To Hold (6 page)

T
here is not a moment of hesitation in his kiss, his hands releasing me, his mouth following mine as I fall the final inches onto the bed. He moves above me, our lips moving, tongues intertwining, mouths crushing, tasting each other fully.

My sleep-drugged mind is slowly waking up as I move, the implications of what we are doing ringing alarm bells in my mind. But the forbiddance, the risk of being caught, only makes it hotter. My hands scramble over his chest, fumbling down to tug at his belt, my fingers frantic in their quest to have him unzipped and exposed. I can feel him pushing out, his pants tenting, his readiness impressive.

His mouth won’t release mine, the scruff of his stubble burning the skin around my lips as he takes what he wants, pinning me down to the bed with his kisses. And then, finally, I have him in my hand, my palm closing around a stiff shaft, and he closes his eyes and pulls away from my body.

“Wait. Take off your skirt.”

I do, shimmying the fabric down and off, watching as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth, the intensity of his stare causing my breath to hitch and my mouth to water. I spread my legs before him, opening myself fully up, his eyes feasting on the sight, and he kneels on the bed before me, stroking the latex of the condom down his cock.

“I know what you like,” he grounds out, pressing on my opening with his stiffness. The smooth head of his latex-covered cock pushes slightly in, his face tightening when my body accepts him, my velvet lips sliding around his cock, already wet, already ready. “I’ve watched you fuck so many times that I feel like I’ve had you. Do you like when he fucks you?” He thrusts fully inside, my eyes closing at the sensation, a moan spilling out of my mouth. His hands flip my legs over, turning me to my side, his torso coming down, his mouth taking a greedy tour of my breast while he pumps his hips, his cock dragging slowly in and out, stretching me, the angle perfect in its sensation.

“Do you, Candy? Do you like his cock?” His words are a demand, gasping out of him, his breath haggard as he moves.

I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth takes my nipple in, sucking it, his green eyes on me, his teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid his eyes, facing the mattress, bringing my knees beneath me and arching my back, his body moving with me, his cock beginning a faster movement, pumping in and out as his hands roam over my ass and along the line of my back.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he groans. “Being inside of you. I jack off to you at night, Candy. I picture your perfect mouth sucking my cock. I think about you, just like this, bent over before me, waiting for me.”

I can’t respond, my mind arguing with my body that this is wrong, that I should pull off his body and walk away. But my body loves his words, loves the depth of the passion, the idea that this man wants me — has thought of me. My body loves the feeling of him inside of me, his hands which are now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting soft kisses along my back as he continues his fuck. A fast, hurried fuck, as if he is worried that I will disappear, and he needs to get his fill of me first.

He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide. There are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me; he cares. He is a living, breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.

He returns me to my back, his body settling over me, his mouth softer on mine, kissing me slowly and softly as his strokes bring me
there
, to the point where my mind stops thinking, and I come, my breaths shuddering into his mouth, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.

Word: 9 letters

Clue: what exploration often leads to

L
ife in wealth is a beautiful thing. Our streets are unclogged, our nights mosquito-free, our comfort managed and attended to twenty-four hours a day. My latest hobby is speeding, pressing the gas pedal hard enough to feel a slight vibration in my legs, my Mercedes jumping to attention, hugging the streets with a purpose. I have been pulled over twice, both times given a warning, despite my generous attempt to accept a ticket. Attempt is putting it lightly. I practically begged the uniformed men to write me a ticket. But apparently in this county, where the streets are lined in gold and the property taxes cover more than ten times the city’s budget, ticket revenue is not needed. Laws can be broken with only a slap on your diamond-studded wrist.

My tires squeal slightly as I make a too-tight, too-fast turn into the bookstore parking lot. Our town refuses something as tacky as a book superstore, chain stores apparently frowned upon by the uber-rich. We have no Applebee’s, no Chico’s, no Walmarts, those storefronts replaced with designer boutiques, wine bars, and Mom and Pop stores owned by millionaire’s bored housewives.

The bookstore is no different, owned by two trophy wives who had a sudden, unplanned thought one day to sell books. It is housed in a three-story plantation home, different rooms dedicated to different genres, antiques and comfy couches stuffed next to towering bookshelves and stacks and piles of books. I love it.

Today I choose to explore the
Adventure
room, located on the third floor, tall windows on one side, separated by tall bookshelves. The other side is dominated by a large map, framed and stretched from the floor to ceiling, a custom piece that shows a city-planner’s view of our privileged corner of the world and the area that surrounds it.

I look at the map, my fingers trailing over the familiar words: Jefferson Street. The Crystal Palace’s home, a lofty street name that belongs in a downtown area, not a dead-end street twenty minutes from town. My fingers travel over familiar routes, tracing my route home, a route I traveled countless times. Drunk, sober, exhausted, irritated. My finger heads north, down winding highways, through cities and towns until I reach Swankville, my new stomping grounds. Where road names like Hemingway and Baltimore scream upper class, roundabouts instead of intersections, crowded streets giving way to wide roads, golf courses, and parks on every corner. My fingers slow, coming to a stop at my new home, Nathan’s large estate.

I frown, a wisp of something flickering in my brain, like an erratic synapse that is firing out of order, catching my attention all the same. I reach for it, dig for it, but it is like the faded memory of a dream: gone. I move, back to the Crystal Palace, retracing the route, my finger sliding slowly across the glass, my mind open, waiting for that escaped wisp of thought. Street and city names float through my head as my fingers move, until my index finger comes to a slow, shuddering stop on Nathan’s house.

