“I didn’t know how to love him. I only knew how to fuck,” — Lie With Me, Director: Clement Virgo Summer I come awake to find that I am curled up in the center of the massive bed—his bed, in his house on Primrose Hill. I sit up and the sheet slides down to pool at my waist. When I swing my legs over, I wince. My thighs ache; there is a soreness in my center. I straighten, glance down, and the breath leaves me. The skin on my thighs is chafed and abraded. I take a st ep forward and my arse hurts... Yeah, also that part of me where he had proceeded to butter me up, before driving into me from behind. A slow burn starts somewhere below. No. I didn’t enjoy it, I didn’t. Who am I kidding? He’d... surprised me again. He’d brought to life one of the most notorious scenes from film history and ah! Liquid heat pools between my legs. It had been the singular most degrading experience of my life... and the most turned on I’ve ever been. I squeeze my fingers at my sides. Then he’d turned me around... and... kissed me. He’d made love to me. "I’m more than halfway in love with you." Did he mean it? Sinclair Sterling does not say anything lightly and definitely not the emotions associated with that particular sentiment. Perhaps my imagination is leading me down a path of wishful thinking? What do I have to do to clear my head? Rid my body of the imprints of his palm that I can feel on my butt, on the curve of my waist, the thickness of his fingers... inside me, bringing me to orgasm, the cold slick of the butter as he’d lubricated me before he’d taken me, with absolute confidence. He’d known that I wouldn’t refuse him. I’d wanted to. No... I’d wanted him. When I am in his vicinity, I can’t think of anything else but him... Liar. Even when I am not in the same room, I see him in my mind and yeah, my pussy has a way of homing in on how it will be to have him buried balls de ep inside of me. Jesus, get a grip, here. Stop with the pornographic scenes playing on r epeat. Not that I’ve seen porn... If you don’t count 9 1/2 weeks, which had explored BDSM long before Fifty Shades of Grey, or 9 Songs. Wait... What is it with the 9 anyway? I shake my head. Or any of the myriad other arthouse flicks that I’d snuck in to watch, whenever they came to play at the Prince Charles Theatre—one of the few existing arthouse cinemas near Leicester Square. My entire life is beginning to resemble a badly-produced indie flick, for that matter... For he hadn’t stopped there. After I’d fallen asle ep on his chest... Yeah, it’s large, hard, and surprisingly comfortable, and despite all of the ways he’s fucked me over—literally—seems something in me innately trusts Mr. Big Bad. I’d woken up to find he was carrying me up to the roof top. He’d ordered a helicopter because... Well yeah, he could. He’d said he wanted to get inside me again and didn’t want to wait. Of course, not. I swallow, lurch toward the bathroom. He’d carried me inside the house to the kitchen. Fed me strawberries and cream. He’d insisted I eat it and drink every drop of the glass of orange juice he’d poured for me. Then he’d shagged me.
Over the kitchen table, on the st eps, against the wall of his bedroom, on the bed... He’d broken off to bring me some cheese and biscuits at dinner time. No alcohol because... he wanted all of my faculties about me. I’d lost count somewhere after orgasm number thirteen, or was that twenty? I bite the inside of my cheek. I’d fallen asle ep with him inside of me again. My pussy clenches. How can I miss him already? I shove open the bathroom door and cross the floor to the sink on the left; the one with an array of feminine cosmetics, none of which I’d brought. The brand is absolutely top of the range. Individually, they’d account for what I’d probably get paid in a week working at FOK. Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair. I’d never gotten a chance to mention the reason I’d barged in on him. Because I’d had an idea for the marketing strategy. Something I need to bring up to him right away. I glance at the mirror and notice the note tucked into a corner of the glass frame. Reach for it, pull it out. The gold SS on the cream paper confirms who it was from. "The cosmetics are for you—don’t refuse them." Asshole. His cursive is as dominating as his presence. "Breakfast is waiting for you in the kitchen." Huh? You don’t say. "Because I’m feeling charitable, you may work from home today. You’re welcome." What? Am I supposed to be grateful or something? I purse my lips. Bring the note to my nose and sniff. Bergamot and leather... and a whiff of something intangible I label as testosterone. I chafe my thighs together. Place the note aside. Brush my teeth, shower in record time. When I return to the bedroom, I spot the dress he’s laid out for me. I slip it on, survey myself in the mirror. It has a long flowing skirt and the blouse fits me so closely, I have to wonder. Did he have it tailored to my specifications? Does he know my measurements that well? He knows my body more intimately than anyone else ever has. I fondle the soft material. The skirt is a dark red. How did he guess that it’s the color that sets off my coloring best? My pink hair flows around my shoulders, the blonde highlights in it seem lustrous, and my skin is a pearly effervescence against the fabric. Once again, he’s unerringly figured out what is right for me. Does he always know what is best? Am I beginning to harbor some kind of secret crush on him, where I am beginning to acquiesce to his every single demand? No. I drag the brush through my hair, drop it on the table. I won’t wear any make up. After all, I’m not dressing for anyone. Besides, I don’t want to use any of the cosmetics he bought for me. The dress? Well, that is different. I have to wear something—though left to the alphahole, I bet he’d prefer me to go naked. Don’t second guess me, Bird. I scrutinize the room. The mussed-up bed where we’d spent the night, the table and chair at the far end, the comfortable-looking settee on one side of the fir eplace. The furnishings are luxurious, but otherwise there is a sparseness to it that hints at... what? Something more complex about the man than I ‘ve been giving him credit for?
Nothing to think about here. Nothing to unearth. He is a greedy, narcissistic, pompous prick, who thinks about one thing—himself. And how to amass more money. See? Puzzle resolved. I slide on the ballet flats—made of the softest leather I’ve ever worn— then pivot and walk down the stairs. Walk into the kitchen and find a covered tray, with a note. "Eat it all." I stiffen. I should ignore the food, turn away, leave, right now, before this entire farce of a relationship backfires on me and I begin to harbor feelings for him. Too late. I feel something... already. Hate, yeah, that’s all it is. I uncover the tray to find a massive sandwich. A plate of fruit, crisps. There’s another note stuck to the side of the plate. "It’s gluten free. You’re welcome." How did he know I am allergic to gluten? I’ve never mentioned it to him, and managed to ignore any food that could have traces of it so far. Of course, he had to go and spoil it all with that know-it- all tone. I crumple the note, fling it away, The kettle clicks on. What the—? I hear the water boil. Did he set it on a timer? Some kind of sensing device that picks up when I’m in the room? I blow out a breath. I walk to the kettle as it switches off. Make myself a cup of tea, and seat myself at the table. I’ve just finished the sandwich when the doorbell rings. My heart begins to thud. Is he back? Did he decide he is going to work from home today? Better still, does he want to spend it with me? I am halfway across the floor, before I slow down. By the time I reach the front hallway, there’s a banging on the door. I fling it open. Familiar features peer down at me. "You?" "Hello, Summer." I glare at the man who is my father. The bastard who’d abandoned me and my sister when we’d needed him the most. He’d never looked back, until he’d sensed the first whiff of a possible business gain, and then he’d come running. The asshole would sacrifice his family for money—oh, wait, he already had. There’s a light roll of thunder in the distance—as if it is asking for permission. That’s British weather for you, just like our vocabulary. Apparently, we use the word ‘sorry’ more than any other country—up to 8 times a day. Yeah, sorry—not sorry. I frown, "I don’t want you here." "Can I come in?" It begins to drizzle outside, some of the drops blowing in to bead on his shoulder. "Do I have a choice?" I jut out my chin. "That’s my girl. Still got a spine, huh?" "No thanks to you, and don’t call me your girl." "You are my daughter." "Really?" I stare. "You lost the right to that when you decided to leave me and Karma to the vagaries of our fate."
