True North (Compass series Book 4) Read online

  Four months ago, Slade Lewis got to fulfill his wildest, long-repressed BDSM fantasies during a one-night stand. Since then, getting more has been the only thing on his mind.

  When Slade manages to earn the keys to Reyes Walter’s kinky kingdom, he finds himself face-to-face with none other than Pressly Allwyn, the pearl-bedecked love of his life whom he pushed into divorce six years ago.

  Now she’s back, and the fetish he was afraid would drive them apart instead draws them together. They indulge in their common kink together, but past hurts and old insecurities complicate any relationship outside their erotic exploits. Caught between the worlds of hot-button politics and even hotter bedroom games, Pressly and Slade will have to decide how far they’re willing to go for a second chance at happily ever after.

  For Christa, thank you for making this book better on its own terms, couldn’t have done it without you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  Other Books by Tamsen

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ‡

  Six Years Earlier

  “Yes, Madame Secretary. Thank you so much. I’m looking forward to working with you. Have a good evening.”

  I hang up the phone and collapse into my desk chair after having paced my way through an hour-long conversation with the freshly named Secretary of HUD. And, not coincidentally, the woman who’s going to be my new boss.

  Just like that, I’m on my way.

  No. Not “just like that.” That makes it sound easy. Doesn’t account for the four years I busted my ass as an undergrad at West Virginia University, forsaking everything but my studies and any law-related extracurriculars I could cram into my week. Doesn’t reflect the three years I locked myself in the law library at GW. Or the five I slaved away in the community organizing department of the mayor’s office before I decided I couldn’t eat ramen and live with roommates forever so I could make a dent in my student loans. Or the eight I’ve spent on K Street, clawing my way up the ranks of Bennett, Alexander & Associates. Or the hundreds of cocktail parties, political fundraisers, and ass-kissing opportunities that made me miserable.

  But I’m in. I’d been slightly dismayed when Myra Vazquez was named Secretary of HUD—that’s really what I’ve been gunning for my entire career—but not shocked. I have to admit, grudgingly, that she’s a good choice. And now I have the next best thing: Principal Deputy Assistant Secretary for the Office of Public and Indian Housing. Hopefully a waypoint on my journey to the cabinet.

  I should feel victorious, and I do. I’ve worked hard for this, sacrificed, and it’s paid off. Goddamn is my name going to look good next to that green and blue seal on my business cards, and I’m going to feel like a big man strutting down those hallways, having myriad staffers at my disposal. It’s going to be awesome. So awesome I can taste the power in my mouth.

  I can’t wait to tell Pressly. Except…

  My pretty wife is waiting downstairs, no doubt sitting on the couch with her feet tucked up next to her, her blonde hair twisted into a messy bun, maybe working on the fundraising gala she’s putting together for next month, watching TV, or on the phone with her parents.

  Thoughts of Ma and Pa Allwyn make the dread that had been budding in my stomach burst into full bloom. Pressly will be happy for me, I have no doubt, as will Ma Allwyn. Pa’s always thought Pressly was wasted on me, and he’s probably right. Regardless, since the moment I met her at a Capitol Hill cocktail party a well-meaning buddy of mine dragged me to, there’s been nothing in this world that gives me a thrill as much as Pressly’s approval. It’s one of the few things that makes me feel like a success: a sweet smile that shows her perfectly white teeth, her bright blue eyes shining with pride, laudatory words shaped by her Deep-South aristocratic drawl.

  And I’ve wrecked it all. On purpose.

  I lever out of my desk chair, tuck my cell back in my pocket, and drag my feet across the Persian rug Press got me for my birthday last year. So fucking thoughtful, my wife. The words are sour in my mind as I make my way down the stairs. My wife.

  There she is, cross-legged on the couch, her laptop perched on her knees while she leafs through a thick binder that has fabric and stationery samples spilling out the edges. When she hears me walk into the room, she looks up, a guarded expression on her face that I’ve put there over the past couple of years.

  “I—”

  Her professionally shaped brows go up in a silent question.

  “That was Secretary Vazquez.”

  I don’t have to explain who that is. Pressly knows the power players in DC as well as I do. Better. Because that’s how she was raised—to be a political wife, an asset to whichever Republican candidate lucky enough to get Pa Allwyn’s blessing. God knows he hadn’t given it to me, but I married his little girl anyway. A year after I met her, and I’ve never looked at another woman. Except to scream them down to humiliated tears.

  “And?”

  “She’s asked me to be the Principal Deputy Assistant Secretary for the Office of Public and Indian Housing.” It’s a long, stupid title, but one I’m honored to have. I’ve thought about it so much since Vazquez got her appointment that it rolls off my tongue with ease.

  Pressly meets my announcement with a flash of a smile before she tames it into an edgy nod. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  If this had happened in the early days of our marriage, she’d be launching herself off the couch and throwing her full weight at me. Wrapping her legs around my waist and kissing me until I couldn’t breathe. Making me giddy with her infectious enthusiasm for my accomplishment, my unquestionable success. I can picture it in my mind and ache for the loss of something that’s never going to happen.

