The Bride (The Boss) Page 16

  When I raised my mouth, he pulled me back to him, gently. He still held my hair, and he lifted my crumpled panties to wipe the trickle of water from the corner of my mouth and the tear tracks from my cheeks.

  “Come along.” His grip on my hair tightened, and he tugged me toward the door.

  He didn’t let go of me until we stood beside our neatly made bed.

  “On your back.” He tugged at his belt and unzipped his fly. “Now.”

  I did as he asked, a thrill of excitement sparking through me. I loved getting fucked this way, wrapping my legs around him and raking my nails down his biceps. Well, when he left my hands free. He was awfully fond of holding or tying my wrists together to frustrate me.

  Not this time, though. No sooner than I’d lain down, he was on top of me, pushing into my swollen, achy cunt. I gripped his shoulders and arched my back, and he pinned my head to the bed with a fistful of my hair.

  “Look at me, Sophie.”

  I opened my eyes to meet his, and I was instantly lost. This was the man I was going to marry. This was the man I was starting a life, building a family with. I mean, sure it was a weird family with all sorts of strange relationships in it, but we were doing it together. And despite our problems and all the bumps in the road, when I looked into his eyes, I saw the same depth of love that I felt for him, directed back at me.

  Fuck, I loved therapy night.

  Neil’s slow, steady strokes brought me to another, gentler climax. I floated on the pleasure, totally euphoric, clutching his arms and whimpering mindlessly, but I didn’t look away from his intense green gaze. He didn’t break eye contact with me, either, panting and groaning as he ground deep and found his own release.

  For a minute, we just stared at each other in mutual disbelief. We had a lot of fun, awesome sex, but every now and again, we surprised ourselves with how emotionally momentous fucking could be.

  He kissed me then rested his forehead against mine. “Well, that didn’t last as long as I expected.”

  I laughed and wriggled beneath him, and he slipped out, but stayed poised over me on his elbows. I reached up and pushed back his sweaty hair. “I liked it.”

  “I like you.” He kissed the tip of my nose then rolled off me.

  “You’re not so bad,” I conceded, snuggling happily beside him to rest my head on his shoulder. He turned out the light and hit the remote to turn off the television. The dressing room light was still on, painting dim lines along our shapes in the dark.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked as he drew the covers over us. “Water? Some Ibuprofen or ice?”

  “Nah.” Though I would be incredibly sore in the morning. “Just hold me. That’s all the aftercare I need right now.”

  “What do you get out of it?” Neil asked softly, running his knuckles up and down my arm. “Submission? I’ve never quite grasped the draw.”

  “Hmm,” I pondered, very profoundly. After a moment, I followed that brilliance up with, “I don’t know. I guess it’s it the feeling of not having to make decisions? I mean, I think all the time. My brain never stops going. And there are times that you get me so deep into subspace that my body won’t even make involuntary decisions without your prior approval.”

  “To me, that sounds horrible.” He actually shivered. “I feel a bit guilty, like I’m the one having all the fun. I know that isn’t true, from a logical standpoint, because I’m certain that if you didn’t want to be doing any of this, you wouldn’t do it.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “I don’t know. I like being used. Feeling powerless. It gives me a rush. And I know I’m safe with you, so I can enjoy that.”

  “But I’ve been powerless for a long time. And I didn’t like it.” He sounded so unusually helpless that my heart twisted.

  Neil had known about his cancer for four years before we’d met. He’d managed with drugs that had only postponed the inevitable chemotherapy and transplant, but of course he’d felt powerless. Death was the one thing he couldn’t buy, reason, or charm his way out of, and that had blown his entire worldview apart.

  Not to mention the horrible experience he’d had when he’d tried to sub before. His Dom had been a guy who’d basically used a technicality as an excuse to commit sexual battery; he’d claimed he hadn’t realized Neil was truly distressed when he’d forgotten his safe word. Neil had balked when I’d called it what it was—rape—but I stuck by the label. The thought of someone hurting Neil made me so angry, I hoped I would never meet the asshole who’d done it.

