35. Claire
35
CLAIRE
T he morning breaks over the bed like warm yolk, spilling bright sunshine over the cream duvet. I should be hungover. Thick-throated, head-pounding, ugly hangover. Instead, I feel better than I should.
Better than I deserve.
Two million . That number keeps pounding through my head.
Not a lot of people have a quantifiable number for their father’s love. Two million. That’s not bad, right? A decent sum?
He might as well have said zero .
Just when I thought he couldn’t hurt me anymore, his ghost haunts me. Twisting the knife. Reminding me that I’m nothing but a decorated show pony, bred and trained to perform for everyone else’s enjoyment.
I want to stay in bed. I want to drink until my liver gives out. I want to rub all my fine breeding in his face.
Look at your prize mare now, Daddy.
I yank the covers up my shoulders to burrow deeper into the bed, but when I kick my leg out, my foot hits something warm and solid.
“Ow! Watch the tootsies, princess.”
Ransom’s voice sounds like it’s coming from…the foot of the bed?
I prop up on my elbow. “What are you doing?”
Everett, still beside me, wakes up at our commotion and sits up.
Ransom is lying with his head at the foot of the bed, his feet up by my face. His hair sticks out at odd angles. He rubs his face where I, no doubt, kicked him. Somewhere between sleepy and grumpy, he complains, “You snore! He grinds his teeth! It’s like sleeping with the damn circus!”
Everett frowns. “I like her snores. It lets me know she hasn’t died in her sleep.”
Ransom throws up his hands. “Y’all need Jesus.”
I can’t help it. A laugh bubbles up from inside of me. A real, genuine, what-the-hell-is-my-life? laugh that builds in my chest and comes pouring out my mouth until my eyes are stinging and I’m wheezing for breath.
I don’t think I’ve laughed since I’ve gotten here. It feels good.
Ransom and Everett make me feel good . Even when the rest of the world is collapsing around me.
I pull up my legs so I can scoot halfway down the bed. I cup Ransom’s jaw and rub his rough stubble underneath the pad of my thumb.
“Poor Ransom,” I coo. “I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?”
He pouts. “You can stick a nasal strip on that pretty nose.”
I press my mouth to his, kissing away his pout. “How’s that? ”
He hums. “It’s a start.”
The bed creaks as Everett shifts. Shit .
Kissing Ransom was instinctive. But I’ve never kissed him in front of Everett before. A sliver of guilt cuts like a knife down my sternum.
Everett gets out of bed and fixes his glasses onto his face. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“I’ll help,” I say, guilt rising.
Be a better daughter.
Be a better wife.
But when I look at Everett, there’s no hatred there or resentment. Instead, he says, “No need. Stay cozy.”
Then he mimics my motion with Ransom; he cups my chin, tilts my head, and presses a gentle, chaste kiss to my mouth.
And like that, we break.
Like that, it’s normal .
Kissing Ransom. Kissing Everett. Having them both in my bed.
Why not?
My father sold me like livestock.
I have a bounty out for my head.
Why can’t this be normal?
“Any requests?” Everett asks.
“I’d murder my grandmimi for more of those pancakes,” Ransom says.
Everett nods and looks at me. “Anything else?”
“Whatever you make is perfect. Thank you.”
He slips on his sweatpants, dons a shirt, and then leaves the room.
Ransom’s hand slips over my knee. “He’s in a better mood this morning.”
“We worked things out last night. ”
In the chair. On the dining room table. Messy, hard work. The memory of it lights up like fireflies through my blood.
Ransom’s thumb rubs over my knee. “I’m glad for that. I am. But I’ve gotta ask…what’s that mean for us?”
I look him in the eyes. Ransom. My sweet Ransom. Those chocolate-brown, soulful eyes. I could spill any of my secrets to those eyes, and now, when he looks at me like that, I feel compelled to tell him the truth. The honest truth.
