Her Calling (Emma Book 3) Page 2

  I grab hold of her hair once more, determined to see this need through. And I pull her head back so that my cock springs out of her mouth. She looks surprised, somehow. Disappointed, even, as I watch her tremble and quiver a little more.

  I could have come in another few seconds. Droplets are falling on her face, but it’s nothing. What I’m about to do must come first. Even though it’s total insanity.

  “You want to know who I am, Emma Carling, don’t you?” I shout, but somehow still whispering, so that she cannot guess before I’m revealed.

  She doesn’t reply. Did she even hear me. What the fuck?

  Unacceptable.

  I slap the bitch hard across the face. Never, ever do I accept a sub not answering me when she is addressed.

  I watch her body coil in distress, though I know she thrives on pain.

  “Answer me!”

  She breathes in, and I can tell that she’s going to obey this time around. She’s extremely wise to do so.

  “Yes, Master,” come the words. “I want to see you, Master.”

  My throat tightens with angst, but I don’t wait. My fury and my desire have conquered all pretence at reason. She will see me.

  I bring my hands together at the knot on her temple. And clenching my jaw tighter than it’s ever been clenched, I begin to loosen it.

  It shouldn’t matter. This is meant to be about me. My possession of her is about my need, and my victory over her mind and body. My will should be sated by her beautiful acceptance of its need.

  So why is this inner demon goading me to unveil myself? My eyes narrow and I steady myself, my lips pursing into a bloodless funnel. This will destroy everything.

  My breathing turns staccato. The demon has me by the throat. I must show myself to her. Because I worship her.

  Chapter I

  I notice that the fingers are shaking. There’s a pause, as though he’s having second thoughts about this. I can hear his heartbeat from here. This is on a knife edge. I cannot lose his confidence now.

  Yet I sense uncertainty as his hand stays on the knot at my temple. I need this to work. My body trembles. It knows what it wants. It wants that intrusion. It doesn’t need a face. It is baying to finish what we’ve started. But I must stand firm.

  The silence broods above us, thickening the air like we’re sharing this room with a tropical storm in brew. I close my eyes, behind the blindfold, and steady myself.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  I’m speaking out of turn. I know it’s a cardinal sin. But I have to push for this. We can’t go on this way.

  A second goes by. And another. Then two more. I hold my breath. I know he can hear me do it. It’s like watching a horror film at the cinema. This place is stricken with suspense.

  It breaks like a snake’s strike. A deft twist, a new confidence in the fingers that hold my destiny. The fabric falls.

  Slowly I look up. A full-length mirror meets my eyes as they begin to work in the dim light. I see my breasts dangling beneath my chin, then my shoulders, then myself. There’s a resolute look on my face; one I didn’t expect to see.

  I hear him straighten up. I can see his legs behind me. Black suit trousers, creases fresh and firm. I hesitate. Do I want to look further?

  He’s not speaking. He’s not pushing me, nor touching me. He’s just standing there behind me. Nothing is stopping me from looking up at him. I’m scared to do it. My God, who will it be?

  Friends, exes, family and colleagues flash before my eyes one last time. I don’t want this to be a single one of them. There’s almost no good answer at a time like this.

  I force myself to breathe once more. My mouth hangs open as I take the stale, wooden air into my lungs. I must do this now.

  I begin to lift my chin, knowing that my eyes must go with it. Curiosity and reluctance blend the pace to slow. First I see the blue shirt, dark patches of sweat blotting the material. There’s no jacket and no tie: the collar is open. A taut Adam’s Apple and a clean-shaven neck. The jawline…

  No!

  I blink in disbelief. I feel my throat tighten as he meets my eyes and I begin to choke. He looks away.

  I’m out cold.

  I know I’m still in that house when I stir back into consciousness. There’s a blanket over me and a warm cloth on my forehead. But a sixth sense tells me I’m still there.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but my memory is pin-sharp. I remember what happened and whom I saw. I need to get the fuck out of here. The urge is so strong that I’m wide awake in an instant. Is that normal? I’ve never fainted before, so I have no idea.