  “I suppose if things had gone differently with my, er, introduction, as it were…perhaps I might have tried it again in the future.” Neil shrugged. The motion jostled my head. “But I don’t think I was ever destined to switch.”

  “Do you think you’d ever try it again? With someone you trusted?” I asked, wondering if I’d overstepped my bounds.

  He chuckled softly. “Are you volunteering?”

  My body throbbed at the idea. But maybe I wasn’t the best person for the job. I’d only been Neil’s sub for a little over a year. Despite all the books, blogs, and Tumblrs I’d voraciously consumed during that time, and Neil’s careful instruction, I didn’t have the experience necessary. “I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

  And like a light bulb, I knew who the right person was.

  “You know, I might try.” Neil sounded strangely positive about the idea. “A lot of things have changed for me, and it has been a very long time. If I were to have the opportunity in the future…”

  He fell silent, and we didn’t talk about it again. We didn’t talk about anything again, because a few minutes later, I heard his soft snoring. There was no way I was going to sleep now. My mind was racing.

  I eased out of Neil’s embrace, and he turned on his side to face away from me. I reached for my phone and snuck it guiltily beneath the covers.

  I still had Emir’s number, from when he’d called for updates about Neil’s condition during those touch-and-go moments over the summer. Though I wasn’t sure that what I was doing was right, or even technically helpful, if they were planning to meet in London, it might be the perfect opportunity. I typed in a quick message, hit send, and turned off my ringer.

  If Emir wasn’t the right man for the job, then I didn’t know who was. I just hoped Neil wouldn’t be too mad at me for taking the initiative.

  * * * *

  Though it sucked that Neil and I would be apart for the weekend, it did give me extra time to see Holli. We’d decided to spend the day in the village, hitting all the trendy shops and feeling very superior about our fashion knowledge.

  We were standing in 2-1-8, a recently opened boutique that was trying way too hard, when Holli checked her phone and groaned.

  “Annika has to stop referring to her kid’s age in months.” She rolled her eyes. “Tell me you will never, ever let me be like that. If I call you up and tell you that my little Jackson just graduated law school at two-hundred eighty-eight months, pepper spray me in the eyes.”

  I snickered. “I thought you weren’t having kids?”

  “Deja wants them, eventually. She better be the one birthing them, because these narrow hips are structurally unsound.” Holli shook her head. “I know, I’m a terrible person. I used to hate it when people would say, ‘one day, you’ll change your mind,’ and here I am changing my mind.”

  “You’re not terrible. Just because you didn’t want kids before and you do now doesn’t mean you’re a traitor. Now, if you suddenly start telling me that I am going to change my mind? Then you’re a traitor. And a dick.” I tilted my head as I considered an overpriced white cardigan with red-orange horizontal stripes. The buttons were interesting, but not enough to warrant the two-hundred-and-fifteen-dollar price tag. I put it back.

  “Yeah, again: pepper spray.” She held up two fingers in a v and pointed to her eyes.

  “Ugh, this store sucks,” I said under my breath.

  “You wanna go back to your p
lace? I have to stop by Hermés on Madison, there’s a scarf I’m dying for, and I just got paid.” Holli did a little dance.

  I almost made a comment about how a Hermés scarf would look splattered with baby puke, but I realized that then I would be a dick. While I was slightly disappointed that Holli was falling out of the no-babies-ever-forever club, logically I knew it wasn’t a judgment of my own choices. I didn’t have to be defensive about it.

  We got a cab, and since she’d dropped a bomb on me, I figured it would be okay to drop one on her. It would at least make the ride interesting.

  “So…Neil and I are going out on Monday to look at a house in the Hamptons.”

  She blinked at me. “Wow, really?”

  “Uh, yeah. You know, we were discussing moving out of the city, this Sagaponack thing came up—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Holli shrieked, and the cab driver jumped a little in his seat.

  In a purposeful hush that I hoped would communicate the need for quiet, I replied, “I didn’t tell you because it’s not a big deal. We changed our minds. But the property is apparently a steal, so Neil wants to look into it.” I paused. “You know, maybe he could buy it, and Emma and Michael could live there.”

  Holli squinted up her face. “What do you wear when you’re going to look at a house in the Hamptons?”

