Hard Act: Davis (Hard as Nails Book 5) Page 9

  The dress is in a soft pile around my ankles, and he guides me forward, helping me step out of it. His hand on my shoulder, pressing me forward, is too much. I turn and take hold of him, pulling him to me and kissing him. I don’t care what the consequences might be for disobeying.

  I need him now.

  His body is hot and hard against mine, his arousal evident as I slide my knee between his legs. He groans softly into my mouth, winding his hand roughly in my hair. We kiss fiercely. The energy I feel from him defies anything I’ve ever known, and it courses through me too, forcing me up onto my toes, making my breath shallow and fast.

  Then he pushes me backwards, tumbling me onto the bed. He strips quickly and joins me on the mattress. His strong hands roam my body, and I melt under his touch. I give up any pretense of being in control, of wanting to win this game we’re playing.

  He runs two fingers down my belly, between my legs. Slips them past my lace panties and inside me and begins fingering me to the rhythm of his kisses. I gasp, my mouth open but all sound caught in my throat. I try to wrap my legs around him and move my hips faster, but he uses the weight of his body to hold me right where I am and continues with long, deep kisses that drain the oxygen from my brain.

  “Davis . . . please . . .”

  He traces my hip lightly with his fingers. I exhale and arch up off the bed. Oh God. I’m going to die if he keeps on teasing like this. I can feel the pressure building with each stroke of his fingers across my G-spot. I clench around him, trying to shift my hips, to get more contact right on that sensitive spot.

  His voice silky, he whispers, “Are you ready for me to fuck you?”

  I’ve been ready since I walked into that restaurant. I widen my legs, splaying my arms on either side of my head.

  “Please, Davis. I need you.”

  He withdraws his fingers and wipes them on the sheet, then tugs my panties right down and off completely. He leans down to kiss my right breast, licking and sucking my nipple until I’m panting.

  He positions his cock between my legs. He pushes into me slowly, filling me, making me writhe. Once he’s in, he starts fucking me hard and fast, giving me what I need, what I’ve been craving since we left the restaurant. Now I do wrap my legs around him. Clutch at him, pull him deeper and deeper into me. I’m moaning with every hard thrust, lost in an array of sensations—rushes of heat, a dizzying need, and just the slightest, most delectable hint of pain.

  I never knew sex could be like this. Satisfying a soul-deep craving I hadn’t even realized I was living without.

  He runs his nails over the backs of my thighs as I raise my legs higher. Then he braces himself on the bed once more and pounds me even harder, until I’m shouting his name. That pressure builds again, and then I’m overcome with jolts of pleasure. My pussy contracts around his cock until, with a shout, he goes rigid, shooting his cum deep inside me.

  He rolls down beside me, and we face each other. His dark eyes stare into mine. One side of his mouth tips up.

  “Worth the wait?” he asks.

  All I can do is nod helplessly. When I made this deal with him, I’d planned to offer him an illusion of control, an illusion of me.

  But now I’m starting to wonder what would happen if I gave him more?

  * * *

  The days pass in a surprisingly enjoyable blur. Davis proves to be a thoughtful host. He usually gets up earlier than I do, and by the time I come into the kitchen, he’s already in his study. But, I’ll find coffee being kept hot for me. I’ll find breakfast freshly prepared. Sometimes even a small gift, like chocolate or flowers, an art book. I don’t want for anything.

  It’s so strange, having these days all to myself. Usually I’d be working. Spending hours at a time in my studio layering colors, creating an artful emptiness out of a blank canvas. But I haven’t asked Davis yet about going back to work. I roll my eyes at the very idea of asking a man for permission to work, but hey, this was my idea. There is a strange thrill that goes through me knowing I’m his for the month and at the realization of how off balance I am right now.

  It’s not just the cancer, or the fact that I’m finally home after all those years abroad. It’s not just my father or Davis. Like some cheesy painting metaphor, where I start with all these different colors, and then I mix them, until I get something new. Until I’ve ended up with the precise color of a summer sky or a twilight meadow.

