Fractured (Not Quite a Billionaire #2) Page 3

  “In a divorce,” I said, and her head snapped back at the word. “That’s what you’re talking about, because that’s the only time it matters. Divorce, and inheritance. I’ll be changing my will and showing it to you, and I’ll have my attorney draw one up for you, too, so you can make sure Karen’s safe. I’m thirty-seven years old, but I plan to live at least fifty more years, and to be celebrating our golden anniversary with you. If I don’t make it that far, though, it’ll be yours. And before you ask? I’ll take care of Karen as well. Always. You have my word.”

  “Oh. Wow.” She sat again, at the edge of the couch this time, and tucked her hands under her knees. “Death. That one’s…hard to think about.”

  That was what she’d focused on. But then, she would. I had all sorts of family. Too much family, in fact. She only had Karen. And me.

  Me, definitely, because what she said next was, “What you said about negotiation—all I want is to be with you forever, and to have you want to be with me that long, too. I need that so much it scares me. And you’re thirty-seven?”

  “I am. Which is twelve years older than you. Still want to say yes?”

  She laughed, though it sounded shaky. “I just…” She ran her hands through her fine hair, disheveling it some more. She was wearing black leggings, a dark-gray skirt, and a cropped pale-blue cardigan with a daisy picked out in darker blue beads in one corner. She looked young, and sweet, and vulnerable, and I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life. “I said I’d marry somebody,” she said, “and I didn’t even know how old he was. You don’t know anything about me, either, so I’ll tell you a few things. I don’t know how to swim. I don’t know how to drive well enough to actually do it. I could learn, of course, but there you go—I don’t know how. I have a few thousand dollars in the bank and almost no credit, because I’ve never owned anything bigger than a couch, and my couch is nothing to write home about. I have a two-year college degree.” She looked at me, and she didn’t look young and innocent now. She looked steady, and strong. “Hemi. Are you sure?”

  “Yeh,” I said. “I’m sure. Because you’re wrong, you know. I know everything about you. I know how much you’ve sacrificed for your sister, and what it took to do that. I know how hard you work, because I employ you. I know how honest you are, and how brave and stubborn and fierce you can be. I know everything that matters.”

  She swallowed, and I saw it. I wanted to touch her, to hold her, but instead, I said, “So I’ll put down that checking account bit. I have a feeling that the hardest part is going to be to convince you to spend money.”

  “I’m not used to it,” she admitted.

  “Got that, didn’t I. Means I’ll have to keep buying you things instead, but I may be able to cope.” I typed a brief sentence into the document and said, “Is that it?”

  “That’s the big one. And I get to decide what to do with my job,” she went on. “I don’t mean not do it well,” she added hastily when I looked up sharply. “Or that I get to decide not to have one. I mean that I can still leave the company if I want to.”

  “I’m not writing that down,” I said. “Of course you’re entitled to quit. Legally, at least. But it’s not all right with me anyway. I’d be more than happy for you to quit entirely and take care of Karen and me—I won’t lie, I’d be rapt about that—but if you don’t, I want you there with me. I want to be able to have lunch with you when I can get away, and I don’t want you spending your nights working for somebody else.”

  “You’re spending your nights working,” she pointed out.

  “And one of us is enough. Just said that, didn’t I.”

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at me, and I sighed and said, “Fine. You have the right to go somewhere else, and to take any job you want. But you’re going to talk to me about it first.”

  “All right,” she said. “That’s fair. Write that down. And then tell me your things. Sex and my appearance. I’m getting my fighting words ready right now.”

  “Now,” I said, “is that any attitude to take with your husband?’

  The word came out of my mouth for the second time in twenty-four hours, and it sounded nothing but right, because Hope’s husband was exactly what I wanted to be. I liked the official sound of it—and, yes, the possessive sound of it, too. Hope was right about that.

  “It’s my attitude,” she said. “Apparently.”

  “Right, then. We’ll tackle that one first. Appearance.”

