Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  “Thank you, Bev. It’s good to see you, too, Rupert. This is Peyton MacKenzie. He owns Swill, the—”

  “Oh, man, we love that place,” Rupert gushes and shakes my hand.

  Then Bev’s eyes tear up a bit, and she dabs at them with a heavily worn tissue balled up in her hand. “I’m going to miss our old gal.”

  Talia hugs her. “Me, too. So much.”

  “Anyway, we have to get home and let the dogs out.” Rupert claps his hands together.

  I look at them and Talia, waiting for a punch line to the pop reference.

  “They really do have to let the dogs out,” Talia tells me. “They own a kennel.”

  Right. This is country life, where bands play Sinatra and Talking Heads at funerals and we have to let the dogs out.

  “Makes sense,” I say as they depart.

  “Thanks for coming!” Talia calls loudly. “Let’s do this again!” She grimaces. “Not this. I’m sorry. You know I was referring to seeing you two again.”

  Bev waves at her.

  Again, I should be allowed to laugh.

  “What the hell is wrong with me today?” she whispers. “I sound like an idiot every time someone tries to talk to me. These inappropriate things fly out of my mouth.”

  “You don’t sound like an idiot when you’re talking to me, and you look fantastic. You’re perfectly fuckable. Now maybe that’s inappropriate to say here, but it’s true. I’d do you right here with The Frankies singing ‘Burning Down the House.’”

  Talia pauses and listens to the lyrics. “I think Lois changed the song list. That is definitely a Lois song.”

  “You should add funeral parties to your business card for T & A Services.”

  “You shut up,” she smarts back, but she also laughs, and finally her real smile comes out.

  This is us.

  I want to tell her to look at us. We’re great together.

  Talia

  “ALL I SEE ARE SQUIGGLY lines,” I say, looking at the monitor next to me. I’m lying on the examination table with my shirt pulled up and electrodes stuck to my chest.

  My cardiologist moves the sticky pads around, under and over my breasts. The pads are cold and gooey, but his hands are warm as he fusses with the pads and wires.

  “Beautiful squiggly lines are what we want,” he says. “Your heart looks excellent. It’s perfect.”

  I leave his office reassured and less harried than when Aleska dropped me off.

  I need to call my sister for a ride home, but first I stop at the nurses’ station to schedule my next six-month checkup. Then I walk in a daze, relieved at my results. I’m a little less afraid of my heart malfunctioning, and I think I’m actually starting to believe my doctor when he says my heart is perfect.

  Despite losing Norma, there’s something in the air that feels right. That thought lingers with me as I walk through the hospital lobby and the sliding glass doors at the entrance—and right into Peyton.

  “Are you all right?” he demands.

  I’m surprised to see him. “Yes. I was here for a checkup. I’m fine. Nothing serious. What are you doing here?”

  “Checkups are serious.” He looks me over. “I ran into Aleska at the gym, and she said you were here. Surprise, I’m your ride. What’s this stuff on your chest?”

  He brushes my collar aside and picks some of the sticky residue left over from the electrode pad adhesives.

  “The doctor put those there for my echocardiogram. He removes them after my echo, but I usually find the stray ones when I take a shower. I don’t think he is comfortable peeling the ones off my boobs.”

  “Well, I’m perfectly comfortable removing them.” That’s exactly what he does as we stand in the entrance passageway with people coming and going. Peyton peels two pads off my chest and rips an errant pad that was hiding partially under my bra.

  “Ow. Careful. How did you even see that one?”

  “If you let me feel you up in public like this, I can find anything.”

  “For this mauling, you should at least buy me lunch.”

  “That was my intention all along.”

  Our suggestive conversation gets a glare from a woman passing by with a walker. “Not in my day!” she exclaims, shuffling away in a huff.

  “I don’t mean to be braggadocious,” I say, “but my heart is pumping like a pro, and my doctor even showed me a photo from the surgery! My heart doesn’t look red at all. It’s purple and black and gooey. No one tells you how slimy everything looks.” I’m so excited after seeing that photo that I had to tell someone, and Peyton happens to be the one here.

