Leon's Way (10 page)

It happens so quickly. In one move, he clutches my wrists, swipes a jump rope into his fist, and ties them above my head. He prowls over me, straddles my shoulders as he fastens me to the wall bars behind us.

He talks to himself. “So stupid,” he says as he backs down my body. He flings my shoes to the side and yanks my slacks off. For an instant, he’s on his knees, stare drilling in, holding a dare. Then, he lowers on his knuckles, into a half push-up over me. His breath drifts across my face. Despite not wanting to show distress, I let out a gasp.

“Arria?” His voice is silky. “If you move as much as a muscle, I’m tying your legs up too.”

“Not moving…” I whisper.

“Sshh.”

My panties snap in his fist, and he delves into me. I squeal when strong hands heave my hips from the floor, up against his body. I’m naked, open—so vulnerable—his mouth is on my mound, sliding down, finding all of me, and somehow in the midst of his rough touch he manages to slow down.

I lose myself in the warm rhythm he creates. He’s suckling my core, toying with me and making my breath erratic.

A slap slices the air, and I hold back my yelp. A burning pain rushes in over flesh that’s never been treated like this, and I’d shrink away if I could. I shouldn’t be surprised—mentally I thought I was prepared for anything—but he just hit me where I feel the most. Where I am a nub of nerves. Where I should be all pleasure for him.

Leon studies me, eyes simmering. “Does your little clit hurt?”

I nod once, knowing he wants my pain. He blows on me, soothing the sting before his mouth explores me again, licking, sucking, enjoying me. He withdraws to lash out again. I don’t hold back my cry, and he grunts, satisfied. Leon’s rough love singes one of my butt cheeks next while his tongue finds my entrance. He laps at my juices. Smacks my ass again, hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

I don’t like this game. I play it for him… until his eyes darken and go to my throat.

I know what he’s about to do. He hasn’t done it since New Year’s Eve. It’s freaking perverse, dangerous, and to me it has nothing to do with sex.

His hands are deceivingly warm when they circle my throat. Slowly, they tighten until they cut off all air. I manage to squeak out a “no” before my lungs spasm with fear around the lack of oxygen.

Leon’s chest heaves with the rush of complete control. The seconds tick by while he struggles—not with me, but with himself.

“When I say ‘don’t follow me in here,’ it’s for your own good.” He stares at my trembling lips.

“
I. Hate. This,
” I mouth. I watch his inhale freeze at the realization of what I’m saying. My love slackens his grip gradually, until all those warm hands do is caress me.

He shuts his eyes in a pained frown. “I wish… you hadn’t followed me.” He lowers me to the ground. Lies down with me and kisses my face.

“Sorry,” I stutter. His actions aren’t my doing—I shouldn’t be sorry. But then again, I pushed him when I should have given him space.

Leon slides his pants off, and my attention goes down his body. He’s hard, ready, and I ache for him in a better way.

“Condom?” he whispers, needing me.

“No… the damage is done.”

A barely-there smile touches his beautiful face before he sinks down over me. On his elbows, with his face nestled in against my neck, he’s breathing hard. His tip slides over my cleft back and forth, back and forth, and then he eases in deep in one slow move.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes against my ear.

I’m full of him, and this is good. So good.

With each measured stroke, Leon puffs out his confession. “I love doling out pain, Arriane. Just… it has to heighten my girl’s pleasure, and you—ah. You don’t like it.”

I’m tightening around him, which doesn’t go unnoticed. He pulls back a little to watch my expression. I’m flushed. Shy over his scrutiny. And yet I am panting for more.

“
Now
, am I making you feel good?” The satisfaction in his voice makes me contract. My arms can’t embrace him, but my knees open wider, ankles latching around his thighs to take him deeper. I tilt my pelvis up to meet each one of his thrusts, rocking against him from my restrained position.

“Yes, this is…” I’m overwhelmed by the sensations inundating me.

“Delicious?” he helps, and I chortle, but then it’s not laughter. No, it’s a cry, and he moves faster. I need him closer. I can’t hug him to me—I can’t—and it’s driving me crazy, because he needs to be closer, closer, closer.

