James reaches for something on his desk, and the next moment, the screens before us come alive.
And on all of them . . .
Us.
A still image of us.
Me, blindfolded, gagged, shackled, hanging from the suspension bar, and James standing before me naked. The same scene on every screen, but dozens of different angles. I inhale, scanning them all, taking in each one. My eyes home in on the center, largest screen. It’s a close up of his face. His wild, beautiful face. He looks drunk, dozy eyed, completely lost. In me. He was lost in me. Completely. He didn’t like seeing me with Ollie, because he’s watched this. He’s watched us. And it’s a sight to behold. Mesmerizing. Spellbinding.
Magical.
This, us, what we do, how I feel. It’s magic.
The sheer sight floods me with even more need, and I turn my face into him. His eyes are fixed on the screen, and he starts to walk his fingers down my stomach.
“Shall I play it?” he whispers, turning his eyes my way as his fingers scissor and slip through my pulsing flesh. I inhale fast, tensing, the sensitivity too much already. He holds the remote control up, his thumb hovering over the play button. I nod, and then jolt when he rolls a fingertip around my clit painfully slowly.
“Relax, Beau,” he orders gently, pressing play and sliding the remote control onto his desk. “Enjoy the show.” He takes my jaw between his fingers, kissing me hard, and then turns my face toward the screens.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Sex personified.
And I am rapt by it.
He massages me gently between my legs with one hand, his other tracing light circles around my nipple, and my head drops back, my eyes heavy, but I keep them rooted to the screens, unable and unwilling to look away. I watch as the James on the screen plays with me, tortures me, denies me of an orgasm, and my body bucks and bows in response, all the while my body now getting hotter and hotter, his touch getting firmer and firmer. I push my feet into the edge of his desk, my back into his front, my pants becoming loud, the fire inside raging. He spreads my need far and wide, fucking me with his fingers brutally, pinching my nipple, thrusting his groin upward constantly. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he pulls away. If he halts the climax building. My mouth drops open, more air needed, and I grapple for the arms of the chair, clawing my nails into the soft leather. “James,” I breathe, starting to shake, my body locking up, pinning down the rush of pleasure steaming forward. His fingers roll harder, plunge deeper. “More.” My head is limp, my drowsy eyes struggling to keep focused on the screens. Tingles start to attack me, my skin hyper-sensitive, the sounds from the TV mixed with my sounds now a sensory overload. “More!” He persists, circling his long fingers wider, pulling them free and spreading the wetness. My heart is hammering. My body blazing. My mind spinning. My feet push farther into the desk, sending us back a few feet in his chair.
And suddenly we’re not facing the screens anymore. James spins us to face the wall of glass, and my feet instinctively find the window, looking for an anchor. I press my soles into the cold pane, my arms flying up to cradle our heads, my hips thrusting up into his drives. The lights of the city meld and blur, creating a rainbow splash of color under the moon. Everyone miles away. The world miles away. Misery, miles away.
Freedom is here. Serenity. Detachment from the world.
I turn my face into him and nuzzle his rough cheek, prompting him to look at me. His working fingers never falter. My heart doesn’t slow. He stares at me as he continues to blitz my mind and body with his incomprehensible capabilities, the real world gone. Because James can’t be real. This can’t be real. I want it to be, because this, here, us, how I feel? I don’t know how I will survive life without it now.
He moves forward, sealing our lips, plunging his tongue deep into my mouth, and my hands find his hair, my tongue finds his pace, my lost soul finds . . .
Relief.
I come on a moan into his mouth, a tug of his hair, my hand resting on his over my breast and squeezing. I’m breathless. Exhausted. Stiff from tensing so much. The waves of pleasure rack my body to no end, my legs ramrod straight, braced against the window, as I let it consume me whole. Every last bit of it.
His fingers slip free and softly circle my twitching clit, his lips slowing until they’re unmoving on my mouth. He breaks away and wraps his arms around my belly, turning the chair so we’re facing the screen again.
Together, we watch the end of the show, the track still playing, James’s heavy breaths behind me, not a word murmured. I observe as the onscreen James rolls off me and my eyes become heavy, both on the screen and in reality. I can’t hold them open anymore. I sigh and give in to my tired muscles everywhere, and he holds me tighter in response to my body softening, tenderly kissing my cheek. “I’m glad you came back to me,” he whispers.
And I’m gone.
23
JAMES
It was all about her. I didn’t come. Didn’t want to. But I desperately needed her to need this.
Peace. Peace found in intimacy. It’s new. Unexpected. A bit like the jealousy that found me when I saw her with Oliver Burrows.
I remain in my chair, Beau on my lap sleeping, and rewind the footage to the beginning. And I watch it again, my concentration split between her face and mine. Both are fascinating. Hers because of the sheer pleasure, mine because of the sheer pain.
I didn’t know what I was doing last night when I tied her up, but I knew I couldn’t stop it.
I’m hooked on her. On us. But she doesn’t know me, and that will inevitably change everything. I fuck women to be seen. I take them with an audience because it’s the only time in my life that I can really show myself. I’m known as James Kelly, a private stockbroker, but no one knows who I am. Where I come from. Why I’m here.
But Beau sees me. Even if she doesn’t know what she’s looking at. And I sure as shit see her. She’s blinding. Soft. And though she feels weak, she’s strong. I have to show her that.
My phone bleeps from the desk, and I gently ease forward to claim it, checking that Beau doesn’t stir. I open the message from Otto. A picture of a well-dressed man appears on my screen, and I narrow my eyes on his chubby, cheerful face. He reeks bent. Swiping away from the screen, I dial Otto.
“Who is he?” I ask quietly.
“Judge Ferguson. He’s taking back-handers from someone in exchange for the manipulation of evidence on a man. A man under The Bear’s umbrella.”
“Vince Roake,” I hum to myself. Otherwise known as The Alligator. Jaz Hayley got him in cuffs before I got my knife to his throat. “Could the judge know who The Bear is?”
“No.”
Makes two of us. And it’s as frustrating as fuck. “His movements?”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks.” I hang up and get the image of the judge back up on my screen, airdropping it to my laptop. I look down at Beau. Dead to the world. Turning on my screens, I drop the judge’s face into the mix, scowling at his photo. Otto was right. The Bear will always add to his army. Until I find the fucker and end him.
My eyes scan across the bank of TVs, landing on the last two. Blank screens. One reserved for The Bear, and the other for who he’s got on the inside. Because that’s a given.