Your Loss by Layla Simon
CHAPTER FIVE
GEORGE
The maid leadsme to a beautiful suite of rooms. It’s at the top of a winding staircase, behind a door with intricate carvings around its edges, inset with mother-of-pearl and highlighted in gold paint.
“Lachlan said to wait inside,” the maid instructs, and I nod, happy to agree. Happy to scurry through his open doorway, close it, and cower inside.
I’m less happy thinking about what mood Lachlan will be in by the time he leaves his father’s company. The two men spark off each other so badly I’m surprised they don’t have extinguishers mounted on every wall.
Instead of dwelling on what’s coming, I turn to the room, trying to find something to distract me.
The large space has a full-size ensuite leading off one door, an entire room-size walk-in wardrobe off another. Even without those additions, it would be a luxurious size for just one person.
A king size bed is at one end of the room, set up with drawers either side, then a floor to ceiling shelf full of books, a reading chair, and one of those weird lamps that start at the floor and bulge out in a circle before curling over your seat, like a curious thin stranger reading over your shoulder.
At the opposite end is an entertainment centre, complete with large screens, larger speakers, and a stack of consoles gathering dust. Metaphorically that is. There isn’t a speck out of place in the room.
It’s luxurious. Welcoming.
I’ve never wanted to be anywhere less in my life.
The plastic packet stuck inside my bra catches my skin again and I fish it out. My poking and prodding at it earlier has driven it out of the cup and under the side seam, a lucky eventuality since it stopped Lachlan finding it when his thick fingers went roaming.
I hold it up, staring at the small white tablets inside. They look innocent enough but I’m sure every accidental overdose in hospital thought that at the start.
Despite the danger, part of me wants to swallow them. Anything to help with my rising anxiety, my increasing desperation to get out of here, to get home, before…
Before what, I don’t know. Based on my brief interaction with the maid, I’m not keen to find out.
I shove them back in my bra before temptation leads me down the wrong path and drift back to the door, pressing my ear against it to work out what’s going on in the study along the hallway. The sounds are too muffled to bring any enlightenment. I crack it open a sliver, just enough to see a metre along the landing.
Voices boom from farther along but the dampening effect of the thick walls and expensive carpeting mean that the individual words are entirely lost by the time they reach me.
Angry voices. Loud voices. Voices that make me hope no one has a gun within easy reach or someone’s head might soon be splattered across someone else’s wall.
There’s a muffled shout, a cry, a thump, then the sound of a slamming door and footsteps head my way.
I duck inside, heart pumping with so much force that I can feel my eyeballs pulsing. With no time to compose myself, I’m only a step away, surely highlighting my guilt, when Lachlan bursts inside.
“Get on the bed,” he snaps, slamming the door so firmly it must be audible from the other side of the house.
His beautiful mouth is twisted, brow thunderous as he stares at me from eyes that burn with ill-contained fury.
My nerves, already strained, thin to a hair’s breadth while I try to work out how to get the hell out of here.
Earlier in the evening, flying along in a fancy car with a handsome boy at my side, I might have entertained visions of staying the night. Right now, nothing terrifies me more. I edge away from Lachlan, trying to sidle towards the door but I can’t—he stands right in front of it.
“You’re upset,” I say, then watch as the words further enrage rather than calm him.
I try to add something, create a viable sentence, but my mouth dries to the point I can’t fashion anything meaningful. Just a little squeak, like the pathetic girl I am.
It’s him. I can’t think of words while I’m staring at him. My eyes snap shut and I try again. “Perhaps you could give me my phone back? I’ll call a car and get out of your hair.”
“Get on the bed.”
“Ooooooorrrr…” I draw the sound out as long as I can, not sure what to put next. “Maybe lend me the car? I’m happy to drive myself home and I can drop it at your school tomorrow, easy-peasy.”
The laugh that comes out of his mouth doesn’t bear any trace of humour. “Funny girl.”
He takes out his phone, ready to put it on the bedside table, and I babble. “Lend me your phone real quick. Honestly, I’ll just call a taxi and you’ll never have to hear from me again.”
“Taxis don’t come here. The drivers know better.” His eyes started the night as light hazel but they’re now darker than night. Darker than obsidian. Darker than when you put your eye to a plughole, trying to see what’s scurrying down in the depths of the drain.
“Uber, then,” I suggest but he’s already shaking his head.
“Them neither.”
“Let m-me…” Fear chokes me to a standstill, and I freeze, my mouth open, my throat straining. I try to think of another solution. Anything that will get me out of this room, away from this boy who’s a thousand times stronger than me. Whose dad just wound him up before setting him loose.
