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A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.mischiefbooks.com
An eBook Original 2016
1
Copyright © Vivacia K. Ahwen
Cover image from Shutterstock
Vivacia K. Ahwen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Ebook Edition © February 2016 ISBN: 978-0-00-814882-9
Version: 2016-02-03
For my sister
Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.
Edith Wharton
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Weathering the Storm
Chapter 1: Room for Discussion
Chapter 2: Reflections
Chapter 3: Heart of Glass
Chapter 4: The Weighting Game
Chapter 5: The Iron Horse
Chapter 6: Just Desserts
Chapter 7: Hit the Wall
Chapter 8: Morning Glory
Chapter 9: Meeting of the Minds
Chapter 10: Coitus Interruptus
Chapter 11: Head Over Heels
Chapter 12: The Red Line
Chapter 13: Walk of Shame
Chapter 14: Bane of My Existence
Chapter 15: The Trojan Horse
Chapter 16: Nobody Puts Lily in the Corner
Interlude: The Courtesy of Strangers
Chapter 17: An Officer and a Gentleman
Chapter 18: Like Water for Chocolate
Chapter 19: The Do-Over
Chapter 20: No Turning Back
Chapter 21: Lie to Me
Chapter 22: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spyder
Chapter 23: One Ring to Find Them
Chapter 24: It Takes Two
Chapter 25: Lend Me Your Ear
Chapter 26: Jack of All Trades, Master of None
Chapter 27: Same Old Song and Dance, My Friend
Chapter 28: Confessional
Chapter 29: He Had It Coming
Chapter 30: Meeting Lily
Chapter 31: Recovery
Chapter 32: The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere
Chapter 33: Six of One
Chapter 34: Becoming Grounded
Epilogue: Reaching Lily
Acknowledgements
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About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Weathering the Storm
Ow! My head smacks hard against the cold window, jarring me back to the present. The one in which our plane is wobbling? Yes, that present. My eyes, which are rarest glasz, according to my once-upon-a-not-boyfriend, pop open and I take it all in. The sky is grey, and Virgin Airlines flight 169 is no longer just a big bird soaring above the clouds. We are in the thick of something dreadful. It so makes sense that, when I finally almost escape from Dorian Holder’s enormous, far-reaching grasp, my plane’s going to crash.
Yikes.
Hey, what happened to Mr and Mrs Green, the lovey-dovey newlyweds who were annoying me so much with their joy and fondling when I first boarded? I would appreciate any company right now. They must’ve gotten bumped up to first class while I was busy ruminating. How’d I miss that? Hope their complimentary champagne just spilled all over their laps on this last lurch. Holy hell.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The pilot’s voice is supposed to reassure us, I know, but there’s enough of a quaver in his tone to make me even more concerned, especially now that the plane has started to quake in earnest.
Also, the intercom is crackling more than it ought to be.
Like I know, though. This is, after all, my first flight.
Why am I so calm, then? Obviously, if we’re going down, I’m not going to heaven. Which would make Dorian right, as usual.
You can’t get away, Lily.
Also, I wasn’t paying close attention when those two bookend attendants went over the emergency procedures. Would they go through them again? Please say yes. That interpretive dance with the entrances, exits, et al? What if I couldn’t figure out how to put on my oxygen mask, or if I got the only flotation device that wouldn’t expand?
Que sera, sera.
Perhaps ‘disappearing’ would be a relief, a blessing in disguise. Everything comes to an end.
Oh, well. It was a good run. Things got interesting in my final month of life. That’s what they’ll say at my eulogy. She was generally a mousy little thing, never known to rock the boat. But things got interesting in Lily Dewitt’s final month of life …
Our plane bucks in agreement with my grim fantasies. Rather than screams and panic, there is a stillness among us humble passengers as we await our collective fate.
You don’t fuck with the gods, and you sure as hell don’t distract the Virgin 169 flight staff when they’re trying to keep you mellow.
‘We’re experiencing some turbulence,’ Captain Peterson explains, stating the obvious. ‘Please do not panic. You’re in good hands, people.’
How comforting.
Never heard that one before.
My stomach drops, and I suck in my breath as we start losing altitude. No, I’m not trained in the comings-and-goings of all things airplane, but I’ve seen enough movies.
Time freezes when you look death in the eye.
Time also froze if you stared long enough into Dorian Holder’s dangerous eyes. Dorian, like the jaws of death – or the gods with whom we should never argue – is also capable of freezing time.
