Chapter 5
Vivian
"There are many reasons why you should say yes to my proposal,” he rumbles.
"Oh?" I wriggle around, trying to make myself comfortable.
The gown I’m wearing is a Karma West Sovrano original. It looked elegant and sexy on the hanger in the charity shop—which is the only reason I could afford it. It was meant for walking down an aisle, not for sitting down and having a tête-a-tête with the father of the man I was supposed to marry.
We’re in the living room of his townhouse in Primrose Hill with sweeping views of the city. It’s amongst the poshest neighborhoods in London. I know he’s rich, but being here brings home how out of my reach this man is.
I handed over the keys of my rental car to him, and he arranged to have it returned. He’s so in control, it’s tempting to hand over all of my problems and have him find a solution. To lean on him and have him make my decisions.
I've had to depend on myself for so long. I've had to stay strong for my family. Then, along comes this man who seems to have the answers to my problems.
It’s so tempting to hand over the reins of my life and have someone else drive for a while. It so happens, the man who makes me want to lean on him is older than me. And he‘s my ex’s dad. This is so wrong. Worse? I haven’t stopped thinking about his proposal. And here I am, in his house.
He’s so charismatic, I have no doubt, given the chance, he’ll convince me to marry him, too.
He’ll be so persuasive, I won’t be able to say no.
And I can’t do that. How would Felix react to that?
He was once my best friend. I can’t walk all over his feelings.
Even if he did stand me up at the altar.
Strange as it sounds, I really don't think he intended to hurt me. Maybe he didn't think it through. But I'm thinking this through, and I don't want to intentionally hurt him.
My fingers tremble; I lock them together. “I... I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake."
I jump to my feet, take a step away, and trip on the train of the gown. I pitch forward and throw out my hands to stop my inevitable face-plant, only an arm around my waist halts my descent. The next moment, I’m set back on my feet.
He holds me in place, the warmth of his touch setting off frissons of excitement which travel to my core.
I squeeze my thighs together. The movement is so slight, and yet, he seems to notice it, for his gaze sharpens.
That woodsmoke and pine scent of his, laced with healthy male sweat, teases my nostrils.
My nipples bead. My scalp tingles. I want him so much.
Why does that make me feel like such a slut? And why do I not care that it does?
The heat from his broad chest slams into mine, and I sway toward him.
His grasp on me tightens. He stares at my mouth.
The pulse at his temple beats in tandem to the racing of my heart.
He lowers his face, and his breath heats my cheek.
My throat dries. Bam-bam-bam. My pulse rate goes through the roof.
Waiting. Waiting. This is it. He’s going to kiss me now.
His lips are so close. His nose bumps mine.
And his eyes… Those silver sparks are joined by golden flares, which I thought I must have imagined seeing earlier.
But no. There they are. Gold and silver in the midst of a storm of feelings. My eyelids flutter down.
The next second, cool air hits my front. The weight of his hand is gone from my waist. Without his support, I sway forward.
This time, he doesn’t catch me. I find my footing and look around to find him striding out of the room.
Huh? For a few seconds, I stand there, dazed. I already miss him. I want to follow him, to please him, to seek his approval, and to follow his orders. And goddam him, I don’t want to resist it, either. Is that wrong? And so what if it is?
I've lived my life carefully, and look where that got me? Dumped and disgraced. I’m done with the safe, scared me who planned for the future and wouldn’t do anything until she’d taken care of everyone else. I’m going to think of myself. Put my needs first.
And right now, I want someone else to make the decisions for me. Someone to take command and tell me what to do. I’m tired of being the responsible one. Tired of people always leaning on me.
What if I let myself lean on him? He’s seen more of life. He knows what he wants and doesn’t hesitate to go after it.
I want everything implicit in the promise of his smoldering glare. I’m turned on by the expert way with which he handles my body. I’m drawn to that confident manner of his which weakens my knees and appeals to that part of me which wants to submit... to him.
Without allowing myself to examine my thoughts further, I pick up my skirt and the short train, and trail after him.
I walk through the hallway, past a conservatory, and into the kitchen.
Late afternoon sunlight pours through the sliding doors which lead out onto a deck on one side.