“Let me free!” I scream it out, and Leon’s response is instantaneous. His hands whizz behind me while I squirm, hooked on him but afraid he’ll slip out. He tugs, jerks—gets rid of the damn restraints holding me hostage.

I sigh with relief, pull him into me, crisscrossing my entire being around him as he rocks me on the gym mat. Leon searches for my mouth. He doesn’t understand, though: we need to be melded—spliced. I press his face into my throat, squeezing him hard, so hard.

This is not rough. It’s not painful or extreme—limit-pushing. No, it’s Leon and I holding on tight. Slick with sweat, he’s gliding against every inch of my skin and pressing me into him. A soft rumble emits from his chest, vibrating into the nape of my neck where he’s buried, and I run my hands down his back, over his ass. I dig my nails in, working to sway his vexing pace.

His moves are subtle, slow, different from… him. We’re both on the brink of undoing. He does what I want—keeps me close, so deep, and now I’m the one pulling his head away to meet his gaze.

“I can’t hold on much longer, baby…” he hums to me. Neither can I. My mouth falls open.

“Let go,” I stutter.

“Are you there?” he begins before realizing how I cramp around him. “Oh, yes you are.” Leon doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t pull back. There’s no sprint toward the finish line, nothing but a measured ascent where he’s fully focused on me.

I don’t see him come. I just feel him, and—

God.

“Nope, because you didn’t even come down from his apartment to work again! Ah-ha-ha!” Ingela laughs. “
No way
, Arriane. I’m purrty, purrty sure you slept with Leon last night! At his house!”

“God, Ingela—stop yelling—I’m right here. I wasn’t feeling good, okay? Some sort of stomach bug.”

We’re at our apartment, and Ingela’s waving a celery stick drenched with Thousand Island dressing in front of me. “Pure excuses. What do you say, ‘excuses, schmexcuses’ or something, right?” She points at me with the vegetable.

“He let me use his bathroom and his couch,” I clarify.

“And maybe use
him
?” Ingela suggests. “By the way, it’s not rape if he consented. Damn, you know what I think?” The dressing sneaks down her finger and hits the counter in a salmon-pink glob.

“Ingela, quit being an ass.” I never learn the nature of her thoughts, because sadly, my comment reminds her of more stuff she wants answers to.

“So.” Her already wide smile gains five million megawatts. “Leon looks like he’s an ass man. Is he? As in he prefers to put it in your butt?”

Christ!

“Eggs,” I say. Which should divert her since I came home before breakfast.

“I have lots of jokes about eggs,” she informs me. “Mostly they make fun of Norwegians, but I can make them sexy instead. Easy.”

“Let’s just eat,” I propose, bringing out a frying pan.

Once the eggs are scrambled and layered over perfectly toasted muffins, it turns out chucking them out the window would be a better idea. Anything to stop the nausea rolling in from the smell.

Ingela isn’t the observant type. During the last couple of months, she might be the only one at Smother who hasn’t showed concern over my “illness.” I’d hate for that to change now, so I shove a small portion of eggs into my mouth, efficiently blocking my nose from inside my throat.

“Still not feeling good?” she asks.

Fantastic.

“Just tired. I think I’m gonna take a nap,” I say.

“You’re probably pregnant with Leon’s love child.” She frees stray hair from mascara-clad eyelashes, and my cheeks burn—hell, my entire face is on fire.

“Dude, first of all…” I hesitate. Soon, it’ll be pretty damn clear that I’m pregnant, even to Ingela. If Leon keeps up his close attention to me, everyone’s either going to expect some employee of the year plaque coming my way, or they’ll put two and two together.

Ingela’s fork freezes midair, and again I aim at diversion.

“Lower your weapon, girl—you’re scaring me.” When she doesn’t answer, I inhale for courage and tip up to meet her stare. It’s wide with realization.

“Wow,” she says.

“And you’re drooling. You should close your mouth.”

