Driven By Fate Page 9

  An invisible fist tightened around the base of his spine, the pressure in his stomach, balls, and cock becoming unbearable. As if she could sense him nearing the end, she scraped her fingernails down his back, dug them into his ass and yanked, yanked him even deeper. “Please.” Her whimper tore at him. “Please can I have it?”

  His head dropped into the crook of her neck, never ceasing his ferocious thrusts. “You want my come, beggar? I’d like to rip this condom off and fuck it right into you.”

  She moaned, tossing her head on the seat. It occurred to him in a painful, heady rush that she would let him finish inside her perfect heat. Would wrap her legs tight and beg for every last drop. Never having experienced the impulse before, it nearly overtook him now, robbed his logic.

  No, no, no. She’s not thinking. You’re not thinking.

  Still his fists curled into the seat to prevent himself from following through. He needed something from her, something to make up for denying himself the opportunity.

  Porter brought his face within an inch of hers. Passion-glazed eyes met his, awaiting commands. Craving them. “I own you. Tell me I own you.”

  Stubbornness flashed up at him, but he bore down hard, increasing the pace of his drives. Her kiss-swollen mouth fell open on a wail. “You own me.”

  His climax battered him from the inside. He lost purchase with reality, but managed to stay somewhat present by focusing on her breaths. Her voice. The feel of her. She gripped him with her inner muscles, mouth moving hot and open over his shoulder, neck, face. This was new territory and he couldn’t stand knowing he’d never experienced it. Her. Her. Francesca.

  “You’ll come back tomorrow,” he ordered in a harsh voice.

  He’d made the directive more vehemently than intended, but there was no help for it. She’d flayed him wide open. Was it too much to hope he’d done the same to her? All he could glean from her expression was wonder, confusion. Still, she said, “Yes.”

  She drove him home in total silence.

  Chapter Ten

  Frankie brushed her teeth in a daze. She thought after a night’s sleep, her brain wouldn’t be a mental pile of pick-up sticks anymore. She’d been dead wrong. After walking into the house in a fog, she’d fallen face first into bed, her brain refusing to accept any more input. Porter. Thinking his name sent a hot shiver whispering down her back, made her breasts feel fuller, in need of sucking. Red stained her cheeks as she put away the toothbrush. This arrangement didn’t feel like working an impulse out of her system; it felt like creating new, darker, irresistible ones—courtesy of one magnetic Brit with a body that had essentially ruined her yesterday in the front seat of her cab. What she’d engaged in with awkward, twenty-something boys hadn’t been sex. It had been paltry attempts at sex. Sex was Porter. Porter was sex.

  Her foresight had been faulty in agreeing to another day. How deep could she get before her feet touched the bottom? Before the sand sucked her down and never let go?

  She brushed a hand over the bite mark in the space between her neck and shoulder. There was no shame, no regret in seeing it. Only yearning. Fierce, consuming yearning for more. After the heights she’d reached yesterday, the stunning sense of completion that came with being dominated, she’d realized she had no choice but to fully accept this part of herself. She didn’t want to escape it. Whoever she ended up with, whoever she married, would have to embrace it.

  That eventuality wasn’t her issue, though. No, her issue was the sinking suspicion that if she’d walked into someone else’s room that night at Serve, the need wouldn’t be this strong. It wouldn’t even rate. She could handle being addicted to the world, the rituals. She couldn’t handle being addicted to Porter. He didn’t want the same things she did. The look on his face when she’d told him about her plans for a large family had been comically horrified.

  Frankie knew what she needed to do—listen to the common sense the good lord gave her. Attend class this morning, and then get in her cab. Make money the same way she always had. It wouldn’t be the astronomical amount Porter was paying her, but at least she could start to kick toward the surface. It would take some time—Porter was a vast ocean she hadn’t even begun to explore – but she needed to break free out of self-preservation. Deep inside of her, something potent rebelled. You own me. She’d said the words, but her mind had been whirring, buzzing. They weren’t a commandment.

