by Anna Zaires
I half-expect Marcus to be gone when I come out of the bathroom—after all, he got what he wanted—but he’s there, sitting on my bed in his business attire, looking as if nothing’s happened.
That is, if one ignores the possessive heat in his cool blue eyes as they travel over my short pink robe and the bare legs underneath it.
Holy fuck. Does he want more sex?
With me?
Is this going to be a thing now?
I stop by my closet, eyeing him uncertainly as Mr. Puffs meows from his perch on the top shelf. “So,” I start, ignoring the cat, “about the—”
“I told Wilson to move our reservation by an hour.” Marcus stands up, his tall, large figure making my studio look even smaller. “We’ll make it on time if you don’t take too long to get dressed.”
I gape at him. “You still want to go out to dinner?”
He frowns. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Because you just fucked me ten ways to Sunday without needing to take me anywhere, I want to say, but I choke back the words in time. “No reason,” I mumble instead, grabbing a clean pair of panties from the closet before making my way over to the desk, where the jeans, sweater, and bra I’d been wearing are lying neatly folded, with Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball stretched out on top of them.
Marcus must’ve picked up my clothes from the floor or the bed—or wherever they ended up when he pulled them off me.
By all logic, I should refuse to go to dinner with him. As hot as the sex was, it doesn’t change our incompatibility—nor the fact that he’s already met the woman he might marry. For now, I can still nip this in the bud, put a stop to the madness before I get badly hurt. That would be the rational thing to do, the smart thing, yet I already know I won’t do it.
I want more of Marcus.
I want the madness to continue.
“Give me a sec,” I say breathlessly, and shooing the cats off my desk, I grab my clothes and rush back to the bathroom to get dressed.
31
Marcus
* * *
All three of her cats seem displeased that she’s leaving with me, with the big one meowing loudly as I lead Emma out of the apartment, my palm resting on her lower back.
On the precise spot where she has those alluring dimples.
Fuck, those little indentations are hot—as is everything about her. I was wrong to think that having her a couple of times would quell this craving. If anything, it’s stronger now, as the reality has far surpassed my imagination. Take those sexy dimples at the base of her spine, for example—I’d never fantasized about them, and now I can’t wait to stare at them as I take her from behind… fucking her pussy and her luscious little ass.
To my shock, my cock stirs again, and I force myself to focus on something other than the filthy things I want to do to her.
Like feeding her some decent Greek food.
That’s definitely high on my list of non-filthy activities.
“You’ve fed them, right?” I ask as I usher her into the back seat of the car. “They’ll be okay for tonight?”
She blinks as I climb in beside her and raise the partition between us and Wilson. “The cats? Yes, I fed them as soon as I came home.”
Good. That means she won’t be able to use that as an excuse not to go to my place after dinner. Because I’m not done with her—not by a long shot.
“So, about those books,” she starts again as our car pulls out into traffic. “I meant what I said earlier… I can’t accept them. They’re far too—”
“They’re a gift, Emma, as are the flowers and the scarf.” I keep my tone soft but uncompromising. The books are indeed worth more than her apartment, but I have no intention of taking them back. Having gone through the investigator’s report, I understand what’s behind her fierce self-reliance, and her reaction to the expensive gifts is exactly what I thought it would be.
I suspected she’d see me, if only to return the gifts, and I was right.
“But where did you even get these books?” she asks, frowning. “And how did you know those are my favorite stories?”
I shrug. “You mentioned it on social media at one point.” Actually, it was part of her college admissions essay, which the investigator found when he hacked into her college records. I have read and reread it several times over the past two days, along with the short stories she’d composed for her Creative Writing class.
Turns out, Emma is not only an excellent editor but also a brilliant writer. Her words flow in such a way that the simplest sentences become compelling, the very rhythm of her writing telling its own tale. However, it’s the content of her stories—and the admissions essay—that had kept me glued to the pages.
There’s so much more than meets the eye with my little redhead, so much darkness in her past that I wouldn’t have guessed at. If I was fascinated by her before, I’m doubly so now that I’ve had a glimpse into her mind. A couple of nights to slake my lust won’t be enough, I see that now.
I haven’t processed what that means yet, but I can no longer deny it.
My obsession with Emma Walsh isn’t purely sexual anymore.
“You stalked me on social media?” She sounds appalled.
I make a mental note never to mention the investigator in front of her. “Of course. Isn’t that what it’s for? Why else do you put your life out there for everyone to see?”
“It’s for my friends to see, not strangers.” She bites her lip. “This is bad. I’m going to have to review my privacy settings.”
“That’s a good idea in general,” I say, and I mean it. Though it wouldn’t keep her safe from me, run-of-the-mill stalkers—or nosy reporters who might come sniffing around her as a result of our relationship—won’t be able to access her profile as easily.
She looks out the window, still chewing on her bottom lip, then turns back to look at me again. “Is that how you knew about the scarf? Through my social media? Because I don’t remember mentioning that online, ever.”
I give her a placid smile. “You might want to check the privacy settings on your Amazon wish list.”
She groans and covers her face with her palms. “God, you are a stalker.”
