some kind of drug problem.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls out to me. “What's your name?”
“Sammi,” I reply, my heart hammering in my chest.
“You're late,” Jazz says, pushing open the enormous old roller door and gesturing inside. “You'd better hurry up and come inside.”
I hesitate for a moment, my feet itching for a decision.
Fuck it. I sling my bag over my shoulder, set my jaw, and walk to the doorway, ducking underneath the roller door. I try not to cringe as it is slammed shut behind me, the sudden rush of cold air nipping at my heels.
It is dim inside the warehouse, and I struggle to see more than superficial figures as my eyes adjust to the lighting.
There are figures moving casually about. From what I can see, all male. Before I can make out their faces, Jazz has snatched my bag from my hand and immediately begins rifling through the contents.
“Hey!” I protest. Another set of hands pulls my arm behind my back, forcing it up in a painful V. I am slammed into a brick wall and the wind is knocked right out of my lungs.
Be cool.
I feel hands patting me down, efficiently at first, before slowing down when they reach my inner thighs. I stay perfectly still as someone - who, I have no idea – gently teases my clit as they search me. I don’t react.
“Where’s Dornan?” I ask. “He told me to meet him here.”
“Shut up,” another voice says, and I turn to follow its owner. It seems the fingering body search has ended, and I am allowed to move freely again. Dornan’s oldest son, Chad, is standing in front of me, my iPhone in his hand.
“What’s the password for this thing?” he asks me.
I smirk. “D…I…C…”
I’m about to finish that word when he throws the phone at the ground, so hard it explodes into a million tiny pieces. I look at the ground in disgust and then back up at him.
“Oops,” he says, raising his eyebrows for effect. I don’t say anything, just hold his gaze without wavering.
“What’s your name?” Chad asks, repeating Jazz’s earlier question.
If you knew who I was, you’d shoot me in the head right now where I stand.
I look over at Jazz as if to say, why don’t you tell them? He doesn’t speak.
“It’s Sammi,” I say. “Samantha.”
Jazz tosses my purse to Chad, who pulls out my license and studies it intently.
“What’s your address?” he asks. I act bored and recite my address perfectly, followed by my date of birth when asked.
“What’s your license number?” he asks. I know it, but I also know that most people don’t. That it’s probably MORE suspicious being able to rattle it off than it is to feign ignorance.
“How the fuck should I know?” I say incredulously, tossing my long hair over my shoulder. “Do you know your license number?”
He laughs and shoves my fake license back into my purse, tossing it to Jazz, who hands it to me along with my bag.
“Where’s Dornan?” I repeat. “I’m supposed to start working for him. I don’t want to be late.”
Dornan steps out of the shadows, and I jump minutely, unaware that he’s been watching the entire time.
“Baby girl,” he says, his deep voice commanding respect among his sons, who seem to stand to attention all of a sudden. “You’re already late.”
I smile nervously. “I’m so sorry. The tattoo artist took forever–”
“Tattoo artist?” Dornan cuts me off sharply. “What tattoo artist?”
I shrug. “Some guy near the pier. You wanna see?”
He smiles, and despite my hatred for him, I can definitely understand why so many women throw themselves at him. His deep, booming gravel voice; his unmistakeable good looks that he’s inevitably passed on to all of his sons; those coal black eyes that miss nothing and give nothing away. Yes, I can see why he has seven sons to five different women. He’s just got something I can’t quite put my finger on. A charisma, an allure, a larger-than-life presence. Even at forty-eight, he’s only getting better looking with age.
It makes me hate him even more.
“Sure,” he says. He looks impatient. I smile, lifting my white dress so that he has a clear view of my lace panties, and stick my hip out.
Dornan whistles. “That’s some nice ink you got there, sweetheart.”
“I got it for you,” I say, smiling shyly. “I know all your girls have them.”
The sons don’t seem impressed. In fact, most of them look downright bored.
It’s ironic, really. That, cunning as they all are, they don’t realize their judge, jury and executioner stands before them, painted in roses and ink.
My heart soars at the thought of what I will do to each of them.
