He Claims Me (3 page)

I pad across the concrete floors, turning a light off for every light I turn on. I rearrange the selection of store catalogues on a modern glass hallway table and nudge a ­couple of Mrs. Leigh's geometric glass objets d'art an inch to the left, my goal to make the empty house appear lived in.

The door of a display case in the dining room has swung open. Touching Mrs. Leigh's display cases is another item on my not to do list, the brightly colored cones housed within them being the most valuable of her collection. Forced to break this rule, I carefully close the glass door using two of my fingers. Mrs. Leigh would become more upset if dust touched her precious knickknacks.

As I move through the house, sweat beads on my forehead, the heat stifling. I open some of the windows, trusting the security bars to keep me safe. The sheer silver curtains billow, the night breeze refreshingly cool.

As my bedroom, formerly a storage closet, has no windows, I leave the door open and drape the garment bag over a metal folding chair. The only other items in the small space are a twin-­sized mattress, the matching box spring, and a suitcase filled with my clothes and other worldly belongings.

I've had less and I don't need more. That's what I tell myself anyway. I set the tote on the floor beside my bed and I undress, choosing to sleep naked, Blaine's key my only adornment, the ribbon soft against my neck.

I remove the beautiful white marble dildo from the black velvet bag. The stone is smooth and cool and I yearn to rub it all over my body.

I resist this temptation, as Blaine's instructions are clear. I'm to slide the dildo inside me. I'm not to touch myself or find release without him.

I lie back on the bed and spread my thighs. Blaine's scent surrounds me, clinging to the marble and to my body, dried cum flaking on my stomach.

I feel as though he's here. He's watching me. I push the dildo into my tight pussy, the hard marble stretching me open, the tip stroking my inner walls.

I reluctantly release the dildo, leaving Blaine's beautiful gift inside me. I imagine it's him inside me, his cock throbbing, filling me, and I sigh with contentment, closing my eyes.

 

Chapter Three

I
DREAM
I
'
M
lying naked on the long wooden table in Blaine's office. My arms and legs are spread and my knees bent. I can't move, my limbs too heavy. The room is filled with men in dark suits, smoking cigars and swirling cognac in crystal glasses.

Blaine invites them, one by one, to look at me. The men bend their heads and peer between my thighs, gazing at my wet pussy. They grunt their approval. Blaine pokes and prods me, pride and some deeper emotion, an emotion I'm not brave enough to name, reflecting in his green eyes.

I wake up wet and aroused, my sheets soaked with perspiration. The dildo slides out easily, the marble slick with my juices. I feel empty and achy, my pussy missing the hardness, the fullness.

It's a struggle not to touch myself sexually in the shower, but I resist this temptation, skimming a washcloth over my body quickly. I leave the conditioner Blaine gave me in my hair, the vanilla scent covering my musk.

I wear the vintage purple Yves Saint Laurent two-­piece skirt suit. The sleeveless vest sports a front closure, the three-­quarter-­length flared skirt can be flipped up, and the fabric is thick enough to conceal my taut nipples.

I grab my tote, slip my feet into my flats, and leave the house, wondering when I started choosing my clothing based upon how easy the garments are to have sex in. And I will have sex today, my need for Blaine undeniable.

First, I have to survive the day. I can do this. I'm strong . . . or so Blaine claims. I smile at the bus driver as I pay my fare. He straightens in his seat and smiles back.

I sit beside a heavily made-­up, soaked in perfume woman. She gives me a haughty sniff, wrinkling her powdered nose, and continues talking loudly on the phone. She tells someone she calls girlfriend how all of the good men are taken, leaving only broke ass brothers for her to date.

The strip of turf has been replaced in front of Feed Your Hungry's headquarters. The sprinklers soak my shoes as I pass, the scent of freshly mowed grass and rich dark earth filling my nostrils.

I enter the converted house that was added to the main building, and the constantly texting receptionist says good morning to me. She reminds me cheerily that I have a meet and greet this afternoon with Mrs. Williams . . . as though I would ever forget. Securing a meet and greet with a donor is the goal of every Feed Your Hungry employee.

I wish I could say I legitimately landed this meet and greet. I didn't. Mrs. Williams agreed to donate money because she thinks I'm Michael Cooke's girlfriend. When I told her Michael and I were merely friends, the socialite didn't believe me and insisted on coming into Feed Your Hungry to personally drop off her donation. I couldn't say no, as this will only be the second donation I've secured. I need it to save my job.

I lie to everyone except Blaine, and if bending the truth allows me to keep my job at Feed Your Hungry, I'll bend the truth. I don't want to rely solely on Blaine's generosity and my evening job at his company. I prefer to pay my own way, maintaining at least the illusion of independence. I have my pride.