  “That’s hot. Sign me up.”

  “Oh, you.”

  Harmony’s threat and my decision to stop spending time with Peyton seems like a long time ago … I’m not giving either much thought. This is turning into a great day, so I let myself get swept away by Peyton’s presence and accept his lunch offer.

  He takes me to a sandwich shop in Woodstock that I like, and we get our food to go. Without me asking, he drives us to the Pickwick estate. This is Peyton being attentive and caring, and I soak it up. I am selfish, eager to be with him, knowing I’m breaking Harmony’s demand and sending mixed messages to Peyton. It’s not like I chased after him. He’s the one who hunted me down at the hospital. I’m good at rationalizing my behavior.

  We sit on the grassy hill overlooking the grand home and farmland that is growing wild with tall, flowering grasses and weeds everywhere. Peyton found us a flat patch of grass and covered it with a beach towel that Finn left inside the truck’s extended cab. They’ve been exploring lake beaches and streams, just as fathers and sons should do. I wish I could have been with them.

  I know they don’t take Harmony with them, but sometimes I envy her just the same. To be the mother of Peyton’s child, to share this boy with him, sounds wonderful.

  I fill him in on every single renovation I would do to the house, and how I’d add in the restaurant to the first floor with glassed-in sunroom extensions. I go on and on about the wood restoration, the kitchen makeover essentials, and the fixtures and furniture I would put in the guest rooms. Peyton listens, not a single joke, so I continue with explaining the variety of lettuces and vegetables I would grow. This is the part where Marko was visibly absent from our conversations, and I could tell his mind was elsewhere when I was talking, but Peyton is a captive audience.

  I expect him to lecture me about the challenges or make fun of the goats I want to raise and the artisanal cheeses I’d like to serve and sell. It’s the first time I’ve been able to talk openly to another person, other than Norma, about my dreams without getting the friendly pushback of negativity.

  “This is nice,” I say, pushing the paper lunch bags aside and steal a glance at Peyton. He looks delicious in faded jeans that hug his long, muscular legs in all the right places.

  He leans back on his elbows and surveys the picturesque scenery, the hills in the distance and the valley below. “It’s very nice.” He puts his hands behind his head and gazes up at the sky.

  I’m entranced by his strong, tan arms. I know those arms so well—how they feel to the touch, how they feel around me.

  “You’re staring.” He slowly turns his head toward me.

  “You’re nice to look at. I never said you weren’t.”

  He glances at my mouth, then back up at my eyes. The fire in his eyes is everything I’m feeling inside. Lust. I can’t hide what my body and brain are saying.

  I stare longingly at his thick thighs and his groin where the denim is so faded and soft from hundreds of washings that I know what it would feel like if I put my palm on it and feel him grow hard underneath. His T-shirt inches up from his waistband so I can see his taut, flat abdomen and a hint of what’s beneath the zipper.

  I feel like breaking rules. I want to be with Peyton for this hour or for however long it will last, and I’m willing to defy Harmony.

  He looks as if he’s reading my thoughts. He knows.
r />   The urge to touch him, to run my hand over his hard groin and across his chest is giving me a rush of pulsating heat between my legs. The image of slipping my fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans and feeling him get turned on is making me think the kind of dirty thoughts that will get me in trouble if this keeps up. My brain and body don’t care. I’ve convinced myself that I’m not doing anything that could possibly harm Finn, because no one knows Peyton and I are here.

  This friendly picnic lunch is too much for my libido. I’m past the point of trying to hide this blatant wantonness. My nipples are hard peaks through my bra and white blouse, and Peyton knows it.

  He’s up in a beat, pulling my head to his mouth while slowly guiding me down to my back. Then he has my blouse open and my bra unclasped, his hands on my breasts as a warm breeze caresses my half-naked body. He shifts his weight to cover me as he undoes his jeans, and I wiggle out of mine.

