True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (15 page)

‘Here?’ He doesn’t move.

I pout.  I’m on fire at his touch and I need some action, but all I get is the shake of a head.

‘Oh,’ I whinge.  ‘Why not?  I feel horny.’

He moves his left hand from my stomach, down between my legs and presses against my clit.

‘I’m sure you do.  But I’m not going to take advantage of it.’

‘You wouldn’t be taking advan … advanchidge.’

‘I’m not about to fuck a woman who’s so pissed she can’t even get her words out straight.  Besides, you’re on your period.  I’m going to take you home.  You can sleep it off.’

Releasing me, he bends down to retrieve my T-shirt from the floor.  Turning me round to face him, he pulls it over my head, guiding my arms through the sleeves.

‘Are you going to punish me for this?’

‘We don’t do punishment any more, sweet pea.’  He bends down again, stuffing my bra into his jacket pocket and rescuing my combats.  ‘You don’t like it.’

‘Ppphhh … I might like it.’

‘Really?’  He kneels in front of me.  While I hold onto his shoulders, he helps my feet into the trousers.

‘I like spanking.  I mean, the first time was a bit of a shock, but I do like it, and I want you to do it some more, especially on that spanking bench thing.’

‘That can be arranged.’

While he draws up the combats, I sense a fluttering, a clenching of muscles deep inside.

‘And you can do that thing when you bite my nipples.’

‘You like that, don’t you?’  He gets to his feet and fastens the buttons.

‘Yes,’ I grin.  I know I’m going too far, but the champagne’s talking now and it really has no idea where to stop.  ‘I want you to do it again … but harder.  And I want you to use those nipple things.’  Suddenly, I seem to be tapping my index fingers and thumbs together in front of my face.  I take in a deep breath, and I really don’t know where the next words come from, but I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with a dodgy search on the internet.  ‘And maybe you should whip me.  I think I want to know what it’s like.  And I want you to be all cold and hard with me, like you were with Claudine.  I want you to demean me.’

His arms close around me again, manoeuvring me back to face my own reflection.

‘Why?’ he demands.  ‘Why do you want me to do that?’

‘I don’t know.’  I falter.  ‘Maybe I just want to know everything about you.  Maybe I want to see that side of you.  Maybe it’s turning me on.’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Damn right there.  But I know what I want.’

‘Be careful what you wish for.’  He tightens his grip.  His eyes seem to have hardened.  They’re cold and steely, just like the first time I ever saw them.  ‘You might just get it.’

Water cascades over me, enveloping my body and coaxing me back to consciousness.  While memories flash through the darkness, illuminating the gaps between then and now, I stand with my head down, eyes closed, palms against the granite tiles … and I cringe for England.  Suddenly, I’m back in Harrods, demanding a visit to the mad chocolate department, refusing point blank to leave until I’ve had my treat.  And now I’m in the passenger seat of his Mercedes with my feet up on the dashboard, digging into a box of truffles and spilling half of them into the foot well.  And now I’m on the sofa, drifting away into a fuddled sleep on his lap.  At some point, he must have ushered me upstairs, or carried me, because I was in bed this morning when he set off for work, leaving me with the vague memory of a touch of his lips, his breath against mine, half-registered words.

Once the shower marathon’s over and done with, I dry myself off, rummage through the wardrobe and put on a fresh pair of combats and a T-shirt.  With my hair tamed, I slope downstairs only to be greeted by a bunch of Harrods bags lounging on the sofas.  Ignoring the unwanted guests, I head straight for the kitchen and set about making a plate of toast and a mug of tea.  It’s only when I settle onto a stool at the counter that I notice a packet of pain killers waiting for me alongside a hand-written note on a scrap of paper:
Somebody’s going to need these. D. X.

Resolving never to drink again, I swallow back a couple of pills, gulp down a few mouthfuls of tea, sift through my handbag and rescue my mobile.  It’s just after eight and he’s already sent me a text.

How’s the head? Xx

My shoulders slump in relief.  Two kisses.  And although I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ve already been forgiven, an apology is still in order.  With unsteady fingers, I text back.

Pretty bad.  I’m sorry. X

Resting the mobile in front of me, I take a bite of toast and wait anxiously for the reply.  It’s not long in coming and when I open it up, I almost choke.

Get yourself sorted for two o’clock.  I’m sending a car.  Wear a dress.  No bra.  Xx

In an instant, my thoughts tangle themselves up in knots.  Where the hell has that come from?  And why is he sending a car?  Another memory launches itself out of the chaos, hitting me right between the temples.  My stupid, drunken mouth has landed me right in it, yet again, and I’ve only got myself to blame.  I asked him to demean me, and now he’s planning on giving me exactly what I wished for.  ‘Oh well,’ I muse.  ‘You can always chicken out.’  But I won’t, and I know it.  Come two o’clock this afternoon, I’ll be getting in that car wearing a dress and no bra, because I’m far too intrigued by his latest game.

