He Claims Me (4 page)

“Ahhh . . .” Blaine nods as though he understands. “I've been tested. I'm clean.” He slides his right hand along the leather seat and holds up a blue package. “But this is your decision.” He places the condom package in my palm, folding my fingers over it. “If it makes you feel less scared, use it.”

“Oh.” I stare at my hand, my mind spinning. “We have to use a condom. I'm not on birth control.”

Blaine raises his eyebrows. “Do we have to use a condom?”

“Of course.” I frown. “If there are any . . . ummm . . . consequences, you'll think I trapped you.” That would be worse than stealing. I'd mess up his entire life.

His eyes soften. “I dream of those consequences.” He splays his fingers over my stomach, his touch thrillingly possessive as though I already carried his child, our child. In Blaine's eyes, I see a future so precious I don't dare to believe in it.

“And I've been trapped for months,” he adds, his tone filled with a quiet satisfaction. No one traps Blaine unless he wants to be trapped. Warmth spreads over my chest. He wants to be trapped by me.

“But this is your choice, Anna.” He releases me and reclines on the lowered seat, his emotions hidden behind the mask he wears with others.

I turn the condom package in my hand, feeling the thin edges. I want a family, a child, Blaine, and a love without barriers, without fear. Am I brave enough to reach for what I want? “Is sex better without a condom?”

Blaine's eyes gleam. “I've heard it is.”

“You've heard?” I meet his gaze, surprised. “You've never had sex without a condom?”

“Never.”

This will be a first for him too. I'll be his first. I nibble on my bottom lip, intrigued by this possibility.

“Use me as you'd use your dildo.” Blaine wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, offering himself to me, giving me all of the power. “My body is yours to control.”

The condom package falls to the carpet, my decision made. I'll be his first. Wiggling forward, I push my wet pussy lips against his hard shaft, savoring the feel of soft skin over rigid steel. This is natural. This is right.

I lean over Blaine, placing hands on his chest, and I rock, building my confidence. We've done this before and I know how to move to please him, what he likes, what we both like.

“Cup my ass,” I instruct, the authority in my voice surprising me. Blaine's lips curl upward and he lifts me, gliding my pussy up and down his cock, wetting his skin with my moisture, branding his flesh with my scent.

I ride his shaft, fucking him without entry, spiraling my want and need upward, no room in my mind for anything other than Blaine, his hands on my curves, his shaft pressing against my pussy, his musk, his heat, his suppressed desires.

Blaine's legs bounce under my ass and his jaw juts. These are the only indications his renowned restraint is compromised, and they aren't enough, not nearly enough. I graze my fingernails over his stomach and his muscles ripple. I want him as wild as I am.

As I rock, my hair falls forward, the tendrils teasing his chest. Blaine sucks in his breath, his eyes widening. I smile, having discovered another way to drive him crazy. I sweep the strands over his skin, caressing him with my hair, and a growl rolls up his chest. His cock bobs and his grip on my ass tightens.

He wants me badly and he can't do anything about it. He's trapped by his promise, Blaine too honorable to ever break a vow. I graze my fingers across his cock head, spreading the pre-­cum over his shaft, and he shakes.

“Anna,” Blaine rumbles.

He won't last and I want him inside me. “Lift me above you.” As Blaine complies, I curl my fingers around his shaft, positioning him at my entrance. “Lower me slowly.”

His cock head prods my pussy, pushes inside, stretching me. I muffle a moan, gripping his arms. He's broad, broader than anything I've ever taken. His tip slides up me inch by delicious inch, the fit agonizingly snug.

“Too tight,” Blaine huffs, perspiration streaming down his angular face, his lips pressed into a grim white line.

“I can take you.” Pain edges my voice. I grit my teeth as I continue the slow descent, his cock filling me. Have I told my first lie to Blaine? Can I take him? He's large, too large. Oh Lord. I dig my fingernails into his forearms. “I can't—­”

My pussy lips touch his base and the slide stops, the fullness sublime. I'm impaled fully on his shaft, seated on my billionaire lover.

My lover . . . I'm no longer a virgin. I meet Blaine's gaze, needing his reassurance.

“You're perfect.” His green eyes glow, the veins lifted on his forehead, his black hair damp. “You're made for me, Anna.” Blaine holds me in place, his hands clamped on my hips.

We remain locked together. My body slowly adjusts to his girth, my grip on his cock loosening, the pain dissipating, leaving only desire. I shift and he sinks deeper. We both groan, our sexual satisfaction now ­coupled.

