Page 39 of Concerted Chaos

“Probablynot.”

“Good.” And then Ethan leans in and kisses me. That’s two different men in one night—definitelya record, but not one I’m going to brag about. The moment feels surreal, because I both wantthisand I don’t. He doesn’t make me feel anything, but the whiskey does. The whiskey makes me want to be in the comfort of someone’s arms. The whiskey makes me want to forget the world and all my problems for a little while.

When the kiss ends, I pull back from Ethan. “What was that for?” I’m curious how far he expects this to go.

“I need to tell you the truth. I could have given you all the information about the bomb over the phone, but I wanted to see you again.”

“Me? Why?” Don’t get me wrong, I didimmediatelyfind the man attractive when we met, but I never expected to act on that attraction. I’m very selective when it comes to my flings.

“When I met you in California, you were so tough under pressure. You were strong, and in control of the situation, and I just ...wanted to find out if you were always that way.”

In response, I kiss him. He thinks I’m in control, and this is like what Tanner said to me once before, I’m a woman who takes what I want. And right now I just want ... something. I’m lonely, I’m tipsy, and I want some kind of physical connection. So, yeah, an attractive man comes all this way for me, I’m going to kiss the heck out of him. Why not?

“Cassidy,” he breathes into my ear. “Shall we take this to your chambers?”

His phrasing ispeculiar, but his intentions are clear. And we’re in agreement. Icertainlydon’t want to continue this make-out-and-possibly-more session in an area where my brother might find us, so I invite him to my bedroom.

He pauses in the doorway.

“This is your room? I thought it would be ... darker,” Ethan says as he surveys my personal space. That’s an unusual observation, but he’s not here for his interior decorating advice.

I lead him inside, where we begin making outdesperately, driven by alcohol and trauma and fear. And for a moment, I’m enjoying myself. Clothing is coming off, hands are exploring bodies, and we’re nearing the bed.

“Am I a bad boy?” Ethan asks as he’s biting my neck.

Um, what?

“Sure.”

“Tell me I’m a bad boy.”

Oh, no. I seem to have found myself a dirty talker.

“You’re a bad boy.” I’ll follow alongwith this game brieflyand hope he soon occupies his mouth with other things and shuts up.

“I am, I’m so very bad. How are you going to punish me, mommy?”

Well, that’s a real record scratch moment.

“What did you call me?” I shove him off and back away. After the night I’ve been having, I’m surprised it wasable to get any weirder. I thought I’d already reached peak oddity levels.

He’s pantingheavily. “Come on, Cassidy, I know what you’re like. I could tell from the moment I met you. You’re tough, you’re fierce, you need someone to dominate.” He drops to his knees in front of me, holding his arms up, wrists together as though tied. “I’m ready for my punishment.”

“You called me mommy.” The sudden queasiness in my stomach has nothing to do with how much I drank.

“Do you prefer mistress? Did I do something bad? Spank me, mistress. Spank me hard.” He crouches on all fours now,fullyexpecting me to grab the closest paddle—whichapparently, he assumes I have. This has gone far enough.

I wake upslightlyheadachey and fully regretful. Ethan is worse for the wear. I told him his punishment was to sleep on my bathroom floor, and for some strange reason heobeyed,directlyon the cold tile. He didn’t even put a towel down, nor did he accept the blanket I offered. I bet he thought that at one point I would decide he had been sufficiently punished and would allow him to come to bed and service me. If he were a smarter man, he would have figured out that it was never going to happen and stayed in a guest room instead, but I guess that doesn’t fit with his kink.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do, mistress?” he asks hopefully when I wake him up, and now I want to drive my hungover head through the wall.

“Let’s go eat breakfast and you don’t act like this in front of anybody else.”

But of course, Powell is already up—why didn’t he sleep in today?—and is in the kitchen when we emerge. Ethan is wearing a pair of my sweatpants and an old t-shirt, which he was only too happy to put on. I may let him keep them; I don’t think I want those clothes back.

The smirk my brother gives me says it all: I’m never going to hear the end of this. Fine. After what I went through last night, I deserve his teasing, even without him knowing the real details.

Powell is eating with hisnewlyarrived bodyguard, and I’m relieved to discover he’s hired Mike Ochoa. Mike can be summed up in one word: awesome. At first glance, nobody would ever believe he is a bodyguard. He’s nerdy and wears glasses, and if he were to be typecast in a movie he’d be the quiet unnoticed accountant in the background. I suspect his glasses aren’t real, and theyprobablyconceal weapons. Tiny poison darts, or knives, or a lock pick set.

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