The Colors of Ash-Chapter Twenty-one

I feel so at peace, pressed into him. I can feel the pounding of his heart. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to be here…like this. And I’m sure he will correct me if I’m not supposed to be lying on his chest. His arms are wrapped around me like he’s protecting me from something. Himself?

I could just go to sleep, right here. I wonder how long he will leave us like this? I also feel the hardness of his cock pressed into my back. He’s quiet, and I feel like something is wrong. He said I wasn’t allowed to be pleasured—to come. But everything he did, I’m sure was to make me come. Will I be punished…again?

“Sub, please sit up. I need to get away,” he says, like I’m disgusting. It’s so hard to read him. One minute he’s lost in a world of lust and sex. The next, he can’t get away from me fast enough.

He steps out of the tub and pulls a towel from the rack, wrapping it low around his waist. He then walks over to the vanity and braces himself. His head is down, and I can hear him mumbling something. He’s definitely upset about something.

“Sir, is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?”

He turns abruptly and stares at me with cold eyes. He’s not behind them. What I see is someone completely different. He’s also still breathing hard.

“Why did you come?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“I…I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“No! No, I don’t want you to enjoy what I do to you. You have no control.”

“I’m…I’m sorry. I will do better, sir.”

He turns around and stares at himself in the mirror. I watch the fisting of his palms. With no warning, his closed fist punches the vanity, and he roars like a wild animal. Something is wrong with him. He reacts like he’s in pain. I don’t know if I should run, or go to him. The water is getting cold, and I’m shivering. But I’m too afraid to speak.

“It’s late. We need to go to bed. Please stand,” he says, not looking at me. I stand, and he turns, walking towards me. Taking another towel from the rack, he wraps me and then carries me out of the tub and into his room. I’m expecting him to take me to my room. Instead, he walks over to the other side of his bed where I see a large, white round pillow. It resembles a dog bed, but much fancier.

“This is where you will sleep.” Slowly, he kneels to his knees and puts me down on the fuzzy pillow. It’s soft, filled with down feathers. He pulls off the towel and then covers me with a plush blanket. “Sleep. Tomorrow will be here soon.” I cozy down and watch him remove his towel and climb into his bed. I wonder if this is still part of the aftercare.

Though I feel completely exhausted, I lie awake, listening to the sound of Ash falling asleep. A gentle slumber comes from up above. My eyes begin to feel heavy and I’m just about to fall asleep when Ash begins moaning in his sleep.

“No. Stop it. Please, Pippa.”

Pippa?

I quietly sit up and see him trying to move like he’s being held down.

“Please. Please just this one time,” he begs in his sleep. I reach out to touch him when he suddenly sits up and grabs my arm. “Pippa,” he shouts at me. Then, he jumps back and looks at me. “Don’t touch me, ever,” he says and then moves far to the other side of the bed. I’m not sure if he was talking to me, or to…Pippa.

* * *

The sun shining through a window wakes me. Am I allowed to get up, or does he wake me? Slowly, I rise and peer over his bed. He’s not there, and the bed is made. What time is it? I can’t believe I didn’t hear him. I sit up and look around the room. It’s very masculine, with dark wood and peppercorn-painted walls. The bedding is dark, velvet mahogany, and so are the drapes that are now open.

The smell of food from downstairs wafts in, bacon and sweet pastries. Is he downstairs, cooking breakfast? I look for something to put on. Then I remember the robe in the bathroom. I get up and quietly pad to the bathroom, finding it on a hook behind the door. Before putting it on, I need to use the toilet. As soon as I begin to pee, the pain hits me. “Ah,” I whisper. I thought he was going to give me some…ointment, or something.

I carefully pat myself dry, flush the toilet, and wash my hands. I then wrap myself up in the robe and walk towards the door. I slowly crack it open. I hear classical piano music coming from downstairs. I slowly walk down the stairs, glancing around for him. The music is coming from a speaker in the corner.

I follow the smell into the kitchen and find a lady preparing food. She glances up at me. “Good morning, Miss McIntire. Please, take a seat, and I’ll have your breakfast ready.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss…”

“Ava.”

“Miss Ava. It’s very kind of you to make me something. Can I help?”

“No Miss, you may not. I have my orders from Mr. Sinclair. You are to sit and wait for your breakfast.”

I pull out a chair and slowly sit down. “Will Mr. Sinclair be eating breakfast with us?”

“Us? Mr. Sinclair eats with no one. And I already ate.”

“Is Mr. Sinclair here?”

“No, he isn’t. He’s out on his morning run. He’ll be eating his breakfast out on the patio when he returns.”

“Oh,” I say, and squeeze the top of the robe. If I would have known someone else was here, I would have put some clothes on. She probably thinks I’m some one-night stand.

“Here you are,” she says, setting a complete meal of pancakes, bacon, and juice in front of me.

“Thank you,” I tell her and dig into my pancakes. “It’s delicious.”

“You’re welcome. Just set the dishes in the sink, and I’ll clean them when I return.”

“Oh, I can wash them.”

“No, Miss McIntire. You will have your orders when Mr. Sinclair returns,” she says and leaves the kitchen.

She knows?

I finish my breakfast and place the dishes in the sink, giving them a rinse at least. I walk out to the great room and look out the wall of windows. It’s absolutely gorgeous up here. Walking over to the shelves, I look at some of the art displayed. Nothing I would know anything about, but expensive, I’m sure.

I then move over to a bookshelf; my fingers trace the edges of the titles. Most are old and look to be classics. My finger stops on one, Treasure Island. The cover looks tattered like it’s been read several times. Is this one of Ash’s favorite books when he was little? I know it’s old, but still a classic. I pull it out, imagining a young Ash holding this very same book. Spending nights under the blankets with a flashlight, getting in one more chapter before sleep.

I open the cover, and a picture falls to the floor. I scoop down and pick it up. It’s a picture of Ash when he was young, around sixteen. He’s holding a young child— a boy maybe two years old. The child has his eyes. Ash is smiling in this picture. I’ve never seen him smile. At least not one that looks like this. Most of his smiles are laced with sardonic undertones. But this smile says something else. Love. Is this child his brother? Where’s he at now?

I study the picture some more, wanting to capture his look of innocence. A time when life was different for him. Before he became this...well, I’m still trying to figure it out. The baby is laughing, his small hands on Ash’s cheeks. You can tell he truly cares for this baby.

“What are you doing?”

I drop the picture and turn to find Ash behind me, sweaty and wearing running shorts. He rushes over and swipes up the picture, yanking the book from my hand and placing the picture back inside before slamming the book shut.

“Never touch…what isn’t yours,” he says, and storms away.

***

The Colors of Ash © 2024 Gina A. Jones rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.