His Belt (Part Seven) Read online

  His Belt

  Part Seven

  Hannah Ford

  Contents

  Copyright

  His Belt

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Copyright © 2019 by Hannah Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  His Belt

  (Part Seven)

  Chapter 1

  ABIGAIL

  “Hello?” My mother sounds super annoyed on the other end of the line. “Hello?! Abby? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I’m listening.” Why is she speaking in italics? And how the hell is she the one who’s annoyed with me? I’m not the one who murdered someone and got sent to jail, leaving her daughter without a mother. Not that she was really that much of a mother when she was around. But still.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she demands.

  “Yes. You said you have great news.”

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?” She sounds exasperated, and like I should be happy for this news, like she’s talking about some great surprise birthday present she’s gotten me, instead of what she’s really talking about, which is probably that she’s convinced some guy on the outside to wire money to her prison account so she can buy things from commissary.

  “Sure,” I say, even though I don’t. Not even a little bit.

  I get out of bed and cast my eyes around the room, looking for some clothes.

  The ones I wore last night are tangled on the floor – it definitely wouldn’t be appropriate to put them back on. Not to mention my bra and panties are ruined, the delicate fabric shredded and in tatters. I think about the way Elijah tore them off me last night, the brute strength with which he’d handled not only my lingerie but my body, and I flush, the now-familiar pulse between my legs igniting.

  “Hello!” my mother screams. “Abby! Are you even listening to what I’m saying? Do you even care?”

  “Yes, yes, I care,” I lie, as I make my way to the door of Elijah’s huge walk-in closet. He’d said that his assistant was going to put my clothes in there, the ones that were brought over from my apartment -- so maybe she’s done it, and there’s something of mine in there that I can throw on.

  But when I open the door, the closet is filled only with Elijah’s things, his suits and ties and jackets hanging in meticulous rows. His closet is bigger than my entire apartment. I make my way inside, my eyes searching for anything that’s appropriate for me to wear downstairs. Finally, I locate a stack of t-shirts that are pressed and folded so perfectly I wonder if they’ve ever even been worn.

  I’m dimly aware of my mother babbling away on the other end of the line as I grab a navy blue sweatshirt that’s soft and feels cozy, probably by design instead of Elijah actually having worn it. It says Princeton on the front in white letters, and I pull it over my head. It hangs on my body, down to my knees, the sleeves so long they hide my fingertips.

  “Isn’t that absolutely amazing?” my mother presses.

  “Yes, it’s great,” I say, deciding to take the tactic of pretending to listen, while agreeing with her on everything she says and making sure I don’t ask too many questions. The good thing about these phone calls is that they’re limited to fifteen minutes. So all I have to do is bide my time until the recorded voice comes back on, letting us know that my mother’s time is up.

  I putter around, opening the drawers in the marble island that stands in the middle of the closet, trying to find something I can wear on my bottom half.

  “I’m possibly getting out of jail, and that’s all you have to say to me? That it’s great?”

  I stop with a pair of Elijah’s boxers halfway up my thighs. “Wait, what?”

  “I’m getting out of jail,” she says. “Well, maybe. It’s just so annoying, Abby, how you never listen to me. Ever since you were a little girl, you were always distracted, always with your head in a book, or daydreaming. It’s not good for you, to be so distracted all the time. I can’t imagine how you can hold a job down when you’re –”

  “Wait, you’re getting out of jail?” The fifteen minute time limit, which had been a good thing just a moment before, was now a hindrance as I wondered if she was going to have time to tell me what the hell was going on.

  “Well, it’s not for sure,” she admits. “It’s just that there’s been some movement on my case. Remember that man I was telling you about, Gary? The one with the horse ranch?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Gary.” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. This is the first time I’ve heard of this alleged Gary person, but I know he’s just another of my mother’s tricks, one of the men she meets on pen pal websites who send her money and pay for things.

  “Well, he paid for a private investigator to look into my case, and they’ve uncovered some new DNA. If it’s someone else’s, then I will be exonerated.” She draws out the word ‘exonerated’, enunciating each syllable.

  I sigh. That’s it? Some new DNA? If there’s any DNA at the scene, it probably belongs to the poor man that she killed, the man who thought he was going out to have sex with a prostitute and ended up dead. They never identified him.

  “That’s great,” I say again, meaning it this time, because it doesn’t sound like she’s going to be getting out anytime soon.

  As if on cue, the recorded voice comes on the line, letting us know we only have one minute left.

  “Shit,” my mother swears. “You see, Abby, this is why you need to pay attention to me. I have a limited amount of time, and when you spend half the conversation with your head in the proverbial clouds, it’s not –”

  I hang up on her, knowing that she won’t be able to call me back.

  Chapter 2

  ELIJAH

  I can hear Abigail upstairs, talking to someone on the phone.

