Crossing the Lines Page 11

  “Not always,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me, “but sometimes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Hon, start finding the toys you want to bring to Aunt Jo’s, okay? We have to leave soon.”

  “Okay!”

  I smile at my reflection as I finish putting on my makeup. Not too much, though—Mr. Thorne likes me looking natural.

  The weeks have flown by. I’ve spent my days with Luke, exploring the city in new ways. Now that we have money, we have new opportunities. We’ve gone to the good parts of town to visit parks and playgrounds where I don’t have to worry about needles in the sandbox. We’ve bought a new couch to replace our old, lumpy one, and gotten some pretty knickknacks for our apartment, which is looking more like a well-kept home. We’ve had Jo’s girls over for a slumber party and it felt fantastic being able to reciprocate and give her a much-needed night off. We’ve baked, we’ve had movie nights, and we’ve hung out at the mall. I’ve even gone on two job interviews, but my lack of experience is holding me back. I still look for work, but not nearly as much as before, and I know it’s because I enjoy being with Mr. Thorne so much. After the night of his birthday, I was worried things would become awkward or he’d stop asking me to come over, but thankfully that didn’t happen.

  I can’t say that we’ve developed a routine, because I never know what to expect when I go to his house. Some nights I cook; others, he orders in and I only make a dessert for us to enjoy after dinner. Sometimes he ravishes me the moment I step through the door, and other times he saves it for the end of the night. We’ve had sex in his bed, on the couch, on the kitchen table, in the hallway, and on the stairs. One night, I spent twenty minutes on my hands and knees, scrubbing his already immaculate floors while he watched. Then he pushed up my dress and fucked me from behind, warning me that I’d better keep on scrubbing unless I wanted a spanking. Smiling to myself, I slid the brush across the wet floor and out of reach, delighting in his reaction as he called me a naughty girl and thrust even harder while bringing his hand down on my ass again and again until I came so hard, I could hardly see straight.

  The memory makes my face heat up. The truth is that visiting Mr. Thorne doesn’t feel like a job anymore.

  I’m putting on my shoes when there’s a knock at the door. I’m not expecting anyone, so I stand up on my tiptoes to peer through the peephole. What I see is enough to make me lose my balance and stumble backward.

  “Abigail, I know you’re in there.”

  The voice is muffled, but I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s a voice from my childhood, stirring up memories both good and bad. I don’t want to open the door, but I do it anyway. Just a few inches.

  “What do you want?” I blurt out.

  “Well, that’s certainly a nice greeting. Are you going to let me in?”

  “No, Mom. What are you doing here? How’d you know where I was?”

  Her lips pucker with displeasure as she pulls her coat tighter around herself. “I’ve always known where you were, Abigail.”

  “Five years?” I whisper, the pang of hurt I feel surprising me. “You’ve known for five years and you never came by?”

  She doesn’t say anything, but her strong gaze wavers and she looks down.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come home.”

  I’ve heard the expression jaw-dropping, but it’s never happened to me before this moment. I recover quickly. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “I know what’s going on,” she says.

  My gut twists in anxiety. She knows about Mr. Thorne? That I’m a rich man’s … whatever it is I am?

  “I know Patrick is gone and you’re alone now,” she continues.

  “I’m not alone,” I hiss, relieved that she doesn’t know about my job and angry once more. “I have my son. Or did you forget about him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How’d you even find out about Patrick?”

  “Cecile Simpson.”

  “You’re lying. When have you ever talked to Jo’s mom?”

  “She talked to me. Yelled at me. In the middle of the supermarket, no less! She says her daughter is always watching your child until all hours of the night. Is this true, Abigail?”

  “I have to work,” I grit out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mother. I have to go.”

  “I’m not leaving,” she says with an edge to her voice. “This has gone on long enough. It’s time for you to come home.”

  I feel a tug on my shirt.

  “Mommy, is it time to go to Aunt Jo’s? Who’s that lady?”

  “It’s no one, baby. Can you start putting your shoes and jacket on, please?” I say, blocking my mother’s view of Luke.

  “I can watch him for you,” she says. “If you’re going out.”

  I gape at her. “I’m not leaving him with you! You’re a stranger to him.”

  “I know,” she admits, regret lacing her voice.

  “And that’s your own fault,” I can’t help but add. “Goodbye.”

  She’s still out there when we leave. Her eyes are glued to Luke as I tug on his hand and hurry down the hall toward the stairs.

  “Abigail!” she calls, her voice cracking. “Your father … he’s very ill. Please come home.”

  I don’t stop and I don’t reply. Moving on autopilot, I hold my son’s hand and navigate us through the streets until we reach Jo’s, only half-listening to Luke’s happy, untroubled chatter. All this time I’ve held out hope that someday my parents might contact me, realizing they made a mistake, and ask to see me. Having my mom show up and practically order me to come home isn’t something I was prepared for, and it’s not something I’m willing to do. She didn’t even apologize or ask what I wanted. Just like when I lived at home.

  Inside Jo’s apartment, Luke leaves my side, excited to show off his new toys.

  “Abbi, are you okay?” Jo asks as we watch the three kids play. “You look … off.”

