Twisted Desire Read online

  She sweetly argued, “You don’t think mice chase other mice?”

  Nevertheless, her fingers followed my instruction. So typical. Argue and obey.

  “Roll over and put your fucking ass in the air,” I demanded, and vaulted to retrieve the chair from across the room. I positioned it directly center at the foot of the bed, then sarcastically added the one word that would get to her. “Please.”

  “Reggie?” she asked hesitantly. I’d never spoken to her like that. I’d never approached sex with her like that. It could have been different with us—how it briefly was before—but that was the past. Now it was the only means I had to handle it. I sure-as-fuck wouldn’t turn her away.

  So it was this. Another goddammed compromise.

  “You never call me that. It’s Reagan. Now roll over.”

  She gave me a challenging look. It almost—almost—killed my bravado. A hurricane in her grey eyes formed, swirled and intensified, but I didn’t give a fuck. I stared back. Not backing down. Not doing a damn thing until she saw how it really was to be dominated. How it was when a man only thought about what he wanted and how he wanted it. How she’d fictionalized my desires to suit her excuses, all the while expecting me to be open to her ways.

  Reagan was all she would get from me.

  Silently, she rolled over. Like the wicked heathen she was, she inched down the bed and got as close to the edge as she could. Her feet dangled over the foot of it in front of me. Her glorious ass in my face.

  She was still testing me. Pushing her boundaries.

  What was new?

  Leaning forward in the armchair, I could faintly smell how she would taste. Sweet and salty. Clean and dirty. Rapture and perdition.

  My mind slipped into the erotic landscape before me.

  “Put your head on the bed, and use your hands to spread yourself. Let me see everything. Let me see if I still want it.”

  Of course I still wanted her. I was already sure. I wanted her more than all the money in all the banks in all of Switzerland. Simply, I wanted it more than I wanted it to stop—which would have been the wiser move.

  Where was wisdom when I needed it?

  I forced myself to sit back, the closeness only fueled my hunger for her. That’s where I’d crack. Where I’d cave. Where I’d give in to the illusion.

  She reached up the bed for a pillow, laid her head on it, and her hands slithered down the duvet to behind her knees. She flipped me off with both hands. They indented her skin as she raked two cherry-red nails up the back of her thighs and over her ass until they met in the crease. Then she pulled them apart, proving her modesty was as thin as the air between us.

  I’d seen it all before.

  The freckle that looked like a lopsided heart on her left ass cheek. The places where the sun didn’t shine between her long legs. The parts women usually kept to themselves. I was a local in her kingdom. A patron of her body.

  She held the skin apart, then one hand dropped and went under her stomach and peeked out between her legs. She ran a delicate, thin finger through her wetness, and then it dipped inside her.

  But this wasn’t her game.

  Once again, I leaned forward and hooked my finger around hers as she moved it in and out, halting her attempt to shake me. Then because I couldn’t resist, I kissed the spot where her ass and her leg met.

  “Not yet,” I scolded. “Only I can touch you. Only when I’m ready.”

  I was ready, but then again I wasn’t. I wanted her to wait for me. I wanted her to be crazy with need for just me and what only I could give her. I’d never delayed her pleasure before—not like this anyway—but it felt so good to have control of it.

  Even just this once.

  She still didn’t speak, but she moved her head to the other side, and I heard her sigh. The sound was nearly mind-changing. To the point where I wanted to bury my face in her until she wailed my name.

  I needed to know a few things first.

  “Why are you here, and what the fuck do you want from me?”

  TWO

  PRESENT

  NORA—Saturday, September 18, 2010

  Now he wanted to talk?

  My ass in the air. My face in the sheets. Exposed. Nervous. Raw. Bared. Desperate. And if I was honest with myself, a little frightened.

  No. He wanted me to feel vulnerable. If he knew everything—like he always did—why couldn’t he tell I already was?

  I exhaled again, this time silently. I didn’t want him to know that I was as affected as I was. That I craved the way he possessed my body. Or that the root of everything was that I had missed him so terribly.

  Was this what we were now? Was this who I was to him? Just another woman. The scratch to a fiery itch.

  There had been a time when his attention made me nervous, made me insecure. Angry even. But being without it was unbearable.

  He’d always been intense. At times, it was like he could see right inside of my transparent flesh, looking for a different girl.

  Maybe she was me. Maybe she wasn’t. I didn’t know; I never helped him look.

  Reality was, I was there in Oregon after I’d turned him down once again. Same old song and dance.

  Still, he let me in.

  That gave me hope, but, naked as I was, I didn’t have anywhere to put it.

  Giving in and going to him, I’d thought, maybe we could have one night without labels. One night without the shade of our differences cooling everything around us. One night where I was mostly me, and he was mostly him.

  However, I’d heard my tone, it was like I was with someone else, too. I tried to tune everything out and just concentrate on the sex, but it wasn’t working. Not with him. Somehow he always penetrated where no one else could go. Not only sexually, but emotionally—no matter how I’d struggled with it.

