Declan
“Miss Robbins,” I call, knowing this isn’t necessary or pertinent to our workday.
Yet, I call her all the same.
As per usual, when I request something of her, she grabs her iPad, pushes out of her office chair, and walks into my office.
Not sure if she always had a sexy-as-fuck stride, but I sure as shit see it now. Maybe because I spent a great deal of time watching those hips roll and writhe last night, but they draw my attention as she approaches.
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood?” she says primly.
Last night, it was “Fuck me harder, Declan,” and, “I don’t think I can come again.”
Yet… she always did.
I fucked her in three different rooms, in three deliciously kinky ways. After The Deck, I paraded her naked through the club, her dress thrown over my shoulder, knowing it would cause her discomfort while forcing her to step outside her comfort zone. I led her to The Orgy room where we lounged on silk pillows while we sipped at whiskeys, watching the shows around us. She’d laid her head on my lap for a bit, but that hadn’t lasted long. It was impossible to be in that environment without getting turned on.
Her mouth ended up on my cock, then I put her on her hands and knees, drilling her hard from behind until we both came spectacularly. My favorite part had been pulling out, taking the condom off, and watching her clean me off with her tongue. I didn’t order her to. The fact she took it upon herself not only impressed me about the levels she’d go to please a man, but it also endeared her to me in a way no woman ever has before.
We finished our evening in The Silo. She hadn’t been there before, and I enjoyed her slack-jawed, wide-eyed response as she took in the various inner rooms with kinky shit playing out in them.
We took a break, sat at the bar—her in all her naked glory—and slowly sipped fresh drinks. I explained the stuff she didn’t understand—a woman on a St. Andrew’s cross—and learned more about her limits. She seemed a bit cagey about bringing in other people to play with us, but I’m okay with that. There is plenty of other stuff—an unlimited amount—we can explore until we get bored with each other.
We ultimately ended up in one of the glass-walled rooms, and I put her in a harness that hoisted her off the floor to hover at any height I wanted. Cock level so she could suck on me, chin level so I could eat her out. Lower so I could fuck her. People watched from outside the glass walls as I fucked her while still suspended from the ceiling.
But where do we go from here?
Bailey watches me with a bland expression, digital pen poised over the iPad. We worked together all day—seamlessly and with the utmost professionalism. I almost have myself convinced this can work for as long as I want it to.
“Please move my dinner appointment back half an hour,” I clip out, looking at the calendar on my laptop. “Marianne needs some time to go over the operations budget. I need you to run last quarter’s P&L, then compare it to the same quarter last year. Something’s not adding up. Afterward, run up to my suite, grab one of my navy suits, and pick a tie to match. Finally, cancel my car service for the evening. I’ve decided to drive.”
She doesn’t hesitate, scribbling a few notes before turning on her heel. “Right away.”
Bailey makes it two steps before I stop her. “Miss Robbins.”
Halting, she glances back. “Yes?”
“Meet me at the club at eleven.” I focus my attention on my laptop, effectively dismissing her.
“I’m sorry,” she replies, her tone making me lift my head. “But I can’t tonight.”
Not understanding, I say, “Excuse me?”
“I have plans tonight,” she says simply, and doesn’t offer any further explanation.
“What plans?”
Her head tips to the side, her smile slightly bland. “I have something I have to do and won’t be able to make the club tonight. But maybe tomorrow night.”
I don’t like this. Being denied, I mean.
I also don’t like how beyond curious I am about what could be more important than delving back into the sinful luxury of The Wicked Horse.
Yet, I refuse to point-blank ask. Instead, I inquire, “Any chance you could cancel your plans?”
Her smile turns almost sympathetic, which I don’t like either. She feels sorry for me, but her reply is firm. “I can’t. I’m spending the evening with my mom. She’s not feeling well, and my dad isn’t the most responsible person. It’s probably not necessary, but I’d feel better if I did.”
Well, that doesn’t quite make sense to me either. The way she worded it made it seem like it isn’t serious. Plus, it sounds like she has a perfectly capable father. And not only that, needing to provide parents that type of support is beyond my comprehension. My parents would probably rather die than ask my sister or me to care for them if ill. That’s what private doctors and nurses are for.
