Crossing the Lines Page 5

  “Wonderful,” he says, standing up and leading me to the kitchen island. “Now, you said you could cook?”

  “Yes, Sir. That is, as long as it’s nothing too fancy.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage. I’d enjoy a home-cooked meal. Feel free to make me whatever you like,” he says, gesturing toward the refrigerator.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He reaches into a drawer, pulling out a white apron which he ties around my waist. “Perfect,” he says, nodding to himself. I don’t miss the way his lips curve up in a satisfied smile. He must really like this outfit on me. As he leaves my side, he winks, giving my ass a playful squeeze.

  “I’ll be watching.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mr. Thorne sits back down at his table with a seemingly unending stack of paperwork while I begin the task of cooking his dinner. Inside the fridge, there are lots of choices, and I wonder what I should make. This feels like another test. For a moment, I consider a meatloaf, which is probably what Donna Reed or June Cleaver would make for their TV husbands but decide that might be too cliché. After all, I don’t want him to think I’m making a joke out of this 1950s thing, unusual as it may be. His taste seems old-fashioned, so I decide on roast chicken with a side of mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas.

  Putting the stuff I need out on the counter, I glance at Mr. Thorne and, unsurprisingly, find him observing me, apparently riveted by the fairly mundane tasks I’m performing. As our eyes meet, he smiles and stands up, walking over to stand behind me.

  “Looks wonderful,” he comments. I’m not sure if he’s referring to the ingredients or me in the housewife getup.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  His hands trail up my bare arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before running back down to my waist and tugging gently on the knot holding the apron together. “Someday, I think I’ll tie you to my bed using this,” he whispers, brushing his lips against the side of my neck.

  “Y-yes, Sir,” I whisper, gripping the edge of the counter as my stomach does a nervous flip.

  “But not tonight,” he continues. “We have plenty of time, don’t we, Abigail?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I lie. As soon as I’m able to land another job, I’m out of here. I can’t let him know that, though.

  “I’m going up to my office,” he says. “You’re far too distracting. It’s on the third floor, first door on the right. Come find me when everything’s in the oven, okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Thorne.”

  He moves away, but a moment later he’s back, pressing his lips against my cheek. “Thank you, Abigail,” he whispers.

  I watch as he gathers his papers, then walks past me into the hallway and up the stairs. As soon as he’s out of sight, I draw a deep breath, pressing my fingertips against the spot he just kissed before getting to work.

  Once everything except the chicken is ready, I check my watch and head upstairs, as I was told. Passing the second floor where the bathroom I’ve used is located, I continue up to the top of the house, following the soft sound of opera music. Although I was asked to come up here, I knock just the same, remembering how Mr. Thorne feels about interruptions.

  “Come in.”

  I enter, drawing a quick breath. Wow. Mr. Thorne’s office is breathtaking. Furnished with dark wood, there are bookshelves lining the walls, and a real working fireplace in front of a comfy-looking couch. My eyes are drawn to the large floor-to-ceiling windows that lead onto a balcony overlooking the bay. I can almost imagine curling up on that couch, sipping tea and reading a good book on a cold night while enjoying the warmth of the fireplace.

  What it must be like to live in a place like this, to have this kind of money. I don’t think of myself as a particularly materialistic person, but one day, I’d like to not worry where my son’s next meal will come from, and know I have a steady income along with enough to save a little money each month. Hell, even living paycheck to paycheck sounds good to me at this point.

  When we brought Luke home from the hospital, I promised him and myself that I’d give him more than our old, run-down apartment. I’d make a real life for us in which he’d have lots of friends and hobbies, go to a good school, and have a yard to play in. Now he’s almost five and has none of those things. As far as I know, there are only two other kids in the building, and they’re a lot older than Luke. Most days, he’s stuck with me. I know he doesn’t see it that way and I do my best to come up with fun activities that also have an element of learning. Still, I’d like for him to get out more, play with other kids. We used to go to a nearby park, but a few weeks ago he picked up a syringe near the monkey bars and we haven’t been back since. I hate that we live in such a shitty neighborhood. I hate that one day he’ll realize what a crappy deal he’s been handed in life—no grandparents, a father who left him, and a mother who can’t properly support him. He’ll never experience a view like this, or a life without financial worries.

