Chapter 16
She considers standing him up.
Kara beats herself up for a few nights, telling herself it’s all a rather terrible mistake. Only a fool would even consider meeting him with the intent of going home with him after, knowing his intent. Sadly, instead of being entirely repulsed, Kara is intrigued.
On Friday night, she puts on a sleek black skirt that hits mid-thigh and wears a tasteful white and black top that she can easily tuck into the skirt. It’s an outfit that makes her look slightly ‘too good’ in the way of sexuality, yet it doesn’t cross the line into trashy. Cubic zirconia in her ears and a dark choker around her neck bring some flash to the ensemble. With a flash of deviousness, she wears more makeup than she normally does, giving herself a smokier eye with dark shades of midnight and bronze.
A hint of red lipstick makes her feel like she’s looking for too much attention, but she sees plenty of girls seemingly get away with it in public. Why not her? Every time she sees someone with glamourous lipstick, she always thinks they look daring and bold. When it’s on her, she feels like a child playing dress up.
Looking at herself in the mirror, somehow sultry and mysterious, Kara decides she can play the game for tonight, her dark hair waving like the sea. She can truly wear a mask that she isn’t familiar with, on top of the mask she normally adorns.
The restaurant he chose in his neck of the woods is a fancy, new age sort of steakhouse, complete with a lounge area for the barflies. On the way over, she distracts herself by looking at the menu on her phone, feeling her mouth water, looking at all the creative, farm fresh plates on their website.
The place itself is a lovely brick building, all front windows smoked slightly to give privacy within. The name of the restaurant glitters in seductive lettering on the front over the double wide dark wood doors. The smell of food blasts Kara in the face as she steps inside, taking note of the exotic décor and dark stone floors. It almost feels like she’s stepped into a palace in a jungle, vaguely. There’s a giant tank in the middle of the eating area, filled with large fish swimming from the floor all the way up to the ceiling of the restaurant.
The hostess eyes her up and down as she goes to sidestep check-in, opting for the bar. “Do you have a reservation?”
The snooty tone of the hostess makes Kara grit her teeth, forcing a sly grin on her ruby lips. “My ass has a date with one of those bar chairs. Thanks for asking though, very kind of you.”
The uptight woman scowls, putting her hands on her hips before facing forward again, checking in another group of people.
Sliding into a luxurious chair at the wood carved bar, away from the dining room, Kara purses her lips into what she hopes is somewhat on the sultry-bitch scale, waiting coolly for the bartender to take her order. The gentleman is wearing a nice button-down shirt with a tie, looking very much like an upper crust sommelier of sorts.
With her dirty martini in front of her, Kara takes a few aggressive sips, her nerves finally catching up with her. No matter how she plays it cool, how she tries to become the persona she is currently adopting, her spine is still crawling with anxiety. She’s meeting Nicholas Havenwood-Calais and she’s going home with him after.
After getting into an argument.
You don’t have to go home with him, you know, her thoughts tell her.
But, she does. She needs to clear this sick fantasy from her thoughts. She needs to get him out of her system, to forget why she wants him. Perhaps, just this once, she will learn her lesson. Perhaps, if she’s lucky, she’ll hate it. Perhaps the angry hole inside of her will be fulfilled and she can leave this all behind once and for all.
Sighing, Kara munches on her blue cheese stuffed olive, feeling her lips curve into a genuine smile; it’s fabulously done. Some places are just shit at stuffing their olives, but not this place. The bartender chuckles, “That good?”
“God, yes.” She gushes. “I see why you charge three dollars extra for them now. Worth it, pal.”
The man leans over the counter with a laugh, plopping another skewered olive in her drink. He winks at her, “That one is on me.” Then his eyes widen at something behind her, his back straightening.
Kara doesn’t need to know what the bartender is looking at. She smells him before she sees him.
The warm scent of rum and sweet tobacco, mixed with coffee falls over her like silk and Kara’s heart leaps. An arm slides around her shoulders before she even has the chance to turn and see him, soft lips pressing to her temple in a rush that sends her nearly spiraling. “Hey, sweetpea,” he rasps against her skin, very much so in her space with his overpowering presence. “Tormenting the locals with your feminine wiles, are we?”
