Every Part of You: Denies Me (#4)

  “I don’t think I can ever do that.”

  “Well, I hope you can try,” Molly said. “Because I told him how to find you.”

  * * *

  Bliss. That was it, pure and simple, no way around it. No way to pretend it was anything else. It was bliss and magic and she was head over heels. No going back.

  It was love.

  Of course she hadn’t done anything stupid like tell him that. Simone wasn’t ready for that step, and she wasn’t sure Elliott was, either. For now, it was enough to keep seeing him every other day, his voice the last thing she heard before she went to sleep at night. Many times, a text from him was the first thing she woke to in the morning.

  Good morning, sunshine.

  That was what he’d sent her that morning while she was still in bed and he, she was sure, had been up for an hour or so. She looked at the text every so often as she cleaned up her apartment in anticipation of him coming over later, because it made her smile so hard her face hurt, every single time.

  She was making him dinner tonight. He’d offered to take her out to a restaurant, then dancing, but she’d laughed and promised to cook for him instead. She had ulterior motives.

  Tonight, Simone had decided, she was going to tell him how she felt. She was going to cross the line. See what happened when she opened herself to taking a chance.

  Oh, and she was going to seduce him, too. Spectacularly. It had been weeks of soft and sweet lovemaking, and as delicious as it was, she hadn’t forgotten the other side of him. The man who knew how to pinch and bite. The one who’d used his belt on her. That was what she wanted, needed, and craved, and tonight she was going to make sure she got it.

  To that end, she’d picked out a pair of tiny lace panties and a matching bra, along with a lace garter belt and sheer stockings with seams running up the back. A black wrap dress with a tie at the side that could be tugged open with one hard pull. And finally, a pair of her highest black pumps, the ones with the pointy toes that made her feel like an Amazon warrior.

  Dinner was simple, a roast chicken with rosemary potatoes and sauteed green beans. A salad. Fresh rolls. A bottle of wine, the kind he liked. She’d set the table with her grandmother’s china and crystal, pieces she’d inherited but had never bothered to use before now. Everything was ready.

  Everything but Elliott, anyway. He was late, which wasn’t like him. Simone kept herself from texting him, not wanting to jump on him if he were simply stuck in traffic, but when an hour passed without a word from him, she started to worry.

  Where are you?

  No answer.

  Another hour passed, and Simone began to pace. Phone in her hand, she moved back and forth in her living room until the click-clack of her heels on the hardwood floor began to drive her crazy. She sent another quick text.

  I’m getting worried. Are you okay?

  Again, no answer. Stomach twisting, Simone went so far as to text Aidan, asking him to text her back to check if her phone was, for some crazy reason, out of service. He didn’t answer her, either, which didn’t help.

  By the time the knock came at her front door, she’d worked herself into a small but controlled panic. She’d started running through all her options. Call the hospitals. The jails. At the knock, sharp and bold, Simone jumped.

  “Elliott,” she said as she opened it. “Thank God! I was worried!”

  He pushed past her without a smile or a kiss. “Something came up.”

  Simone closed the door behind him and turned to watch him stalk toward the dining area between the kitchen and living room. Her stomach had become a tight knot. Her heart skipped a beat or two, though not from excitement. More from sick anticipation.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” he told her, looking at the table, which she’d set so carefully. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Chicken … Elliott.” She waited until he looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Let’s eat.”

  Simone didn’t sit, though he did. “I’ll have to bring the food in from the oven. I had it warming. I hope it’s still okay.”

  He looked at her with such a flat, blank expression that she took a step back. His lip curled a tiny bit. “Are you trying to tell me something, Simone?”

  Her chin went up at his tone. Shoulders straightened. “No. I was just saying—”

  “I’m late. I get it. Sorry.”

  He didn’t sound sorry. Not one bit. Simone took a few seconds before she answered, making sure to keep her voice steady. Not confrontational, even though she wanted to take the glass of wine he was pouring for himself and dump it in his lap.

  “I was worried,” she repeated quietly. “You could’ve called me.”

  “Yeah, well. I didn’t.” He fixed her with a long, steady glare as though daring her to give him a reason to fight.

  Simone backed off. Elliott had never been what you might call affable, but this was beyond grouchy. “Let me get the chicken.”

  He didn’t get up to help her. Didn’t even offer. Instead, he tossed back a glass of the wine she’d chosen after a lot of deliberation and research. Looked at the bottle with a sneer.

  “Do you have anything else?”

  Simone paused as she put down the platter and slipped off the oven mitts she’d barely needed to use because the pan was no longer steaming. She wiped her fingers carefully on one of the cloth napkins. “There’s some gin in the cupboard.”

  “I don’t like gin,” Elliott said.

  “I don’t like being talked to in that tone of voice,” Simone shot back.

  He didn’t answer her right away. She waited for his expression to soften. For an apology. All she got was a shrug.

  The meal was silent and uncomfortable, and though there’d been times before when he’d made her angry, and sometimes he’d made her cry, before now Elliott had never made her feel this … anxious despair. Simone didn’t give in to that, though. Nor did she try to coo or placate him, or try to jolly him out of his mood. He didn’t even bother to make small talk.

