7

Evangeline

"There are numerous reasons why you should accept my proposal," he rumbles. "Oh?" I squirm, trying to find a comfortable position.

The gown I'm wearing is an original by Karla West Armani. It looked elegant and alluring on the hanger at the charity shop—that's the only reason I could afford it. It was designed for walking down an aisle, not for sitting and having a tête-à-tête with the father of the man I was supposed to marry.

We're in the living room of his townhouse in Primrose Hill, offering sweeping views of the city. It's one of London's most affluent neighborhoods. I knew he was wealthy, but being here drives home just how unattainable this man is for me.

I handed him the keys to my rental car, and he took care of returning it. He's so in control, it's tempting to hand over all my problems and let him find solutions. To lean on him and let him make decisions for me.

I've been self-reliant for so long. I've had to stay strong for my family. Then along comes this man who seems to have all the answers to my problems.

It's so tempting to relinquish control of my life and let someone else take the wheel for a change. What's more, the person who makes me want to lean on him is older than me. And he's my ex's father. This is so wrong. What's worse? I can't stop thinking about his proposal. And here I am, in his house.

He’s so charismatic, I have no doubt, given the chance, he’ll convince me to marry him, too. He’ll be so persuasive, I won’t be able to say no. And I can’t do that. How would Lawrence react to that? He was once my best friend. I can’t walk all over his feelings. Even if he did stand me up at the altar.

Strange as it sounds, I really don't think he intended to hurt me. Maybe he didn't think it through. But I'm thinking this through, and I don't want to intentionally hurt him.

My fingers tremble; I lock them together. “I... I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake."

I jump to my feet, take a step away, and trip on the train of the gown. I pitch forward and throw out my hands to stop my inevitable face-plant, only an arm around my waist halts my descent. The next moment, I’m set back on my feet.

He holds me in place, the warmth of his touch setting off frissons of excitement which travel to my core. I squeeze my thighs together. The movement is so slight, and yet, he seems to notice it, for his gaze sharpens. That woodsmoke and pine scent of his, laced with healthy male sweat, teases my nostrils. My nipples bead. My scalp tingles. I want him so much. Why does that make me feel like such a slut? And why do I not care that it does?

The heat from his broad chest slams into mine, and I sway toward him. His grasp on me tightens. He stares at my mouth. The pulse at his temple beats in tandem to the racing of my heart. He lowers his face, and his breath heats my cheek. My throat dries. Bam-bam-bam. My pulse rate goes through the roof.

Waiting. Waiting. This is it. He’s about to kiss me. His lips are so close, his nose brushes mine. And his eyes... Those silver sparks are now accompanied by golden flares, which I thought I might have imagined earlier. But no, they're real. Gold and silver amidst a whirlwind of emotions. My eyelids flutter closed.

The next moment, a cool breeze hits my front. The weight of his hand vanishes from my waist. Without his support, I sway forward.

This time, he doesn’t catch me. I regain my balance and look around to see him striding out of the room.

Huh? For a few moments, I stand there, dazed. I already miss him. I want to follow him, to please him, to earn his approval, to obey his commands. And damn him, I don’t want to resist it either. Is that wrong? And if it is, so what?

I've lived my life carefully, and look where that got me? Dumped and disgraced. I’m done with the safe, scared me who planned for the future and wouldn’t do anything until she’d taken care of everyone else. I’m going to think of myself. Put my needs first.

And right now, I want someone else to make the decisions for me. Someone to take command and tell me what to do. I’m tired of being the responsible one. Tired of people always leaning on me.

What if I let myself lean on him? He’s seen more of life. He knows what he wants and doesn’t hesitate to go after it.

I want everything implicit in the promise of his smoldering glare. I’m turned on by the expert way with which he handles my body. I’m drawn to that confident manner of his which weakens my knees and appeals to that part of me which wants to submit... to him.

Without allowing myself to examine my thoughts further, I pick up my skirt and the short train, and trail after him. I walk through the hallway, past a conservatory, and into the kitchen. Late afternoon sunlight pours through the sliding doors which lead out onto a deck on one side. He’s standing by the sink, filling a glass of water.

He turns, walks around the island in the center, and places it on the corner closest to me. "Drink," he orders.

I find myself reaching for the glass of water without conscious thought. What the—!? Apparently, there’s no not obeying the command in his voice. And I love it. And hate it. And I want more of it.

And if I don’t obey him? What would he do then? A thrill of anticipation unfurls in my core. And would I like what he'd do to me?

I already know the answer to that. It’s why I tighten my fingers around the glass, lift it, and fling the water in his direction.

I must catch him by surprise, for he doesn’t move. Water drips from his chin and wets the front of his jacket and shirt. Oops.

His lips tighten. His earlobes pale. Tension crackles in the air between us. His fingers clench into fists at his sides. I'm certain he's about to shout at me or perhaps even shake me by the shoulders. I've crossed a line this time. I prepare myself for the unavoidable outburst.