The bartender makes himself scarce rather quickly, as if embarrassed to have been caught hitting on some guy’s girlfriend right in front of him. As Calais’s lips leave her temple, a light brush of contact, she imagines him giving the bartender a knowing look, enjoying the man’s discomfort.
Kara shifts in her fancy seat to take a look at Calais, taking note of his left arm casually slung over the back of her chair in a possessive fashion. He’s in business casual; nice jeans, white shirt, and a dark navy sport coat. Seeing him not in a suit somehow makes him seem more attainable, tangible.
Of course, she’s seen him in sweatpants before, but even this outfit is an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. It makes him appear human. Even the small hints of wealth on him, such as his fancy watch and his pristine, distant appearance can’t detract from that. Staring up into his tropic sea eyes, Kara shrugs one of her shoulders slightly, saying, “I grew bored waiting for you.”
He exhales hard through his nose, like a laugh that never made it past his lips. “Devious minx.”
Grinning slightly, Kara says, “I like that one. Very charming. Now, feed me, I’m fucking starving.”
“As always, I’m impressed by your vulgarity.” Staring down at her, he grips her by the chin, his thumb just a hair away from touching her bottom lip. “This is a bold color on you.”
She swats at his hand with a mild glare. “Don’t mess up my lipstick.”
“It’s going to get ruined later anyway,” he says lightly even as the man to his right chokes on his drink.
Kara studiously pretends those words have absolutely no effect on her. Opening up the faux leather-bound menu, Kara looks up at Calais. She doesn’t have to crane her neck far for because he’s practically on her, even perched on his own chair. “What do you suggest, gentleman of exquisite taste and lovely manners?”
Calais cocks one of his dark eyebrows at her. “You want to eat at the bar? I have a reservation for a table…”
“I rather like it in here. These bar chairs are practically dining room quality anyway, why move?” She does enjoy staying in the bar, actually. Eating in bars by herself has been a thing for as long as she can remember. Living alone for so long gave Kara that little habit. It was easier to eat at the bar alone than it was to eat alone at a table, surrounded by families and large groups. At least, usually the bar was for single or couples, or the people who really did want to be left the fuck alone.
Generally, Kara falls into the last category.
Whatever he thinks about that, Calais doesn’t make mention. Instead, his eyes drift over the menu in a way that belies his familiarity with it. When he orders, he gets a few different small shareable plates that come at prices that Kara wouldn’t feel comfortable ordering by herself. Bison meatballs? Honeycomb ricotta on fancy toast with allspice? Siracha honey cauliflower? Avocado tuna poke? Her mouth waters.
As they sit and chit chat about casework aimlessly, Calais winds a few strands of her hair around his fingers, causing Kara to be hyperaware of everything his says and does. “That case has been closed from the start,” he’s saying of the Debra Mills case against Max Dotaire. “Your client wasn’t vetted close enough and I’m sure Derrick is ready to cut his losses.”
“Says you.”
He pauses as if thinking deeply. It’s stunning how the planes of his face remind her of statues carved in cold perfection. “Do you think he’ll fold on the case if my associates provide a written deal? Maybe I’ll suggest that to them. There’s a special place in hell for people who make false accusations.”
Kara’s mouth opens to make a catty reply, but the food arrives and all thought leaves her brain aside from consuming as much of it as humanely possible. Calais cordially thanks the server with the loveliest of manners as Kara dives into the food with barely contained glee.
“There’s real honeycomb on this ricotta toast,” she breathes out as the sweetness touches her tongue. “Holy wow, that’s heavenly.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he says, his thigh pressing against hers. Kara can feel his gaze heavy upon her, watching food disappear into her mouth. It makes her slightly self-conscious and she flushes under his careful scrutiny.
“I bet the dessert is even better,” Kara mumbles. “This honeycomb is practically dessert as it is.”
“Get whatever you want,” Calais replies with a certain calm that shows that he really doesn’t care what the bill ends up being. He orders another gin and tonic and asks for the top shelf gin while he’s at it.