  Neither of them ate very much.

  Afterward, he did carry the dishes to the sink and help her put away the food. He moved around her kitchen as though he owned it, finding the right containers for leftovers without having to ask. Cleaning up the messes she’d left on the stove and in the sink. Simone stood back and gave him his space, but in her small kitchen it was only a matter of time before they bumped into each other.

  “Sorry,” Elliott said grudgingly as he turned. When she didn’t say anything but tried to move past him, he took her by the elbow to get her to look at him. “Simone. I’m sorry.”

  Emotion flooded her, and she blinked back tears. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. I just…” He shrugged and took the butter dish from her and set it on the counter behind him, leaving her hands empty. He pulled her close.

  He kissed her.

  And dammit, even though she’d been angry with him for being such an asshole, there wasn’t much she could do when he kissed her other than to kiss him back. It wasn’t anything like gentle, and Simone whimpered at the crush of her teeth against her lips. When his hands gripped her hips hard enough to pinch, shudders of pleasure rippled through her.

  He backed her up against the counter, pinning her. When she tried to put her arms around his neck, he grabbed her wrists and kept her hands at her sides. He squeezed, tight and tighter, and she loved it.

  She gasped when he put his mouth to her throat, using his teeth. She gave him her neck, arching her back to encourage him as he pushed her harder against the line of the counter, causing it to sink deep into her back.

  This was what she wanted. This urgency, this roughness. Yes, this pain.

  When he put his hand beneath her dress, finding her garters, Elliott groaned and buried his face against her. “Fuck, Simone. You are so fucking sexy.”

  His words thrilled her. The way he pushed his fingers
inside her panties even more so. When he found her clit, rolling it, her hips bucked and she cried out.

  “Harder,” she breathed. “Oh, please, Elliott … hurt me.…”

  He stopped.

  Pulled away. There were inches between them when only a heartbeat ago there’d been no space at all. Breathing hard, Elliott backed even farther away.

  Confused, Simone shook her dress down over her thighs and pushed away from the counter. “Elliott … “

  He held up a hand to silence her. “I’m leaving.”

  “What?”

  He didn’t answer her. He just left her in the kitchen. Simone didn’t settle for that. She went after him.

  “Don’t you walk away from me,” she told him in a shaky voice. It was hard for her to catch a breath.

  He looked back at her. “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t do … what?” She realized what he meant before he answered her. “Hurt me? Is that what you mean?”

  Elliott shook his head, though he was not disagreeing. “What kind of man puts his hands on a woman and uses them to hurt her?”

  The self-loathing in his voice stunned her. She reached for him, but he shrugged away from her touch. “You do understand, don’t you, the difference between trying to hurt someone out of anger, and playing with pain to give someone pleasure? I mean … there’s a difference, Elliott.”

  “It’s sick.” His voice grated, harsh, not like his normal tone at all. It sounded broken, like a bottle shattered on brick. “It’s sick to hurt someone and like it.”

  “Not if the other person likes it, too,” Simone said. “Not if you both like it and agree—”

  “I don’t agree!” Elliott shouted. “It’s wrong and sick and disgusting.”

  She stared at him. “I like pain, in the right circumstances. I like it when you give it to me. I thought you understood that. And you seemed to like it, too. And there’s nothing wrong about it, or sick, or twisted, or dirty.”

  “It makes me feel that way,” Elliott said.

  Sickened, Simone swallowed hard against a surge of bitterness. “I would never want you to feel that way about anything we do together, Elliott. But I don’t understand why, if you feel that way, you … did it. With me. Before.”

  He said nothing, his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. He looked away from her.

  She didn’t try to move closer. In fact, Simone thought if she tried to walk, she would trip and fall and not be able to get back up. She was shaking again, but this time not with passion.

  “I would never want you to do something that made you feel bad about yourself,” she told him. “I love you.”

  Elliott flinched. “Don’t.”

  “I love you,” she said, a little louder. A little stronger. She waited another handful of seconds before saying, “Now would be the time for you to say something, Elliott.”

  “I don’t want to see you again.”

  Simone drew in a long, sobbing breath that hurt her in every single inch, but managed to find the voice to answer him. “That’s not what I was hoping to hear.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not sorry!” she shouted, sending him back against the front door though she hadn’t done so much as take a step toward him. “You’re not sorry, you’re a fucking asshole!”

  “Fine. Then I’m an asshole.”

  “I’m not going to beg you to stay with me,” Simone said.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.” He opened the door.

  “Now would be the time,” Simone called after him, barely able to get the words out, “to tell me that being with me did not disgust you.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Get out,” Simone said. Her voice rose into a throat-shredding scream. “If being with me disgusts you so much, then just get out! Go!”

  And then, damn him, he went.

  * * *

  Simone ran.

  Not physically—the shoes made that impossible. But in her heart, she ran. As fast and far from Elliott as she could.

  She ran to Aidan. Of course she did. He’d always been there to give her what she craved, what she needed. What she had long ago discovered she could live without only if she decided to be unhappy, dissatisfied, discontent. Until Elliott, Aidan had been the only man to ever understand her well enough to make her happy.