  Or a massive goddamn storm.

  The storm is coming. I know it is. Until then, Davis and I . . .

  Well, our nights are passionate and wild. It’s not anywhere near what I expected. I supposed I’d anticipated feeling more used. I thought I’d have to grit my teeth and tolerate some wealthy asshole’s depraved desires. But Davis is still very much Davis. Thoughtful, sweet, and dedicated to satisfying me inside and outside the bedroom in ways that actually make me uncomfortable.

  But it’s not supposed to be this way. It’s not supposed to be sweet, it’s not supposed to be gentle. It’s not supposed to be fun.

  And yet I feel happier, more at peace here than I have for a long time.

  Except for my father’s continued involvement with some shady characters. I’m still keeping my tabs on him. I’ve done my research. These people he’s teaming up with, they’re not the kind of people he’d want as enemies, sure. But they’re definitely not the sort of people he’d want as friends. They’ll wait for a chance to stab him in the back, and they’d relish every moment of it.

  So, one day, I ask Davis’s driver to take me to my father’s house, which is more like a gated mansion. At Thornbridge, our house was nice, but not ostentatious. This is definitely more than a little ostentatious, I observe as the driver drops me off at the gates.

  I hit the buzzer. The man himself answers, catching me off guard for a second. He asks me my name, even though I know he can see me. He’s always liked buzzer systems.

  I walk through the gates and up a winding, overly-landscaped path.

  He opens the door. My father always seemed like a big man. Physically, I mean. When I was growing up, he seemed so huge and powerful. But, he’s an inch shorter than six feet tall. Middle-aged paunch, thinning hair. Old acne scars, and a few gray hairs in his eyebrows.

  “Bella,” he says, already turning away. I follow him inside. “Well, what a nice surprise.”

  He only half-means it. He loves seeing me, I know that. He’s missed me, whatever he pretends. But my return is a thorn in his side, and is about to become even more so.

  “It’s good to see you, Dad. Is this an okay time?”

  “I always have time for you.” He smiles tightly.

  “Good.”

  I take off my coat and hang it on the coat tree. I walk past him into the huge living room and take a seat on the sofa. I cross my legs and lean against one of the throw cushions. He’s followed me in, but he doesn’t sit. Rather, he leans in the doorway. Dad’s always got to be the biggest man in the room.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” he asks.

  I look over at him, knowing I can bring him down with a word, a gesture. A reminder that I’m his only daughter.

  But will that be enough to convince him?

  I’m tired, suddenly. Short of breath, even though I barely did any walking. I hate these moments where I can feel the illness taking hold of me.

  Those doctors in Paris suggested some experimental treatment. I didn’t understand the technical aspects of it, but the bottom line was that it only had a twenty percent chance of working. Not to mention it would come with shitty side effects. Not exactly my cuppa. So, I’d made up my mind to let the disease run its course. It wasn’t worth it to put myself through pain, to give myself false hope.

  Now, I wasn’t as sure.

  Don’t think about that, I urge myself. Focus on what you came here to do.

  “Do I need a reason?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “You have that look in your eye.” He folds his arms over his chest. “You came
here with a mission.”

  I sigh and nod in the direction of the armchair across from me. “Sit down. Please?”

  He ambles over to the chair and sits. I straighten. Then I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, and look him in the eye.

  “Why are we pretending?”

  One eyebrow lifts slightly. It’s a quirk he and I share. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . .”

  I pause, watching him. He’s listening. Really listening. He’s good at that. He would often ask about my painting. He’d listen intently while I described the difference between working with acrylics and working with oils. He’d ask questions, either fascinated or pretending to be. It sounds crazy, but he wasn’t a terrible father. I could have had a lot worse.

  Taking a deep breath, I start. “Why are we pretending I don’t know what you’ve been getting yourself into? I do keep tabs on you, Dad. I didn’t abandon you completely, like you assumed I did.”

  Once again, his expression doesn’t change. Except, this time, there’s a slight twitch in his jaw.

