I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth covers my nipple, sucking it, his eyes on me, teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid the eye contact, 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. I love the feeling of him inside of me, his hands now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting kisses along my back as he continues his fuck. A desperate, hurried fuck, as if he is worried that I will disappear, and he needs 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 above me, his mouth softening on mine, kissing me tenderly as his strokes bring me there, to the point where my mind stops thinking and I come, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.
CHAPTER 29
Life 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 officer to write me a ticket, to allow me a bad girl moment. 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 corner of Nashville refuses something as tacky as a book superstore, chain stores apparently frowned upon by the uber-rich. We have no Applebees, no Gaps, no Walmarts, those storefronts replaced with organic markets, wine bars, and boutiques owned by bored housewives.
The bookstore is no different, owned by two trophy wives who had some Chardonnay one day and decided to sell books. It’s 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 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, 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 roads, finding Nathan’s estate. I trace the road that leads to town, then fan out, tip-tapping across areas I haven’t explored yet. Lockeland Springs. Madison. The Gulch.
“Thinking of exploring Nashville?”
I turn at the voice, one thick in a Tennessean drawl. I smile at the woman, one of the owners. She was the sort who wore diamonds with denim, and enough perfume to push me back a step. “Just realizing how little of it I’ve seen.” I glance back at the map. “What’s The Gulch?”
“Oh.” She waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t want to waste your time there. It's just strip clubs and head shops.” She giggles, and moves closer, her long red fingernail moving across the worn paper, her next few lines lost in the hum of my mind.
“There are strip clubs here?” I interrupt her without thinking, her eyebrows raising for a moment before she responds.
“Well … yes. Of course. Hard to have a city this size without those sort of places.”
“I …” I struggle for an explanation. “I just thought Tennessee didn't allow strip clubs.”
She laughs off the thought, her mouth moving, more words coming out, other areas pointed out, tapas bars and parks pointed out, her nails scraping over the landscape as she rattles off a dozen things I couldn’t care less about.
A wisp of something flickers in my brain, like an erratic synapse that is firing out of order, catching my attention. I reach for it, dig for it, but it is like the faded memory of a dream: gone. Street and city names float from her as my fingers move, back over the map, 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 Sammy’s. Rick’s excited announcement that I was wanted in VIP. My eyes flit across his neighborhood, one that is over five hundred miles and two states, from Destin. How many strip clubs could fit into that radius? Fifty? One hundred? A hundred clubs closer than the rundown establishment that he, Drew, and Mark walked into.
So why Sammy’s? And why, five minutes after stepping foot inside, did he ask for me?
CHAPTER 30
Confinement 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 a defenseless hour away. But what holds Drew? Why does he stay? Why does he live in this house, follow Nathan’s rules, and assist in guarding my prison?
Confinement can drive a sane person mad. I have seen a chink in Drew’s armor. He is human, he can stumble, and he can make mistakes. He made a mistake in touching me, in giving a drowning, lonely girl hope. Hope, and an opening.