Blaine trembles, the strain of not moving, of giving me total control, reflecting in his face. I've allowed him inside me and my world didn't fall apart. I remain Anna Sampson, daughter of a dead thief and a runaway housewife, lover of the most trustworthy man I know. Blaine believes I'm strong, and I am strong enough to let go, to give myself over to him completely.

“I want you on top me, Blaine.” I've dug red crescent moons into his forearms and I smooth the marred skin with my fingertips. “I want you to fuck me hard and fast, not holding anything back. I want you to fill me with your cum.”

Blaine meets my gaze as though seeking confirmation. I nod, unable to repeat my instructions.

“Yes.” He flips me onto my back and braces his body above mine, his weight heavy, comforting. I bend my knees, cradling him between my thighs, and I run my hands over his back, relishing his muscles, his strength.

Blaine pulls his hips back, brazing his cock head along my inner walls, and he pushes inside me once more, rocking my body. He repeats the action, moving slowly, allowing me to grow accustomed to him, and I undulate under him, caressing him with my breasts, my hips.

“Anna,” Blaine rumbles. His shoulders flex under my fingertips, his form pulled tight, the shallow fucking testing his restraint.

He's been tested enough. “More, Blaine. Give me more.” I wrap my legs around his waist and hook my ankles over his clenched ass, digging my heels into him, urging him to thrust faster, deeper.

Blaine increases his tempo, each drive forward bringing more pleasure, more connection, and once I learn his rhythm, I lift my hips, meeting him halfway, our bodies smacking together, heating my skin. He grunts, pumping into me, his face buried in my shoulder, his hot breath blowing along my collarbone, pushing my passions higher and higher.

I drag my fingertips over Blaine's back, leaving red trails over his muscles, marking him as mine. I'll be the first woman he comes in and the last. I'll be his only. A wet sheen covers his finely honed form and his male musk fills the air. He's inside me, this powerful man. He belongs to me. A savage lust, need, want rises in me.

“Claim me, Blaine.” I squeeze him with my inner muscles and a strangled sound escapes his lips, muffled against my skin. “Claim me as I claim you. Make my body yours.” I propel my hips upward and he drives me back, slamming my ass against the leather seat. We struggle, fight for fulfillment.

“Be still.” Blaine nips my bottom lip. I nip him back, biting his lip and pulling. “Anna.” He subdues me, thrusting into my mouth with his tongue and into my pussy with his cock, owning me, propelling me ruthlessly, relentlessly, toward the sharp edge of desire.

His body hardens even more, the firmness exciting me. I need—­

He varies his angle, rubs over my clit, and I break, screaming into his mouth, arching, bucking, writhing, needing him closer, pushing him away. Waves of hot and cold sweep over me, the lights flashing. I clench my pussy down on his cock.

Blaine jerks, throws his head back and roars, temporarily deafening me, his face fierce, his eyes wild. Hard spurts of hot cum jet into me and my pussy muscles convulse. He thrusts once, twice more, holds a rigid pose for three heartbeats, his muscles staining, then he collapses, pinning me to the seat.

I squeak a protest, squished by his big physique, and Blaine rolls, murmuring an apology. He takes me with him, our bodies remaining joined, and he palms my bare ass, nuzzling his chin into my hair. I rest my left cheek on his skin, riding his heaving chest. His breathing gradually slows, his cock softening inside me.

We don't talk. We don't need to talk, both of us knowing words lie but bodies never do. The limousine vibrates under us. I don't know where we're going. I glance at the partition between us and the driver. It's closed.

“This first time is between us.” Blaine presses his lips to my furrowed forehead.

This first time. I smile. He isn't taking what he wants and leaving. He's still here, holding me, talking about the future.

“How long do I have you, nymph?” Blaine smoothes my eyebrows with his thumbs. “There's a dinner this evening I must attend but I can cancel the rest of my meetings.”

I blink, touched he'd cancel meetings for me. Blaine has been working on a buyout of a New York rival for months, the deal close to being finalized. I know how important these meetings are to him and to his company.

“I can't cancel my meeting,” I tell him. Canceling a meet and greet for any reason other than death results in an immediate dismissal from Feed Your Hungry. “I have to be back by two.” I nibble on my bottom lip, thinking of my other commitments, wishing I could spend the day with Blaine. “I also told friends I'd go out with them between the two jobs. Do you want to join us?”

Blaine threads his fingers through my hair, gentling separating the tangled strands, his touch soothing me. “Why do you want me there?”

I sigh. He knows me scarily well. “There's a guy. He's a friend but . . .” I can't finish my sentence, the words feeling like a betrayal.

“He wants to be more.” Blaine's lips twist. “If I join you and he doesn't know about me, you'll hurt him, Anna. You'll lose him as a friend.”

