His One and Only Page 13

  “No, I mean really sick!”

  Then Nancy emptied the contents of her stomach down the back of Josie’s shirt.

  “I’m so sorry!” the younger woman said sheepishly a few hours later when Josie left the center, dressed in some donation box clothes Sam had picked out for her while she’d been scrubbing Nancy’s regurgitated dinner off her body in one of the center’s showers.

  “It’s okay,” she answered with a weary wave.

  Josie was bone tired when she finally arrived home to a completely dark house a little after two a.m. But she found herself having to fight off the temptation to crawl into Beau’s bed and curl up in his strong arms.

  He’s not paying to comfort you after a long day, she reminded herself as she crept past his door, and walked up the stairs to her own attic room. Besides he was probably furious with her for leaving without giving him the chance to throw a temper tantrum that would have kept her there longer than necessary.

  She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she reached her room and turned on the light.

  But then she turned around and screamed in surprise. Beau Prescott was standing in the middle of her room, so rigid and straight, he would have looked like a statue if not for the fists opening and closing at his sides. And for once, despite his sunglasses and beard, she could tell exactly how he was feeling.

  Furious. More furious than she’d ever seen him.

  CHAPTER 15

  “WHO HELPED YOU GET UP HERE…” But then she trailed off, noticing the state of her small attic room. It looked like an elephant had come trundling through with papers scattered all over the floor and a chair knocked onto its side. No need to finish the question, because she already had her answer.

  Beau had gotten his own self up here, that was how determined he’d been to confront her about leaving.

  “You can’t be mad,” she said. “You said it was my old job with sex, and my old job had time off.”

  “Take off your clothes,” he growled.

  “I’m allowed to take time off.”

  “You’re allowed to take Friday nights off. It’s Saturday morning now, so you belong to me. Now take off your clothes.”

  She was about to protest, but before she could even get a word out, he said, “Take off your clothes or I’m going to do it for you.”

  She eyed him warily, thinking there was no way he would or could actually follow through on that threat. But then as if reading her thoughts, he closed the space between them, and the next thing she knew, her long-sleeved donation box t-shirt was being ripped down the center and cool air hit her torso.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shoved the ruined top off her body, then his hands fumbled down her sides and the next thing she knew, the yoga pants were coming off. He shoved them down over her hips before tearing her thin cotton panties off her body and throwing them across the room.

  “There,” he said. “Now get down on your hands and knees.”

  “Wait,” she said, holding her hands out.

  “Shut up,” he said. “Don’t say another fucking word to me. Just get down on your hands and knees.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “If I have to tell you again, I’ll find someone else to meet my needs, and you can go back to wherever you were living before my mother dredged you up. It’s your choice. Get down on your hands and knees or get out.”

  It’s your choice. Josie clung to those words and tried not to think too hard about what she was doing as she got down on her hands and knees. “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.”

  In less than a second, he was behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his dick lodged in the back crevice of her vagina. She held her breath again, expecting a rough entry, but then she felt two of his fingers press down on her clit, rubbing, rubbing. It was too hard to be called a caress, but not so hard that it to hurt. It was a punishment, she realized with a moan, one designed to show her who had the most power over her body.

  And it was working. She could feel her formerly dry kit kat, begin to weep with need. As if to confirm it, he said. “I can feel you wet on my fingers. Your pussy’s begging me to get inside of you.”

  He plunged his fingers into her, almost like he had that Wednesday after breakfast, but this time he didn’t also massage her clit.

  She tried to resist, but the heat he was creating became too much. Soon she was riding his fingers, pressing back against his dick. Having it lodged against the bottom of her kit kat like this was nothing short of torture, and the two fingers inside of her just weren’t enough.

  She found herself reaching up behind her and trying to guide him inside, but he grabbed that hand and pinned it to the floor. At the same time, he used his thigh to spread her legs further apart, so his fingers were even less satisfying than they had been before.

  It only took a few minutes of this callous teasing before she was completely out of her mind.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” she said. “I can’t—”

  He suddenly took his hand out of her pussy and shoved the two fingers that had been plumbing her depths into her mouth, effectively stemming her flow of words.

  “Taste how hot you are right now, how fucking much you want this. You’re such a bad girl, Josie.”

  Josie clamped her lips around his fingers, and tasting herself like this, so hot and indecent, sent quivers through her.

  “Does he know how hot you get for me?” Beau asked above her, his voice tight with anger. “When you were with him, did you let him know that every other day this week, you’ve given yourself to me?”

  He lifted his cock away from her damp folds and asked, “Who paid for this? Whose dick do you want inside you right now?”

  “Yours,” she moaned thoughtlessly.

  “I want Mr. Prescott’s dick inside my pussy—repeat that back. I want to hear the words straight from your pretty mouth.”

  “I want Mr. Prescott’s dick inside my pussy.” It was humiliating but true, and the sexual frustration was making her dumb with need. She tried to free her hand so she could masturbate herself, but he was too strong for her.

