Chapter Twelve
Sutton
It’s not until my alarm goes off for the third time that I finally accept my fate, silencing the tinny calypso beat instead of snoozing it, and sitting up in bed to force myself awake.
It’s Sunday morning, and while for many that means heading to church or brunch, or just having the gift of sleeping in, in my world it means the annual charity golf tournament for the Youth League of Greater Los Angeles.
Fun fact! I don’t actually play golf.
I could kick myself for signing up to participate, but it’s for a good cause, and I have to remember that any exposure is good exposure.
Hart Strategic Management has yet to become a household name, so I have to take every opportunity for facetime with players and coaches, both former and current.
You never know how a connection will be made, so connecting is the name of the game.
Which means even though I haven’t slept well, I get to drag my ass out of bed.
I tossed and turned all night, plagued by vivid dreams of masked men chasing me through unfamiliar homes, trapping me in bathrooms and bedrooms… and even a garden shed. Random.
They’re different every time, my masked men. From Dominus, with his black leather, full-face mask, to Ghostface from Scream, and cycling through a number of other masks my mind whips up—both real and completely imagined.
But the worst of the dreams are the ones that end with Dominus catching me, but when he reveals himself, when he rips off that mask…
He’s wearing the face of none other than Max Cruz.
Those are the dreams that have me waking with my heart pounding against my ribs, my skin slicked with sweat, and my hand…
Between my legs.
Because of course my work life would cross over into my dream state.
Thus is the life of a workaholic, I guess. I have nothing else for my imagination to feed off of, so it just takes whatever tidbits it’s given and uses them against me.
Apparently, Max is the tidbit du jour.
And every time I wake up, the throbbing between my legs leaves little confusion as to how I really feel about Max.
Even now, my mouth waters at the idea of Dominus ripping off his mask to reveal Max, then chasing me through the house until he catches me and has his way with me.
I groan, dropping a hand over my eyes even as desire swells low in my belly.
I can’t possibly masturbate to thoughts of Max Cruz.
Actually, I’m not supposed to masturbate at all, am I? Under normal circumstances, this would be easy. Normally, I’m not some horny teenager with raging hormones making me unable to think clearly.
I’m in my thirties, for Pete’s sake. I have self-control. Plenty of it.
I can avoid getting off until I see Dominus again.
But it’s not like he’d know, right? How could he?
And if he did find out, what would happen then?
My groin muscles flex, a throb building low in my belly, that demanding ache returning with a vengeance. I squeeze my thighs together, searching for friction, then grunt in frustration and guide my hand down my body. Maybe I can come without touching myself…
After all, Dominus nearly brought me to my knees last night by applying pressure to my belly, whispering dirty things into my ear…
It's not impossible…
It certainly couldn’t hurt to try.
Splaying one hand over my lower belly, mimicking the touch of my masked man last night, I slink my other hand down beneath the waist band of my pajama shorts and settle it over my thigh, fingertips resting in the crease of my leg, just inches away from my pussy.
A tease, nothing more. If I inched a bit closer, I could brush against the sensitive skin of my labia; slightly farther, and I’d reach my clit.
A shiver of anticipation rips through me. I swallow as my mouth waters. My throat grows thick.
With my other hand, I press down against my lower stomach, flexing the muscles within to recreate the sensations from last night.
There’s a hint of something, a twinge of an arousing response, but even with that demanding ache, as I flex and tighten, clenching the inner walls of my pussy, breaths quickening as I tighten around nothing, I can’t get to that precipice again without his help. Without my masked man.
“Dominus,” I whisper into my empty bedroom, sharing my secret with the books on the shelves, the plants hanging in the corner.
Squeezing my thighs together, I seek out that friction, then throw obedience to the wind and shove my hand lower to massage my aching center.
I circle my opening with gentle fingers, then dip a finger inside myself slowly as I imagine the thick fingers of my masked man in place of my own.
I wonder what it might feel like with his hands between my legs, imagining his firm touch and rubbing harder as I pretend it's him. His fingers wouldn’t be hesitant or gentle; they’d be rough and demanding.
So I switch things up and shove two fingers inside, pushing and pulling forcefully as I press down with my other hand the way Dominus did last night.
I gasp, moaning as I touch myself, imagining Dominus leaning over me, whispering filthy, dirty things into my ear. My back arches and I fuck myself harder, grinding my hips, pressing my palm against my clit as I curl my fingers internally.
My thighs clench, my pussy swelling, thickening with arousal and need as pressure builds in my core. It burns at the base of my spine, that tingling sensation remaining just out of reach.
I imagine what else Dominus might do to me, where his hands might wander if given the freedom to touch me however he pleases.
I roll onto my side, then onto my belly, rocking my hips so I can drag my clit against my palm while my other hand grips my throat, desperate for his touch instead of my own.
It’s still not enough.
My body aches, jerking with each roll of my hips, but I need more.
Harder faster firmer
I need Dominus.
