Page 34

Ava

Sophia Sullivan

Any interest in Chinese? Dad’s working late.

I stare at the text. She’s upstairs, and I’m in my temporary office downstairs. I’m more than happy to eat dinner with her, but she’s still refusing to meet up with her friends.

Recovery is a marathon. It doesn’t happen overnight. But school is just over a month away.

The grant form I’m working on is a never-ending series of questions, and I need a break from it, so I push away from the desk and head upstairs.

When I tap on her door, there’s a meek, “Come in.”

She’s sitting back on stacked pillows with a blanket over her legs and a book in her lap.

From what I can tell, other than the mornings when she goes out with me, she holes up in this room.

Based on my experience as a teenager, I’d categorize this as completely normal behavior, except that her phone still sits charging in her dad’s office, untouched.

“Whatcha reading?”

She holds up a Sarah J. Maas book, The Court of Thorn and Roses . I haven’t read it, but again, it strikes me as normal, healthy reading.

“Is it good?”

She nods. Okay, then.

“Your dad’s got a business dinner tonight?”

“He’s in Houston today. Something about he got stuck with some extra meetings.” She rolls her eyes. “Happens all the time. Or at least, it used to.” She closes the book on her lap, like she’s resigned to the interruption. “Chinese okay?”

“Sure, but isn’t your chef making dinner?”

There’s a chef who keeps a variety of meals stocked in the refrigerator with simple instructions for reheating.

I’ve only laid eyes on the chef twice. The cleaning service comes daily during the week, yet mostly I’ll hear them vacuuming but never see them.

It’s as if the Sullivans have instructed the staff to steer clear of the house occupants as much as possible.

I see the Arrow employees far more than the employees who serve Jack’s every need.

“I’m so sick of that food. Aren’t you? I mean, don’t say anything… Janet would replace him in a heartbeat.”

“Who’s Janet?”

“The house manager. She runs everything around here.”

“Have I seen her?”

“No. She manages a lot of the houses in the neighborhood. I think she comes by in the morning when we’re outside.”

“Huh.”

“So, is Chinese good? I could do Mexican.”

“I mean, yeah.” I drag my thoughts away from house staff I rarely see to the question of food. It’s around five o’clock, but I’m not at all hungry. “It might be nice to invite a friend over,” I prompt. “Or friends. Your dad isn’t home.”

When I was her age, my friends would have jumped at the chance for a parentless place. We craved independence, even though at fifteen we didn’t do anything bad. It was just that idea of being parentless that appealed so much.

She frowns. “If you don’t want to eat dinner with me—”

“Sophia, that’s not what I’m saying. I’d love to order Chinese. I just thought—”

“There’s no one I want to see.” She opens the book on her lap, dismissing me.

I study her as I close the door, wondering if maybe her reticence has nothing to do with traumatic recent events and more to do with her going to a private school filled with nasty mean girls. That’s not what I’ve been told, but until she opens up and shares, anything is conceivable.

We order Chinese and eat it while watching episodes of Law & Order SVU .

It’s interesting to me she watches a television show about trauma victims. There have been studies done that show that reading novels about abuse can be therapeutic and empowering.

I wonder if these little bursts of well-plotted shows have the same empowerment effect.

It’s conceivable that seeing these people suffer and survive strengthens her.

After hours of SVU , we say goodnight at close to midnight. Downstairs, the moonlight shines through my window. I don’t bother turning on a light as I prepare for bed. Once in bed, I can’t seem to fall asleep, so I count stars.

Footsteps fall in the hall outside. I pull the comforter up to my shoulders and watch the door.

Two security guys cover the third shift. Their offices are down the back hall, so it’s not unusual to hear them. But they would never enter my bedroom. Or at least, I assume they wouldn’t.

My breath stills as the doorknob twists. The door opens, scraping the thick carpet fibers.

Jack fills the doorway. He’s in a suit and tie, but his tie is partially undone, as is the top button on his dress shirt.

The door closes behind him, and he clicks the lock.

The moonlight reveals the direction of his gaze, but I can barely make out his eyes.

In the dim light, they are dark and hooded.