  “Tell me the truth, please,” I mumble, turning to her. “You’d tell me if you didn’t want to babysit Luke for me anymore, right?”

  “What are you talking about? You know I love having him here. The girls never fight with him around.”

  “My mom came by today.”

  Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Are you serious?”

  I nod my head.

  “What’d she want?”

  I scoff. “For me to come home. I guess your mom verbally attacked her at the store or something, saying that Luke is always here at night because Patrick left us.”

  “Oh my God,” Jo groans. “I told her not to say anything.”

  “It’s okay. I know your mom means well.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t think I’ve seen the last of mine, though. If she ever finds out what I do for a living—”

  “She won’t,” Jo says, putting her arm around me.

  “If anyone ever finds out, I could lose Luke,” I tell her, biting the inside of my cheek to force my eyes not to well up.

  “No one will find out. I won’t tell and you know Mr. Thorne won’t, either.”

  Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I do my best to be Zen. “I have to get over there,” I say. “How do I look?”

  “Pretty,” Jo says with a sad smile.

  I say goodbye to Luke, giving him a big hug before heading out to find a cab to take me to Medina.

  Three hours later, I’m still holding it together. I play my part to perfection, wearing a beautiful dress, heels, and even a string of pearls as I clean up after the—if I do say so myself—delicious meal I cooked and served. I’ve sent Mr. Thorne demure smiles and batted my eyelashes at him, asked to sit on his lap, and called him Sir in a breathy voice. Everything he loves. I haven’t been thinking of my mother showing up. I haven’t been thinking of my father’s illness, whatever it might be. I’m focused solely on the man next to me, on pleasing him.

  “Abigail, is something wrong?” he suddenly asks.

  I
don’t stop loading the dishwasher. “No, everything’s fine, Sir.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I feel him watching me and I force myself to smile as I start the program and stand up to face him. “All done,” I say cheerfully.

  “You’re very domestic,” he observes. “I like that.”

  “You don’t say,” I remark dryly.

  He flashes me a grin and pulls me close, trapping me against the counter as he towers above me. “Not so timid around me anymore, are you?”

  I hold his gaze. “No, Sir.”

  “That’s good,” he says, running a large hand down one side of my body, outlining my slight curves.

  “Is it?” Suddenly I’m worried I’m being too bold. He said he likes submissive women, and that’s what I’ve been trying to portray all night.

  He cocks his head to the side, giving me an inquisitive look.

  “I mean, you like me acting submissively,” I explain.

  He takes a small step forward, pressing me against the counter while both his hands roam freely across my body. “Spread your legs,” he whispers in my ear, nipping lightly at the lobe.

  I moan as he massages my breast and slides one hand up my inner thigh to caress me with the certainty of an experienced lover.

  “You like this, Abigail?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, reaching up to hold on to his broad shoulders.

  “The things I want to do to you,” he murmurs softly, dipping his fingers inside me, “to use your sweet body for my pleasure. Would you like that?”

  I nod my head, closing my eyes as I rest my forehead against his chest, my fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt while he moves his fingers faster and faster.

  “Should I let you come?” he asks, sweeping his thumb across my clit. “Or should I deny you? Have you been a good girl?”

  His words make me whimper, they feel so good to me, causing me to spasm around his fingers. “P-please,” I beg, lifting my left leg up, opening myself to him. “Fuck me, Sir.”

  The next thing I know, Mr. Thorne has tossed me onto the kitchen island, stuff flying everywhere. He reaches behind me to yank down the zipper of my dress and I quickly push it down around my waist while he opens his pants with hurried movements and puts on a condom. He doesn’t speak. He lifts my lower half, pulls the dress off me, and holds my legs open, thrusting his cock inside me with a low groan. He doesn’t pause. Immediately, he pulls back and then pushes inside again. Again and again. He takes me with a savagery I’ve only read about in romance novels, where the ruggedly handsome pirate ravishes the barmaid because he simply can’t contain his manly desires. This is like that, but real. Better. I writhe on the hard surface, lifting my hands up above my head, surrendering to him, letting him do whatever he wants. It feels incredible.

  “Fuck,” Mr. Thorne pants. “There you are. Look at you. Look at you.”

  His right hand lets go of my hip and glides up my body with a firm touch, pausing to grab a jiggling breast and pinch my nipple. I shiver as he leans over me, his hand moving upward to grasp my throat in a sign of complete domination as he takes my body without apology. I open my mouth to speak, not sure what I’m going to say, but he silences me with his eyes.

  “You love this,” he says, emphasizing his point with a sharp thrust. Involuntarily, I arch my back, reveling in the feeling of his thick cock inside me, his hand on my throat, his eyes on my face.

  “Y-y-yes!” I croak as he continues to pound into me, and I come with an unprecedented intensity that makes me lose my breath and screw my eyes shut.

  Once I’m able to breathe again, I draw deep gulps of air, willing my heart to slow down its furious pace. Mr. Thorne is slumped on top of me, heaving for air as well. I bring my limp arms down in a half-hearted attempt to stroke his hair, even though I’m completely worn out. After a little while, he raises himself up on his elbows and looks at me.

