Bailey
“Close your mouth before a fly lands in it,” Declan teases as the car we’re in pulls up to what has to be the most incredibly opulent home I’ve ever seen. The fact it’s in the thick of the city is mind-boggling.
Declan had told me his parents lived in Lincoln Park, but it meant nothing to me. I assumed in a city of tight spaces and high-rise buildings, they’d live in a penthouse apartment or something.
I was not prepared for the mansion set on a sprawling piece of property that Declan informed me was actually eight city lots.
At my audible gasp over the sheer size of it, Declan informs me, “It’s almost 25,000 square feet in size.”
“And you grew up here?” I ask in wonderment, as I take in the white stone edifice, three stories tall with arched windows and balconies.
“Actually, no. Although the mansion I grew up in was equally as ostentatious, but only about twenty thousand square feet. Why my parents felt the need to expand after the kids left is lost on a lot of people, but if you knew how my mother loves to throw a party, you’d understand the need to upgrade.”
“It’s almost…” I reply as the driver opens the back door for us to step out, but I lose my words. There’s no way to describe it.
“Obscene is probably the word you’re looking for,” Declan says dryly as he steps out, then turns to hold a hand out to me.
It’s a gallant maneuver, and not one he would make if we weren’t intimate with each other. I know this for a fact.
But something changed last night when he pushed me not so gently over the line we’d set in place agreeing to only have sex in The Wicked Horse. Like literally pushed me onto my hands and knees, proceeding to dominate me in the best of ways. I experienced the most intense orgasm of my life last night. I imagine it had something to do with us both holding back a little until then.
Which is odd, given our sexual escapades were all conducted in a club that encourages people to push themselves to the limits of their sexual existences. Within The Wicked Horse, we technically shouldn’t be leaving anything on the table.
Clearly, we both had been.
Last night with Declan had been intimate. Yes, it was hard, fast fucking with filthy words, slaps to my ass, and domineering ways, but… I felt closer to him when it was all said and done, which was something I hadn’t felt before.
To complicate matters, there was no pushing me out of his bed when we were done. He actually rolled off the mattress, left the room, and returned with bottles of iced water for us. We talked for a while—mainly about what I’d heard at the board meeting—and then we had sex again. This time, he’d pulled me on top of him and made me ride him until we both achieved that miraculous high of simultaneous orgasms. After which, we collapsed next to each other. In the quiet moments after when our pulses and breathing returned to normal, I had fallen asleep.
I woke up this morning with him inside me. I have no clue how he managed to get me stimulated or got a condom on, but I was wet and pulsing when I opened my eyes, Declan behind me. He thrust in and out slowly, building me up higher until, once again, we peaked together.
Some things have definitely changed.
And some things are the same.
Today at the board meeting, Declan was in full business mode. Not once did he give me a glance, other than at lunch break—which was served in the conference room—to ask if I would check his voice mail.
And, honestly, he was brilliant. His father might be in charge of the Blackwood Empire, but Declan is respected and commands attention. He’s going to make an excellent leader one day, assuming that’s what he wants. I often wonder what his actual goals are, given he wants to branch out and build his own boutique resort with a sex-club theme.
At the end of the meeting, I’d been grateful for this experience. I was also exhausted, hoping to relax by myself with a glass of wine back in the suite. After all, Declan was eating dinner at his parents’ by his father’s command.
What threw me for a loop was when we left the Blackwood headquarters and Declan informed me I’d be joining him for dinner. He didn’t make a big deal, merely stated it would be a formal business affair so we were appropriately dressed. Because Declan doesn’t seem overly close to his family, I decided not to think twice about the invitation, choosing to consider it more of a polite offer by my boss.
Regardless, I’m a bit nervous and twitchy feeling as I sit down with one of the wealthiest families in America. I have no clue of the difference between the dinner fork and salad fork, and I hope it doesn’t reflect poorly on Declan.