I remain frozen, watching. He toes off his shoes as he tugs on his tie. My breath returns, and the comforter rises and falls.

“Ava?” he whispers as he shrugs off his suit coat. He drops his jacket and tie on a chair.

One by one, he unbuttons the buttons on his dress shirt. He removes cufflinks and sets them on the armrest. The shirt falls onto the chair, and then his undershirt.

“You asleep?” His fingers work his belt buckle.

There’s no point in feigning sleep. His trousers fall to the floor, and he steps out of them. I sit up in bed.

He steps to me, naked except for boxers and black dress socks. Under normal conditions, it’s a look that would have me snickering. But in the dim light, the socks are barely distinguishable. And his muscular, tanned chest and firm abdomen are nothing to laugh at. Nor are his tented boxers.

He fingers the collar on the old t-shirt I’m wearing. His hand glides down to my waist, lightly brushing over my breasts, and lifts the fabric up and over my head.

“Better.”

I swallow and reach for him, letting my legs fall over the side of the bed.

My fingers lightly touch the band of his briefs, and his fingers tousle with my hair.

When I look up, into his eyes, his gaze singes every fiber of my being, as if he’s a live wire and I’ve touched it with my feet planted on the ground.

I lower his briefs, and once they are over the curves of his muscular ass and his ample erection, they fall to his ankles. I grip his shaft and squeeze. Watching him, I lick up his protruding veins and take him in my mouth. His eyelids close.

He likes my mouth on him. There hasn’t been a night since our agreement that we haven’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t go to sleep. Some part of me expected him to walk through that door with expectations.

I take him deep, to the back of my throat. Tears spring at the corners of my eyes. He grunts and groans. His hips rock forward. His hand guides, but he’s gentle. I wish for him to be rough. To demand. To treat me like shit. But he doesn’t.

So I choke myself on him. Saliva drips down his cock. My fingers use it as I work his base and his testicles. He expands in my mouth. I suck harder. An urgent desire—no, need—builds. He pulls a chunk of my hair, forcing me off his cock.

“No,” he commands. He lifts me below my armpits and tosses me back across the bed sideways. In a flash, my panties are down my legs and over my ankles.

He spreads my thighs, and I steel myself. He’s fucked me with his mouth many times, but always when I’m standing. Tied to the cross or back against a wall. When I stand, my legs nearly fold when the orgasm rips through me.

He places his arms below my thighs, and my center clenches. Anticipation and desire blend.

“Yes.” Regret for speaking hits me, and I clamp my mouth shut.

My ass brushes against the comforter as he tugs my whole body down to the edge of the bed.

His tongue slips between my folds, and I shudder. It feels so fucking good. His tongue laps at me, working my sensitive areas, fondling my clit. My fingers twist my nipples as he plunders me with his fingers and his mouth.

My muscles clench. The sensations are almost too much. All kinds of noises escape.

Just enjoy it.

Let go.

Fuck this feels good .

My spine curves as my orgasm begins. I let out an animalistic sound.

His head snaps up, and I reach for his hair, aiming to shove him back down.

But he’s up, rising off his knees. He maneuvers my legs, limp like noodles, so they are up against his body, one foot at each side of his face, and he thrusts his cock inside me.

My back arches at the sudden intrusion, and my muscles clamp around him. My spine flattens against the bed as his hips thrust. I suck in oxygen. His muscles strain. A blood vessel in his neck pulses, highlighted under the moonlight.

He’s like an unleashed animal. He holds me in place as he takes me exactly as he wants.

Every time he thrusts, he hits deep, sending shockwaves through my pelvis and to the outer perimeters of my limbs.

My toes and fingers tingle. I shout as the impending orgasm unleashes.

Every muscle trembles. My eyelids close and tiny, brilliant lights dot the backs of my eyelids. He stills and groans.

“Damn, Ava.” He pulls out, and one glance at his hard dick and it’s clear he didn’t let himself come.

He rolls me onto my side and slides me up farther on the bed and climbs on behind me. He lifts my thigh and reenters me from behind. His movements are slower this time. His breath is in my ear. And fuck if he doesn’t feel even better than he did before.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Rub that sensitive clit.”