I pick up my donor list for the day from Feed Your Hungry's receptionist. All of the donors I am to call have given donations within the past year. My spirits lift. I might have a chance at securing a real meet and greet today.

I swing through the doors separating the new front addition from the original building and the temperature immediately rises. No one can recall the last time the air-­conditioning in the older rooms worked.

I hurry along the hallways. The walls are painted a dreary gray, the plaster chipped. The carpet is frayed and thin.

I enter the large back room housing the pit. Rows of metal folding tables dominate the area, many of the seats already filled. My coworkers are dialing, their faces blank and their eyes glazed.

I slide into my chair in the back row and Goth girl, my green Mohawk wearing friend, curls her black-­lipstick-­covered lips, giving me her version of a smile. She's wearing her usual black corset, black full skirt, torn mesh stockings, and clunky army boots, and is talking in sweet tones to a past donor.

I plug my headset into the flesh-­colored telephone and dial and dial and dial. No one answers. Voice mail. Voice mail. Doesn't speak English. Voice mail. No one answers.

My fingers fall asleep. My thoughts turn to Blaine and the relentless throbbing between my legs. I'm aroused, needy. I press my thighs together. I won't last. I can't last. I wiggle.

“What's wrong with you, moth?” Goth girl stage whispers. “Do you have crotch critters or some other vagigi funkiness?” Heads turn and my face heats. “There's a free clinic close by. Ask Boss man for the morning off.”

“I'm fine.” I add another lie to my collection.

“Sure you are.” My friend snorts.

She's right. I'm not fine. At noon I leap out of my chair, sling my tote over my shoulder, palm my phone, and hurry down the hallway, looking for a private place to make a call to a very wicked CEO.

“Hey kiddo. Are you looking for me?” Michael Cooke steps into the hallway and beams at me, his movie-­star good looks dazzling. He's wearing a blue shirt that perfectly matches his eyes and clings to his wide shoulders. This designer garment is paired with khaki pants and Birkenstocks, two staples in the blond behemoth's wardrobe. “You have the meet and greet with Mrs. Williams today, don't you?”

“Yes,” I reply, obliged to make polite conversation. Before I met a certain naughty billionaire, I dreamed of talking to Michael. Now it's a chore. Blaine is the sole man I want to speak with, to be with.

“Don't be scared about this meet and greet.” Michael moves closer to me and I force myself to remain still, to not take a step backward. “Mrs. Williams is a close friend of the family, one of my honorary aunties, and I told her to treat you well, that you're special to me.” He rubs my bare arms, his palms soft. “You are special to me, kiddo.” He pushes his hips against mine and my body screams a silent protest. He's handsome and nice but he's not the man I want. “I wouldn't wait for anyone else.”

Oh Lord. He's waiting for me to change my mind. I thought we talked about this. “We agreed to just be friends,” I squeak, backing away from him.

Michael drops his hands. “We're just friends . . . for now.” His face hardens and I put more distance between us. He's larger and stronger than I am and I don't trust him. I don't trust anyone except for Blaine.

Michael forces a smile, his teeth straight and white and perfect. “Will I be seeing my friend at lunch?” His gaze drops to my small breasts, my nipples remaining taut from Blaine's teasing.

“I'm not able to have lunch with you today.” I edge toward the door. “But I'll talk to you later,” I promise, eager to escape, to find the true source of my frustrations. “I have somewhere I need to be right now.” I rush away, leaving Michael gaping after me.

I exit the building, turn into the employee parking lot and press redial. It rings twice.

“Anna.” Blaine's deep voice makes my lower body clench. “What's wrong?” Voices chatter in the background.

“You know what's wrong.” I pace on the uneven pavement, striding back and forth, seeking to expend some of my sexual energy. “What did you do to me?”

Blaine chuckles. The background voices fade and then disappear. “What did I do to you?”

“You know what,” I fume, my need for him building with every passing minute. “I can't last.”

Darla, Michael's big breasted blond friend, shimmies out of a cute little silver sports car, a vehicle no Feed Your Hungry employee could afford on our minimum wage salaries, and she walks toward me, a shiny red designer purse hanging from the crook of her right arm. As she spots me, she removes her overly large sunglasses. Her big brown eyes are wide with curiosity.

I don't want to talk to her. Darla is Michael's friend, not mine, and I don't trust her either. I don't trust myself right now, lust ruling my brain.

I turn my back, pretending not to see her, and I walk away, placing my hand over my phone. “I need to fix this. Now,” I inform Blaine, my patience strained by need. “Either give me permission—­”

“You do
not
have permission,” Blaine barks, and my spine snaps straight, my body responding to his dominance. “I'll be there in five minutes.” The phone clicks and the dial tone buzzes.

I can wait five minutes for sexual fulfillment . . . I think. I slip my phone into my tote. No, I know I can wait. I'm strong. I can do this. I gaze up at the blue cloudless sky and I wiggle, dancing in place, my blood singing with desire and need.