“You’re banging Leon and having his babies. Hot damn!” Her phone buzzes before I can reply. Cam’s twisted grimace blinks on the screen, and Ingela’s face lights up. “Wait ’till Cameron hears this!”

“Oh, nu-huh.” I lunge for the cell just in time.

“Hey! What’s the big deal? Not like you’re sleeping with Cam too, or…” Her cute little nose scrunches up as she considers. “…is that why you don’t want me to tell him?”

The twists and turns of Ingela’s mind are mysterious. And
disturbing
.

“Ew, Ingela.”

“Hey, he’s a hottie,” she defends. “Plus, his cock is huge. Ten, uh, inches. What’s that in centimeters?”

Oh my God.

“You’ve measured his…?”

“His cock? No, he told me. I’d totally sack him—”

“Bag him, you mean.”

“—both—if he just stopped being gross about threesomes and stuff.”

This conversation is uncomfortable, but the attention is off me, which I’m grateful for. I swallow down the lump of eggs stuck in my throat with a swig of orange juice.

“Now, back to you,” she says.

Way to jinx myself.

“Don’t believe a word Cameron says, Ingela. He’s dreaming. Probably has a peanut-sized penis.”

She giggles excitedly and slaps her thighs. “Good one! What about Leon? They say he’s crazy in bed, like dangerous! Is he hung like a boar?”

“Are you messing with me? What the hell kind of question is that?” This isn’t the first time I would have been better off not letting her suck me into discussions. I never know with Ingela, and here we are again: she just learned that I’m expecting, and her first inquiries relate to the father’s size and bed manners. Classic. “And plus—a
boar
? Who cares about boar penises?”

“Not me,” she agrees, shaking her head. “I only care about Leon’s—so compare to something else, then. Carrots, cucumbers, kittens. Whatever works. Or centimeters would be easy.”

Of course. Gotta make this easy on Ingela.

I look at my watch. I’m hours from having to leave for work. Hours! “You going to class today?”

“No.” She sinks her chin into both hands, grinning wide.

I sigh. “Ingela.”

“Yeees?”

“Please promise me you won’t tell anyone. Things are… complicated with Leon and me.”

A slight frown appears between her eyebrows. “I can keep a secret. Why, though?”

Where to start? I flip the rest of my eggs down the dark bowels of the trashcan and load my plate into the dishwasher. “I’ve worked at Smother for three years, and I know Leon well, okay? He has issues, Inga, and we’re just not compatible.”

She weaves into my explanation. “Do you love him?”

A serious expression tenses her features, and again she surprises me. I sort of expected her to insist on Leon’s problems, then maybe dish out some crazy, yet genuine, opinion on the pregnancy.

I laugh. “I really don’t want to talk about this.” The baby is one thing, but to delve into my feelings for Leon?

“You do love him, huh? You look like you do,” Ingela adds. She reaches out a sun-bronzed hand and pets my hair. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself, but she’s being so sweet—

Shit.

I’m tearing up.

“Aw, Arriane. I’m going to slaughter the gay!”

I can’t help chuckling through the tears. “‘Guy,’ Ingela, ‘guy,’ and please don’t kill him. He’s just a bit on the unfixable side, and he has no idea how I feel about him.”

“Oh, you should tell him. Tell-him, tell-him! I can if you want.” Ingela grabs my shoulders and shakes me a little in the seat. “Let me?”

I’m laughing in earnest now. “Sure, I’ll hide behind a corner while you give him a note from me.”

“Weird Americans. We did that in elementary school in Sweden.”

“Inga, I’m kidding. No—there’s no need to share. I’ll get over my little crush.”

She’s quiet for a moment, back to petting my hair like I’m a cat. It’s touching and funny at once. I’m all over the place emotionally.

“So you’re not going to try a relationship with him or anything?” she asks. A thought hits her, lips pursing with suspicion. “He knows you’re pregnant, right?”

“Yes, and
those
rumors are true: Leon is the furthest from boyfriend material there is. I’ve watched him leave a river of heartbreak in his wake, so nope. I’m not trying for anything with him.”

