He Claims Me (7 page)

He lowers himself, pressing down on me, trapping me underneath him. I can't move, can't free myself, and once he enters me, he'll have me, seeing the needy piece of my soul I normally hide. He could hurt me as I've never been hurt before. I tremble, the old fears resurfacing.

Blaine pushes his cock head into my tight pussy. “Show me, Anna. Show me how much you want me.”

I meet his gaze, seeing the understanding in his brilliant green eyes. He's offering me the gift of control, allowing me to give what other men might simply take. Blaine isn't other men. He's my man.

I lift my hips, taking him deeper and deeper and deeper, his tip sliding up me, stretching me. My pussy lips touch his base.

“This is how much I want you.” I clench my inner muscles around him.

He groans and I grin, feeling powerful and strong. I lower. The retreat is as exquisite as the advance, desire flowing over me. I pump my hips up and down, fucking Blaine's huge cock as he remains still, braced above me, waiting for my command to move.

He'll wait forever, locked in place if I say nothing. I wrap my legs around him, pulling myself upward, savoring the glide of hard cock in wet pussy, boldly, ruthlessly using him for my own pleasure.

“You're so beautiful.” His arms shake, veins lifting over his bulging biceps. Sweat beads on his forehead. He's suffering for me, my stubborn wonderful man, and I can't allow this.

“I'll show you everything, Blaine.” I tilt my chin up, trusting him with all of me. “Fuck me hard.”

“Yes.” Blaine drives into me, covering my lips with his, filling my pussy with the entire length of him. I tighten my grip on his waist as he pounds into me again and again, thrusting with his tongue and his cock, slapping my breasts with his chest. My nipples, hips, lips hum.

I glance at the mirror hanging above us and watch the muscles in his back strain, his ass cheeks clench. He's superbly fit, Blaine's body a thing of beauty, and he's mine, all mine. I dig my fingers into his skin as he fucks me hard and deep, the bed shaking, sliding on the hardwood floor.

He doesn't hold anything back, his tempo fast and wild, his restraint stripped, leaving him bare, exposed. I meet each thrust, embracing his savagery. Only I see him like this, raw and stark and real, his face flooded with emotion, his eyes flashing.

He grunts, I pant, skin slaps against skin, the bed slams against the wall, our sex noises filling the quiet room, escalating my need. I ache. I burn. I break the skin on Blaine's shoulders, my fingernails digging into flesh.

I'm unrecognizable in the mirror, flushed and primal, a creature of passion. I'm no longer an innocent nymph skipping along a sandy beach. I'm a siren writhing on the jagged rocks, coaxing Blaine closer to his doom, intent on my own fulfillment.

He can give me what I need. I know this. “Blaine,” I demand.

“Come for me, Anna. Here. Now.” He bites my bottom lip, the pain splintering my soul.

I scream, light bouncing from mirror to mirror, crisscrossing the room, reflecting upon my heart. I drive my hips upward, taking Blaine fully inside me, and I tighten my inner muscles viciously around his shaft, mercilessly yanking his release from him, determined not to come alone.

“Anna,” Blaine roars. He pushes even deeper, spurting hot hard jets of cum into my pussy, coating me with his essence. Swirling his hips, he grinds against my clit and I whimper, a second wave of almost unbearable pleasure sweeping over me. My pussy muscles convulse, milking him dry.

Blaine collapses on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, his weight heavy and right. I stroke his back as he shudders, his skin smooth, wet and warm.

He rolls onto his back, his expression gratifyingly dazed.

I look up at the mirror. My lips are swollen and red, my nipples tight. My pussy lips glisten with our combined juices. These juices also coat Blaine's cock.

“Is it always like this?” I meet Blaine's gaze in the reflection.

“No.” He shakes his head, his denial immediate. “Never. Only with you, Anna.” One of his palms cover mine, our fingers link together and we lie in bed, staring upward, watching each other.

The moment stretches, a moment I savor, hold in my heart, not knowing if there will be more moments like this. I took the moments I had with my parents for granted. I'll never do this with Blaine.

Somewhere within his house a clock chimes, the musical tones announcing the return of reality. I have bills to pay and other responsibilities.

I sigh. “I should get to work.” I reluctantly roll out of bed and dress, not bothering to don my bra and panties, planning to shower and change next door.

I look around for the ribbon I always wear. “Have you seen my key?”

“I have it.” Blaine stands behind me, clad in his white boxer shorts, his body muscular and hard. “Hold up your hair.”

