Billion Dollar Enemy

by Olivia Hayle

  And then he’s inside me.

  “Shit,” he growls. “You feel so good.”

  I want to echo the compliment—he’s stretching me out in the most delicious way—but then he starts to move and speech eludes me completely.

  Cole grasps my ankles and puts them on his shoulders. His fingers dig into my thighs, using me as leverage to push himself deeper.

  “Touch yourself,” he orders. “I want to feel you come around me.”

  And that’s why I haven’t been able to forget the night at the hotel room. He’d demanded that I show him where I wanted to be touched, and he’d wanted to see it, to learn. To touch me that way himself.

  I reach down and circle my clit in the way that always brings me to the edge. It’s easy—I’m already close—and Cole looks down, eyes transfixed.

  It empowers me. I circle again, and again, and he’s groaning now. “Fuck. I’m close.”

  He bends me over until I’m nearly double, and I’m gasping, I can’t breathe, he’s so deep. My hand is still working. I’m teetering on the edge, dangerously close to losing control. The abyss is beckoning.

  And then he rolls his hips while inside me and I’m lost, to pleasure, to him. To us.

  Somewhere through the climatic fog I hear Cole groan loudly. He jerks into me, hands gripping my thighs.

  Seconds pass. Minutes.

  My legs are lowered gently to the bed as he stands, tying off the condom. I admire his backside as he heads to the bathroom. It’s all I have the energy for. My limbs feel loose and heavy. Moving is beyond me at the moment, possibly for all future.

  He laughs at me when he returns. “Are you all right?”

  “Much better than all right.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He sits down on the bed, propping up a few pillows. Making himself comfortable. It reminds me of when I was sick and woke up to him reading on the other side of my bed.

  A bit flustered, I turn over on my stomach. His gaze dips down to caress my body, and I revel in it, feeling powerfully feminine. He might only have seven percent body fat, but he certainly doesn’t mind mine.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” he echoes. “Let me guess. You’re going to say that this was a one-time thing?”

  I try a smug smile of my own. “No. I was going to discuss ground rules.”

  “Rules? You really know how to talk dirty, Holland.”

  “Hah.” But… interesting. “Would you want me to?”

  One of his eyebrows rises. Naked, with his just-fucked hair, he looks too good to be true. Which he kind of is.

  “Absolutely.” He glances over at my stack of books. “I’ve never slept with a writer before. Will you use similes? Metaphors?”

  “Tons,” I tell him. “A lot of alliteration.”

  “You’re turning me on already.”

  I reach for my pillow and slide my arms underneath it. “Ground rules. No one knows we’re sleeping together.”

  “Who would I tell?”

  “Especially not Karli, or anyone in your business.”

  He looks at me like that’s obvious. “I don’t gossip.”

  “Didn’t imagine you did, but it needed to be said. Too much is at stake,” I say. Like my business. My reputation. My heart, my head warns, but I wave it away. Just because I’ve never had a friends-with-benefits situation before doesn’t mean I can’t.

  Cole leans over, running a hand along my back. I close my eyes at the pleasure of the simple touch. “What we do in bed won’t interfere with anything outside of it. I can keep the two separate if you can.”

  “Good,” I murmur. “Because outside of bed, I still hate you.”

  His laugh is rough. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “So we’re agreed. This is just sex.”

  “Just sex,” he agrees. “Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached sex.”

  I glance at his chest, his shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw. The man is sex on a stick, and I’m sure he’s used to this kind of situation. Not to mention the glittering amusement in his eyes when we spar. The curve of his smile, sly and teasing. Enemy or not, I’d have to be a fool to throw that away.

  “Hot-as-hell sex,” I correct softly.

  His answering grin is all masculine pride. “You’re coming over to mine on Saturday.”

  “Oh?” I say, reaching out to run a hand over his chest. “I am?”

  “Definitely.” He reaches out to flip me over, his body moving over mine. “We’ve only just begun.”

  12

  Cole

  Nick slaps me on the shoulder. It’s his normal greeting, has been since we were in our early twenties. I slap him back. “Man, it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you around.”

  “Sorry about that. Work has been… well, a lot.”

  “Is your new development set to start?”

  “Yeah, within a few weeks,” I say, taking a sip of my whiskey. Skye would have my head for phrasing it that way, but I know better than explaining the business deal I made with Between the Pages to Nick. He’d tell me all the ways it was a terrible decision.