It’s the oddest thing; all the guys Kara dated usually were somewhat money conscious, which is fine because she’s the same. It’s grotesque to her to even think of ordering expensive things on the menu when someone else is paying. To actually be out with someone who doesn’t give a flying care in the world what she orders? Wild.
The fact that he’s nice to look at is a plus, even though he certainly has that air about him that speaks to how much of an asshole he is. Trouble in human form. It’s in his smile and his eyes, a slight bit of cool and detachedness that can’t possibly bode well. Arrogant.
Kara bets he doesn’t even look at his credit card bills every month; he probably has them on autopay without a single worry. Must be nice. “So, what are you, some sort of trust fund baby?”
He smiles slightly, eyes going half-mast. “Guilty.”
Eyes widening, Kara stares at him in surprise, because she knows virtually nothing about him. Nothing real , anyway. She’s never met an actual trust fund baby before. At least, not to her knowledge. She always imagined them to be strange, vapid creatures with no drive to do anything in life. “So, why are you working? Aren’t you loaded? You must be old enough to have gotten control of the money, yeah?”
Calais chuckles, a nice low sound. “My mother was a big shot attorney that became a judge and my father is in enterprise real estate, most of the giant properties handed down from his father and so on. Sure, I have the money, but I’d lose my mind if I didn’t work.” His face darkens a little, almost unnoticeably. “My mother wouldn’t have allowed that anyway.”
Kara reads between the lines and bites one of the bison meatballs. She cocks an eyebrow. “Controlling mumsy?”
His grin isn’t very friendly. “In a manner of speaking.”
He offers nothing else on the matter.
For a moment, he seems to fade from the present, no longer paying attention to her as he stares off aimlessly, taking a sip from his gin and tonic. Kara can smell it, clean and fresh even though she knows she hates the taste.
A strange, yet subtle mood falls over him, as if the recent conversation has turned his disposition. It’s odd; he keeps chatting with her, diverting the conversation away from anything personal. He doesn’t like to talk about himself, she gets that rather quickly.
“Did you grow up in the city?”
The question jars her, sending Kara back to a dark place in her mind. The fork in her hand pauses in midair, halfway to her mouth. “I didn’t,” she replies slowly, suddenly feeling a dose of uncomfortable herself. It’s like he knew neither of them liked personal . “I grew up eighty miles south of the city, well beyond the southern suburbs. You’d probably call it the country, city boy.”
Calais makes a noise that gets close to derision. “That’s like living on another planet. Dieter lives forty miles away from the downtown, out in the northwestern burbs and that’s country living to me.”
Finishing her martini, Kara wipes the back of her hand across her lips. “Oh, bull. That’s a really nice suburban area. Upscale. No comparison!”
“He gets up to polo on the weekends, it’s absurd.” Calais chuckles a bit now, polishing off their last plate of food. “The cocaine must keep him fueled, because I don’t know how he manages after working downtown all week. Boundless energy.”
Squinting, her mind going to strange places with men in water and goggles and caps on their heads. “Dietrich Bittinger plays polo? Like in the pool?”
This time, Calais bursts out laughing, his teeth showing with his genuine amusement. He dabs his mouth with his napkin politely after he gets ahold of himself. “No, not water polo. Polo. Like on horses.”
Kara finds herself staring at the empty plates in front of her as she daydreams about that quite a bit. Green eyes and a Hollywood smile flash into her thoughts. When her mind drifts to thinking of him in boots and tight breeches, she decides she’s focusing entirely too much on an asshole of another sort. Switching gears, she skeptically asks, “Speaking of, how’s your buddy doing tonight, considering you’re here with little old me? He must be lonely with no one to roam the streets with.”
A hand crawls up into her hair, almost a warning as that low rasp of his says carefully, “What have I told you about sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, sweetpea?”
“What, you meaning whoring?” She says it quietly, so no one but him can hear. A dig, a nasty dig.
Kara almost forgot what their plans really are for this night.
When his eyes meet hers once more, Kara recognizes an unpleasant shift in him. He leans closer to her, so that his mouth is just hovering above her ear. The closer he gets, the more the world seems to shrink down to just the two of them.
