Claimed Harder by Em Brown
Chapter 9
DARREN
Past
Ilook over at Bridget and consider flipping her back onto her stomach. I liked how she looked with her ass rounding the edge of the bed. There’s still so much I can do to her in that position.
But the food’s probably waiting by the front door.
After tossing the condom and pulling up my pants, I plant kisses from her belly to her mouth. Her words—may I come, sir—still ring deliciously in my ears. Sitting her up, I pull her bra and top down her arms.
“You want your clothes back or something else to wear?” I ask, picking her jeans and panties off the floor.
She looks at the clothes I lay upon the bed. “I’ll take something else.”
From my dresser, I pull out a pair of black silk pajamas. They’ll be too large on her since they’re mine, but the bottoms are drawstring. Or she could just wear the top.
“You don’t mind?” she asks after I hand her the pajamas. “These feel really nice.”
“Put them on,” I reply, wanting to see her in my pajamas for some reason.
After buttoning on the top and slipping on the bottoms, she fiddles with the loose drawstrings. I step in and yank the drawstrings tight before tying them. She looks good in my pajamas.
“These are nice,” she said, feeling the sleeve. “You might not get them back.”
I cup her jaw and grin. “I’ll have fun trying.”
Her lips part in an irresistible manner. I close them with mine, savoring how soft and responsive they are. There’ll be time for more later.
“You said you were hungry,” I say, releasing her before I walk out of the bedroom.
“Actually, I didn’t,” she responds. “You asked me if I was, then said you could have food brought up to your place before I could really answer.”
I pause. Is that right? Probably. Women don’t usually dispute my game plan.
“So you’re not hungry?” I ask.
“I’ll eat,” she replies.
Opening the front door, I find a cart waiting. I wheel it in to the dining table. Removing the lids, I see that the chef sent up lobster pot stickers with ginger-scallion sauce, Kobe beef sliders with black truffles, and a forbidden rice pudding with mango.
Eying the food, Bridget sits down next to the head of the table. “Now I’m hungry.”
“Dig in,” I tell her and pop the cork of a bottle of zinfandel that came with the food. I pour two glasses.
“Oh, I don’t drink,” she reminds me.
“This is nothing like baijiu. It’s fruity.”
She hesitates.
“What are you afraid of?” I ask. “That you’ll get drunk, and I’ll take advantage of you?”
“Maybe I’m worried you might pull some of that BDSM on me.”
I could point out that I already have, but instead I reassure her, “I don’t play with intoxicated subs.”
“That’s responsible of you.”
“They can’t fully appreciate the pain if they’re drunk.”
She frowns. I chuckle.
“I’m good with water,” she says, taking one of the bottles of mineral water and pouring it into a glass.
“You always a rule follower?” I ask.
“Depends on the rule. Some rules need to be broken, and the world needs rule breakers, like Rosa Parks or Susan B. Anthony.”
“And you think the drinking age is important enough that you can’t break it? In most of the world, you can drink once you’re eighteen. The US has one of the highest age requirements, but it has more alcohol-related problems than most of the world.”
“Yeah, we’re pretty underdeveloped in a lot of ways.”
“You’re not going to get arrested for having a sip of wine. If I dragged you down to a police station to have you arrested, they’d kick us out for wasting their time.”
“They might arrest you, though, for serving alcohol to a minor, though I turn twenty-one in just two months. It’s not that I think the drinking age is a rule that shouldn’t be broken, but I’ve made it this far, why break my streak?”
“How have you made it this far? Weren’t you ever curious?”
She shrugs. “Not really. My grandmother didn’t drink. Growing up, I saw one of my neighbor’s sons acting stupid when he was drunk. He then hurled all over our walkway.”
“But you’re in college now. You don’t drink at frat parties?”
“I don’t go to a lot of frat parties. Did you when you were at UCLA?”
“No. Most of the frat guys I came across were assholes.”
“I’ve met some nice ones, but Greek organizations do seem to draw a lot of assholes.”
Setting down her water, she tries a pot sticker. “Wow, these are to die for.”
I sit down at the head of the table and watch her eat. The look on her face reminds me of how she looked a few moments ago in the throes of her orgasm. I always get a kick watching her come.
“How are you not five hundred pounds, eating like this?” she asks.
It’s a rhetorical question, so I move on to more pressing matters. “You never sent me your photo.”
“Okay, about that,” she says, helping herself to a slider next. “You weren’t serious about Phuket, Thailand.”
“You think I’m joking?”
I sit back and watch her eyes light up after a bite of the slider. Either she loves food or she doesn’t feed herself well enough. I’ve never been so fascinated watching a woman eat before. The few times Kimberly would indulge in something like dessert, she’d complain the whole time about how she’d either have to work out extra hard at the gym afterward or, if she felt lazy, induce vomiting.
Bridget raises a brow. “You invite women to international destinations regularly?”
“I don’t,” I admit. “But it just so happens I have to be in Phuket.”
“Because of a wedding?”
“Yeah, who told you that?”
“Felipe.”
“You getting chummy with my bartender?”
“He was the only one nice to me my first time at the club.”
I like Felipe. He’s not a member of the Jing San and probably knows more than he should, but he’s always been discreet. Still, I’m surprised that he’s chatty with Bridget so soon after meeting her.
“So are you attending a wedding?” Bridget asks.
“Is that a big deal?” I return.
Maybe I should have thought it through more before inviting Bridget. A wedding is a family event, and that might send the wrong signal to her, that our relationship is more serious than it is.
“It’s not like I’m taking you home to meet my folks,” I add. “My father’s dead. And my mom’s not likely to attend.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything like that. I don’t think I’d be ready to meet your folks yet, anyway.”
What does that mean? Is she relieved that our relationship doesn’t appear to be moving too fast?
“Maybe flying off to Thailand isn’t a big deal for you,” she continues, “but I don’t get invitations like that. Ever.”
“Then it’s your lucky day. I have to be at a wedding in about a week. I get a plus one. It happens to be in Thailand.”
“And I’d love to go, but Thailand is a little out of my budget.”
“You think I’d invite you to Thailand and make you pay for it?”
“Well, I didn’t want to assume.”
All the women I’ve ever been with wouldn’t have assumed anything else.
She eyes the dessert. “Mind if I dig in?”
“’Course not.”
She takes a spoonful and her eyes widen. She lets the mouthful linger, chewing slowly before swallowing. Warmth stirs in my groin. Yeah, I’ve got to fuck her soon.
“The thing is,” she says, “I also have school, I have an internship, and I have a job.”
She’s declining a date to Phuket? What’s the matter with this woman?
As if sensing my disconcertion, she adds, “I mean, it’s super generous of you, and I wish I could go…”
“Can’t you get class notes from a classmate or catch the lectures online?” I ask.
“My health policy seminar is discussion based. Participation is part of the grade. And it’s not that I can’t take time off from my job and internship, but a week is short notice.”
I stare at her, floored. I can’t tell if it’s really logistics and a strong sense of responsibility that holds her back or something else.
“If you didn’t have to worry about school or work, would you go?” I ask.
“I guess.”
She guesses? I expected a much more positive answer.
“You guess,” I echo.
“Letting a guy pay for dinner is one thing, paying for a trip to Thailand is…different.”
“Not to me.”
“Still, I’d feel guilty about it.”
Why should you feel guilty? I want to ask. But another thought comes to mind. “Would you feel better if you could pay for it?”
“Sure.”
“All right. I’ll let you pay for it.”
She does a double-take. “What?”
“Not with money,” I clarify.
“Then with what?”
Heat tingles through me. “A night at my club. The other side of my club.”