“She ran out the door like the hounds of hell were after her. It was the strangest thing.” Michael's voice reaches me.

If Michael sees me, he'll want to talk to me again, and I'll then say something I'll regret, my mind focused on my arousal. I duck behind the building, wedging my body between a navy blue Dumpster and a red brick wall. A ghostly white moth flutters into the air, startled from her resting place.

“She
is the strangest thing,” Darla quips. “I saw her talking on her phone near the employee parking lot. I didn't hear her, but from her expression it appeared as though she was having boyfriend troubles.”

“She doesn't have a boyfriend. Kiddo and I have an understanding,” Michael says and I cringe, his words implying our understanding is we're more than friends.

“Do you? How cute.” Darla laughs, the brittle sound holding more malice than joy. “She's a woman, Michael. She lies. I'll bet my favorite handbag she's seeing someone else and is playing you for a fool.”

“She's not like that.” Michael's voice fades. “She wouldn't lie to me.”

I'm exactly like that. Guilt mixes with my desire. I am seeing someone else and I do lie. I smooth my long purple skirt. Even my clothes are a lie, Fran's designer suit not representing my true income. I knock a loose piece of brick off the wall, the gray mortar crumbling. Michael can't truly care for me because he doesn't know the true me. I only show myself to Blaine.

A black car approaches and I rush toward the busy street. The car is a sedan, not a limousine, and it passes without slowing down. It isn't Blaine. My shoulders slump.

The sun's rays beat down on my bare skin, its touch like a thousand fingertips. I shouldn't have called Blaine. I'm stronger than this, stronger than my body. My breasts ache and my pussy hums, my need dampened by guilt and disappointment but not extinguished.

A limousine slows and the back door opens. “Get in, nymph,” Blaine orders. His suit is as black as his vehicle, his shirt a stark white. His purple tie matches my dress's shade exactly, and my spirits lift. We look like a ­couple.

I climb into the vehicle, the door closes, and Blaine grabs my wrist, pulls me to him, captures my lips with his, the force of his embrace driving my head back. I drop the tote and gasp. He surges into my mouth, his tongue filling me. Opening to him, I slide into his lap, straddling his thighs, clasping his shoulders.

Our tongues tumble and twist, his desire feeding mine. He wraps his arms around my waist, his palms flattening on my back, the warmth of his skin felt through the fabric.

This is what I need. “Yes.” I arch my back and Blaine mouths along my neck, the pressure exquisitely firm. I unbutton my vest, wanting his touch on my bare breasts.

Blaine covers my fumbling fingers with his hands, his grip firm. “Not now.” He raises his head, his eyes darkened to the deepest black. “I have no control.”

I inhale, count to five and exhale. “I don't want you to have control.” I slip the buttons through the holes. “I want all of you, Blaine.”

He stills, his muscles tensing under me. “Are you certain?”

I nod and remove my vest, unhook my bra, undressing quickly, trying to outrun my fear. Will this change everything? Will he still want me after this?

Blaine tugs on his tie and pulls the strip of purple silk over his head. He shrugs out of his jacket, unbuttons his crisp white shirt, revealing golden skin and silver scars, the marks a physical reminder that he's faced adversity in the past and survived.

I retreat to the seat across from him, strip off my skirt and my white cotton panties. Will I soon be part of his colorful past? He must be accustomed to sophisticated, experienced women, women who don't associate sex with love, with trust.

“Anna.” Blaine is naked, his cock hard, his legs long and firm and strong. “How does this make you feel?”

His question, a question he has asked me in the past, brings me comfort. “Scared.” I give him a shy smile and the shameful truth. “I'm trusting you with everything.” I'm trusting him with my body, my heart and my soul, risking a heartache I know I'll never recover from.

“Come here,” he commands, his voice firm.

I kneel in front of him, naked, my gaze downcast and my fingers shaking as I toy with the gold key between my breasts.

“Sit down.”

I rise and straddle him, my bare skin sliding along his, my soft curves meeting his firm muscle. No barriers remain between us. I'm vulnerable, defenseless.

Blaine holds my face between his big rough hands and tilts my chin upward, the contact reassuring me. “I won't ever hurt you, Anna.” Our gazes meet and hold, a connection stronger than words, stronger than our individual souls, binding us together.

“You won't leave me?” I ask, knowing the answer, needing to hear it again.

“Never.” Blaine brushes his lips over mine. “You're my present and my future, my forever.” He leans his forehead against mine. “I can wait forever if you need that time, Anna. This is too important to rush.”

“I can't wait forever,” I whisper. “I want you inside me. I'm just scared. I've never done this before and you . . . you have.” He's a billionaire, a successful attractive man. He's probably slept with many glamorous women, women who know things, things I haven't even read about.