“Relax,” he murmurs as he guides me up the walkway to the double front doors. In an attempt to ease my mind, he points to the beautifully manicured hedges to the left and right of the walkway, some trimmed into intricately shaped topiaries. “The grounds are this home’s best feature. There are several reflecting pools and fountains throughout, as well as a gorgeous iron pavilion in the back I’ll show you if we have time after dinner.”
“It’s so beautiful,” I gush as we reach the porch. Declan rings the doorbell, and I’m stunned he doesn’t just walk in. This is, after all, his parents’ home.
As if knowing what I might be thinking, he winks.
The door swings open, and I’m not surprised to see what I assume to be a butler. He’s not the stereotypical older white male, but probably in about his mid-thirties and impeccably dressed in a black waistcoat, light gray silk cravat, and matching pants with a darker gray stripe down the sides.
“Mr. Blackwood,” the man says. “It’s good to see you. May I take your things?”
“Thank you,” Declan says, shrugging out of his coat. I do the same, handing it as well as my purse over. It’s glaring he doesn’t address the man by name, which leads me to believe he doesn’t know who this is. Despite his station in life, I’ve always known Declan to call every employee by their name.
“I see you’ve brought a guest,” the man says with a smile toward me. “I’ll have another place set at the table.”
My eyes snap to Declan, my eyebrows rising in question. He didn’t tell his parents I was coming?
Declan makes a sound of displeasure low in his throat. His words are short and clipped. “I sent my mother a text this morning advising her of my guest.”
“Perhaps she didn’t see it,” the butler suggests. I suppose it’s his duty to his employer.
“She saw it,” Declan growls, and the butler knows when to accept defeat. He graciously inclines his head.
He goes on to say, “Your parents and sister are in the library having a pre-dinner drink. Can I bring you and your guest something?”
“I’ll take a Scotch,” Declan replies, eyeing me. I have no clue if there’s an etiquette to what I should or shouldn’t drink, so I lamely ask for white wine.
Declan grabs my elbow again, then leads me through an expensive foyer with a massive floating curved staircase. The tiled floor has an intricate inlaid pattern of mosaic tiles. I try to study it, but he whisks me past to a set of French double doors on the left.
A brief glimpse inside shows an enormous, beautiful library. It’s not done in heavy woods and paneling usually associated with a wealthy home library, but rather in all white. It has an expansive glass-domed ceiling that’s darkened by the night sky but must shine gloriously during the day. The library rises two stories with shelves from the floor to the base of the ceiling. Along each wall, there’s a rolling ladder, also in white.
The furniture is also in white, with various couches, chairs, and chaises set in private clusters. Along one wall is a carved desk, also in white, but with gilded gold touches. As I take in more detail, pops of color in the rugs and artwork on the floor stand out, giving it warmth and a homey charm.
But then my attention is drawn to his family members, who are clustered in front of a fireplace with a cheery fire.
Their conversation stops dead when we walk in, and one might think they had been talking about Declan from the way their faces smooth out almost blankly.
My next lesson in the Blackwood family dynamic comes when I realize the lack of joy exhibited by this family when seeing each other for the first time in a long time. When we flew here, Declan told me he doesn’t visit much except during the board meetings.
His mother, I’m assuming out of a sense of politeness, breaks away from the group as Declan steers me toward them. She offers up her cheek to her son, murmuring as he bends to kiss it, “Declan… it’s so good to see you.”
Her voice is cultured, with a slight European accent, and she’s stunningly beautiful. Her blonde hair is in a sleek chignon at the base of her neck, and her facial features are nearly perfect with a Nordic slant. Her eyes are a denim blue, and she turns them my way curiously.
Declan introduces me. “Mother… may I present my assistant, Bailey Robbins.”
Then to me, Declan says, “Miss Robbins… my mother, Helena Blackwood.”
“Charmed,” she says, offering me a finely boned hand I’m almost afraid to shake.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” I say, giving a tiny bob of my head. “Thank you for having me.”
