Driven By Fate(33)

“You should have answered the phone, Francesca.”

He’d barely finished speaking the words when he snapped his wrist, whipping the leather strips against her bottom. Snap. She jerked against the bonds as satisfaction suffused him. Relief. Here is where I live. In this momentary liberation. He didn’t want it, though. Didn’t want to be relieved. The respite from tension hurt, but baptized him, renewed him, at the same time. The strike hadn’t been a hard one, but it left a haphazard red mark nonetheless. Her first time and it would be marred when she came to her senses.

Forcing himself to breathe, he trailed the leather down the backs of her thighs, struck each leg once, twice, before dragging the smooth strips up the sensitive inner flesh. “Such a smart girl. Or so I thought.” A crack of his wrist sent the leather flying against her ass with a smack. Porter felt that sound so deeply he gritted his teeth to prevent it from taking him over. “There are people who want to take you, take this, away from me. I’d love them to be on the other side of that glass right now. Watching me f*ck you into a screaming fit. The only one who can take you away from me”—he brought the flogger down hard—“is you. So do it. Do it.”

Her heaving sob tore away what little sanity he had left. The smooth line of her back rose and fell too quickly. Upset. She was upset. Good, he wanted to shout. But the need to exult paled in comparison to the overriding urge to drop the flogger and cover her body with his own. No, he needed her to end this. Needed her to see to whom she’d allowed access to her body.

Porter walked to the windowed wall and flipped the light switch, illuminating the empty room. When her eyes lifted and narrowed, full of disbelief, he had to look away. Didn’t want to witness her reaction. The hatred that would follow.

“Beetlejuice.” Her voice was dull. “Let me out.”

Even expecting her to use the safe word, it gutted him. The swiftness of his stomach dropping caused a moment’s hesitation. Fucked up. I f*cked this up. How had it happened so fast? One minute he’d been waiting for her to walk into the office and now— Francesca started to struggle against the bonds. Realizing he hadn’t moved to release her quickly enough, Porter shot forward to set her free. Too late, though. Too late. She’d managed to rip her left hand through the shackle, howling in obvious pain as red welled, raw and angry on her wrist. The sound ricocheted in Porter’s head like a fired bullet. Opening old wounds. Creating new ones.

“Francesca.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, staying her efforts to tear her right hand free as well. “Stop this, please. Stop.”

The fight went out of her body, her forehead falling forward to connect with the leather pad. Hands shaking, he loosened the shackle and reached for her, but she was gone. Out of his grasp and across the room before he took a breath. “Why would you do that?” She swiped a hand over her nose. “The one thing, the one thing, I’d never allow anyone to do is make me a fool.”

Jesus, that fact had been buried in his subconscious, hadn’t it? He’d known she’d react this way after the time he’d made her stand naked in front of his desk while he made a phone call. It was why he’d done this. He’d wanted to drive her away. Why? All he knew was that being close to her, fixing this mistake, was vital to his mental health. She looked so betrayed. He’d done that. Him. She buttoned her jeans, drawing his attention to her damaged wrist. His entire being rebelled at the sight. “You’re bleeding. Please let me look at it.”

“You want to look at it?” Her eyes shot fire as she marched toward him. Somehow he managed to keep his arms at his sides when his inner voice demanded he hold her. But he’d lost that right, so he could only watch as she lifted his shirt and rubbed her bloody wrist over the very spot she’d kissed just minutes before, coating him in red. Murdering him where he stood. “There. Look at it. Own that.”

“I—” He shook his head, wondering why honesty only seemed possible for him after the fact. “You were never part of my plans. This wasn’t my plan when I woke up this morning. All I have are plans, Francesca.”

“Oh, f*ck your plans.” She threw a bitter glance toward the empty window. “We’ve all got plans. Plans change and shift and accommodate. Yours aren’t any more special than mine. And mine sure as shit don’t involve you anymore.”

His laughter was hollow, menacing to his own ears. Just forcing the sound from his throat was a goddamn effort. “Now that…that might have been the plan.” I want to hold you, to wrap myself around you. “Listen to your friends. You should never have become involved with me in the first place.”

Francesca suddenly looked weary. “That was my choice. So was this. You remember that.” She indicated the bench. “My choice. Just like it was your choice to abuse my trust.”

She retreated across the room, retrieving her shirt, cell phone, and backpack. His world skewed one way and then the other as he watched. It seemed impossible that this could be the end. He’d asked for it, given her no choice. God, what he wouldn’t give to take back the morning. Take back everything. He didn’t know how to never see her again, despite knowing his tastes and experience surpassed hers, knowing their goals in life were literal oceans apart. Letting her go wasn’t an option, even though he’d spent the afternoon driving her away. You selfish, selfish bastard.