Taking Turns (Turning #1)(26)

My other hand uncrosses her arms and she lets them fall helplessly to her side.

I lean into her, kiss her mouth. She kisses me back as I finger her *. “Don’t fight it,” I say. “We can give you what you need, Marcella.” I play with her clit, flicking my finger back and forth. “I’d f*ck you right now if I could.”

Her eyes open and stare at me. “Why can’t you?” Her voice is deep and throaty. Oh, yeah, this girl is a dirty slut. She’d let me do anything I want right now.

“Because if I f*ck you first without the other guys involved, then you’d be mine and not ours. And I’m more interested in ours than mine.”

I pull my fingers out of her *. They are slick with her juices. And when I bring them up to her lips, she opens her mouth and sucks them like she’ll eventually be sucking my cock.

“Five-thirty, Marcella. Wear something spectacular. And no panties. I want to finger you again at that gallery. In front of your boss.”

I pull my wet fingers out of her mouth and wipe them on her cheek. Kiss her softly on the lips.

I leave her like that. All hot and wet. All ready for more.

She will come to understand what this offer is. And even if it’s not her brand of forbidden, she will stay. At least for a while. I know addiction to the dark when see it.

And she’s a junkie.





Chapter Nine - Chella




Even with the distraction of the last-minute preparation of the Matisse installation on Thursday, I’ve spent the last three days sick to my stomach about what might happen tonight. Bric was blunt and it was unexpected. Maybe I’ve come to expect that from Smith—if you can form expectations based on just a handful of encounters. But I always saw Bric as the sensible one. The practical one. The one she went to talk to when she had problems. That was Rochelle’s description of him.

He was everything but those two things at my house on Tuesday.

The way he checked me for my arousal, just like Smith. The way he caught me off guard. His cold commands and heated stares. His kiss. God, his kiss.

I know this is the wrong choice, even as I dress for him.

Wear something spectacular.

I hold the collar in my hand. The gold one that Smith clamped on to my neck on Sunday night. And I know this too is wrong. Put it away, I want to scream to myself. Don’t do this, Marcella. Don’t give in to their promises. Don’t wait for him to pick you up. Just get in your car and drive yourself to the opening. Then ignore them. Forget about Rochelle. Forget about Quin and the way he f*cked you. Forget about Smith and the way he claimed you. Forget about Bric and the way he dominated you.

Just… don’t do it.

There is no chance in hell I’ll do any of those things. And I prove it to my doubting inner self by bringing the collar up to my neck and fastening the clasp.

It’s tight and when I swallow hard and make my throat expand just ever so slightly it reminds me what it is.

A choker.

I do not have underwear on, just like Bric requested. And I can already feel the slickness pooling between my legs.

When the doorbell rings I shut off the bedroom light and walk slowly down the stairs. My black dress is long, but there is a slit up the side of each of my thighs. A thin, black satin wrap drapes casually around my bare shoulders, but I stop before opening the front door and put on my winter coat.

Bric is scowling at me through the window for making him wait.

I smile as I open the door. “You look nice,” I say. And he does. His tuxedo is perfect. Obviously tailored to his exact body specifications.

“As do you, Miss Walcott. You should’ve let me in so I could help you with your coat.”

“Hmm,” I say. “I’ll consider that. If there’s a next time.”

That makes him cock an eyebrow at me. “No games tonight, Chella.”

Chella. He says it so casually. Like he’s been calling me that name my whole life. Like he gave it to me. Like he owns that name.

“We’re past it.”

“I’m not sure we are,” I say, grabbing my evening bag and letting him guide me out the front door. Once on the porch, I stop to lock up, and then I place my hand on his arm and let him take me down the dozen or so steps to the waiting car. He opens the back door, I slide across the soft leather seat, and then he gets in next to me. Once we’re settled, the driver proceeds.

“Matisse is excited.”

“Oh, good,” I say. And I mean it. “I really hope the show does well.”

“How could it not?” Bric asks.

I let out a small laugh. “Well, it’s art. Not everyone is in the market for such things.”

“Will you be expected to stay late and help with closing?” Bric asks, ignoring my remark.

“No. We have staff for that. Show openings are a night out for me.”

“Good. Then we’ll stay an acceptable amount of time and reconvene at Turning Point.” He hesitates, then adds, “Quin isn’t coming.”

“To the meeting?” I ask.

“To the show. I think he’ll show for the meeting.”

I hold my breath for a few moments. Thinking about this meeting. Marveling at how easily I have accepted it as normal.

It’s not normal, Chella.

Shut up, I tell the inner monologue. I don’t care.