  “I can’t wait.” She had her arms crossed over her chest. “What? Implants? You weigh me once a week and adjust my portion sizes if I slip up? What?”

  I was getting narky again myself. “I’ve never said I didn’t love the way you looked. I’ve never thought it. Thought just the opposite, haven’t I. That’s the point.”

  “But it’s still on your list. Why?”

  “Because,” I muttered, “I was looking at your hair.”

  “My hair.” She was staring at me again, and I felt foolish.

  “Yeh. I don’t want it to be short. And I don’t want you to have implants.”

  “Do you get to say that? What if I…” She waved a hand. “Have to have chemotherapy or something, and my hair falls out? What if I have a mastectomy? Is it all over?”

  “No. It’s never over. I’m never leaving you. And if anything like that happened? You have to know I’d be there. But let’s turn it around. What if I grow a beard? One of those unkempt caveman ones, eh.”

  “No,” she said instantly. I lifted my eyebrows at her, and she offered a reluctant smile in return.

  “So no beard,” she said. “Put that down. And how long do I agree to keep my hair?”

  “Long enough,” I said, “that I can hold you by it.”

  Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and the surge of heat went straight to my groin. I said, “And as for that other thing? Other men? No. No dinners, and I’m not rapt about lunches, either, but I’ll let the occasional lunch slide, as long as it’s a work thing and you tell me about it.”

  “And a glass of wine after work,” she said, “if I want to talk to Nathan, or anything like that.”

  I scowled. “I hate it.”

  “I know you do.” She’d scooted closer on the couch, and now, she came to stand in front of me, blocking my view of my laptop screen, but I wasn’t going to be objecting. “How about,” she said, sinking down so she was kneeling over me, propping herself up with her hands flat against my chest, “if I promise I’ll never kiss another man? You could promise me that, too, about other women, I mean. That would make me very, very happy. And how about…” I could actually see her pupils dilating, swallowing up the sea-blue of her irises. “How about if we agree that you get to do whatever you want to me on those nights to remind me that I’m yours?” Even as I watched, the color rose to stain her cheeks, and she hurried on to say, “I’m just anticipating you on the ‘Sex’ part. Subject to my veto power, of course.”

  “You’re saying,” I said, “that you get to make me jealous, so I’ll lose control.”

  “No.” She had her hands around my head and was dropping little butterfly kisses around my mouth now, and not touching her was getting harder every moment. “I know you won’t lose control, not all the way. I know I can say no, and that you won’t hurt me. I want to be free to have friends, to live my life, but maybe I want you to…remind me. I love it when you’re fierce, and I want it. That’s what I’ll agree to. And now tell me why you put ‘Sex’ on your list. And then…” She pulled back and looked into my eyes. “Maybe you could start doing some of that reminding. Because I need it.”

  Hope

  I knew how deep Hemi’s possessive streak ran. That’s why I’d brought this up: because it was important. Now that I had, though, and as restrained as he’d been about it, I expected him to jump me, to turn the tables on me fast and hard.

  But then, Hemi almost never did what I expected him to.

  He sat under me, not touching me, and I cou
ldn’t even tell if what I’d said had affected him, beyond the obvious physical reaction. He hadn’t seemed like it had. He’d been as still as always, as firmly under control.

  As we’d talked, I’d begun to believe that he’d meant everything he’d said, that he really was going to be mine forever, and that we could negotiate anything that came up. We’d been through so much together. How much tougher could it get?

  Showed what I knew.

  “Well?” I prompted when he still didn’t move. I was beginning to feel foolish, and too vulnerable, too, sitting on top of him and getting nothing back. Did he even want me here? Was he so angry about this enforced negotiation that he wasn’t going to touch me?

  His hands stayed at his sides as he said, “This isn’t a position you should put yourself in for negotiations.”

  I groped for an answer and couldn’t find one. This had been wrong. I’d been supposed to stay businesslike. I’d meant to stay businesslike. But I’d needed to touch Hemi. And now, I needed him to touch me. To hold me. And maybe more. No, definitely more.