His eyes drift downward, taking in her skirt and how it has slightly ridden up from her sitting awkwardly on the chair. When he looks at her face once more, Kara realizes he’s done playing nice with her; polite dinner and drinks seems to have concluded because the look in his eyes is decidedly nasty.
“You know, you look like a whore in that outfit,” he whispers coldly, any warmth suddenly disappearing from his gaze, gone with the fucking wind. “A guy could easily mistake you for one. Maybe that’s what you like.”
There’s a clatter of dishes as Kara’s fork hits one of the plates hard, her hand suddenly shaking.
For a moment, Kara is stunned, hurt. The words are like knives in the gut and for a second there, she almost feels like screaming over it. Then she realizes; that’s the point. Whether he means what he said or not is completely irrelevant.
He said it for a reaction .
And get one he will.
The mask she wears tonight is a costume and Kara reminds herself that the skin she’s wearing now is a girl on a date. What girl wants to hear such a thing? What if it’s a more serious boyfriend, and he’s really demeaning her? Adopt that sad, hurt yet angry attitude. You already feel it anyway.
Her throat tightens and if anyone had been watching their exchange, they would have seen the way her throat flexed with a hard swallow and how she pulled away in shocked disgust, her body language clearly speaking for itself.
“What the fuck did you say that for?” Her voice is sharp, a fast staccato.
People hear her, ears turning towards where they are sitting. Gazes shift, a few younger women make faces that clearly read, ‘oh, something is going down’.
Yeah, ladies. This grenade is going off.
He gives her a sarcastic look before drinking his gin and tonic. He’s cool as ice. Clearly, he intends for her to look like the crazy girlfriend instead of him playing the asshole. “You’re overreacting. It was a joke.”
“No, it’s not funny.” She feels herself getting mad now, a familiar skin to wear. Comfortable. Her favorite . “I should have known you were going to act like this the minute you came in, with your stupid insinuation that I was trying to hit on the bartender while I was minding my own business. Why can’t you just say I look nice?”
Oh, she’s really getting into this.
He makes as if to try and quiet her down, like he doesn’t want to make a scene. “I have eyes, Kara. I saw him looking you up and down and you didn’t even care. I bet you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
The possessive, insecure older boyfriend routine. Splendid .
“Oh, I’m fucking sorry.” Her voice gets that slight hoarse quality to it, only adding to the illusion of fury rising. “I guess I’ll only go in public wearing a brown bag next time, if it pleases The King . You are such a tyrant , Nick. As if I control other people looking at me. Ha!”
Now, anyone who was trying to not listen to them is definitely listening. Calais gets a hint of red creeping up his neck, because it is embarrassing, but it only fuels the feeling of the situation being real.
With short, jerky movements that scream anger and irritation, Calais pays the bill, body tense and ready for a fight. Kara sits still with her nose slightly in the air, as if waiting for her overbearing older boyfriend to decide how they will proceed.
When he’s done signing the bottom of the receipt, he grabs her by the arm hard and practically pulls her out of her seat. “Move,” he growls darkly, a sound that registers in Kara’s belly with heat. Oh, the sound of an angry man, trying to contain his rage.
She allows him to drag her out the front door before she yanks herself from his grasp with aggressive enthusiasm. “Let go of me, you brute. You’re bruising my arm!”
His eyes flash with menace and for a moment, Kara feels a trickle of concern. He’s not only the very vision of Trouble, but of Dangerous Trouble. Face like carved stone, eyes spitting anger, and lips twisted in a sneer. With a hiss, he grabs her again and yanks her to him roughly, flush, “You don’t know where I parked, so stop causing a scene. We’ll settle this at home.”
The valet, standing at his podium looks vaguely disturbed by what is unfolding in front of him. “Miss? Are you alright?”
How sweet of him. Kara tries to give him a calm expression, but likely fails. Probably looks like some savage, unholy cat woman. “I’ll be fine. Just an argument.”
She’s not given much of a chance to say anything else, as Calais hauls her a block or so up the street, even as she digs her nails into his hand out of spite.
The car ride back to his place is nearly stifling. Before driving off, he’d pushed her into her seat and buckled her in like a child. “I can do it myself!” Kara had snapped furiously, kicking at him, and he’d replied “Can you?” with an equally cold sneer.