You have no idea. I’ve known this about myself—that I’m more ruthless, more determined than most—but until I met her, all my energy had been directed at my career. To succeed, I’ve done things others might’ve balked at, and I have zero regrets. I’ve always been this way, driven and remorseless, and if not for my second-grade teacher, Mr. Bond, encouraging my aptitude for math, I might’ve chosen to build my fortune in the criminal underworld instead of Wall Street.
It would’ve been a more logical route to wealth for a kid like me.
Either way, I want Emma the way I once wanted my first billion: with a single-minded intensity that lets nothing stand in my way. I’m glad she texted me when she did, giving me this opening—because I wouldn’t have been able to stay away from her much longer.
“What can I say? I’m a man who goes after what he wants,” I say lightly, as if it’s all a joke. But from the look Emma gives me when she lowers her hands, I know she’s taking my words at face value.
Smart girl.
“Why me?” she demands bluntly. “Why don’t you go after this Emmeline? Isn’t she like your dream woman?”
“Not at the moment.” I haven’t spared Emmeline a single thought in the past two days—nor in the past week, come to think of it. We still have our date on the calendar for when she’ll be in New York on her business trip, but I can’t work up so much as a smidgeon of enthusiasm at the thought.
If anything, the idea of going out to dinner with Emmeline feels like an unpleasant obligation.
“So you haven’t seen her since the first night we met?” Emma asks, her gray eyes trained intently on my face, and I shake my head.
“No. I haven’t.” And I won’t, I realize with a peculiar tightness in my chest—not as long as this obsession with Emma continues. Not only d
o I not have the slightest inclination to do so, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of the women.
Emma and I might’ve just started dating, but I’d destroy any man who comes near her—which means that for the duration of whatever this is between us, I can’t see anyone else either.
A hypocrite is one thing I’m not.
Emma’s tense expression eases, but then her eyes narrow. “What about other women? Has your matchmaker set you up with anyone else?”
If I were Ashton or most other guys I know, I might’ve balked at the question—because it sounds a lot like a demand for exclusivity, a serious step so early on in the relationship. But given what I’ve just decided, I answer calmly, “No. There’s no one else.”
“Oh.” She stares at me. “Okay, then.”
“What about you?” I ask, though I already know the answer. “Are you seeing the guy you meant to text the other night?”
An adorable flush covers her freckled cheeks. “Um, no. That is… I might’ve fibbed about that.”
“Did you?” I knew this, of course—her dating status was the first thing my investigator checked on—but I’m enjoying her discomfort too much to let it go. “You mean, you meant to text me at three in the morning?”
She glares at me. “It was a mistake, all right? I was talking to my cat, and my finger pressed ‘send’ accidentally. I didn’t mean to do it.”
“I see.” I reach over and pick up her hand. Toying with her delicate fingers, I ask, “Did your cat choose my number and type out that ‘hey?’”
More delicious color floods her face, and her hand curls into a tiny fist in my grip. “Maybe. I’m not sure what happened. Just let it be, okay?”
A dark smile tugs at my lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? How about I tell you what happened?” I lean in, my voice deepening as I murmur, “There you were, in the middle of the night, all alone in your bed and unable to sleep. Maybe you’d read a sexy story in the evening… or maybe, just maybe, you’d had a dream.” Her hand twitches in my grasp, and my smile grows more wicked. “Ah, yes, it was a dream. Was I in it, kitten? What was I doing to you? Fucking you? Licking your sweet pussy? Fingering your tight little asshole? Or maybe all of the above?”
As I speak, her color heightens further, and a visible pulse appears in her neck. “Hush,” she hisses, her eyes darting to the partition separating us from Wilson. “He’ll hear you.”
“Then tell me if I’m right.” I bring her hand to my mouth and brush her knuckles back and forth across my lips. “Was I what you were dreaming about that night? Was I—”
“Yes!” She’s now flushed all over, her breathing fast and uneven as she yanks her hand away. “You’re right. Okay? You’re right. Happy now?”
Fuck. Me. Hearing her admit this is like having Viagra injected straight into my cock. I’m so hard it’s as if I hadn’t had sex in years, instead of mere minutes.
If it weren’t for the fact that I promised Emma dinner, I’d tell Wilson to take us to my penthouse, so I could go straight for my dessert.
“Yes,” I say hoarsely when I’m able to talk again. “Very happy.”
And as she turns to stare out the window, her cheeks bright red, I take deep breaths, trying to cool the raging fire in my blood.
32
Emma
* * *
“Oh my God, this is so good,” I moan around a mouthful of cheese that was on fire just a few moments ago. I’d never tried halloumi before, and I’d been seriously missing out. Not only was it fun to watch the waiter set flame to the block of cheese as he brought it out, but the result is beyond delicious—rich, salty, a little crispy on the outside, and gooey-melty on the inside.
Probably a million calories in each bite, but so worth it.
“It’s one of my favorite things here,” Marcus says huskily, his blue eyes intent on my face, and a fresh wave of color washes over me as I realize that my near-orgasmic reaction to the food is turning him on again.