  Her voice sounds guarded, punctuated by the sound of her footsteps moving across the floor. The staircases in my penthouse are open and winding. When I first moved in, I cursed myself for choosing a place that had such little privacy.

  Now I’m glad everything is so open.

  My hands clench around the knife I’m using to cut potatoes for breakfast.

  Will.

  Is that who she’s talking to?

  I need to fire that prick.

  Worse, what if it’s someone else? Another man. I slash into the potatoes, resisting the urge to go upstairs and demand her phone.

  When she appears a few minutes later at the bottom of the stairs, my breath catches. She’s wearing one of my shirts -- I never knew the sight of a woman in my clothes could be so fucking sexy. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, tangled from sleep. Her cheeks are flushed, and she bites her lip and rises up on her toes.

  “Hi,” she says shyly.

  “Good morning.” My cock hardens just looking at her, and my body tenses with the effort it takes to stop myself from carrying her right back up the stairs. And to bed. “Who were you talking to?”

  “My mother.”

  I relax just a little bit at the idea that it wasn’t another man she was talking to. But only for a moment. “Your mother?”

  “Yes.” She crosses the room into the kitchen, climbs onto the stool on the island. The shirt she’s wearing hitches up, revealing a glimpse of a pair of my boxers and an expanse of creamy thigh.

  “Your mother is able to contact you from prison?”

  She nods.


  “Why?”

  “She’s in prison, Elijah, she’s not dead.” She reaches for one of the clementines my housekeeper insists on artfully arranging in a wire basket on the middle of the island and begins to peel it.

  “Don’t be smart, Abigail.”

  “Then don’t ask…” She trails off as her eyes meet mine. She swallows and then changes tacts. “She gets a certain amount of money to use on phone calls.”

  “You give her money?”

  “No!” She shakes her head. “It’s usually men she meets on prison websites. She convinces them she’s in love with them, and they send her money.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  She shrugs. “When you take in the fact that she’s a murderer, scamming people out of money is really the least of it.” She pops a piece of fruit into her mouth. “What are you making?”

  “Omelets. Home fries. Bacon.”

  “Home fries rom scratch?”

  “Yes, Abigail, from scratch.”

  “Don’t you have cooks that do things like that for you?”

  “Yes. But I told you, I like to cook for you.”

  “I’ve never seen someone make home fries from scratch.” She watches in fascination as my knife moves through the potatoes.

  “You’ve never seen someone cut a potato?”

  “Of course I’ve seen someone cut a potato,” she says, rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness of the question. My jaw tightens at her smart mouth. If she thinks that just because we’re in the kitchen, I won’t take her over my knee, she’s mistaken. “I just never knew that people took the time to do it just for breakfast.”

  “Having a good breakfast is imperative.”

  “That’s a myth that’s been debunked. Now they say that as long as you’re eating healthy foods, it really doesn’t matter what time you eat, or if you even eat breakfast at all.” She jumps off the stool and pulls a mug down from the cabinet, then stands there looking at the coffeemaker doubtfully.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.” She places the mug under the machine and frowns. “How do you work this thing?”

  I abandon my chopping and move to her, standing behind her. I’m wearing no shirt and a pair of black silk pajama pants. My cock presses against the front of the material, a traitor as always. I reach around her and press the button to grind the coffee beans.

  She shakes her head. “You get fresh beans for every cup of coffee.” It’s a statement, not a question, and it’s said in wonder.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever stop to think that maybe all this stuff just makes things more complicated?”

  She turns around and I let my eyes run down over her body. She’s not wearing a bra, and my gaze lingers on her tits, watching as her nipples harden under the thin material. I smirk in satisfaction as they push through her shirt, actually peaking under my gaze.

  “More complicated?” I continue traveling my eyes down her body, over the curve of her hips, her bare legs that seem to go on for miles, her cute little feet.

  “Yeah.” But the bravado that was apparent in her voice just a couple of minutes ago has faltered a little, and her breathing has increased. It’s an almost imperceptible change, but I’m starting to know her sounds, her movements, the small changes in her bearing. “Why not just make a cup of coffee like a normal person? It takes forever to do things this way.”

  “Because usually I have people to do things like this for me,” I say. “It’s just that since you’re here, I can’t stand to have anyone else around.” I halve the distance between us, so that I’m almost touching her but not quite.

  “That must get very boring,” she says, raising her chin and meeting my eyes. “Having people to do everything for you.”

  “I do the things I want to do myself. The important things.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  “Like this.” I slide my hands up under the long t-shirt of mine she’s wearing, dipping my finger into the waistband of the boxers underneath. “Why are you wearing my clothes, Ms. Bennett, when you have your own?”

  “Because I don’t know where they are, Mr. Armstrong. You seem to have taken them and squirreled them away somewhere.”

  “Hardly. They’re through the door in the back of my closet, which opens into another closet, which, Ms. Bennett, is all yours.” She’s not wearing any panties. Jesus. My palm splays against her bare stomach, my fingers resting lightly against the top of her mound. She sucks in a breath though her teeth and her lips part just the tiniest bit.