  “You’re in over your head. Aren’t you?” I ask.

  His expression grows harsher. “My business is none of your business, Bella.”

  “It is when it puts you in danger,” I snap.

  I sit back. I’m dizzy now, wishing to God I were back at Davis’s, in bed. I’m in no shape to hold this conversation. I need to be at the top of my game, and instead I feel like I’m falling in slow motion through a dense fog.

  “You’ve never been concerned about my wellbeing before. You certainly didn’t care all those years you were gallivanting around Paris.”

  “Dad, we’re not going to argue about this again. Yes, I went to Paris. And yes, I’m sorry I didn’t write. But of course, I care. I’ve always cared. And now I’m more concerned than ever. I may not know all the details, but you’re escalating things. Getting in deeper and deeper with the worst kind of people.”

  “You know nothing.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”

  He meets my gaze for a second, then looks away. He can’t look me in the eye.

  “I’m trying to help you.” I take a deep breath. “You can go clean. Your boys were able to do it. Street. Axel. Jericho. Slate. You can still have a good life, away from all this danger.”

  I stop, feeling anxious but a little hopeful. The dizziness hits again in a wave. Please, Dad. Do this. For me.

  “My girl,” he says softly. He has what looks like genuine tenderness in his eyes. “It’s too late. I am what I am. The best thing you can do is keep living your life and let me be.”

  Whatever hope I was feeling is abruptly snuffed out.

  “Don’t be patronizing,” I say firmly, rallying myself from the momentary dizziness. “Let’s talk honestly about this. It’s important to me. And it’s important to you too; I know it is. You’re not the kind of man your business partners are. You’re . . . you’re a good man, deep down.” My throat tightens. “Please, Dad? For me?”

  I’d hoped to tackle this practically. Lay a slight guilt trip on him, but for the most part strategize. Remain rational and calm. But I’m surprised by the emotion in my voice.

  His eyes get that soulful, wounded look again. He glances away. “You know I can’t just walk away.”

  “I’m not asking you to just walk away. I’m asking you to start taking the necessary steps to disentangle yourself from this mess. I can help you come up with a plan. We can do this together; we can—”

  “Who are you to tell me about it?” he asks, his voice suddenly cold. He closes his eyes, hands clenching then releasing. He opens his eyes again. “Don’t, Bella. Don’t try to get involved in something you know nothing about. My business paid for your diapers, your food, your education. Who are you to tell me I’m in too deep? That I’m not as strong as the people I’m involved with?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I grind the words out, fighting a sudden surge of nausea. The pain and stress are clouding my judgment, and an old anger is rising. “If you had any real strength, you’d walk away.”

  And now he’s angry, too. “Don’t even pretend you know me. Don’t pretend you know my strength. You left; you walked out. You don’t get a say in my life. Ungrateful child!”

  Tears of fury sting my eyes. I stand.

  “You’ve never listened to anyone but yourself. Never cared about anyone but yourself.” I stride toward the door.

  “My business will continue as usual!” he booms after me. “Not your business, Bella!”

  Of course. Because he’s the king. And nobody tells him what to do.

  I slam the door behind me and stand there on his front stoop, breathing hard. I stare out at the manicured yard. Try to focus on the birdsong all around me, and not on the mess of pain and emotion inside me.

  I used to want to be like him. Be somebody no one dared boss around. Someone powerful and dangerous. It was always a war within me. Part of me liked being sweet, warm Bella. I liked being kind to people and that others seemed to like me. But there was always that fantasy of being someone darker. Someone people feared and respected.

  And now, I’m neither. I’m something else entirely. This cold, lonely bitch.

  I want to storm back in there and tell him everything. About the cancer. About that pervasive emptiness that grew worse with each year I spent in Paris. Want to tell him I need a father, need guidance, reassurance.

  But I’m not some scared little girl. I’m going to find a way to win.

  I blink my way through another round of dizziness, then head down the driveway to where the driver is waiting for me.

