Chapter 13
She wakes up in the most comfortable bed that she’s ever had the pleasure of lying in. The scent reminds her instantly of a hotel, clean and cool, and she knows it isn’t her bed. The thread count of the sheets feels like…a lot.
Not that Kara knows dick about thread counts, but she’s heard it’s a thing .
The other, more obvious thing she notices is her pounding head and the underwire of her bra stabbing her in the side of her breast. Kara grumbles menacingly, unsnapping her bra to give the girls some room to breathe. Of all the getups to pass out in, this bra is not the one to do it in.
Sitting up, minding her aching head, she finds herself in a lovely, modern looking room, crystal fixtures ramping up the glam. There’s a bathroom to her left and she warily stumbles to it, more than glad that her body feels otherwise fine, no funny business, and her lacy capri leggings are still in place under her dress.
As it appears, Kara is unmolested. Where the heck am I?
The floor is marble and cold, but welcome, as her body feels heated and dehydrated. Flipping the lights on in the bathroom, complete with a shower and fancy cream vanity, Kara stares at herself in the mirror and shudders; raccoon eyes. Her mother’s favorite.
Splashing water on her face, rubbing away the majority of the last nights makeup, Kara also gargles a bit of the water to de-fuzz her mouth the best she can. When she realizes that she can see perfectly, she cringes in misery; she fell asleep with her contacts in. Joy. Those will be a pain to get out. She makes a good attempt, but the lenses are still pretty dry; she’ll need to get her eyedrops at home to do this. Ugh .
Decently clean and makeup-less, Kara decides it’s time to figure out where she is and why she’s here. So far, she hears nothing, no sounds at all, aside from general city noise outside.
She wanders out into the main area of the place after peeking carefully from behind her door. Empty. No one. Pale marble floors, elegant Persian rugs, sophisticated fixtures on the walls, expensive standing vases. Everything is a lovely modern white, appliances stainless steel, and oooh look at the tv! It’s practically the whole wall. It is the wall!
Walking on, she notices French double doors for another bedroom. Curiosity getting the better of her, she takes a few steps inside, loving the plush carpet within. She doesn’t get far before Calais’s cologne hits her and she realizes this room is his bedroom . And he slept here, if the duvet on the floor is anything to go by, along with his sport coat hanging off the back of a chair.
It’s a stunning realization. Kara slept alone last night. This…this is Nicholas Havenwood-Calais’s place.
She’s not sure how that makes her feel, aside from vaguely annoyed that this likely means she’s going to have to deal with him. Perhaps even anxious, considering her memories from the night before include her sitting in his lap, or the way he smiled when he had her pressed up against the side of the limo. Kara flushes, hoping there’s nothing else she’s forgetting. Now, more than ever she’s glad that she’s fully clothed.
As she stares at his empty bed in consideration, she thinks , where is that fucking cologne? She sneaks in carefully, because it would be embarrassing if he caught her snooping. She walks into his master bathroom and tries to not be stunned by the fancy standing tub by its lonesome, the giant stone shower, complete with a rainhead nozzle. Or; the heated floor tiles that are dizzyingly warm.
She spots a black cologne bottle, adorned with gold, sitting inside of an obsidian case with a skull on top of it. Kara spots it with glee and tiptoes over, reading the inscription, committing it to memory. Lifting the top off, she inhales and feels her eyes roll up as she sighs. Yup. That’s the one. She wants to bathe in it.
Feeling feisty, she sprays it on her neck and wrist before guiltily sneaking out, sniffing at her skin with a certain amount of glee.
Backpedaling out of the bedroom, she continues on as she distantly hears the faint clatter of dishes, coming from around the corner. Gentle light spills into the next living space, provided by another set of double doors opening up to a grand terrace, looking out at the city and the parks below.
The extremely nice end of the city, if looks are anything to go by.
Calais is sitting with one ankle resting on his knee, drinking from a fancy little porcelain coffee cup as he reads a newspaper, of all things. He’s in dark grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt, seemingly unbothered by the slight chill in the spring morning air. Birds are singing below.
Kara almost can’t reconcile the man in the suit to the man in casualwear. He almost seems approachable, his usually perfect hair slightly mussed from sleep.
He’s sitting in one of those fancy chairs, at one of those fancy outdoor tables that seats four. A stone table, surrounded by lovely wicker chairs with nice, fluffy cushions. The sun is on his hair, giving it a slight hue of gold and red amongst the light brown.
This is the guy. The one that brought her home with him. The one who-
Kara scowls at him, angry at him, angry at herself for allowing this to happen. “Care to explain why I’m here?”
He folds down the newspaper a bit to look at her, scoffing. “In polite society, one bids the other ‘good morning’, you know.” After giving her a brief once over, he unfolds the paper and continues reading. “Go get yourself a cup and have some coffee. Aspirin is by the coffee pot.”