He's right. I frown, dreading the conversation I must have with Michael. “I don't tell him anything, but I don't want to hurt him.”

“I know you don't.” Blaine curls a lock of my hair around his index finger. “I'll meet your friends some other time.” He gazes at me as though I've given everything he's ever wanted. “And you'll meet mine.”

I tense. Blaine accepts me as I am but will his friends? “Will they like me?”

“Yes,” Blaine answers without hesitation, no doubt in his voice. I raise my eyebrows. “You won Fran over, nymph.” He taps the tip of my nose and I blink. “She's my most fierce protector.”

He tells me stories of how he met his other friends. I memorize names, hoping to make a good impression on them when we meet. We linger in the limousine, our moving oasis, as long as we can before dressing.

“Do I look different?” I tug on my vest, pulling the fabric tighter over my small breasts. Blaine's scent lingers on my skin, the soreness in my pussy attesting to our activities. I feel different, more confident and womanly.

Blaine's eyes glitter. “You look beautiful.” He knocks on the window with his knuckles and the door opens. “Be a good girl, Anna.” He brushes his lips over mine. “I'm watching you.”

Not everything has changed. I smile as I exit the limousine.

The driver, Ted, smiles back. “I'm happy for the two of you, miss.” He tugs on the brim of his flat black hat.

My face heats. He knows Blaine and I had sex. I
must
look different.

 

Chapter Four

I
HURRY INTO
Feed Your Hungry's head office and the receptionist glances up from her phone. “Your two o'clock meet and greet just arrived. She's in Meeting Room One.”

Meeting Room One is the dominion of Melinda Grack, the queen of the big-­breasted blondes. I run, frantic to limit the time Mrs. Williams spends with her. I rap my knuckles on the door and enter.

“There she is.” Melinda Grack stands, her breasts threatening to pop out of her skintight sky-­blue suit. “We thought we'd lost you, Anna.” Her dagger-­length nails dig into my arms as she drags me forward.

“Anna.” An older blonde rises to her six-­inch heels. Her skin is pulled tight over her cheekbones, giving her a catlike appearance. I stiffen, recognizing her. I saw her once having coffee with Michael and his mother. “I
can
call you Anna, can't I?” she purrs, extending her perfectly manicured fingers.

“Yes, of course.” I grip her hand. Her handshake is limp, her skin sickly soft. “It's a pleasure to meet with you, Mrs. Williams.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Anna. We're going to be good friends, you and I.” She sits once more, her white sheath dress resembling the garment Michael's mother had worn. I choose the seat beside Melinda and gaze at Mrs. Williams warily, her friendliness too exaggerated to be real.

The air-­conditioning hums, the temperature chilly. The last time I was in this room, I was positioned on the table, lying on my back, naked, with Blaine between my spread thighs. I tug at the collar of my purple suit, my clothes suddenly feeling restrictive.

“Melinda, if you would be a dear.” Mrs. Williams's tone smacks of condescension. “And grab me a bottle of water, Icelandic red only, please.” She flattens one of her palms above her generous breasts and flutters her fingers. “My system is delicate.” The lies roll off her tongue.

“Of course.” Melinda is forced to agree, her expression as brittle as glass. “I'll get you a bottle right away.” She glances pointedly at me, telling me without words not to mess this up, and she saunters from the room, her hips swaying.

Mrs. Williams closes the door. “Irritating ingratiating creature.” The widow's smile fades and I tense, bracing for a verbal assault. “And who are your ­people, Anna? I asked around L.A. society and no one has ever heard of you.”

As I consider which lie to give her, she circles the small space, stops in front of the fake ficus and flicks a leaf. Dust motes swirl in the air and Mrs. Williams's unnaturally straight nose wrinkles with disdain.

This is how she'll look at me if she ever found out about my father. I touch the black ribbon encircling my neck, drawing confidence from Blaine's key. “I don't have ­people. I'm no one.”

“Is that why Michael is interested in you?” The aging blonde turns to face me, her white designer dress contrasting vividly against the beige walls. “Because you're no one?”

I shrug, not knowing why Michael is interested in my public persona. I never show him the real me, as I don't trust him not to hurt me. “We're only friends.”

“You're not only friends.” Mrs. Williams glares at me. “Michael cares for you . . . deeply, and I should know his feelings. His mother is my best friend, I held him the day he was born and I helped bandage his scraped knees. He tells me everything, things he doesn't tell his own mother.”

“You love him.” Envy swirls deep in my soul. Michael has two mothers who love him, who would fight to protect him. My mother didn't fight to protect me. When my father went to prison, she walked away from him, from me, leaving me to face the world alone.