I gather the strands in my fingers he encircles my neck with the black ribbon, fastening the repaired clasp. Now two keys dangle between my breasts. The large gold key is for his backyard. I don't know what the small rhinestone bedazzled gold key is for.

I turn my head and gaze over my shoulder at Blaine. I lift my eyebrows.

“The diamond key is for our house.” He shifts behind me, avoiding my gaze, my billionaire CEO appearing adorably nervous.

It isn't a rhinestone. I study the intricately crafted piece of jewelry. It's a very large diamond. And the key is for
our
house. I have a house, a permanent place to live, a permanent place by Blaine's side. I haven't had a home since I was fourteen years old. “It's beautiful.” I blink back tears, emotion welling inside me.

“You're beautiful.” He turns me to face him and tilts my chin upward. His green eyes glitter. “All I have is yours, Anna. I'd give you the stars if I could.”

“This key is as stunning as the stars and it is much more practical.” Balancing on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his. “I love it.” I love him. I'm not brave enough to say this. Blaine has never spoken of love and I won't be the first.

He hugs me to his near-­naked body, his breath wafting on my neck, the keys trapped between us, warmed by our skin. “Damn Volkov,” Blaine mutters. “Tonight, we'll celebrate.” He hands me my tote, my bra and panties stuffed inside the bag.

“You'll smoke one of your cigars.” I walk with him through the antique-­filled house, the colors warm, the furniture solid wood. “And watch me as I swim naked in your pool.”

Rich oil paintings decorate the walls, the scenes depicting waterfalls and butterflies and uninhabited landscapes. My shoes sink into the handwoven rugs.

“You'll swim naked in
our
pool,” Blaine corrects me. We descend a winding staircase, the wrought-­iron railings twisted into a vine and leaf design. “We'll make love under the stars.”

We won't fuck. We'll make love. My chest warms. We enter a grand foyer. A huge crystal chandelier hangs over our heads. Blaine's bare feet smack against earth brown tiles.

As we wander to the front door, I slow our pace, gripping his fingers tighter, not wanting to leave him. “Blaine.”

“Not now.” He opens the door, uncaring that he's clad only in his white boxer shorts, his hair mussed and his body firm. “I'll be in the limousine waiting for you.” He leans into me and brushes his lips over mine. “Come over when you're ready.”

I'm ready now. I gaze at Blaine. I want him. I need him.

He chuckles. “Don't look at me like that, nymph. You have to go to work.” He turns me, places his palm on the small of my back and pushes me gently out the door.

The sun's rays warm my skin. Birds chirp. The limousine waits in the driveway, Ted sitting in the front seat, staring down at his phone.

Blaine's schedule affects other ­people—­Ted, his assistant Fran, any employees he has meetings with. They'll want to know where he is and wonder why he's late. They might guess what we were doing.

I hurry next door to the Leighs' modern bungalow. As I fiddle with the finicky front door lock, I check the mailbox. There aren't any letters or packages, not one piece of junk mail in the metal box. That's not unusual. The mailman has taken days off in the past.

I drop the key. As I bend to retrieve it, my heart clenches. A moth lies on the concrete steps, her wings broken and her body still. I pocket the keys and nudge her belly with my finger. She doesn't move.

I scoop the moth off the steps, cradling her in my palm, and transfer her to the grass, hoping the connection with nature will revive her. Brown powder transferred from her fragile wings cover my skin.

It isn't an omen. It isn't. My fingers shake as I insert the key. The lock clicks and I open the door, entering the hot house. Everything is in place, the store catalogues arranged perfectly on the glass hallway table, the geometric glass objets d'art Suzanna Leigh collects arranged on shelves, and the windows securely closed, the temperature already stifling.

Leaving my shoes at the door, I rush along the hallway, passing the life-­sized photo of Mrs. Leigh, her blond hair, blue eyes, and big breasts representing what I previously thought every man wanted.

One man wants flat chested, brown-­eyed, brunette Anna Sampson, and this won't change because a moth foolishly flew too close to a light, paying the ultimate price for her ambition.

I flip through the clothes Fran has given me and dress in the vintage chocolate brown Givenchy suit. The skirt has a fun kick pleat, the equestrian style jacket closely fitted. I wear a black tank top underneath the suit.

Normally, I'd carry the jacket in my tote and wear only the tank top, the combination too hot for the bus. Today, I'm sharing Blaine's air-­conditioned limousine.

When I exit the house, I don't check on the moth's condition. I can't do anything more to help her, and if I don't look, I can tell myself she has recovered. She's fluttering happily in the green grass, not lying lifeless and stiff and alone.