  “Did you enjoy that, Abigail?”

  I nod my head, giving him a tired smile.

  “And you still think you’re only acting submissively?”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, why you were putting on a show earlier. But you and I both know that’s not what I want. I don’t want you acting, which is what you’ve been doing all night. I want the real you: the girl I just fucked. No pretending, no posing, just a love of being dominated. You crave it. You come so fucking hard when I hold you down, when I take control. That’s who I want. Be that girl all the time, the natural submissive you truly are.”

  He leans down, kissing me gently, before moving off of me. I listen as he fixes his clothes and moves around, feeling as though I’ve had a bucket of ice water thrown in my face. Why would he say something like that? I sit up on the edge of the island, looking down to avoid Mr. Thorne’s gaze as I gingerly lower myself down, unsure what to do now. Should I get dressed again? Start cleaning up the mess we made? I wrap my arms around myself, both uncomfortable and chilled, shaking as I feel my own wetness on the insides of my thighs—a harsh reminder of what we just did.

  “Come here, Abigail.”

  Mr. Thorne’s voice is soft and soothing, as though he’s speaking to a skittish animal, which isn’t that far off, I suppose. His outstretched hand beckons me and part of me wants to run to him and fling myself into his arms.

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “About me.”

  “Am I?”

  Yes. No. I don’t know.

  “Come here,” he says again, even softer this time. “You know it’s the truth, deep down.”

  I don’t know that. What I do know is that he just fucked me to prove a point. So what has he proven? That he’ll be able do rougher stuff with me now, since he’s convinced I crave it? What does it say about me, about the kind of woman I am? That I can’t take care of myself or my son? That I need a man to take charge of me? That I’m weak? Helpless? Is that how Mr. Thorne sees me?

  “No.” I shake my head minutely.

  “No?”

  “No,” I say again, bending down to grab the dress and cover myself with it.

  “Abigail—”

  “I’d like to call it an early night. Please, Sir?”

  I need time to think. Intellectually, I know his claims are accurate: I react positively to him being dominant; it turns me on. Emotionally, however, I’m more confused than ever. I’m scared about what this means for me. Will I ever be able to have normal sex again and enjoy it? Or will I keep going down this dark path, losing all control of what happens to me? The thought terrifies me.

  “Very well,” Mr. Thorne says, although he doesn’t look happy.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  I run upstairs as quickly as my legs can carry me, cleaning up and changing back into my own clothes. I have to get out of here. Too much has happened today and I feel my control slipping.

  “The cab should be here shortly,” he tells me as he hands me the manila envelope by the door.

  I nod my head, not sure what else to say. The silence is deafening and for once I wish I’d familiarized myself with the bus schedule so I could just leave now, instead of having to stand here and wait. Mr. Thorne sighs softly, scrubbing his face with his hands.

  “Look, Abigail,” he starts, “I think I owe you an apology.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so he continues.

  “It’s taken me a long time to figure out what sort of person I am, and what I like. I shouldn’t have said the things I said, knowing how young and inexperienced you are. But the truth is, I’m frustrated.”

  “Frustrated?” I whisper. “With me?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “You’re everything I want. In fact, I’d like to make you an offer.” He draws a deep breath. “I’m tired of always sending you home at the end of the night, not knowing where you go or if you’re going to be okay. It’s not enough, what we have now. I want more.”

  My head starts spinning.
>
  “Abigail, I want you to move in here with me, and make our arrangement permanent. The money I’ll pay will ensure you won’t ever want for anything. You’ll have your own room, of course, and I won’t ask too much of you, I promise. But after getting to know you, I’m convinced we want the same things, both in regard to sex and getting along in general. I think— no, I know—having you here will make me a happy man, because I’m—”

  A car horn honking right outside interrupts him and the sound snaps me out of the state I’m in, forcing me to really look at the man in front of me, who’s offering me a very good deal: a chance to be a part of his world, his affluent lifestyle, and to never worry about money again. His expression is open, hopeful even, as he gazes down at me.

  I feel as though I’ve been punched in the gut. Move in with him? To be his live-in fantasy? Impossible. I live in the real world. Outside this lovely house, outside this rich neighborhood, far away from this beautiful man is a small boy who needs me more. And I will always put him first. He’s the reason I’m doing this in the first place, and he can never know how I earn my money, how his mom likes to crawl around on the floor in front of a rich man. I’d die if he ever saw me like that. The person I am when I’m with my son can never fit into Mr. Thorne’s life, and the fact that he asked me to live here proves just how little he really knows about me. The invitation is for me, not for me and my son.

  “Say something,” Mr. Thorne murmurs.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Abigail—”

  “I can’t, Mr. Thorne! I’ve lied to you. I’m not who you think I am at all. And this,” I wave my hand around, hyperventilating. “I can’t do this. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Watching his open expression change to one of disbelief and disappointment is heartbreaking. Fighting back tears, I scramble to open the door and exit the house on unsteady legs.

  “I don’t understand,” he says, following me outside as I reach the waiting cab.

  I look up at him again. I instilled false hope in myself thinking this could ever work out. I made him believe I could make him happy, and in another life, maybe I could have. But in this life, it’s impossible.