  “Thank you.” My acceptance is as stiff as my posture, and I look away from her and her heartfelt, if restrained, felicitations. Add that sinking, sickening feeling to my frothy elation over my professional victory and I’m surprised I haven’t puked all over the floor.

  That’s when it happens. The thing I’ve been waiting for, the words I’ve been expecting for a long time.

  “Slade, I’m sorry to do this today, but there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I want…” A ripple in her throat as she swallows and a pursing of her slightly too-wide mouth. “I want a divorce.”

  I’ve heard it a million times in my head, have played this moment over and over in fits of self-loathing. Planned for it, prepared for it, desperately desired it. And yet now that it’s here, my heart still drops to the floor and shatters into a million ugly pieces. I don’t fake surprise because I won’t insult her that way. I’ve been driving her toward this, practically shoving her into it.

  Hate me. Be
hurt by my feigned indifference and crave the intimacy I’ve been withholding from you. Feel betrayed because I’m not the man you thought. Just don’t…don’t be disgusted by me. And I hope you’re getting out of this marriage before I do any lasting damage. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—to keep you safe.

  “Of course. If it’s okay with you, I’ll set up a meeting with Sheldon Nazario.”

  She blinks at me, and her lips part, surprise and grief marring her pretty features when I mention Sheldon, a superstar of family law and a good friend of her family. Of her father, in particular. They’re friends from Pa Allwyn’s days as Mississippi’s head of the Republican National Committee. Had she expected me to fight? Hoped I would? If I were a weaker man, I would. I’d get down on my knees and put my head in her lap, beg her forgiveness and confess: I’m a monster, Pressly. But I love you. I’ve been driving you away so I wouldn’t ruin you. I’m a selfish fuck, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Please don’t go. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I’ll be better for you. I’ll change for you.

  But I’m stronger than that. I’ve tried to change, put my considerable drive into it, but the thoughts, the voices, the desires—they won’t stop. And I can’t anymore. I love her too much to keep her here, trapped in a marriage to a man who’s barely human. Who has nothing to offer a woman like her. I wish I could tell her, explain it. But what would she do, my unfailingly optimistic wife?

  Laugh and ruffle my hair. Probably kiss me and shake her head. “Don’t be silly, Slade. You’re a good man. I love you.”

  She wouldn’t understand, and it would be years until I could work up the nerve again. This is my shot. So I stand there, even as her chin trembles and her eyes brim with tears. Her fingers weave together in her lap, and her knuckles turn white as she wrenches them. From how it makes my stomach feel, she might as well be mangling my insides.

  “Yeah,” she finally chokes out, unshed tears making her voice hitch. “Shelly’s very good.”

  I nod. Nazario’s the best, and I’ll make sure he knows to let Pressly walk away from this with whatever she wants. She can have everything—the house, the money, all of it. Because what will it matter when she’s gone? A man doesn’t need any possessions to be a misanthropic, ruthless, cold-blooded workaholic.

  Even though I’ve accomplished my goal, done what I meant to do, I feel like a failure. Have to swallow down my own anguish and heartbreak and stave off the regret and the apologies. Instead, I say, “He’s the best,” and turn on my heel to head back to my office on the second floor, pretending not to hear Pressly’s sobbing behind me.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  I rake a hand through my hair as I stare at the numbers mocking me from my screen. Columbus, another housing authority that’s a fucking mess. Because this is what I need to deal with. I thought I’d be able to affect change from behind the assistant secretary’s desk, maybe make the world a better place. Or at least a more equitable one. That’s what HUD is for, right? And public housing in particular? Evening out the playing field so people born into shit circumstances have half a chance of making good in this lifetime. God knows my family could’ve used the help when I was growing up.

  But all I seem to do is put out fires and get twisted up in red tape. Maybe I’ll hand this one off to Cooper to deal with. She’s more than capable. And if she’s not…

  I find the bridge of my nose with pinched fingers and rub. The only light on in my office is the one on my desk, and the green-hooded lamp isn’t really enough to work by. The hands of the old-fashioned clock sitting underneath it tell me it’s two o’clock in the morning and I should give it up for the day. Especially since my mind isn’t focusing on the information in front of me. Nope, it’s somewhere else entirely.

  It’s been months.

  Months of wondering what she meant. Months of wondering if I’d ever get to find out. Months of picking up the phone and getting halfway through dialing her number and then hanging up again. Because I can’t call her.

  Can I?

  No.

  She thinks I’m an asshole. And she’d be right. But an asshole she was willing to fuck. No, wait, that doesn’t sound right. Now I’m imagining fucking her in the ass.

  Fuck all, Slade, get your shit together.

  But if I’m not going to think about what it might be like to fuck her up the ass, I still can’t help hearing her words echo in my head. Her standing there, all small and bossy and sexy as hell, hand on her canted hip, counting off her conditions on her fingers. And then she’d said it.