  But I’m not surprised I fell. The shock was too much. I was prepared for it to be Spurring, but never for one second could I have imagined it would be the man to whom I’ve drawn so close. I still have no desire to process it. I just want to be far, far away from here.

  I try to sit up. But nausea rips through my system when I do it. My body hasn’t recovered the way my mind has. Fuck. I collapse on my back again, onto what feels like a sofa, and close my eyes. I can feel the flesh of my arms against the flesh of my sides: my upper body is still naked.

  My feet feel frozen, but the room itself is warm. There’s a thudding pain in both of my nipples, and my jaw really hurts. Maybe I need a few minutes before I get out of here.

  I hear breathing in my vicinity. God. I’m not alone. I don’t need –

  “Emma, take it easy. You’re still coming round,” he says softly.

  Not a trace of menace. How did I not recognise the voice before? There’s definitely no mistake. It’s still the man I saw in the mirror.

  Charles.

  I turn my head. At first I’m blinded by daylight from the window. Then my eyes get around the backlighting, and I make out his form.

  I want to vomit. He needs to get out of my face. It’s making my stomach turn.

  Instead, he fishes under the blanket and tries to squeeze my hand.

  “Fuck off!” I scream. It’s forceful enough to make my head spin.

  “Em – ”

  I lash out at his groping hand, scratching myself on his fingernails as I do so. I reach up and pluck the cloth from my forehead, and fling it as far away from me as I can. I don’t want anything from the bastard. I close my eyes again, fighting to control the enraged tears.

  “Don’t even fucking talk to me,” I mumble. My strength is fading again, but I need him to know how I feel right now. “Get me home.”

  “You’re not – ”

  “I want to go home,” I repeat, each word dripping with fury.

  I can’t use his name. I had no idea betrayal could get this bad. Not in the real world. This is unknown territory.

  I actually wish it had turned out to be Spurring. This is that bad.

  I hear him sigh and stand up. Oh, sorry, am I being a little bit mental right now? What the fuck did he expect? Did he think I was going to be thrilled to see him last night? The guy is fucking deluded.

  “Don’t come back here, you dickhead,” I croak furiously as I hear him walking away. “Call someone to get me. I don’t even want to hear your voice.”

  For once, I feel totally justified demanding he plays his wealth card. He can order me a fucking helicopter to take me home. He owes me at least that much.

  And I don’t care that I just swore at a client either.

  I hear the bastard step out of the door, closing it gently behind him. So he’s doing what he’s told, for now, and leaving me alone.

  I let my face relax again, but I’m craving my bed more than ever. I can’t rest for long. It just doesn’t work here, not in this awful place. I’ll walk home naked if I have to, but I’ve got to go. I wonder where my clothes are?

  I sit up again, this time with more success. I’m in the small antechamber near the front door, where I’m pretty sure we’ve come before to be undressed. The window looks out over the driveway, which I’m now seeing in daylight for the first time. Once I might have been curious, but
right now I don’t even want to know. The only good thing that could happen to him and his house is a wrecking ball.

  I don’t even know where I am, other than a vague awareness that I’m somewhere in greater London. But I’ll find my clothes, get out of here, and get back to Sarah. She’ll still be in bed – it must be early. A chronic need to crawl into a spoon with her rushes into me.

  My eyes fall on a bundle of clothing on the arm at the far end of my sofa. The dress I arrived in sits on top of the pile. Beneath that, a green t-shirt and a pair of grey track pants. I presume this is some kind of gesture.

  I don’t want it. It’s too late to be thoughtful. Thinking twice about playing a two-faced game of betrayal, lying to me and making me feel a fool, now that would have been the right time to start being thoughtful. I’ll go home in last night’s dress, thank you very much.

  It’ll look like I’m doing the walk of shame, but I don’t care. Maybe I should be ashamed. Ashamed of being played like this. Ashamed of being a whore who cares. Is this Rupert all over again?

