Inside Out: My Hunger Part 5

Approaching the guard, I softly remind her, "Eyes down."

"Yes, Master," she growls, and I wonder if this is an ironic joke or her way of telling me she knows more than she's let on. Either way, she does as I say.

Inside the foyer, her head lifts, and I allow her a moment to take in the elegant decor and the expensive artwork; the conservative faade is part of the experience of taking part in the arousing and shocking erotic deeds that happen here. I need her to understand this place, to bolt now if she is going to, before the police can shock or sway her opinions and actions.

Her gaze tilts upward and she studies the spectacular gla.s.s chandelier over our heads, and I study the creamy expanse of her naked throat, where my mouth has been, where it could be again, and I remember just how luxurious her naked body had been. Then I motion her toward the dramatic winding stairwell that is very Gone with the Wind by intention.

We climb the steps, our destination my private chambers. While it's not the place I prefer to take her, not with the memories I have, it's where she will understand who I am. We stop at the final door, where I key in a code again, and motion for her to enter. She swallows hard, her eyes meeting mine, trepidation in their depths, before she steps forward.

I follow her inside and lock the door, giving her a moment to take in the ma.s.sive four-poster bed in center of the room, the sheer curtains leading to several "play" rooms. She walks toward the bed and turns to the monitor that takes up most of the wall to the left, with a half dozen smaller screens above and below it.

She turns to me. "This isn't a gallery."

"No," I say, closing the distance between us. "It's not a gallery. It's a very exclusive club."

"A s.e.x club."

"Yes."

"And you're a member?"

"I'm the owner. The head Master." And now is the time to show her what is on the huge monitors lining the wall, to show her the public floggings, group s.e.x, bondage. But I don't move. "Have you ever been in a BDSM club?"

"No. I haven't."

The answer defines where we will go, which is nowhere. "And I a.s.sume the detective hoped that would be the way I'd want to keep it, therefore I'd do what he wanted me to do."

"Which is what?"

"To convince Ava to produce a body."

"Why wouldn't you do that anyway, if you can?"

"My attorneys seem to think it's suicide, since Ava's trying to frame me for the murder."

Her brow furrows. "Didn't she confess and try to kill Sara?"

"Yes. But she says she did it all for me, and my role as Master here doesn't help me dispute that."

"I don't really know how this works, but was Ava . . . is she-?"

"My submissive? No. But she wanted to be, and what we're thinking is that she'll say she was trying to earn that place by my side."

"By killing the woman you loved? That's insane."

The woman I loved? There's an instant denial on my lips but I can't seem to speak it, nor can I escape the truth. I did love Rebecca. Maybe not in the way she wanted me to, but she changed me, she touched me-and in the only way I know how, I did love her. I just didn't see it until it was too late. Until now, this moment.

A burning sensation starts in my chest, moving to my throat, and I'm suddenly, illogically, angry. At Crystal. At myself. At Rebecca for dying, and I hate that I'm that selfish, but d.a.m.n it, why did she die? She was too young. Too beautiful. Too full of life.

"Why are you here, Crystal?" I demand, my voice sharp, my emotions in upheaval.

She sways and sits on the edge of the bed, like she can't bear to say what she has to say. "I came to trade places with you so you could be with your parents." Her voice trembles and so do her hands where they rest on her legs. "I can cover the gallery. I'm a fast learner and can teach myself."

Her words are as illogical as her borrowing her father's plane to be here. "You live in New York. You work in New York."

"This is the right thing to do."

Impatience mixes with a sense of dread and I close the distance between us, leaning over her, pressing my fists into the mattress at her hips. "Don't talk in circles. What aren't you telling me?"

"Those tests they are doing on your mom. I don't think the results are going to be good, and neither does your dad. He collapsed."

"What? My father collapsed? When? How is he?"

She grabs my arms. "He's okay. It was just emotional. I promise. He broke down and cried, and-"

"My father cried?" My father never cries. He's a rock. A boulder when he has to be.

"He needs you. They both do. That's why I came to change places."

I shove off the bed and run a hand through my hair. "What do they think is wrong with my mother?"

"They wouldn't tell me, and your father just said it was bad. I told him I'd come and get you. He wanted me to come and get you."

Pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose, I'm fighting the dark haze of something dangerously familiar; something I haven't felt for years and swore I'd never feel again. I turn away from her and put distance between us, shoving my hands onto the wall, letting my head fall between my shoulders. A splintering pain spikes in my head, and I fight a flashback to a moment in my past I don't want to see. I am not going back there. And I d.a.m.n sure am not going to lose my mother or my father.

Crystal's hand comes down on my arm. "Mark-"

I drag her in front of me, against the wall. "Why would you come here?"