  He didn’t do it. Instead, he said, “But then, we already talked about this, didn’t we? We don’t need to negotiate this, because we both know the rules. You have your safe word, and you know you can use it. I’m driving, and you’re drawing the line, though I have to say—you seem to get confused about that. You’re doing it now, in fact.”

  “Mm,” I said, starting to feel a little more confident. “If you hate it, I guess we’d better negotiate that.” I had my hands in his hair now, even though it was too ruthlessly short for me to get a good hold. So I bit down on his earlobe instead and whispered into his ear, “Tell me what you want.”

  He sighed. “I’ve got no choice, have I? Not when you keep taking the reins. Stand up and take those tights off, sweetheart.”

  I needed this, and I kept teasing anyway. “Why?”

  “Hope.” Nothing but danger in his dark eyes, in his low voice. “I’m done negotiating. Stand up, take them off, and give them to me.”

  I looked into his eyes, then pushed myself off of him. He could have helped me get to my feet, but he didn’t. He just watched while I got both hands under my skirt, shimmied the black tights down my legs, and dropped them in his lap.

  “Good,” he said. “Now walk to the end of the coffee table and lie down on it. On your stomach.”

  “Hemi…” I began.

  “No,” he said. “No talking. That’s over. Do it.”

  I swallowed. I wasn’t afraid of him, and the dark thrill was running through me all the same. Danger blended with excitement, the leaping sparks jabbing at me with an electric impact that set up an answering throb that begged to be satisfied. I was burning already, and he still hadn’t even touched me.

  I looked at him again, and then I did it: got off his lap, walked to the end of the table, and lowered myself onto cold black lacquer, turning my head so I could see him.

  “Hold onto the legs,” he said.

  There wasn’t a bit of softness in his face, and the hard shivers were running through me, the table’s surface unforgiving and cold under my cheek as I slowly reached out and obeyed. I wrapped a hand around each of the black-lacquered legs, held on, and waited.

  He moved at last, but he still didn’t touch me. He just sat down on the edge of the table, sighed, and finally said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to spank you hard today.”

  I was breathing more heavily already, my body tensing in anticipation. Finally, he was lifting my skirt, pulling it high. Still not touching my skin, though, and I needed him to touch me.

  It was dirty, and it was twisted, and I wanted it.

  I was wearing high-cut, pale-blue underwear with an edging of lace, and he must have been looking at them, but I couldn’t see him well enough. I began to turn to get a better look, and he put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me down just as the other hand came down on me, sharp and hard.

  I jumped and cried out, and he didn’t let go of my shoulder. He held me down, and he spanked me. The slaps sounded loud in the room even over the drumming of the rain outside, and his broad hand drove me up to the edge of pain, awakening sensation everywhere he touched. He spanked every inch of my bottom and upper thighs, around and down and back up again, and he spanked hard.

  He knew where it stopped feeling good. He’d made me tell him, had tested and found my limits. Usually, though, he saved that place where pleasure met pain for the last few slaps. This time, he started too close, then went on and on while my breath came in gasps and my flesh heated. Until it was hurting, and I cried out loud and said, “Hemi. Stop. Please. Pie.”

  I’d never used my word. I’d never had to. Maybe I’d been afraid to test whether he really would stop, afraid to know the answer.

  I found out now, because the second I said it, he stopped. He was smoothing his palm over my burning skin, soothing me. “Sweetheart. Sorry. All right?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say, my voice as shaky as the rest of me. “But I…I…” I didn’t even know what I wanted to say.

  “Are we stopping, then? What do you need?” His voice was still ragged, I was still tender, and all of it thrilled me. It was probably wrong, and it was definitely dirty, but just hearing him like that, knowing how close to the edge he was, drove me higher.

  “You,” I told him. “I need you. Please, Hemi. Please. I need you. More.” I was still on my stomach, he was still rubbing his hand over me, and the burning was changing to tingling arousal. And when his hand dove down, began to explore, diving under the lace to feel how shamefully wet and swollen I was? I hauled in an unsteady breath and willed him to continue.