  “Abigail?”

  Instantly, I’m jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry, Sir.” Mortified, I realize I’m on the verge of tears, and turn away from Mr. Thorne.

  “Come here.” It’s not a request. “Come on,” he beckons, holding out his hand to me.

  As soon as I reach him, he pulls me down onto his lap, a surprisingly soft expression on his face. “Want to tell me what happened just now?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I was overwhelmed. It won’t happen again. I’ve just never been in a house like this before. You have so much.”

  “You’ve been having a rough time, haven’t you?”

  I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re so kind right now. Slowly, I nod.

  He nods back. “You don’t have to worry anymore,” he says. “You take good care of me, and I’ll take good care of you.”

  “How do I do that?” I feel like I’m constantly screwing up, always crying in front of him. I’m supposed to be here for him, not the other way around. “I mean, what is it that you want from me, Mr. Thorne?”

  He settles me more comfortably in his lap, cradling me in his embrace. “In a word,” he says, “worship.”

  “Worship?”

  “I don’t want you to merely cook and bake for me, Abigail. I want you to want to do those things, because you know they bring me enjoyment. I want you to want to please me. It’s not about just taking orders from me. I like having you obey, but I’d like it even more if you did those things on your own.”

  I draw a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. He’s never revealed so much about his motives before. “So … treat you as if I worship you?”

  “Mmm,” he hums into my hair. “When you’re here with me, I want that to be your only focus: how to make me happy.”

  He tilts my head up. He’s so close, I can feel his breath against my lips.

  “Abigail, tell me the truth. Are you afraid of me?” His eyes scan my face. “I know you were the first night in my car, and I don’t blame you. That was a scary thing you did—going with a stranger like that—but I know you probably have a very good reason for taking that risk.”

  My heart slams against my ribcage. Could he possibly know about Luke?

  “The money,” he says after a few seconds, and I relax a little. “It’s making things better for you?”

  I nod my head, unwilling to elaborate.

  “Good. That’s good. Now, back to my previous question: Are you afraid of me?”

  “Not really,” I whisper.

  “That’s a very weak reply,” he says in a stern voice.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not afraid of you, like that you’ll beat me up or kill me.”

  “But?” he prompts.

  “The stuff you want—the sex stuff, saying you want to tie me up … it scares me a little, yes.”

  “Thank you for your honesty,” he says softly. “You seem very inexperienced. How many sexual partners have you had?”

  My face flames, and I really want to tell him it’s none of his business. B
ut it is his business—he’s paying for me to obey him—to worship him. Plus, like it or not, I’m now in a sexual relationship with Mr. Thorne and he’ll likely want to do a lot more than I’ve ever done before. Honesty probably is the best policy, if this strange arrangement is ever going to work out.

  “Two,” I mumble, looking down. “Including you.”

  “I see.”

  I search his face, but his expression gives no clue as to what he’s thinking.

  After a beat he continues. “Thank you for telling me. So can I assume nearly everything will be a first for you, then?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I haven’t really done much of anything. On the table last time, that was adventurous for me.”

  “For me, as well.”

  I look up to see if he’s joking, but he looks perfectly serious. Does that mean he hasn’t done something like that before either?

  “I’d like to do that again sometime,” he whispers.

  “Yes, Sir.” Remembering what he said a minute ago, I add, “I’d like that, as well, Sir.”

  He draws me close and I rest my head on his shoulder. A new song comes on, replacing the opera, and it’s not what I expect.

  “Springsteen?” I ask.

