Chapter Three #2
The ceiling is crystal, the floor a ridiculous polished gold. Everyone is here…politicians, actors, the sort of Manhattanites who fundraise for orphans and then call their dealers from the coatroom. I recognize half of them. They recognize me, too, but not in the way they used to.
Once, I was Liam Dabry's baby sister, the tragic ingénue with the dead parents and the movie-star smile.
I was the girl who was supposed to be somebody.
Tonight, I'm arm candy for the man everyone fears, but no one can afford to hate, the one with the power to pull strings they've only dreamed of.
I'm not someone to admire. Tonight, I'm someone they both pity and envy.
Asher deposits me at a table near the stage, then abandons me to be king of the wolves.
I watch him work the room, trying desperately not to pretend that I'm growing more desperate to come by the minute.
He's devastating in a tux, his hair swept back and his stubble artfully carved to look as though he spent five minutes, not five hours, on his appearance.
Except, unlike most of the men here, he probably did spend five minutes or less on his appearance.
He doesn't have to do much to be the most beautiful person in the room.
People flock to him, desperate for a scrap of attention. He gives them nothing, glancing back at me every so often with that look—half ownership, half threat.
I discreetly flip him off.
It only makes him smile.
I'm halfway through my second glass of champagne when he returns to the table, looming over me like a thundercloud, just like always.
"Come dance with me." It's not a question. It's not even a request.
"I'd rather not," I say anyway.
"I don't care." He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, his grip unyielding and absolute.
I reluctantly let him steer me into the press of bodies on the dance floor.
His hand rests low on my spine, dangerously close to the curve of my ass.
So close, people are staring. I feel the weight of their eyes, the whispers building with every step we take.
I keep my gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder, pretending I don't care about anything.
"Stop pawing at my ass. You're making a scene," I hiss.
He leans in, his lips brushing my hairline. "Good. I intend to."
I try to keep my body stiff, but Asher moves so close I can't avoid the heat of his body. His thigh wedges between mine, his palm creeping onto my ass as we sway in time to the music.
My nipples harden against the thin fabric. His thumb slides along the crevice of my ass to the base of the plug, and I pray no one notices…that no one hears the way I whimper.
"I can still feel you on my hand," he murmurs, so low only I can hear. "You love having that plug in your ass right now, don't you?"
I pull back to glare at him, but it just makes him smile. "You're disgusting," I snap.
He shrugs like the insult doesn't bother him at all. "I'll take that as a yes."
We make it through two dances, and then he drags me back to the table. My seat is between him and a retired senator who keeps trying to peek down my dress, only to grin at me when I catch him. When he notices Asher's dark glower on him, he gulps audibly, quickly finding somewhere else to look.
Asher doesn't eat. He watches me toy with my salad, his fingers drumming on the white linen in time with my heartbeat.
Halfway through the first speech, I feel his hand on my thigh.
I slap it away without looking at him.
A minute later, it's back, higher this time.
What game is he playing here?
I cross my legs, trapping his fingers, but he just squeezes. I try to keep my breathing even and focus on the speaker's words. But it's impossible to concentrate when he's playing this game, the pads of his fingers stroking the inside of my knee.
The senator clears his throat. "Beautiful event, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is." I smile sweetly. "I always love a good cause."
Asher's hand inches higher, skimming the hem of my dress.
I elbow him hard, but he doesn't even flinch. He doesn't remove his hand, either. He just keeps it resting on my thigh, just beneath the hem of my dress.
A second speech and another glass of champagne pass in a blur, his hand unmoving.
I'm just beginning to think I'm safe, and that he won't take it any further, when I feel his fingers slide under the fabric of my dress, no longer satisfied with my thigh. He finds the damp heat between my legs and presses, just once.
My fork clatters onto my plate.
A few heads turn. I smile, mortified, and pick it up with a shaking hand. I'm going to stab him with it, right in the throat where his heart beats so he bleeds out right here at the damn table. Except…I don't.
And he keeps his hand there, rubbing circles against my clit until the room blurs. He's silent, drinking his whiskey, acting as if nothing is happening.
I'm spiraling, inching closer to an orgasm by the second.
I push his hand away, desperate to halt that feeling in its tracks. He lets it fall, but a minute later, it's back, more insistent than before. He slides a finger into me, slow and steady.
My jaw clenches. I can't move, can't breathe. It feels good, better than it should, given the fact that I'm seated next to a retired senator with two hundred other people in the room.
"You're soaked," Asher says under his breath, his lips not even moving.
My cheeks burn with humiliation.
"Stop," I whisper, but there's no force behind it. I want him to stop, I do. But I want him to keep going even more. My whole body aches for him to push me over the edge right here and now. After wearing his plug for the last few hours, I need it.
