Chapter 32 #3
“To our daughter and our new son-in-law,” he begins, looking directly at Troy. “Marriage is about trust. And I trust that Troy will take excellent care of my daughter. After all, he knows how important family is to me. Here’s to a long and mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Troy’s hand clenches tightly around mine, but I say nothing and let him, even if it hurts.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I smile when I’m supposed to, tilt my head at the right moments, and then it’s finally over, and I can breathe.
After dessert is cleared, my mother makes her excuses to retire early. Several guests disappear into the hotel bar with my father. Mundel vanishes like smoke.
All that’s left is Troy and me in the candlelight.
“You should go to bed, Sage,” he says quietly, staring at his wine glass. He’s already let go of my hand, like he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We’ll be traveling back to Grayfleet early.”
“Are you going to bed too?”
Why am I asking that?
“Soon.” Troy stands, offering his hand to help me up. He walks me to the elevators and presses the button. When the doors open, I step inside.
“Goodnight, Sage.”
The doors start to close, but I see him turn away, heading not toward the bar but in the other direction, towards the lounge area. The man my father was sucking up to, who Troy gave the nod to earlier, Mr. Black, is waiting for him. They step through into an archway together.
An inner voice begs me to go upstairs, lock myself in my room, and pretend I didn’t see him.
But I can’t.
“Follow him,” Nell whispers.
I jab the door-open button and slip out before they close. Peering around the archway, Troy and Mr. Black are talking quietly. Parts of their conversation reach me through the hush of the hotel and the soft jazz coming from the bar.
“…where...take him?”
“…my old shop...”
I inch closer, and I’m able to read their lips a little better.
“…much pain do you want him in?” Mr. Black asks, eyes insidious in the low light.
“Leave him breathing.”
Mr. Black cocks his head. “I’ll let you know when I have him.” Troy hands him something and then walks off toward the bar.
I hesitate to follow Troy. He’s just sent this man off to do something awful.
I should see what. But I barely have two seconds to pull back as Mr. Black strides past me to the elevator.
From my hidden spot, behind a potted plant, the doors close, and the lights above it show that it’s gone all the way down to the lobby.
My body moves without thinking, toward the bar. My father’s voice booms from within just as I get to the entrance, and then a strong arm bands around my top half, stopping me from going in.
“Oh—”
“Shhhh, it’s me,” Troy drawls in my ear.
My heart thuds a little less as I let him drag me back into a dark space I would never have known existed, hidden in the wall.
It’s tight and low-lit, but it spans one entire side of the bar.
Eye holes are dotted about, letting in a little more light and also sound.
In the bar, my father can be heard, holding court with the other guests, laughing and boasting about something he shouldn’t be.
“W-where are we?”
“Quiet, little finch,” Troy hushes. “No one can know this exists.”
What exists? A secret room allows him to spy on people? “What is this place?” I ask again, my voice so low I’m not sure he hears me until…
“It’s called a priest hole.”
I don’t know how long we stay cramped in the priest hole while others talk shop and drink the bar dry, but it’s not much time before Troy’s hand is tracing small circles over my hip.
The pressure of him behind me makes my whole body tingle.
I’m reminded of earlier, when he made me come, so much so that my skin flushes and my breathing hitches.
And as he lifts the hem of my dress to tease the slickness here, he groans.
“Fuck, you’re still so wet.”
I make a little silent moan myself.
Troy notices, because he chuckles and dips his head to trace his lips over my neck, his breath so warm, my blood too hot. “Do you know what I wanted to do all through dinner?”
I shake my head, so caught in his web of desire I couldn’t escape if I wanted to. He bites my bare shoulder and then turns me to face him, his eyes dark like a deep forest, beckoning me to get lost in them. He tilts my chin up to him. “I wanted to make you wrap your pretty lips around my cock.”
“Nothing is stopping you now.”
He smirks. “Then get on your knees.”
My mouth is no longer dry. Without thinking about it, I get down, my face in line with his crotch. I’m shaking so much as I undo his trousers. I absolutely have no idea what I’m doing, but it can’t be that difficult, right?
Troy’s cock is long, thick, and hard, but oh so velvet soft when I take it in my hands. I’ve never seen one so close up before, and all I want to do is stare at it, commit to memory how pretty it is. But when I first put my tongue out to taste him, he closes his eyes, sighing.
