Queen (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (22 page)

“He’
s going to be muscular when he’s older by the way he eats. If the flow isn’t strong enough he bites me.” I say in wonder of the tiny man nursing at my bosom.

“I know you didn’t want to do that today, Grant. It’s just one more reason
why I hate them both.”

Today was the first time Cora touched my child and I had no way to stop it. The press came and did a photo-op
of my six-month-old son. Pain doesn’t cover the sensation of passively watching your child be photographed while cradled in the arms of your nemesis. The headline reads:
Mr. & Mrs. Whittenhower welcome a third generation Daniel Whittenhower.

My child, my man, and my worst enemy immortalized by the press. It wasn’t pain. It was torture. I didn’t allow Grant to know how much it upset me. How the future pressed down on me
in that instant. This could be what my future looks like if we don’t manage to flee the evil clutches of his megalomaniac father. I vomited for almost an hour while they snapped picture after picture of my baby boy. Three years and some change before the contract is complete. I want to be sick just thinking of it.

I can tell that my denial was for naught; he reads the haunting fear in my eyes.

“We will prevail,” he promises. “You will have a future. I’ll make sure of it, even if it’s the last thing I do.” I raise a finger to his lips to silence that kind of talk. I don’t want to know what life would be like without Grant- not worth living, I believe.

“Hi,” Whitt’s voice
drifts from the door-crack. “May I say goodnight?”

“Always,” I say with a smile. “You wanna burp?”

He eagerly nods his head. I gently pry my ravenous monkey from my breast and cover myself with my shirt.

I watch as Whitt cradles Niel like an expert and gently pats his back. I stand and offer him the rocking chair. He’s changed so much since I first met him. I was newly eightee
n and he was almost six, now I’m a month from twenty and he’s almost eight. I wonder if I’ve changed as much as he has. He’s inches taller and his shape is a miniature version of Grant. I know he’ll never broaden or balk up. His voice is deeper. It’s fascinating to watch. I hope I can watch him and Niel grow. I pray for it every second of every day.

Now, my little man looks like his mama, to his daddy’s delight. I was told that we didn’t need any
more blond, blue-eyed Whittenhowers. Daniel 3.0, as I like to call him, is a new and improved version, still blond but with eyes as green as spring leaves. His hair stands up in tuffs of wiry, golden blond haystacks. He’s so going to hate that when he’s an adult. It’s beyond cute now, though. He’s built like his mama, too. Niel’s a tough guy. He already has muscle definition from pulling my hair and hopping on my thighs.

He’
s quiet and pensive until his Uncle enters the room. It’s like sun shines down on him and he brightens and he seems to have the same effect on Whitt. The Daniels have been inseparable since Niel’s birth. Whitt even tried to witness the birth- didn’t happen.

“You don’t look at Whitney like that, Whitt. I’m starting to notice your nepotism,” I tease him. He always stares at Niel with the most serious expression on his face, like Niel is his.

“She’s safe with her parents. She doesn’t need my protection,” he says ominously and I shiver.

“I can take care of my son, Daniel.” He doesn’t say anything. He just looks up at me in
skepticism.

“I can,” I say firmly.

“I don’t doubt you, Queen. I just don’t underestimate Father’s need to keep what is his.” Hearing the mature statement out of the mouth of a child with a man’s voice is spooky and very accurate. I wonder what he knows that we don’t.

“I’m a kid
that no one notices because I’m not the chosen one. I can be in the room and no one sees me and they keep talking. He’s suspicious,” he warns.

He gently places Niel in his crib and pats his tummy. My son’s eyes flutter shut and h
e drifts off to sleep quickly.

“Plus, Whitney screams when I touch her. Niel loves me already. Who would you rather play with?” Ah- the logic of children.

He comes forward and waits patiently. Sometimes I make him wait longer than necessary just to see if he’ll give up and walk away. Nope, he hasn’t yet.  Sometimes I wonder if he has a bit of the Regal blood flowing in his veins. I’m sure he gets his stubbornness from the bastard Daniel.

