Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
Vicky
Alex pulls two suitcases out of the back of the rental and walks into Miami International Airport like he expects me to follow.
And I follow.
How has our relationship changed so much?
I fell in love with a man who wined and dined me, was charming, magnetic, flatteringly out of my league, and persistent. This one is not the same at all… and yet he is, too.
Alex has tickets for us, but it’s not for a flight back to New York.
“Why are we going to Montana?”
“I have a meeting there tomorrow.”
“Fine. Then I’ll head back to Chris’s, and you can fetch me when you’re done.”
“You’re invited too.”
I scoff, but say nothing more. In truth, I’m not sure I do want to walk away from him right now. Instead, I want to figure him out. Us out.
Dangerous, Vicky.
Probably.
I'm scared of him. That’s the truth of it. Scared of what I do when he's near, what he makes me do. How easily I follow. How much I want to.
I left him. I meant it. And here I am, following him again, into an airport. A man I walked out on—twice.
What is wrong with me?
Nothing, says my body.
Everything, says my head.
My heart is hurting.
But I still want to see where this goes.
I know he doesn’t mean I’ll literally be coming to one of his meetings. It’s his way of telling me that he wants to keep an eye on me. It’s almost sweet, in an obsessive, possessive kind of way. A few weeks ago, I’d have given anything to have this Alex.
So let’s hang around a little longer, and see how it pans out.
We take our seats in first class, and Alex immediately reclines his chair, closing his eyes.
I pull my phone out, preparing myself for a long, boring flight being thoroughly ignored, and send Chris a text.
Sorry about the abrupt departure. Thank you for letting me stay. I won’t be coming back for my stuff—please shove it in the shed or something—and I’ll be in touch when I can.
Alex’s hand crosses the divider between our seats, and his palm comes to rest on my upper thigh.
Chris’s response arrives almost immediately.
Are you all right? Do I need to call anyone? Where’s the place we hid as kids when Mom and Dad fought?
I’m fine. It’s consensual. Mostly. Mom and Dad never fought.
And that truth brings tears to my eyes.
Stay in touch. Come see us again, ***soon***.
Will do xoxo
I sit back and get comfortable, glancing across at Alex.
His eyes are closed. His face looks almost peaceful. He’s so still, I have to check he’s still breathing.
He stays like that for the whole three-hour flight to our change in Dallas.
And his hand never moves from my thigh.
It’s early evening when we land at Bozeman.
“Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” I reply with honesty, a little surprised I could even consider food. My stomach is a contradiction, simultaneously hollow with hunger and tight with nerves.
We stop for dinner at a pleasant enough restaurant that Alex sneers at, while I eat my fill of pasta and he picks at a steak, then he rents a car and drives us an hour out to Big Sky, and a five-star lodge that’s our final destination.
We’re shown to a suite with a stunning view of the mountains from the window, and by this time, I’m just rolling with it. It’s all a little surreal.
Alex tips the bellhop and closes the door with a quiet finality.
Then turns to me.
“Take a bath.”
It’s not a request, it’s a command. It’s not a, ‘…why don’t you,’ it’s a, ‘do this, because I said so.’
And that, right there, is everything our relationship has become. I don’t know if I love it or hate it. I don’t know how to acclimate to it.
My heart stops, then races.
My body responds; nipples tightening, stomach flipping, heat pooling.
And I say nothing, just make my way to the bathroom.
The tub is massive, yet still fills fast with high-flow taps. I soak, alone, checking the door every eighteen seconds, expecting him to come in. I can’t relax. Whether he arrives or not, I know what will happen when I get out.
Half of me is anticipating it. Half of me is dreading it.
And I’m so fucking aroused.
Stomach squirming. Nipples tight and aching. Pulse beating in my throat. Wet already, like my body doesn’t care what my head thinks. God, what’s wrong with me?
That bastard doesn’t hurry me. He doesn’t even come to check on me. He leaves me, stewing, on my own terms, and in my own time. It’s a mind-fuck. That confident, smug, asshole.
After a half-hour, I can’t take it anymore. I get out, dry myself, wrap one of the big fluffy bathrobes around me, and wander back into the room to see if he’s even still here.
He is. He’s sitting in a chair near the open fireplace, reading a book, a glass of whisky on the table beside him, a side lamp and the flames the only illumination.
He looks up when I walk in. His gaze takes in my damp hair, my thick robe, my bare feet, then returns to my face. “Take that off.”
I hesitate. “I’m naked beneath it.”
He sets his book down on his lap. “Obviously.”