“Yes, dad,” Kara replies snidely as she turns to go find the coffee pot and cups, fists clenched.
He glances at her sharply, likely because of her words. Kara ignores him, returning with a small porcelain cup that matches his and two white pills. She leans against the doorway. “Alright. I’ve done as you commanded. Now tell me why I’m here and not asleep in my own bed. Alone.”
“I tried to drop you off at your place,” he supplies blandly, flipping to the next page of his newspaper. “But your stubbornness refuses to give up the ghost, as it were. You wouldn’t tell me the code to your complex and then you passed out. Don’t blame this on me.”
An ugly feeling boils up Kara’s esophagus. Of course, the knobhead would try and take the high road, like he’s absolved of all sins. “You could have just left me in the street, like last time .” Ugly feelings produce even uglier words, it seems.
The air chills substantially as he turns his face towards her. His expression is stony, eyes hard, lips thin. “Most girls who work the streets live in the streets,” he replies coolly. “You aren’t a streetworker. I’m not about to make the same mistake a second time.”
She stares at him, her head pounding, stomach eerily unsettled. She looks down at her body, fully clothed. “You- You didn’t undress me.”
Though he doesn’t look at her, one of his eyebrows rises up, his only giveaway that he’s amused. His focus has returned to the paper. “I had the distinct impression that you wouldn’t want me to. Was I wrong?”
Red flashes in Kara’s vision, her head pounding, anger in her veins. “Of course not, you fancy blueblood asshole.” Breathe, Kara, breathe. Don’t lose your head so early in the morning.
He’s like a cool glass of water in the desert, unfazed by her response. The look he gives her feels like he’s scolding her for being ill-mannered and Kara doesn’t like it . He turns the page again. “Well, then perhaps you should be thanking me, shouldn’t you?”
As if she’d thank him for anything. Try again, prick.
“Your actions allowed my bra to stab me in the side all night long, I’ll have you know.” Her side and her boobs are sore, her bra too tight and the underwire too stiff. Kara realizes it’s still unclasped. Awkward. “Fucking ungracious to not wake me up so I could take care of myself. Plus, I wear contacts, you know, you’ve seen my glasses. Know what’s stuck in my eyes right now, like a dried-out condom? Take a guess. My dried-out contacts!”
“Oh, dreadful,” he drawls unsympathetically. “Watch that mouth of yours. It’s too early for me to be listening to that vitriol you spew.” He gestures to the seat beside him at the quaint little table. “Come sit down and eat. You’re unbearable.”
Every time he demands she do something, it’s on the tip of her tongue to say, yes dad. Ridiculous.
Scowling in her typical brooding fashion, she flops down into the seat next to him, sipping her coffee, reaching for a piece of fruit from the bowl in the center. Absently, she moves her hair to one side. At that action, Calais inhales sharply and looks at her, a faint look of amused confusion on his stone cut features. “Are you-” He starts and stops abruptly, eyebrows furrowing even as his lips smile. “Are you wearing my cologne?”
Kara bites into an apple with a satisfying crunch, giving him a blank stare, daring him to lean over and confirm that, yes, she’s sprayed the ever-loving crap out of his cologne onto her skin. Idly, she asks instead, “Interesting crew you have. Just a typical Friday night for you and your buddies? Going out again tonight? New girls to slake your twisted thirsts upon?”
“Stop fishing, Kara.” His tone goes dangerously flat.
Huffing with irritation, because she just doesn’t understand why such well-to-do men would choose to resort to such base activities. Then again, perhaps she doesn’t want to know the answer. Power? Control? “The blonde is the co-owner of the Dark Mirage , isn’t he? As in, Dietrich Bittinger? He’s a treat .”
Putting down his newspaper with a snap, folding it on the table, Calais sips from his coffee with practiced care and gives her a warning glance. “He’s not the co-owner; he’s the financier. You’d do well to not catch his attention, if you’ve got it in your head to take a fancy to him next . That’s a game you definitely won’t win.”
The way he says ‘next’ raises Kara’s hackles. Like she’s a gold-digging whore going down the line of rich men that she’s trying to entrap with her feminine wiles. “All of you are pigs. I wasn’t inside for more than one minute and Walter Goatee Man was trying to grope my ass and pull me over his lap.” Kara scowls. “What is with you guys?”
Calais rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who climbed into the limo. Girls who do that are only after one thing. He just assumed the same of you.” No longer holding his newspaper, Calais puts both feet on the ground and spreads his legs wide, a casual confidence in the motion.
Briefly, Kara looks and wonders if she can see the outline of his junk in the soft sweatpants material. If a man is going to manspread so obviously, he must be fine with anyone ogling the goods. In fact, sometimes she thinks that’s the very reason some men do it when they so blatantly shift; where else are you supposed to look when it’s right in your face ?