I'm not alone. Blaine's keys clink together as I walk. I have a home, a permanent home, and a man who cares for me.

“Good morning, Miss Anna.” Ted, the driver, smiles as he opens the door.

“Good morning, Ted.” I climb into the limousine and the door shuts behind me. “Good morning, Blaine.” I grin, settling into the seat beside him.

“Good morning, nymph.” Blaine grins back. He's dressed in his usual black suit and white shirt. A happy yellow tie is tightly knotted under his pointed chin. His black hair is wet, his rebellious strands subdued. “Did you sleep well?” he asks with a grin, putting his arm around me, his cologne teasing my nostrils.

“I slept well and woke even better.” I stretch, rubbing into him, the connection reassuring me. He's here. He won't ever abandon me. “I still feel you inside me,” I whisper.

“No touching yourself during the day,” Blaine instructs, tapping the tip of my nose with the index finger of his right hand. Light reflects off his yellow cuff links.

I frown, my uneasiness returning. “I won't see you at lunch?”

“Not today.” Blaine kisses my forehead, his mouth hot. “I'm locked in meetings with Volkov. He finally reached a decision yesterday and now he wants this deal completed quickly.”

“That's good news.” I summon up a smile, knowing how much this deal means to Blaine. I'm strong. I sink deeper into his hard body, drawing comfort from his unyielding physique, his strength. I can wait until six o'clock to see him again.

 

Chapter Six

T
HE RECE
PTIONIST LOOKS
up from her phone as I enter Feed Your Hungry's lobby. “Your donor list is with your manager,” she tells me gleefully, her eyes glittering with malice.

I'm in trouble. Clutching my tote tightly, I hurry to Boss man's office. The glass door is closed and so are his eyes, his head bobbing, his rounded chin tucked into his chest.

I knock and he jerks upright, his arms shooting outward. He nods at me and I enter. “I'm told you have my donor list?” I ask.

“Yes, yes.” Boss man rummages through the paper on his desk and finds the donor list. He blinks a ­couple of times. “Anna,” he adds, as though he'd forgotten my name. “After two months of working for us, you've only secured two meet and greets.” He clucks his tongue.

Oh Lord. I'm getting fired. I square my shoulders, bracing for the news. “One of the meet and greets was with a new donor to Feed Your Hungry,” I remind him.

“Yes.” Boss man frowns, his forehead wrinkling. “The board has concerns about associating with someone of Mr. Blaine's character.”

“What?” I straighten.

“He's an ex-­con, Anna.” Beads of sweat form on Boss man's top lip. His brown hair is matted, sticking to his high forehead. “What would other donors think if they knew we accepted money from the criminal element?”

“Gabriel Blaine is not the ‘criminal element.' ” I stare in disbelief at my manager. “He went to prison for hacking and that was years ago, while he was at college.”

“I also understand your second meet and greet was secured with help from another employee.” Boss man ignores my heated defense of Blaine. “You're late today and you took an extended lunch yesterday. The board is questioning your commitment to Feed Your Hungry.”

“I see.” And I do see. This isn't about Blaine or my performance. I'm being punished for rejecting Michael Cooke, their superstar employee.

“I like you, Anna.” Boss man sighs. “I do. You're different. And I want you to do well here.”

I'm different. Michael said this about me also. I've never thought being different was a good thing. I've tried all of my life to be as normal as possible. “Thank you, sir.”

“Do us both a favor and land a meet and greet today.” Boss man hands me the donor list.

“I will, sir.” I'll dial until my fingers fall off.

I scan the list as I swing through the doors of doom. I've never seen such an obsolete list. None of the donors have contributed in the past three decades. Sweat trickles down my spine.

I pass Michael's office. He's leaning back in his chair, his hands linked behind his blond head, his Birkenstocks propped up on his desk. He meets my gaze and his blue eyes narrow.

“Stubborn ass,” I mutter under my breath. An uptight brunette in the front row hisses at me. I glare at her. She covers her mouth as she whispers to the red-­faced girl sitting beside her.

“Look at you, moth, working rich kid hours.”

I turn my head toward the back row and I stare. The voice belongs to Goth girl. The face does not. Yes, her features are the same. She has the same ski jump nose, the same defiant chin, but her hair is black, pulled back ruthlessly into a tight ponytail, and she hasn't any piercings or tattoos. Her lips are painted a frosted girly pink and she wears a body-­hugging black suit.

Goth girl looks normal, better than normal. I blink, trying to process this new side of my friend. She's beautiful.

“Don't say a word,” she snarls, her brown eyes flashing, her tapping fingers devoid of rings.