When they arrive at his building, Kara feels the urge to finish the fight and hurry it along. The sensation in her chest is like a grudge that just won’t let up; there’s no satisfaction. They’ve fed off each other’s anger and irritation, the public humiliation they both subjected themselves to not helping their moods in the slightest.
You did this to yourself.
They ride the elevator up in a tense silence, refusing to look at each other. The tension nearly crackles with electricity and Kara feels her breathing pick up. What is he going to do, what is he going to do when we reach the top…
Once they reach the penthouse, he unlocks the door and strides inside, barely giving her a glance. He nearly slams the door in her face, which she blocks with her hands and a hiss of fury, cursing him out under her breath.
He’s walking down the front hall, tossing his keys and wallet on a side table, his back to her.
“Is this your idea of a good time?” Kara makes a noise of derision, because she’s irritated, following after him. She thinks of something horrid to say. “You’re being an absolute cunt of a man child!”
Oh, that gets him. The lines of his spine stiffen so quickly that she can even see it happen through his sport coat, still donned. “What did you call me?” The words sound like a storm brewing in the distance and Kara is ready to see it hit.
Feeling her breath come and go quickly, Kara’s mouth twists nastily and she says, “You heard what I said.” For good measure, she kicks off one of her heels in his direction. It doesn’t hit him, but it does clatter to the ground very close to his feet, a clear threat.
He looks over his shoulder at her slowly, like out of a horror movie. He hasn’t turned any lights on, so it’s rather dark and ominous. “Shut the door.”
With a sneer, Kara grabs the door and slams it shut with all her might.
She barely has a moment to collect herself before she’s pressed up against it. Kara gasps in outrage and slight surprise, the doorknob digging into her back. Calais has his hips pressed against her, his lips crashing down on hers in a wave of fury. His hands, strong and domineering, are at her waist and shoulder. He tastes of gin and lime, his tongue overpowering her own as he counts her fucking teeth with it. Kara can only keep herself standing, feeling her legs go shaky.
He’s like a whirlwind of power, aggressive and vicious, his teeth playing with her lips precariously. He descends downward, his mouth finding her neck, teeth sinking in hard enough that Kara gasps, knowing she’ll have a bruise.
She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Does she push him away or pull him closer? Kara attempts to knee his groin, but he’s simply too near for it to be impactful. Snarling, she tries to knock him off his feet, hitting at him, digging her fingernails into his biceps. “You beast! You’re hurting me!”
In response he grabs her by the hair and hip before slamming her backwards against the door. Kara tries clawing at his eyes and he grabs her fingers in one of his large hands, squeezing hard enough to make it hurt. Kara sinks against the door, panting with effort, looking up at him with heated eyes.
He’s simply too strong to fight. Kara has to remind herself that this is what she signed up for. Stupid!
Calais chuckles coldly, leaning down to press his teeth against her jugular. He’s got a scratch on his cheekbone. “God, you’re a fucking bitch.”
With a show of strength, he turns her around, pressing her front to his door, forcing her stretchy skirt up to her hips, exposing her rear. She tries to tear out of his grasp, but he only presses her harder against the wood with finality. “Stay where I put you,” he growls viciously.
He pauses, breathing hard. Desire coils in Kara’s belly, unintentionally, knowing he’s looking at her red thong, his eyes probably tracing it between her globes of flesh. His hands caress her skin now, his thumbs dipping into the crease, tracing downward. His breathing changes.
His desire for her is strangely arousing.
Kara feels adrenaline spike and a breathy little gasp escapes her lips. She’s torn between fear and arousal. She widens her stance a bit and he notices, emitting a sharp bark of laughter. “Look how eager you are,” he hisses. He presses his front up against her, thrusting his erection against her bare cheeks. “Ready and eager for some cock.”
It’s dizzying to realize he’s hard, really hard, and the knowledge makes Kara wet. She feels herself begin to moisten, her nether lips swelling with arousal. He tugs a bit on her thong, pulling it backwards so that it rubs hard against her clit. “Oh…” she gasps out, pressing her fingertips into the wood in front of her while pressing her rear backwards.