How a night could last for days, how days could last for minutes, how waiting on him could last for years is still a concept I will never grasp. That first night with him lasted for ever. Like a spider wrapping a fly, Dorian Holder was all winding circle after winding circle, his grip, his invisible thread wrapping, cocooning, squeezing the very life out of me. I squirmed and buzzed in his web, praying that he would not suck me dry.
How can one pray when one is the prey?
All I wanted was to fly away, I swear.
But I am still trapped.
The plane steadies itself, and once again my stomach drops while our altitude rises.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience,’ says Captain Peterson, sounding more relieved than I feel. ‘We’re back on track. Please relax and enjoy the rest of your trip. Our attendants are coming around with complimentary beverages and snacks.’
I lean back, awaiting sustenance.
CHAPTER 1
Room for Discussion
By the time we returned to Agassiz Street, Dorian’s eyes were glittering with excitement. The entire cab ride over, between talking about how great my mother was and stroking my thigh, he kept repeating something about another surprise waiting for me. At this point in our not-relationship, I’d already had enough surprises, but when I mentioned this to him he insisted that this one was extra special.
‘Is it the library?’ I asked, referring to his promise to turn the empty efficiency next door into a conservatory of sorts. ‘Because most of my books are still at Ma’s in Chiquita boxes.’
‘Oh, trust me, I noticed the banana boxes in your bedroom,’ he said, opening my car door. ‘I don’t miss much.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
He grasped my hand in his and we dashed up the granite steps together. Without a word we just kept running and clunking our way up stairs 300 years older than us, as though we were racing; always a competition with the pair of us. As his legs were so long, he took two steps for my every one, which meant he was half-dragging me, and I felt the desperate need to keep up.
When we reached the top floor, I was panting, but managed to say, ‘I thought this was the apartment you were renovating for yourself.’
Much to my chagrin, Dorian had bought my building, only a few days after we met. He planned to turn the four apartments upstairs into a large single suite, where he might stay, every now and again. Perfect for the weekends when I visit you, don’t you think, Lily?
No, I certainly do not think. This has officially been established as another line of bullshit, given the latest string of events.
I was still not sure what to make of his persistent rocking and wrecking my world, his desire for entire possession. The submissive part of me, the prey to his hunter? Loved it. The other, independent, private side of myself – the strong spirit within me whom Dorian had rarely encountered at that point – felt more violated than anything else. Despite his prior claims, Dorian Holder did not own me. Well, we’d made no 24/7 agreement, anyway. And things were happening too fast, with too few discussions. And we all sooooo love ‘big talks’, right? You know, the ones where everyone walks away kind of pissed off, nothing is quite resolved, but it all ends in overcompensating ‘I’m kind of sorry’ sex. Something told me it never occurred to Dorian that he would have to over-accommodate in the bedroom, or against the wall, as the case would likely be. He took far too much pride in his performance, and his arrogance made it impossible for him to doubt whether he would have to work for me to shatter at his merest touch.
I was more than curious to see where this might lead us.
So.
Despite our minimal verbal explorations, here we were, embarking on something that could go wonderfully right or dreadfully wrong. There was no turning back. The day-to-day sensibility said Run like hell, if you can’t turn around. If only my base desires and day-to-day sensibility could have had a sit-down, compromise, shake hands, and leave me to my own devices.
But there will always be the ongoing conflict, and – as with any two people trying to understand each other – the unspoken, the assumed, the emotions that never quite meet in the middle. Granted, I had quasi-committed to have this love – er, I mean, sex – arrangement continue after Dorian returned to Colorado in a few weeks. But I also had mixed emotions about knowing that the top floor of my home would be his whenever he felt like it.
If he ‘chose to do so’.
I remained unconvinced that he would make good upon his suggesting we continue this little game in the future. Maybe he’d change his mercurial mind before you could say ‘commitment issues’.
April was not over yet. There would still be skiing in Aspen, where his sister Beatrice Collins owned a resort, where he would surely visit, and I have no experience on the slopes … which counts me out. There were likely many ripe-and-ready ski bunnies, and Dorian loved a wild snow-and-surf kind of girl. Nothing could be further from that but me, raised a few blocks from the gaudy, sketchy sprawl of Route 9 businesses in Revere, Mass.
Tar. Cement. Run-down ranch houses. Box stores.
For now, since we’d never been clear enough in either way, I was his property.
He fucking owned where I lived.
He owned where I worked.