Lachlan steps closer to me, fingers resting on his belt buckle. My eyes fix to them. Helpless to look away. If he moves, undoes it, I feel like something inside me might crack.
Whether that lets out a scream or a whimper remains to be seen.
Then a slow smile spreads across his face. “How about your dad?”
I look at him, waiting for the twist, then seize hold of the idea with joy when none is forthcoming. “Yes. Yes, let me call my dad. He can come and pick me up.”
He puts the phone into my hand, and I stare at it in delight, my newest holy grail.
“The number’s programmed in there,” he says, scrolling through the contact list and stopping on a picture he snapped of my father earlier today, beaten and bloody. “You just need to dial it.”
My thumb caresses the button, eager to push, eager to speak to my father and get the hell out of this place. Get away from these people who aren’t the slightest bit like me.
I hover over the icon, letting my gaze travel up to meet Lachlan’s, asking his final permission.
“You’ll need to tell him his debt’s back on.”
The voice he uses is almost sad, like he’s watching some starving child on TV but doesn’t have one dollar a day to send them.
He reaches out to touch my face, his forefinger tracing my cheekbone with a touch so feather light it’s like being stroked by a ghost. His thumb takes over, rubbing across my bottom lip before he steps closer, so near to me his body heat warms my cold skin.
“Call him and tell him that if he picks you up, he’ll still owe the money, but if he leaves you here the rest of the night, he won’t.”
My eyelids weigh so much that when I blink, it’s work to lever them back up high enough to see. Lachlan’s face fills my vision. His hand tilts up my chin at the same time he bends over, closing the height difference, almost like he’s angling in for a kiss, but he stops short.
My lips pulse with memories from earlier in the night. They remember how soft his were as they pressed against mine, how enjoyable.
But there’s nothing malleable about them now. Those chiselled lips look like they’d slice straight through mine, cutting razor thin lines in my flesh until every piece of me is bleeding.
I was resigned to his plans, to what comes next, but with every passing second, my fear spirals.
“What’s the matter?” He removes his hand from my face and taps it lightly on the phone. “Don’t you want to make the call?”
What I want is to believe that if I do, my father won’t care. He’ll come and he won’t waste a second of thought on what-might-have-been on his way here.
I want to believe that. My trembling hands and ringing ears are proof I don’t.
Don’t show him. Don’t show him your fear.
The order comes too late. A tear slips from my eye, a renegade making a break for it while the going’s good. Lachlan raises his hand again, catching it on the ball of his thumb before gently sucking it into his mouth.
“You can cry,” he whispers, the words twisting into my ear like an aural snake. “It’s okay. I like it when girls cry.”
My breath catches, a scream swelling inside me; a desperate sound I lock behind my clenched teeth and clamped lips while his thumb strokes the soft contours around my eye. I can’t look away from him any longer. Completely hypnotised.
“No more tears?” He rests his forehead against mine for a tiny fraction of a second before pulling away. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll find some, later.”
He taps the phone again and I stare at the contact details, reading my dad’s number before the screen plunges into darkness, falling asleep in a way I wish I could.
“Sometimes, it’s better not to find out, don’t you think?” He slowly removes the device from my hand and tosses it onto the table. I wince when it hits the hard surface, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Sometimes, it’s easier not to know for sure. Now, get on the bed.”
When I don’t move to obey him, Lachlan pushes me. My mind is so blank with fear, I reach for the zipper of my dress instead, sure that comes next, wanting to get ahead of the game so he doesn’t get any angrier.
“No.” He catches my hands, softly chuckling and twisting me around to face the king-size monstrosity that will probably feature large in my future night terrors.
He drops his lips close to my ear. “Leave everything on, even your heels. Get on the bed and wait for me.” He gives another push, this time harder. “I enjoy unwrapping my presents.”
I clamber onto the covers, settling on my knees in the middle.
“Lie down, face up.”
I obey, holding my arms at my sides like I’m lying in a coffin, fighting for space, instead of able to spread out in either direction, the mattress so large even crosswise I wouldn’t hit the sides.
My mind shrinks to a pinhole. Unable to handle the possibilities ahead, it narrows to the present, experiencing each second as it comes and not anticipating.
I stare at the stippled ceiling, my eyes tracing out every pattern. Hear the snick as Lachlan undoes the buckle, the purr as he slowly tugs the belt through the rungs of his waistband and hangs it on a hook on the back of the door.
The perfume Tandi sprayed on me earlier fills my nostrils, evaporating in my increasing body heat. My fingertips worry at the stitched design of the bedcovers, picking at them, picking, picking, until I force them to lay flat.
