Chapter Eleven
Brielle
"Tell me something about you that no one knows," I say, staring up at the ceiling on Saturday night. Sweat is still cooling on my skin, and my toes still tingle from the way he fucked me. But I'm…restless, not content to simply sleep beside him tonight.
I feel his eyes on me in the dark, an impossible weight that tightens my chest. It's wild how he has that effect on me, like I'm afraid he'll see too much, even in the dark.
But if he does, he doesn't comment on it. He doesn't shoot me down either. "What do you want to know?" he asks instead.
"Anything. Something real."
"You first."
"Fine." I roll toward him, curling up on my side. He's just a thick shadow in the dark, but I sense his eyes on me, the curiosity burning behind them, as if he's dying to know what I'll reveal. I hesitate for a moment, trying to think of something real.
It's almost sad how long it takes me to come up with anything, like I've buried all the human parts so deeply I barely remember them anymore.
"I've always hated it when people compare me to my mom," I finally say.
"Why?"
I shrug, even though he can't see it. "I guess because they look at me like they're expecting me to be her when they say it.
They expect me to step into her shoes and become the perfect little sweetheart movie star they lost. They never actually see me, just the woman they lost and their own hope that I'll fill the gap. "
"I see you," Asher says.
I swallow hard, pretty sure he's always seen me. Isn't that part of what I hate? That he sees me in ways no one else ever has? He knows what makes me tick, what makes me hurt, and what makes me hope. He knows me, sometimes better than I know myself.
I feel real with him, in a way I don't with anyone else. Even when it hurts, even when we're fighting, even when it's hell, I'm free with him. After spending a lifetime hiding behind fake smiles and armor forged in grief, being real is the hardest thing I've ever been.
"My parents would have hated knowing my uncle got custody of me after they were murdered," Asher says into the silence. "Between the drugs and the women, he was never someone they wanted around me."
"Were they right to worry?" I ask quietly, genuinely curious if he'll tell me.
"Maybe," he says. "He hired a prostitute for me when I was thirteen. He thought it was time I learned about sex, and wanted it to be a professional who taught me so I didn't get some girl pregnant and start a scandal."
"Jesus," I whisper, my heart clenching. He was just a kid.
My heart breaks for him a little, for the little boy who never stood a chance after his parents died.
Did he even get to grieve before he was thrown into his uncle's world—into this world?
Somehow, I doubt it. Liam and I didn't. In this world, there's no room for grief, not when the weight of everyone else's expectations settles on your shoulders.
I want to tell him that I understand, and that I'm sorry…
that my heart breaks for the little boy who lost more than he could afford to lose before he was even old enough to understand what that meant.
For the one who found his parents' bodies and never got to grieve before he had to learn to be an adult.
But I don't say it. I know better. He just gave me something real.
If I push now, it'll push him away. He'll snatch it back, pretend it doesn't matter.
"So…that's where you learned to buy women," I mutter instead.
His rough bark of laughter tells me it's the right thing to say. "Yeah, I guess so." He turns toward me, one rough palm sliding across my abdomen. "You're the most expensive I've ever bought."
"Gee, thanks," I snap, rolling my eyes even though he can't see me.
His chuckle grates against my womb. So does the way he hauls me across the bed until I'm pressed up against him. "You're worth every goddamn penny," he breathes in my ear.
In a fucked up way, it's the sweetest thing he's ever said to me. At least until he tops it when I'm nearly asleep.
"You aren't your mom, princess," he murmurs. "You're too goddamn perfect to be anyone but yourself. Anyone who would rather see her than see who you really are doesn't deserve you."
I bite my tongue hard, fighting back a sob. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Sunday, Asher blackmails me into another gala. And by "blackmails," I mean, he simply tells me that I'm going and that I'll regret it if I say no.
I pretend to resist, but I don't put up a real fight. Maybe because I want to be seen with him again when no one is ever seen with him twice, or maybe because I want a repeat of last time, when he tried to ruin me.
He has a dress waiting for me when I drag myself out of the shower.
It's a black column gown, so dramatic that it was basically designed to cause a scandal.