He smiles up at me knowing we’
re playing battle of the wills. I always give in first.

I bend down and kiss his forehead goodn
ight and he sighs in pleasure.

“One day I’m going to be tall enough to k
iss you goodnight,” he flirts.

“You little perv, I’m like your mother.
” I say aghast.

“
Yeah, and I like boys. And you’re not my mother, Queen.” He shrugs and walks over to the blushing Grant. He never knows what to make of Whitt either. He does, however, cuff the kid upside the head. I’ve often wondered if underneath his silky hair is a misshapen head courtesy of Grant.

Grant doesn’t make him wait. He bends at the waist and pecks Whitt’s cheek.

“No matter how tall you get, you’re never kissing me goodnight,” Grant says jokingly.
“Gross,” Whitt spits out and disappears out the door.

“Trouble-maker,” I snort
and enter my room.

“I think he wants me to know that if I don’t treat you right there will always be someone who will.” He yanks his tie loose and start
s unbuttoning his dress shirt.

I lean back on the bed and enjoy the show. No matter how many times I’ve seen this rerun it
never fails to entertain me.

“I
wish,” I say with an eye-roll.

“Next time make sure you button your blouse. You’re either going to scare him off or make him change his mind on his orientation
.” He snaps me with his shirt.

“Ugh- I was covered,” I defend, offended. I look down at my chest.
My shirt isn’t buttoned but it’s overlapped.

“Nothing’
s showing,” I say in confusion. I flick my gaze to his and he’s smiling at me naughtily.

“Not nearly enough for me,” he hungrily utters and stalks across the room towards me.
The animalistic gleam in his eye has me scrambling on the bed. He tackles me from behind and tickles me brutally.

“Stop, stop… No, no more, please,” I beg, cry, and giggle. I’m highly ticklish and hate it. I pound my hands on the mattres
s and kick my legs in the air.

“God, I love you,” he says with a laugh in his voice. My eyes shut on the warmth his words elicit. He gently kisses my neck and peels my blouse from my back. He
kisses the path of the shirt. I fist the coverlet and twist it in my fingertips as my body awakens for him. I pant his name.

I roll onto my back so I can look at him. I’ve never seen him so starved.

“Oh, shit,” I hiss as warm liquid trickles down my stomach. Our exertion caused my milk to flow. I struggle to sit up without getting it all over the blanket.

“Shh…” Grant’s voice is silky smooth. His pushes me back to the bed and licks my stomac
h.

“Grant,” I shriek in protest.

“I’m sure he won’t mind. Niel wants to share with his Daddy. Don’t be stingy and wasteful- relax.”  A long lick swipes up my stomach and I hear a deep moan.

“You’ve always wanted to do this, haven’t you?” I ask in amusement. The boy’s got some weird kinks.

“You have no idea how gorgeous your tits are,” he purrs in wonder.

“Oh, I remember dodging boys when they grew from buds.” I laugh remembering Roman’s jaw dropping when I went from leggy tomboy to chesty bookworm. He followed me around like a tail for months.

“I’m willing to share.” He gazes up at me with predator eyes and my breath seizes. His hot mouth captures a distended nipple.

“Oh, God,” I shout and arch my back in pleasure. The movement brings me farther into his mouth and he greedily sucks. “Oh my God, I’m going to cum from this. It’s so damned wrong,” I moan in awe.

“But it feels so damned right. I think I could cum from doing this, too.” I feel his smile and his eyes glint with mischievousness.

“Fuck me whi
le you suck me,” I demand.

“As my Mi
stress commands, I shall give,” he sings.

“Hurry, I need you inside
of me.” I rip my pants away not bothering with the zipper. I start to claw at his and he laughs at my impatience.

“Shit, I need a condom.” He crawls
to the nightstand.