“Of course I love him.” Mrs. Williams approaches the table. “And I won't allow a lying social climber such as yourself to hurt him. Michael deserves better. He deserves someone who loves him for himself, not for his money or his connections.”

“I agree,” I say quietly, gripping my hands under the concealing tabletop. “I don't love him. That's why we'll never be anything more than good friends.”

“You agree?” Mrs. Williams sits down, appearing stunned. “But Michael is good looking, wealthy—­”

“He's also a wonderful person and has a great sense of humor and most of the women working here are in love with him.” I smile gently, aware that any normal woman would be lusting after Michael. I'm not a normal woman. “I'm not in love with Michael. I'm in love with someone else.”

As the words leave my lips, I stare at Mrs. Williams, realizing they aren't lies. I love Blaine.

“Oh.” Mrs. Williams blinks her catlike eyes.

“Oh,” I repeat, equally dumbstruck. I love Blaine. I truly love him. I rub my hands together, my feelings both thrilling me and scaring me.

“You must think I'm a fool.” Mrs. Williams twists her lips.

“I don't think you're a fool,” I protest. “Just the opposite. You're trying to protect your best friend's son. I find that admirable.” I pat her cold hands.

“You do?”

“It's very admirable.” I nod. “We should protect the ­people we love.” I didn't understand this before but I do now. I love Blaine and I'll do anything to keep him safe, to make him happy.

Silence stretches. Mrs. Williams gazes at me as though I'm supposed to say something. “Do you want to know what Feed Your Hungry does?” I ask.

“No.” Mrs. Williams spreads her fingers, examining her immaculate nail polish. The tips of her nails are perfectly shaped.

I tuck my fingernails under my ass and try to remember the training. Somehow I have to move us to the exchange of money stage. I can't remember how and I suspect I'm on my own.

“Melinda is never coming back, is she?” I guess.

Mrs. Williams grins, genuine humor lighting her eyes. “There's no such thing as Icelandic red water.”

I tilt my head toward the widow, one liar acknowledging another liar's prowess. I want to ask if she'd loved her deceased husband, if she'd ever shown her true self to him, how badly had he hurt her and had loving him been worth it, but I remain silent. It's too late for me. I love Blaine, and if pain is coming, I can't stop it.

“I'll see you out, then.” I scramble to my feet, needing to escape my thoughts.

“First, I'll give you this.” Mrs. Williams removes a check from her white clutch purse and places it on the tabletop. The donation is more than a full year's salary. “And thank you, Anna.” She hugs me, the embrace awkward.

“Thank you for supporting Feed Your Hungry.” I walk her to the door. We shake hands one more time and Mrs. Williams leaves, squinting at the sun, appearing at peace and almost happy.

She faced me and found her fears to be unfounded. Perhaps my fears about Michael's reaction will be unfounded also.

I give the check to the receptionist, asking her to pass it to Melinda Grack. After I stress for the third time how important this check is, the receptionist rolls her eyes and adds it to an impressively thick stack of checks.

I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale. This has to be done, now, before Mrs. Williams talks to Michael. He should hear about this from me.

I march through the doors of doom, turn the corner, and enter Michael's office. He's talking on the phone, his Birkenstocks propped up on his desk. The flickering fluorescent lights make his blond hair glow golden. His eyes are the color of a tropical sea. There isn't a scar on his handsome face. I've never seen a man so good looking.

I'm not attracted to him at all. Blaine heats my blood with one green-­eyed glance. Michael kissed me and I felt nothing.

I shut the door, needing privacy for this conversation. My stomach spins. I haven't had a discussion like this before, having spent my life being invisible, not noticed by men, and I don't want to hurt him.

Michael sets his phone down on his desk and plants his feet on the frayed carpet. “What's up, kiddo?” He raises his eyebrows. “Did everything go okay with Mrs. Williams?”

“Yes.” I swallow hard. “She loves you.”

“She does,” Michael replies casually, as though he assumes everyone loves him, not knowing how precious and rare love is.

Does anyone love me? Does Blaine love me? He protects me as Mrs. Williams protects Michael. Is that love?

“What's wrong?” Michael frowns. “Did Mrs. Williams say something? I'll talk to her.” He reaches for his phone.

“No,” I shout, and he stares at me, his blue eyes widening. “There's no need to talk to her. I . . . ummm . . . I cleared up the misunderstanding she has about me being your girlfriend.” I talk to the space above his left shoulder, unable to meet his gaze. “I explained to her I'm in love with someone else.”