  “You don’t like him?” He strokes my hair all the way from the top of my head down my back. It feels nice, I have to admit.

  “No, I like him. I just imagined you only listening to opera and classical stuff.”

  “I’m not that old,” he chuckles.

  “No, you’re not,” I agree.

  His arms feel good around me, the music is nice, and the room is so warm. For a moment, I can almost pretend that everything is fine and someone else is taking care of me for a change. I close my eyes, melting into his caress. He doesn’t ask anything of me, no sexual favors or acting like something I’m not. He just holds me. It doesn’t feel like I’m worshipping him. It almost feels the other way around. I don’t understand him at all, and while I still think he’s sort of a weirdo, I could get used to this.

  “Mmm,” Mr. Thorne sighs, running his fingers through my hair. “My sweet girl.”

  Yes, I can be his sweet girl. At least I think I can. For a little while.

  Chapter Nine

  The Springsteen song ends and the silence breaks the spell I’m under. Mr. Thorne’s arms, which felt comforting a moment ago, now make me feel claustrophobic. What am I doing, snuggling up with him? I’m his goddamned escort, and here I am, acting like a clingy girlfriend in need of comfort. I can’t help but tense up and he notices immediately.

  “Abigail?”

  “I’m sorry. I should probably go check on dinner, Sir.”

  Mr. Thorne tightens his arms around me for a moment and then lets me go. I climb off his lap, standing next to his chair with my hands folded in front of me. Now I feel like a servant again, which is exactly how it should be. I wish he hadn’t been so affectionate with me, and I wish I hadn’t liked it so much.

  “How long until it’s done?” he asks.

  I need to check on the chicken, which should be done by now, and reheat the side dishes. “Fifteen minutes, Sir,” I say, looking down to hide my discomfort.

  “I’d like for you to set the table in the dining room. I’ll expect to be served in precisely fifteen minutes.” His voice is stern now. I guess he, too, has realized that I crossed a line by cuddling with him.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re excused.”

  I practically flee the room, my exposed skin chilled from the change in mood. Rushing downstairs to the kitchen, I pull the chicken out of the oven and check it, sighing with relief that it is, in fact, done. I cover it to keep it warm, set the dials on the stove to low, and go in search of the dining room, which I’ve never seen before.

  When I locate it, I find myself once again gaping at the beauty of this house. The room is very large and could host twenty people for a dinner party, but looks like it’s rarely used. I wonder why Mr. Thorne wants to eat in here all by himself instead of sitting in the kitchen where it’s somewhat cozier, but it’s not my place to question him. I’m merely the hired help.

  In one of the cabinets, I find what I assume is the fancy china and wine glasses, and make up a single place setting at the end of the table. Back in the kitchen, I load the food into pretty serving dishes and carry them with me, hoping everything will be hot enough. I realize I have nothing to pour into his wine glass, but I can’t do much about that without his instructions. In the kitchen, he has some kind of special wine refrigerator, and I’m sure those bottles cost more than—well, me. No way am I messing up by opening the wrong one.

  Two minutes later, he arrives, just as I’m leaning over the table to light the two tapers I found in the cupboard along with the cloth napkins.

  “Perfect timing, I see.”

  I look over and can’t help but smile at his pleased expression, happy that he’s seemingly forgotten my clingy embrace upstairs.

  “Everything looks and smells wonderful,” he praises, walking over to where I’m standing.

  “Thank you, Sir. I do need your opinion, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know much about wine, and I didn’t want to open the wrong bottle,” I explain. “They look … very expensive?”

  “They are,” he says, nodding. “That was very thoughtful of you. I’ll go get one.”

  I breathe out as he leaves. Everything I do seems like a test, but at least it feels as though I’m passing some of the time. Mr. Thorne returns with an open bottle of red wine and takes his seat. Then he looks up at me, as if he’s waiting for me to do something.

