My Fair Lacey
A.N. This chapter is mostly smut and pain
Chapter 8
Risk
He was kissing her. Oh my god, he was kissing her.
Wow! Was he ever kissing her!
She'd closed her eyes and just enjoyed the incredible sensations he was eliciting he was really good at this – most of the feelings were pooling just below her stomach. She was heating up and had raised one leg to wrap around his.
His hands had pinioned her wrists to the door so that he could hold her still while he forced her to open her lips to his. She tried to protest, little sounds escaping from her mouth – a teeny, tiny voice deep in her brain was screaming out that this wasn't a good idea. He slowly slipped his hands along her arms and now one of them was caressing her breast and the other was slipping down her hip to pull up on the full skirt of her dress. Her own hands were clinging to his shoulders and she was trying to stay upright on the one foot she had on the ground, a difficult task since her leg seemed to have turned to water.
He slanted his head and gently his tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting her. And now, one of his hands was on her naked thigh, above her black stockings that were held up by a lace garter belt.
"Damn," she heard him murmur as his fingers stroked the smooth skin of her leg. "You are so beautiful."
For a man as drunk as she knew him to be, he was surprisingly strong, and still excruciatingly cognizant of female anatomy. Lacey was still making little sounds of protest, but they were increasingly half-hearted. She was fighting her own desires, her own burgeoning desires. A big part of her wanted this. Soooo wanted this and everything this man could offer.
This entire evening, the man had seemed possessed by darkness. He'd been unpleasant, refusing to dance with her, but then clearly resenting it when she had danced with others. She had tried to get food into him, but he'd brusquely told her he wasn't hungry. He was non-communicative, preferring to spend more time with his liquor than engaging with her.
But now, and now, the darkness that had consumed him was swallowing her too.
Seeing him take down Keith with such ease, watching him beat this big, powerful man whom she had seen bully and beat some of the other girls, who had bullied and beaten her – it had thrilled her – on some unfathomable dark level, she had found his raw power and ruthless actions exciting - arousing. It was like he was taking some small vengeance for all the mean things Keith had done to her and to all the other girls. It was like Professor Gold was telling her that he could take care of her, protect her like no other man had ever done for her.
And he could . . . and he would . . . introduce her to passion, to swirling dark carnal desires and sweet, cresting satisfaction.
His grip on her was tight, his body hard against her. She could feel his determination.
"Please," she managed to cry out (her rational brain making one last effort). "I . . . I don't think this is a good idea!" A drunken coupling up against the wall of his apartment was not the direction she'd wanted their relationship to go. She'd envisioned a big bed with satin sheets and rose petals and . . . and maybe tenderness.
"I do, I do," He pulled back a moment so that he could look her in her eyes. "I've been wanting to do this for too long. And I think . . . I think you know this. I think you want it too."
And he began kissing her again, softer this time, not so bruising. His hand was inching its way to between her legs. He reached his goal and she gasped as his fingers brushed against her core. He pulled back a moment when he felt the dampness there.
"Come on, Lacey. You've been with other men – a lot of other men, I hear tell. Let me, let me have you, let me have you, too," he murmured, his mouth slipping off of hers to talk, to press against her cheek, her ear, her neck eliciting shivers and soft whimpers from her, seeking her permission.
He was good at this, his lips brushing against her skin, hot and wet and then seeking her mouth again, taking sweet possession, his lips soft on hers, seeking, wanting . . . desiring.
Lacey was confused and dizzy. The man had gotten to her, had overwhelmed her, and she so wanted to yield to him, to give herself over to him. He was pressed against her, and she could tell, she could feel that he was hard for her, so ready for her.
"I'll pay you."
. . .
Cold water doused her.
She wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.
"What?!"
"Sure," he was nuzzling her neck, kissing a particularly sensitive spot that made her tremble. "A couple of hundred for a good, hard fuck? Hell, how about a thousand? From what Keith said, you're worth that."
It took a lot of strength for her to push him away.
"A thousand? Isn't that what you paid my father for me?" She couldn't believe he was offering her money. He was offering her money like she was some . . . some . . . .
"What? You want more?" he lurched, just managing to stay upright. "Sure. I'm good for it. Diamond earrings? Fur coat? A Birkin bag? You name it."
No!" she gasped. "No. I . . . no. I don't want money or . . . or things! I don't want to be paid! I've never been paid for sex!"
He stopped. In the fuzzy haven that was still his thinking brain, a slow thought formed - he might have just crossed a line here.
They stood apart, panting.
"Is it me? You don't want me," he managed to whisper.