And the part of me that was thrilled by all of this was in conflict with the Lily DeWitt I was growing into. Simultaneously, I was growing, somehow, in the midst of all of the glorious disaster, possibly in part because of said debacle.
I wanted to be his.
I wanted him to be mine.
Pretty sure it went both ways, but this bullshit is what happens when a man and a woman run the risk of falling in love, rather than saying, Sayonara, you fucking dink. Sometimes drama is exactly what a girl wants and needs.
Seeing how Dorian Holder was given to whimsy, I took all his random questions, declarations and impulsive – erhm – stalking with a grain of salt. After all, we had discussed this to some degree, and he’d explained that reaching, hunting, discovering, possessing was not only something men might do, it’s an urge they had fought – or not – since time began. It was an animal thing, is what I think he said.
It’s all a blur now.
If he wanted to renovate a building he bought, so be it. If it happened to be mine, well? Both of us would face the consequences of that decision. Right?
That was his business.
And his business would become mine, if I over-thought. Dorian’s actions were the equivalent of more than an alpha dog pissing on a fire hydrant. Not to preach, but if it means something to That Man, while to you? You still have full use of and access to said hydrant, and if … aw, shit. Technically, the hydrant and its hosting building are public property, to some degree. So, fine. Master of the Universe buys building. Fact is, real estate is pretty cheap these days, it’s a fine time to buy as an investment, and? I dunno.
Fuck. In case you haven’t noticed by now, Dorian Holder was driving me out of my mind, snapping me, as he’d promised to do. And I had been more than willing.
Plus, bitches love libraries, and I happened to know he was building me one, in what had once been an apartment next door. My own conservatory. Hadn’t that been one of my many fantasies? Dorian Holder had every intention of fulfilling my fantasies, to the best of his ability. Which meant he could stop whenever he wanted, whether or not we were on the same page. He was top, I was bottom. Lines sometimes get blurred.
Being the curious humans we are, our tendency is to cross them.
CHAPTER 2
Reflections
We entered Dorian’s luxurious apartment, and he helped me wriggle out of my fitted Ferretti black peacoat. The place was nothing short of fabulous – the team of hot carpenters and whoever decorated knew what they were doing – but I’ll spare details, seeing as he rushed me through the kitchen, dining room and living room, and didn’t so much as open the door to his master bedroom. So really I couldn’t take in the whole scene and do the ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s you’re supposed to when someone is showing off their renovated home. Particularly when some part of you says, It’s your home he is renovating. The space felt smaller than I’d expected, as I’d pictured the square footage of a floor with eight apartments being hugantic. But, like I know jackshit about square footage.
Or maybe I did, since when he flung open the final door and showed me what was taking up about a third of the apartment, it all made sense. In the darkness of the enormous expanse there I could make out large shapes and shadows, but couldn’t identify exactly what of. I glanced at Dorian, and he said, ‘I had those carpenters Beezus hired build you a studio. Since word’s out that I’ve been revamping the company, suppliers have been sending us more gear samples than I know what to do with.’
‘So this is more a storage unit for your new toys than a studio for me.’ My voice was guarded. Let’s call a spade a spade, Dorian, I thought.
‘Or you could just be a lady and say thank you, Lily.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘As you know, I’m not one for exercise equipment, as I’d rather do it, live it, than play make-believe. But, OK, I may just mess around with that rotating climbing wall. With or without you.’
‘Hmmn.’ I tapped my foot, as though impatient. Meanwhile, my pulse was picking up, as a ripple of excitement and fear began coursing through my veins. ‘So turn on the light already.’
‘Preferably with you, given how much I’d like to be your belayer.’
‘Huh?’
‘Oh, I will harness you, watch you hang, guide your rope, then bungee you up against those phony rocks and have the two of us rotate together.’
‘What if you fell? Where’s your gear in this little fantasy?’
‘No ropes, no belts, not for this guy. It’s just a wall, not a mountain; I could run up this thing blindfolded. I don’t need protection, Lily. But you do.’ He closed his eyes, obviously visualising me hanging from the protruding artificial stones, crying like a baby while he leaped all over me like a half-starved mountain lion. Fearless of free-falling, because Holders Never Fall. ‘We shall see.’
‘Indeed we shall.’ I could picture him latching the safety belt around my waist, buckling the straps roughly around my thighs. In my fantasy, I’m not weeping, though. I am stone-faced and egging him on. Tighter, Dorian.
‘And no doubt we’ll find a way to use that anti-gravity yoga swing, sure. I’ve got faith in us. Et tu?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Lily?’