He chuckles. The sound is unused, gravelly, and so rough. So sexy. My nerve-endings spark. That itch between my thighs deepens. I swallow and watch as he wipes the mirth off his face. "Next time, I won’t be so forgiving."

"Because there won’t be a next time." Yes, there will be.

He knows it. I know it. But I have to defy him. I have to push him to the edge. I have to cleave through that icy control of his so I can face the full brunt of his dominance. Dominance. I blink. He’s a dominant? And there’s a name for what he turns me into with that hard, deep, bossy voice of his. Submissive.

I quiver. My core clenches. I’ve read about this lifestyle. And also gotten off to it. Most women use vibrators to bring themselves to orgasm. For me, it's been stories where he dominates her and commands her to get on her knees and suck him off before he bends her over and uses her as his own personal fuck toy.

I swallow. I’ve never dared say the four-letter word aloud, but I’ve read it plenty in novels. And yes, I've seen videos on Pornhub. But I never thought I wanted it for myself. Correction, I never met anyone who brought out that craving within me to be dominated. Is that why I’m so drawn to him?

Because this man... There’s a confidence at his core. An assurance which confirms to me that he’ll know what I want and give it to me. There’s a coldness to his demeanor which signals he’ll use my body to satisfy his urges... And that... Oh, my god. That turns me on so much.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"What?"

"Food. When was the last time you ate?"

"Food?" I shift my weight nervously. Did I eat this morning? No. Last night? Also no. "Um, I had breakfast," I offer tentatively.

"This morning or yesterday morning?"

I flush, then straighten my spine. "That's none of your business." I ruin the haughty tone I was aiming for with a hiccup. Ugh! I should have accepted that glass of water instead of throwing it at him, and undoubtedly, he's going to point that out to me with a smug smirk.

But he doesn't. Without a word, he pours another glass of water and returns, placing it in front of me.

"Thank you." I pass him the empty glass and take a sip from the fresh one.

He moves to the refrigerator and takes out a casserole in a microwave-safe dish.

I can't tear my eyes away from his solid frame. I watch every precise movement, betraying his military background.

He heats it up in the microwave, puts the food on plates, then walks back to the island and places it there, before grabbing some cutlery.

"I should clean the water on the floor," I murmur as I prepare to take my seat.

"I’ll do it." He nods to the plate. "Eat."

He mops up the water on the floor, washes his hands, then walks over to take the seat opposite me.

I watch him take a bite, watch his jaw move as he chews, the tendons of his throat flexing. That itch in my core spreads, until I have to squirm around in my seat to try and relieve it.

Once more, he senses that little movement and tilts his head. "Everything okay?"

"Why wouldn’t it be? I got ditched at the altar, then the father of my now-ex proposed to me, and I’m sitting opposite him in his house having dinner like nothing is wrong with my life."

"Everything is about to turn out fine in your life," he says in a confident tone.

I narrow my gaze. "If you’d had to fight to put a roof over your head, and food on the table, and take care of your family like I have, you wouldn’t take anything for granted. It’s your privileged background that gives you the luxury of being so assured about your future.” Or maybe, it’s also his experience?

He puts down his fork, and his features, once again, settle into neutral lines. "You know about my background?"

I play with the food on my plate. "Lawrence told me his grandfather started the Carrington Group and that his family was well off. He also mentioned he was estranged from his father."

It’s one of the few bits of information Lawrence revealed about his relationship with his father. And having met Quincy, I understand how difficult it must have been for Lawrence to measure up to him. Quincy’s confidence in himself is enough to shake any other man’s self-assurance, and Lawrence didn’t have much to begin with.

Breaking away from the family fortune was Lawrence’s way of finding himself. But Quincy is a possessive man. The brief encounter in the bar, and the way he made sure everyone there knew I was his, proves it.

I imagined I belonged to him. But I don't. Do I? Do I?!?

“What else did he share with you?” Quincy appears somewhat disinterested, yet his eyes betray a keen curiosity. He wants to learn more about his son.

“He didn’t mention you, or his mother either.”

Quincy’s face remains impassive, but there's a hint of sadness in his eyes. I pity him, though I'm not sure why. “He was upset with you. He felt you treated him unfairly.”

“And he’s correct.” Quincy runs his fingers over his short-cropped hair. The action reminds me of Lawrence tousling his much longer hair whenever he felt anxious or upset. It's unsettling for me to witness.

Considering marrying your ex's father is one thing, but this resemblance between them makes the situation uncomfortably real.

“I won’t sugarcoat it. After Lawrence’s mother left us, I quickly delegated the responsibility of raising him to my aunt.”

“What about his mother?” I blurt out. I've never been curious about her before, but meeting Quincy has sparked a need to learn more about the woman who gave birth to his child—a woman he cared enough about to have a relationship with.

"She left." His tone is flat. “The only times I saw her after that were when she showed up asking for more money."

“What did you do? Did you give her the money?”