Chapter 11
Edie
“Edie, stop fidgeting with your dress. You look stunning,” Henrietta says as we ride the lift to Dorian’s apartment.
“I’m completely overdressed,” I mutter, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the brushed steel of the lift doors.
I don’t know why I allowed Henrietta to convince me to wear this dress.
It’s more appropriate for a gala than a dinner invite, and whilst I appreciate the deep, emerald green silk that drapes over my curves and drops to just above my knee, I’d be more comfortable wearing jeans and a shirt like Elizabeth.
She looks effortlessly beautiful, her long, strawberry blonde hair hanging down her back like molten gold.
She’s the type of person who could wear a burlap sack and still look stunning.
My stomach churns. This is the first time Dorian will meet her, and a part of me believes he will be as enamoured with her as my ex-husband was.
Not that Elizabeth ever entertained Robert’s playful flirting, but it’s a wound I’d rather not have ripped open again.
“At least you made an effort,” Henrietta says, eying Elizabeth and shaking her head.
“This is me making an effort,” she replies, scowling at Henrietta. “Besides, I’ve no need to impress anyone. It’s them who need to impress me because, mark my words, if they don’t, I’ll be the first person to cut this evening short.”
“You are such a party-pooper,” Henrietta groans.
“Need I remind you why I’m here?”
“Because you’re our resident cock-blocker?” Henrietta snaps back, a little unreasonably in my opinion. Elizabeth might be snippy, but she has a good heart, and she is only trying to look out for us both.
“I resent that statement—”
“You all look delightful. I’m sure Mr Crow will be very pleased indeed,” the concierge, who has been silent until now, interrupts.
Thank goodness, because I really don’t need to get stuck in the middle of my best friend and sister having a verbal sparring match right now.
I’m already on edge as it is. In fact, my heart has gone into overdrive, and I feel like I’m on the verge of a heart attack. Bloody palpitations.
Elizabeth rolls her eyes, but Henrietta preens beneath his compliment. Her hands smoothing over the black satin of her ankle-length dress, the deep cowl neck showing off the dip of her cleavage. She looks absolutely stunning.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she says, grinning.
When the lift comes to a standstill moments later, and the doors slide open, the argument brewing between Henrietta and Elizabeth is silenced by the sight of the grand, circular entrance hall greeting us.
“Holy shit,” Henrietta exclaims, and even Elizabeth is left speechless as we step out onto a marble floor polished to a high shine, its surface reflecting the soft light from the crystal chandelier hanging above us.
“I told you he lived in the penthouse suite,” Henrietta says, barely suppressing her delight at the opulent display of wealth.
Tasteful artwork covers the walls, and marble plinths between them display exquisite bronze sculptures. I had no idea Dorian was an art connoisseur, but he clearly has an eye for it.
“Is that a Monet?” Elizabeth gasps, stepping closer to a beautiful depiction of a rose covered pergola washed in light, its edges dissolving into soft colour.
“No, that is not a Monet, but I can see why you might think so. It was, in fact, painted by a woman named Basilia Hallward, an old… acquaintance of mine,” Dorian says, stepping out of a door to our left. “Good evening, ladies,” he adds, his gaze slipping to mine as he cocks his head in question.
My heart skips a beat. Dorian looks devastating in dark blue jeans, a black shirt, and loafers. Out of his usual suit, he’s somehow even more attractive, and I find myself staring at him like a fool. My heart decides at that point to give one long, slow thump.
“Edie?” he prompts, and I shake my head, blinking up at him.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my sister along. This is Elizabeth,” I explain, my eyes flitting to my sister as I absentmindedly press my palm against the centre of my chest.
“And you’re Dorian, I take it,” she replies, holding out her hand as he strides towards her. She’s either completely unaffected by his good looks or excellent at hiding her reaction to them. Then again, she was always great at poker.
“Indeed I am,” he confirms, taking her hand and shaking it briefly. “It’s a pleasure.”
“That’s yet to be established,” she says cooly.
Dorian smiles. “I see that feistiness runs in the family.”
“Oh, don’t mind Beth, her words might bite, but inside she’s a pussycat,” Henrietta says as she steps up to Dorian and gives him a brief hug. “Nice outfit, handsome.”
“Thank you, Hettie. You look beautiful.”
“I appreciate the compliment. Now, where’s my angel? Is he hiding from me?”
