Taking Turns (Turning #1)(22)

But not this biography.

“You have secrets, Marcella.” I say it out loud but she never even stirs. “And I’m gonna figure them out.”

I unzip my pants again, ready for another round as I stare at her half-naked body, so helpless and sweet, lying there in bed.

I imagine Bric this time. How he might f*ck her. I’d pay money to see that. Watch him with his toys. His whips, his gags, how he can turn an ass cheek bright red with one, hard smack.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my hand sliding up and down my cock in long, slow strokes.

He got rough last night when we went downstairs. Not with Lucinda, she was busy and she’s not even close to his type. Some other wife or some other club member. They wear masks and no one talks about who they are. All I care about is the *. And the cocks. And the sweat. The slick sweat covering their bodies, dripping off their faces, red with exertion and lust. I like the way Bric grunts when he’s turned on. I like the way his huge cock fills them up and makes then cry out. I like the way he whips them until they have welts on their backs.

He’s sick.

But so am I. So is Quin. And so was Rochelle.

I’m betting Marcella Walcott is just as sick as us. I’m betting she walked out on Matisse this evening because she can’t admit it.

She likes the dark, I decide, coming on my stomach for a second time.

She likes the forbidden world we live in. And she wants to be a part of it, whether she realizes it or not.

I don’t bother going back downstairs to clean up when I’m done. Too f*cking wiped out.

I just leave my eyes closed and drift off.





“What the f*ck are you doing in my house?”

I open my eyes—or try to. The sunlight is bright today. The storm must be over.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” I grumble, sitting up a little straighter. My neck is sore as f*ck from sleeping in this chair.

“Then answer me. I called the cops. They’re on their way!”

When I finally get my eyes to open and can properly see her, she’s holding a gun on me.

I laugh.

“What’s so funny? You’re a f*cking pervert. And you’re gonna get slapped with a sex offender charge for this. Do you have any idea who my father is?”

I laugh again.

“Stop it!” She yells it. Loud. “And get out of my f*cking house. Right now!”

“I can’t,” I say, looking down at the dried-up mess on my bare stomach. “You locked me in last night.”

“Locked you—” She stops to laugh. But it’s one of those how-dare-you laughs. Incredulous.

My dick is hard from morning wood and she does not miss this once I start playing with it.

“You’re sick,” she says, backing away. The gun is still generally pointing at me, but only half-heartedly.

“I have a question for you, Marcella.” I look her in the eyes as I say this, but my hands are busy tucking my still-erect cock back into my pants.

“Get out!”

“I will, just calm down. But I can’t get out until I’m put back together. And you need to let me out. I don’t know your alarm code. I didn’t expect you to arm it when you got home.”

“Oh, my God. You were waiting in here for me. That’s why you put me in that car alone, wasn’t it?”

I think about this for a second. “Did you want me to get in the car with you?” I laugh again. Jesus Christ.

“I’m calling the police if you’re not out of my house in thirty seconds. I’ll let you out from the bedroom control panel, just get up and get the f*ck out of my house.”

“You said you already called them. Let me give you some pointers about lying, Marcella—”

“Get. The f*ck! Out!”

“My question is,” I say, ignoring her theatrics. I stand up so I can tuck in my shirt and put on my tie. “Why did you refuse Matisse?”

“What?” She blinks a few times, like I’m an idiot and she can’t believe I even know how to dress myself. “He’s my f*cking client, Smith. Why the hell did you assume I’d be up for something like that?”

“You let Quin f*ck you. Why wouldn’t I assume you’re a whore?”

She slaps me. I don’t even know how she got that close, that fast. But my left cheek is stinging like f*ck. I touch it with the palm of my hand and smile. “Bric is gonna really dig you, honey. I can’t wait.”

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”

I grab my suit coat and walk towards her. She backs away, holding the gun up. It presses into my chest as I grab her arm. Her face is one of total shock. Her mouth is open, eyes wide, face flushed red.

I lean into her neck and whisper in her ear. “It was just a test, sweetheart. Congratulations, you passed.”

And then I skip down the stairs, two at a time, as I adjust my collar and my suit coat. By the time I get to the front door, the alarm has been turned off.

So I just unlock it and leave.





Chapter Eight - Bric




“God, I hate Mondays,” Quin says. We’re sitting in the White Room having breakfast and he looks like shit.

“It’s Tuesday, you *.”