Her eyes run up the veins in his arms, looking at his biceps. He’s got some buff weight there, in his arms. Not the whipcord thin muscle of younger men, but bulkier, a little weight to them. His pectorals are easily seen through the way his shirt hugs him. Idly, Kara wonders if his stomach is softer, especially around the hips.
She shouldn’t be looking at him this way, but he’s not in a suit and there’s so much to see…
His eyes are on her, boring into her face, tracing her features carefully. Kara wonders if she looks too young without any makeup to hide behind. Wonders if he’s turned off by it, because she doesn’t look like a mature woman closer to his age. Like a woman confident in herself and who she is.
Then again, she shouldn’t care; he’s vile.
“Is that so? Are you saying you think I was ready to play hooker again last night?” Kara wants to claw his face open, dance around in his intestines, throw his hot coffee across his chest.
No, don’t do that, just exhale, nice and slow…
The tightness around his jaw intensifies and his eyes narrow. “Don’t start.”
“Are you disappointed,” Kara bares her teeth in an unpleasant grin. “Did you expect me to go down on you again? Maybe you should have traded with Bittinger last night after all; then maybe you would have gotten some.”
Now, he snorts, looking away from her dismissively. “You would have certainly rued the day if I had given you to him. Then, you’d really be a slag.”
He’s driving her mad, not taking her seriously. Laughing at her. Mocking her. “Isn’t that what you wanted from me?”
Anger spikes in her chest and his characteristic indifference of her makes Kara want to ruffle his stupid peacock feathers. Even this early in the morning he’s nearly unflappable and she wants to ruin it. She wants to make him lose his perfect control, wants to be the one to reduce him to something else.
Kara wants her revenge and she wants it in a physical way, so she can feel it in her bones and taste it on her tongue. She wants blood under her fingernails. His eyes are like a winter vacation in the tropics and his lips are mocking, his body relaxed like a calm predator, so sure of his dominance.
She doesn’t even want to fight the vicious urge that rises inside of her, the one that wants-
Fast, before she can lose her anger and her nerve, she leans over and grabs him by the back of the head roughly, so that he doesn’t have a choice and doesn’t have time to stop her.
He makes a noise of protest, unsure of her intent. With a certain amount of aggression, her mouth crashes over his, her teeth sinking into his lower lip. He groans, either in pain or whatever, Kara doesn’t really give a flying hoot.
It’s vicious and unpleasant, as far as kisses go. More of a fight than a kiss, actually. Just the way Kara likes it; contention. His hands are clenching the arms of his chair, like he’s fighting to not grab her in retaliation as their teeth click together in a flash of fury.
Burying her fingers in his soft hair, Kara deepens the kiss, nipping at him, running her tongue against his lips, no prisoners taken. He makes a sound deep in his throat, gasping against her mouth, heat pooling inside of Kara in a wave. God, she wants this to hurt and it does .
She wants to tear into his soul and burn away them both until they’re nothing but ash. She wants her nails in his flesh, so deep that he’ll scar, so maybe then he can feel what it’s like to be her.
There’s a building ache between her thighs and Kara clenches her legs, trying to alleviate the pressure. He’s like a drug; he’s bad for her and she wants more. Calais tastes like coffee, dark and devious. Like sin, like crime, like a lot of pain and tears.
She never expected him to let her control a kiss. He’s been docile, low sounds in his chest. The clench of his hands on the chair are her only sign that he’s holding himself back . She’s not nice, she’s rough with him, her fingernails in his scalp. Hell, she’s halfway out of her seat and into his, sitting up on her knees for leverage, her free hand pinning his shoulder down as she moves his head the way she wants with her other hand.
Kara pulls back, heart racing, panting harshly.
She sits back into her seat, still sitting on her legs, feeling suddenly like a deer in headlights. His eyes open slowly, now that she’s not assaulting his person anymore. His lips are bruised, swollen from Kara’s sudden assault. Instead of looking disgusted, he looks hungry, the way he stares at her, the way his chest rises and falls quickly. His light eyes are spitting fire, pupils starting to dilate as he says slowly, “Why did you do that?”
Why, indeed?
“Because, you’re an awful boor,” she snaps, feeling her cheeks heat.
With a snarl, he yanks her right out of her chair, causing Kara to shriek in outrage as she falls over the arm of his, into his lap. Her chair tips over completely, but neither of them pays any attention to it. “You are vexing me immensely,” he rasps, teeth flashing as he holds her against his body.
There’s a speck of blood on those sneering lips and Kara doesn’t feel bad in the slightest. She must have bit him a little too hard.