I still vacillate. Part of me wants to. Yet this side of Alex is intimidating. I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t know if I’ve pissed him off and he’ll punish me, or if he’ll just pin me down and fuck me.
He doesn’t like my delay.
His eyes harden, the book gets shoved down the side of his seat, and he’s out of his chair, striding over to me.
I take a step back, but I’m too slow. He moves so fast. Stalking me.
His hand closes on the lapel of my robe. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Alex… you’re scaring me.”
“I told you to take this off.”
“Let go, and I’ll take it off.”
“Too late,” he says calmly, then does it himself.
His fingers untie the belt, and with no ceremony, he pushes it off my shoulders. Stripping me.
It’s like I can’t move. His gaze holds me fast. The presence of him, the room, the fireplace, the robe pooled at my feet. The smell of smoke, the warmth. The hint of whisky on his breath, and that look in his eyes.
He takes a pace back, but only so he can better see me. Then he walks around me, slowly, inspecting me like I’m a statue. My skin awakens, expecting him to touch me. Maybe close his hand around my throat from behind, like he did in his bedroom.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he walks off.
I’m left standing in the middle of the fucking room, naked, aroused, and wondering what the hell just happened.
He’s back a moment later, a towel in his hands.
I stare at it—at him—in confusion. Which only increases when he again walks straight past me, this time toward the large table in the suite. He pulls out a dining chair, picks it up, walks over, places it opposite his chair near the fire, then lays the towel on its seat.
“Sit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get your cute, tight little butt over here, and put it on this chair.”
Yes, that’s what I thought he meant.
I stoop to pick up the robe.
His voice cracks out. “Leave that.”
I straighten and glare at him. I’d cross my arms, but that’s not a power move I can pull off when I’m naked. Instead, I put my hands on my hips. Let him look, if he wants to look. “Where do you get off, speaking to me like that?”
His lips curl into a smile, his eyes dancing with amusement. “You can sit down now, or you can sit down after I’ve bent you over that dining table and taken my belt to your ass.”
The sudden weakness in my legs and the trembling in my midriff undermine the defiance I was trying so hard to portray, but I still lift my chin and glare at him. “I’m not your…”
I trail off as his hands fall to his belt, and flick the leather through his buckle. And I’m walking over to the chair even as he pulls it open. Sitting as he pauses, then pointedly refastens it.
“Good girl,” he says.
Bastard.
His hand slips into his pocket, and he pulls out an object that glints in the light of the flames. It takes me a moment to recognize it. Not because I don’t know what it is—it’s pretty obvious what it is—but because it’s the last thing I expect him to pull out of his pocket.
It’s a pair of tweezers.
He hands them to me, and I take them, not really sure what else to do. Then he sits himself down again, and picks up his book.
I sit on my chair, on the towel, holding a pair of tweezers that I have no idea why I’m holding, and stare at him.
The silence lingers. Largely because he’s ignoring me.
“Would it be out of place to say, ‘what the actual fuck’?”
“I told you to go to the salon,” he says, not looking up from his book. “You didn’t.”
Oh, hell no.
“They have a spa here.” Shit. Implicit consent again.
“It’ll be closed.”
That, I very much doubt. “No, it won’t.”
He puts a finger on his page to mark his place, then looks at me. “It’s too late,” he says frankly. “You had your chance. Now we do it this way.”
“No, we don’t.” I stand up.
“Vicky.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but he still snaps out my name. “If I have to warn you again, I will take my belt to your ass. And then I will fuck it.”
Slowly, I sit down. My legs are shaking anyway. I swallow.
We’ve never had anal sex. I’ve never had anal sex. It’s not on my bucket list. Especially with Alex, given his… size.
Great. Now I’m thinking about it.
“You’re a sadist. Do you know that?”
“Mmm,” he says, his attention returning to his page. “And I suspect you’re a masochist. So get on with it, Tink. The evening isn’t getting any younger.”
He ignores me as I glare at him.
That’s not true, is it? I’m not like that, I am not a masochist.
Yes, my mind keeps returning to him spanking me. But not because I enjoyed it. Because it was wrong.
Let’s gloss over how aroused you were then.
Damn it.
I let out a shaky breath and examine the tweezers I’m holding. They’re a basic metal pair, functional. Does he really expect me to sit here and use them? In front of him?
That’s not a punishment. It’s… weird.
“Tic-toc,” he mutters. “Let’s make it interesting, shall we?” He checks his watch. “Seven-ten. By nine, all the hair from your neck down better be gone. Or the punishment increases.”
Bastard.