Five
Amelia
“So Steven Serranto won’t be bothering you anymore,” I tell my sister.
I casually recline on the sofa like achieving this didn’t leave me crawling home in a ruined dress and someone else’s jacket, and lift my glass in a toast to our mutual liberty.
Lucy clutches hers in both hands, gazing into the red wine as it swirls. “Such a mess. I feel so goddamn foolish.” She gives me a quick look. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful, really grateful—I had no idea he was like that—but if all I have to do is be nice to him… for the sake of your work…”
I shake my head. “Not even a concern anymore. It’s all taken care of.” Or it will be, if I can trust Lukas Van Wyk.
But I can’t, that’s the crazy thing. I don’t know him at all. Just a man I met for a wild hour, who fucked me within an inch of my life, then disappeared.
It’s been three days since the gala, and I can’t stop thinking about it. The unnerving confidence of the man. The way he simply took what he wanted, like there was never any doubt. The choices he gave me, the protests he ignored.
The way he made me come.
If there’s one saving grace, it’s that I’ll never have to see him again. A single night, gone in the blink of an eye, only the memories left.
So why am I so certain he’ll do what he said he would?
“I will ensure he never bothers you nor your sister again. You have my word.”
It wasn’t just what he said, it was how he said it. As if he took my disdain as a personal affront.
I shiver at the memory of Van Wyk’s displeasure. Serranto will fare far worse if he ignores that promise. I can’t imagine Van Wyk pinning him to a wall and cutting off his clothes. No, he’d cut something else off instead.
“You ever hear from him again, you tell me right away, okay?” I say.
“Sure…” Lucy sets her wine glass on the coffee table and stands.
I look up at her. “Where are you going?”
“I think I’ll head home, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I rise too, giving her a hug. “You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”
“…No…”
I pull back to see her face. “That wasn’t convincing.”
“I just can’t help but think what you had to do to get rid of him.” Her eyes search mine, her hand on my arm. “Tell me it didn’t cost you too much? Tell me it hasn’t damaged your job or reputation?”
“It hasn’t damaged my job at all,” I reply. My reputation? Not if Van Wyk keeps his mouth shut, and my gut tells me he will. As for what it cost me… only my pride and dignity.
Lucy nods slowly, apparently satisfied with the mask I’m showing her.
“I just felt so… lost, you know?” She waves a hand.
“One moment, life’s normal. The next, Mom and Dad are killed, and…
” Her eyes turn liquid. “Listen to me go on. It’s not like we’re still living at home.
It just… threw me,” she finishes quietly. “They were both so goddamn young.”
“And Dad was such a good driver,” I say.
“I know, right? That’s the irony of it all.” She dashes a sleeve across her eyes and sniffs. “Wrapped in a goddamn Bentley, they should’ve been invincible. It’s just not fair.”
“It’s my fault for letting you shoulder all the burden,” I say, wondering if she would’ve felt less lost if I’d helped her with it. Death certificates. Funeral arrangements. So many people to notify. Dad’s business, the bank, the estate. But Lucy insisted, and I let her.
“That’s not it,” she says firmly. “I was happy to do it.” A long sigh. “Look, I’m going to go, all right?” She offers a tremulous smile. “Don’t feel bad. I really appreciate my big sister standing up for me again.”
“Any time.”
“I’ll repay you, one of these days.”
“No need.”
“Yeah, I know.” She collects her bag, heading for the door. “You never, ever get into trouble. Too goody-two-shoes.”
“As if,” I say playfully, masking hard as I show her out. “See you soon, okay?”
“Yeah.” She squeezes my hand, then walks off toward the elevators.
I close my apartment door and lean against it, half grateful she’s left, half not wanting to be alone.
Three days. I’m still feeling unsettled, and I don’t know why.
I swallow the rest of my wine and collect Lucy’s glass, carrying them into the kitchen.
There’s a knock on my door as I set them down, and I walk quickly back to answer it, glad she’s decided to stay after all.
Except it’s not her, it’s Scott. Standing there in jeans and a black button-up, with the grin I used to find cute.
“Surprise,” he says, holding up a bottle of wine by way of greeting.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Not the enthusiastic reply I was hoping for.”
“Sorry. Just… unexpected. It’s been a busy few days.”
He walks in, forcing me to step back and let him past. I close the door and take a breath. I could really do without this right now.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought I’d pay you a visit.”
He means a booty call. That’s about what our relationship has become… if I can still call it a relationship.
“That’s nice of you, but—”
Scott drops the bottle on the coffee table, turns and takes me into his arms. Both hands grip my ass, pulling me against him, and his mouth finds mine. His kiss is sloppy, aggressive, his tongue pushing in, and he ignores my hands on his chest, trying to hold him off.
I break the kiss, turning my head to the side. “Look, uh, can we talk for a moment?”
His mouth trails wet kisses down the side of my neck. “Why don’t we talk afterward?”
“Scott.” I push his chest harder, and he finally gives, taking a half pace back, giving me much-needed space.
“You walk in here without being invited. You help yourself to me, to my body.” I’m getting angry now.
It’s not just him, it’s Van Wyk. Fuck, it’s all men.
“You don’t give a shit how I feel! You just want to fuck me and be done! ”
He holds his hands up in placation, looking at me like I’ve grown another head. “Where the hell has this come from?”
“Do you deny it?”
“I do care,” he says gently, stepping in again, his hands finding my waist. “Is it my fault that you drive me crazy? I just see you and all I can think about is how good we are together.”
Pretty words from a man who’s never once asked how my day went.
“No.” I shake my head, pulling away, crossing my arms as I pace across the room.
“If we’re so damn good together, how come you only turn up when you want sex?
How come we don’t talk?” I wave a hand in frustration.