There. I feel it again. That wisp of thought. I still, trying not to pounce too aggressively on it, trying to let it wander into the light unafraid. Unease grows in me, the thought growing legs and arms and starting a hesitant crawl through my mind. I picture Nathan, stepping into the dimly lit dump that is the Palace. Rick’s excited announcement that I was wanted in VIP. Nathan walking into the Palace. My eyes flit from his house, over two healthy cities and one small town, over a hundred and fifty miles, and land on the Crystal Palace. Twenty miles on the other side of the small town. My eyes move in the opposite direction, calculating the cities and towns within that circumference from Nathan’s house. At least six. Containing at least ten strip clubs. Ten strip clubs that were closer than the rundown establishment that he, Drew, and Mark walked into.

So why the Palace? And why, five minutes after stepping foot inside, did he ask for me?

Word: 6 letters

Clue: _______ and thank you

C
onfinement. It doesn’t necessarily require a limited space. Confinement can be a mind fuck of restraint, a person stopped in every direction of action until they stand still in a room, afraid to move. Confinement can do strange things to a person.

Maybe that is what caused the snap. Maybe it was the two of us, both in prisons of Nathan, both desperately wanting a way out, wanting the freedom that is being withheld. I know why I am captive, my father laying three defenseless hours away. But what holds Drew? Why does he stay? Why does he live in this house, follow Nathan’s rules, and assist in my prison?

Confinement can drive a sane person insane. I have seen a chink in Drew’s armor. He is human, he can err, and he can make mistakes. He made a mistake in touching me, in giving a drowning, lonely girl hope. Hope and an opening.

I stare out the window of the limo, my legs demurely crossed, like I have been taught, my hands clasping my crocodile clutch. I am trying to avoid looking forward to the front of the car, where I know Drew’s eyes will be. Watching me. The car rides have become a source of stress for me, constant worry present that Nathan will want to be serviced. Tonight, at least, I am safe. We have spent all evening with Raul, a foreign investor who Nathan is courting. I don’t know much except that Nathan has gone above and beyond with this man, our dinner stretching over three hours, the men already spending all day together at the casinos. They are drunk, their speech carrying a hint of slur, their ties loosened and spirits boisterous. Nathan sits back, and I suddenly feel his arm around my shoulders. I turn slightly to him, giving him what he wants, a loving smile, full of adoration. It is a smile I have perfected, and one he loves.

“Did you know that Raul wanted me to find him a whore?” He enunciates the words clearly, the slur masked by his precise pronunciation. I stiffen slightly under his arm, narrowing my eyes slightly at him as I blush appropriately, slapping his knee.

“Nathan!” I chastise him, shooting him a look that is properly offended.

“It’s true,” he murmurs, bending his head to plant a soft kiss on my neck. “But I told him there is no need to waste money on a whore. Not when my wife is such an excellent fuck.”

My world closes around his words, my eyes catching his, the look in his eyes unmistakable. I beg him with my own, my mouth moving, light-hearted words coming out. “What? Nathan — stop. You’re embarrassing me in front of our guest!”

We fight while smiling, his eyes demanding while mine beg. This is something I can’t do. Fucking me in front of the staff is one thing. Offering me to a stranger something else. He tilts his head, amusement mixing with the authority in his eyes. His mouth curls, a grin stretching over it before he speaks. “Come on, honey. Show him what an amazing blow job you give.”

I gasp, laughing a bit as I turn back to the window. “Next time, I’m cutting you off at the third tequila shot.” I pray for solace, for him to laugh and move on, silence coming from Raul’s side of the car.

“You’re being rude, Jenny. We’ve had a long night and he needs a release. Show him how an American woman can take a cock.” There is an edge to his words, a warning in them, and I close my eyes at his voice.

I can’t do it
. I just can’t. Of everything I have sold at this point in time — my dignity, my life, my past — this is one step I cannot take. I can feel Drew’s eyes, piercing into me, pulling into my soul and judging me. I want to meet his eyes. I want to tell him that I will not do this; he doesn’t need to worry. I will refuse and leave this car untainted.

Then I feel the seat shift, feel my husband’s lips against my ear. “Do it, Candy. I’m not going to ask again. We have an arrangement, not a romance. Refuse and I will stop supporting your father.”

My father. Nathan, in this despicable situation, brings up my father, brings his clean soul into this dirty world. Nathan knows my weakness. Knows which button to push to bring me to my knees. In this situation, literally. I turn with a coy smile, facing Raul and moving to the floor, my hands reaching out and my smile widening, my eyes catching Drew’s, begging him to understand.

I am a boat out on a deep blue ocean. Some days are calm, some days the sun comes out and I bask in it, lazily swaying from side to side in perfect harmony with the waves. But sometimes there is a storm, dark and mighty in its strength, and I list, side to side, the waves tossing me about in a sadistic show of their strength. Those times I worry about my structure, the walls and bolts that hold me together. I wonder if I am built strong enough, if I will survive this storm, if I am truly seaworthy. So far, I have weathered all of the storms, making it to the next sunny day. Today is a sunny day. But I can feel the storm. I can feel the waters churning, the breeze blowing, and I know. I know it’s only a question of when the next storm will come.

I am a boat out on a deep blue ocean. And there is no one for miles, no one to rescue me.

Diary entry — from the journal of Jennifer Kinsey-Dumont

M
y hand hesitates on the receiver. Making this call is a direct violation of The Agreement. The consequence: my father’s well-being, the destruction of this life, however fake it is. I close my eyes and breathe. Then I pick up the phone and dial the number.