“I wouldn't dare,
Camille
.” I grin, hopeful. If Goth girl can rejoin the human race, I can land a meet and greet today and save my job.

“I did all of this for nothing.” My friend drums her feet against the frayed gray carpet. She's wearing five inch black heels and has legs a supermodel would envy. “I conformed for nothing.”

“And here I thought you dressed like a human being for me.” I remove my jacket and hang it on the back of my chair, my black tank top already drenched with moisture. “Where's my headset?”

“Mine is missing too.” Goth girl rolls her eyes, her skillfully applied makeup natural rather than her usual theatrical look. “And my donor list is older than I am.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble as I sit down, feeling horrible for dragging Goth girl into my drama. This is all my fault. I glance at Michael's office. I encouraged him, I rejected him, and now he's punishing both of us.

“Not as sorry as I am.” Goth girl leans closer to me, her impressive cleavage threatening to pop the top buttons off her blazer. “I dressed this way for my meet and greet today, only to be told, even with the transformation, I didn't portray the proper Feed Your Hungry image.” Her pink lips twist.

“That sucks.” I bump my shoulders against hers. “But you should have warned me. I would have paid money to see the expressions when you walked in.”

Goth girl grins at me. “That
was
worth it. I thought Michael Cooke was going to swallow his tongue.” She cackles with glee.

I don't want to think about Michael. I pick up the flesh-­colored receiver and dial, determined to land a meet and greet, to save my job, to prove the others wrong and Boss man right. I'm strong and intelligent. I work hard. I can do this.

No one is home. Voice mail. No one is home. I told you ­people to take me off this list. Click. Dial tone. Voice mail. She died twelve years ago. No one is home.

As Michael leaves for lunch with his friends Darla and Spencer, he glances over his right shoulder at me. His mouth opens and then snaps closed, his jaw jutting.

“Mr. Trust Fund isn't ready to forgive you quite yet, huh?” Goth girl pats my shoulder. “Don't worry. He'll come around.” She struts to the kitchen, her walk as defiant as ever.

I know Michael will come around. They always come around. Then I break another social rule and they abandon me again, hurting me even more the second time. In the past I blamed myself for this cycle of pain and betrayal. I now realize they weren't strong enough to be my friends.

Having forgotten to bring a lunch, I dial the next number on the donor list. No one is home. Voice mail. Voice mail. This phone number is no longer in ser­vice.

I smile at Goth girl as she returns with her delicious smelling curry. She's put extra meat in the yellow paste today, likely a not-­so-­subtle challenge to her vegetarian nemesis, a nemesis she's encouraging me to make peace with.

The brunette in the front row complains loudly about Goth girl's smelly food. They'll have to find new ­people to complain about when we leave.

If
we leave. I dial phone number after phone number after phone number, certain this will be the day my hard work pays off.

Michael stomps into the room, slapping his Birkenstocks against the floor. I raise my head, our gazes meet, and he nods at me. I nod back, a habit I should really break, though it did lead to my encounters with Blaine.

Michael pauses on the threshold to his office and I hold my breath. His shoulders slump and he enters his office, shutting the door behind him.

“I think we should start our own software company,” Goth girl muses.

“What?” I frown, surprised, her suggestion coming out of the blue. “I don't know anything about software
or
starting a company.”

“Yes.” She waves her white plastic fork. “But you know someone who does, and you can take on the administrative roles while I handle the technical stuff. I have a program I'm playing with that might revolutionize the mobile game . . . or it could fail miserably.” Goth girl shrugs. “But what do we have to lose, moth?” She tilts her head. “Nothing.”

We don't have anything to lose but I'm also determined to be independent. This requires money, and new companies don't pay very well. “I'll think about it.” I move down the donor list. Landing a meet and greet will save my job.

“Where is she?” a woman screeches.

I recognize her high-­pitched tone. I tap the receiver against my forehead as I struggle to match the voice with a face.

“I trusted her with my home, with my valued possessions.” The voice grows louder.

Oh lord. Suzanna Leigh, the woman I'm house-­sitting for, has returned early from Europe. My palms moisten. And she's looking for me. I scramble out of my seat. Something must have happened to the house. I take a step forward, my legs shaking.

The beautiful blonde sweeps into the room, clad in a stylish black sleeveless dress, the sweetheart neckline showing off her gravity-­defying breasts. Oversized sunglasses are perched on her head.

“You—­You—­You—­” she sputters, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me, her blue eyes glittering.

“What is it?” I run my palms over my brown skirt. “Was there a fire?”