  He nods, leaning back in the booth. “Ready to lose on Saturday?”

  “Hah, you don’t stand a chance. I’m not losing three sets in a row.” I lean back, draping my arm over the back of the empty chair next to me. “Blair might swing by toward the end. Promised her a game too. That okay?”

  Nick nods, even though his face tightens. For some reason, he’s never gotten along with my little sister. “Sure.”

  The circles under his eyes look deeper than usual, even if he’s otherwise the picture of health. “Business booming?”

  He snorts. “You could say that, yes.”

  I recognize the wolfish glint in his eyes. “What failing company are you taking over now?”

  “NDA,” he says. “I’ll tell you in a week.”

  I grin. Seattle society has never known what to make of Nicholas Park. Brilliantly wealthy, but very obviously new money. Talented and efficient, but with a penchant for ruthlessness.

  We’d been classmates in college and had stuck together ever since, both of us drawn to winning and accomplishment like moths to a flame.

  “The number of enemies you make in a month must be hard to keep track of,” I say. “Do you keep a list? A little black book?”

  He smirks. “Of course. I’ll make a copy for you in the event of my death.”

  “So I can track down your murderer?”

  “Yes. I have complete faith in you.”

  I snort. “I don’t. But I’ll hire the best private detective that money can buy.”

  Nick tips his glass to me. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  In my pocket, my phone vibrates. It’s usually something I ignore when I’m with family or friends, considering how many hours of the day I work.

  “Give me a moment.”

  He nods and looks out over the hotel bar. Another one of mine, but not Legacy, thank God. I haven’t been back there since that first night.

  It’s Skye. She’s sent me a photo, no text, of the crowded storage room at Between the Pages. On the wall is a small dartboard with the nearly unintelligible logo of Porter Development taped over it.

  Arrows pepper it.

  I grin at my phone.

  Cole Porter: Not a single arrow is in the bull’s-eye. There’s room for improvement here.

  Her answer is immediate—like she was waiting by the phone.

  Skye Holland: It’s hard to aim when I’m overcome with anger.

  Cole Porter: If I’m to be vandalized, at least try to do it properly.

  It’s easy to picture her face, amused and annoyed in equal measure. Asshole, she’s saying to herself right now.

  Nick is shaking his head at me. “You’re smiling at your phone? Don’t tell me it’s Blair.”

  “No.” I lean back in the booth, looking at him. Nick has always given it to me straight. Sometimes brutally so. “Remember the girl I told you about?”
/>   “The one who worked in the building you’re demolishing?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about her? No, don’t tell me. You’ve started sleeping together.”

  I shrug. “Yeah. It’s casual, though.”

  “To you, maybe,” he warns. “It always starts casual.”

  “Mutually agreed casual, actually. She still can’t stand me on a personal level.”

  Nick chuckles darkly. “I like her already. So what? The two of you are having hate sex?”

  “Yeah.” From my side there isn’t much hate at all. She regularly likes to remind me of hers, though. Nick isn’t the only one talented at making enemies at work.

  “Perfect setup, man. It’ll blow up in your face, but enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “There’s a risk, but it’s minimal,” I say.

  Nick grins. “When was the last time you did casual?”

  “It’s been a while,” I admit. “But once upon a time it was the only thing I did.”

  He raises a finger, warning in his eyes. Whatever he’s about to say, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want my ex dragged into whatever psychoanalyst babble he’s going to attempt.

  To my surprise, he doesn’t. “Enjoy,” Nick says, “but you guys are heading toward a deadline. Don’t forget she’s eventually going to cut contact with you completely.”

  My whiskey tastes sour. “Oh, I won’t.”

  Our evening doesn’t run long. There was a time when Nick and I would’ve been out till late, both of us chasing shots and skirts, but that’s over a decade gone.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t dry your tears on Saturday when you lose,” he says.

  I repeat the gesture. “Tennis is a gentleman’s sport, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

  Nick’s answering smile tells me that I’m going to have to fight for victory—just the way I like it. Nothing feels good when it’s unearned.

  Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the text she sent me, but I dial Skye’s number as soon as I’m alone.

  “Cole?”

  “Hey,” I say. “I have a dartboard at home.”