  I sob softly once more. It all starts with getting home. So I move towards the dress and close my fingers around it. Come to think of it, he bought this for me as well. But these are my work clothes, at least. Wearing this is business. It’s okay.

  I swing my feet off the edge of the sofa, and slowly stand up. I’m woozy and I know it’s too soon. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’ve got anywhere but here to be.

  I’m not sure where the bra has gone, but I couldn’t care less about that. I pull the dress over my head. That will for the trip home. I spot my heels on the floor, carefully arranged in a neat pair, and pick them up. I won’t be able to walk on these in my wobbly state, but I like them too much to leave them behind. One day, when my hurt has gone, I hope I’ll be able to care about shoes again.

  My handbag is there too, thank God. I fish inside it for my mobile, wondering who I can call. But before I get there my hand closes on some unfamiliar papers. Oh God, I know what this is. I’m getting used to the feel of a hundred-Pound note, and my fingers tell me this is a wad of them.

  I can feel the rage pounding in my neck as I pull out a wad of about twenty notes. With nobody here to yell at, I bite down hard on the skin below my lip. And I throw his fucking tip to the ceiling, letting the notes rain down on the rug like confetti. I won’t touch a penny of it. He needs to know this is not okay. Money can’t make what he’s done right.

  I ponder what to do to escape. I won’t even so much as text Charles to get the address. How can I expect anyone to pick me up then? I wonder what sort of street we’re on, and whether it’s the sort of place where I could hail a cab.

  I try hard to think about these practicalities, but my mind is too occupied with its rage right now. I’m in no state to deal with anyone or anything.

  A message drops onto my phone.

  Charles. Again.

  Even seeing his name makes the bile rise.

  A driver is coming in five minutes to take you home. He’ll wait until you wake up. You can let yourself out of the front door. You won’t see me.

  I re-read the message and make sure I’ve absorbed it. It’s the last one I’ll ever read from him. I’m certain of that.

  I delete his number from my phone.

  The driver arrives right on time. When I see the car pulling up through the window, I pick up my shoes and bag, then get gingerly to my feet. I’ll need to take it slowly. But I make it across the strew of banknotes and escape the antechamber.

  I walk out the front door, deliberately leaving it wide open. I hope he gets robbed. A thief would deserve that money on the floor more than he does.

  When I walk down the garden path in my bare feet, shoes in hand, I make sure my head is held high. I’ll bet he’s watching me from one of the windows. The fucker.

  Chapter II

  “Emma, I need you to pick up your phone. I need to hear you’re okay. Please call me.”

  I delete the voice message, put my phone down and sigh. I’ve spent the last three days on the sofa, mostly ignoring my phone. Including Lucy, whose calls have become more and more frequent since I texted her to cancel my appointments. I’ve told her I’m unwell.

  I don’t know if I can trust her at all. How could she not have known that the man behind the mask was Charles, with whom she apparently goes way back? It makes my blood boil to think that they were in cahoots, laughing behind my back. I don’t give a shit that I got handsomely rewarded for it either.

  Lucy was the one person I thought I could trust in this new working world of mine. Charles was the one client who was becoming more than that, just maybe. All of that got shattered the other night. They might not have broken any laws, those two, but by God, they’ve broken my trust in brutal fashion.

  Charles is dead to me, and I haven’t heard from him. Latifa says we should go round to his house – the one whose location I actually know, that is – and break his balls. I really just want to forget him, really. Deleting his number was a good start, but I know it won’t be as simple as that.

  With Lucy, though, it’s more complicated. She’s used to arranging my sessions with Charles. Both the regular ones and the not-so-regular ones that I didn’t actually know I was having. I can’t not broach the subject with her. Nor can I keep on pretending to be sick. She’ll be sending her doctor around to check on me soon.

  Either that, or she’ll be looking for another girl to take my place. Christmas is fast approaching – and that’s a busy time.