Lachlan’s shoes go next, each nudged off with the opposite foot, then carried to the wardrobe where he lines them neatly on a rack skirting the floor, tossing his socks in the hamper.
He undoes his cuffs while sauntering towards the bed, rolling his sleeves up as he knee-walks across the covers then straddles me.
I flinch as he touches the jewellery that Tandi picked out to match the dress. He unhooks the dangling earrings, placing them on the bedside table and massaging the lobes where the heavy stones pulled them out of place. The choker goes next, my neck exposed without its expensive covering.
Then he sits back on his heels, running his hands along my torso while I hold myself tightly, trying not to shy away from his touch.
The second time through, that’s easier. The time that follows, even more so. The strokes are comforting, pleasurable, relaxing.
He lifts my right arm and massages it from the shoulder to my elbow, using small rhythmic circles that relax me enough I can take deeper breaths. The circuits gradually move further, working along my forearm. He loops his thumb and forefinger around my wrist and laughs softly. “So tiny.”
I return his smile though mine is far more tentative. The reminder that he physically outclasses me isn’t as inherently amusing from my side.
Then he massages my hand, rubbing his thumbs into the centre of my palm while his fingers stroke the back, softly kneading out the tension, a state that miraculously spreads out to encompass the rest of my body.
“Does that feel good?”
I nod, captivated by the softness in his eyes, wondering where he hid the angry monster who stormed into the room. The emotion showing now is contentment. His entire focus on my hand, on me.
“Yes,” I whisper when his eyebrows raise. “It feels wonderful.”
He repeats the process on my left arm, my body sinking farther into the mattress with every twirl of his thumb. The rough pads against my palm send a pleasant buzz flowing along my nerves.
When he reaches the end and pulls away, I whimper and his smile broadens, his hands cupping the balls of my shoulders. I strain upward, anticipating a kiss but he shakes his head, lifting both my hands and pressing them above my head.
“That’s better. I want you nice and relaxed.”
Positioning himself lower down my body, Lachlan lifts my feet, one at a time, bending my knee so the heels rest flat on the bed, legs bent, a space just wide enough for him between them.
My dress hitches up with the movement and he slowly rolls it higher, one hand on each thigh, coiling it into a fabric snake that he lets rest on my lower belly.
“Look at how pretty you are,” he whispers, sitting back again, a hand on each of my knees, spreading me wider. Butterflies multiply at his words.
The delicate lingerie Tandi picked out for me earlier isn’t nearly robust enough to hide my private parts from his intensive inspection. Especially not when he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it aside, exposing all of me for his viewing pleasure.
He turns his head, kissing the inside of my left knee in a move that sends erotic sparkles streaming across my skin until they lodge deep inside my core.
I jerk, not away or towards but just in reaction to the unexpected touch. When he continues his journey, lighting a line of fire with his soft lips against the silken skin of my inner thighs, my clit begin to throb.
Whose fucking side are you on, sister?
From the enthusiastic reception, I’m guessing she’s team Lachlan all the way.
He reaches the inner seam of my thigh, licking the crease there, so near but so far from the goalposts that a moan escapes my lips. My elbows move upwards until they press together, a cage sheltering my face in case the sky caves in.
When he sits back, I try to get hold of myself. This is just embarrassing. I’ve become an enthusiastic recipient a few minutes after I tearfully begged him to let me leave.
Then he starts anew on my right leg, and I abandon my principals.
Later, I can call the feminist hotline and have a word about reinstating my membership. For the moment, I close my eyes and luxuriate in the sensations his lips call forth.
He snaps my garter and I give a startled cry, already unused to wearing such complicated underwear, now given a new vantage point to their usage.
“Don’t you like that?” he asks, and I stare between my legs at his smirking face. Another first. The angle is strangely erotic, sending out a flood of cheerful messages to twirl in my lower belly, even though he’s not doing anything down there.
A waste.
“It’s… it surprised me, that’s all.”
He snaps it again and this time I let the sensations sink into my flesh, liking the sharp retort across my skin, the intense sting afterwards that slowly fades, not so much.
“Maybe once m—Ow!”
His raised eyebrow turns the grin into something more far salacious. The sting from the last snap intensifies rather than easing, until he rubs his palm slowly over the injured skin, turning the pain into something far closer to pleasure.
“Not a closet masochist, then?”
I shake my head, unable to tell from his tone whether he thinks that’s a good thing or a shame.
