Debauched (Undone Book 3) (26 page)

Even in the darkness of the car her brow furrows. “It doesn’t feel bad.”

“Isn’t that the important thing?”

“I don’t know.” She looks out the window and the lights pass over her face. “My mom gave up everything to be with my dad. She lived in New York when she met him. He was there for a conference and he saw her play. She gave it up to go live in that small town and be his wife. The day I left home for college I swore I’d never go back. Swore I’d never change for a man. But I feel myself changing for you.”

I contemplate how to handle this, unsure what direction I should take. I’m saved from an immediate answer when the cab pulls up to Brandon’s club. There’s a line down the block. I pay the driver, grab her hand and we climb out, but instead of going to the doorman where our names on the list, I pull her in the opposite direction.

She frowns. “Where are we going?”

“I want to finish our conversation before we go in.” We walk a half a block down and I tuck her into an alcove before turning to face her.

I slide my hand over her neck and run my thumb down the line of her jaw. I tilt my head. “Have you ever asked your mom how she felt about it?”

Her expression tightens before she shakes her head. “No, I never did.”

“So you don’t really know how she felt about that time in her life.”

She shakes her head again. “She’d never admit to making a sacrifice.”

“That’s what you’re assuming.”

She lowers her eyes. “True.”

“You know, I’m changing for you too.” And I realize it’s true. It’s not as drastic, because I know who I am in a way Ruby hasn’t ever given herself the luxury to discover and I’m not shifting my perception of self, but it’s still true.

She laughs. “You are not.”

“Not true.”

“How?”

“Before we started I was consumed with work, but I’ve stopped putting in twelve-hour days and working all weekend. It’s not that I don’t care about work anymore, because I do, but I’ve relaxed about it. I come from a family whose careers are their lives; it’s part of who they are. Even though I wasn’t ever going to be a doctor, work has been my one and only priority for as long as I can remember. Before you, I sized up every woman I met in terms of how much time she would take away from my job, from my buildings and from me. It’s why when I called you the day after Valentine’s Day to make sure you were all right, I didn’t press, even though I knew there was something between us. You were going to take time I didn’t have or want to give you, so I let it go. I didn’t realize it but I didn’t want to make room for someone. Didn’t want someone in my life.”

She peers at me, her expression filled with surprise. “What made you change your mind?”

“You did.” I lean down to brush my mouth over hers. “You looked at me with those big, needy blue eyes and I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh.” A smile trembles at her lips.

“The question you need to ask yourself is if the ways you’re changing are a sacrifice.”

“They’re not.” Her brow knits. “But they still feel like a betrayal, you know?”

I do, but I want her to say the words to me, so she’ll be forced to think them through. “Give me an example.”

She bites her lower lip then smooths her hand over her stomach. “This dress. I like the way it makes me feel. I like the way you look at me in it.”

When she falters, I encourage her. “Go on.”

“It’s nothing I would have ever picked for myself. It seems too… I don’t know…mainstream. Like I’m dressing in my mom’s clothes.”

I understand what she means, but what makes the dress so spectacular is that on her it doesn’t look mainstream, but that’s not the point here.

She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s a grown-up dress and even though I’m thirty years old, I don’t want to become—” she makes air quotes, “—an adult. Pretty stupid, huh?”

I smile. “Did you ever think that maybe you don’t have to choose? That you don’t have to be one or the other? That it’s possible to be both? Holding on to ideas that no longer fit you is just as stifling as trying to be someone you’re not, it’s only a different kind of box. Both hold you back from who you really are.”

Slowly, she nods. “That’s true. I never looked at it that way.”

“Your job is to figure out how to satisfy both the girl and the woman.” I kiss her again. “My job is to support you in that.”

“Okay.” She grips my wrist and rises to her tiptoes and captures my mouth before breathing into me. “Thank you, Chad.”

Fuck. She is sweet. “You’re welcome. Ready?”

I take her hand and we start to leave our private little spot on the street, but she stops. “Chad?”

I turn back to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her fingers tighten on mine. “I want to say something.”

By the tremble in her voice I hear her nervousness. I put my hand on her hip to steady her. “Please do.”

She licks her lips and sucks in a little breath. “What you did with your brother was very twisted.”

“It was.” There’s no denying it. But it was a safe risk I didn’t push too far. Everyone had been paying attention to their menus and Cameron and I understand each other. My oldest brother isn’t into the scene, but he enjoys making a pretty girl squirm as much as I do. There was no way he didn’t know why we were late.

She meets my eyes. “Did you do it because you thought I’d like it?”

It’s the first time she’s asked a question that gives me any indication she’s starting to realize, or get curious, about the unspoken dynamic that’s playing out between us. I answer her directly and honestly. “Yes, I did.”

“So you think I’m twisted?” Her gaze is searching.

I nod. “I don’t
think
you are. I
know
you are.”

“Even though I have all these sex hang-ups?”

“Yes.” I narrow my eyes and take the first step into leading her where she wants to go but is still afraid of. “I think you have sex hang-ups for precisely that reason.”

