Crossing the Lines Page 9

  “Mmm.”

  “I love watching you eat.”

  “I love eating, so you’re in luck, Sir.”

  He grins at me, taking a spoonful for himself. “It is good,” he agrees.

  “I didn’t know upscale restaurants deliver,” I say, accepting the spoon again.

  “They don’t, usually, but I’m a very good customer.”

  “You go there a lot?”

  “All the time. I can’t cook and a man’s gotta eat. It’s a very nice place.”

  I nod my head.

  “Maybe I’ll take you there sometime,” he says, lifting my wine glass to my lips.

  Wide-eyed, I drink the bubbly wine, staring at him. “You want to take me out … in public?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you’re you and I’m … me. I won’t fit in over there, in such a fancy place. I’d embarrass you.”

  He shakes his head disapprovingly. “What you are, Abigail, is a sweet, beautiful young woman. You’re not used to the finer things in life, obviously, but I don’t see how you’d ever embarrass me. In fact, I’d be the envy of most men if I had you at my side.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” I whisper. “Aren’t you worried what people might think, though? About us, I mean.”

  “Well, I assume they’d think you were my lover, which is true,” he says, shrugging as he eats some more soup.

  My stupid heart flutters in my chest. I’m his lover? That sounds a lot better than what I’ve been calling myself. Does he really think so highly of me? And why can’t I do the same thing? I don’t think any less of Mr. Thorne for paying me, so shouldn’t I give myself a break?

  “You are my lover, aren’t you, sweet girl?” he asks, reaching up to caress my cheek.

  “I’m whatever you want me to be,” I whisper, leaning in until our noses are touching. “I’m here for you, Mr. Thorne, to worship you.”

  His lips mold themselves to mine as he kisses me slowly, tightening his arms around me. When I moan, I feel him smiling before he pulls away.

  “Are you ready for the main course?” he asks, running his hand up my naked thigh. I’m not sure if his double entendre is intentional or not.

  “Whatever you’d like, Sir.”

  He grins in response, lifts me off his lap, and tells me to heat up the entrée. I carry the dirty dishes out with me and quickly warm up the rest of the food before carrying it to the table along with clean silverware and a new plate. I have to make two trips and, again, Mr. Thorne doesn’t offer to help. Instead, he watches with a look of satisfaction on his handsome face.

  We eat in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. The food is amazing, and I can see that Mr. Thorne really does love watching me eat, because he feeds me the biggest share of the portions.

  “I can’t wait for dessert,” he tells me afterward. We’re in the kitchen while I’m frosting the cake.

  “I’m not sure it’ll do the rest of the menu justice,” I tell him honestly. He bought us a gourmet meal and I’ve made him a simple chocolate cake.

  “You made it for me,” he says, embracing me from behind, “to please me.”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Then it’ll be perfect,” he whispers, placing soft kisses on the side of my neck. “You may serve coffee in the living room when you’re done. Bring a cup and plate for yourself.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good girl,” he tells me before he leaves.

  Thankfully, Mr. Thorne’s coffee maker is pretty standard and I’m able to brew a pot without difficulty. I put everything on a tray and walk slowly out of the kitchen, realizing I have no idea where the living room is located.

  “Mr. Thorne?” I call out. “Where are you?”

  “Marco!”

  I can’t help but grin as I follow the sound down the hall. He’s such a weirdo. I never know what to expect from him, but I realize that’s actually one of the things I like about him. None of his many personality quirks are unpleasant. I like all of them.

  “Polo,” I say softly, entering the living room.

  “Over here,” he says, motioning for me to place the tray on the coffee table.

  This room is just as beautiful as the rest of the house, furnished impeccably to fit Mr. Thorne’s masculine taste with dark wood and a large couch. There’s a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, throw carpets on the hardwood floors, and, next to the present he’s brought with him, a few newspapers and magazines on the table. Finally, a room that actually looks somewhat lived in.