  “Say you’re mine,” he said.

  “I’m yours,” she whispered, not knowing what else to do to get the satisfaction her body was demanding.

  And he finally shoved himself inside of her, so deep Josie’s back arched and she cried out when he filled her up completely with one thrust.

  “You’re mine,” he said. “Mine. Say it again.”

  “I’m yours,” she cried out.

  He pushed into her, again and again, relentless and without mercy, and the heat, the pressure…

  “Beau!” she screamed before exploding.

  She felt his dick surge inside of her soon after. But unlike her, he didn’t make a sound, just kept angrily pumping into her until he was fully released. He then pulled out of her and stood up so he was looming above her.

  “The next time you’re with Sam, I want you to picture yourself like this.” His voice was as cold as a block of ice. “Begging me to fuck you until I finally give you what he can’t.”

  Without him to hold her up, Josie fell onto her side, ashamed of herself and her traitorous body, which had made her resort to begging Beau Prescott to fuck her as hard and as cold as he wanted.

  She shut her eyes and she kept them closed until she heard Beau leave the room, kicking a fallen chair out of his way as he did so and then slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 16

  HE’D GONE TOO FAR. Beau only got to enjoy truly showing Josie who was boss for a few minutes, before cold, hard reality hit him.

  He found his bed and sank into it, feeling even worse than earlier in the day when his best hope for getting his sight back informed him they weren’t even at the human trials phase yet. The truth was, he’d let himself forget Josie hadn’t spent the week in bed with him because she’d wanted to, but because he’d been paying her to. And all the eating, reading, and la
ughing they’d done? It had seemed magical to him, but for her it was just a job.

  He’d let himself get caught up in the fantasy, had actually allowed himself to believe Josie was enjoying being with him as much as he enjoyed being with her. But that had been dream, one he’d woken up from with Mac knocking on his door.

  Knowing she was out with Sam, that another man was touching her, had nearly driven him crazy. At first he’d gone up to her room to fire her all over again, but then the first hour had passed, and then four more. Each time he pressed the time button on his phone to find another hour had passed, his anger doubled, and by the time she entered the room, he was in a full on rage.

  Maybe if she hadn’t come in with the scent of soap and some fruity shampoo clinging to her body and hair, like a shower was enough to scrub off what she’d been doing with her other lover. He’d wanted to punish her, presumably for sneaking out, but really for choosing to be with another man after the week they’d shared.

  And now here he was, lying in his bed alone, desperately aware that whatever magical thing he’d thought he’d been building with Josie had burned up in the fire of his rage.

  He fell into a heavy, dark sleep, and when he finally awoke, the talking clock on his nightstand told him it was now late in the afternoon.

  His empty stomach confirmed that fact with a grim tug of hunger.

  “Mac?” he called out. No answer. Then he remembered he’d been so pissed the night before, he’d fired Mac on the spot. Just like the jerk Josie had been insinuating he was since they’d struck their deal.

  He cursed. “Josie?” he called out now.

  No answer. Where was she?

  He walked to the bathroom to take care of his bladder and also scrub the last twelve hours off his body. He easily found his own way there and got himself showered.

  I must be getting used to this blind stuff, Beau thought, because lately he’d been navigating his room a whole lot easier. He hadn’t become disoriented nearly as much as his first few days in the house, and save for his trip to Josie’s room, he hadn’t tripped over anything in almost a week. He even managed to get dressed despite the fact that neither Josie nor Mac had laid anything out for him this morning. A few foot sweeps across the bathroom floor, and he found the sweatpants he’d discarded the morning before—sweatpants that wouldn’t have been there if Josie had done her job this morning, which she obviously hadn’t.

  A fissure of fear then interlaced with his hungry grumpiness. It wasn’t like Josie to leave someone in a lurch like this. He followed the carpet runner he’d only realized was there a few days ago into the hallway and another one down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Josie!” he called out again when he made it to the kitchen, this time somehow managing not to bang his legs against any heavy furniture like the last time he’d tried to find the kitchen on his own.

  “Hi,” a voice said from the direction of the kitchen table. “I’m thinking I should alert you to my presence. Sorry for being in your kitchen unannounced.”

  The voice was feminine, and it almost definitely belonged to a black woman, but not a southern one. “You’re not from here,” he said.

  “No, actually, I’m from Detroit. But I’ve been living in Birmingham for the last five years. It’s actually where my mama was from. She and my dad came up to Michigan to work in the car factories toward the end of the Black Migration. So I’m like a lot of black people from the Midwest, first generation Midwesterner with southern parents. And I’m sorry, I know I’m rambling, but when Josie asked me to meet with you, she didn’t tell me you wouldn’t be wearing anything but a pair of sweatpants.”

  Beau ran a hand over his bare chest, and almost started to explain that the sweatpants he wore as pajama bottoms had been the only thing he could easily find, but then he realized there was a more important question that needed to be asked.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “And what are you doing in my kitchen?”