This time, his fingers are gripping her jaw as he tilts her face. His eyes are staring down at her own, intent written there. Like he’s internally wrestling with himself, his jaw tense. Then, his gaze becomes darker, eyes going half-mast.
Kara’s stomach drops, her core clenching, seeing the blatant arousal in his gaze.
This time, he kisses her and it’s more like fighting a war than anything else.
His arm is an iron bar around her waist, holding her tightly to him in his lap. His other hand is holding her jaw, holding her captive as his lips cover hers heatedly. Fire zings into Kara’s veins, a rush of adrenaline sending her heart racing. Every pass of his tongue against hers has Kara’s core throbbing, embarrassingly so as he takes control, maneuvering her as he pleases.
Calais’s thigh is up against her center and the friction has Kara feeling out of control. She feels all the blood in her body racing downward, swelling in her lower region, making her sensitivity skyrocket. It’s all she can do to keep herself from riding his thigh.
Her underwear is getting sticky and Kara wants to be sick on herself over the fact. Her hormones are running rampant; it’s been a few months, after all. She has needs, but she shouldn’t be getting them met in this way.
Your appetite for violence needs to be contained, her psychiatrist always said. The sexualization of having control, or even the lack of it is dangerous in you, dear girl.
Too bad she’s too far gone, lust in her belly, begging for more. The way it makes her feel full and empty all at once, a burning need to take what she wants. She needs more, she wants to push him harder, just to see what he’ll do. He’s dangerous, he’s bad, her guilty pleasure, like a fucking poison in her veins.
He likes it when women pretend they don’t want him and Kara is more than willing to see his reaction to resistance. She jerks in his domineering hold, struggles on his thigh to try and get out of his grasp. She knows she can’t compete with his strength; that’s not the point. The point is, she can feel him hot and hard against her, his groan taking on a lusty growl in his throat as she fights against him. On purpose. Throwing gasoline on the fire.
“Let go of me,” she hisses against his mouth, full of venom. Pushing at him, as if she’s actually trying to get away.
She digs her nails into his shoulders, makes sure he feels it. The sound he makes in response has her nearly keening out loud.
If even possible, his hold on her tightens as he puts a brutal end to her moderate struggle. His tongue forces its way down her throat as his hand moves to her hair, jerking her head back aggressively. Kara whines, feeling like a bird with its wings cut.
Her spine aches against the backward bend, straining, at his mercy. His tongue is at her throat, a flash of teeth against her skin as he holds her head tilted back.
Every time he moves, the friction between her thighs has Kara making embarrassing, breathy noises. She’s like an electric wire gone wild and she can’t put herself back right again, because she needs and needs and the euphoria inside of her wants release.
She wants release, but at the same time she doesn’t want him to be the cause of it.
Fear and lust mix together in a heady sensation; he has full control of her and if he wants to hurt her, he can. Perhaps the very idea excites Kara. The strength in his limbs is easily felt now that she’s on him, weakly struggling against him. She may as well be fighting a brick wall; he’s simply far stronger than her and her anger.
She’s petite. He’s not.
Vaguely, she thinks about what it would be like to be underneath all that strength in bed. Strong wrists connected to strong hands, holding her down while she writhes. Sneering at her feeble attempts to get out from under him. The way he’d pin her down with his cock-
Every shift of his hips has her dying and Kara’s growing weak to it, her reasons as to why she shouldn’t let him do this shrinking by the second. When he stops moving his thigh in that knowing manner, she nearly begs him to continue, chasing the feeling.
She shifts her hips, can’t help it, won’t stop it, trying to chase that sensation of elation every time she rubs herself against him just right. Fuck, she doesn’t need anything more than this, she could shatter just from rubbing her core against his thigh.
Kara, you disgusting slut. You don’t even like him.
That’s the point.
He slouches down further in his seat, spreading his legs wider. In an aggressive motion, he hoists her thighs to the outside of both of his, spreading her, making her vulnerable. Though this makes it far more difficult for Kara to use his thigh as her means of entertainment, now she’s seated directly against his groin, where she can feel the shape of him clearly through her thin clothing.
Kara feels herself panting, because now she’s exposed, waiting in anticipation to see what he’ll do. The thought of being touched, the anticipation of being touched between her thighs, is deviously thrilling. So utterly wrong . The arm around her waist moves as his strong hand grabs her rear, pressing her front against him ever tighter, his hips tilting upwards with the motion.
It’s a mimicry of a thrust and if there were no clothes between them, he’d be inside her, spreading her open. Kara plants her face in the nape of his neck, embarrassed as a humiliating noise escapes her lips, feeling the bulbus head of his cock pressed against her slit, only separated by thin clothing. She’s soaked herself with need already.
Those fingers fight their way under the waistband of her leggings and Kara feels her heartbeat in her center now. Her very being is focused on the thrum of blood inside of her core.