Scrupulous (An Affliction of Falling Novel Book 1) Page 11

“I am not a doctor. Fucking Daz goes too far with his background checks!”

  “That is not what your board exams and education says.”

  “Partial boards. I never finished my residency and never sat for the last round.”

  “Why?”

  “It didn’t make me happy.” I sweep my long hair back and turn my face, wanting to hide from his scrutiny. I’ve had enough from my family.

  “That is what it came down to? That is a lofty investment to walk away from.” There is no judgment in his tone, a refreshing change.

  “A conscious decision in the face of cold hard facts. We are not promised anything or any length of time to live. Life is precious and short. I’d rather spend my time doing what makes me happy.”

  “And that is bartending?” he scoffs in disbelief.

  “Among other things.” I am a people person, and I sure as hell don’t want to let him in on my passion right now.

  “Sure that is not a cop-out for a horrific experience?” Is he looking for psychological triggers?

  “I saw my fair share of horrific things but that is not why I made the choice to walk away.”

  “Not sure that I believe you.”

  Yup, he is digging. What is it about dominant men and their inquisitions? “Suit yourself.”

  Sensing that the door is to remain closed at this time, he flips the script once more. “Back to bare-backing…”

  “In-depth exchange, and then right back to sex?”

  “I can multitask.” He carelessly shrugs as he picks up two mugs.

  “Said no man ever. Ferreting out more details to satisfy your male curiosity? The male ego driving you to find more uncharted territory that you can claim as well?”

  “Men can multitask as evidenced by the night I laid claim on that sweet, ample bottom of yours, or do you need reminding?”

  Is that how he plans on winning every conversation? Cheap shot tapping into my weakness for hot sex? My cheeks fire up and my groin pulses. “Touché,” I gulp.

  “Is it so wrong that I want to be as close to you as I can in every way possible?” He cocks a brow, challenging me to rebuke.

  “No, and I will answer your burning question if you admit the thrill of being my ‘first’ in so many facets gets you off.”

  “It does.” He sips his black coffee thoughtfully.

  His reply has me swallowing hard. Shit, that was an easy confession to coax! He called my bluff. “By your question, I assume you are asking if I ever have and if I will with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, once- upon a drunken night. Have I since? Hell no. Will I with you?” I narrow my eyes at him and weigh the possibility of foregoing another one of my steadfast rules for him, a man challenging everything I thought I knew. The intensity of his returning gaze dissolves the ‘no’ hanging on my lips.

  Am I really considering this? “Shit.” He grins at my fading resolve as I turn and fidget with plates and dish out our meal. “If we get tested together, yes,” I mutter, not believing the words coming out of my mouth.

  “I promise, I’m clean.” His enticing lips dip down to draw from his steaming cup once more, eliciting flashbacks immediately.

  “As much as I want to believe you, I have to see the results for myself. And you should not just take my word for it either.” Who does that? Taking a stranger’s word on testing is not a healthy safety measure.

  “You don’t trust me? I can get a copy of my results and show you.”

  “Something one can easily forge. Our mutual trust is still growing, and that is something I won’t take chances on. Consider it a ceremonious step forward in whatever this is.”

  “You mean in our relationship. Are you on the pill?” He snags a piece of bacon off the stack before I can finish serving.

  “Have been since I handed in my V-card,” I joke, dodging the relationship word.

  “You are too damn logical about some things. How often do you get tested?” He crosses his arms firmly over his chest, tension building, half-consumed bacon dangling from his fingertips. Is he threatened about how active I am?

  “Every three to four months depending on how… active I have been,” I matter-of-factly state. He curses under his breath at my answer. Should I have sugarcoated it?

  “Jesus, anything I should be worried about?” His defensive question comes across as childish.

  “No, clean as a whistle. How about you, lover boy? You aren’t so innocent yourself,” I snap. He’s damn near ‘played’ with most of our waitresses if rumors are true.

  “Once a year, clean as well.”