His smile deepens and then disappears as he bends over me, hooking my panties to the side again and blowing softly over my curls. My hips bend towards him, seeking contact and he turns his head, pressing another kiss to my inner thigh while a groan strangles, caught in my tight throat, choking to death before it can wriggle free.
My noises make him chuckle and the soft vibrations of that add another layer to my exquisite torment. “So impatient,” he whispers, the breath stirring a fresh wave of desire. “Anyone would think you had somewhere to be.”
He’s joking but I try to mollify him in case something runs deeper than his words. “I don’t.”
“Oh, yeah?” His finger traces along my outer lips, like he’s committing the shape to memory. “So, I can take all the time I want?”
“As long as you get me home before school tomorrow. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”
He rocks back up, grabbing my elbows and unfurling my arms to place my hands on his head. “Left for stop. Right for go,” he says, tugging each hand so I know he means my right and not his. “And we’ll see how long we can make it last since you’re in absolutely no hurry.”
“Oh, it doesn’t have to…” I trail off as his tongue flicks out to part me, licking deeper and deeper with each stroke.
I lose myself so much that I forget to tug on his hair to let him know that yes, that is acceptable work. I’m here for it. Thank you so much, employee of the month.
“If you don’t tell me what you like, I don’t know what to do,” he says, coming up for air. His hand wraps around the outside of my thigh, large veins throbbing just under the skin. The thick fingers curl over the top, fingertips rough where they clutch me.
I jerk on the right side of his hair, wincing a little when the pull feels too hard, but he doesn’t acknowledge any pain, just obediently doubles down, impaling my entrance with his tongue before he laps upwards, receiving another enthusiastic tug as he works some sort of magic before sucking at my clit.
Tug. Double tug. Triple… My hand briefly forgets how to function otherwise Lachlan’s scalp would be snatched bare.
I’ve never felt anything this satisfying before.
The most adventurous of my past boyfriends had attempted a few desultory licks and called it good. To be treated to such an exhilaratingly different experience along with the control allowing me to fine-tune the delivery would send my head swimming if his dedicated work hadn’t done that already.
Urgency builds as Lachlan continues to explore me with his tongue, laying his teeth flat against my needy clit and holding the position until I buck against him, uncaring of the danger.
He swivels one finger around my entrance, then again, again—tug, tug, tug—until he dips it farther inside me, curling back against my walls, stroking inside while his tongue caresses outside, creating too many dizzying sensations to keep track of.
Desire explodes inside me until I can’t contain it any longer.
My hands grip at Lachlan’s hair, pushing him, manhandling him, until he’s in the exact right spot and I clench my thighs, crushing his head between them, keeping him in place until my body surges over the edge, recoiling in such a strong muscle contraction that I’m scared I’ve hurt him, am hurting him, only the low reverberation of his laughter against my thigh feeding back that he’s okay.
As the softening spasms dissipate, I let go of his hair, wiping my hands against the bedcovers as they itch from the withdrawal.
He grips both of my thighs, using them as leverage to move farther up my body, his grinning face hanging over my pussy, over my abdomen, my naval, finally turning to the side and resting between my breasts.
“Did you like that?”
I want to say something sarcastic, or witty, or just clever, but my tongue is so tangled I can’t think where to start. I nod, licking my lips and gasping in another breath while he changes position, moves to straddle me, knees near my armpits, pressing my hands above my head again.
“I want you to remember how this felt. How good it was to get yours without me complaining that the conditions weren’t perfect, without me saying anything except the things I knew you wanted me to say.”
There’s an odd quality to his voice, like something’s sneaking around behind the words but I can’t hear them clearly enough yet to know their game. In my sleepy satisfaction, I note it but can’t process anything further, so hum contentedly in agreement.
“Now, it’s my turn.” His hands move to my upper arms, encircling them as he slowly transfers his weight from his heels to his hands, pinning me. “And to show your thanks, to return my favour, I don’t want to hear a sound from you unless it’s something you think I want to hear.”
Lachlan drops his head, kissing along my collarbone, grazing his teeth where it juts out most prominently. My sigh is as close as I get to validation. Accepting his terms and conditions while the afterglow keeps my thoughts nice and fuzzy.
“No struggling, no crying about how it hurts”—he kisses along my shoulder, tugging the spaghetti strap of my dress playfully between his teeth—“or how you can’t breathe. Not a peep until I get mine, understand?”
I force my eyes open, the warnings penetrating my blissful bubble until it pops, letting in shards of pure fear.
Lachlan sits back on his heels, digging in his trouser pocket to pull out a knife, flicking out the sharp blade.
“Not a fucking word,” he says, leaning forward until the tip is pointing straight between my breasts. Aiming straight at my heart.