“I need you right now,” I tell him. “Both of you. I don’t know what that means, or what that looks like, I-I don’t even know if it’s fair to either of you, it’s selfish, but…”
He silences me by gripping my legs and yanking me, pulling me nearly into his lap. Ransom’s forehead touches mine, and the heat of his breath warms my cheek. His voice is that deep, sincere rumble when he says, “You, Claire Preacher, deserve all the love you’ve got coming to you.” With those strong hands clutching my thighs, he presses a sweet kiss to the bridge of my nose. “I just needed to know I wasn’t out of the picture.”
I shake my head. I trace my fingers down the bulk of his chest. The soft, curly hairs there. “No. You’re very much in.”
“Then I’ve got one request.”
“What’s that?”
“Nasal strips. Just try ’em.”
I smack his chest and laugh. “Ass.”
“Princess.”
He kisses me fully on the lips this time. A warm, lingering kiss I could get lost in. My legs splay, and my body melts. His skin warms, and he’s flushed when we break.
“Everett never complains when I snore,” I tell him.
I know that bringing up Everett when we’re like this could be dangerous .
But I’m testing the waters.
Seeing how truly good he is with sharing me.
His breath patters on my throat. He murmurs in my ear, “There are gonna be some new rules now that I’m here.”
I tilt my head, giving him better access. “Like what?”
“Rule number one. If Everett gets you at night…I get you in the morning.”
I’m on my knees, my legs splayed on either side of his, and I can’t close them like this. All I can do is shiver at his touch. My nipples tighten until the soft satin of the robe feels like fire every time it brushes against them.
“You know what I want.” Ransom’s voice is that syrupy, dark demand that makes my heart flutter. “Fix your hands.”
I’m putty. I obey.
I move my arms behind my back. Ransom slides the cord from the robe. His body is warm and strong against mine as he reaches behind me. Even blind, I can feel him wrap the tie around my wrists and knot it expertly. It’s tight enough that I can’t move but loose enough that it’s comfortable on my skin.
“How’s that?” he asks. Always checking in.
“Good.”
Better than good. My skin is humming.
I’m vulnerable now. Slowly, he parts my robe, baring my breasts. His eyes light up as they drink me in. Ransom paints his thumb down my chest. He flicks over my hard nipple. I gasp, that one single stroke sending a bolt of want straight through me.
I’m ruining a perfectly good pair of panties.
“You’re a gem,” he tells me. “You know that?”
Ransom worships me with his gaze. With my words. With his touch .
My entire body aches for his particular brand of sweet, dominant affection.
I crane my chin upward, arching my chest forward. Wanting more of his touch.
“Please, touch me,” I beg.
“I am touching you, princess.”
He keeps me hungry for it. He dusts the tips of his fingers down the center of my body. He circles my navel.
“Or do you want me to touch you here?” He dances over the elasticity of my panties. My abdomen clenches, and my core throbs.
“Yes,” I say, breathless.
“Your fiancé is expecting you downstairs,” Ransom says. “You think it’s nice to keep him waiting?”
Oh .
Here, I thought mentioning Everett would make Ransom jealous.
I didn’t consider that, maybe, Ransom likes sharing.
No—Ransom likes stealing .
When I was eight, a stray cat wandered onto our property. It was an ugly, feral thing. I called it Horatio and left a bowl of water and food for it every morning, trying to lure it inside.
The cat never took the bait. He stole from the barn instead, helping himself to the horse’s troughs and feed bags.
Feeling like I’d done something wrong, I cried about it to my father. He hoisted me in his lap and told me, “It’s a wild animal. Wild animals have never been loved properly. They don’t trust it. They’re thieves. They steal.” He touched me under my chin so he could look me in the eyes. “If you want that cat to love you, you have to make it work for it. ”
Which, in retrospect, is a strange thing to say to an eight-year-old.
But now I have to wonder…
Is Ransom too wild to accept my love from an open palm?
Does the water only taste good when it’s forbidden?
If the erection in his briefs is any litmus test, I’d say he likes stealing.
And if the way I’m drenching my panties means anything, I think I like being stolen.
I twist. The binds hold tightly against my wrists. “I need you.”