  With a firm click of the medicine cabinet, Frankie ran a brush through her hair and left the bathroom. She froze when she saw her Uncle Joe sitting on the top step, staring down at his shaking hands. Hands she’d never seen anything but steady.

  “What—what’s wrong?”

  His head came up on a wince. “Hey, Frankie. Just this damn flu. Can’t seem to shake it this time.” He hefted himself off the stair, wincing as he grabbed the railing. “I just need some coffee. Maybe a bagel.”

  Joe thumped down the stairs, probably with no idea he’d sent her heart plummeting to the ground. She’d never seen her uncle show weakness, at least of the physical variety. Lately, though, he’d been sick more often than usual. The flu, migraines. Had she been so wrapped up in school and her business idea that she’d missed something? When she’d come to live with him, he’d been closed off emotionally. That hadn’t changed—not much, anyway—but this? This was new. Scary. He was all she had in the world. She couldn’t lose him, too. Nor could she express anything like fear or concern. It would make him shut down, raise his defenses. They were alike in that way—independent islands.

  What if there was something more serious he wasn’t telling her?

  Legs feeling weighted, she followed her uncle down the stairs into the kitchen to find him staring at the refrigerator. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Hey, have you looked outside? Not a cloud in the sky. No one’s going to make millions driving a cab today.” She felt his gaze sharpen on her back, but she ignored it, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “Perfect timing for the flu. Just take the day off.”

  “I took yesterday off.” He gestured absently toward the ceiling, but something about the gesture was flippant. Unlike him. “The mortgage isn’t going to pay itself.”

  “I’ve got you covered.” She noticed her fluttering hands and shoved them into her pockets. “The extra hours go by fast when I’m talking to people. You know how friendly and approachable I am.”

  Her sarcasm fell flat. Joe wouldn’t even look at her. This felt nothing like the awkwardness she’d experienced as a child. He wasn’t uncomfortable or looking for an avenue of escape. No, he was a blank slate. Apart from his blood shot eyes, there was no indication of what he was hiding.

  She had to set her coffee mug down on the counter. “What’s up?”

  His Adam’s apple rose, fell. “I haven’t worked in seven weeks.”

  Shock laced through her system, tying knots around her organs. “What?” He didn’t respond, just folded his hands on the table. Legs unsteady, she sat down across from him. Dread, so much dread, dug claws into her midsection. “I don’t understand.”

  He laughed without humor. “No, you wouldn’t. Nothing would stop you from driving. Not even stiff fingers and shooting pains in your hands.”

  The words fell like stones on the table, scattering to land in her lap. “I-is that what’s been happening to you?”

  Uncle Joe nodded slowly, flexing a hand in the air between them. “The stiffness was manageable for years, but now…a few months ago, I was smack in the middle of Times Square. This pain—” He cursed as a tremor took his hand. “It shoots through my palm and I can’t grip the wheel. Frankie, I could barely pull the damn cab over. I was blocking traffic on Forty-Second Street.” He let his hand drop to the table. “The second and last time it happened on the road, I almost rammed the back of a school bus. I couldn’t turn. A school bus, Frankie.”

  “But you didn’t,” she blurted, hating the guilt etched on his features. He was usually so proud, outspoken. “Have you gone to the doctor?”


  “What do you think?”

  That was a no. Her uncle and his friends considered it a mark of manliness that they reserved medical attention for broken bones only. Frankie leaned back in her chair, for once not comforted by the familiar creak. “What have you been doing for the last seven weeks?”

  His sigh filled the kitchen. “I go as far as the park, then I read the paper. Catch a game on television at the bar. Lately, I’ve gotten tired of pretending and I just tell you I’m sick.”

  Frankie wanted to shake some sense into her uncle. He would shut down, though, close himself off if she came across as anything but practical and no nonsense. Good ol’ Frankie. One of the boys. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment how sick to death she’d become of hiding her emotions to make people less uncomfortable. Right now wasn’t the time to melt down, though. The axe was getting ready to fall. She could feel it, poised above her head, gleaming in the sunlight.