"I do want you, but I can't be with you if you think I'm like some . . . some . . . whore," she sobbed and gulped in a great breath of air. "I'm in love with you, you stupid man!" she told him, tearfully, her voice cracking. "And I want you to be in love with me . . . and I know, I know now that it can never happen. You'll always think of me as nothing more than a common whore."
She tore away. weeping and running upstairs to her bedroom.
Lacey was devastated, collapsing on her bed, sobbing. She had finally put a name to her feelings – love. She had realized when he took her in his arms that this was where she wanted to be . . . but not as some cheap floozy. She wanted him . . . she wanted him to love her.
When had she fallen in love with him? From the very beginning, perhaps. She had fought against it. Had tried to distract herself, distance herself, defend against the ever-increasing emotions that now overwhelmed her.
She unfastened her dress, hanging the beautiful garment upon a cushioned hanger. She looked at herself in the mirror. This underwear, a merry widow corset, had cost three figures and it caressed her, tucked her in and uplifted her in all the right areas. She remembered blushing when Mr. Madden had selected it, insisting that the right foundation garments were essential for a proper fit. She remembered she had wondered what Professor Gold might think if he ever saw her wearing it.
How was she ever going to face the man again? She's had blurted out her feelings and fled, too cowardly to wait to hear what feelings he might have for her.
Right - like he had any feelings other than passing lust for her.
She started packing some clothes. She'd made up her mind. She was not going to face him in the morning. She was going to slink out tonight, maybe, maybe leave a note. Clear out while she could still retain some level of dignity.
She stopped packing. She couldn't help but remember how the man's kisses had made her feel, how his touch had aroused her, how much she had wanted him like she had never wanted anyone else.
She debated. She'd confessed her feelings and - if she was going to leave – before she stepped out, why not go all the way, take a risk? Do the brave thing, she told herself.
He was the right man for her. He would take care of her. She'd never met anyone else that she had wanted – that way.
She slipped off the pricey underwear while a simple plan began to formulate.
Gold had stood a moment in the hallway, bracing himself against the wall.
She loved him!
He exulted in the feelings, reveling in it.
She loved him!
She wanted him like she had wanted no other man.
But my god, why would she ever feel this way? He'd treated her dismally, and tonight, he'd approached her as if he'd paid for her. Hell, he'd offered to pay for her.
He'd fucked everything up again.
Yet, she loved him.
Damn, his mother had been right. Lacey was right.
He was stupid, so stupid.
Somewhat sobered up, he made his way to his bedroom.
He dropped the rental tux on the floor and took a quick shower, not really washing, just standing under the cold spray to calm his body down. He put on a clean pair of boxers and collapsed on to his bed.
Fuck it all. Things were a mess. She had just confessed to feelings for him . . . but now . . . even if he came forth with his own feelings, she'd never believe him – she'd just think he was trying to get into her pants.
The apartment had become quiet and still.
It was very dark. and now, probably in the small hours of the morning. Gold was surprised to wake up to a soft body pressed against his.
She was kissing him.
Oh, this had to be a dream.
It took him a moment to come to enough to realize what was happening.
It was no dream. It was really happening.
She was in bed with him.
He reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and he realized something else.
She was naked, her skin smooth and soft and yielding.
It only took him a moment. He recovered, coming to. He rolled her over so that she lay beneath him, pressed between his own body and the mattress, her lush body accepting his own hard angles.
Yes, he knew this was a mess, not the best idea.
But, he couldn't refuse this offer.
He traced over her body with his fingers, relishing all that she was offering him. He lingered over one of her soft breasts, gently grasping, squeezing, rewarded with a nipple hardening under his palm. He heard her whimper, a soft moan.
He had to take a moment to explore her body, to run his hands all over her, her shoulders, her sweet breasts, her hips. He dipped his hands below her waist, down, between her legs. She was hot and wet, oh yes, she was ready, ready, more than ready for him, already hot and slick. He slipped a finger inside and felt her body clench. She was tight, really tight, and he nearly disgraced himself, imagining those tight walls clenching his cock. His body had instantly responded to her primal invitation and he was already up for her, fully engorged and painfully hard.
This would be quick. He was too far gone for niceties, for finesse. Time enough later to lick her all over and tease her clit with his tongue and fingers until she screamed his name.
He pulled down his pants and centered himself over her wet heat and he pushed, surging into her.
And he stopped.
He caught her by the chin so that she would have to look at him, but she kept her eyes closed and turned her head away to the side.
There had been a barrier. He'd felt it. He'd never been with a virgin before, but the sense of something obstructing his path had been unmistakable. No wonder the fit was so snug, so tight.
