Page 3 of These Family Ties
I still haven’t answered him. Shrouded in an air of infinite patience, I cannot stop myself from wondering if his self-restraint is genetic or if something happened to force his enduring composure.
In the end, his longanimity forces me to take heed of my lack thereof. A seed of hope blooms that perhaps I could partake and still satisfy Mother.
Impaling my professionally groomed pussy upon the hard, velvet length of her next victim while my phone pings from his wire transfer is the kind of self-flagellation I’m best at.
After all, nothing makes returning to the safe space of Webber’s arms sweeter, after fucking a stranger raw, than seeing the palpable relief on his face when Mother pulls up the account, lifts a brow, and presses her lips together. I’ve done very, very well when she has nothing to say. I know she’ll take herself to her bedroom, put on her La Prairie face mask, swallow her latest combination of vitamins, supplements, and prescription drugs, and pass out long enough for Webber to drive the stain of her latest mark from my insides.
I reach for the hem of my skirt, making like I’m smoothing the fabric.
Guilt gnaws the edges of my soul like a starving rat. I need to go home and confess my sins to Webber. He’ll forgive me, with soothing murmured declarations of devotions. He’ll make me forget this complex stranger with the sharp eyes and scarred hands when he takes my ass with his thick cock and plunges three fingers deep into my core to stroke himself through my flesh. And then we’ll hold each other for a time, marinating in the smog of helplessness that hangs over our altar like a dense fog.
Even though I’ll come home victorious, there is no rest for the weary. Mother will send us both out hunting the next night, her eyes alight with greed, her chin lifted to the future as if the present never existed. The money I make will be gone before the sun creeps back over the horizon to pry our eyes open once more.
I take one more sip of my drink and set it on the gold-embossed napkin I tucked under my thigh when I sat down. I’m taking a calculated risk by not answering him. Pliability sells, but every once in a while, haughty mystery pays more. This man strikes me as one who might prefer a broken butterfly; a role that requires no acting on my part. I get up from the table and leave without a word. Merely a spiderling, my chances of freeing Webber and myself from Mother’s web alive is slim to none. There is no choice but to play her games. If the goal is for Webber and I to gain our freedom, we’ll have to play within her rules. This man exceeds each one of Mother’s requirements.
Does he fulfill mine?
Will he see through the broken bits to the unbreakable?
Neither of us get a free ride. If I let him in, if I trust him, he could destroy my only chance to free Webber and I from Mother’s clutches. He lifts an elegant eyebrow, patiently challenging me to make my decision. This is it. My gut tells me this is the right man, that if I chose him Mother will never know I’m not vetting her next husband, but rather, I’m enlisting my savior. She’ll expect me to let him batter my throat with his cock until it’s bruised, because that is my obligation to her.
And I cannot give that to him for free. When I choke, it will be for six figures.
If he lifts my glass and dials the number I left on the napkin.
Chapter Four
Webber
“How do I look?” I ask, turning and smoothing my hands down the front of my jacket.
Cleo turns. The admiration that pours from her eyes above the soft smile she reserves for me fills my chest with a warmth the midday Tuscan sun could not duplicate. The soft suck of air she takes fills my chest with gratitude. Her heels click against the tiled floor as she comes to me, her chin tilted up. “Humans can stop breeding now. We’ve reached the pinnacle of perfection, both inside and out. Your body and face are as beautiful as your soul, Webber Wallace.”
Cleo’s unfailing honesty leaves me no other choice but to accept her words as truth. She slides her arms under mine. Careful not to wreck the artfully arranged waves of platinum hair cascading down her back, I rest my hands on her shoulders and press a soft kiss to her forehead. Her face is barely made up at all, nothing more than a light dusting of powder and sheer rosy tint upon her cheeks and lips.
She looks confident and bored, like a well-traveled, obnoxiously spoiled, rich bitch who’s experienced far more than girls her age should. Her body is a svelte machine composed of tender, succulent flesh while her shuttered eyes silently promise the kind of experience that transcends trust funds and titles. When her slender, bejeweled fingers catch the light, and the sparkle of her simple adornments catches the eye, her victims turn a blind eye to her razor-sharp nails and the translucent web she’s already begun to weave around their wallet.
Cleo is nothing but a tool for our mother to wield. She’s a lure, drawing the fat, pulsating, meaty accounts of over oiled, fiscally crowned demons into my mother’s lair. Mother is the only thing Cleo and I disagree on. Cleo believes I allow the sticky film of Mother’s weaving to cloud my eyes. I disagree.
Mother has been traumatized.
I know, deep in my heart, in the pure place that loves, that I can save her. Mother has been crafted by the men who’ve used her. Her pain has bent and twisted her into a villainous parody of who she was meant to be. I mean to free her, and in doing so, free Cleo and myself. Once Mother is safe from the men who prey on her. Free of the webs of the damage inflicted upon her, she’ll stop using Cleo and I as pawns. Once Mother feels safe and secure, once she can truly breathe freely, she’ll give up her games.
The corners of my mouth dip into a brief frown, causing Cleo’s brows to pull in. “What is it, my love?” she asks. Her instant concern trips tendrils of guilt that reside deep, layered atop the broiling anger I have no right to feel.
“Nothing,” I answer. Reversing expressions is easy as I convince myself that I’m not lying to her. We’ve sworn never to lie to each other. “I’d just rather spend the evening with you.” Her brows follow suit, smoothing once she sees me smile.
I cannot tell her I struggle with the hatred I feel for Mother every time she sends Cleo out. I willingly do Mother’s bidding, trusting her plan. When Mother promises me that we will all retire eventually, I see the sincerity in her eyes. Truth reverberates in my ears. When Mother deems our future secure, the time for rest will come. Doing the work that comes so naturally to me feels good. Using my innate talents to support the women I love feels even better.
My chest puffs a bit as a surge of primal male instinct swells. Cleo picks up my hand and brushes her fingertips over my palm. You’d think my hands would be soft, but they aren’t. They know more than moisturizer and the satin of pristine cunts and cocks. Mother says it is rare that cock or clit would choose a cushion over a callus. That’s why she insists I find a job with some sort of manual labor every time we move.
And I’m grateful to her for it. My body is strong. Honed and sculpted, my back and biceps are ready when my hands grip a hammer or a shovel. I use the pittance I earn to buy trinkets for Mother and Cleo. Mother indulges my whims as long as I maintain a healthy balance between both jobs.
Cleo laces her fingers through mine. We only have a few more minutes before Mother will want to do a final inspection, so I understand when Cleo’s hushed whisper sounds rushed. “Webber, before we go out, I have to confess.”
“Mm,” I grunt, encouraging her to go on. She carefully snuggles into my chest, burying our clasped hands between our bodies. Her other hand rests on my shoulder, and slowly, we begin swaying in place. Dropping my chin lightly on the crown of her head, I let my eyes drift closed. Cleo’s heart beats rapidly, erratic under the heel of my thumb.
“Last night,” she begins, then swallows hard. I try not to, but I sigh. She’s going to confess how much she hates our mother. Cleo went to bed with no supper. Mother locked her in her room. I hate when that happens. I’ve tried to sneak her food in the past, but Cleo insists Mother always knows and punishes her more down the road. I believe Cleo, but I confess, I don’t see it.