  “Join me,” he says, sitting down on the couch.

  “I need one more thing.”

  He nods once, and I hurry into the dining room, bringing one of the lit tapers with me. “You didn’t have any birthday candles,” I tell him as I join him on the couch. “But still,” I clear my throat. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Si-ir,” I sing, drawing out the word. He smiles in response, eyes lit up as he looks at me.

  “Happy birthday to you,” I finish, holding the candle out to him. “You wanna make a wish?”

  He shakes his head. “Wishes don’t work for me. Never have.”

  I stare at him. That’s how I’ve felt for years, that my wishes never come true. I never thought I’d have anything in common with him, but the more I get to know him, the more I’m starting to realize we’re not as different as it seems. Has he been hurt too? Does he long for more than the life he has, just as I do? Retracting the candle, I bring it up to my mouth.

  “Wait.” He draws a deep breath, rubbing his palms against the tops of his thighs. “Why don’t you make one,” he finally says.

  “All right.”

  I wish … I wish Mr. Thorne will find happiness.

  Blowing out the flame, I hope this wish will come true. There’s definitely sadness within the man next to me, but I don’t know what caused it. I think he might be all alone in the world.

  “Thank you, Abigail,” he says, taking the candle from my hand. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years.”

  And there’s the sadness. “Do you have family, Sir?” I whisper.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he responds curtly, looking straight at me. “That’s not what you’re here for.”

  His clipped words shouldn’t hurt my feelings. After all, who is he to me, and who am I to him? But they do.

  “Excuse me.” He stands and walks out of the room, leaving me on the couch.

  Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? I’m not his girlfriend. He doesn’t owe me any part of himself besides what he chooses to share. I need to get my head on straight. Wine, romantic music, and candles don’t change why I’m here, and I feel like an idiot for getting lost in the fantasy.

  He comes back a few minutes later and sits down next to me.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  He shrugs a shoulder at me. “Forget it. Let’s not let it ruin our evening. You have your issues about family and I have mine.”

  “What a pair we make.”

  He smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Impulsively, I lean over and kiss him, hoping to chase away his dark thoughts. He responds, pulling me into his arms, and I feel his tension melt away with each deep kiss until the grin he gives me is genuine.

  “Would you like your dessert now?” I ask.

  “Yes.” His eyes sweep over me. “But I’ll take some cake first.”

  I laugh, cutting him a big piece and serving him a cup of coffee with it. He digs in and hums in approval.

  “It’s wonderful,” he says. “Have some for yourself.”

  We eat in silence and I notice his eyes drifting to the gift-wrapped item more than a few times.

  Might as well get it over with.

  “You can open it, if you’d like,” I say, pushing it closer to him.

  “I think I will,” he says calmly. I can see a spark of excitement in his eyes, though, which he can’t hide.

  “It’s really nothing much,” I warn him, wrin
ging my hands. “If I’d known it was your birthday, I would’ve gotten something bet—”

  He holds up his hand and I stop talking. Like a child, he lifts up the square box and shakes it to guess what’s inside. Of course, it doesn’t make a sound, so he proceeds to unwrap it while I hold my breath.

  “Oh,” he exhales, pushing the wrapping paper away. He runs the tips of his fingers across the front. “This is really something, Abigail. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I didn’t know if you already had them?”

  “No. I did, once, but I never got around to replacing them. I can’t believe you bought this for me.”

  “You said they were your favorites. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is to me,” he says, smiling faintly. He looks at the box set again. “The fourth movie is on here. I never got around to watching it. Have you seen it?”

  I shake my head. “I think I saw some of the older ones when I was a kid, but definitely not the newest one.”

  “Well, in that case,” he says, smiling widely, “I would like you to join me for a movie, Abigail.”

  “I’d like that, Sir,” I tell him honestly. “May I use the bathroom first?”

  He shoots me a wicked grin. “What would you do if I said no?”

