15. Kadence

Good god.How did I go from trying to convince myself that I don't care how this man lives his life to climbing up on my soap box and giving him an earful? I'm so done. All I can hope is that he pays me for the time I've spent so far here and gives me a referral like he promised so I can get another job quick enough to not miss paying any bills.

I rub my chest as I storm through the house. I feel like a cat that lashed out with their claws and then exposed their belly.

I told him too much. I never meant to whine about being a sad little rich boy whose parents never loved him. That's not who I am. I am more than their rejection.

I never meant to take a dig at the fact that he's discovering a new part of his sexuality, and I certainly didn't want to point out how precarious the queer situation is in my town—or any town. All it takes is one group with pitchforks to run us out if they want to. It almost happened last year, for crying out loud.

And I should never, ever have confessed that I care too much about him. We made an agreement. He told me upfront that this is not and will never be a relationship. Why does it bother me so much that he's a heartless bastard? Hello? Millionaire? I always knew he couldn't be this rich without stepping on people.

I don't have the right to want better from him.

Right now, though, I feel like the power imbalance has spiraled wildly out of hand. He's always been in control, but at least it was on my terms.

Without being entirely aware of what I'm doing, I find myself stomping past my room on the second floor, venturing farther into the house than I ever have before. Farther than I'm supposed to be. But I just have to go, to walk, to push, to…

Slowly, I stop by a door that's ajar. From what I can see, it's another bedroom.

Rafferty's bedroom. It's got to be.

Feeling reckless, I step closer and ease the door open. Yes. It smells like him. I see his Harvard hoodie draped over an armchair.

I shouldn't be in here. But a savage part of me doesn't care. He pushed and I broke, exposing myself like a frightened animal in the wild, begging for mercy from a predator.

Now it's his turn.

I don't really know what I expect to find in here, but just stepping over the threshold feels like a rebellion in itself.

The silk bedsheets are cool to my touch as I silently make my way around the room. It's about twice the size of mine, so it's not entirely surprising that there are two chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. There are so many closets and chests of drawers it makes me wonder how much clothing his wife brought with her and how much is still left here. Several large potted plants sit on the wooden floor, their foliage complementing the same sage green paint on the walls that I saw in the entrance hall and corridors. A thick rug lies under the enormous four poster bed. The view from the balcony is spectacular, looking out over the grounds for miles and miles. The whole place screams opulence.

And it's all fake.

Aside from the Harvard sweater, I don't see any of Rafferty's fiery personality in here. There are no photos, no artwork, no collections of knick-knacks or whatever else you're supposed to have in the room in which you sleep. It's all so neat and tidy and…

What's that?

There's something folded up on the nightstand closest to me. It looks like tattered paper that should be in the trash. I know I shouldn't, but it's so out of place I just have to step closer and pick it up and…

My heart skips a beat. Nothing in this room is messy or personal or passionate, as far as I can see.

But Rafferty McKenna has the napkin I wrote my number on by his bedside.

My skin prickles with heat and then chills. My throat tightens. My hands shake. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't.

It can't.

Telling myself that doesn't stop my heart from racing, though.

I don't know how long I stare at the damn thing, but when I look up, I realize I'm no longer alone.

Rafferty is in the doorway, his legs apart, his fists clenched. Despite working from home, he's still wearing pants, a shirt, and a tie, making it that much easier for me to feel the power radiating off him.

I almost flinch. But I catch myself in time, gritting my teeth and letting the napkin drop back on the nightstand like I couldn't care less.

"You shouldn't be in here," Rafferty growls.

I swallow, giving myself a second to think. "If you want me to leave, I understand?—"

"Stop talking," he snarls as he storms into the room, reaching me in less than half a dozen strides. He grabs my face with both his hands, and I gasp in shock. He's shaking. He stares into my eyes, his lips inches from mine… "You belong to me," he says. "I decide when I've had enough of you, and I'm not done with you by a long shot, Kiki doll. Do you think I'm angry because you talked back to me? I want your honesty."

"Then why are you so angry?" I taunt him, half hoping he'll admit that this is fucking him up as much as it is me.

He keeps saying he wants authenticity, but who are we really fooling here if not ourselves?