  At this point, he was bracing himself for the worst, for this woman to tell him she was the person Josie had hired to replace her, because she was quitting after what happened the night before.

  “Oh, Josie didn’t tell you we were meeting or who I am?” The woman sounded as surprised as he felt to have an unannounced stranger in his kitchen.

  “No,” he said. “And if you’re here about the housekeeping position, then tell Josie if she wants to quit, she needs come back here and tell me herself.”

  “Okay, I am so confused, because obviously you have no idea who I am, and I thought Josie would have—” She broke off. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter, because I’m here now, so I’ll just tell you…”

  He heard her take a deep breath. “My name is Sam. And I’m in your kitchen because Josie asked me to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A BOMB COULD HAVE DROPPED in the kitchen and Beau doubted he’d have been more surprised.

  “You’re Sam,” he said, his voice sounding dull and hollow in his own ears.

  “Yes, I’m Sam,” she answered, still sounding confused.

  She wasn’t the only one. “So Josie sent you here to tell me she’s a lesbian?”

  Sam laughed outright. “No! Not that I know of, at least. She’s the best friend I have in Alabama. She said you had some questions and I should answer them.”

  He frowned but made his way to the kitchen table and dropped into the chair beside her. “Okay, then my first question is why has she been spending all her Friday and Saturday nights with you?”

  “It’s not exactly with me. Josie is one of the most dedicated volunteers at Ruth’s House, the domestic violence shelter I started when I moved here. She used to be there just about every day, but then she got this job.” He heard the sound of Sam shifting in her seat. “At least I think it’s a job. I’m assuming if she asked me to come in and talk to you, it’s become more than that.”

  Regret and remorse exploded like a landmine inside Beau’s chest. “Why didn’t she tell me she was going out to volunteer? I would have been fine with that, but she let me assume the worst. Was she toying with me? Trying to drive me crazy?”

  Sam didn’t answer right away, but when she did, her voice was very careful. “I’m not sure you fully understand the situation here. A lot of women volunteer their time for pet causes, but nobody volunteers at a women’s abuse shelter on Friday and Saturday nights.”

  And it all started to fall into place. “She didn’t want me to know how important the shelter was to her, because she knew I’d ask why.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Beau’s hand curled into a fist on top of the table. “It was her ex-husband. He hit her, didn’t he? That’s why she came back to Alabama. That’s why she was so down and out when my mother called her about taking this job.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I can’t answer any of those questions for you. That’s Josie’s story to tell. I’m just here to help you understand some things. Like why she wouldn’t necessarily want to tell you where she was going on Friday and Saturday nights, and why she’d rather let you believe she was seeing someone else than tell you she was volunteering.”

  “She said it was none of my business,” Beau said.

  “Well, she’s right about that,” Sam answered, with a hint of humor in her voice. “But you also have to understand if she’s romantically involved with you, she might be a little bit more wary than someone who hasn’t been through what she’s been through. A woman with Josie’s past isn’t going to respond well to anyone trying to monitor her comings and goings because that’s one of the first signs you’re in an abusive relationship.”

  He felt Sam place a hand on top of his. “Also, in situations like Josie’s, shame is an ongoing thing. Sometimes, even after a woman manages to get out of an abusive relationship, she’ll beat herself up for years with blame. She’s not necessarily going to want to explain how she’s feeling or why she’s feeling it, especially to someone she’s dating.”


  His mind reeled, trying to take all this in, even as more and more things started falling into place. That was why Josie had screamed when he grabbed her last Saturday. That was why she’d sounded so distant when he asked her to come straight home from the grocery store. And the thin scar on her breast…

  “Where is she?” Beau asked. The need to talk to Josie felt like it was burning a hole in his chest.

  “I’m not done,” Sam told him. “There are other things we should go over—”

  ““I need to talk to her,” he said, yanking his hand away.

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I do understand,” he said, trying to calm down. “But you don’t understand that I can’t talk to you because she thinks she can’t talk to me. She sent you because she’s afraid of me. That’s why I need to talk to her. I need her to know she can tell me anything. Anything and I’ll still—”

  He broke off.

  He felt Sam’s gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’ll still love her. That’s what you were about to say, wasn’t it?”

  He shook his head. He was done talking to Josie’s best friend. “I need to talk to her.”

  A pause, then Sam’s hand came off of his shoulder. Next he heard a tapping noise that he could only hope was the sound of her texting Josie.

  “GIRL.” SAM’S MESSAGE BLINKED onto Josie’s phone a mere ten minutes after she heard Beau making his way downstairs from the confines of her little room.

  “That bad?” she texted back.

  “He says he won’t talk to me, only you. If you want, I can tell him it’s me or nobody else, but I think he wants to apologize for whatever went down between you two.”

  Josie nearly wrote back, “Prescotts don’t apologize.” But then she realized she was not only putting Sam in an awkward position, she was treating her like a high school go between. “Okay, I’m coming down,” she texted. “You can go.”