Page 11 of The Consequence of You
“Need something, princess?” His mouth can only be millimetres from my ear as his soft breath dances on my cheek. He’s so close, I can smell his shower gel, a mixture of bergamot and pear and something so intrinsically him. It’s an assault on my senses and it’s easy to see why he has woman falling at his feet. He nudges his thigh against my greedy pussy again, and for a few seconds, I manage not to react. But then my body betrays me again and I swallow slowly, hoping he can’t feel the way my panties are rapidly dampening. “I asked if you needed something, princess?” His voice is like steel.
“Surely my silence was enough of an answer?” I retort. My body might not have got the memo, but my mind is still firmly in the We Hate Asher Fanclub.
“I think you kept silent because you’re conflicted. You don’t want to admit you want me; despite the way your body is screaming out for me.” His crisp British accent is so smug and sure of itself. I strain against him again, desperately trying to get away, refusing to give him his answer.
“There is no point denying it, Calliope. You. Want. Me.” He annunciates every word. “Your arousal is giving you away. You’re making quite a mess on my trousers. It would be helpful if you stopped struggling before you ruin them. My mother will not be pleased if they have to be thrown away. She had them custom made on Savile Row.” Urgh, this fucking arsehole. His arrogance knows no bounds.
Suddenly, the bell rings out, loud and shrill against the quiet of the hallway. It’s a clear signal that within seconds, students will start pouring out of the surrounding doors. Asher drops my hands and steps away from me, the loss of pressure instantly making me feel bereft in a way I don’t want to dwell on. Moments later, students rush out, loud chatter filling the hallways. The busy throng swirls around us as Asher backs off further. The distance between us increases but he doesn’t drop my gaze until he’s out of sight. Only then do a suck in a deep breath, trying desperately to settle my galloping heart. His words ring in my ear. You want me.You want me. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t deny his accusation when he questioned me. I couldn’t, because he’s right, my body wanted him. And the one thing I never do is lie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ASHER
“Can you pass the salt please?” We eat as a family twice weekly. Wednesdays and Fridays, 7pm sharp, we’re expected in the formal dining room. Other than the period I spent studying abroad, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been excused from this god-awful ritual. My brother, Sebastian, sits opposite me, our parents at either end of the long banquet style table that could easily seat twenty people. George, our longest serving staff member, takes the salt and passes it to my mother, who pours an overly generous amount over her meat. He waits patiently; his hands clasped in front of him.
George has also been subject to this excruciatingly dull dinner twice a week for as long as I can remember. At least he gets his steps in whilst walking the length of the room. I wonder if this is what he envisaged for his future when he was my age. Did he dream of a life waiting on a familyso rich that they didn’t have to pick up their own condiments, or is he part of a long line of butlers, his destiny predetermined before he was even birthed into this world?
Tapping my foot idly on the polished floor, I try to distract myself from the unpleasant sounds of my father chewing. Despite him being so far away, the cold emptiness of the room means every sound is amplified. I had lessons in decorum and manners, as well as elocution until I was twelve years old. I know my father also received them, and yet the way he leaves his mouth slightly ajar as he chews means I can hear every mouthful being ground into a pulp. I don’t need to turn my head to picture his slack jaw or the way he overly chews every mouthful.
It’s the first Wednesday of the month, so dinner is venison in a plum jus with a side of braised cabbage. It’s tender, tasty and perfectly cooked by our personal chef. It does not need over chewing, it practically melts in the mouth, and it certainly does not need salt. I ponder how long it would take to kill oneself by excessive consumption of salt, and if that is the reason Mother put so much on her perfectly seasoned meal each day. I wouldn’t blame her. She needn’t worry though, we’ll all succumb to death by boredom before that, no doubt about it.
As I swallow the succulent meat that was likely shot by my father, it strikes me that even the animal we’re consuming had his fate decided before birth. Bred on our land, allowed to ‘roam’ until its life would end prematurely in order to provide this meal. The only difference between myself and the deer is he had the pretence of freedom, naïve of his future, whereas I am under no such illusion. However fleeting his belief was, it was never something I’d experience, and I am so envious.
I accidentally bite the inside of my cheek as I chew, andthe metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, not dissimilar to the deep venison flavour. The deep earthy flavour of the meat improved by the fact the animal spent its short life living free range. If I were to cut open my own flesh, I’m sure it would taste bitter, poisoned by the cage I live in.
A sharp pain shoots up my leg as Sebastian’s foot meets my shin under the table.
“Ow.”
“Brother.”
His low tone hissed at me would have been enough to gain my attention, he didn’t need to assault me, too. Our relationship has always been formal and necessary, but he has a pity for me I can barely tolerate. His whispered‘brother’founded in genetics only. We haven’t bonded over our shared heritage, nor did we look out for each other growing up, the way siblings should. No. Sebastian and I co-exist in our shared cage. While both our futures are decided, the order in which we were born has always made him act as though he is superior. I’d rather he was smug about it because his pity only serves to solidify the knowledge that my life is worthless.
Reaching under the table, I rub at the tender spot on my leg.
“What?” I hiss back.
“Father asked you twice about how your course is going.”
“My course is fine. As I expected.”
My father nods and dabs at his mouth with a serviette.
“Your mother and I would like you to think about extracurricular activities.”
“I have plenty of outside interests, Father.” He doesn’t need to know they include illegal racing or women.
“That’s as may be, but we would like you to includesomething a little more public serving.” I know my father well enough to see through his polite words and manners to know that this is not a suggestion but an order.
“What do you have in mind?”
“The choice is yours, but there is a volunteering fair at the university tomorrow morning. I expect you will find an opportunity there that will meet my expectations.”
“Your expectations being to make us look good?” My father fixes me with a stern scowl.
“Not at all. It’s about doing something worthwhile and giving back to your community. I won’t deny that this will have the additional purpose of repairing your reputation, obviously. But when you are born into a life blessed with opportunity, you should try to give back where you can. That’s the priority here.” Right. Changing public opinion of me was an afterthought, sure it was.
The rest of the meal passes in relative quiet. Sebastian updates our parents on his new job, and I take the lack of attention on me to mean I haven’t done anything to piss them off this week.