  “Only once a year! Wow, you have a level of trust that I do not.”

  “I don’t fuck everything I see or play with,” he growls and angrily shoveling in some scrambled eggs.

  “Are you implying that I do? So fucking what if I do?” I square my body off with his, hand on hip, no longer hungry.

  “It’s just… no. That is not what I am saying. Damn it!” he thunders in a deep, guttural voice, running a hand through his hair while looking away. My Irish temper is burning, ready for a good fight.

  As Gavin looks lost in thought, I push by him to take my plate over to the little round table in the breakfast nook and eat a few bites. He can stew on whatever it is that’s brewing.

  “Sorcha, I apologize. I am not looking down on your lifestyle choices. If I am being honest, I fucking hate the fact that I can’t stand the thought of you having ever been with anyone else other than me. I have no place judging you or how you live your life.”

  “Thank you for using your words. I have no qualms on how you live your life either, Gavin. To each their own. You are free to do as you please─ that is the beauty of being an adult. As long as it brings no harm to others and all sexual acts are between consenting adults, who cares?” Damn my blabbering mouth.

  “I care, but I shouldn’t.” Internal conflict is written plain as day all over him.

  “You care when it applies to me─ something you want control over.” A clear observation based on his behaviors.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Not perhaps, it’s the truth, or you wouldn’t be acting ridiculous like this. You pursued me; I’ve never misrepresented myself or my intentions to you.” Yet another reason why boyfriend material has been scarce. My brand of honesty runs all prospects off.

  “I know! Shit. It’s just the thought of you with anyone else makes me violent!” He thunders to the dishwasher and tries to control his temper enough to put my dishes in without breaking them.

  “Might I remind you that we are not in a committed relationship? We agreed on that!” His mounting emotions over this subject have me on high alert as well.

  “Yes, I am aware. Have you been with others since we started?” His pecs flex under his radiating tension.

  “It’s really none of your business if I have or have not. And seriously? How could I have had a chance with you in my bed every morning? We’ve been at this not even a week. Why are you getting so possessive?” And why do I feel guilt ridden and sick over his question? Guilt to me is much like jealousy is to him─ foreign.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Is that why you insist on pushing me and being my first in so many ways? Is that your way of marking your territory? Am I just some wench for you to claim? A notch on your headboard?” my fork clatters from my hand as my fist balls.

  “Fuck no! I’ve told you, you are different. But it is my nature. I am a Dominant, Sorcha. Just because I may not act that way entirely around you makes it no less a fact. I lose myself with you, and I hate it as much as I am addicted to it. But when it comes down to the wire, that is my make-up and that will not change.” He angles his body over mine, palm on table, staring down at me.

  “Have I ever asked you to change? No. I am very well aware of what you are and what you may be spending your ‘work’ hours doing. Am I jealous or have protestations about it? No.” Why should I be? Never have I been the jealous type. We have an agr
eement, one set between two adults who have lives outside of the time we spend together.

  “The thought of me with another doesn’t disturb you?” he scoffs, amber eyes about to bulge from his head.

  “Why would it? You are not mine. Have you not understood my very liberal views on sex? Why do you think I wasn’t jealous over that little stunt you played with the waitress? I have never met a man to cause me such useless emotions.” My arms now cross over my chest in a huff.

  “If you shut your analytical brain off and felt more with your heart, you might.” He sounds offended that he has not breached yet another first.

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “For someone who claims to live their life based on desire and happiness, you sure are missing the point,” he incredulously states.

  “Ludicrous. My heart leads but the brain provides boundaries that assist in self-preservation and focus on the goals at hand. It is a matter of perspective.” My head has served me well, and my heart is allowed to fully lead behind the lens as well as in the sack, quite a good balance if you ask me.

  “You are being ridiculous.” He backs away, hands up in defeat, and fetches his shirt and shoes in a fury.