His still clothed cock fits so nicely between her cheeks and he rubs it there, biting back a groan of his own. One of his hands finds its way under her small scrap of underwear, delving between her legs. “What’s this?” He breathes darkly. “Wet already? Christ, you’re practically gagging for this.” At that, two of his fingers delve inside of her, filling her with a gentle stretch that has Kara moaning. Finally.
She’s burning. The need inside of her is like a flame. The scent of him, the sound of him, all of it twisting her up inside.
In and out he slowly slides his fingers, stroking through the mess of her sex. When he pulls his fingers out completely, he palms her, rubbing her arousal all around. He pulls some of it backwards, towards the entrance that no one has touched, fingers precariously circling it.
His touch is so possessive, as if he believes she is an object that belongs to him.
The violation of it makes her feel dirty and lustful. Seeing her practically writhing under him, Calais makes of noise of amusement, his pointer and middle finger delving back into her aching center, all while his ring finger sneaks gently into her rear, testing her.
Kara stiffens in surprise, the sensation of being penetrated in both parts of her different, but not bad. She’s ashamed that she doesn’t dislike it, feeling full and consumed by him. Like he’s taking ownership of her body, claiming every piece of it that he can.
Slowly, he drills into her, warming her body up, softening her to the sensations of being fucked. Kara gasps, reaching downward to play with her clit, needing some friction. She sighs loudly, electricity running through her veins. She gushes around his fingers, bathing him in her arousal. He groans deep in his throat, an animalistic sound.
Shame is at war with desire in her belly.
“Want me to fuck you in both, slut?” He spins her around, pulling at her shirt, her last real defense against anything.
Her shirt comes away far too easily, even as she struggles against him. Now, she stands in just her lacy bra and her black skirt, hoisted up around her hips. Exposed.
His eyes are drinking her in, hungry. A predator. His cock is hard in his jeans, large and ready. Kara wonders what he tastes like, if he’s leaking precum in his eagerness to defile her.
“You’re a filthy bastard, aren’t you?” She adds fuel to the fire, feeling her lip curl. She channels her father, because it makes her feel powerful and far braver than she actually is. “You’re a fucking pig and if you want anything from me, you’ll come to heel like the dog you are!”
Calais stares at her like he’s never seen her before. Like suddenly he’s found an interesting puzzle that he just can’t figure out. Like he can’t believe this is even happening, like he’s surprised he got a certain present at Christmas that he never expected to actually get. Then he sneers, “You think you have any control here?” He yanks her head back hard, watching her wince. “You put yourself in my grasp and you’ll not leave it until I say so.”
With a possessive hand on the nape of her neck, he propels her towards the guest bedroom, passing by what she knows is his room. Her hands try to pry his grip off of her, but to no avail. It reminds her so much of her father and the blur of memories and reality is almost disturbing.
Calais throws her onto the guest bed, pinning her there with his body, giving her not a moment to collect herself. Wrangling her onto her back so he can look down at her expression, Calais forces himself between her legs. The moonlight is spilling over them through the open window.
Kara is panting, the rise and fall of her chest matched only by his own. They are mirrors of each other, dangerous arousal in their gazes. She wants him so much it hurts, her center aching to be filled by him. Aching for him to split her open and clear her mind of everything else.
“You want a fight…and I like to feel like a monster.” His voice is low, breathy. Malicious. Aroused. Pleased with how this has been going. “So, tell me ‘no’ and mean it, sweetpea.”
And somehow, that makes it all better. He's still calling her sweetpea and her stomach burns with need. Even though he’s the sort that enjoys a fight, she’s the same, and he hasn’t harmed her, not even when he has the physical upper hand.
He’s rough and his mouth is filth, and Kara isn’t sure she would have it any other way.
Calais says the words in a low whisper, something Kara can feel reverberate in his chest and stomach. He’s staring down at her with those empty shark eyes and she thinks this game is dark enough, even for her.
It’s the closest to violence as she will ever get.
It’s close to the real thing, close to the anger she always saw in her father’s gaze, how she was never quite good enough. But here and now, she’s the very thing this man wants and needs and somehow that’s what she craves.