"I told you-"

"I know what you told me, but you aren't family. You barely know me. You've known my mother only a year. Why would you do this? Why would you-"

"Your mother," she says, her voice cracking, "she's a special person, and you . . ." Her hand settles on my chest, over my heart, and I let her leave it there. I can't make her move it. "I know," she continues, her voice a soft whisper, "you're holding up the world on your own. I saw that when you were in New York. And I know what alone feels like. It sucks really badly. And it makes everything hurt worse."

"And you're going to make me less alone?"

"You can count on me. Call that a friend or a good employee. Call it whatever you want, but I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

She's here. She's not going anywhere. Those words beat down on me. No one can make that promise. I know this, and I live with this in mind, but it doesn't seem to matter. This moment isn't about the future. It's about need. Suddenly, this woman is the answer to everything I can't solve, everything I feel and don't want to feel.

My fingers slice into her hair and I drag her mouth to mine. "I'm using you. I'm f.u.c.king you. I'm never going to be anyone you deserve."

She laughs, a bitterness to the tone. "Then we won't deserve each other." She grabs my tie. "And I'm never going to be your submissive."

"I'm more than clear on that point," I a.s.sure her, and my mouth comes down on hers, my tongue pressing past her lips, caressing, stroking, taking. And she's kissing me back, her arms wrapping around me, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s smashed against my chest. I feel her hunger, taste her pa.s.sion, as if this is her escape, too, as if she is running from something I don't know, burying it in this kiss. It calls to me, drives me to want more, tells me she does know loneliness. She knows pain, and it's that pain that's bringing us here, to this moment. It's why I crave every touch, every stroke of her tongue.

But as the l.u.s.t and hunger build inside me, turning into something dark and uncontrollable, desperation rises in me and with it the fear that losing control means never having it again. I turn her to the door, forcing her hands to the wall, and tugging her jacket down her arms, toss it aside. Shrugging off my own, I free my arms, then loosen my tie.

The soft rasp of her erratic breathing is erotic, enticing, and I can almost taste her desire. Pressing into her, my hands go to her hips, my lips to her ear. "I told you outside that I own you while you're here." My hands caress her slender rib cage, then upward, until I fill my hands with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She arches into the touch, her back into my chest, her hard nipples against my palms. "And I said you did, but I don't think that's what you need from me."

Something about the way she says the words splinters down my spine and burrows into my soul, the truth of her words jolting me. I find myself leaning into her, my face buried in the sweet floral scent of her hair. I know what I need, and she can't give it to me. No one can.

"You're wrong," I say, shoving down her dress, pinching her nipples. "I need to own you. I do own you in this place."

"Because the rules say so?" she challenges.

I turn her to face me, pressing my hand on the wall by her head. "Yes. Because the rules say so."

"Rules make you think. Don't think, Mark. Just forget it all, and f.u.c.k me."

Her words. .h.i.t some raw, exposed nerve, and suddenly I'm kissing her, and I don't know which one of us moves first, or if we move together. She reaches for my tie and I let her. I'm so out of myself and into what this woman has me feeling that I don't even care. And for the first time in nearly a decade, I lose myself in a frenzy of removing clothing. Hers. Mine. Ours. There is no command that she undress. No command that she undress me. There are just our hands, our mouths, our bodies pressed together. And I let her touch me freely. Her hands on my chest, my arms, and yes, wrapping my c.o.c.k. Her touch is like freedom, escape, and the answer to that mindless burn that needs satisfying. There are no games, none of me tormenting us both with the antic.i.p.ation. I can't get inside her soon enough.

We roll the condom on my c.o.c.k together and fall to the bed, side by side, my hand caressing her hair from her face, my shaft pressing into the wet heat of her s.e.x, then thrusting deep. She gasps, and the sound creates a sweet ache in my chest where there had been pain. I mold her closer, cupping her sweet little a.s.s, but it is she who presses her lips to mine. She who licks into my mouth and drives my hunger to new places. And finally, she who pushes me to my back, leans into me, and grinds against my hips. I can feel her urgency expanding, my urgency with hers. She sits up, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s high, her nipples puckered, and I thrust into her, and it's me moaning for more. Demanding more.

Consumed by my need for this woman, I flip her to her back, thrusting into her, and still it's not enough. I lift her legs to my shoulders and she lifts her hips, arching into me as I pump into her, harder and faster, deeper and deeper, until she pants out, "I'm . . . oh, Mark, I . . ."

Her inner muscles grab hold of my c.o.c.k, squeezing it, and I shudder with an intense, consuming release that leaves me oblivious for several moments of pure pleasure. The world spins and I have a sense of being lost and never wanting to be found.

Too soon, reality comes back to me and I ease Crystal's legs from my shoulders, but I don't feel the urge to move away. My elbows settle on the mattress by her face and she reaches up and strokes my cheek, her fingers tracing my mouth. I say nothing. She says nothing. I expect something, but I'm not sure what. Maybe she does, too.