“How come we never go on a date, Scott?”
“Okay, let’s talk.” He sits down on my sofa, one arm along the back of it, an ankle crossed over his knee. Looking at me expectantly.
I stare at him in disbelief.
“What do you want to say?” he asks. “I’m listening.”
“It’s not a fucking monologue. I want a conversation.”
“About what?”
“That’s exactly my point!” I cry, throwing my hands up in the air. “We have literally nothing to say to each other.”
“We communicate in other ways,” he says, voice dropping low. “Your tongue can be very expressive.”
Disbelief turns to revulsion. What did I ever see in this man?
“I think you should leave,” I say. “I’m not in the mood for your games right now.”
“But I just got here.”
“Yes, and now you’re just leaving.”
“I haven’t seen you for a week, and when I turn up, this is the reaction I get?” He frowns. “Are you… cheating on me?”
I gape at him. “Cheating?” How could he ask that? I don’t sleep around, I don’t date, I don’t even have the time! “How could I be cheating on you, on us, when there is no us, Scott!”
“That’s not a no,” he retorts, expression turning cold.
“No, I have never cheated on you,” I say, enunciating every word through clenched teeth. Burying deep the lie that isn’t really a lie. I didn’t want what Van Wyk did. I didn’t cheat on Scott, I didn’t have a choice. “And now we’ve established that, get out. Get out, and don’t come back.”
His head jerks back as if I’ve slapped him. “You don’t mean that.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“Fine.” He pushes himself to his feet. “Fine,” he says again, walking to the door. I follow at a distance, keeping him in sight. He pauses with a hand on the handle, turning to face me. “You’ll be calling me within the week, begging for me to come back.”
“The hell I will.”
“We’ll find out,” he says with bravado, then opens the door and steps through. “See you soon, Amelia.”
I don’t wait for him to close the door, but run forward, slamming it shut behind him, tears of anger blurring my vision.
How dare he? How dare they?
How does Scott get to barge his way in, help himself to my person, accuse me of goddamn cheating when he’s not even in this relationship, then leave me feeling like the guilty party?
I scream my rage at the door, hoping the bastard hears, then stomp back into my apartment.
Fuck him. Fuck them both. I don’t need men, I don’t want men.
I stand in the middle of my living room, breathing hard. Dashing away the tears that have no place.
Then I walk back into the kitchen, carefully washing the used wine glasses and putting them away.
I collect Scott’s bottle from the coffee table, open it without looking at it, and pour it all down the sink.
It’s fucking rosé. I don’t even like rosé, a watered-down wine for people who can’t commit to a color.
Is that how he sees me? Does he even know me at all?
The bottle goes in the trash, forgotten.
I grip the edge of the sink, steadying myself.
Maybe I was harsh on him. I took out my fury at Van Wyk on him, and that wasn’t fair.
Was Scott right? Do I want him? Will I be calling him within the week, apologizing?
Maybe that would be prudent. A brief text, not a call. Just something to…
No. No.
I do not want a man like him.
The image of Van Wyk comes to mind, unbidden. Strong, older, experienced, body so lean and hard. His hands on me, holding me like I’m his.
Fuck. What is wrong with me?
I don’t want him, either.
It was one night, gone and forgotten. Or gone, at any rate.
Never mind that he’s filled my thoughts since then, with a mixture of outrage, violation, arousal and want.
He’s left me with a fantasy that I can play back in the privacy of my own head, my own bedroom. Nothing more.
How twisted is that? How fucked am I, that I lie in my bed and replay all that he did to me, until I come hard?
I really need to go and see a therapist.
Yeah, because I can just imagine how that would go.
“What brings you here today, Miss Anderson?”
“Uh… nothing?”
I glance at the time. It’s still early, barely nine o’clock. I need a bath, maybe a book. That jasmine candle.
The hot water helps, but I can’t concentrate on the story I’m reading. I can’t relax. My mind drifts, again, to a terrace at night. Being forced to my knees. Being made to apologize.
That knife, cutting through my clothing.
The fear I felt.
The arousal I denied.
I have to get control of this. I know the impact will fade with time, but I need a solution now, damn it. I can’t keep going like this.
If I don’t get control of it, it’ll control me.
Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe I need to own this. Accept that it’s wrong and twisted, completely fucked up. Or maybe that’s me I’m describing.
Maybe that’s what I need to accept.
I didn’t like it, that’s for sure. But the idea of it? At some level, it appeals.
All right, maybe there were parts I liked. How hard he made me come. The feel of his hands on my body, my breasts, my ass. Touching me like a lover, not a stranger.
Damn him.
I pull myself out of the bath, sloshing water, grabbing a towel from the rack as I walk into my bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. I dry myself uncaringly, then throw myself down onto my bed.
Spreading my knees. Sliding a hand down my body. Finding myself wet and swollen.
“Let me go, or I’ll scream,” I murmur on a breath, my eyes closing, taking me back to the terrace that I never really left. His shirt lifting up, his abs ridges I want to run my tongue over.
“I’ll… I’ll suck you,” I whisper, as my fingers find my clit, rubbing around it, teasing myself.
The feel of his cock in my mouth. Pushing into my throat. His hand in my hair.
Then bending me over the table.
“Please… spank me…”
I hear his voice like he’s in the room with me.
“You like it when I spank you.”
“If you didn’t like it, why are you more aroused?”
I did like it. I hate that I liked it, but I did.
I’m owning this now. It’s my fantasy, and it’s only a fantasy.
It’s not real anymore.
With a cry, I come, pressing my head back into the pillow, waves of pleasure mingling with my guilt and my self-disgust.
And I hear his voice again.
“Yes,” he hisses. “That is how you say sorry.”