  “Me? Look in the mirror. You wanting to stake a Neanderthal’s claim on me is just as bad. I thought I was agreeing to enter into a mutual endeavor with a like-minded individual.” No strings should have been easy for both of us.

  “So did I. It is possible for feelings and circumstances to change, ya know,” he sarcastically replies.

  My phone distracts our conversation with its incessant ringing. I had ignored the first call, but it is now becoming as ridiculous as this conversation.

  “Hello?” I grit out.

  “Sor, you need to come in tonight with me and man the bar for a private event. Anastasia and V can’t do it and the others don’t feel… comfortable.” His voice drags out the last word in thought.

  “Come on, Samuel. Really? Is Daz going to reimburse me for this shit and my studio time, too? You know that doesn’t come cheap!”

  “Trust. He is compensating very well for this.”

  “What makes it so worthy?” My interest piques even though the thought of working right now makes me super pissy.

  “It’s a pop-up swingers’ event.”

  “No shit?” Now that sounds like fun. But I hate being pulled from my art.

  “Yeah. I’ve heard of them happening at high-end places like this before, but never seen Daz give in. The cliental must be pretty damn convincing, and by convincing, I mean wealthy, for Daz to say yes.”

  After I begin muttering a string of accent-laden obscenities under my breath, he begins to cheer on the other end as he knows that my verbal spew means I am going to say yes. Gavin tilts his head curiously at me across the apartment.

  “Before I agree, what are we expected to wear?”

  Samuel chuckles in delight before answering. “Very little, love. The specific request for you was pasties and booty shorts.”

  “Are you in a codpiece and bow tie then? Thought Daz had more class than that.”

  “It is client driven and no on the damn codpiece!” he growls in good humor.

  “Corset and booty shorts are what I will wear. You can tell that arse even I have standards.” I narrow my gaze at Gavin as I annunciate the last part, still chapped by his underhanded attack on my lifestyle.

  “Wear pasties under it, just in case. Bye.”

  Tossing my phone on the table with a grunt, I begin to busy about in the kitchen, forgetting about present company as my thoughts swim with plans. If I hurry, I can process some film before I get gussied up.

  “What was that about?” he inquires, reminding me of his presence.

  “Looks like I am tending to the masses on my night off.”

  “The swingers’ ball?”

  “Yes, how do you know? This is the first I’ve heard of it,” I mutter as I palm up the pot scrubber and start in on the frying pan.

  “I am the head of security, or have you forgotten?” his brow screws down as his arms tightly cross over his well-defined chest.

  “Shit, I am screwing around with a coworker. Another first.” The realization and possible ramifications wash over me. He is a coworker, no matter how hidden, and a private investigator for hire by questionable persons. I wonder if he wears a gun… or a uniform. Lord help me, the thought of him in a uniform threatening to handcuff me to the bed takes over and I can’t think of anything else. My pulse accelerates at the excitement. He comes to stand behind me, picking up in the change in my breathing, and boldly runs a hand up between my thighs, stopping at the juncture.

  “Does that fact turn you on, pet?”

  “No,” I breathe as his hand teases me in a noncommittal way, resting and pushing close to my sensitive flesh but giving no more.

  “Then what changed your huffy tone to one of desire?”

  “A sudden dirty fantasy.” I pant as he inches his hand closer at a dreadfully slow pace.

  “Do tell,” he purrs as the warmth of his chest caresses my back.

  “You in swat gear, gun in holster, handcuffing me,” I barely get out through the quivering of my betraying flesh.

  “I do own quite a few guns and handcuffs,” he tempts as he finds the sweet spot under my panties and oversized T-shirt. I melt against him and brace forward on the counter, sudsy sponge slipping from my hand. “You say you aren’t mine, but the way your body deliciously responds to me with so little effort tells me otherwise. Hence why you will find me in your bed, again, tonight and the next,” he declares as he reaches under my shirt and pinches my nipple while tracing kisses down my neck. All the while he teases me below into a prompt orgasm that blows my mind with its quick and forceful dissention, forced forward by crafty hands that play me well. Collapsing against the counter, his erection grinds into my bottom as he leans to brush my cheek with his stubble and whispers in my ear. “Remember that when you are at work tonight and who you will be coming home to.”