My cell buzzes with a text and I roll off her, pus.h.i.+ng to my feet and grabbing it from inside my pants. My screen tells me I've missed four calls-three from Kurt and one from Dean, who has resorted to a text. The car is ready, with the files inside.

"Oh no," Crystal says from behind me, and I turn to find her scrambling off the bed. The sight of her naked body has blood racing to my c.o.c.k, ready for round two.

She stops in front of me and grabs her jacket from the floor. "I have to call the pilot or he'll leave you behind."

I pull her to me. "I'll get us a later flight."

"Us?" she asks. "I need to stay here. I brought several weeks of clothes."

"I have a plan to handle the gallery. My mother needs you at Riptide and by her side."

And I need to get her the h.e.l.l out of this city before she gets pulled into the nightmare of my life right now. Before I destroy her like I did Rebecca.

Tonight I didn't own her, and I never will. This was, this is, the end.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the last novel in the Inside Out series written from Mark's perspective: Being the master is who I am . . . but can I control it enough to keep my relations.h.i.+p with Crystal?

I Belong to You Coming Fall 2014 from Gallery Books!

One.

Crystal I'm standing next to Dana Compton at her bathroom mirror, staring at our reflections. My long blond hair touches my shoulders; her short blond hair teases her chin. "I hate that I had to cut it," she whispers. "d.a.m.n cancer and that blast of chemo they gave me before my mastectomy."

Yes, I think. d.a.m.n cancer. But I stay positive, hoping she will, too-a feat that's getting harder every day. "That blast of chemo kept you from losing ground when the blood infection made you too weak for your cancer treatments. Besides," I add, "I think you look good with your hair this length. You have such a gorgeous face, and we can see it now."

She gives me a sad smile. "Now you sound like Mark. He said the same thing."

I smile inwardly at the soft side her son has for his mother, fairly certain I'm one of the few people who is privy to the real man beneath the hard sh.e.l.l. Except maybe Rebecca. Of course Rebecca. He'd loved her-not that he's confessed such feelings, but the deep, cutting pain in his eyes, the desperateness in him when he touches me but wishes for her tells me he did.

"Your son loves you," I say. "And he wishes he were here. He tried. He flew me to San Francisco to close the Allure gallery for him."

"I know," she a.s.sures me. "And he did the right thing, sending you back here when Ava escaped last week. What if she'd targeted you for attack, because you were working at Mark's gallery? We don't know what sick reason she had for killing Rebecca."

She doesn't, but I do. It was for the same reason a brilliant, wealthy artist like Ricco Alvarez had created the counterfeit-art scandal at Allure and the Riptide auction house, not caring about the many lives and employees it would affect: jealousy over Mark and Rebecca.

"Ava needs to be caught and punished," she continues. "Rebecca was a sweet girl."

"It's heartbreaking," I agree. "Like something from a horror movie."

"Yes, it is." She glances back into the mirror. "Speaking of horror movies, I've gotten so thin these past two weeks it's going to terrify Mark when he sees me. And I need to get these roots done so I'm blond again before he comes home. I'll look more like myself, then, and that might lift my spirits."

Since she started daily radiation therapy last Friday, she's been so exhausted that she hasn't been able to do anything. I don't point that out, though. Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I lean my head against hers and meet her blue eyes in the mirror. "I'll have the stylist come to us. We can have a spa day next Sunday."

"Let's do it at the spa," she suggests, her normally strong voice weak, and her normally rosy cheeks pale.

"The doctor wants you to rest so you'll be strong. And we're only through the first week."

Her lashes lower and lift. "Right. I need to get five more behind me."

Doubt colors the words, and defeat rolls off of her in a way I've never felt from her before this week. I really do think having Mark here for her first week of radiation treatments, as planned, would have helped. But he's not, and I am, and it's all a mess.

"Come on," I urge, gently taking Dana's robe-clad arm to lead her back to the bedroom. "Let's go watch A Walk in the Clouds. It came in the mail today and I know how you love Keanu Reeves."

"Oh, yes," she agrees, wobbling with me past the giant claw-footed bathtub. "He's my younger-man fantasy."

"Keanu's my older man fantasy," I tease, thrilled that I've elicited a lift in her voice.

"Two birds of the same feather," she says, as she has so many times in the year since we met at a Riptide auction I'd attended.

"Yes, we are," I agree wholeheartedly, helping her onto the bed.

"I'm all for the movie, but aren't the cable and internet still not working?" she asks as I help her settle comfortably against a stack of pillows.

"Random outages," I say, kicking off my tennis shoes with the intention of joining her. "We seem to be in the not-so-random area, but they promised it'll be fixed soon."

"Did you call Marianne next door and see if she has the same issue?"

"Yes, and she does."