Yield (Cal and Macy's Story 3)

"I want your life," I cut him off.

"Money," he cries... his eyes begging me. "Name your price."

Shaking my head, I give him a sympathetic smile. My voice is patronizing. "What money? It's all been confiscated by the government."

"I have some hidden," he blurts out.

I lean in a little closer, my voice cracking with savagery. "I said I want your life. And I mean to have it."

Releasing my hold on his face, I surge up from my straddling position and take a quick look around. A huge crowd has formed around us, but thank God... no cops.

The doorman and driver swoop down to help Carrington up. The doorman shoots me an evil look and then implores again, "Please... let me call the cops."

"No police," Luke says as he stands up and swipes the back of his hand over his bloody mouth. More blood pours out of both nostrils. He's a fucking mess.

He shrugs off the grip of the doorman and tells the driver, "I won't need you tonight."

Carrington stumbles toward the lobby doors of his building, hesitating just before going in and giving a quick peek over his shoulder at me. I stand stock still... glaring at him. I want him to know he needs to be looking over his shoulder every day from now on.

He grimaces and disappears inside.

I call Matt as I turn and head down the block to where I parked my car. "I'm heading home," I say as soon as he answers.

"Did you get it done?"

"Yeah... he's a bloody mess but still breathing," I say... all of a sudden feeling exhausted. Bone tired. Heartsick and in no way satisfied from that encounter. "Just tell Macy I'll come see her tomorrow."

I end the call before he can say anything else to me.

It takes me another hour to make it home, thanks to rush-hour traffic. I have to park in a garage two blocks away, and the trudge to my building is grueling. My right hand is throbbing, I have blood sprayed all over my light blue, button-down shirt, and luckily, no one is in the small lobby to see the horror that is Cal Carson.

I want a shower and food, and maybe not in that order, then I just want to sleep for an eternity. The emotional and physical toll of the day is about to put me under.

As soon as I step out of the elevator, I sense her.

Then I see her.

And I don't feel so tired anymore.

She's changed into a pair of jeans and an off-the-shoulder blouse. Stylish heels, trendy bag, and hair and makeup done to perfection.

The. Most. Beautiful. Woman. Ever.

Her eyes rove all over me... taking in the mess that's standing before her.

"Your hand," she says as her eyes flick down.

I hold it up in front of me, seeing that the knuckles are shredded, swollen, and bleeding. I flex my fingers. They're stiff but not broken.

I give her a smile as I walk up to her. She steps back from my door so I can unlock it, then I push it open and indicate for her to precede me in.

Following in her wake, I let the smell of her shampoo fill me up, and suddenly, I'm not so starved anymore. Perhaps I can just subsist off Macy's scent. As I look at her ass swaying before me as she walks into my living room, I don't feel so tired. Maybe I can just subsist off her body as well.

Shaking my head, I throw my keys on the kitchen counter as Macy turns on me. "Get in the shower and get cleaned up. I'll make you something to eat."

I'm grateful.

Grateful she's not mothering me. Or demanding answers. Or in any other way making me doubt what just went down.

Her no-nonsense approach is exactly what I need right now.

I'm clean but still not fed. The soup Macy heated smells delicious, but she made me sit on the couch first so she could bandage my hand.

She nudges my knees apart so she can sit in between them, her ass perched on the edge of my coffee table as she faces me. I'm only wearing a damp towel around my hips and I'm sure she's getting a show when my legs spread, but we're both beyond modesty.

Besides that... sex is the last thing on my mind right now.

Even though I'm sure my wounds are clean from my shower, she insists on gently dabbing peroxide on them, leaning over my hand to concentrate on her work.

"What do I have to do to get my apartment and trust fund back?" she asks me suddenly.

I'm too tired to even startle over the blunt question. "She suspects you had a forced abortion. She wants you to confirm it, and then she wants to use it to bluff your father into a plea deal. If you do that, you get your trust fund back less the original investment plus the apartment."

"I get my life back," she murmurs as she blots my knuckles dry.

I don't respond, because she understands the gist of it. Macy uses four different Band-Aids, one on each knuckle, and I watch her silently as she works.

It pleases me to know that she's never done this for another man. More so because I know that's not just because of circumstance, but really, because she's never cared about another man enough to do this.

It makes me love her more.

"I can't do it," she says as she gives my hand a squeeze and looks up at me.

The immediate disappointment that floods through me is surprising. While I hadn't given much thought to what Macy would do, I'm surprised that my subconscious clearly wanted her to turn on her father. To tell the world what that bastard did to her.

"Why not?" I ask her hesitantly. Neutrally.

"I spent a lot of my life learning how to get past what my parents did to me. I don't want to revisit it. I don't want to go back and think one second about it. I don't want the scrutiny. I've moved past it."

"Have you really?" I ask pointedly.

Because she hasn't.

She's relationship averse.

Afraid of commitment.

Devalues herself.

I could go on and on.

"I've moved past it as best as I could," she says simply, with more determination in her voice than I've heard. "And I'm not running from you, am I?"

Point well taken. But I have to ask. "I guess I don't understand why you don't want a hand in bringing your father down. Granted... he'd still go away for the federal crimes, but it would be because of you. Don't you need that type of justice for closure?"

"I don't," she says and doesn't give me any further elucidation. She just stares at me... silently demanding I accept.

"Okay."

Her eyes flick back and forth over my face for a moment, perhaps making sure I'm being honest in my acceptance. She'll find nothing but truth staring back at her because I will never make Macy do something she doesn't want. It doesn't mean I won't broach it with her again, but I will totally support whatever she wants to do.

"Now," she says as she places one of her hands on each of my knees. "I want to tell you everything... about Luke. And I want you to tell me what happened tonight. I have a feeling it will make me smile."

I can't help but chuckle over her teasing me in the face of the most serious fucking day I've ever had in my life.

"But before we get to that, I need you to know something."

"What is it?"

"I'm not broken. You've learned some things about me today that would freak a lot of men out. You might even be feeling the need to treat me extra gently... afraid I'm too vulnerable." I tilt my head, curious as to where she's going with this. Her blue eyes penetrate me deep. "You need to know I'm not broken, weak, or traumatized, especially when it comes to sex, because of what was done to me. I've taken my experience and shaped it so I have power. I feel in control. I love it now more than I ever have, and that's because of you. This cannot affect our sex life."

"Macy," I say as I lean forward, intent on stopping her little speech. "I don't feel--"

"I'm going to suck your cock now," she interrupts me as her hands slide up my legs, pushing the towel out of the way. "Then I'm going to feed you, and then I'm going to tell you everything that happened to me."

"No," I immediately deny, because after everything that came raining down on Macy today, I'll be damned if I'm going to let her get on her knees in front of me. I should be the one getting down on my knees before her. "Let me--"

"Don't," she says harshly as her fingers dig down into my thighs. "Don't treat me like that. Don't make me feel weak."

I stare at her, warring with the need to make her feel good physically versus the need to make her feel good spiritually.

"Don't make me ashamed of what happened to me," she says quietly. "Don't treat me differently."

Her words rock me hard. My admiration for her grows. My adoration goes deeper. My heart becomes possessed.

She needs to show me this.

She needs to feel whole.

I grip the edges of the towel and pull it apart, my cock springing free and getting harder by the millisecond. She doesn't look down at it but continues to stare at me in challenge even as she scoots off the coffee table and kneels on the floor between my legs.