  * * *

  When I get back to Davis’s apartment, I’m tense and wired. Angry that the meeting with my father didn’t go better, bored from days with nothing to do. And looking for a distraction. I can hear Davis in his study, and at once, I know precisely the distraction I need.

  There are fresh flowers on the table and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls waiting for me in the kitchen. I think he baked them himself, based on their adorable misshapenness. I take a cinnamon roll and stand there by the sink, eating it. It’s fucking delicious. Once I’m done, I lick my fingers and head to his study.

  I knock once, but go in without waiting for an answer. He looks up from his computer, surprised.

  “Bella. Hello.”

  “Hello, Davis.” My voice is low, husky.

  His eyes widen slightly.

  “Er . . .” He glances at his computer, then back at me. “Something you need?”

  “Oh, there is.”

  I step toward him. He draws back slightly, like he’s nervous. I have to struggle to keep from laughing. I grip his tie, using my high heel to nudge his wheeled chair back at the same time. The tie pulls taut. Not enough to strangle him, but enough to give us both a little thrill. He loves when I initiate. I can tell it drives him wild. I take a seat on his lap and lean back, chucking him under the chin with one finger.

  “I wanted to say thank you for the cinnamon rolls.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I press back a little, feeling the bulge in his pants, his breathing growing shallower. I rise gracefully and go to my knees in front of him.

  “Perhaps I should show you how thankful I am?”

  His eyes widen further. For how alpha or dominant he pretends to be, he has no idea what to do in situations like these. But he recovers quickly.

  “Hmm,” he rumbles. “I wonder if anyone’s ever talked to you, Bella, about interrupting people when they’re trying to work.”

  I eye his crotch meaningfully. “Someone doesn’t seem to mind the interruption.”

  “Naughty girl.”

  “Well.”

  I place my hands on my thighs, my back straight. I’m getting excited, getting wet, just thinking about his cock in my mouth. About losing myself in his scent and his taste, his fingers twining in my hair.

  “If there’s something I need to learn, wouldn’t you be jus
t the man to tutor me? Given our history and all?”

  He reaches out with the toe of one immaculate leather shoe and nudges my thighs further apart. My dress is tight, and I love the resistance of the fabric against my skin as I try to open myself to him.

  “I think you may be right. There are some things you need to learn.”

  “Then tutor me, Mr. Young.”

  I get such a rush out of this, out of how we are right now. This pretending, this going to my knees for him. Some part of me has always feared letting go like this. But it’s not as scary as I’d imagined. I feel powerful, watching him watch me.

  He stands. Towers over me. He steps toward me and cups my jaw, tilting my chin up. Then he crouches down for a deep kiss that leaves the lightest stubble scratches on my chin. I smile as the kiss ends, and he touches my hair gently.

  “Oh, I’m about to teach you quite a lesson, Miss Prince.” That low growl in his voice gets me instantly wet. “A lesson you’ll never forget.”

  He straightens. I want him to. I want him to slam me up against the wall, stick his knee between my legs, push me open wide, and thrust his cock deep into me.

  Except that dizziness I felt at my father’s house is back. Damn. Must be something with my meds. I’ve done a good job so far hiding all of my pills from Davis. Pills for pain that leave me dizzy. Pills for dizziness that leave me in pain. And so on.

  I reach for him, but the edges of my vision blur, and agony shoots across my forehead. I collapse forward into his arms, and for a second I think this is something beautiful, like a romantic moment we’re sharing.

  But no, he’s holding me up, and I’m struggling not to cry out as pain blazes through my head again and again.

  “Ssshhh, Bella. Easy now. Easy.” His voice is so soft. “What’s wrong?”

  I can’t answer. I’m sweating and shaking. And then I stop thinking all together and slip into blessed darkness.

  * * *

  When I wake, I’m in his bed. The covers are pulled up loosely around me, and there’s a cool breeze coming in through the open window. I still feel sweaty and nasty, and my head throbs, but it’s not the ripping agony of earlier. Slowly the memory of what happened in his study comes back to me. My eyes flutter.