  “You could have told me that.”

  “But then you wouldn’t be standing here, wearing no panties.”

  I pull out my hand and grab the waistband of the boxers, pulling them down gently until they pool around her ankles. “Step out of them, Ms. Bennett.”

  “What about breakfast?” she breathes.

  “Are you worried about me eating something, Ms. Bennett?” I tease.

  She sucks in another breath, her cheeks warming.

  I push her hair back from her face, and then I say the words I’ve been wanting to say to her again since last night. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  My own breathing hitches as I pull up the t-shirt she’s wearing, exposing those curves of hers. I toss the t-shirt away and my hands dig into the globes of her ass.

  I lift her up onto the counter, my eyes meeting hers.

  “Don’t worry about me, Ms. Bennett.” I say, kneeling before her. I spread her legs open, staring at that beautiful cunt. “I have enough to eat right here.”

  I begin to lick that juicy little pussy, and she grabs the counter, her breasts heaving as breathy little sounds escape from between her parted lips.

  She tastes amazing and it’s all I can do not to plunge my tongue into her. But I want this to be all about her pleasure. Not about dominating her, but about making her come. So when she grabs at my hair, I let her do it for just a second.

  But then I take her hands and push them back against the counter, forcing her to hold onto the edge.

  “Stay still.” I push a finger inside of her, curling it around and rubbing against her sensitive tissues. “Does that feel good, Ms. Bennett?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I suck her clit into my mouth slowly, the nub hardening under the strokes of my tongue. She grabs at my hair again, hungry for more, and I let her again before taking her wrists. “Don’t make me tie you,” I say. “I want to do this without having to do that, but you have to meet me halfway, baby.”

  She moans as I begin to open-mouth kiss her pussy.

  I lick and suck until she comes, covering my tongue with her juices, her hole spasming and clenching against my mouth.

  And then I feed her, get her ready, and drive her to work.

  Chapter 3

  ABIGAIL

  My legs are still wobbly when I step off the elevator at work. It’s like I can still feel his mouth down there, right on my clit, sucking it, his fingers stretching my hole at the same time.

  My orgasm had left me trembling and dizzy, my legs weak. I thought a shower and some distance would help, but no.

  Of course, it also doesn’t help that I’m wearing new shoes, heels that are way higher than anything I‘ve ever worn before, along with a new black dress made from the softest material I’ve ever felt. It buttons up the front and cinches in at the waist, making it both stylish and sophisticated at the same time. I found the dress and the shoes in my new closet, which, as promised, was right through the door at the back of Elijah’s, like it’s own little secret compartment.

  All of my own clothes had been brought over from my apartment, organized and hung. But the rest of the closet was filled with new things, things that had been chosen just for me.

  Rows of dresses, skirts, and jeans. A sliding carousel of shoes. Drawers filled with neatly folded t-shirt and sweaters.

  I still hadn’t sent Marissa, Elijah’s personal assistant, my measurements yet, mos
tly because I wasn’t sure where, exactly, I was supposed to get measured. A tailor, I supposed, but I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t really relish the thought of asking Elijah. So Marissa had used my existing clothes to guess at my sizes, and she’d done a good job.

  I decide to duck into the bathroom before heading to my desk so I can wash my hands and make sure my ponytail is smooth. The last thing I need is to show up with my face flushed and my hair a mess.

  Yeah, I’d showered after our little, um, escapade in the kitchen this morning, but Elijah had kissed me hard and deep before dropping me off in front of the building this morning -- I’d been thankful that the windows of his car were tinted.

  I shiver thinking about it now, his hands in my hair, his tongue in my mouth, his lips against my neck.

  I’m drying my hands when Hailey comes out of one of the stalls.

  We still haven’t talked since what happened at Edge.

  Our eyes meet in the long mirrors over the sinks.

  “Hi,” I say carefully.

  “Hi.” She sniffs, and I realize her eyes are rimmed red, her cheeks flushed. She runs her hands under cold water and presses them against her face.

  “Hails,” I say. “I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t want to –” But before I can finish, her face crumples and she bursts into tears. She throws herself at me, and I wrap my arms around her.

  “No,” she sniffs against my shoulder. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  “It was just a fight, Hails.” I smooth her hair. She feels tiny against me, the bones of her shoulders hard and prominent under the black cardigan she’s wearing. “It’s nothing to get this upset about.”

  “Everything is just a mess.” She pulls back and I rummage around in my purse, pulling out some tissues for her. They’re crumpled, but they’re clean, and way better than using the rough paper towels that are in the dispenser. Those things will, like, exfoliate your skin. I make a mental note to talk to Elijah about replacing them with something a little softer. Surely someone who can afford fresh-ground beans with every cup of coffee can afford to give his employees a little comfort.