Eight
Twenty minutes later, we are in Dornan’s room at the clubhouse. I know he has a home, but his wife is probably there. That poor woman. After my humiliating strip-search, he whisked me away, up here, away from the curious eyes of his sons and fellow club mates. I am equal parts relieved and annoyed. Relieved that I didn’t have to put on a show in front of so many suspicious guys, or dance with my bandaged tattoo on full show. Annoyed because I can’t breathe properly in this room, large as it is, since the windows all have metal bars on them and I am unmistakably trapped. Alone. With him.
My scars are hidden nicely by Elliot’s handiwork, but if someone knew what they were looking for, if they studied my skin long enough, they would find them.
“You understand why I had to have my boys search you before you could come in here, right?”
I stretch out on his bed, resting on my elbows and attempting to look unperplexed. “Of course. You don’t want some crazy bitch coming in here.”
“Or a cop,” he says, looking at me sidelong through his thick eyelashes. Christ, his voice is so deep, I can feel everything he is saying rumble through me like a freight train.
“When am I going to dance?” I ask him. I’m not enjoying being cooped up in a room alone with him, and I’m craving fresh air.
He smiles menacingly, and my stomach drops as I remember I don’t have my phone anymore. That idiot smashed it right after his brother finger-fucked me. Shit.
“You’re not going to dance,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, acting a little disappointed. “You want me to waitress or something instead? Because I could show you my routine–”
He kneels in front of me so that his face is inches from mine. I can smell mint on his breath and some kind of aftershave mixed in with his sweat. It’s not offensive, except that it’s his.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all afternoon,” he says, walking his fingers up my thighs. I smile naughtily at him as he threads a finger inside my panties, searching.
I fidget as he finds my pussy and inserts one finger, then two, then pushes three in. I can’t help it. I moan as he applies the slightest pressure to my clit with the pad of his thumb. I can’t keep looking at him, I need to close my eyes, so I pull his face to mine, our lips crashing together in a kind of frenzy.
He takes his hand away and tugs at my dress, taking it over my head before throwing it to the floor. I wince as he lightly traces the intricate patterns of roses and a phoenix rising from the ashes that now adorns my midsection.
“Need to be inside you, baby girl,” he moans, unbuttoning his jeans and letting his hardness rise to full size. I have a chance to study it more closely. Yup. No wonder my ass is so sore. His cock is huge.
He doesn’t even bother taking my panties off, just pushes them to the side with rough, crazed hands. I am equal parts thrilled and terrified that I have had this effect on him in the space of a few short hours. I think briefly of my makeover and mentally high-five myself for getting everything completely right.
He pushes me down on the bed, hovering his cock between my thighs.
“You’re mine now,” he says, thrusting inside me with enough force to make me cry out. He immediately start
s pumping in and out, hard and fast, and my brain does battle with my body. So many conflicting emotions are vying for my attention, I am completely and utterly overwhelmed.
Ohhhh.
I open my eyes to see him above me and am immediately a scared, bleeding fifteen-year-old girl again.
No. Don’t think about that. Pretend he’s someone else. Remember why you’re here.
And that delicious knowledge of my deceit stirs something carnal in my belly, a snaking kind of desire that coils around me and squeezes tightly. Yes. Better.
I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, the thrill of my treachery almost enough to make me orgasm on its own.
“That feels so good,” I moan, and he smirks because he thinks he is fucking me, when I am the one fucking him.
He is a skilled lover. I don’t have anyone to compare him to, other than my high-school sweetheart from Nebraska, but as he carries me to the brink of climax on a white-hot wave of pleasure and lies, I cannot help but scream.
Afterwards, we lie together, catching our breath. I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him staring back.
“Where’ve you been my whole life, baby?” he asks, running his hands over my breasts and between my legs. His touch is everywhere, all over me, marking me as his, a possession that has been claimed.
I smile coyly. “In high school, probably,” I giggle.
“Hey, now,” he replies playfully. “Don’t tell me I gotta prove to you that age doesn’t matter?”
“I think you just did,” I breathe.
We lie there in silence for a few blessed moments. It gives me time to think. Time to plan.
Dornan’s voice strikes that silence, shattering