  Determined to satiate the hunger of wanting to feel him inside of me, I push back into him and roll my hips suggestively. He hisses and abruptly pushes away.

  “Sorry, love. You need to think about that one for a while.” A hint of an accent peeks through as he slowly draws his hand to his mouth, lustfully sucking my wetness from his fingertips while pinning me with his thundering eyes that promise more than he is telling me. I am screwed.

  “Since when do you have an accent?” I attempt in order to gain some composure under the heat of his stare.

  “You are not the only one with dual citizenship.”

  “Apparently,” I grunt, not liking how much he knows about me using his shady methods.

  “Amazing what you might learn about someone the more you spend time with them and hold conversation.” He chuckles while slipping on his shirt and slinging his jacket over his shoulder before strolling toward the door. “Have a good night at work; I’ll be watching,” he chides with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

  Have I mentioned how royally screwed I am?

  Chapter 8

  Sorcha

  Strolling up to Tryst with my naughty, dungeon-worthy outfit tucked under my long, wool coat, lost in thoughts of conflicting head-versus-heart nonsense, I barely see Samuel as I almost run smack into him by the front door.

  “Damn, Sor. That male has you twisted up.” He shakes his head at me as he pulls the handle and lets me lead the way up to the main-floor bar. Upstairs would be closed tonight; this will be our home for the evening.

  “Don’t know what you are talking about.” I huff as I stalk toward the employee entrance of the platform.

  “Uh-huh.”

  We promptly set about organizing everything to our specifications prior to the events beginnings. Random staff members are finishing up decorating and laying cloths over surfaces, giving the space a bedroom-like feel, especially with the flowing bolts of white cloth hanging from the ceiling.

&nbs
p; “Are those beds?” I nod to the north wall that is now lined with small, pillow-less beds.

  “Yeah, some couches over there too.” Sure enough, a section of cocktail tables have been removed to make room for a makeshift lounge area. “Well, this ought to be fun,” I mutter. Sexually frustrated is not the best way to begin work for a swingers’ night.

  “Fun way to line my wallet,” Samuel mumbles under his breath with a hint of disdain.

  “You have something against swingers?” He has no room to bear any judgments.

  He grunts. “You know I support various styles, but swinging is nothing but an uncivilized fuck fest.”

  “Pot, meet kettle.” My vinyl shorts squeak as if to punctuate the statement.

  “Excuse you. Contrary to what you may think, the BDSM lifestyle and those who practice are not in it for the sex. I’ve already told you that. Any wanker can have that. It is about the power exchange, the discipline it takes. It is a beautiful exchange that focuses more on the mental blocks one may have that keeps them from experiencing the maximum build-up of ecstasy, and attempting to push you even deeper into that. You get to play out your heart’s desires in a safe environment that is supportive as well as structured in a respectful etiquette. There is no etiquette or grace to swinging. It is simply about the fuck, not the full mind-body connection that pushes you past preconceived notions, into a raw and unadulterated state,” he ends on a frustrated note.

  “Damn, Samuel, did I touch a nerve? I wasn’t referencing BDSM. More the fact that you will leave here on the weekends with any dick that winks in your direction.”

  “Soapbox moment. Touchy subject as always for me, duh. And I don’t salute every dick. You know they all have to have a submissive vibe to them, whether I am in Dom mode or not. I don’t ever bottom and don’t scene or play with more than one at a time. Multiples take away from my personal experience.”

  “That is one thing I am quickly learning, the whole other side of the sexually free and the many ways to practice sex. It is quite freeing. However, you seem to be a walking contradiction just as much as you accuse me of it. Messing around freely some nights like a horny teenager, big, bad Dom other nights, delving out noncommittal discipline to those begging for it. Which is it, man?”