“A fire?” Mrs. Leigh scoffs, throwing her head back, her blond curls bouncing around her shoulders. “All of my precious art is gone. Gone.” She places her hands over her chest, the gesture dramatic. “I offered you a place to stay out of the goodness of my heart, out of my sense of charity.” She raises her voice as our audience grows, employees and managers gathering around us. “And this is how you repay me, by stealing from me.”

“I didn't steal from you.” But someone else stole from her. Mrs. Leigh gave me the task of keeping her house safe and I failed her. “Everything was there this morning.” I pause. Is this true? I didn't enter every room. “I think. I noticed nothing missing.” My guilt increases with each heartbeat. “I wasn't home last night,” I admit.

Michael exits his office, his expression genuinely concerned.

“Anna wouldn't steal anything.” Goth girl is the first person to come to my defense, standing beside me, her legs braced apart, her suit-­clad shoulders shaking.

“That's likely what her father said too,” Mrs. Leigh sneers, her face twisting into an ugly mask. “Before he went to prison for theft.”

The room grows silent and everyone looks at me, waiting, watching for my reaction.

Mrs. Leigh knows about my father. I stare at her, cold waves of comprehension washing over me. She must have always known about him. I was set up. I didn't own anything and I thought she couldn't hurt me but I was a fool. She can take away my reputation and my freedom. “I'm not my father.”

Gasps echo around me. Michael shifts his weight from his right foot to his left foot, the movement drawing my gaze. Accusations reflect in his eyes, his chin square and his stance unforgiving. I've been judged and found guilty.

“Moth's got history,” Goth girl mutters. I don't look at her, unable to see the disgust on her face also.

I may not have any allies in this building but I'm not completely alone, not anymore. “I have to make a call.” I rush back to my seat, search through my tote, find my phone and press redial. It rings twice.

“Anna,” Blaine barks. Men are talking in the background. “What's wrong?”

“Everything. Blaine, I—­“

“Put the phone down, ma'am.” A policeman stands before me, his face deadly serious, one of his massive hands hovering over his gun. His partner, equally tall and broad and grim, stands by the wall. Their uniforms are crisp, light reflecting off their badges. “You're under arrest.”

“Don't shoot me.” I disconnect the call and drop the phone. It clatters to the metal tabletop. “I'm not resisting arrest.”

Light-­headed, I hold up my empty hands. This has to be a bad dream. I've never done anything wrong. I can't be getting arrested.

“Blaine,” Mrs. Leigh repeats, her face paling. “How do you know Gabriel Blaine?”

“How doesn't she know Gabriel Blaine?” Goth girl grins.

My phone rings and rings and rings. It's Blaine. He's the only one who has my phone number. I can't answer it. The officer pulls my arms behind my back and restrains me, the handcuffs cool against my skin.

“This isn't real,” I murmur. My legs shake, my knees threatening to buckle under me.

“Don't say another word, moth.” Goth girl shushes me. “You want your lawyer. Tell him that.”

“I want my lawyer,” I repeat, dazed.

The officer grunts. He pats me down quickly, his fingers skimming over my breasts and between my thighs, searching places only Blaine has touched.

My coworkers watch, a mixture of horror, fascination, and disgust reflecting in their expressions. Michael does nothing, says nothing, acting as though he has never known me, has never kissed me.

“Anytime they ask you a question, you repeat that phrase.” Goth girl nods. “I'll talk to your Mr. Blaine. He'll want his best legal team on this. Being framed for theft isn't a trivial thing.”

Being framed. I meet Goth girl's gaze. She believes me.

“Mr. Blaine's best legal team.” Mrs. Leigh sways. “This can't be. I looked into her background. She's no one. She knows no one.”

The officer pushes on my shoulder and I walk, holding my head high, clinging to my pride, to the knowledge that someone believes me. My coworkers talk, not bothering to hide their snickers and sneers.

“Mr. Blaine is going to be pissed.” Goth girl joins me on my walk of shame, her attitude surprisingly cheerful. “I've heard stories about what he does to ­people who dare to mess with his employees. All legal, of course,” she adds, glancing at the arresting officer. He grunts. “Or mostly legal.” Goth girl grins. “And you're more than an employee, moth.”

“Officers, there's been a mistake.” Mrs. Leigh chases after us, her big chest heaving and her face flushed. “I've made a mistake,” she admits. “Don't arrest her. I'm dropping the charges.”

Goth girl nudges me in the stomach with one of her pointy elbows and her grin spreads. The officers exchange heated looks, communicating without a word.