At that, Declan’s mother shoots him a frosty, but quick glance before saying to me. “It’s our pleasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I need to pop into the kitchen. I think everything should be ready to serve now that all the guests are here.”
Interesting. She refers to her son as a guest instead of as family.
As Helena leaves, Declan manages to introduce me to the others. His father, Alexander, whom I had met briefly on the first day, but it’s clear he doesn’t remember and seems confused to find me with his son.
His sister, Marissa Blackwood Gibbons, is an exact replica of her mother, and she’s as chilly toward Declan as everyone else. There’s an air kiss to her cheek as well, and Declan inquires as to where her husband is.
She gives a dismissive wave. “He’s on call tonight.”
Declan murmurs low in his throat as if he understands, but no one bothers to explain to me precisely what the husband does. I would guess doctor, but, at this point, I’m so confounded by this family I have no clue.
An awkward silence ensues but is thankfully cut short by Helena announcing, “Dinner is ready. If everyone will proceed into the formal dining room.”
The formal dining room? Which implies there’s an informal dining room. This doesn’t surprise me given the house’s grandeur, but I suppose it surprises me that we’ll be eating formally with just five people, all of whom are blood relatives except for me.
I can firmly say rich people are just weird.
Still, I consider it an experience, and I have moments of overwhelming awe as I take in the opulence of the place. We move past a music room with a black-and-white harlequin tiled floor and a beautiful piano in the middle of it. The formal dining room is exquisite with a crystal chandelier over the table so massive, I’m actually nervous to sit under it. The table is long, seating—upon quick count—thirty-two with a glorious arrangement of fresh flowers in the center at least three feet in diameter and just as high.
All the place settings are thankfully at one end, and there’s a lot of gleaming china and crystal twinkling, making me far more nervous than the chandelier. I’m terrified of breaking something.
Alexander moves to the end of the table, taking the head chair. Pointing at the other chairs, Helena directs us where to sit. She places herself on one side of her husband and her daughter on the other. Declan is next to her, and she orders me to the chair beside Marissa, directly across from Declan.
Not quite sure of my expression, but my anxiousness calms slightly when Declan gives me a reassuring smile before taking his seat. I slowly lower down beside his sister, who has so far ignored me since our introduction.
A swinging door opens, and my mouth gapes as five dressed waitstaff, complete with white gloves, serve the first course—a French onion soup. Another person enters with a bottle of sparkling water to top off crystal glasses, and another comes in with choices of red and white wines.
I’m completely overwhelmed with the pageantry of what should be a simple family meal, yet when I glance around at the Blackwoods, I can tell this is a regular Tuesday in their home.
Helena places her napkin on her lap, then glances at her son. “So, Declan… how did you think the board meeting went?”
Declan fills his mother in on the details I’d heard over the past two days. I have no clue if she’s actively involved in hotel operations or is just making polite conversation, but she seems to be listening as she offers well-placed murmurs of agreement as he talks.
His father seems to ignore the exchange, concentrating on his soup and intermittently checking his phone. I try to enjoy my own bowl, but I feel awkward sitting so close to his sister in silence.
So I make an attempt to engage her by asking, “Marissa… do you work within the Blackwood company as well?”
Shooting me a sharp glance, she snaps, “Of course I do.”
I don’t have time to be shocked by her dismissal of my attempt at communication because she addresses her brother. “Did you manage to ratify my budget proposals for next year?”
Declan stares stonily at his sister. While he was engaged in conversation with his mother, there’s no doubt by his expression he’s not happy about her question.
“Could you possibly be any more impolite to a guest in our home?” Declan asks. It takes me a second to understand his question.
Then it hits me hard. His anger at his sister has naught to do with her question, but rather because of the way she so rudely brushed me off.
I fight the urge to shrink in my chair as conversations cease. All eyes are on Marissa, which puts me in the crosshairs since I’m beside her and my question led us here.