Sensitive would be the correct word. My skin pulses with sensations. All I have to do is press the pads of my fingers against my mound, and the pressure coaxes my clit. I close my eyes, reveling in how damn good it feels.

He pulls out and rolls me onto my back. My pliant muscles allow him to maneuver me like a rag doll.

I’m breathing deeply, nearly gasping, and he’s damp with perspiration.

I reach up and wipe a bead of sweat from his brow, and he dips his head, his lips falling on mine, and his tongue enters my mouth as his dick drives inside, stretching me, filling me.

I taste myself as he kisses me, and I tug his head closer, demanding a deeper kiss. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air, and he trails kisses, sucking skin as he goes, down to my breasts, and the rhythm of his hips slows.

I reach between us, and we both watch as he pulls out and slides back in. The tips of my fingers find my apex, and I press and pull and play.

“Fuuuck.” He groans.

I’m not sure if it’s his fingers, or his cock pulsing within me, or the weight of his body over me, or the pressure of his thighs against mine, or the combination of it all, but my muscles quiver with the onset of another orgasmic release.

He collapses on top of me, and my arms rest on his back. Holding him like this feels remarkably awkward, given all we have done. But I ignore the awkward and hold him as his heartbeat and breathing regulate.

Since we’re on the bed sideways, our feet hang off the edge.

He rolls off me, onto his side, and his right hand claims my breast, gently massaging it, the pad of his thumb brushing over the nipple, as he places wet kisses against my shoulder.

I’m too spent to move away, and I don’t want to.

But this level of intimacy isn’t our normal.

It’s not what I expected he would want when I agreed to do this.

“I needed you,” he shares. “I came home.” He swallows. “And I needed you.”

“Tough day?” I want to know who he was with. I want to know if he’s sleeping with other people. How often does he do this? Make these arrangements with women like me?

“A shit day,” he says and falls onto his back.

He’s staring at the ceiling, but his hand remains clamped possessively on my breast. I allow myself to roll a little on my side so I can explore the rivets of his chest. His heartbeat thumps beneath his ribcage, solid and strong.

He closes his eyes and lets my breast go to rub his eyes.

“Sophia said you ate dinner with her. Are you making any headway?”

“She’s not ready.” It’s my most honest assessment.

“How much more time do you need?” The frustration he’s feeling comes through in his tone.

That’s an impossible question to answer, so I don’t. Instead, I roll farther onto my side, suck his nipple into my mouth, and bite.

“What the…?” He laughs. It’s more of a chuckle, but I like it. I push up off the bed, and he claims my breast again with a light, tender touch.

“Don’t ask me impossible questions.”

We scowl at each other, but the slight grins on our faces counteract the standoff. He’s concerned for his daughter, and I empathize. I also admire his fierce love. Beneath his cold exterior pounds a passionate heart. My fingers flatten over his chest, memorizing his rhythm.

He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. “Patrick told my uncle about our arrangement.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I…can’t believe–”

“It’s okay.”

“That’s why you had a bad day?” I try to envision what Mark would do. What he would say.

“No. There are things going on. Things I can’t really share. But let’s just say that I’m still worried about Sophia’s safety. I’m glad she has you here.”

In the moonlight, my stack of silver bracelets and beads glimmers. I rest my ear against his chest and listen to the soothing beat.

“When you work late…it’s not just business, is it? You’re doing something…it’s all about keeping her safe?”

His fingers work through tangles in my hair, and my arm tightens around his waist.

“It’s always about family. Or country. One of the two.”

“Sophia’s going to be okay.”

“Yes. She will be. Just…for now, while you are with us…be aware, okay?”

“Is something going on?”

“Always.”

An urge to rise up and press my lips over his almost overpowers me, but I gain control. He’s paying me. My heart can’t get involved. This is sex. Just sex.

I hop off the bed and stroll naked into the bathroom, perhaps with some extra hip sway, just in case he’s watching.

When I finish in the bathroom, he’s gone, as are all his clothes. The rumpled, stained bed cover offers the only evidence of his midnight visit. It’s a good thing there is evidence. Otherwise, I might suspect I suffered from one helluva vivid erotic fantasy.