"Lacey," he said, then, "Belle." And he kissed her. He kissed her softly, gently, tasting tears, her tears.
She was giving herself to him. He was her first, selected from all other men, special to her.
Why she had chosen him, he had no idea, perhaps because she loved him? but he knew he wanted this to be special for her. He knew he wanted any other man who might come after him to pale in comparison to what he would give her this night. He knew he wanted to be the best she'd ever have.
Her arms were wrapped around him and he could feel her hands, her fingers, even her fingernails on his shoulders. She was holding onto him. He could feel her pressing soft kisses onto him, his neck, his chin.
He began to thrust, riding her hard, determined to give her satisfaction, to prove himself worthy of her grace. He pushed, harder and harder and harder making sure he was hitting her on that most sensitive part, delighting in her soft cries, her gasps, her surrendering as he pulled her along, giving her more and more of himself, pushing, pushing, harder, harder, faster, faster.
She screamed. Her head went back and now he felt her nails dig into him, scratching, perhaps drawing blood. He could feel her body shaking and contracting, caressing his full cock, and he could not hold back. Groaning, he let himself go in long, hard streams, releasing himself, giving himself to her.
Somehow, he managed to support himself, not collapsing onto her. He was panting and tired, and inordinately proud of himself. He managed a quick kiss.
"I'm in love with you too," he was just able to get the words out before shifting off of her and falling asleep.
Lacey lay in his arms. He had roughly pulled her to him and wrapped himself, arms and legs, around her as if she was something precious that he didn't want to let go.
And he loved her. He had said it.
Even if it wasn't true, he'd said it.
And he had been everything she had ever wanted, ever imagined.
She sniffed. She had known, all too well, she had known that she shouldn't pursue this, that she should stay away from him, that she should damn well leave.
But she couldn't stay away. He had awakened her body and all of her desires. She could have this one night with him if nothing else. And so, against all reason, all sense, she had come to him. And he had taken her.
It had hurt, not as bad as she'd thought it might, but more than she'd liked. But then, he hadn't been gentle – he'd been frantic and ruthless, pummeling her, taking her hard and thoroughly. She knew she would re-live in her dreams and late-night fantasies the completeness of her own response.
So much better than when she'd brought her own self to climax. Intense and so satisfying, much more than she might have ever imagined.
When she was sure he was asleep, his breathing soft and even, his body relaxed, she slipped out from his arms and left his bed.
Aftermath
When he woke, he stretched.
Jesus fucking Christ! That had been a splendid night. He might have thought he'd imagined it all, a sex dream, except for . . .
Well hell, no, she wasn't there. He remembered he'd fallen asleep with his arms full of luscious little Lacey, his nostrils filled with her sweet cookie scent, tempered by the tangy scent of sex. He'd had a half-dozen different positions come to mind that he'd immediately wanted to have the woman assume and he had a half-formed plan to try out at least one of them this morning.
But she was gone.
He pulled the sheets back.
His breath caught in his throat. There it was, a slight, small stain on his sheets.
She had bled for him.
So, he hadn't imagined the barrier. He got up and went to look for her, tapping on the door to her bedroom.
It was empty.
Where the hell was she?
"Lacey? Belle!" he called out, thinking that perhaps she had already gone down for breakfast – or, at least, for her coffee.
There was no answer.
He wanted to tell her how he felt, how much he cared about her, how much he was sorry for being . . . well, for being him. He wanted to start anew with her – and begin to try any one of those half-dozen positions.
"Lacey!" he raised his voice.
He searched the ground floor and there was no sign of her. He went back up to her room. A brief search confirmed that her wallet and phone were gone.
He called, not expecting an answer and he was not disappointed.
Where the hell could she have gone?
He considered. Not back to the hotel, to that loathsome Keith. She was beyond that now.
Jefferson? No, he was out of the country on his honeymoon.
Gaston? That seemed unlikely. She had only a passing acquaintance with the wimp. Hell, Gaston probably still lived with his mother.
What was her friend's name? Ruby? No, she wouldn't go there – there was the whole landlord thing and she'd be concerned that he might be petty enough to take vengeance on her friend for harboring her.
He didn't think she was close enough with any of the other girls, what were their names? Zelena, Regina – that would have involved her with Cora and he couldn't imagine her going that route. And there was the other girl, ah yes, like he would ever forget her, Emma Nolen. The exquisite young woman who was dating his son. No, he didn't think she was close enough with any of them to call them at three or four in the morning to ask to be taken in.
He sat down and considered. She would have needed to go to someone who would have been willing to take her in in the wee hours. She would have wanted to call someone who knew him and recognized what a total arse he could be. Someone who would be willing to believe the worst about him. Someone who already believed the worst about him.