  “I’d hold it, Sir.”

  He gazes at me for a moment, appearing almost more excited about this than watching the movie. “Yes, you would,” he concludes.

  I nod my head, maintaining eye contact.

  “Of course you may use the bathroom,” he says, smiling. “You don’t have to ask again.”

  His excitement doesn’t have anything to do with the bathroom thing, I realize. It’s the fact that I’d do what he says, even if the request is odd.

  After a quick bathroom break, I’m back on the couch, watching the opening credits with Mr. Thorne by my side. He’s eating his second piece of cake, eyes glued to the screen. After a few minutes, he puts the plate on the coffee table and pours both of us more wine.

  “Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass to mine. “Thank you for all this, Abigail.”

  “My pleasure, Sir,” I whisper.

  “Your pleasure? Yes, we’ll definitely get to that later.”

  I move closer, taking a big sip of wine before putting it on the table. Mr. Thorne looks me over, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “You need it badly, don’t you?” he murmurs, his free hand slipping underneath the hem of my dress to caress my thighs. “How long has it been for you, pretty girl?”

  “S-since what?” I gasp as his fingers easily locate the place where I feel the most.

  “Since you came on a cock,” he says roughly, pulling my legs apart to push a single finger inside me. “Since you were fucked until you came, screaming.”

  “N-never,” I moan, leaning into him, spreading my legs wide open for him. “I’ve never done that, Sir.”

  “Fuck,” he mumbles, lowering his head down to gently bite my naked shoulder. “I’m going to enjoy this so much.”

  “Enjoy what?” I ask, moving around to get him to touch me more.

  “Enjoy showing you what it’s like. You’ll be insatiable once you get a taste, I know it. You’ll be begging me to fuck you.” He pushes another finger inside, causing my back to arch.

  “Won’t you?” he whispers, kissing up my neck, making me groan with pleasure.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  Abruptly, he stops touching me, and I want to scream in frustration. But instead of going back to the movie, he turns off the TV and stands up, grabbing me by the hand.

  “C’mon,” he says, practically dragging me from the living room.

  “Where are we going?” I finally manage to ask as we reach the third floor, where I know his office is located.

  “To bed,” he answers. “I need more room to do all the things I wanna do to you.”

  “W-what do you mean?” I stutter, nervous once more. “What are you going to do to me?”

  He stops and turns, right outside the door to the room where he’s headed, and looks me up and down, the heat in his eyes making me shiver.

  “Whatever I want.”

  Just like that, we’re back to the first night I met him and the giant leap of faith I took getting into his car. He watches me closely, gauging my reaction to his words while his hand around my wrist loosens slightly. I draw a deep breath and remember that this is the same man who thoughtfully fed me dinner, who brought wine all the way back from Italy just for me, and who, most of the time, looks at me and treats me as if I’m precious to him, even calling me his lover.

  “Whatever you want, Sir.”

  He doesn’t reply, but smiles at me before pulling me inside the room. I look around, breathing out in relief that it is, in fact, a regular bedroom and not a place with whips and chains. Well, regular is probably the wrong word considering the opulence before me: a huge bed, a plush carpet, heavy drapes. There’s one thing missing, though—missing all over the house. There are no pictures anywhere. Sure, there’s art on the walls, but nothing of a personal nature. I think of his pristine kitchen, the sleek surfaces. People say that a kitchen is the heart of a home, and by that estimation, there is no heart here at all. The thought makes me sad.

  “Abigail?” Mr. Thorne is watching me closely, his thumb stroking across my wrist. “I won’t hurt you,” he says softly, misinterpreting my hesitation.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Undress,” he orders after a few seconds.

  I step out of the heels, enjoying the sensation of the soft carpet beneath my bare feet for a moment before turning my back to him. “Will you unzip me, please, Sir?”

  He helps me remove the dress and I place it carefully on the bedside table, now standing naked in front of Mr. Thorne.