  I hear a little moan from the spare room. Sarah’s enjoying herself with another client from her lucrative app. I smile in spite of myself: at least someone’s having fun. She said she wasn’t going to see anyone whilst I was feeling sorry for myself in the apartment all day, but I’ve insisted she gets on with her work. It’s not fair for me to drag her down with me. She’s been nothing but supportive. Almost too supportive, sometimes.

  I’ve gone off sex since the other night. Even with Sarah – which is a first. Although the spooning’s been great. Thank God, she really was still in bed when I got back from his house – presumably a second home – that morning. I sobbed into her hair and told her everything. Neither of us left the bed until after two, and even then it was only for her to go and fetch me some dinner.

  Hmm…Hmmm…Hmmmm!!

  She’s getting close to climax. Like me, she loves sex too much to switch off and treat it as a business transaction. That’s why I think Lucy – or someone from an agency – should give her a chance. She’s at least as deserving as Alyssia, who’s predictably doing well on her three-month trial with another agency.

  Hearing the enraptured noises she’s making stirs a little something in me. I saw the guy as he came in: both tall and good-looking. I’m not surprised she’s having a particularly good time. Maybe I could go back to work soon. I never did get that orgasm the other night, after all. Fainting instead of fucking – now that’s unreal. Well, that’s the last stab in the back he’ll ever give me.

  I need to talk to Lucy. I need to see her, actually. I need to look her in the eye and see if she’s lying to me. Although I’m not a very good judge of that apparently, considering how Charles played me. Oh, the fucker.

  Tie me up and blindfold me, sure. Whip me, hit me, slap me, hurt me. Fuck me in every hole. But don’t lie to me. Don’t play a part in my life and keep the other part a secret. Don’t let me confide in you while you sit there knowing you’re the cause of my angst. Be a man.

  I catch myself frowning again. I’m not paying the slightest attention to the film playing on my tablet. I close the cover and it stops playing. I can’t really concentrate on anything until I sort out a plan of action with Lucy.

  I pick up my phone just as I hear a long and satisfied male growl emerge from down the hallway. I smile once more at the thought that I’m living in a whorehouse. It’s weird that this has become normal so quickly. But still, it’s good that Sarah’s got a lease on a room kicking in next week. It�
��s just around the corner, and she can make her noises there.

  Despite my own bad experience, I certainly don’t think any less of this wonderful profession. Getting paid for sex is just too terrific for words. I might be down in the dumps right now, but you can have a bad client in any line of work. The sweet far outweighs the sour. I’ll get over this.

  I think about what to write to Lucy. I decide I’m not going to give anything away until I see her, and carefully craft a simple message.

  Hi, can we meet up? Coffee at 3? X

  I’m not sure how I feel about the kiss right now, but decide not to rock the boat at the moment. My heart thuds after I press ‘send’. Lucy is a confident woman – still more so than I am – and having to have this talk with her is a scary prospect.

  Lucy replies straight away.

  Sure, hun. You know I’m always here for you. Looking forward. X

  Hmm, she sounds like her usual self. But it’s always hard to know with texts, really. I’m glad she’s not pushing me for any kind of advance agenda. She’s always so sensitive, it’s scary.

  I remember the only time I’ve ever seen Lucy unnerved. It was before the five of us went to the house I now know belongs to Charles. Or at least gets used by Charles. She’d seemed skittish that night, and very secretive. Right now, I have to assume that’s because she knew she was up to something she shouldn’t be.

  I sit and think for a while, unable to come up with much of a plan about how I’m going to approach the conversation. Maybe that’s for the best. I should be open about this, really. Beating around the bush isn’t going to get me anywhere. I’m just not sure about directly accusing Lucy of complicity. She is my boss, after all. And I’d imagine that falling out with an agent might be a bad thing in this business.

  I yawn, stretch and prepare to stand up. I need to go and get ready. Sarah’s client emerges from the hallway with a huge smile on his face. His smile makes me smile, and I wink at him. He grins even wider and waves, before letting himself out.