But for the next six hours I need to distract myself, and there’s only one way to do that.  After a second mug of tea, I stagger up to the studio and begin the job of sorting through the collection of blank canvases, moving the smaller ones to the side and picking out a larger panel from the back.  Rectangular in shape, it’s about six feet in height and three feet wide, and there are two more just like it.  Leaning all three against the wall, side by side, I sit cross-legged on the floor and gaze at them … waiting.

It doesn’t take long for inspiration to arrive.  Stunned by the images that invade my mind, I grab a pencil and begin to sketch out a basic form on the left hand canvas: a woman lying on crumpled sheets, head turned to the right, an arm draped across her eyes, her face contorted with pain.  I pause and take a step back, mired in confusion.  Why on Earth am I doing this?  I look at the other two canvases, suddenly aware that I’m about to create a triptych: three images that just can’t be separated.  Almost on automatic pilot, I move to the right hand section, sketching out the same woman: only this time she’s on her back with her arms above her head, her face aimed to the left, semi-obscured by shadow.  As I draw out the lines, it becomes obvious to me: she’s experiencing pleasure like never before.

When I’m finally satisfied with the basic outlines, I shift my attention to the centre panel, and come to a halt.  I know that it’s reserved for a man, but although I can see the angles, the colours, the way the bodies interconnect between the two outside sections, as yet I have no idea how he bridges the gap.

There’s a knock at the door.  I turn the canvases round before I call out.

‘Come in.’

Beefy pokes his head into the room.

‘I’m to tell you, miss, it’s one o’clock.’

‘One?’  I stare at my bodyguard, unable to believe that I’ve been sketching for so long.  ‘Right.’  I smile unsteadily.  ‘I’ll get ready.’

Beefy leaves me to it.  With a building sense of trepidation, I clean up, take a shower and change into a dress.  Leaving my bra on the bedroom floor and plumping for a pair of granny pants from Dan’s shopping trip, I go back downstairs, collecting my handbag along the way.

Beefy’s waiting for me outside the front door.

‘Any idea where we’re going?’ I ask him as we step into the lift.

He shakes his big head, but the flash of guilt in his beady, bird-like eyes tells me that he’s lying.  Breezing through the lobby, I toss a brisk ‘Good morning’ in the direction of the concierge and push through the doors.  It’s sunny outside and I’d love nothing more than a walk down the south embankment, but there’s a black limousine waiting for me on the forecourt, a driver standing by the open passenger door.

‘Miss Scotton.’  He waves towards the back seat.

I slide in, looking back at Beefy, surprised that he doesn’t join me.  The door’s closed, the driver installs himself and we pull away.  Suddenly I feel bereft without the Beef monster by my side.  I have no idea where I’m going, or what’s about to happen, but I’ve got the distinct feeling that I might need a bodyguard.

It’s a short ride down the back streets, the quickest route to Southwark, and it soon becomes apparent that I’m going nowhere special at all.  We’re simply on our way to Fosters Construction.  Arriving at the rear entrance, I’m greeted by Dave from security and ushered into the building.  Before long, still accompanied by Dave, I’m riding the lift to the fifteenth floor.  Gazing at my reflection and musing a little more over Mr Foster’s plans for the afternoon, his words rattle around in my brain: ‘Be careful what you wish for.’  By the time the door opens onto the swanky reception area, my stomach is in knots.  Leaving Dave behind, I make my way over to Carla’s desk, feeling distinctly unsteady on my feet.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Scotton.’  Looking up from her computer, she smiles a knowing kind of smile, and I’m hardly surprised.  After all, she must have seen my scribbles in Dan’s diary.  She must know exactly what we get up to in his office.  ‘Mr Foster’s waiting for you.  Please go straight in.’

Sucking in an almighty gulp of air, I begin to edge my way into the big kahuna’s lair.

I catch sight of him immediately.  Sitting at his desk, he’s busy leafing through a file, so busy that he doesn’t seem to notice me.  I cough quietly.  He glances up, takes in my dress, shows no sign of emotion and goes back to his document.

Keeping my position by the door, I wait.

‘Close it please, Miss Scotton,’ he murmurs.

Typical.  Totally vague.

‘Close what?’

‘The first thing that comes to mind.’  He turns a page.

I look down at my handbag.  Yes.  That’ll do.  Clicking the catches together at the top, I continue to wait.

‘And now, perhaps you might close the door,’ he adds, his voice suddenly laced with impatience.

I push the door shut, and wait some more.  If he’s after another game of silly buggers, I’m more than up for it.  After what seems like an age, he puts the document to one side, leans back in his chair and examines me.  There’s a tiny quiver, right between my thighs.  It’s followed quickly by a fluttering sensation.

