Page 11 of Resist

Huh. Foxy. Interesting. With one word she’s told me something about herself, something personal, and it feels like a tiny gold nugget that needs to be treasured and for some reason protected. Something about Cecelia’s air feels sad, somber, reserved. And I’m not sure if it’s because that’s just who she is, or if someone did something to make her this way.

A million questions bubble at the back of my tongue, desperate to burst out to make conversation, but I know it’s fruitless and only likely to spook her and send her further into her prickly shell.

Instead, I fall silent, I don’t ask her anything, I don’t probeher or force her into an awkward conversation she’d only pray for rescue from. I meet her where she is, and hope that’s maybe enough for her to decide to talk to me a little more.

We walk the length of the corridor, not going into any of the rooms on either side, or even slowing to see what’s inside, when we get to the end of the hall, the glowing red “no entry” sign over the door to the staff only area of the building draws us to a stop.

She spins on her heel as though she’s ready to walk back up the hall but a wobble starts in her foot and rolls through her body as she loses her balance. She’s graceful as she misses her footing, but her hands shoot out to grab my arm and the delicious way her nails bite through my shirt and into my skin pull a growly rattle from the back of my throat.

I know it’s straight-up lust. I know she’s the friend—from the nickname a really good fucking friend—of a friend and colleague. And I know I shouldn’t mix work with pleasure, even if my work is literally a club designed for people’s ultimate pleasure.

But there’s something about the swell of this woman’s hips, the plumpness of her bright red pouty lips, and the glossy black-as-night shine from her thick long hair that has me in a fucking death grip.

She looks at me with wide, relieved eyes. “I knew I was going to go on my ass before the night was out.”

I offer a reassuring smile. “Just call me fall break.”

Her mouth twitches, but still no smile.

“You want to go up?” I point at the “Staff Area” plaque on the door. Then shake my head. Offering to put myself in a confined and private space with a stranger is a stupid move, a rookie fucking mistake. This woman has thrown me off my axis.

She doesn’t look afraid, more bemused, but I still feel the need to try to settle any misgivings she might have about me.

“Never mind. I’m not a sleaze. I swear.” I wipe my clammy hands on my dress pants. “You just... I don’t know.”

If the lighting wasn’t so dim, I could probably see that glorious burst of red streak across her cheeks to match the one undoubtedly spreading across mine.

She half-smiles, and the way something flares in my chest should be embarrassing, but I’m taking the win. “It’s okay. You don’t get to be the protector of a sex dungeon by being a sexual predator.” A shudder snakes up her spine. “At least I hope not.” She looks me up and down as though assessing me. “I could take you.”

I smile, but my insides have turned to lava. Of course Cecelia has no idea that what she’s said about being a sexual predator has triggered me, but lumping me into the same group as those... disgusting excuses for human beings makes my skin crawl.

Flashes of my conversation with Mom from last night rear their ugly head in my mind as Cecelia continues her journey back along the corridor we just walked.

Learning that a man forced himself on my mother when I was a kid has my teeth grinding and fists clenching through a surging burst of venom in my veins.

How any man thinks it’s okay to cross that line is beyond me.

Cecelia tosses me a flirty look over her shoulder. “You coming?”

“Not yet, but the night’s still young.”

She rolls her eyes.

“What? Too obvious? Should I have said something like ‘that depends on how good you are’? Or ‘I could be if you want me to be’?”

I flash her an easy smile while my insides churn. I’m well practiced at keeping my own feelings under control, putting on a mask for those around me and giving them what theyneed, often at the expense of myself and whatever’s brewing inside my body.

Back then, I needed to be okay for my sister, Tessa, when Dad left and Mom fell apart.

I never knew why, until last night.

Another man broke her, Dad abandoned her, and I was left to figure out how to keep us all together.

My casual fake-smile quickly became like a well-worn pair of slippers, a comfortable, semi-permanent mask. But right now, the struggle to ground myself in the present and not let my mother’s past consume me has my entire body vibrating.

I urge my feet to move. When I make up the few steps to her side, she slides her arm through mine, and my muscles relax a little under her touch.

“You’re pretty up front about what you want, aren’t you?” She side-eyes me from under thick lashes.

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