Thirty-Five #2
“Fuck you, Tony,” I spit. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not. But I’ve got eyes, and I can see how miserable you’re making each other. And if you think he’ll give up on you, you’re wrong. That’s never been his style.”
“Oh, I know that much.” I laugh bitterly. “There’s no escape at all, is there?”
Tony shakes his head. “You’re twisting my words.”
But I’m done with this, already walking back to the house.
He was right about one thing: I am angry. I’m fucking livid. I have been for so long, pushing it down, bottling it up.
I want more than anything to let it out, to smash things, maybe starting with Van Wyk’s too-handsome arrogant face. But I know how that’ll end, and I don’t want to give him the excuse.
By the time I’ve reached the house, my anger is back where it needs to be: suppressed, controlled, as much a captive as the rest of me.
“—discuss with Bastien after the Company meeting in Westchester tonight, so it’ll be a late one. Keep her safe.”
“I always do.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I stop in the hallway, listening, my glass in one hand, a bottle of red in the other. Van Wyk and Jorge in his office, and they’re talking about me. The door is ajar, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard them.
Wait. Why is Jorge on duty tonight? It’s Tony’s day. Not that it makes any difference. Neither of them talks to me; Tony and I haven’t exchanged words since our spat by the pool a week ago.
“Eavesdropping, Princess?”
I spin. Tony’s leaning against the wall, watching me with an amused smirk.
“I wasn’t—”
But in two strides, Van Wyk has crossed his office and pulls the door open wide.
“Amelia.” Too many emotions flicker across his face to name them. “You were listening?”
“No, I wasn’t listening—”
“She was,” Tony says. “I came around the corner to see her stopped right outside the door.”
“I was passing, okay?” I gesture down the hall with my wine bottle. “Sunroom, right? I heard you mention Bastien’s name, then you were talking about me. So of course I stopped.”
He steps in close, his hand gripping my arm. “What else did you hear?”
“Jesus. Nothing.” I frown. “Why, what shouldn’t I have heard?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, releasing me and turning away.
“Convincing,” I say in a sarcastic sing-song voice. “Keep your secrets, Van Wyk. I don’t want them.”
He turns back, glances at Tony who lifts his hands in placation and walks off down the hallway, then puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me toward the sunroom. “It’s not secrets. I’m… protecting you.”
“Of course you are. That’s your excuse for everything.”
“Damn it, Amelia,” he mutters. “You’re really testing my patience.”
“Going to clench your fist? Hit something? Hit me?”
A growl rumbles through his chest like a primal warning, my only warning that I’ve crossed the line.
He’s on me in a second, pinning me to the wall, one hand around my neck.
The other slaps into the paintwork with a crack.
The base of the glass I’m holding catches the plaster and snaps off, but neither of us cares.
I drop it as his leg shoves between mine, the hard muscles of his thigh pressing right against my sex.
And for the first time in weeks, held immobile with my airway constricted, I feel something other than anger.
Fear first, cold down my back. Then arousal, immediate and hot, my nipples tightening, stomach clenching, hips pressing forward against his leg. And underneath both, something I haven’t felt in weeks: the simple fact of being alive.
But my anger still wins.
“Go on,” I choke out, glaring at him. “Do it. Do it.”
“Do what?” he asks, his grip easing, confusion cutting through his anger.
“Slap me. Pin me down. Bend me over that chair and spank me. Whatever it is you always do.”
“I’ve never slapped—” His eyes narrow. “Is that what you desire?”
“No, of course it’s not what—”
His mouth covers mine, cutting off my words, forcing a kiss on me I didn’t expect nor want. His tongue pushes in, seeking mine, fingers beneath my chin, lifting my face to him.
It’s not the roughness or the suddenness of it that makes me catch my breath, it’s the groan he makes, like there’s nothing he wants to taste more than me. I open to him before I’ve even realized, eyes fluttering closed, my tongue responding.
“There you are, Little Stray,” he mutters. “God, I’ve missed you.”
He trails kisses down my neck like a man possessed, then brushes aside my blouse and nips at my collarbone, sharp teeth finding delicate skin.
The pain is mild, but I cling onto it, wanting more.
It grounds me, letting me feel, pulling me back from the dissociation I’ve let myself grow accustomed to.
I need more. More pain, more pleasure, more touch, more him. I need to feel again, and never have I felt as much as when it’s him doing it to me.
My back arches, shoulders pressed into the wall, hips pressing forward to rub against his leg, seeking the friction I need.
I set the bottle on a table without looking, not caring that it catches the edge and falls off, hitting the carpet and rolling beneath.
My fingers pull at his shirt, wanting to feel bare skin.
“Lukas…” His name falls from my lips.
And he stops. His forehead presses against mine, he draws a ragged breath, then he steps back. Releasing me.
“What?” I ask, incredulous. “I call you ‘Lukas’ and you… fucking stop?”
“I… need to go.” The words sound like they’re dragged out of him. But I don’t care how he’s feeling, not when he’s about to abandon me again.
“You need to go where? What’s so important?”
“Westchester. Bastien… the Company… a meeting.”
I stare at him. “Dial. In.”
His lips twitch. “Not that kind of meeting.”
I shake my head. “You know what? Fine. Go do your work. It’s fucking fine.”
He growls low in his throat. “Don’t push me, Little Stray.”
“Just tell me one thing. Why did you even kiss me if you couldn’t see it through?”
“I… didn’t mean to.” He sounds pained. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“You? The great Van Wyk, losing control?” I laugh at the idea. “Preposterous.”
He steps in close, wrapping me in his arms, and I can’t help but tense. “I’ll be back late. Very late. Just… stay here where you’re—”
“Your next word better not be safe.”
“Safe is all that matters.”
“Is it?” I push against his chest, trying to get away, but his arms tighten, biceps pressing into me. “Fuck you and your safe! I’m miserable here, don’t you get it? You’ve stripped me of my life, my freedom, everything! You’ve locked me in a goddamn cage!”
“To keep you alive and well.”
“By imprisoning me? By abandoning me?”
“I was out protecting you—”
“It. Doesn’t. Matter.” Why can’t he understand? “I didn’t want your protection, I just wanted you.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his hold loosening. “Wanted?”
I push away from him, and this time he lets me go. The numbness that I’ve temporarily managed to shed rushes back in, washing away everything else, and I welcome it. “I don’t want anything anymore.”
“You don’t mean that.”
I laugh, bitter and short. “Now you’re telling me what I think?”
He lifts a hand to me. “Amelia… please…”
“No, goddammit, no. You do not get to say please to me like that.”
“Don’t close yourself off. Please, just… tomorrow, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Yes, go,” I say, walking across the sunroom and keeping my back to him. “Go, and come back as late as you want. In fact, don’t come back at all.”
He doesn’t respond. There’s a hint of a footstep halfway down the hall, but the man moves like a wraith. I know he’s gone, and I don’t turn to check.
Damn. I broke my wine glass. I’ll have to get another, and retrieve the bottle.
Instead, I grip my arms, digging my nails in, using the pain in an effort to keep back the tears.
It doesn’t work.