  Am I supposed to serve him? It seems I am, so I start by pouring him some wine before loading food onto his plate, being very careful not to spill anything. All the while, he watches me, a small smile on his face. He really likes this whole serving bit.

  When I’m done, I turn to leave, only to have him pull me back.

  “Stay,” he orders, taking the first bite of his dinner. He hums appreciatively and looks up at me. “Delicious. You’re a very good cook, sweet girl.”

  I flush with pleasure. Another test passed.

  “Thank you, S-Sir,” I stutter, feeling his free hand slide up the back of my leg, underneath the full skirt of the dress. He continues eating with his left hand, while the right gently kneads my naked cheeks. I’m too stunned to feel embarrassed.

  “These potatoes are very good,” he comments, loading another forkful. “Spread your legs.”

  His command is given in the same pleasant voice he used to compliment my cooking, and I don’t have to look at him to see that he’s smiling to himself. I can hear it. He loves this.

  I move my feet apart, pressing my lips together to stop from gasping as his fingers slip between my legs. He starts out slowly, warming me up, I guess. His touch is gentle, stroking the sensitive skin on my inner thighs before moving to part me, playing me like a well-loved instrument. I know it shouldn’t feel good to me, but I can’t deny that it does. My libido, which has been pretty much nonexistent ever since Luke was born, seems to have been awakened, and I don’t know how to feel about the fact that it’s happened at the hands of Mr. Thorne. He’s very handsome and obviously knows what he’s doing, but he’s so weird at times and this isn’t supposed to be about me.

  For a few minutes he eats in silence, pausing only to taste his wine. His fingers are now sliding in and out of me effortlessly. Every ten seconds or so he pauses, spreading my wetness around, making me want to squirm. Wordlessly, he removes his hand, and I feel both relief and a twinge of regret.

  “Clear the table, please.”

  I grab a plate and a serving bowl and hurry into the kitchen, drawing several calming breaths. As I make the trips back and forth to clear away everything except his wine, I do my best not to look directly at him, although I’m sure he can see how flushed my face is anyway. After placing the tray with the chicken on the kitchen counter, I walk back into the dining
room, filled with trepidation, and stand quietly next to his chair. Now that the meal is over, he’ll want sex. I’m sure of it.

  “Eyes to me.”

  The look in his eyes, dark and lust-filled, twists my insides with nervousness, and I watch wordlessly as he pushes his chair back, making room between himself and the table and pointing to the space. I step in front of him, wondering if he wants me to kneel there.

  “Lift your dress up, bend over the table, and present yourself to me,” he orders in a rough-sounding voice.

  Present myself? I wonder if I look as shocked as I feel, because he raises his eyebrows in a challenging way, as though he expects me to protest. I don’t. My face burns, but I obey, placing my elbows on the table while fisting the hem of the dress. Somehow, I feel even more exposed than if I were completely naked. It feels so lewd.

  “Mmm, so pretty.” Mr. Thorne runs his hands over my exposed thighs and backside. “So soft and pale. Spread your legs, Abigail.”

  I do as I’m told, cringing a little at the knowledge that Mr. Thorne will see how his touch affects me. He sighs contentedly behind me, his fingers slipping through the wetness I’ve created before dipping inside me.

  “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, turning his fingers so that his thumb finds the exact spot where I feel the most. His left hand kneads my buttocks and I close my eyes, not sure how to react. What he’s doing to me feels good, but I don’t want him to know. I can’t give him that part of me. It’s too private. Suddenly, his left hand is gone, and I startle as it connects with my skin, making a loud slapping sound.

  For a few seconds, I’m frozen. The only sound in the room is his harsh breathing behind me. I hardly dare to draw a breath. Then his fingers start moving again, causing me to inhale sharply. I can’t believe he did that. Well, actually, I can. This is Mr. Thorne, after all. Still, I thought he would have waited to do something like this and maybe prepared me in advance. Then I realize I wasn’t apprehensive because I wasn’t expecting it, and it didn’t really hurt.