Page 69 of His Custody

“Then let’s go.”

***

When they arrived at the party, the press practically swarmed the car. The familiar impulse to beat the shit out of every single motherfucking last one of them rose up in his chest. He wanted to shove their cameras down their throats and use the velvet ropes as garrotes.Get away from her. She’s mine, and you’re not going to lay a fucking finger on her.

He leaned over to whisper in her perfect little ear, the one with the freckle inside. He loved that fucking freckle. It took everything he had not to run his nose down her bared neck, but not here, even if the windows were tinted pitch black. He wasn’t a risk taker, not with her. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if the world discovered their secret now, but he wouldn’t bring more attention down on her head. There was more than enough of that as it was. “Beyond reproach.”

She nodded, her artificially dark and heavy lashes fanning over her pale cheeks. It was a reminder as much for himself as for her. Maybe more. No one was standing over his shoulder, dictating the rules. He had no loyalty but to her. But that would be enough. Would always be enough. He squeezed her fingers one last time between his before he cracked the door and let the attendant open it the rest of the way. He hustled around the back to offer Keyne a hand and when she stepped out of the car, practiced and graceful, knees together like a fucking lady, the flashbulbs went off.

So many of them. He knew she’d attract attention. They had more since the accident because who didn’t like a good tragedy? And tonight, what did he expect? He’d dressed her as punk rock princess Barbie for god’s sake. But now they were all shouting at her and her hand tightened convulsively on his before she let go.

He put a hand at the small of her back, fingers itching over the corset strings, wanting to untie them, or tighten them, anything but leave them where they were. Instead he guided her through the crowd. Everyone was shouting at them, asking who she was wearing, what she’d done to her hair, was she still at school. She didn’t answer any of them though they’d gone over the responses to anything she might be asked on the ride over.

Keyne waited until they were at the staging area, posed for pictures like she’d done this a thousand times before, some with him, some without him, a challenging smile on her face that made him want to push her to the ground and grind her face in the carpet until her lipstick was smudged and she cried out. But that cocky, I-dare-you grin wasn’t for him. She was as sweet and pliant as ever when they were alone. She was a little too good at this game sometimes.

Carefully, in a way that told him she was oh-so very aware of where they were and what was at stake, she kept her left arm angled toward the backdrop, but when a reporter fromVanity Faircalled to her, she turned and one of the vultures caught a glimpse of her tattoo. Then it was all over. The questions shifted and he struggled not to ball his hands into fists. But he shouldn’t have worried. She was so fucking cool. Brilliant.

“Oh, this old thing?” She smiled and looked over her shoulder like a pin-up. The minx had done it on purpose. Because of course she had.

Choruses of “What does it say?” rang out. The tiny scripted letters would be hard to read, but he had no doubt the photographers were zooming in as they shouted.

Only he would hear the strain in her clear voice, the amount of effort she was employing to keep her voice steady when she said, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. It felt like there were tiny shards of glass flowing through his veins, and if this was painful for him, it must have been excruciating for her. He strode over, put a hand at her back and guided her away amidst shouts of more and more questions. “Is it permanent?” “How long have you had that?” “What does it mean?”

He stroked her back with his thumb, wanting to feel her skin, wanting to offer her comfort, but all he could give her were words. He leaned down, not too close, and murmured, “You’re brilliant, Tinker Bell.”

There was so much more he wanted to say.You’re perfect. I adore you. I’m going to love you so hard I’ll wreck you for anyone else. You’re my second star to the right, straight on till morning. You’re my fucking Neverland.But that single, inadequate sentence would have to do.

***

When they’d driven far enough away from the party no press would be nearby anymore, he picked up her legs and swung them into his lap while she leaned up against the door, a strand of hair breaking free and falling over her forehead. He considered taking her shoes off because her feet must be sore, but he wanted the leather to dig into his shoulders while he buried his face between her legs and the heels to dig into his back and his ass as he fucked her. He couldn’t wait to fuck her.

He’d been fucking her by proxy all evening, but instead of satisfaction, it had brought jealousy. He, Jasper Andersson, was jealous of a couple of sex toys. There was a small amount of comfort from knowing he wasn’t the only one. Every guy there tonight had wanted to be the one climbing into this car with her.

Using a single finger, he traced the skin between the straps he’d buckled himself, and she moaned softly. His poor, tortured pixie. He tapped the inside of her calf and her legs fell open without a second thought. She was so wet he could smell her and it made his mind hum, the goddamn bagpipes not far from full-on bleating their insistent and unmistakable sound.

Easing his hand up her calf, he stroked a finger behind the back of her knee in a tender maneuver that made her breath catch, and then skated up her inner thigh, the tips of his fingers ending at the crease where the gusset of her panties rested. He pushed against the dildo and she rocked her hips forward to take it in, doing the same when he pressed the base of the plug that had been resting snug in her ass all night. Pressing against the zipper of his trousers, his cock was getting hard against her leg.

He’d had all these grand plans for tonight, but between how hard he was aching for her and how tired she looked, this wasn’t going to last long. Just as well. He had two more days to torture/worship her before sending her back to that godforsaken campus.

Internally, he agreed with her. He was stupid for insisting on this, an outright lunatic. The idea of anyone else touching her, pleasing her, made him blind with rage. But he knew,knew, it had to be done. If they could make it through four years of this and she still wanted to be with him, he’d put a ring on her finger, a collar around her neck, ink on her perfect skin, and he’d shout it from the fucking rooftops, knowing he’d given her a chance to get out. But if he never left the door of her gilded cage open, how was she supposed to know flying away was an option?

His fingers hadn’t stopped teasing her and by the time they pulled up to the gate, the tips of them were damp and her breath had gone shallow and uneven. He hauled her into his lap and eased the both of them out of the car, her platinum blond head resting on his shoulder so he could see the sassy pink streak. Despite having punished her for it, he didn’t mind her hair like this at all, though he’d miss binding her rusty curls. She’d said she was sorry, but who knew if she’d grow it out. It wasn’t up to him. Not for the next three plus years at any rate. Epically stupid.

Edwin had gotten out of the car to hold the door to the house for him, smiling at Keyne curled sweetly in his arms, feigning sleep. Her nail scratched his chest through his dress shirt and sent the next pump of blood from his heart straight to his dick. Hopefully it hadn’t been on its way to anywhere important. He carried her straight back to his room and sat her on the edge of his bed, the pretty layers of eyelet leather spreading out over the duvet, framing her bound legs.

She laid her hands to either side of her hips and looked him in the face, bold as you please. Her eyes were so gorgeous. At first glance, they were a mossy, military drab, but up close, the pupils were framed with golden rods and the irises ringed with a green so dark it was almost black. He could stare at her, learn her forever, but that would have to wait.

“Do you want me to fuck you with your dress on or off?”

“Off, please, Master.”

Curious, he cocked his head. She wasn’t usually so forward. He’d been expecting aHowever you wish, Master. Not that he minded, and she’d asked so prettily. But still, he raised a calculated brow to tease her. “What, afraid you’re not going to get off without me playing with your tits?”

That wasn’t it. She could probably go off with a command. Shaking her head, she blushed so deep it leaked through her makeup. “No, Master. I—” Oh, hard swallow. Sweet little pixie. “I just want your skin on my skin. Please.”

How could anyone deny that plea? There was little he wanted more in this world than that himself. His hands found her face, cradled her head in his palms and held her still while he leaned in and ran his nose along the side of hers, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs, his heart and his cock clenching when they brushed tears. “You’ll have it, sweetheart. You’ll have it.”

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