  My hands are greedily groping him. They don’t know where to go first. They want to be everywhere, gripping his broad shoulders, sliding up his torso so I can feel the curve and firmness of every muscle. But my hands go right to his underwear. I tug it down aggressively as if it offends me. He keeps kissing me deeply through all of our urgent maneuverings.

  When I stroke him, there’s a low rumbling from deep within his chest, like an animal awakening. He growls. I return his ferocious kisses, biting his lip and stroking him hard. That low, guttural sound is the only language he’s capable of at the moment. I understand that language. It controls us.

  Peyton moves one of my legs up onto his shoulder and perches himself above me as I rub the tip of his cock between my legs. I taunt him with the wetness, going in circles, then rubbing up and down as he struggles to open a condom package.

  He rips the foil with his teeth then slides the condom on quickly. He jerks my hand away so he can thrust into me fast and hard. I’ve lost my position of power.

  My legs are thrown back, propped up against Peyton’s arms, as he continues to thrust forcefully into me. There are more aggressive kisses and love bites, but he’s concentrating on fucking me like a wild animal, speaking his own language of starved, furious need.

  His face changes fluidly through emotions, of man and beast, anger and desire, longing and hunger. As he gets control of himself and finds his rhythm, his eyes soften when he looks at me.

  I run my fingertips over his lips, and he bites them. Still an animal. Still not talking, no words about me giving in to him and breaking my will to stay away from him. I am a hypocrite.

  My breath catches when a streak of sunlight crosses his face, making his gray eyes glitter like silver. I am hopelessly weak when I’m with him.

  He’s thrusting harder and faster, and all I can think is that I don’t want him to leave Hera to expand his career in Los Angeles. I don’t want him to leave me.

  His expression alters from a frantic need to the tense-filled moment of a climax, and finally to a state of euphoria. I’m entranced by his ever-changing façade and how beautiful he looks. It’s only then I notice how hard I’m gripping him, digging into his back so he won’t leave.

  “You didn’t come,” he says.

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He pulls out of me and slips his fingers in, stroking until I let a moan escape. He increases the tempo and pressure as he dips his head down to my breasts, working his tongue over my nipples, teasing them with firm and gentle sucks, sending rippling waves of arousal throughout my body. I let my arms fall to my sides and enjoy this man pleasuring every part of me.

  When he begins a well-choreographed dance between my legs with his tongue, I lose the ability to move. I’m suspended in the oblivion of my own climax. I hear a deep moan of satisfaction. It’s me.

  He doesn’t let me orgasm slowly. He works his thumb and tongue together until I’m in an internal frenzy, on the brink of madness. When I reach that wonderful place of surrender, my body shudders with a ferocious gratification and my mind fills with all the romantic and lustful images of Peyton. I smile and lie quietly, spent, enjoying the potent aftershocks of our lovemaking, and I can feel that stupid grin plastered on my face.

  Peyton chuckles and kisses my cheek.

  I open my eyes to his splendid smile.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to wake up like this every morning?” he asks.

  “I would die. Literally. If we did this every morning, I’d never make it to work. I’d lose my clients, my career. I’d go broke and starve to death.”

  “Nice try, but it’s an unbelievably lame excuse.”

  “Excuse for what?”

  “Excuse for not saying what you really want. For not admitting that I’m the man you want to be with. Not that Marko piece of shit you were trying to mold into a fiancé, and not Adam Knight.”

  “I’ve never denied that we have a great physical connection. But we’ve been through this. You’re not an option for me because my life is here, in this town, and you’ve made your career opportunity with Boudoir Enterprises your priority.”

  “Bourdain. And that one was intentional.”

  “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, because you have Finn to consider. I can say that your idea and mine of doing what’s best are not the same. We’re not even in the same ball game.”

  “Ballpark,” he snaps.

  “Or ball game! Like we’re on opposing teams instead of both playing for the Mets.”

  “Yankees! Christ, if you’re going to put us on a New York team, it has to be the Yankees.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “No, I’m being pissed off. I know what you’re trying to say, but you’re wrong about me. You’re wrong about us.”