He pumps his finger in and out, rhythmic and deep, and I have to dig my nails into my thigh to keep from crying out. My entire body is strung taut, ready to snap.
When the senator asks me a question about Liam, I barely hear him. Asher answers for me, his voice calm, while he continues fucking me with his fingers beneath the table.
I come close—so, so close—to losing it when he withdraws his hand and licks his finger clean.
When he slips it between my legs again, I bolt from my chair, muttering something about the restroom as everyone turns to look at me. I walk as fast as I can in heels, ignoring the way my knees tremble.
The powder room is empty, mercifully.
I lean over the sink, gripping the porcelain, trying to steady my breath. I feel like I'm going to fly apart or shatter into tiny pieces. I'm not even sure it'd be a release. Maybe an eruption.
The door slams open to Asher filling it, all dark and predatory, his hazel eyes glittering with something I don't want to name. He doesn't say a word as he stalks toward me. He just grabs my hips and bends me over the counter, the cold marble biting into my skin.
"Asher." I'm not sure what I'm going to say. He doesn't give me a chance to find out before he's flipping my dress up and shoving his hand between my legs.
This time, he's rough and wild. Two fingers slam inside me, hard and fast, his thumb on my clit. He presses against the plug with the other, grinding it into me.
I bite my arm to keep from screaming in pleasure.
My body isn't my own. It's a fevered, traitorous machine, clutching at his fingers, grinding back on his hand even as my mind scrabbles for a shred of dignity.
But I have none. With him, I don't think I ever did.
I shatter into pieces.
His palm clamps down over my mouth before I can even whimper.
"Look at you," he rasps, his fingers so deep I swear I can feel him in my throat. "This bratty little pussy comes the second I get you alone."
I squeeze around him, hating how the next wave rips through me, so brutal my knees threaten to buckle.
He laughs, a low, dangerous sound, and then curls his fingers, finding that spot that has me biting his hand to keep from screaming. "Say it," he growls, his breath hot on my neck. "Tell me that this pussy and asshole are mine, princess."
"Fuck you," I hiss against his palm, but I'm already gone again, heat detonating through my body so hard my legs buckle.
He keeps going, not stopping until I'm shaking and boneless.
When he's satisfied that I'm properly ruined, he withdraws his fingers, then presses a slow, almost gentle kiss to my temple. I think he might show a little mercy and remove the plug. Instead, he licks his hand clean and then walks out, leaving the door swinging in his wake.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my cheeks flushed, my hair wild, with mascara smudged in black shadows under my eyes. I don't recognize the woman looking back at me.
"What the fuck?" I whisper, but the girl in the glass doesn't have an answer.
By the time I stumble back into the ballroom, I'm numb from the inside out.
I don't speak to anyone. I barely hear the speeches, the auction, or the music.
I sit there, legs crossed, napkin bunched in my lap, while Asher talks business with a hedge fund manager to his left and ignores me like it's his job.
He doesn't touch me again, not even a finger on my knee. I'm not sure if it's a punishment or a reward, but I'm crawling out of my skin within minutes.
When the gala is finally over, he stands and waits for me to rise, the way a warden would escort a prisoner.
He doesn't say a word as we leave the ballroom and cross the marble lobby.
The same photographers from earlier are there, snapping us in quick, disorienting bursts as we stride through the revolving doors.
Asher's hand hovers at my back, never quite making contact, but somehow still making it clear that I belong to him. He doesn't answer a single question they shout at us. I don't either.
What am I supposed to say? No, we aren't dating, but he is paying me five million to fuck him? God. They'd probably love that.
The limo is silent, the city a blur. I expect him to order me to his penthouse or to say something cruel, but he just stares out the window, ignoring me. My heart pounds harder with every block we pass, like it's working too hard to keep me alive in his presence.
When the car stops outside my building, he finally looks at me. His eyes are bottomless, glinting with all the things he refuses to say, all the things that keep me tied to him tighter than his fucking leash around my throat.
That's always the problem, isn't it? He looks at me like that, and no matter how much I want to hate him, no matter how much I should hate him…I can't.
"You're sleeping with the plug in tonight," he says, blinking his infuriating mask back into place. "You can take it out in the morning. Be at my office at seven a.m. on Monday." His tone is bored, as if he's assigning a time slot to new talent. "And bring the plug with you."
"That's it?" I ask, my voice raw. I hate myself for how disappointed I sound. I hate myself even more for wanting a damn thing from him.
"That's it," he says, not even bothering to look at me as I open the door and step onto the curb.
I stand there, shivering, waiting for him to call me back. To finish what he started.
"Sweet dreams, princess," he says instead, right before the limo drives off. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like he won. I just feel like I lost.
I'm not sure I even want to know why that bothers me. But I'm more certain than ever that Asher Blackstock is going to ruin my life.
And I don't hate myself nearly enough for agreeing to let him.