  He didn’t, of course. He pulled his hand away, and I couldn’t help whimpering at the loss. “I’m going to push you some more, then,” he said. “If you don’t want that, tell me.”

  “I…I want it.” Definitely dirty. And I couldn’t resist it any more than I could resist gravity.

  He waited a minute, during which I held my breath, then said, “Get up, then. Come over to the couch.” He didn’t give me any more time than that, or any more softness. He stood up and left me.

  I got to my feet as best I could, even though my knees were shaking. Hemi could have helped me, but he didn’t. He was sitting in the middle of the black leather couch again, and when I hesitated, he said, “Take off your underwear. You want to see how possessive I can be? I’m going to show you.”

  I could have said the word again, but I didn’t. I knew for sure now that he wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want. I believed he’d stop as soon as I asked him to, and the freedom coursed through me even as I trembled with excitement and something that was close to fear, but…not.

  No. Not fear. Being with Hemi was pure physical thrill, like leaping from an airplane into the wide, wild sky. And right now, it was falling without the parachute.

  “Hope. Do it now,” he told me, because I’d waited too long. “Or I’ll put you over my knee and spank you again.”

  I shuddered, and I did it. I pulled the pale-blue scrap of fabric over my tingling skin, and he watched. If it hadn’t been for the faint flush on his bronzed skin, the heat in his dark eyes, I wouldn’t have known what he was feeling. But I did know, and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to prove to him that I was his, and to have him prove it to me.

  Two seconds, three, and he still didn’t move. Finally, his hands went to his belt buckle, and he unfastened it, then pulled down his zip, shoved his jeans and boxer briefs down over his hips, and freed himself. “Take off your skirt first,” he said. “And then come kneel over me. The same way you did it before.”

  I did that, too. Of course I did. I expected him to lower me onto him, even though he never took me like this, without any foreplay. He always made sure I was ready, and the first orgasm was always mine. But he had to know how excited I was already, and how desperately I ached to have him inside me. How much I needed him filling me so completely that he took my breath, driving into me so har
d that he stole my will.

  Except he didn’t do it. He still didn’t touch me, even when I was rubbing against him. Instead, he said, “Take your sweater off and give it to me.” His hands were at his sides again, his eyes staring into mine, transfixing me exactly like the spider he was, coming closer, stalking me across the web.

  I unbuttoned slowly, from the top to the bottom, then pulled off the little blue sweater and handed it to him.

  “Now the bra,” he said. “Take it off. Give it to me.”

  I did that, too, though my hands were shaking. And then I was naked, and he was still almost fully dressed.

  “Yeh,” he said. “This is what I want.” He picked up my tights, and he touched me at last. At least, sort of. He grabbed both my wrists, pulled my hands behind my back, and tied them with my tights, until the soft binding held me fast. And then he let go of me.

  I fought for balance over him. It was obvious that he wanted me, so why wasn’t he touching me?

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Do you want it?”

  “Hemi. Please. What do you want me to do?”

  “If you want it,” he said, “you’re going to have to work for it.”

  “I—can’t. I’m…tied.”

  “You are. So what are you going to do?”

  The leather was cold under my knees, my shins. My hands were pulled so tightly behind me, and he wasn’t helping me.

  I was so frustrated. So close, and I couldn’t get there. My face was against his neck, and I was breathing in his warm scent as I lifted myself onto my knees and tried to wriggle onto him, and he sat still. I needed him inside me, but no matter how hard I struggled, how many times I shifted and fell against him and pushed, I couldn’t make it happen. My breath came loud in the quiet room, but it was from effort now.

  Finally, I gave up. I sank down over him, pressed my body into his, and said, “Please, Hemi. Help me.”

  I could feel his sigh all the way through my body. And then he had his hands around my waist, was picking me up, setting me over him, finding the angle, and then, so slowly, so deliciously…he impaled me deep. And I cried out loud to get it.