  He wasn’t himself either. His tone had a strident metallic edge. My will was hinged on telling him to cut the shit and just going with it. Accepting it for what it was.

  Tolerance won. Because as frustrated as he made me, the mercury inside me rose. Reagan Warren knew every switch and what it was wired to on my body. He’d flipped them all at one time or another.

  Trying to hide the defiance in my voice, I answered, “You said you wanted me here. I don’t want anything from you.”

  That was a lie. I hoped he believed it because otherwise, he’d want something in return. More than just me showing up. He was the only person on Earth I’d ever consider giving more to, but it would have been unfair to him.

  Look at us.

  “I said I wanted you to come to my sister’s wedding with me, not show up in the middle of the night naked on my hotel bed. You see? Those are two, very different things.” His voice was low, stripped of emotion. Exhausted, yet nowhere near tired. His weakness always uncovered my strength. I used what little power that gave me to forge on.

  He’d kissed my skin, and I could still feel the ghost of where his lips touched me.

  “I know they are different things, but I changed my mind about coming. I was just late.”

  Late.

  With Reagan, the statement better late than never wasn’t the case. If I’d been able to make the wedding, I would have. It simply wasn’t possible by the time I’d decided to come.

  He ran a finger down the pad of my foot, and it tickled, but not enough to jerk away. Then he took my toe in his hand and gripped it, running his thumb over it.

  That stupid toe—our perfect inside joke. Or was it?

  His free hand swept up the outside of my other leg, and I felt his breath against my thigh. I’m not sure if it was because of the position I was in, or if it was the familiar jolt of him reacting with my nerves, but I shivered, and I felt my muscles tremble against my skin.

  I’m sure he didn’t believe me. Who would fall for that twice?

  Only this time it was true.

  “You weren’t ever going to go to the wedding. You know it.”

  It didn’t look good for me
. I didn’t go to weddings; I’d conveniently always had something else going on—but for once I was making an exception. I’d tried.

  Only I couldn’t get a flight that would get me to Oregon on time. It was the best I could do.

  Now, there he was shutting me out. The scene was more like how I’d always assumed he was with other women. It was similar to stories he’d told me after too much wine in the beginning. Stories I’d scoffed at.

  What did I know?

  Unpredictably, displayed like I was, I felt far from humiliated, forced, or intimidated, but he couldn’t see my rotting heart.

  He wasn’t cruel in the bedroom. Ever. That wasn’t his nature. No, he loved pleasing more than anything. That thought gave me comfort, and I submitted to the seduction. It was all I could give him and, honestly, I trusted him. Always had.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I bargained, and meant it.

  I had no more tricks. There was no score. In that moment, giving in to him was the only thing that felt like winning, and I hated it. It would be his flesh inside mine, but hindsight would be fucking me.

  There was no way I could make myself happy. It was too late for that. There were no more loopholes—especially if he was behaving that way. He’d always said it was different with me. He felt more with me. Felt everything with me. It wrecked me knowing this was the way he was with them. A downgrade.

  He had been special with me; I’d been special with him, too.

  Had I ever told him that? Had I known?

  No. For shame.

  Did the blame belong to fear or inexperience this time?

  He pulled away from me, and my flesh cooled in response. Then he asked, sounding displaced and fallow, “Where would we even start?”

  Was he the same man? The one who chased me? The one who bought me perfume just so he could sample it from my skin?

  He’d been so powerful and restrained.

  He’d always had a plan.

  He probably wanted the girl with the bum toe who’d read him Cosmopolitan in bed.

  Where was that guy who found loopholes in arrangements he’d made himself?

  I wanted him back. I wanted Reggie.

  Then he said something very promising. “I’ll tell you where I’d like to start.”

  THREE

  PAST

  REAGAN—Friday, November 9, 2007

  I’d like to start with: I was aware I’d already looked at my watch. Repeatedly.

  Eight twenty-nine. She was late.

  It was a first date, and, honestly, I could have picked from hundreds of other things to do on a Friday night.

  I’d arrived at our agreed upon location, a great steakhouse called Bryant’s I’d wanted to revisit anyway. Lauren—my prospective date—had said she would be in the neighborhood of the restaurant, and so that’s why I was there waiting on her.

  Waiting was not my forte. Never had been.

  I didn’t like letting someone have that kind of power over me.

  Still, I was sensible. Perhaps there was a reason she was running behind?

  Our date was at eight thirty, and when I looked at my watch again, it was precisely that.

  I was from the school of thought that imparted, “Fifteen minutes early was on time. On time was late.” Not everyone followed the same principles though, and since she had a beautiful figure and a very sweet smile, I’d wait a while because I’d asked her out for dinner.

  I flagged down the waiter, ready to order a drink. Initially, I’d intended to order one when she arrived, but I was moving on.

  I was thirsty. Call it a compromise.

  He hurriedly walked toward me with an expectant look on his young face. “Sir, what can I get for you?”

  “I’ll take an ice-cold Heineken, please.”

  He glanced at the still empty seat, and then gave me a sympathetic nod before walking off to place the order.

  How long would I wait for her?