“I don’t follow.”

I make my statement much more specific. “You have hang-ups because you’ve spent your entire sexual life denying exactly how twisted you are.”

Emotions play over her expression—and the equivalent of a storm cloud passes over her face—before she settles. Then she straightens, squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eye. “I liked it.”

“I know.” My cock grows hard as I watch her own it. I raise a brow. “Anything else?”

The cords in her neck work as she swallows. “During dinner, I kept getting distracted.”

“Why?”

“I wanted more.”

I close the distance between us, but instead of sliding my hand through her hair I grip it and yank, so her chin juts up. “That can be arranged.”

She makes that needy little gasp.

My heart gives a hard thump and something hot and foreign races through me like lightning.

Fuck. I think I’m in love with her.

It’s been two weeks since the night Ruby met my parents and I’ve watched her come alive. Everything about her has become more vibrant. She’s lost that closed-off, worried look. Every day she becomes more empowered, more confident, more the woman she wants to be.

She’s still Ruby. Still my little rocker princess. But it’s like the rough edges have smoothed away. She’s experimenting more, laughing more, and as I watch her doing her makeup from my bed, where I’m still sprawled naked under a sheet, she practically glows.

Instead of getting ready in my master bathroom she’s standing at my dresser mirror because I told her I wanted to watch her. She’s wearing nothing but a black bra and—I smile—batman boy shorts. I’ve discovered that Ruby has a fetish for superhero underwear and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

I put my hand behind my head. “Cute panties.”

She glances at me and grins. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”

Because she’s a smart girl.

We continue to avoid having the discussion about dominance and submission, even though that’s exactly what we’ve fallen into. I’ve been waiting, but she hasn’t brought it up again since that night on the street, and I’m content not to push the matter. Other than forcing her to accept all facets of her nature, I’m not sure there’s a need.

Sex with Ruby is goddamn mind blowing. Taking her has become almost an obsession. She’s eager, compliant, blushes at the drop of a hat, and is increasingly easy to turn completely perverse. Now that she’s not only accepted but embraced this part of herself, her limits have expanded exponentially. She still hates it—in the way all submissive girls both hate and love the twisting of the knife in equal measure—but she’s stopped questioning and surrenders when I push her.

I let my eyes roam over her body before meeting her gaze in the mirror. One brow is raised and she’s wearing a smirk. She’s fully anticipating I make her take off her panties, because that’s what I usually do. I let her think that because it suits my purposes. “Do you really think I’m going to let you wear them?”

This has become old hat to her by now, and there’s no more wariness left in her eyes. There’s only excitement and lust. She finishes with her mascara, tosses it to the dresser before she turns, and puts her hand on her hip. All cocky and confident. “Yes, it’s only fair.”

“And why is it fair?”

“You made me take off my panties last night.” She huffs. “At the table.”

Yesterday after work, we went to dinner, and she came at the table with every course. After I pushed her in between the buildings, bent her over, put her hands on the wall, and fucked her while people passed us on the street not three feet away.

My cock stirs. I shift, and the sheet dips low on my hips. Her hungry gaze tracks the motion. “You forgot how I made you leave them on the booth for the waiter to see.”

She flushes, probably remembering when the waiter’s expression had widened when he saw them.

She flings out her hand. “You made him drop his bread basket.”

He did, the poor guy had flushed scarlet, fumbled his words then spilled the contents all over the place. “You did that all on your own, girl. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Ha!” Her hip cocks farther out, clearly feeling quite certain of herself.

I give her another once over. “What does that have to do with tonight?”

We’re going to see her friend’s band and I have plans.

“It would be nice to keep my underwear on every once in a while.”

God I love it when she plays right into my hands. I shrug. “All right then. Go ahead and keep them on.”

Of course, her expression instantly falls, because she really doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want to walk out of the house without being toyed with. Not that I’m about to let that happen. I’ll save that game for another day.

Her brow furrows and her shoulders square. “Fine. It’s settled then.”

“Yep. All settled.”

She turns back around to fiddle with her hair, ignoring me completely, and I watch her, amused. Unable to help herself, her eyes meet mine in the mirror. She smirks. “I guess there’s no reason to wear a skirt then.”

I smirk back at her. “Are you saying you only wear skirts so that I’ll play with that greedy pussy of yours?”

She sucks in a little breath and pushes her hips against the dresser. “Never crossed my mind.”

“Uh-huh.” I tilt my chin at her. “Why don’t you hook your leg on the corner of the dresser so you can relieve the pressure on your clit properly?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Like the idea doesn’t make you wet.” I laugh, and it’s low and evil in that way that makes her hotter. “Tell me you aren’t thinking about how dirty it would be to grind your cunt against the surface while we both watched you in the mirror.”

The muscles in her legs tighten and she pushes her hips closer to the dresser. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

She licks her lips and looks at me with a mixture of fear and lust.

Perfect.

This is exactly the kind of thing that gets her. I have to admit, I’ve never been with a girl like Ruby, and I love it.