He’s standing by the sink, filling a glass of water.
He turns, walks around the island in the center, and places it on the corner closest to me. "Drink," he orders.
I find myself reaching for the glass of water without conscious thought. What the—!? Apparently, there’s no not obeying the command in his voice. And I love it. And hate it. And I want more of it.
And if I don’t obey him? What would he do then? A thrill of anticipation unfurls in my core. And would I like what he'd do to me?
I already know the answer to that. It’s why I tighten my fingers around the glass, lift it, and fling the water in his direction.
I must catch him by surprise, for he doesn’t move. Water drips from his chin and wets the front of his jacket and shirt. Oops.
His lips thin. The tips of his ears grow white. The air between us zings with tension. He curls his fingers into fists at his side. I’m sure he’s going to yell at me or, maybe, shake me by my shoulders. This is it; I’ve pushed him too far. I brace myself for the inevitable explosion.
He chuckles. The sound is unused, gravelly, and so rough. So sexy. My nerve-endings spark. That itch between my thighs deepens. I swallow and watch as he wipes the mirth off his face. "Next time, I won’t be so forgiving."
"Because there won’t be a next time." Yes, there will be.
He knows it. I know it. But I have to defy him.
I have to push him to the edge. I have to cleave through that icy control of his so I can face the full brunt of his dominance.
Dominance. I blink. He’s a dominant? And there’s a name for what he turns me into with that hard, deep, bossy voice of his. Submissive.
I quiver. My core clenches. I’ve read about this lifestyle.
And also gotten off to it. Most women use vibrators to bring themselves to orgasm.
For me, it's been stories where he dominates her and commands her to get on her knees and suck him off before he bends her over and uses her as his own personal fuck toy.
I swallow. I’ve never dared say the four-letter word aloud, but I’ve read it plenty in novels. And yes, I've seen videos on Pornhub. But I never thought I wanted it for myself. Correction, I never met anyone who brought out that craving within me to be dominated. Is that why I’m so drawn to him?
Because this man... There’s a confidence at his core. An assurance which confirms to me that he’ll know what I want and give it to me. There’s a coldness to his demeanor which signals he’ll use my body to satisfy his urges... And that... Oh, my god. That turns me on so much.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"What?"
"Food. When was the last time you ate?"
"Food?" I shift my weight from foot to foot. Did I eat this morning? Nope. Last night? That would be another no. "Uh, I had breakfast," I offer.
"This morning or yesterday morning?"
I flush, then stiffen my spine. "None of your concern." I spoil the haughty tone I was striving for when I hiccup. Ugh! I should have accepted that glass of water, instead of throwing it at him, and no doubt, he’s going to point that out to me with a knowing smirk.
Only, he doesn’t. Without comment, he fills another glass with water and, heading back, places it in front of me.
"Thank you." I hand the empty glass in my hand to him and bring the one with water to my lips.
He heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a casserole in a microwave-proof dish.
I can’t keep my gaze off of his solid figure. Can’t stop tracking each movement of his, which is so precise, it gives away his military background.
He heats it up in the microwave, puts the food on plates, then walks back to the island and places it there, before grabbing some cutlery.
"I should clean the water on the floor," I murmur as I prepare to take my seat.
"I’ll do it." He nods to the plate. "Eat."
He mops up the water on the floor, washes his hands, then walks over to take the seat opposite me.
I watch him take a bite, watch his jaw move as he chews, the tendons of his throat flexing. That itch in my core spreads, until I have to squirm around in my seat to try and relieve it.
Once more, he senses that little movement and tilts his head. "Everything okay?"
"Why wouldn’t it be? I got ditched at the altar, then the father of my now-ex proposed to me, and I’m sitting opposite him in his house having dinner like nothing is wrong with my life."
"Everything is about to turn out fine in your life," he says in a confident tone.
I narrow my gaze. "If you’d had to fight to put a roof over your head, and food on the table, and take care of your family like I have, you wouldn’t take anything for granted.
It’s your privileged background that gives you the luxury of being so assured about your future. ” Or maybe, it’s also his experience?
He puts down his fork, and his features, once again, settle into neutral lines. "You know about my background?"