"Don’t exaggerate." He frowns. "Look at you now. It doesn’t look like you suffered too much.” If you don’t count the fact that we’d gone from having an abundance of every luxury to having two meals a day, and a school where we were the laughingstock because of how different we were. So, we weren’t abused physically. Mentally and emotionally, though, it was another story. I wrap a strand of my hair around my fingers. "You could have taken us with you—or better still, you could have told us what was going on, found a way to face up to the mess you’d created." "And what? Gone to jail?" He rocks back on his feet, "Where would that have left you?" "Exactly where you left us anyway. Fighting to make something of ourselves. Trying to undo the hurt of our childhood years, and betrayal. And yeah, issues with trust, let’s not forget that." "Your husband has money; he can afford the best mental health professionals." "Are you listening to yourself?" He draws in a breath, "I didn’t come here to fight." "Too bad." I wrap my arms around my waist, "I’ve been waiting for the chance to tell you how much of a shitty parent you were... No, strike that. That I disown you, for how you abandoned us." I attempt to close the door. He grabs the handle, "Sunshine, please." I freeze. Only my father called me that. I’d been his ray of sunshine once, or so he’d told me. Those mornings when he’d cook me breakfast, before anyone else was up. Our time together. Then he’d drive me to school. Karma had been a baby then, and d ependent on our mother. He’d been proud of me once. And I had looked up to him. "Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking." Oh, he knows how to push the point when he has an advantage, huh? I st ep back, walk inside, then head toward the living room that overlooks the garden. He follows me. I stop at the massive French doors, and he pauses behind me. "I can explain, Summer." "Save it. I don’t want to listen to your sorry excuses." He draws in a breath. "Everything I did was so I could ensure that you and your sister had a future." "You expect me to believe that?" "I was mixed up with the wrong people. After your mother died, I wasn’t thinking straight. I made many wrong business decisions. Ended up falling into debt." I don’t want to hear it. I don’t. He swallows, the sound audible in the silence, interrupted by the patter of the rain outside. "I ended up owing a lot of money to the Mafia. I had to leave before they took everything I held dear to me." "So you dumped us?" "The only way was to start afresh, for all of us." He moves away. "I put you in the care system, then faked my own death. I moved to the US, changed my identity, wiped all traces of our past." "You did it very effectively too." I stare straight ahead. "Guess you were good at something."
He winces. "Everything I did was to throw the Mafia off of your tracks. It was for your good." "So parents say. They have no idea how much they screw us kids up. So we have to spend the rest of our lives unlearning everything we were subjected to in our growing up years." The breath whooshes out of him. "I’m sorry, Summer. I did what I thought was best for all of us..." "Yeah, I’m sorry too." I turn on him. "You’ve assuaged your conscience, said your piece... Why don’t you leave now, huh?" "There is." He shuffles his weight from foot to foot. "One thing." I knew it. "Money? You think because of this..." I wave my arms around, "that I have some claim to his wealth and his power? Then you are wrong." "You’re the wife of a rich and powerful man. It has to count for something." "It means nothing." "Not from where I am." He lowers his chin, ”And it’s not about the money." "Don't lie." A headache begins to pound at my temples. "I admit, it might have been one of the main reasons that I acc epted Sinclair's offer, but when I saw you and your sister after all these years." His throat moves as he swallows, "I realized it wasn't about that at all." I don't believe him. I don't. Something hot unfurls in my chest, "What then?" "Are you happy?" I blink. "Excuse me?" "Does he make you happy?" "What’s that got to do with anything?" "You’re my daughter" "You lost all right to call me that." He holds up a hand. "I get it. You’re unhappy with the cards life dealt you, so far. It’s normal. It’s time you put it behind you as you start your new life." "Is that why you’re here? To give me advice?" "When Sinclair asked me over, I agreed to come, on one condition. I had to be satisfied that he was the right man for you. Someone who could take care of you, protect you —" "The way you never could." His lips twist. "You grew up fine, with all your wits about you." "No thanks to you." "Tell me you are content, and I can seal the deal with him." "Deal?" "He didn't tell you?" Adam frowns. "We haven’t had the time to speak." Heat sears my cheeks. I hadn’t meant it to come out that way. My father doesn’t seem to notice.
"It’s understandable. Sinclair is a busy man. He bought me amnesty from the government, gave me a chance to return home to attend my daughter’s wedding." Adam shuffles his feet. "Still, considering what he wants..." My pulse begins to race. The hairs on the nape of my neck rise. I wipe my suddenly damp palms on the skirt. Something thrums at the edges of my conscious mind and I push it away. "What does he want?" "To ruin you."