  How long could I tolerate that you’re-being-stood-up face from the server?

  If waiting wasn’t my forte, then pity was something far worse.

  I was Reggie Warren, youngest junior partner in Price-McClelland history, the fastest growing wealth management firm in the country. A business prodigy. I had a long way to go, but I was headed in the right direction. I wasn’t king of the world, but I was worth being on time for and totally undeserving of anyone’s sympathy.

  It was one of the senior partners who’d suggested I start dating. According to Justin Beckham, the company was a very cleanly ran operation. Very straight-laced. The board was seated with good men. From what I was told, they liked a family image, and relied on their honorable reputations in societal circles to help grow their slate-clean presence in an ugly, and recently tarnished, view of the investment business nationwide.

  Companies much larger than the one I worked for were going under right and left.

  It was ours which had actually managed money properly in the recent economic downturn. There were still chancy deals too good to pass up, but those were limited. Our good name was built on responsibility and security.

  Things had fallen apart in our industry for companies who didn’t manage their risks well. It turned out damn near all of them were caught up playing a game they’d help create, and losing at it.

  Price-McClelland’s hit was less significant on a revolutionary scale. Most of our larger customers had split their wealth over time, not having too many eggs in one basket. Facts were facts, and those customers knew who they could trust. While other companies scrambled to erase, deal, and come to terms with possible failure, ours prospered.

  Customers moved more of their funds to us. They came to trust us, because when money had been in our hands, well, frankly, it stayed there. Better still—it grew.

  It was a very reputable corporation. That’s why I’d aggressively sought and acquired a position there. In a very short time, about two years, I’d made a lot of money for everyone. The customers. The company. And me.

  So when said company began applying pressure to my twenty-four-year-old self, self being one who loved to dabble in women like some dabble in do-it-yourself projects, I was forced to listen.

  I’d never been flashy about my fraternizations. I was a one woman at a time type of guy, and the women I saw privately were like-minded. Career focused, but also needing release in the form of sex. It’s no secret that when working in high-stakes business, stress can be abundant. Sex was a remedy for the tension.

  Being focused on work like I had been, it wouldn’t have been fair to a woman who was looking for more than what I had to offer anyway. I was careful to find company with those of a similar mindset. Believe me, there were plenty of women in the dating pool who weren’t interested in anything serious.

  Women of our generation didn’t just let the men handle it—at least the ones I knew. They were smart. Motivated. A lot of them single, most with no children. Ambitious and aggressive in the workplace, but lucky for me, they loved letting go in the bedroom.

  Yet, they were climbers—just like me—and I respected that. They didn’t want to tag along to my work functions. They had obligations of their own. They weren’t interested in spending a lot of time with me, they had lives, too.

  No. What they wanted was an occasional weekend on Lake Michigan. A nice hotel with a spa. Good food and light conversation. Then, they wanted their eyes to roll back in their head as I made them come until I was satisfied to stop.

  In those years, I’d casually dated a few who’d liked what I liked. They’d come and go, always on good terms. We’d all practiced the same open-door sexual politics. When I was in a relationship of sorts I only asked one thing—I wanted to be the only one they were with.

  Besides, I wasn’t aimed at the domestic life yet. I wasn’t ready to be responsible for taking care of a family—one hundred percent—the way my dad had. I was still focused on work. Building a foundation for the future.

  But as I moved up, the future cre
pt closer and closer.

  Still, the picture they wanted to see painted wasn’t the worst thing, and I was mature, so I understood. The company wanted to see me settled. I was a young commodity they didn’t want jumping around. They were under the impression that if you give a man a good woman and some children, you’d see someone dedicated to providing everything they could for them.

  That was almost always the case. Those were the kind of men my firm was interested in. The invested kind.

  I liked that about them. And, for the most part, that’s how I was. I took care of things. I managed things. If you were looking for someone responsible, you’d find I fit the bill.

  I was an honest and dependable employee. Yet, I was a bachelor.

  So there I was, on a date with well-educated, fresh-faced Lauren—well, almost.

  It was eight thirty-four, and I’d only just seen her walk through the doors.

  I watched her as the host finished with another couple before he could show her to our table. She smoothed shaky hands over her clothes and pinched her cheeks. She was aware she was late.

  That helped.

  The waiter came by and dropped off my beer, and before he left, I requested, “Can you please bring a bottle of Abeja Cabernet Sauvignon, and two glasses?” I’d noted it on the wine list when I’d first been seated.

  He looked behind himself and saw her looking in our direction as she waved, then he gave me a relieved grin.

  That’s right. I wasn’t stood up, friend.

  My eyebrow cocked at him, and I smiled confidently.

  “Right away,” he answered.

  Lauren was an ideal woman. She was a young lawyer, still working as a paralegal, until a spot opened, at a firm in the same building as Price-McClellan downtown. She walked to our table slowly, her light pink pea coat hid her skirt but revealed two beautiful legs.

  If it wasn’t for being our first date, I would have allowed myself to fantasize about them spread apart, her bent over my bed, as I patiently talked to her, waiting and watching her grow wet for me from a chair.