Claimed Darker by Em Brown
Chapter 8
DARREN
Past
In surprise, I stare at the text Bridget sent me in response. It’s not that I expect women to ask “how high” when I say “jump,” but most do. Sure, there are plenty of women—like my ex, Kimberly Park—who play hard to get, but that’s only at the beginning. Bridget’s not the type to play games, though, so when she doesn’t confirm that she’ll be here, it’s because there’s an honest issue. I just can’t tell if her response is coming from fear about what will happen when we venture into the other side of my club or if she’s truly irritated at my command when she texted:
You think I’m at your beck and call?
You should be, I want to text back. But a woman like Bridget might get affronted. Instead, I reply:
You’re the one who said Saturday night might work for you.
Sitting at my desk in the club office, I watch the ellipsis blink as she types back a response.
My plans could have changed.
I type:
Did they?
She texts back:
Maybe.
I don’t want to wait another night to have her beneath my flogger. I decide to call her.
“What does ‘maybe’ mean?” I ask when she picks up.
“It means possibly yes, possibly no,” she replies.
“You don’t have anything more pressing going on tonight. You finished the grant application for your internship on the flight home, and you said you didn’t have anything major due for at least two weeks. So what’s with the ‘maybe’ bullshit?”
“I said that because you can’t assume that something hasn’t come up for me.”
“What’s come up?”
“Nothing came up.”
“Then you’ll be here tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“No, I…you’re not getting the point.”
I rub my temple. Women operate so much more differently than men.
Just then, I hear laughter in the background and a familiar voice say, “He should have given the rose to Kris, not that Samantha girl. You know what they say about putting lipstick on trailer trash…”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s Felipe.”
“My bartender?” What the hell is he doing at her apartment?
“Yeah, I bumped into him on Telegraph.”
“And you invited him over to your place?”
“Um…yeah.”
For a moment, I’m quiet. I know there’s nothing going on between her and Felipe, who’s always been gay. Still, I feel surprisingly jealous.
“You’ve got time to hang out with my bartender but I get a fucking ‘maybe?’” I ask.
“All right, all right. You’re not jealous, are you?”
I feel ready to blow a fuse. But I’m not the jealous type. For example, I’ve seen dozens of guys try to pick up on Kimberly and it never really bothered me.
Kimberly couldn’t understand why, and she once told me, “It’s macho to be jealous.”
I had rolled my eyes. “It’s more like the opposite. Jealousy is for guys who lack confidence.”
Or trust in their girlfriends. And I trust Bridget a helluva lot more than I’d trust Kimberley. So why am I irked that she’s spending time with a gay man?
“Who’s jealous?” I hear Felipe ask.
“I was just teasing someone,” Bridget responds.
Someone who can fire your ass, I silently answer. Felipe’s lucky that tonight’s his night off and Amanda’s working the bar instead.
“Tonight. Eight o’clock,” I tell Bridge before hanging up.
I was prepared to go gentle with her first time, but the way I’m feeling now, I’m not sure I want to be Mr. Nice.
* * *
I lookover Bridget’s outfit after she gets in my car later that evening. She wears the black jeans she wore the first time she came to The Lotus, as well as the chunky beige sweater that led to soda dripping down my face. She clearly doesn’t have an extensive wardrobe.
“What happened to the clothes Cheryl bought you?” I ask.
“Right in here,” she replies, indicating a backpack she sets down near her feet. “You didn’t say I had to wear anything in particular.”
It’s true that it doesn’t matter what she wears. It’s all coming off. Still, she doesn’t have to look like she throws on the first thing she sees.
“Why are the clothes in the bag?” I inquire as I pull my Panamera from the curb in front of her apartment.
“I’m giving them back to Cheryl.”
“You know you can keep them.”
“Yeah, but I don’t go a lot of places where I’ll need such nice clothes.”
“Cheryl’s not your size.”
“But she said she could find someone who could put them to better use.”
I shouldn’t give a shit about the clothes, but a part of me is irked that Bridget would so willingly hand over what I bought for her. The clothes are far superior to anything she currently owns or will probably ever own. I expected more appreciation. Plus, my manager did a great job purchasing clothes that made Bridget look hot.
“It was fun wearing them in Phuket, though,” Bridget says. “Thanks for getting them for me.”
More mollified, I reply, “You should keep them. They looked good on you.”
“But they’d just hang in my closet collecting dust.”
I think of where else I can take her so she can wear the clothes. Hawaii. Cancun. Rio de Janeiro.
A phone call interrupts my thoughts.
“Clear to talk?” the caller asks over the car’s speaker.
“Try me in the morning. My time,” I reply before hanging up.
“You can take your call if you want. Don’t mind me,” Bridget tells me.
“It’s my financial advisor. It can wait.”
“He usually calls this late in the day?”
“It’s middle of the day for him in Hong Kong.”
“Why do you have a financial advisor all the way in Hong Kong?”
I look over at her. Why do you always ask so many damn questions? I can’t wait to get the ball gag on her.
“To handle my offsh—overseas accounts,” I respond, knowing that no answer will only lead to more questions. Most of my dad’s money is held in accounts in places like Switzerland of the Cayman Islands.
To change the subject, I ask, “You pick at your stitches today?”
“I didn’t. I think I’m finally getting used to them.”
“That or you were too busy spending time with Felipe. What was he doing at your apartment, anyway?”
Bridget looks at me in surprise. “I told you. I invited him over.”
“I know he didn’t just randomly show up at your place. Why did you invite him over?”
“He and Bryan asked me where they could grab dinner, I was planning to fry up some chicken for me and my roommates, so I invited them to join us.”
“Who’s Bryan?”
“Felipe’s…friend.”
Probably more than a friend. Still, I don’t need more men to keep tabs on.
Bridget narrows her eyes at me. “You are jealous.”
“I didn’t get an invite over for fried chicken.”
Fuck. I sound like a elementary school kid who didn’t get to join in on some playdate.
“Felipe and Bryan happened to be in Berkeley,” she explains. “And you don’t have anything to worry about. Felipe is…just a friend.”
“I know Felipe is gay. But he’s good-looking and charming. And I’ve seen enough people who swing both ways to know that sexuality is fluid for some people.”
“I don’t think it is for Felipe. Besides, he wouldn’t do anything to cross you.”
I have to agree with her assessment about Felipe, but still, I tell her there’s no need to get chummy with my bartender.
She balks. “I agreed to a night of BDSM. That doesn’t mean you can start dictating what I can or can’t do.”
You’re right. I’ll just whip your ass extra hard instead.
I know better than to voice my thoughts, however. I don’t want to turn Bridget off to BDSM, and she’s not as pliable as other women I’ve been with. With Bridget, I’ve had to think before I speak. I’ve expended more effort on her in the short amount of time I’ve been with her than I have in any other sexual relationship. If I told JD the mental hoops I had to jump through to get Bridget to go with me to Thailand, he’d tell me it’s too much work for any one pussy, especially since there are plenty of different brands of pussy out there that I can get for a lot less effort or money.
But for some reason, her pussy’s the one I want. I thought getting a taste of it was all I needed to move on. Instead, I want more.
She put up a lot of resistance to Thailand, but she allowed the anal plug without a big fuss. Kimberly was too squeamish to allow anything near her ass. Because she’s a model, she didn’t like me leaving a mark of any kind, and she had a low pain threshold. With Bridget, there are a lot more possibilities.
It’s exciting to consider them all.