  We get dressed in silence.

  Peyton guzzles the remains of his water, then slams the bottle down on the hood of his truck. The plastic doesn’t have the same effect as if it were an empty whiskey bottle, and it seems to bother him that he has nothing else to throw, break, or kick to show his anger.

  I stuff our paper wrappers and garbage in the takeout bags and toss them in the back of his truck.

  Pickwick, ever-present in my heart, stands silent. I take one last look, lovingly imagining it as mine, renovated to its magnificent glory with a grand porch full of guests enjoying the sunset and mingling with each other over cocktails. Peyton is in that image. No matter how unrealistic it is to put him in my fantasy, he’s there, admiring the views of the lush farmland and green hilltops with me.

  I’m pulled from my daydream when a car comes speeding up the long road to the estate. It’s Harmony. Even her car looks angry as it grinds its way over the dirt road, spewing gravel and pebbles in its path and producing plumes of dust billowing from behind.

  “Shit,” Peyton mutters.

  Harmony parks next to his truck and jumps out of the car, walking toward us with a purposeful stride she owns so well.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks with irritation.

  “Looking for you!” Her eyes flit to mine for a second, and I’m pretty sure I see her irises turn a solid black, a distinct tell of a demon. If looks could kill, this would be the one to do me in. I’m just glad we’re fully clothed and the beach towel and all evidence of our sex picnic are out of sight.

  “You found me,” Peyton says. “How did you even know I was up here? And where is Finn? I thought you were taking him to my house.”

  “I did. You weren’t there—”

  “He has a key. We had an agreement. He gets to stay alone for an hour in the afternoon at my house the same way he does at yours when you’re at work. And then I leave work early and meet him.”

  “Except you’re not at work! And I can’t find Finn! I thought, as a new father, you’d be more enthusiastic and make a bigger effort to be there!”

  “What the hell are you saying?” Peyton shouts. “How can you not know where he is if you just dropped him off? I’ll go there now. I had no idea you were going t
o drop him off this early.”

  He takes out his phone and calls Finn.

  “Don’t yell at me!” Harmony shakes her fists like she’s ready for a fight. Then she turns toward me. “You broke our deal!”

  I may be intimidated by Harmony, but I’m not going to stand by and let her talk down to me like I’m a child. She just said she lost her son; shouldn’t that be the discussion here?

  “Dammit,” Peyton says, clearly frustrated that Finn isn’t answering his phone. Then he shouts, “What deal?” looking at me, then at Harmony.

  “I don’t want your girlfriend du jour hanging around Finn. He has enough going on in his life with losing his grandfather and trying to get to know you.”

  “Don’t talk about Talia like that,” Peyton says, taking a step closer to Harmony. “You’re being hysterical. Finn is a street-smart kid, who’s somewhere around my house. You just came up here to give Talia a hard time.”

  “Firstly,” I chime in, “Peyton, don’t belittle her by calling her hysterical. I hate when men say things like that to mothers who are worried about their kids. It’s sexist.”

  Both Peyton and Harmony look surprised by my statement.

  “And secondly,” I continue, “I’m not hanging out with Finn and Peyton. Not since you gave me your little notice. We were here having lunch, discussing business and about to leave. I’m not a homewrecker. It was an innocent lunch.”

  My little lie gets a single, raised eyebrow from Peyton.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you said to Talia,” Peyton says to Harmony angrily. “Did Finn have his keys with him?”

  “Yes, of course. I watched him go inside. Do you really think I’d drop him off anywhere and just drive away?”

  “It’s not anywhere; it’s my home, and it’s his home, too. Now, let’s be a little more civil about this. Leave Talia out of it and don’t talk to her behind my back. Did you threaten her?” he demands as he tries to call Finn again.

  “No,” I volunteer.

  Harmony’s eyes leave mine and look at Peyton’s phone. Is she feeling shame for what she said to me and guilt for not knowing where her son is?