“Clever girl.” Michael barks with laughter, the booming sound filling the small space, echoing off the walls. “That will throw her off our scent.”

Our scent. I shift my weight from my right foot to my left. “It's the truth, Michael. I love someone else.”

“No, you don't love someone else.” Michael shakes his head. “You'll love me . . . eventually. But there's no rush.” He holds up his big palms. “We're taking it slowly, you and I, going at your speed.”

“I love someone else,” I repeat.

“Stop saying that!” He surges to his feet and I take a step backward, terror skittering up my spine. “Don't joke about this, Anna.” Michael grasps my arms, his grip painfully tight. “And you have to be joking. We have an understanding.”

“Our understanding is we're just friends.” I gaze up at him, scared. He's bigger and stronger and I don't trust him, not like I trust Blaine. “That's all we are, all we'll ever be.”

Heated emotion flashes in Michael's eyes. “Friends.” He squeezes my arms harder and harder, my bones bending under his fingers. “I love you.”

“Michael, please let me go.” Fear strangles my voice, the pain intense. “You're hurting me.”

“I'll let you go.” He releases me and I sway on my feet, light-­headed. “If that's what you want. Because I love you, and when we love someone we're supposed to set that someone free, aren't we?” His laughter contains no humor.

I want to disappear, to become invisible once more. Life was simpler then . . . and lonelier. I rub my arms, trying to erase the red marks, to erase Michael's anger. “I want to be friends.”

“All righty, kiddo.” Michael plunks his ass down on his chair, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I'm glad I could help you out with Mrs. Williams as a
friend
.” He picks up his phone and turns away from me.

“I'm sorry, Michael,” I whisper.

He doesn't say anything.

I hurt him even worse than he hurt me. I slink back to my seat in the pit.

Goth girl takes her headset off, her green Mohawk rattling. “You ditched me at lunch, moth.” She bares her teeth at me.

“Are you angry with me too?” I gaze down at my list of past donors, miserable, my wonderful first time with Blaine now a distant memory.

“I'm not angry, fool.” Goth girl knocks her knee against mine. “I was concerned.” She sniffs the musty air. “Someone smells like expensive cologne and hot steamy sex. It wasn't Mr. Movie Residuals. He went out with his fellow trust fund babies. Oh.” Her mouth drops open, revealing a tongue piercing. “You banged Gabriel Blaine.”

“Shhh . . .” I hush her, glancing at Michael's office, not wanting to hurt him any more than I already have.

“Tell me he's as great as he smells,” she whispers, bending her Mohawk topped head toward me. “And I'll be your faithful minion forever.”

“You're outrageous.” My lips twitch, my good mood returning.

“Yes, I am,” Goth girl agrees. “And I won't stop bothering you until you tell me because we're friends and I should know.”

I do want to be friends, real friends, with Camille aka Goth girl. I genuinely like her, and Blaine has proven to me at least one person in this world can be trusted. If there's one person in this world I can trust, there might be two.

“Come on, moth.” My new friend digs her pointy elbow into my side. “Spill.”

“Consider yourself my minion,” I whisper.

“I knew it,” Goth girl crows, smacking the metal tabletop with her ringed fingers. Heads turn. “What are you looking at?” she snarls and then laughs as the prissy looking brunette in the first row gasps.

“You're a menace.” I shake my head and put my headset on. I dial endlessly. No one answers. Voice mail. Voice mail. Leave me alone. Voice mail. Hang up.

Goth girl lands a meet and greet, and I bask temporarily in her good fortune, genuinely happy for her. I don't connect with anyone on the list.

Five minutes before five o'clock Michael swaggers toward me, his smile strained. Two of his friends trail behind him. Darla looks gleeful, her blond curls bouncing and her big breasts thrust out. Spencer fiddles with his phone, boredom reflecting in his vacant eyes, his face red and his dark hair carefully styled to appear messy.

They'll tell me they don't want me to join them tonight. I tense, having faced this rejection whenever friends found out about my dad.

“Are you ready to go?” Michael doesn't meet my gaze.

Goth girl pushes her chair closer to mine. “I thought you'd never ask, lover.” She flutters her fake green eyelashes.

“He wasn't talking to you, freak,” Darla snaps.

Goth girl stiffens beside me, my rebellious friend not as uncaring as she appears. “How do you know he wasn't talking to me, Barbie? Does he clear all of his conversations with you first?”

“Shut up, Camille.” Michael glares at Goth girl. “I
wasn't
talking to you, freak.” His gaze drops to her cleavage. “I
never
am.” Darla sniggers and Spencer smirks.

I straighten. “Michael—­”