“Fuck, you feel amazing.”
And that’s all I need to do more.
I lick him again, and again, enjoying watching him shudder above me, loving how much one little touch from me seems to destroy him.
He tastes slightly salty but not unpleasant.
My own body is already responding, remembering.
The ache between my legs becomes stronger, the need for him building as I attempt to take him fully in my mouth.
He groans again, and my whole body shivers at the sound. His masculine scent is overwhelming in the tiny space, making me bold enough to sink him in as deeply as I can.
Troy’s hands tangle in my hair. “Sage, I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”
I look up at him.
Jaw clenched, Troy stares down at me.
I swallow him deep, until my lungs burn.
He shakes his head. “You’re killing me, beautiful.” Then, without warning, he fists my hair and thrusts into me so deep I actually choke, tears burning in my eyes.
“Relax, little finch,” he whispers, looking down at me as he pumps my mouth. At first, I struggle to take him, struggle to breathe. But then I let myself loosen up and manage to find a rhythm that doesn’t have me panicking.
“That’s it. My good girl. Take all of my cock in that sweet mouth of yours.”
Troy fucks my face while my father talks loudly, drunk in the next room. Shame and desire entwine into one big, heady rush as I lose myself in the feel of him thrusting between my lips, his hands wrapped in my hair, and a tightening low in my core as he comes in my mouth.
As he tenses and then jerks, filling the back of my throat with his hot release, I swallow it all. And then Troy is dragging me up to kiss him, pushing me against the wall with eye holes in it, shoving my dress up to my waist.
“My turn,” he hisses.
And then he’s on his knees, bringing me to mine with his wicked tongue and carnal teeth.
Troy walks me to the elevator a second time. He seems preoccupied with his phone, and I glance at it to see him typing to someone that he’s on his way. As soon as the doors close, I don’t get off at my floor, instead hitting the lobby button.
There’s a coat closet near the main doors that the staff are coming and going from.
When no one’s looking, I slip inside and grab the nearest dark coat and belt it over my dress.
There’s a cap on the hook with it. I shove my hair up under it without thinking, like my hands know what to do even though my mind doesn’t want to think anymore.
And follow him out into the London night. But Troy isn’t outside, and it’s raining heavily, wiping away any evidence he was even here.
The doorman eyes me suspiciously, loitering, so I move away from the hotel. As I walk, heart pounding like I’m doing something illegal, I text Quinn and she replies instantly.
Can you track him now?
On it.
Her reply comes once I’ve hailed a taxi.
nearly.heads.taker
I’m not sure what she means at first, then I realize it’s what3words. I bring it up on the map and show the hackney cab driver the location.
“Ah, I know it, love. Do you want the shortcut, or the scenic route?”
“The quickest way there?”
He grins and turns the cab around, the force of it making me grip the door card handle.
When the rain stops, London emerges from the downpour resembling something out of a Monet painting—all fleeting lights and soft colors reflecting mirror-like on the Thames.
We drive over a bridge, and then past St Paul’s gleaming and the illuminated towers of the financial district.
Eventually, we pull into Fleet Street, where the buildings are like sleeping giants, closed for the weekend.
The cab drops me off at a dark corner next to a church and a newspaper building. Between the two is an alleyway, grimy in the foul weather.
Through the rain, there’s a tall figure moving with purpose ahead.
Troy?
I pay the fare and follow, keeping to the shadows. My heart thuds so hard along with every click of my heels; he can probably hear me coming.
As he turns down another alley, behind the church, I press myself against the wet brick wall, counting to ten before trying to see around the corner. He’s stopped in front of a building, his profile luminous under the amber streetlights.
It’s Troy.
When he disappears inside, I creep closer. It’s a dilapidated building that looks like it should have been condemned years ago. The faded lettering above the door is barely visible, but I can make out the words:
FLEET STREET BARBERS.
A barber shop.
Why would Troy come here?
There’s a broken window on the side, boarded up but with gaps between the planks to see through.
The shop looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades, with an old barber’s chair dead center, made up of cracked leather and rusted chrome.
A row of dusty mirrors lines the wall. The interior is so dark; the only light comes from the moon.
Troy is nowhere to be seen.