“Fuck it, G
rant. Fuck me!” I feel crazed.

“You aren’t on birth control yet, baby. A
s much as I love our monkey, I’m selfish enough to want you ready to play. It’s been a long wait. It’s time to play for a few years. We’re not ready and I can’t protect several kids from the bastard.”

I sober up enough to wait the thirty seconds for him to retrieve the condom, but not enough to allow him to do it. I grab it from his hand and tear the wrapper open with my teeth. Grant chuckles the entire time I roll it on. His giggles are mixed with moans as my hand skims his c
ock.  I grin evilly up at him.

“You
drive me fucking crazy, baby.” He pushes me to the bed and
rrriiinnnggg…. rrriiinnnggg…

“Are you fucking kidding me,” I bitch as Grant lifts the receiver. “I swear to God if this isn’t life or death I will find you and make it your life or death,” I hiss in frustration.

“You heard the lady,” Grant laughs into the phone. His amused expression turns solemn.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” His mouth twists into a frown as his listens to the man he always refers to as
Sir
.

“Regina, get dressed, please.” I mouth
what?
And he shakes his head no at me. I quickly wipe my chest and redress as he quietly dresses one handed while listening to his
friend.

“Come on, hurry,” he says and rushes from the room
still buttoning his shirt. I struggle to catch up as he jogs through the labyrinth of hallways. We emerge in the garage and slide into his Mercedes breathless.

“What is going on, Grant?”
My voice warbles with worry as he drives far above the legal speed limit.

“He’
s alive. There was a shooting tonight. I’m sorry, there are no guarantees,” he says solemnly.

“Who?”

He doesn’t answer me. We ride in tense silence for a few moments. He pulls into the hospital parking lot at breakneck speed. He taps the brakes and we both slide fo
rward and back from the force.

He hurriedly unhooks his seatbelt and then mine. His hands grab mine tightly and he seeks my eyes.

“Fuck,” he curses and pounds his palms on the steering-wheel. “I’m sorry, baby.” His eyes glisten with tears. “It’s Roman, baby. It’s Roman and they don’t think he’ll make it,” he declares somberly.

I sit stunned as Grant slides from the car and opens my door. He pulls me from the seat and walks me through the parking lot.

I ghost in a fog through the walk, the information desk, and the ride up the elevator. Reality seeps in as I enter Roman’s room in Intensive Care.

“I can stay out here,” Grant offers me privacy. I nod into the room and he follows me.

I didn’t know what to expect. I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s breathing on his own. He has oxygen wafting from the tubing at his nose, but he isn’t intubated.

“The bullet
nicked him close to his heart. A centimeter closer and he would have died instantly. He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s stable, but it could change at any moment. They said it was 50/50 odds.” I shake my head yes. I don’t need to ask why he was shot.

I approach him slowly. A memory flashes through my mind of him leaning against the wall in the ally with a huge, sarcastic smile on his face- his skin vibrant with health. I sob. How many times do I need to g
o through this in my lifetime?

He looks different to me. I study his face noting the changes. He’s older. He looks peaceful in his sleep, albeit deathly pale. I wait for his eyes to open and blaze blue-green up at me. It doesn’t happen.

I tentatively touch his face moving his hair from his cheek and I tuck it behind his ear just the way he wears it. It slides silkily through my fingers and I smile. The rasp of stubble scraps my fingertips.

“You’ve finally grew some whiskers. I didn’t think you ever would,” I say under my breath. I close my eyes and pray- beg. If there is anyone out there please allow him to live.

I stare down at him for a very long time imprinting him into my memory. I wish I could hear his voice again and feel the zing that flashes through my body at our touch.

I dig around in my purse until I find my checkbook. I hover over the rolling, bedside table and scribble the contents of my account onto a check writt
en in his name.

“Do it, Regina,” Grant supports me.
“It’s the right thing to do. We still have time to make more for our escape. His life is worth more than our happiness.”