That cinched it.
He called his mother.
When she didn't answer her phone, he'd dressed and gone over to see her, pounding on the door of her upscale apartment.
Lumiere, his mother's butler answered.
"I don't believe she's in, sir," Lumiere told him, looking down his nose at him.
He sighed. "God damn it, she's in, Pierre. Let her know I'm prepared to wait in her living room until she comes out to see me." He raised his voice, "I'll start breaking things if she doesn't get out here soon."
He waited, looking around. There were no overt signs that his Lacey was here but . . . there was still something . . . maybe her sweet personal scent. It was primal, his recognition of his mate's scent, but yes, there was something distinctly Lacey in the atmosphere.
"She doesn't want to see you," his mother greeted him. "I can't blame her." She had walked in, dressed in one of her elegant black silk kimonos, the light fabric gracing her still youthful figure in the most flattering manner.
He wouldn't have been surprised to find his mother was keeping a young paramour – she was still a beautiful woman, obviously sensual and not one to deny her desires. He could certainly understand what his father had seen in her – Rumple suspected that in her day, his mother would have easily been a ten. Hell, she was a nine nowadays.
"Mother, Lacey and I . . . uh . . . had a little . . . misunderstanding. She left without a word. I wanted to . . . check on her."
"Well," his mother examined her nails. "If I see her, I'll pass that on to her."
"I would like for her to come back to me. Mother, I . . . I am in love with her," he was beginning to get desperate.
"Oh, that's nice. Like you were 'in love' with Milah and Cora and . . . oh, who else has there been?"
"It's different with Lacey," he tried to explain. "I'm really . . . oh fuck it all, but it's different."
"Really?" his mother didn't seem impressed.
"She's like this . . . light . . ." he broke. He wasn't ready to share his deepest feelings with his mother. "Oh hell, just let her know I came by and wanted to tell her that I was sorry." He started for the door.
"Rumple."
He stopped and turned slowly. It was his Lacey, his lovely fair Lacey. How much had she heard?
She was dressed simply in skinny black jeans and a loose, pale silk top. She looked every bit the casual, yet elegant, lady. He felt a smug sense of power when she flushed under his gaze.
Oh god, he really should fall at her feet and confess he was an absolute wanker and beg her forgiveness and ask her to return, if not to his bed, then at least to his home. He should, he should, but he knew, coward that he was, he wouldn't ask her to return. It was too much a risk.
She might say no.
No, instead he would trade in the currency he knew best, manipulation, playing on guilt and sympathy.
"Lacey," he started toward her, but she shook her head and held up her hand to ward him off. He stopped.
"I need a break from you. It hurts too much to . . . I need a break," she told him, looking at him, but then looking away.
He waited quietly, waited for her to finish, to complete. "I see," he finally said.
"I'm so glad you understand . . ." she began.
"I don't understand," he interrupted. "You know how much time . . . and money . . . Jefferson and I have put into you, into giving you this opportunity and . . . now, and now you are just going to . . . what? take a break? You're freakin' goin' to walk out on us?"
"The Governor's Ball," she said, realization dawning.
"What the fuck else? The very thing that we've been working on for several months and you're just going to blow it off because . . . because . . . what? you decided to take advantage of me while I was decidedly drunk and we shared . . . what? a bit of a good time? Like we both haven't had better?"
Lacey didn't say anything.
He shrugged and started to leave. "I could call this in as The Favor you owe me from all the pool games you've lost, but I'd prefer to think that you had enough personal integrity to honor your agreement. Just let me know." He turned away from her and took a step for the door.
And another.
And one more.
"Wait."
He suppressed his smile. "Yes?" he said neutrally and glanced over his shoulder.
"I'll . . . I'll honor my agreement. I'm willing to continue with our experiment and go to the Governor's Ball."
He turned around and approached her, looking her up and down. She looked fantastic, as beautiful as she had ever been, as strong and smart as she'd ever been, every inch the gracious lady.
"Of course," he said casually. "But you know we still have a lot of work to do. And it's work I find tedious, like the dancing and which fork and small talk – stuff that Jefferson was doing with you."
"You'll have to put yourself out, I suppose," she said quietly.
He sighed. "I guess. Now get your things and come on back home."
And this time he did leave, stalking toward the door, not waiting for her to catch up.
A.N. I despair for Rumple sometimes – he is, as he has said, a man who makes poor decisions. When caught unawares, he tends to go for the expedient response, what is best for the moment, but not the one that is better in the long run. And so it goes, and so it goes. - twyla