The man I am—who I have been for thirty-six years—should wave her off and make plans for another evening later. But fuck if I’m not even more curious than before.
“What’s wrong with your mother?” I ask. And then feel the need to explain my nosiness. “It’s just… it seems a little unusual for a woman your age, and by that I mean fairly young, to have to look after her parents.”
Bailey nods in understanding, pulls her iPad into her chest, then crosses her arms over it. “My mother’s disabled with significant lung issues and dependent on oxygen. She’s having a problem keeping her oxygen levels up. I’ll feel better if I spend the night watching over her.”
That fucking sucks. I don’t have a clue how old Bailey is—I’m guessing mid-to-late twenties. Her mom is most likely not that old. But I suppose lung disease doesn’t discriminate based on age. I now have more questions, though. “And your dad isn’t a reliable provider?”
Her smile slides away. She ponders the question before lifting her gaze to mine, resolute and slightly frustrated. “My dad—whom I love dearly—comes with his own set of issues.”
“What kind of issues?” I ask.
Bailey merely cocks an eyebrow. “Sir… I don’t want to impede on your workday with irrelevant personal discussions about my parents’ health issues. Again, it’s with absolute regret I won’t be able to join you tonight. I’m sure I would have a lot more fun with you at The Wicked Horse than I will at my parents’ house. But this is my life… It happens quite often.”
I’m sure she doesn’t mean for me to draw this conclusion, but from the fatigue in her voice, I assume it’s a bit of a burden. “You know, you can say no to your parents. Force your dad to step up. Your mom could call if she gets bad enough to need medical treatment, so you don’t have to spend your evening losing sleep looking after her.”
No matter what happens between Bailey and me in the future, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this moment. Her expression pitying, she regards me as if I’m the one who needs to be pitied because I apparently don’t understand fundamental truths. Yet, I don’t know what those truths are, and I feel as if I’m missing something important.
But I’ll also never forget the way Bailey lets out a small sigh before heading to the chair opposite my desk. Perching on the edge, she places her iPad on her lap, clasping her hands on top of it.
She takes in a breath, lets it out, and says, “Mr. Blackwood… I certainly don’t know how you were raised, but I was brought up by two parents who sacrificed everything for me. They worked two and three jobs to provide the basics, and they weren’t pleasant jobs. Hard, backbreaking labor. My mom’s gave her bad lungs, which will kill her far too early. My dad’s gave him a bad back. It’s not just my duty as their daughter to help them… but it is also my privilege. I could no more turn my back on them—no matter how stressed or frustrated I am—than I can say no to a breath of oxygen so I can breathe. I’m surprised you need me to explain that to you.”
Her words make me straighten in my chair. I have a feeling I was just given a lesson in real life. Whether she meant me to, I feel a bit like when Leonie used to chastise me when I was being a dipshit of a kid.
I also clearly understand how far removed I am from ordinary people because of my wealth and privilege. Not only removed, but also probably suffering from an actual dysfunctionality because of the way I was raised. That realization is stark. It never mattered to me before, but it does now.
My tone is appropriately abashed. “Why don’t you take off early and go check on your mom? Come in late tomorrow if you need to since I suspect you won’t be getting a lot of sleep.”
Bailey can’t hide her shocked expression as she tries to absorb what I said. In the weeks she’s been working for me, I’ve demanded she come in early and stay late almost every single day. Not once have I given her the luxury of the opposite.
Finally, she rises, shooting me a wary look. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. That’s very generous.”
“But please make sure to handle the few things I asked you to do,” I reply with brisk efficiency before turning my attention to my computer.
When she says, “Of course,” I assume she starts heading for my office door.
But I think of one more thing. She’s about the cross the threshold when I say, “Ms. Robbins, if you do not have plans for tomorrow evening, I would like you to join me at the club.”
She stops, shooting a saucy grin over her shoulder. “As long as my mother is fine, I would love that.”
I hope to fuck her mom is doing well because tomorrow cannot come soon enough.