“Naughty girl.” He slips his hand underneath the blanket. He invites himself between my legs, dipping underneath my panties, feeling the wetness that’s collected at my core.
He slides two fingers on either side of my nether lips and pinches them. It sends a sharp, pleasurable pain through me, and I gasp. “Do you think you can come before he notices you’re getting up to no good?”
My throat is dry with want. I don’t want to tell him that I’m burning so hot I feel like I might explode from just the right amount of pressure.
“I think I can try.”
He growls in my ear. That sound sends a shiver through me. His fingers dip against the crease of my slit, pushing my wetness around. He curls his two fingers, strumming one after the other against my clit. “Go ahead,” he grunts in my ear. “Give me my bad girl.”
The pleasure is almost blinding. My thighs ache being held apart like this, and I can feel my feet going numb, but I don’t want it to stop. My toes curl, and everything in me focuses on the steady, unceasing drumbeat of his fingers. It only takes seconds. I tremble apart, unable to stop the cry that escapes me as I come on his hand. My body clenches, and he moans darkly in my ear, a sound that makes me hot.
“There she is.” His breath is hot on my cheek. “You’re flooding me, princess.”
I whimper. My thighs try to shut, but they can’t, pinned apart by his strong legs. I crumple forward instead, my forehead resting on his shoulder, as his tickling strokes draw out each hot pulse.
“Good girl.” He kisses the top of my head. “That’s my girl. You’re my girl, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” I murmur, drowsy with pleasure. “Yours.”
He removes his touch. I whimper in his absence.
I lift my head and watch as Ransom lifts his hand. His fingers are shiny and wet with me. He sticks them in his mouth, and the way he works his tongue around the digits makes me weak.
“Sweet as honey,” he says. “Won’t even need syrup for my pancakes.”
A breath of a laugh escapes me. “If I had my arms, I’d smack you.”
Suddenly, my hair is in his hands. A small cry leaves me as he grips me tight, pulling at my scalp.
“If you wanna be a brat, I’ll leave you here for your fiancé to find,” he growls. “Arms tied back. Legs spread. Pussy dripping. What d’you think he’ll do to punish a dirty slut like you?”
My breath is short and tight in my throat.
Ransom is enjoying his role a little too much. And, truthfully…
So am I.
My heart is racing in my chest.
“Please, don’t,” I beg, playing the part. “I’ll do anything. ”
“Anything?” With my head yanked back, his lips touch the exposed skin of my throat. “I’ll hold you to that later.”
His hard cock nudges against my thigh. I wish he’d hold me to it now .
I want him inside of me so badly it’s a deep, painful ache. I came. Hard. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. I need more. I need him .
But his fingers find the satin rope around my wrists. He pulls the quick-release knot, and I feel the threads flutter and slide down my wrists.
It means we’re done here .
“We better get down there,” Ransom says. His voice is lighter now. Playful. The Ransom I know. He gives my ass a small smack. “Before breakfast gets cold.”
But my throat is suddenly tight. Knotting. I can’t explain it, but I feel like if he pulls away, I might burst into tears.
“Kiss me first?” I ask.
His gaze meets mine. He must hear the tightness in my voice because I see surprise there, and then his eyes go soft. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. Gently, he cradles my face in his hand. He brushes his lips to mine and kisses me. Softly. Sweetly. Lovingly.
Not the dominant, dirty man he was moments ago.
Now, he’s Ransom again. My Ransom.
“Like that?” he asks.
I nod. “One more, please.”
A gentle smile unfurls on his lips. “Princess, I’ll kiss you until the stars fall outta the sky if you ask for it.”
His mouth is so sweet on mine—asking for nothing, demanding nothing, but pure love, given without strings.
My wrists are tingling where the rope once was. Slowly, I reach forward and touch Ransom’s chest. I flatten my palms on his bare skin .
I can feel it. His heart, strong and steady, like the beat of hooves against dirt. Pounding to meet my palm.
The tight knot around my throat slackens. I can breathe again.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m ready to eat.”
“Let’s go,” Ransom says. Then, before I can react, he stands and hoists me up, taking me over his shoulder.