and a growl. The sound shoots through me to my core as his hand comes to rest at the back of my head.
His fingers thread through my hair with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment. But the gentleness lasts three seconds before the grip tightens, firm and guiding, setting a pace that’s faster than mine, deeper.
I adjust, breathing through my nose and relaxing my throat. His hips begin to move — controlled at first, shallow thrusts that let me keep pace, and then less controlled, the rhythm building, his breathing changing, the hand in my hair tightening.
He lets out a growl. I’m soaked. Completely, desperately soaked. My panties are ruined, and my thighs are damp.
My center clenches while my mouth works him. My hand grips him, and some broken, rewired part of my brain is completely flooded with ecstasy.
“Just like that,” he rumbles.
His movements become harder, demanding more, taking more, his hips driving forward with a force that makes my eyes water and my jaw burn.
“Yes!”
His voice is like thunder as he comes with a groan. The warmth fills my mouth.
“Swallow,” he orders.
I don’t think, don’t hesitate.
The taste stays on my lips. On my tongue. In the back of my throat .
“Very good,” he nods. His voice is steady. “You may leave the premises on Sunday, Miss Calloway. Is there anything else?”
I stare up at him from the floor.
“I, uh… No,” I manage. “Thank you.”
Thank you. Did I really thank him for that ? I must have lost my mind.
I stand. My legs are unsteady, not supporting weight the way they should.
At the door, I glance back.
He’s behind the desk, seated and dressed, his laptop open and a glass of water at his elbow, not a hair displaced. As if I had hallucinated the last ten minutes.
I close the door behind me and walk to my room. Each step is deliberate — left foot, right foot. I don’t think, don’t process, just walk.
I need a cold shower, clean clothes, and approximately fifteen minutes of hot water against my skin to wash away the fact that I am soaked through my underwear and halfway down my thighs. The ache between my legs is so acute that it feels like a medical condition.
The dinner is in thirty minutes.
I am going to sit across a table from this man and his daughter. I have to eat food, make conversation, and pretend that my jaw doesn’t ache.
I close my bedroom door and press my back against it.
Breathe .
Thirty minutes.
I can do this.
I turn on the shower.