“Well, I think he should at least ask you. He’s a, um, cocksucker if he doesn’t.”

What? Jesus H!

“Ingela, you really shouldn’t use the word ‘cock’ at all.”

“It’s not nice-sounding?”

“Right. Makes you sound like a vulgar man.”

“Okay, fine, but he’s that, though, unless he begs you to be his, uh,
GF
. Leon should plead on his elbows and knees for you to be with him. You’re sooo nice,” she explains, “and sooo gorgeous! You’d be the prettiest couple ever. Plus he’d be lucky as hell if you said ‘yes.’” She beams at me.

“You’re silly. He did ask me, though.”

“To be his girlfriend? And you said ‘no?’”

“No, to marry him.”

“Ah, yeah. Makes sense that you turned
that
down.”

“Really?” Why am I surprised again?

She nods sagely. “That was sweet of him, but you’re better off. I mean, if you get married you’re stuck.”

I’m on my way back from Choice, my other club in the neighbor town of Talco. It’s a couple of hours’ drive, so I have plenty of time to beat myself up over yesterday. I called Arriane. Got her voicemail and left a message, apologizing like I did last night. In reply, she sent me a heart by text.

Are you okay? I’m sorry
, I messaged back.

I’m fine. Just nauseous.

Me asking for forgiveness. It’s a fucking vicious cycle I’m in. She’s watched me with women since her first day at Smother, so I get that she chooses not to be my girl. Just—I wish she’d stay the fuck away from me.

Lately, the monster my father bred in me surges more frequently. I subdue the rage with my proven methods—broken-girl sex and exercise—but Arriane is intervening, and I can’t control the craze with her near.

Last night. Ah—damn. She quieted my storm, but at the expense of what? No one can see me when I’m like that, and she’s so much more than “no one.”

Arriane is perfect. Not perfect for me, just fucking perfect in general. It’s never been my thing, and yet here I am, engrossed. She’s beautiful, delicious, addictive, everything I’m never going to claim—not counting my half-assed try with my tame little proposal. Cringe-worthy.

The future mother of my child.

This baby is so lucky. He’s safe inside of Arriane, with her. Probably what she thinks too, especially after the Bag Room. Ah, it baffles me that she stayed in my bed until dawn. I’ve never slept better than with the two of them in my arms.

I’m learning my place in this mess. I’m a master at business, at leadership, professionalism. It’ll be a no-brainer to stump my nerve impulses in order to keep her comfortable and safe while she grows.

Once he’s born, my baby will be provided for. I’ll bust my ass for them to lack of nothing, in ways my father never considered. Schools, friends, housing. Food, health—anything within my grasp and beyond, I’ll line up for our baby.

I’m known to pursue my women with everything in me, the ones Christian calls the “broken girls,” those who unconsciously erase my disturbia. With Arriane, though, the fight is in heavyweight class, and she, my opponent, follows a foreign set of rules.

I reach Smother at dusk. The streetlights flicker on, bleeding yellow blotches into the humid air. Arriane’s working tonight too, and I bet she’s early. Light irritation stirs in me at how she doesn’t obey me on this. I need her to step down on the hours, allow me to increase her salary so she can still cover more than her bills; expecting mothers shouldn’t work their butts off, especially not the one carrying
my
child.

Mine.

Without changing clothes, I head straight to the Bag Room. I’ve got time for a quick round. On a whim, I check for remnants of Arriane and find small, ripped panties at the foot of the gym mat. I swipe them up and roll to the floor on my back.

I puff through a series of sit-ups—fifty, fifty, fifty—and when I take a breather, I push the lace to my nose. Her smell. It’s faint, but there. And if I’m to remember my place, I need to not do this.

The music revs downstairs, indicating that Robin’s in the DJ booth, testing new tunes against the acoustics of the main room. Generally, Cameron and Ingela come early to try them out on the dance floor. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I can’t complain; despite the bullshit life throws my way—Dad and the resurfacing of my inner monster included—I’ve got good employees.