For a second, I genuinely think he's going to kiss me. But instead, he shoves me down onto the mattress and crawls on top of me, only pausing on his knees to rip his zipper down and pull out his hardening cock.

"I told you to stop talking," he hisses as he moves farther up the bed, hovering menacingly above me as he pins my shoulder down with one hand, then feeds me his red, dripping dick with the other. "Bad doll," he mutters as I moan around his length, my hands falling on either side of my head as he takes his hurt and rage out on me in the best way he knows how.

I take his cock willingly, sucking him down. I don't want to think about feelings. I don't want to examine why I want this man's good opinion or why I want to respect him so much. This entire situation has been messed up from the start, and perhaps the only honesty between us at all has been when we're fucking.

He uses my mouth roughly until he suddenly pulls back, leaving me gasping for air and spluttering, spit and precum dribbling down my chin. He's already shoving up my dress and ripping my panties down my legs. I guess it shows that he was right—the fact that I wasn't scampering around commando perhaps proves that my attitude shifted. I didn't want to be so readily available for him.

I am now.

He doesn't waste any time taking both our straining, leaking cocks in hand, jerking us off together. His breathing is harsh as he looms over me, his eyes blazing. I bite my lip as my heart pounds in my chest.

"Yes, Daddy," I whisper.

He groans, his eyelids fluttering closed. "Who do you belong to?"

"You, Daddy."

"Who's in charge?"

"You, Daddy."

His eyes fly open again. "Exactly. So you're not going anywhere until I say you can, understood?"

"Yes, Daddy," I whimper.

I can feel my climax building, but I'm determined to hold it off until he says I can come. Also…I'm afraid of how relieved I am that he doesn't want me to leave. I'm not ready to go…not just yet.

"You're mine, you bad, beautiful little doll. Just Daddy's. I'm supposed to take care of you, no one else. I've got you, Kiki. I'm here. Come…come for Daddy…"

I'm squealing and thrashing as I let go and start spurting all over myself. He joins me almost immediately as we make a mess all over his huge, fancy bed, shuddering and panting as we ride out our combined orgasms.

I'm still blinking my eyes back open when he collects me in his arms, hugging me tightly to him. We roll onto our sides, and I tuck my face against his neck, hugging him back.

"I'm sorry," he utters into my hair.

I freeze. Now who's showing their belly and hoping not to get savaged? What the hell do I do with this?

Before I can overthink it, I throw my leg over him and dig my fingers into his skin, clinging to him like a life raft. "I'm sorry, too."

I don't know how long we lie there, but eventually, Rafferty lets me go. Without saying a word, he takes me to his en suite, another room I hadn't seen before now. He strips us down and we shower tenderly. Still without talking, he dries us off and wraps us in the fluffy robes he seems to have spare in every bathroom. We walk down the corridor, heading for my room.

I expect him to put me to bed. Instead, he sits me on the toilet seat of my own bathroom and perches himself on the side of the bath. Then he narrows his eyes at my many jars and tubes I have lined up under the mirror.

He wants to help me with my nighttime regime.

Wordlessly—and ignoring the lump in my throat—I point at the one I need first, the make-up remover. What follows next is a sort of charming, clumsy, but affectionate face painting session. He doesn't stop until my skin is plump and glowing.

Then he does finally lead me to the bed, retrieving my nightie from under my pillow. He pushes my robe down my shoulders, letting it pool on the floor, then pulls the negligee over my head.

He strips the duvet back so I can climb between the sheets before tucking me in and stroking my hair back.

"Good night, my beautiful doll," he says warmly.

"Good night, Daddy," I whisper back.

When he closes the door and I'm left in the dark, the floodgates open. I'm not sure why I'm sobbing so hard, but I don't fight it. I just let every sad, lonely, nasty thing I've been bottling up break free until I've got nothing left.

Luckily, there's a box of tissues on my nightstand, so I can clean myself up. I take deep, shuddery breaths, then a long drink of water from the glass Rafferty always makes sure is there.

I'm exhausted, and my brain feels like mashed potatoes. Good. I've done more than enough thinking today. Tomorrow I can start all over and reassess what a complete cluster-fuck this situation probably is. Right now, I just need sleep, and lots of it.

Plenty of time to screw everything up again in the morning.