  “Here’s your etiquette lesson for the evening, Slade: There are people who are into that shit. Find them and mind-fuck them stupid, but don’t you dare get your rocks off with people who don’t know your MO.”

  Those are the words I haven’t been able to get out of my head. Especially those eight in the middle: There are people who are into that shit. I hadn’t let myself get distracted at the time because I’d been far more interested in getting inside her than having some kind of fucking fireside chat, but afterward it had been all I could think about. I’ve turned those words over and over in my head, wondering if I heard her correctly, but it’s not like she stuttered.

  All I’ve wanted to do since then is call her and ask: What the hell were you talking about? While she was giving her presentation on the state of the housing authority, on my flight back to DC, when I’d gone back to the office the next day, and every day since, I’ve wanted to know. India Goddamn Burke and her troublemaking mouth. Her hot as hell, plump and parted, glossed lips. And the sex had been awesome. The only thing that could’ve made it better was if I could’ve made her cry with my words instead of my fists.

  I’d done it once before in a ridiculously inappropriate setting—I’d insulted and embarrassed her in front of her colleagues, broke down her walls until tears had seeped out from behind that polished-stone exterior. I’d said horrible and untrue things to her then, but when it was just the two of us, she’d made it clear saying those words would be unacceptable. So I hadn’t. No one ever told me to stop before. But she did, so I had.

  In my head, I said all the things I was thinking, but it would’ve been better out loud. To see her in tears. Watch the humiliation creep into her face in the form of a pink and then bright red blush. Provoke tears that would slick down her cheeks so I could lick them right off her face, taste her gorgeous shame.

  And there goes my cock again, getting rock-hard in my pants thinking about having India Goddamn Burke. Crying again. On her knees or on her back again. Hitting her again. And hell had that felt awesome. I wouldn’t have done it. If she hadn’t asked. But she’d begged and I couldn’t stop myself. Even though you’re not supposed to hit girls. I may be a world-class asshole, but I’m not abusive. I learned that much from my father.

  Where I grew up, so many people were scrambling to survive, and there were more than a couple of women who sported a black eye or finger-shaped bruises on their necks at the grocery store while they counted out change to pay for their meager provisions. My dad made it clear that was unacceptable. You don’t hit girls. Ever. But maybe the rules can be tweaked for girls who want to be hit?

  In the pale light of the early morning, while she was still asleep, I’d pulled down the sheet to look at the marks I’d made. They’d made me want to fuck her all over again.

  I suspect if I’d grabbed her and rolled her toward me, she would’ve been willing to go at it one last time before we had to get ourselves together for the rest of the day. Before we had to cover up the feral marks we’d made on each other’s bodies with the civilized veneer of expensive suits, hiding evidence of exactly what savages we really are. Filthy, brutish beasts.

  But when I’d looked at her, soft and still in slumber, a voice in the back of my head sounded, the one I hadn’t heard a whole lot since the divorce.

  Let her sleep. You wore her out and she’s got a big day tomorrow.

  So I’d let her be. Rolled
over and gone back to sleep. The next time I’d awoken, she’d been gone.

  The appearance of that rusty old voice might also explain the unfortunate infatuation I’ve developed with India. Yeah, I’d always found her attractive. She’s beautiful, polished, and—despite what I may have said to her in the past—one of the smartest, most meticulous people in the industry. Not to mention being tough as nails. So, yeah, hot stuff.

  I’d fantasized before about bending her over a desk, shoving up the skirt of one of those expensive suits she wears, and slamming into her over and over while she said my name instead of all those stats and figures that roll off her tongue so easily. But that had been a casual interest, one I’d forget about when I wasn’t in contact with her. This obsession is more likely the result of India being the first person I’ve had sex with since Pressly left.

  Six. Fucking. Years.

  Or not, which is the point. So many dates with my left hand and some soap or lube or lotion, whatever was handy. Mostly in a fit of self-loathing self-abuse after I’d berated some woman or other to tears while picturing my ex-wife at my feet.

  Now is not the time to get all prissy-ass melancholy. Now is the time to wrap up this report and get on with my life. And absolutely not call India Burke. Especially since I’ll be seeing her in less than a week at the forum on housing authority receiverships. My cock hardens at the thought and I slam my laptop shut. There’s a bottle of lube and a hand towel with my name on it waiting for me at home, not to mention a half-full bottle of vodka. Don’t want to keep them waiting.

  *

  The fluttering in my stomach is downright embarrassing. I rarely get nervous. And why would I? Everything that surrounds me is under my control, so what is there to be nervous about? Sure there are some issues that crop up at the office that are bigger than I am and those gnaw at me. Like this fucking bill looming over my head. But in my personal life…anxiety? No. That is not a thing that happens to me. Except these—butterflies? Fuck, no, do I have fucking butterflies. It’s…I don’t know, something more manly than butterflies. Which is just about anything. Moths. Wasps. Bats. Yeah, bats.