Broken Record

Chapter 17: Benton

What in the fuck was that? Benton bit out the words as he slid quickly into the backseat of his waiting black Escalade, split between wanting to punch a hole through a wall and wanting to fall dead asleep, more satisfied than he'd been in weeks. Stevie. Fucking Stevie. He hadn't wanted to leave the room. He wanted to kiss her again, slam his mouth against hers as she watched, wide-eyed and willing, begging him for more. How could she possibly want what he had to give? He'd scared more than a dozen women away with his desires which is why he'd turned to The Den in the first place. To get what he needed without judgement. And lately to take out his frustration at being so riled up by Stevie. A rule-breaker. The woman he'd been fantasizing about. The pixie-sized sex goddess who couldn't be controlled at work. She'd submitted to him. Eager. Her limbs and her skin perfectly bound, her pussy so tight the memory had him seeing stars behind his eyes. He should not do this again with her. Fucking hell, he shouldn't have done what he did already. But there was no way he could convince himself to regret it. Fucking impossible.

"Stop at the corner, I need to run into the store." Benton lowered the divider between the backseat and his driver, his body wired and on edge despite the exhaustion from the week and from his release settling in. It took a lot to satiate a man like Benton. He'd had female partners in that room for hours before he came, building and winding them up, their bodies nearly broken with orgasms by the time he finally finished. But with Stevie? Less than thirty minutes of having her tied up and whimpering beneath him and he'd lost it. The idea equally excited and frustrated him.

Benton hopped out of the car, the cool night air blanketing over his heated skin. He needed whiskey. He wasn't a big drinker these days, not like before, but his edge from Stevie was not going to abate itself. As he moved quickly through the liquor isles, the events flashed through his mind like vignettes. The pure, white hot anger he'd felt at hearing his real name from the black-haired woman's lips, just barely eclipsed by his intense attraction to Stevie's body. To her smart mouth. To her energy that needed discipline. Benton stifled a groan as he grabbed his favorite top shelf whiskey and made his way to the checkout counter. The thought of all the ways he'd love to discipline Stevie started to take over his mind, his cock growing hard again in his slacks.

But the warning bells were going off. And they were fucking loud. It wasn't just her body he wanted to tame. It was her attitude, her spirit. The way she bounded into his office like she couldn't care less about the fact that she actively threw away her own monetizable talent. Money, greed, fame, none of it appealed to Stevie. It was Benton's world as one of the most powerful men in the music industry and she couldn't give two fucks about it. Why was that so alluring?

Benton paid quickly and made his way back to the car. His phone pinged with several new emails but he tossed it aside on the seat, not wanting to think about work right now. And especially not wanting to be reminded of the fact that he'd broken one of his most cardinal roles when it came to work. Never mixing work with pleasure.

As his car pulled into the underground garage of his luxury apartment building, his phone rang, an Unknown caller ID flashing across the screen. Benton's heart raced slightly, knowing who it was. What it was about. Creamy rope, soft skin, electric blue lace. He couldn't stop seeing those images rush and blur together, his fists tightening. Benton swiped the phone screen to answer, clearing his throat in an attempt to clear his dirty thoughts. It wasn't working.

"Mr. X, good evening I take it?"

"Very."

"Wonderful. We thought she'd be a great fit. Any complaints?"

Fuck no. Only the fact that she works for me and lied about her identity. "None."

"Great. Would you like us to request that she dye her hair?"

Dye her hair? Benton thought to himself, she was the whole fucking reason I even wanted a a blonde in the first place. To get something as close as possible to her. And now I had fucking felt her. Been inside of her. Watched as she squirmed and whimpered underneath me. Benton jammed his finger onto the 'P' button in the elevator for his penthouse, hating that his body was already priming for her again, the completely foreign sensation to call Stevie and demand she get her ass over to his apartment. He hadn't done anything like that with a woman in years. He needed this whisky to subdue his urges and he needed it fucking fast.

"No need. Thank you."

"Understood. See you next Thursday, sir." The line clicked dead and Benton unscrewed the top of his whiskey bottle, not even waiting until the elevator finished its ascent into his marble lobby. The burn of the liquid felt good going down the back of his throat. He took another deep pull, needing to dull himself. He wasn't the man in control right now. The man at the head of the boardroom conference table. The man Stevie had followed to The Den. He was the other Benton, the one he kept tramped down and in control with sex and restraints. So why was the most satisfying fuck he could remember in years having the opposite effect, wiring him up and making him more on edge? As he neared his bar, reaching for a crystal rambler, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His tanned high cheekbones were flushed, his lips slightly red from his violent kisses earlier against Stevie's much softer, plumper mouth. But it was his hair, the brown thick tendrils breaking free, a wayward wave brushing against the top of his forehead. A flash from his past self when he'd lost control. When he'd hurt those around him. When he'd hurt someone he cared deeply about. When he'd lost it all. With a slightly shaking hand, Benton reached up and smoothed the hair back, putting it perfectly in place before bringing the glass of straight amber whiskey to his lips.

Stay calm, Benton. One week. Next Thursday. You'll get your release again.