  “Lie down on the bed,” he directs, “on your back, legs spread.”

  I do as I’m told, breathing rapidly from both nerves and excitement. Mr. Thorne opens the drawer in the bedside table, pulling out what looks like one of those sleeping masks I’ve seen people wear in movies.

  “Put this on.”

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “You’ll feel more,” he says, “and tonight, I want you to feel everything I do to you.”

  I slip it on and close my eyes.

  “Hold on here,” Mr. Thorne says, lifting up my arms and wrapping my fingers around the edges of the pillow underneath my head. “Don’t let go, no matter what happens.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I’m restrained by his words only, but vow not to lower my arms, giving him the control he wants. The bed dips beside me as he climbs in next to me.

  “It’s beautiful,” he whispers. “Your submission.”

  I don’t know what to say about that so I keep quiet. His hands trail down the length of my body and I arch up in response.

  “You’re such a good girl, Abigail. Anything I ask, you do. You’ve been so patient tonight, letting me delay your pleasure.” I gasp as his fingers part me, sliding into me without resistance.

  “You’re so fucking wet,” he growls, “so needy.”

  “Please, Sir,” I breathe, letting my legs fall completely out to the sides. I feel his breath against my neck before he trails lingering kisses down my torso, pausing to suck on my nipples for a moment. All the while, his fingers fuck me deeply and his thumb moves over my clit, making my hips lift off the bed to gain more of the delicious friction.

  “You have no idea, do you?” he asks from somewhere above me.

  “About what?” I pant.

  “How fucking desirable you are,” he tells me. “I’ve been hard all day, knowing you were coming over tonight—knowing I’d get to do anything I want with you.”

  “Yes, please, you can,” I moan, practically incoherent at this point.

  “You’re going to come for me, Abigail. First, on my fingers …” He curls them inside me, touching a place that makes me gasp loudly. “Then, on my mouth,” he continues, covering my lips with his in a sea
ring kiss. “And, finally, you’re going to come on my cock,” he says, pressing his still-covered erection against my hip. “You’re going to come so hard for me, sweet girl. Is that clear?”

  “T-three times, oh!” I pant, bucking up my lower half, so very close. “That’s impossible, Sir.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I feel his mouth on my chest again, his tongue flicking over my nipples while his thumb rubs my clit with purpose. Moments later, I come. And it’s nothing like I remember; it’s better—so much better. My body curves upward; I moan loudly as I clench around his fingers and then relax down onto the mattress again.

  “Thank you, Sir,” I exhale, trying to catch my breath.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he mumbles, kissing his way down my upper body. “You can do better than that. You can come much harder.”

  I don’t know that I can, but I’m afraid to disappoint him by telling him that what he just did was pretty much the most fulfilling sexual experience of my life. I doubt it gets much better than that.

  “Have you ever had a man taste you, Abigail?”

  “No,” I admit, suddenly happy about the sleep mask I’m wearing so I don’t have to look at him while I answer.

  “Fuck,” he groans, nipping at my belly. “You’re practically a virgin.”

  When I start to protest, he stops me. “You haven’t been fucked properly. You haven’t even had real foreplay. Whoever he was, he neglected you, so he doesn’t count. I’m your first.”

  I inhale sharply as he spreads my legs and kisses his way up my inner thigh, his lips and tongue soft and gentle in their exploration.

  “Say it.” His hands snake up my body and grab my breasts none too gently before pulling my nipples.

  “You’re my first,” I groan out. His hands return to their place underneath me and he holds me up slightly, keeping me open wide for him. Knowing that he’s inspecting me so closely makes me want to cringe and pull away, but after a few seconds his mouth is on me again, and I forget those thoughts.

  The sensation is somehow deeper than when he used his fingers, more acute. I’m so sensitive and I squirm around, trying to get away from his very insistent stimulation. “Please, Sir,” I protest weakly.