  I shrugged. That particular question had been plaguing me for a while now. “I’m stumped. Anything conservative I have is going to look like I’m going to the office. And it’s not like I can just show up in jeans and a t-shirt. What if I end up really wanting the house?”

  “That seems like a great reason to wear jeans and a t-shirt,” Holli snorted. “Like not shaving your legs before a first date. I mean, it’s not like you’d actually want to move all the way out to Sagaponack.”

  When I didn’t respond, her expression fell. “Sophie…you’re not seriously considering this?”

  “Maybe not, you know. Right now.” I might as well have held up a flashing neon “YES!” sign, as convincing as my answer was.

  I thought Holli would go atomic right there in the cab, demanding to know what I could get in the Hamptons that I couldn’t get in Manhattan, and I’d better not expect her to travel that far for movie night, but instead she just rolled her eyes and gave me an obvious and dramatic sigh. That was almost worse.

  “What?” I demanded with a laugh that was entirely forced. “You seem to forget that I’m from a town where people give directions by saying, ‘ya, you go right down der past da Sodie camp, den take a leff by dem big gray gerbage cans…’ Manhattan was never going to be my forever home.”

  “What, did I get you from a shelter or something?” She could never stay mad at me long enough to pass up a quip.

  We pulled up outside the Hermés boutique on Madison Avenue, and I slid out, feeling self-conscious in my jeans, white burnt-out tee, and pink tweed jacket. Then I remembered I wasn’t there to represent Gabriella Winters, fashion maven, and that I could buy the entire contents of the damn boutique if I wanted to.

  Which is what made the chilly reception I got so fucking galling. Holli, being a newly minted minor It Girl of the modeling world, was welcomed with open arms by the sales staff, while I stood by completely ignored. Some of the associates working the floor had been there when I would come in trailing Gabriella, and I could tell from the way those individuals avoided my eyes that a line had been drawn a year ago, and I had crossed it by stepping on her turf.

  I followed Holli and her salesman, winding around the sleek mahogany display cases and listening to her describe the scarf she was looking for while he tried to up-sell her on something else, when someone tapped my shoulder.

  I turned to see a face that was familiar, but which I couldn’t immediately place. I estimated her to be in her late sixties, but it was clear she’d had some cosmetic upkeep. Her hair was a graceful shade of gray pulled into a severe French twist with side-swept black bangs. She looked like a friendlier version of Cruella De Vil.

  Still, I had no idea who she was, so it was a relief when the woman said, “Excuse me, but I think we live in the same building. You’re Neil Elwood’s wife, aren’t you?”

  At once, I felt the piercing, interested gazes of the three salespeople standing within earshot. I ignored them.

  “Fiancé,” I corrected the woman with a smile. “But yes, I think I saw you in the elevator. You had the…”

  “Yorkie,” she supplied, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, my sweet Anastasia. I live for her every day.”

  “Wow, that’s…” Uncomfortable. “Really great that you love your dog so much.”

  Out of force of habit—I’d dealt with too many socialites when working for Gabriella—I looked down at her purse to make sure Anastasia the Yorkie wasn’t panting happily inside.

  Holy. Fuck. The woman was carrying a Birkin bag.

  It wasn’t that I had never seen a Birkin in the wild before. Gabriella had seven, with color-coordinating leather gloves for winter. Occasionally, they breezed into the office on the arm of a designer or celebrity. But this person lived in my apartment building, and a lovely coral-toned leather Birkin rested its handles casually over her arm.

  This close, I could see the stitching. I swear, I almost had an orgasm right there.

  “You like the bag.” It wasn’t a question, and her eyes twinkled like we were sharing a secret. “It was supposed to have been my daughter’s. She killed herself six years ago and I got her place on the waiting list.”

  Jesus. Christ. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? The lady almost sounded happy that her daughter had died, so she could get the damn bag.

  I had definitely stepped into a different world.

  “Of course, that was back when there was a waiting list,” she opined with a little sigh that seemed to ask what was the world coming to? She lifted one hand, encased in a glove that was probably made out of orca leather or some other borderline-legal luxury animal product and wiggled her fingers at a salesperson. “Debra! Debra, yoo hoo!”