Marissa waves a hand dismissively. “I answered her question. What more do you want? It’s not like I have anything in common with your hired help.”
At this point, I struggle not to laugh. Because she’s not wrong about that. I can tell I have absolutely nothing in common with this snobbish, two-dimensional woman, but it’s comical all the same.
But it’s not quite so funny anymore when Declan’s mother shifts in her seat to look at her son. “I told you it was not a good idea to bring help to the family dinner.”
I genuinely don’t know whether I should be offended, but then Declan’s father seems to want in on the conversation. Except he’s oblivious to what is playing out as he glances up from his phone and says, “Your budget proposals for the interior design of a hotel are not important enough to discuss at a board meeting.”
I can actually feel the fury rolling off Marissa to my right. Glaring at her father, she practically screeches. “That’s always the way it is in this family. Declan gets all the glory, and no one gives a crap about my role in this company.”
“You’re an interior designer,” Alexander says, and there’s no hiding his contempt for his daughter’s chosen profession. “You pick out wall colors for our hotels.”
He says no more, but nothing needs to be said. It’s clear he doesn’t value her opinion or work for the company. Somehow, I think it might be because she’s a woman. I would like to feel sorry for her, but I can’t. She’s not a pleasant person.
Marissa starts ranting about her contributions to the Blackwood hotels and how she’s been under-appreciated far too long. She follows it up with threats to quit, and her father baits her back by daring her to do so.
Meanwhile, Helena sips at her wine and idly looks back and forth between her quarreling husband and daughter before bringing her icy gaze to mine. I can tell this is a regular occurrence between them, and she’s not put out by it in the slightest. By the way she takes long draws on her wine, I expect she drinks a lot. But most telling is the way she regards me—like I’m a bug. A nasty creature that’s been let into her house that has no business being here.
I eye Declan, who has been strangely silent. He’s watching his mother, lips pressed flat as he observes her glare with unbridled disgust.
And then… Declan rises from the table. It immediately gets everyone’s notice, and the argument between Alexander and Marissa falls silent. Helena’s head tips up curiously.
When he has their attention without having issued a single word, he focuses on me. My heart skips a beat at the regret I see there. “I’m sorry, Bailey. There’s no excuse for you having to bear the brunt of my family’s dysfunction.”
“How dare you?” Helena hisses, drawing a hand to hover over her chest as if he’d mortally wounded her.
Declan spares her a sharp glance. “You’re horribly and unforgivably rude, Mother.”
He then turns his attention to his sister. “You’re a self-centered brat, Marissa. Grow up.”
Marissa looks to her father, the one she’d just been arguing with. Her expression is one of appeal, and it’s obvious she expects her father to defend her.
Instead, Declan points out. “Don’t bother looking to him for help. He’s not even paying attention to any of this. It’s beneath his care.”
Sure enough, his father studies his phone, completely tuned out already.
Declan gestures at me. “Come on, Bailey. We’re leaving.”
“Declan,” Helena Blackwood snaps. “Now you’re the one being rude.”
“My apologies,” he murmurs with a slight bow but without a single note of regret. Once again, he says, “Let’s go, Bailey.”
I scramble out of my chair, eager to do as he commands. I’m more than happy to get away from this environment.
Declan is positioned closer to the entryway to the front foyer. He waits as I make my way around the table, choosing the longer route away from his family.
Shockingly, he extends his hand as I reach him. I don’t hesitate, placing my palm against his.
“Goodness, Declan,” Helena says as she rises, hysteria in her tone to prove she’s in the right and Declan is making a bad decision. “She’s just an employee.”
Declan doesn’t hesitate, moving us quickly to the door. But he does respond to her without a backward glance. “You’re wrong about that, Mother.”
The enormity of his words slams into me, and I actually stumble.
I’m more than an employee?
When did this happen, and why did I not get the company memo on that?