  At the thought of it, a giant fist squeezed her heart and her throat until she couldn’t breathe. On the sidewalk in front of Aidan’s building Simone staggered as though drunk, turning the heads of the couple passing by. She bared her teeth at them, daring them to offer to help her. The man took in the sight of her dress, the stockings, the shoes, probably the makeup smearing her face. For a moment he half reached for her, but the woman on his arm pulled him back with a glare.

  There was a moment, standing in front of Aidan’s front door, when Simone second-guessed herself. Her knuckles brushed the painted wood without knocking. She put both hands flat on it. Then her forehead. She could walk away now, before he answered. He would never even know she’d been there, but she would remember it. What she’d done when Elliott rejected her. Who’d she’d come to. She would always remember that.

  With a hitching sob, Simone knocked. Then again, harder, bruising her hand and not caring. It was a different kind of pain, the sort she inflicted on herself, but that didn’t matter. She slammed her fist against the door until the skin split.

  “Simone? What’s wrong?” Aidan asked.

  He wore a pair of jeans slung low on his hips to show off the V of his abs, the first tufting hint of pubic hair. Bare feet. His hair brushed his shoulders in tangled waves, and the scruff on his chin showed he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He was so beautiful it made her heart hurt.

  He reached for her, drew her inside. He put his arms around her, one big hand cupping the back of her head. For only a few seconds Simone allowed herself to relax into his embrace before she pushed away, shaking her head. She tipped her face to him, well aware of how horrible she must look, how her makeup must be smeared. Skin pale with fury and despair.

  “I need you,” she said simply.

  He knew what she meant, just as she’d known he would. The look in his eyes shifted from concern to that dark spark that had made her fall in love with him so many years ago. She didn’t feel that way about him anymore, but it didn’t matter. Love had burned her up and left behind nothing but ash.

  Simone didn’t want love. She wanted something else from him, and it wasn’t a hug. Without another word, she moved past him, into the living room. She didn’t bother looking around—she knew the layout of this room well enough. She knew the straight-backed, cushionless chair that looked so benign in the corner. She pulled it into the center of the room. She reached to unhook the halter of her dress, letting it fall down to expose her bare skin. She shivered at the sight of Aidan’s tongue sliding across his bottom lip. She turned to show him the entirety of her naked back.

  “Simone,” Aidan whispered. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  In answer, she turned around to grip the back of the chair. Legs slightly spread, the way he’d always liked to see her, so that he could slide his hands under her skirt and get to her pussy. Her split knuckles ached as she squeezed the smooth wood. She waited.

  For a few terrible moments, she was terrified he would reject her, too. But then the warmth of Aidan’s hand stroked down Simone’s back. He traced the curve of her shoulder blades. The knobs of her spine. She was too thin for him now, she knew that. He’d always liked women with more curves. It wouldn’t matter.

  His hand moved lower to cup her ass. She breathed, closing her eyes. His fingers moved lower, under the hem of her dress to pull it up to her hips. She wanted to smile at the sound of his breath at the sight of her sheer panties, the lacy garter belt and stockings. She wanted to spread herself open for him and give it all away.

  “You’re shaking,” Aid
an said in a low voice. His hand cupped her ass again. Then up and over her back to curve onto her shoulder, fingers digging but not hard enough.

  Simone tried to answer him, but all that came out was a sigh.

  Aidan leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear and the side of her neck. He nuzzled her for a moment. Simone shivered again.

  “Tell me what you need,” Aidan said.

  “I need,” she said, “to hurt.”

  For a moment he leaned against her, forehead pressed to her shoulder. He kissed her there, then pressed his teeth to her skin. Not biting, though the promise of it was there. She couldn’t stop herself from letting out a small, desperate moan that could’ve made her hate herself if her greed wasn’t too busy swallowing up all the rest of her emotions.

  Good, she thought. Block it all out.

  “You want me to hurt you.”

  “Yes, Aidan.”

  It was the consent that got to him; she knew him as well as he did her.

  “Please,” she added, knowing it was that extra, tiny bit of supplication that would tip him over the edge.

  She’d subbed to him before, of course, back in the early days when she’d confused her need for pain with a desire to submit. Before she’d learned how her body worked, how the stripes she loved on her back were not at all related to humiliation or subjugation. When she’d figured out that if she went to her knees it would always, always be because she wanted to be there, and never because someone had demanded it of her. That inherent lack of submission inside her had been what split she and Aidan apart, but she had loved him dearly once and still did, in some ways always would. She knew what flipped his switch. She knew what to give him.

  “Please,” she breathed, closing her eyes. Widening her stance. Offering her ass and bare back to him.

  She gave him what he liked and craved so he’d do the same for her, because she wanted him to want this as much as she did. She needed him to want it. To get off on it. She needed to know that his cock rose for her, because of her.

  Simone needed to be desired.

  She waited, willingly blind, for him to bind her hands to the back of the chair. When the soft press of the familiar silk scarves brushed her skin, Simone twitched, but didn’t move. She hated being tied but she would suffer that so she could suffer what she wanted from him. After a moment though, the scarves withdrew.