‘So?’ I venture.

‘So.’

‘Is there a reason for you hauling me over to your office?’

‘Yes.’

He stares at me some more, the edges of his lips curving up, ever so slightly.

‘Would you like to fill me in?’

‘Absolutely.’  He stands.  ‘I have a gap in my schedule.’  Straightening his jacket, he circles round to my side of the desk.  ‘And we have some matters to discuss.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ he mimics, leaning against the desk.

‘So … what matters are we discussing?’

His eyes glimmer.  ‘Your astonishingly poor behaviour, for a start.’

‘I said I’m sorry.  And just for the record, you didn’t have to buy the whole of Harrods.’

‘And just for the record, you didn’t have to down a vat’s worth of champagne and make no decisions.’

‘So, that’s it then?’

‘No, that’s not it.’  His face is unreadable now.  No trace of a smile.  ‘Come here.’

Nervously, I inch forwards.  And the closer I get, the more I fizz with anticipation.  I come to a halt a couple of paces away from him.

‘We also need to discuss the terms of our relationship.’

‘Do we?’

‘Of course.  If I’m not very much mistaken, you tabled a new set of demands yesterday.’

‘I did?’  The blood rushes to my cheeks.

‘You don’t remember what you said in the fitting room?’

Another surge of blood.  I decide to plead ignorance.

‘Not really …’

‘Then allow me to remind you.’  Moving away from the desk, he takes a step forwards.  ‘You said you wanted me to be cold and hard with you, just like I was with Claudine.’

‘Did I?’

He nods, taking another step so that he’s right in front of me now.  He prises the handbag out of my grasp, places it on the floor and straightens up, running a finger down my arm.  A shimmer passes through my spine.

‘I’m not prepared to go there.’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘But you were like that …’

While I trail off into silence, pondering over what I was about to say, his eyes flash with understanding.  He knows exactly what I’m referring to: those few minutes when he caved in to something dark, when I caught a glimpse of the old Dan.

‘It won’t happen again.’

I frown at his declaration.  Somehow, I need to make him realise that he’s given me a taste of something I seem to like, and now I want more.

‘What harm could it do?’

‘Plenty.’

‘But it’s just role play, a bit of fun.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’d rather not go into that.’

‘Oh come on …’

And that does it.  In a nanosecond, his expression hardens.  I’m seized by the shoulders and tugged in close.

‘Enough, Maya.’  Irritation crackles in his voice.  ‘You have no idea what you’re asking for.’  A hand comes to the back of my head, holding me tight.  Trailing his lips across my cheek and setting off a swarm of tingling sensations, he stops at my mouth, barely touching me now.  ‘And now onto your second demand,’ he breathes.  ‘You said you wanted me to demean you.’

Oh shitty shit, shit, shit.  Why, for the love of God, did I have to go and say that?  ‘The bloody internet, that’s why,’ a voice complains from the back of my head.  ‘A handful of dirty pictures and you’re a slut on heat!  What’s wrong with you?’

‘I was drunk,’ I explain, my voice sounding worse than pathetic.

‘And speaking the truth.’

His lips close around mine.  Probing my mouth with his tongue, he kisses me slowly, deeply.  I’m under attack … yet again.  And there’s no way I’m ever going to come out on top, not now that he’s started the whole ‘let’s mesmerise her knickers off’ thing.

‘All I ever want is to make you feel good about yourself, and now you’re asking me to undo it.’  Taking my chin in his hand, he nips at my bottom lip.

I jolt, sensing a rush of warmth between my thighs.

‘Why do you want me to do that?’ he demands.  Letting go of my chin, he traces the outline of my nipple with an index finger.

‘Because …’

He wheels me round, clamping me tight against his chest and squeezing the nipple hard, sending shock waves of electricity right through me.  I gasp, trying to control my heart beat, my pulse, everything.

‘Because what?’ he demands.  ‘A few days ago, you couldn’t understand why a woman would let a man demean her.’

He slips a hand between my thighs, running his index finger over my g-spot.  I lean my head back against his chest and close my eyes, drinking in the sensations while my brain battles to stick with the conversation.

‘Everything I’ve done …’  He begins to massage me.  ‘It’s been for your pleasure.  I’ve never gone too far.  I’ve never treated you like an object.’

‘I know.’  My breath falters.  ‘But let’s just try …’

‘Let’s just try what?’  He waits for my answer, but it doesn’t come.  The truth is I have no idea what I’m asking for.  ‘Whatever we do, we’ll do it my way.’  I feel his mouth against my neck, skimming from just below the ear, further down. ‘Which brings me to your third demand.’  He presses a finger hard against my clit.  ‘Pain.’

‘I don’t remember …’