The man is a sex fiend, clearly—and so am I when I’m around him.
Still, after he got that embarrassing confession out of me, we’d somehow managed a normal conversation for the rest of the ride, with me babbling about my job at the bookstore and Marcus attentively listening. I don’t know if he was really interested or merely indulging me, but I can’t deny that it felt good to have his undivided attention. And I still have it—despite at least two women in this place doing their best to get him to notice them.
I have no idea if they know who he is or if they’re just responding to his commanding good looks, but either way, I don’t like it.
To his credit, Marcus seems oblivious to their existence—even when the supermodel-hot blonde purposefully drops her purse in front of his chair, so she can bend over and show off her tiny, toned ass in her skimpy dress. I gape at her, stunned by her brazenness, but Marcus doesn’t so much as spare her a glance. Nor does he look at the gorgeous brunette two tables over, who’s already paraded in front of our table twice, flipping her long, straight locks over her shoulder each time and smiling at Marcus like he’s Thor reincarnated.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask, stifling the urge to trip up the brunette when she walks by our table yet again, swaying her slim hips like she’s on a catwalk. “To this restaurant, I mean.”
He nods, cutting into his own portion of the halloumi. “It’s only a few blocks from my place, so I’m here at least once a month.”
That explains it. I bet those two have found out that a billionaire frequents this restaurant, and they’re here specifically to meet him. Maybe they’ve even bribed a waiter to learn about Marcus’s reservation.
Why else would the blonde be sitting at a table all by herself? Women—especially gorgeous women—don’t go to nice, sit-down restaurants on their own. The brunette, at least, appears to be with a friend—who, come to think of it, is glaring at me as if she’d like to ask the waiter to set me on fire.
I look away, the last bite of cheese turning bitter in my mouth as I realize she probably thinks I’m like her friend—a gold digger.
Eeenie, meenie, miney, moe, everyone knows your mom’s a ho!
I reach for my glass of water with an unsteady hand, the childish taunt ringing in my ears as if it’s been minutes instead of years since I’ve heard it.
“Emma.” A large, warm palm covers my free hand. “Are you okay?”
I nod and force a smile to my face. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Maybe because you suddenly looked like someone spit in your plate,” Marcus says dryly, withdrawing his hand.
“No, I just…” I take a sip of water and set the glass down. “People here know who you are, don’t they?”
“Ah.” His gaze clears, as if he’s solved a mystery. “Yes, they do—at least the owner and the staff. Is that what’s bothering you? You’re worried some of them might think you’re with me for my money?”
I flinch instinctively. Marcus is either eerily perceptive, or my hang-ups are more obvious than I thought. Unless… “Do you think I’m with you for your money?” I blurt, horrified. “Because I promise you, it’s not at all what—”
“No, of course not.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t think that at all.”
“Oh, okay.” I chew on my lip, studying his closed-off expression. “Are you sure? Because I understand why you’d be concerned, and I can assure you that I would never—”
“I know, kitten.” His hard face softening, he reaches across the table to cover my hand again. “I know you would never use me like that.”
Use me.
I stare at him, the air in my lungs thickening until it feels like I’m sucking in water.
User. Whore. Sociopath. Manipulative bitch.
“How do you know?” My voice sounds as choked as I feel, all the epithets hurled at my mother playing in my mind on a loop. “What makes you so sure?”
“You.” His gaze is steady on my face as his thumb rubs a circle on the inside of my
wrist. “The way you are.”
“But you don’t really know me. We’ve just met and—”
“I know enough.”
I stare at him, the pressure in my lungs intensifying. His trust is both heart-warming and crushing. Because he doesn’t know—not really. If he knew the full truth, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this possibility.
I certainly wouldn’t in his shoes.
Shakily, I withdraw my hand from his hold. “My mother… she was a user,” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him this, but I do.
If he walks away, I want it to be now, before I can fall any deeper under his spell.
His gaze turns inscrutable. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that she used people—all people, but especially men who were interested in her.” I swallow the growing knot in my throat. “Once, when I was nine, she slept with my science teacher so he wouldn’t give me a bad grade on a test. And before you ask—no, she didn’t really care about my grades. She just wanted to show a decent report card to her parents—my grandparents—so they’d stop accusing her of neglecting me while she partied all over the city, dragging me from one boyfriend’s place to another’s whenever she got bored.”
Marcus’s expression doesn’t change, so I plow on, determined to make him understand. “They said she had an antisocial personality disorder, lacked empathy and all that. A sociopath, but not a particularly smart one, you know? Because the smart ones get far in life, and she didn’t—though she wasn’t hampered by anything like morals and ethics. The only person she cared about was herself, and she did whatever it took to get her way—lying, cheating, stealing… and always, always using people.”
“You included?” he asks quietly, and I shrug, though my throat feels even tighter.
“I suppose, though I was too young to be of much use to her. She did like to dress me up and parade me in front of her boyfriends—kind of like a pet. Mostly, though, she ignored me—but that’s not the point.” I drag in a breath. “Look, Marcus, the reason why I’m telling you this is—”