“I don’t hide from anyone, least of all you, Little Demon,” Logan says, stepping through the door Dorian came from and eyeing her intensely. Unlike Dorian, he’s still dressed in his usual uniform of a black suit and shirt. Henrietta’s cheeks instantly flush a deep pink, her lips parting on a smile.
“Oh, that man is not an angel,” Elizabeth mutters as she lifts her brows, her poker face slipping momentarily.
“Which is exactly what I’ve been telling Henrietta,” he retorts, barely glancing at my sister.
His focus is glued to Henrietta, who practically melts into the floor from his attention.
I’m honestly not sure if he wants to drag her off into another room and have his wicked way with her, or march her back down to reception and call her a cab home.
Dorian clears his throat. “Logan, could you take Hettie and Elizabeth to the dining room and make sure the chef is aware we have another guest? We’ll follow shortly.”
“I think I’ll wait with Edie,” Elizabeth says, folding her arms across her chest and eying him suspiciously.
“Elizabeth, it’s okay. I wanted to talk to Dorian alone anyway.” I give her a pointed look.
“I can assure you, Elizabeth. Edie is perfectly safe with me,” Dorian says, stepping closer, his fingers grazing my hand.
“That’s debatable,” she replies, refusing to move.
“Come on, Beth. Edie is old enough to look after herself,” Henrietta says, sliding her arm through Elizabeth’s and pulling her from the room.
“She’s protective of you,” Dorian says as the door clicks shut behind them.
“She is, and I won’t fault her for it. I’m protective of her, too. She’s been through a lot, and her ability to trust anyone, especially men, is difficult.”
“I understand.”
He doesn’t, but I don’t speak about it further. It isn’t my story to tell.
“Did I tell you how incredible you look tonight?” he says, his fingertips trailing up my bare arm as he slides a finger beneath the thin strap of my dress.
Just one touch from him and I’m melting like chocolate. Goosebumps race across my skin, and something flares in his eyes. Lust, definitely, but something else I can’t quite put my finger on. Regardless, I give myself a mental shake, refusing to fall under his spell completely.
“Thank you, though I do feel a little overdressed, and it was definitely a mistake wearing these shoes again. My feet already hurt.”
He smiles languidly, his gaze tracking slowly down my body and resting on my feet. “I’m fond of those heels. They remind me of the night we met. Perhaps, later, you’ll allow me to massage your feet once again?”
“I think we need to clear some things up first.”
“Uh huh,” he mutters, entirely distracted as he edges closer to me. Tentatively, he cups my cheek, his thumb hovering over my lips. His hands are cool, but the heat in his eyes is blazing.
“Blood red. My favourite colour,” he mutters.
“I’m not sure that’s true, going by your reaction the last time we were together,” I remark, arching a brow.
The whole journey over here I debated bringing it up, but I’m done with letting things slide, and despite the bunch of flowers he sent me, and the gifts, I’m not about to let him off that easily.
“I can assure you, it is,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that seems to slide over my skin and settle between my legs. I press my thighs together, willing myself not to react. “About what happened…”
Again, he hesitates, his nostrils flaring as his pupils widen, eating up the dark brown of his irises.
“Yes?” I prompt, caught between the intensity of his stare and the way his fingers slide into my hair, tugging gently.
“Your blood didn’t turn me off.”
“You weren’t disgusted?” Admittedly, that surprises me considering what happened.
“No, I wasn’t. In fact, the opposite was true. I was so turned on I wanted…”
He was turned on?
He pauses, my scalp prickling as he bends his head and whispers against my ear. “To eat you out. To taste your blood on my tongue.” I gasp, and his voice takes on a dark edge. “Does that disgust you, Edie?”
I think about it momentarily. “No,” I admit, reaching up and pressing my palms against his chest, if only to keep a little space between us. “It doesn’t.”
“Good.” He lets out a soft exhale, slipping his hand from my hair before pressing a soft kiss against the corner of my mouth.
“Then why did you behave the way you did?” I ask, taking a step back and searching his gaze.
“You have to understand that I am a man with very dark desires. I couldn’t trust myself not to scare you away for good. Not after everything you’d admitted to me that night.”
“You were afraid you’d scare me away because, unlike most men, you’re not repulsed by menstrual blood?”
“Yes.”
The tightness in my chest eases with his honesty, and so I decide to share a little honesty too. “You hurt my feelings, Dorian. I felt rejected by you.”