  “Has the mortgage been paid? The bills…” When Joe stayed silent, she nodded jerkily. This wasn’t happening. Not now. If all went according to plan, she’d have her business up and running in eight months. Eight measly months and she could have handled this, but not now. Not when she already owed the Prestons and all her extra savings were allotted for her dream.

  Immediately, she scolded herself for the selfish thought. She wouldn’t have a dream if her uncle hadn’t raised her, given her a home, and the career that had inspired her, given her hope. If it meant keeping a roof over their head, closing the gap her uncle’s lack of income left behind, she’d forgo the dream for now.

  A voice slithered its way into her conscious, caressing her inner desires like a silk glove. There was the job Porter had given her, wasn’t there? She made double the amount working for him, enough to cover her uncle’s income, as well as her own. Briefly, she considered the idea of working for Porter without what came after. Without sex. But that was a pipedream if she’d ever had one. If they were in the same room, she’d want him. She’d find a way to justify one more time. One more mind-blowing, inhibition stealing, seal of ownership on her soul.

  But what choice did she have?

  “I’ll take care of it,” she managed. “But you’re making a doctor’s appointment.”

  She waited for his nod, and then she got up and made breakfast.

  …

  The ticking of his antique clock was driving Porter insane. It sat in the corner of his desk, torturing him simply by forcing him to acknowledge the passing of time. Time spent with his own thoughts. His doubts. And, fucking hell, thoughts of Francesca that crowded out everything else. He’d received a call that morning from Neville, his partner in London, a reminder that his time in New York was coming to an end. He had a matter of weeks before he could seamlessly resume his position as head of the lucrative firm he’d built. Finally, his stay in purgatory was coming to a close. Finally.

  And if he said the word “finally” enough, he might start to believe it.

  Less than two years had passed since the operation that had nearly cost him his livelihood. His life, really. Two years since Neville had neglected to take a final sweep of the airport through which they’d been leading their client, missing the hidden explosives that had nearly killed them all, including the American naval officer they’d been hired to protect during his time in the UK. If Porter hadn’t shielded the man himself, the tragedy would have gone beyond damage control.

  With a controlling interest in the firm, he’d made the decision to downgrade Neville’s position that same day. Had even considered buying him out, running the company on his own as he’d planned to do at some point in the future, anyway. Until he’d gone to the man’s home in person to deliver the news and found it filled to bursting with five children, two of which had special needs. Neville’s wife had been laid off from her job as a government employee, leaving them strapped and without care for the children. As Porter had stood in the doorway, he’d listened to Neville plead and explain that he’d merely been tired from lack of sleep and he wouldn’t make such a grave error again.

  Family. It was something Porter didn’t understand. His parents had given him the bare minimum of skills to raise himself and never looked back, never attending school functions, never observing holidays. The children hovering in the hallway behind Neville had even scared him in a way, made him think of his own fears as a child.

  One thing had been certain, though. He couldn’t be the final straw on the family’s already weakened back. Perhaps he hadn’t been enough for his own family, but he could keep this functioning one together. Give them the chance he’d never had. The alternative was failing them, and he’d done enough of that. It was why he was alone.

  So he’d taken the fall, assumed responsibility for the oversight at the airport. He’d put himself on two years’ probation to keep the firm’s doors open. And those two years were almost over.

  Porter wasn’t built for anything but what he’d been trained for. Strategy. Battle. Protection. His ridiculous side hobby of thriller writing could only be a way to keep his brain occupied while he awaited the real thing—another chance to get his hands dirty. Nothing would ever come of his scribbling. Nothing would ever come of his relationship with Francesca. His life, his everything, was in London.

  Porter closed his eyes and pictured flying out of New York that very afternoon. A pain bloomed in his chest, bleeding lower until his stomach twisted in protest. How could he leave this place with a head so bloody full of her? At what point would the plaguing thoughts begin to dissipate? Never, a voice whispered.