There's a slit straight up to my hip and a neckline that's less "plunging" and more "fuck it, let's start at the navel.
" There's even a matching thong, a pair of matching heels, and a necklace that looks like it cost more than most people make in a lifetime.
"Wear this underneath," he says, holding out a plug, this one bigger than the last, before I can shimmy into the dress.
I stare at it for a long moment. "I thought we were done with these. It's not like you haven't already been in that hole."
"Maybe you need reminding that it belongs to me, too," he smirks, crooking a finger for me to come to him. I think that's because he intends to put it in like usual, except he doesn't. He just drapes me over the bed beside him and slips it into my hand.
I consider launching it at his head, but quickly decide that it probably won't get me anywhere. He'll just laugh. Or spank me.
He watches in rapt fascination as I follow the same process he always does, using my own arousal as lube. Maybe I take my sweet time playing with myself, just to torture him.
The plug is bigger than the last, but not quite as big as him. I like the way it burns as I slowly work it inside. I definitely like the way he watches, his eyes dark and stormy, his hands clenched like he's trying to force himself to keep them off me.
By the time the plug is in place, I'm a panting mess on the bed. He strokes a single finger down the crevice of my ass before touching the plug. "You look so fucking pretty stretched around one of these."
I whimper and then groan, trying to put myself back together enough to get through another gala with a butt plug in. My knees are trembling when I finally stand upright, stepping into the thong he holds out for me.
He watches me dress, one ankle slung over his knee, like this is a private performance.
"Are you going to help, or just stare?" I ask, struggling with the zipper that keeps catching.
"Turn around," he says.
I do, and he steps into my space and zips me up. When he's done, he clasps the necklace around my neck. His hands slip to my waist, his fingers splayed around my ribs. He leans in, his mouth at my throat. "You look like you want to be ruined."
"I thought that was your plan," I fire back.
His palm slides over the cut-out panel at my hip, tracing the bare skin just above the slit. "You have no idea."
He leaves my hair down, wild and messy, and then musses it more just for the hell of it. "I want you to look like you just crawled out of my bed," he says. "Because you did."
Why am I not surprised that he wants me looking freshly fucked? I think he'd brand his name on my forehead if I let him.
The event is a black-tie benefit at an uptown museum. The crowd is a cesspool of film execs, highly paid managers, movie stars, and models with skin so perfect I hate them all on sight. Everyone's here to see and be seen, to stab a back or two, or to get drunk on expensive champagne and gossip.
Asher gives them plenty of the latter. He drapes me on his arm and steers me through the marble lobby like he owns the building. He doesn't let go of me, not even to shake hands. He just nods at people, his grip like iron around my waist. Every time I try to move away, he pulls me closer.
After half an hour of circulating, he spins me onto the dance floor.
He keeps one hand anchored to the small of my back, the other locked around my wrist so I can't escape.
"Why are you being so attentive?" I whisper, but that's not entirely what I mean.
This isn't about being my attentive date.
It's about branding me in front of the people who probably pray for his downfall, making sure everyone knows I'm off-limits.
But he's also here with me, making me feel like maybe I don't mind being branded.
He leans close, his mouth to my ear. "You looked like you needed reminding."
"Of what?"
He dips me low enough to make my heart stutter, then pulls me flush against his chest. "That you belong to me. Now, the whole world knows it, princess."
I don't even bother trying to argue. Instead, I rest my cheek against his shoulder and let him guide me across the floor, past clusters of men who stare openly, past women who look at me like they're equally jealous as hell and scandalized. I ignore them all.
After the third dance, I try to wriggle away. "I need air," I say.
Asher nods, but instead of letting me go, he leads me past the bar, past the coat check, and out to the balcony. The city sprawls below us, all lights and smog, the Hudson a strip of glittering black in the distance.
He doesn't say anything for a minute, just stands beside me, one hand at the small of my back.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, searching for a crack in the stone.
I want to ask what he sees at night that makes him wake up gasping in my bed, his eyes wild as he reaches for me.
But I don't. If I do, he won't tell me. He'll just do what he always does and fuck me until I forget why I even wanted to know.