Dorian flipped a switch, and our strange surroundings came into focus. Like a good girl, I followed his directive and looked around the room.
For the record, even before all of this phooey-hooey went down? Despite the fact that I worked for Apollyon LLC, supplier to the athletic, well-toned, extreme sorts? I have never so much as entered an outdoors-sporty store in my life. Should I have done so, I’d have been laughed out of there faster than you could sing the first verse of ‘Pretty Woman’. Despite Dorian Holder’s apparent fascination with a diamond-in-the-rough girl next door, he could have whoever he wanted, we had not made any solid promises, and somehow he was already Master of my Universe.
But it wasn’t the array of complicated machinery that grabbed my attention, and I gasped against my will.
Thousands of Lilies and Dorians were reflected in what felt like infinite mirrors. He had set the lights to dim, so our images and the shapes surrounding us flickered like candles, warm reds, oranges, yellows, displaying a strange and beautiful space where I could come and go as I pleased.
Three of the walls were a masterpiece of the two of us in instant flashback, bevelled and placed at angles which made me feel as though we were in the centre of a fire opal, or swimming in a glasz ocean. The entire ceiling was a myriad of mirrors, catching the cerulean blue of his porcelain-tiled floor. For the multitudes of looking glasses reflected not only the two of us but another painting. A fuzzy-looking mural: a duplicate of Monet’s Water Lilies.
Not a bad one, considering that he must’ve bullied a ‘paint it in twelve hours’ contract on some poor unsuspecting artist. The painter signing off, hoping it was his (or more likely her) big break.
I could relate, 100 per cent. My big break.
‘Do you like it?’ his voice was husky as he drew closer to me.
‘It’s …’ Words escaped me, as he knelt at my feet, pulled my boots off and tossed them aside.
He rose to his feet. ‘Now strip.’
Since he’d asked me to do a pole-dance for him before, I assumed he wanted me to grab one of the aerobic pole-dance stands. Not tonight, it would have been too much. Instead, I slowly removed my garments, letting them drop to my feet like a puddle of cloth. I shivered, though the room was quite warm. Something about being entirely skyclad, while the man you borderline worship observes you with such a blank face, can chill a girl to the bone. But I lifted my chin, and tried to find emotion somewhere in his dark eyes, which now flickered with amber, emerald and desire. Which was something.
Consider the lilies of the field …
‘Do you see yourself? Look.’ He stood behind me, gripped my shoulders hard, and we faced our reflection. ‘See, just for a moment, what I see whenever I look at you, Lily. You, darling girl …’
I listened to my heart accelerate, while Dorian traced his fingers over my breasts, my soft belly, and at last reached my pussy. He opened me easily, and we watched ourselves. Though I tried to do my yoga breathing and keep my trembling to a minimum, my body betrayed me, as bodies are wont to do.
My flower was open wide, red and engorged with want. Dorian wanted me to watch my dark descent into weakness and hunger, while he observed. He wanted me to see how much I needed him, how much I ached for him. How I could respond to even his merest touch, while he remained so cool and detached.
‘Dorian—’ I gulped, and winced.
‘What’s up, Tiger Lily?’ He slid his fingers inside me, and something broke. It were as though we had been fondling each other this entire time, and the hours spent without him were ongoing foreplay.
No fair.
I dribbled girl-juice all over his hand, but just as I began to close my eyes and drop into that sweet abyss, he said, ‘Don’t stop looking. See how beautiful you are when you come? See what I see. Watch yourself. That’s an order.’
I tried to open my eyes, though in my state of ecstasy everything swam about me, as though we were underwater, Poseidon and I. A strange woman stared back. There had been the moment in front of the mirror while Beezus ‘fixed’ me, but this was so very different. This girl, this Lily.… Me? She had hair like a mermaid, eyes like the ocean, and her voluptuous curves shivered in the cool room. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips pouty.
Maybe this was what Dorian saw.
Were that the case, I wished I could envision myself that way all the time.
This was the woman I wanted to be.
How could this be me?
Somehow I looked stronger. My muscles were taut from adrenalin, while my breath tried to catch up with my heartbeat. My breasts were swollen from the bloodflow of arousal, nipples pink and peaked. Dorian’s stiffened cock – pushing its way against his pants, poking against my bottom – was not helping matters. He brushed aside my hair, exposing my shoulders, baring my neck to him, as though he were a vampire seeking that perfect vein.