“I apologise. I didn’t handle myself very well. It won’t happen again.”
He seems sincere enough, so I nod, accepting his apology. “Good.”
“Did you like your presents?”
“The fan, face masks, vitamins and eye mask were thoughtful.”
He nods, suppressing a smile. “And the—”
“Still in its box,” I lie, cutting him off. I’m not about to tell him I’ve used it several times, and come so hard I thought I’d seen God. He was right about it helping to relieve my headaches. The orgasms help me to sleep too. He gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t believe a word.
“Can we start over?” he asks, searching my face, sensibly not speaking his thoughts out loud.
“We can try. But I warn you, you’re on a trial period. No more fucking up.”
He presses his hand against his chest, bowing his head solemnly. “You have my word.”
“And for the record, just because I’ve only ever experienced lacklustre, vanilla sex, that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to explore something different. There’s a large part of me…” My voice trails off as I try to articulate what I’m feeling.
“Don’t be afraid to talk to me. I won’t judge you,” he says, giving me another soft kiss against my temple this time.
“There’s a large part of me that has always yearned for something more,” I continue, shuddering beneath the chaste kisses he presses against my face. His careful control is intoxicating, only heightened by the fact I suspect he would ravage me if I allowed him to. Which I won’t. At least not today.
“Go on,” he urges.
“I want to feel worshipped, yes, but more than that, I want to feel the intensity of unadulterated lust,” I admit.
“As you should,” he agrees.
I swallow hard and force myself to continue. “I want to fuck with abandon, without restraint. I want to give my body over to pleasure. I want to come.”
Dorian smiles and my cheeks heat, but I refuse to let the old me rise to the surface and curtail my thoughts.
More than that, I refuse to let society’s expectations of women my age prevent me from being honest. I know times are changing, and that the younger generation is more inclined to experiment sexually, to express their needs openly and for them to be accepted and embraced.
However, I’m still very aware of what is expected of a middle-aged woman in the midst of perimenopause, and that isn’t to be visible or to claim sexual agency. Regardless, I speak my mind.
“I want to be wanted. I want to dominate sexually. I want to be submissive too,” I add, realising that in this moment.
“You can have it all with me. You can have whatever you desire. But—”
“But?” My heart sinks.
“This can only happen on one proviso.”
“And that is?” I question, as he steps back and takes my hands in his.
“That you commit to me. I am not a man who shares. I am territorial, entirely possessive, and fiercely protective of what is mine. If you truly want to take this journey with me, I need you to be mine and only mine.”
“I just want to make something perfectly clear. I don’t want a boyfriend, Dorian.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, a grin pulling up his lips.
“I am. I don’t want to ever feel the way I did with my ex.” His smile drops and he frowns. “But I am willing to explore my sexual desires with you. Only that. Nothing more.”
“I don’t share,” he reminds me. “I won’t.”
“Neither do I. For however long this lasts, there will be no one else for either of us,” I warn.
He nods. “That works for me.”
“Dorian, dinner is served,” Logan says, interrupting us as he steps into the entrance hall.
“We’ll be there shortly,” Dorian replies, and when Logan doesn’t leave immediately, Dorian rounds on him. “I said we’ll be there shortly.”
“Respectfully, tensions are running high. You’re both needed.”
“Oh no, what’s happening?” I ask, my thoughts running wild as different scenarios circle in my head.
“Henrietta is being as infuriating as usual,” Logan replies with a sharp look, “And your sister has already threatened to chop off Viktor’s cock if he doesn’t move out of her way.”
“Who’s Viktor, and why is he blocking her way?”
Dorian chuckles, his fingers threading with mine. “Viktor is my third, and I suspect he was just trying to give us some privacy.”
“Your third?”
“Lieutenant. Logan is my second. Viktor is my third.”
“I had no idea your… organisation,” I say, choosing my words carefully because I’m still not entirely sure what kind of criminal enterprise Dorian is the head of, “Has such a rigid chain of command.”
“Comes with the territory,” Dorian replies.
A scream of frustration rips through the air as Logan pushes open the door, and I catch a glimpse of Elizabeth brandishing a knife, an enormous man towering over her.
What the hell?
“Looks like your sister is, indeed, attempting to castrate Viktor. We should probably intervene,” Dorian says with a chuckle, his fingers tightening around mine as we enter the room.