  Debra wasn’t one of the associates who’d heard the strange lady proclaim me Neil Elwood’s fiancé, so when she came over, my neighbor introduced me as such: “This is Neil Elwood’s fiancée. You know Neil Elwood, I’m sure. He threw that fundraiser for the land mines what was it, eight years ago? Paul McCartney played.”

  “I’m Sophie,” I told Debra, extending my hand.

  Debra was better at dealing with this kind of uncomfortable conversation than I was. Her bewilderment lasted only a few seconds before a distant, professional smile replaced it. “How do you do, Sophie? Have you shopped with us before?”

  “The future Mrs. Elwood was quite keen on my purse,” weirdo neighbor lady said. “You should show her what you have in stock.”

  I could tell from Debra’s vibe that the last thing she wanted to do was sully the holy Birkin name by showing me the stock. But that just made me angry. Okay, so I’d bought my jeans at Banana Republic. So I couldn’t afford a ten-thousand dollar handbag on my own. Big freaking deal. I was about to marry a billionaire. I lived in a freaking Manhattan palace. If I wanted to be a New York socialite trophy wife, dammit, this jerk wasn’t going to stop me!

  I lifted my chin and took a breath, as though I were considering. Then I said, “You know, I really would like to see what you have in stock.”

  “Soph?” I heard Holli ask behind me, all gentle, like I was a horse about to bolt into a barn fire. “Did you just ask to see a Birkin bag?”

  “I did.” The wild, dangerous rush I used to feel when I’d occasionally shoplifted in middle school came back to me with a vengeance. Not that I planned on stealing the bag, of course. I would just look at it, pronounce that isn’t a color I liked or some other lofty, totally unbelievable excuse, and go. But it felt risky even doing that. Despite the fact that the infamous waiting list had been retired, the bags were still ultra-expensive status symbols.

  “We do have one in stock. I’ll go a
nd get it,” Debra said with fake warmth before heading off to the back.

  “Well, this has been quite charming, but I must dash,” Neighbor Lady said with a pleasant smile. “Do enjoy your bag.”

  “Yeah. Bye,” I managed. I felt like I’d just been run over by a train. I hadn’t even gotten her name. She was like a malicious purse fairy or something.

  “So, you’re seriously looking at a Birkin?” Holli shook her head. “You realize how much those cost, right?”

  “Yes, I worked for the top fashion magazine in the country, thank you, I know how much they are.” My face was burning. I felt the weirdest urge to prove something, to someone. I just didn’t know what and to whom. To the neighbor lady, that I belonged in the building because we had matching purses? To Debra, the sales person I would probably never see again in my entire life, that I was somehow cosmically deserving of an astronomically priced bag?

  Or maybe I was just trying to prove all of that to myself. But for whatever reason, when Debra returned with the gorgeous, pale alligator leather bag, I knew I was going to buy it, no matter the price.

  It was the most beautiful purse I’d ever seen. It was the pale tan of a McDonald’s chocolate shake, or maybe just a touch lighter. The fact that it was such a large bag and made out of alligator skin was pretty impressive; most alligators don’t have enough leather for a presentable thirty-five centimeter bag with pockets. And this wasn’t just presentable. It was a marvel, with its gleaming gold hardware and matching alligator leather sleeve for the tiny padlock that would keep the bag from being opened. I lifted the Birkin from the glass-topped counter like it was a holy relic and breathed, “How much?”

  “One hundred and fifteen thousand dollars,” Debra answered without hesitation.

  I had to buy it, Neil. I barfed on it. That was not a conversation I wanted to have, so I fought back the wave of nausea that gripped me at the dollar figure.

  “Wow, so, kind of out of anyone’s price range, huh?” Holli laughed.

  This was the part where I was supposed to politely decline the bag and slink off, I assume. Maybe later I would run into Neighbor and Anastasia the Yorkie, who probably had her own Birkin, and they would both look at me in judgment as I stood there, a poor girl from Michigan pretending to be a billionaire’s trophy wife.