I groan, rolling back onto my back and repositioning both hands between my legs. With one hand I tease at the lips of my pussy, soft, gentle brushes of my fingers as I pull myself open wider and sink my fingers back inside.
Giving up on mimicking Dominus, the image of him watching me forms in my mind. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, urging me to touch myself, to please myself for him.
I imagine his rough, robotic voice when he told me it would please him very much, and I settle two fingers over my clit, then begin to rub, teasing at first, as if he’s watching.
The euphoric sensation begins to bloom outward from the base of my spine, turning my blood to molten lava as I pump my fingers in and out quickly, matching the speed with the other hand and rubbing my clit until my body bucks upward.
“Oh fuck,” I moan, “please.”
“Come for me,” Dominus says in my mind, and I obey.
The sun is bright when I exit my car, leaving it with the valet and praying someone here will validate the ticket.
I’ve dressed in my best ‘I only golf once a year’ outfit which has apparently shrunk since last year, or the ten pounds I’ve put on in that time have something to do with the snug fit around my backside.
But after snoozing my alarm three times, then spending far too long imagining my masked man's hand between my legs, I left myself little time to get ready and arrive on time. Definitely not enough time to find a completely new outfit.
Anderson waits for me near one golf cart in a long line of many, dressed in an old timey golf outfit, complete with Scottish cap, puff ball on top included.
“Stop,” I say as I reach him, grinning at his getup. “This is even better than last year.”
Anderson laughs, then hands me a massive Styrofoam cup.
“Who all’s here this year?” I bring the straw to my lips. “What’s this?” I ask, then take a sip. After a long pull, I widen my eyes. “This entire thing is champagne?”
“It’s a mimosa, and you’re welcome.”
I lift one brow.
My cousin laughs. “What? There’s juice in there.”
I take another sip. “Are you sure?”
He shrugs. “The essence of citrus, anyway. I sort of just walked by the orange grove over there on my way over here.” He nudges the cup toward my lips. “Drink up. You’ll need it.”
I freeze. “What does that mean?”
His gaze flicks past me and he winces, then leans in to whisper, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Pulling back, he perks up, grinning widely at whomever approaches behind us.
“Morning,” a familiar male voice says from behind me.
Unwarranted—very, very unwarranted—a shiver runs down my spine. I wish I could blame it on the weather, but it’s only nine o’clock and the morning sun is already beating down on us. My eyes narrow on Anderson, but he’s no help. He just remains smiling as Max steps into my line of vision.
I reluctantly turn to greet him. “Oh, it’s you.”
Max’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “Oh, it’s me? Is that how they say ‘hello’ where you’re from?”
I bite back a retort and sip my mimosa, taking Anderson’s advice because he’s right; I am going to need this.
“You two already set up in a foursome?” Max asks, looking back and forth between my cousin and me.
“Yes!” I blurt, just as Anderson says, “No.”
Max’s lips twitch on a smile, but I’m saved from further awkwardness by Grayson Cross. He whistles and we all look over to him, standing three carts back, two gorgeous women by his side. He doesn’t acknowledge me, just motions for Max to join him and his friends.
I make a disappointed sound with my tongue. “Looks like you’re already spoken for.”
Max meets my gaze. “Trust me, Ms. Hart, you’ll be the first to know when I’m spoken for.”
I blink, trying to make sense of his words.
After a lingering stare, he finally tears his eyes away and starts hedging toward his foursome. “Hope you’re better at golf than you are at hellos,” he calls over his shoulder.
I growl beneath my breath, then take another long drink of my mimosa. “Ugh. What was that?”
“I think that was a marriage proposal,” Anderson says as he pulls the half-empty Styrofoam cup from my hands.
“Bite your tongue!”
My cousin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we know. You hate him.”
I nod curtly.
He looks around as the other players begin climbing into their carts.
“I wonder who we’ve been paired up with?
” His brow creases as he scans the people mingling about.
“If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll be the odd two who don’t have to share our holes with anyone.
” His eyes meet mine and we share a laugh over the double-entendre.
A couple of men approach us, one on the younger side, maybe mid-to-late twenties, and the other an older version of the young one, with matching brown hair that is graying above the ears, and striking blue eyes.
“Hart Strategic Management?” the older of the two asks.
“That’s me,” I say, jumping up off the front seat to extend my hand. “Us, I mean. I’m Sutton Hart, and this is Anderson Greene.”
He shakes my hand, then motions toward the younger of the two. “My son, Grantley Garrison, and I’m—”
“Bumper Garrison,” Max says, interrupting like the thorn in my side that he is. He strides toward us with that big dimple-blasting grin on his face and I run my tongue over my teeth. “Shit howdy, man, I had no idea you’d be here today.”
The two clasp hands, then pull each other in for a manly bear hug, and I reach for my drink, which Anderson hands over without argument.
I’m going to need way more than one giant mimosa to get through this day.