  Forcing himself to acknowledge the possibility that he felt something for her, something far beyond a fascination with her as his submissive, shook loose a dozen other repressed concerns. Did he want to return to London as much as he continually told himself? He thought of his one-bedroom flat in Camden. White walls, gray furniture, a calendar the only thing decorating his walls. Perhaps the antiques business hadn’t been a random choice. Perhaps he’d simply wanted to be around some decent furniture, for Christ sake.

  His cell phone buzzed on his desk and he stared at it a moment, knowing if Francesca were on the other end, telling him she couldn’t make it to work, he would go positively mad. She didn’t seem to have the slightest clue what it took for him to spend nights apart from her. He wouldn’t tell her, either, or he’d lose any chance of making it a reality. I want to sleep with my hand cupping your pussy. I want to wake you up with a bite. I want to tie you to my headboard and feed you, watch your perfect mouth chew food I prepared. These wishes were bigger pipe dreams than a potential writing career. It didn’t stop him from wanting them. So yes, if she was cancelling on him, he quite feared for his sanity.

  Without looking at the phone number, he snatched the phone off the desk. “Porter Evans.”

  “Mr. Evans, this is Jonah Briggs from Serve.”

  Porter arched an eyebrow. Now, that he hadn’t been expecting. The club owner rarely communicated with clients, let alone made personal phone calls. “Mr. Briggs.” An uncomfortable silence ensued. “My manager received your request to bring a guest to the club. Francesca De Luca, specifically.”

  Jesus. He’d forgotten all about submitting the request. The night he’d met Francesca and ascertained she didn’t have a membership, he’d asked to have her cleared for an introductory session with himself as her guide. As a member of good standing, there shouldn’t have been any question about his ability to introduce a possible new member. At the time, he hadn’t anticipated the growing need to have her all to himself, wanting her in his home and nowhere else. “Yes, I made the request. Is there an issue?”

  “Not with the paperwork, no.” A tapping noise in the background. “Ms. De Luca is the recipient of a scholarship granted by my fiancé’s family. My fiancé and her brother, Oliver Preston, who runs the scholarship, have taken something of an interest in her life. They…care about her.”

  Porter ground his teeth together to stop the sharp reply from leavi
ng his tongue. He didn’t like Francesca’s name spoken in the same sentence as another man, specifically Oliver Preston. The two of them had never been cordial, let alone friendly.

  “I’ve been discreet about what took place Monday evening at Serve, mainly because I’m guilty of underestimating her. Nor is there anything wrong with her interest in the club. She’s an adult. However—”

  “However, my tastes are too extreme for a novice.” Porter’s hand curled into a tight ball. “I’m well aware of that fact, Mr. Briggs. I’m also aware of my reputation at your club.”

  A beat passed. “Then you agree that she might need some guidance.”

  Porter started to answer that no one would guide Francesca, save himself. But he stopped, the words trapped in his throat. He thought of her crying and running for the front door, hastily dressing herself. He thought of her smiling and laughing with the man in her cab, the normal man. A man whose wife went out for a girl’s night while he babysat the kids at home. She’d end up with someone like that. Oh fuck, his stomach didn’t like that realization. It clenched and for a moment, he thought he’d be sick. The phone in his hand creaked in his grip.

  How could he rid himself of this unbalanced feeling? It was wrecking his bloody head, twisting his stomach into knots. Eventually, he would return to London. Giving up Francesca, leaving her to babies, baseball, and barbeques. The life she wanted. So why was he holding back with her? If he wanted her to stay the night so he could please himself with her body at all hours, why the hell didn’t he just make the command? He’d never held back in the past. Never. Until he left New York, he needed Francesca on his terms. The alternative was to subject himself to mornings like this, wondering if she’d even walk through the door. Fuck that. And fuck this phone call meant to warn him away. He’d love to see someone try to keep him from her.