  Her voice is half-amused, half-annoyed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You need to practice aim.”

  “Rude,” she says. “You’re right, but still.”

  “Are you busy? If not, come over and practice.”

  A pause. “Is this a booty call, Porter?”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “Casual sex usually involves some form of planning, yeah. It doesn’t just happen spontaneously.”

  There’s silence on the other line. It’s the first time we’ve spoken since the evening at hers, two days ago. We’d agreed to it then—she was the one who set the strict guidelines—but perhaps she’s changed her mind. Backed out of the whole thing. For all of her refreshing feistiness and attitude, she’s surprisingly innocent at heart.

  “Skye?”

  “I’ll come over,” she says. “Give me half an hour.”

  “I’ll send a car.”

  She snorts. “Under no circumstances will you do that. I’ll drive myself.”

  I find myself smiling a long time after I’ve hung up, thinking about her soft voice laced with steel as she refused my offer. Independent Skye Holland in action, indeed.

  Forty-five minutes later the bell of the elevator rings out in my hallway, and there she is in all her glory.

  “You’re late,” I call.

  “Only by fifteen minutes.” The sound of boots being unzipped, a jacket tossed to the ground. “It’s a school night. I can’t stay late.”

  “Are you telling me to hurry?”

  “Yes.”

  “A master never hurries.” I grab a bottle out of the wine cooler and open it with an easy move. Skye walks into my kitchen on bare feet, wearing a short-sleeved sundress. Her brown hair is loose over her shoulders and gleaming. I’ve always thought she’s pretty, but under the dimmed lights, her face is arresting. Dainty nose. Sparkling eyes. Temptingly curved mouth.

  I clear my throat. “Wine?”

  “Yes, please.” She takes a sip, looking up at me through dark lashes. It’s a brazen look—confident in its ability to seduce.

  “I’m glad you came over.”

  “I told you I would.”

  I lean back against the counter, sweeping my eyes over her form, stopping at her neck, her cleavage, her hips. It’s completely inappropriate, which is the point. She shifts her feet from under my scrutiny. “Well,” I say finally. “I had my doubts.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Is this the first casual relationship you’ve had?”

  She ignores me pointedly, walking around the concrete kitchen island. “Do you ever cook here?”

  “Sometimes. You’re evading the question.”

  Skye sits down on one of the high chairs and looks around. I wonder what she thinks of my place—of the stark, minimalist design. It’s a world away from her apartment, with its knickknacks and lack of bookcases and complete hominess.

  “You must hate my place,” she says, as if she’s realizing the same difference.

  “Not at all.” If anything, it reminds me of my old apartment. Of the house I grew up in. Of family and warmth.

  “What instructions did you give your interior designer? Luxury Buddhism?”

  I chuckle. “I didn’t give any. The place was furnished when I bought it.” Not to mention I’d been in a rush, not wanting to stay one more night in the place I’d lived with my ex.

  I put my glass down and walk around the counter to where she’s sitting. Her dress has ridden up and I put a hand on her thigh, smoothing over soft skin. “Is this the first time you’ve had an arrangement like ours? Explicitly casual?”

  Her lips open, invitingly full, even as her brown eyes shutter. “Perhaps,” she says. “I don’t usually sleep with men I’m also trying to win a business deal against.”

  “Oh, you don’t?”

  “No. You’re kind of my first in that regard.”

  I put a hand over my heart. “Honored.”

  “You should be.” She pulls away from me, sliding off the chair and continuing her perusal of my kitchen. I sit back, watching as she stops at my stove, my microwave. At the fridge.

  “You don’t have any fridge magnets,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a home without any.”

  I put a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. “Well-spotted.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, how does anyone get theirs?”

  “Hmm.” She runs a hand over the handle and open the fridge. It winks emptily back at her. A few bottles of juice, some fruit. There’s rarely food in it. I’m just not home enough.

  “This is sad, Porter.” She holds up a half-opened jar of pickles, sitting alone on a shelf. “This is what you live off? I doubt it.”

  There’s no way to hide my smile now. She’s stalling, and it’s adorable. “A pickle a day, you know.”

  “This is all wrong.” She closes my fridge and moves on to the dining-room table. There’s a bowl of something on a side table—are those decorative lemons?—and she grabs one. “Fake fruit. This is how the rich live?”

  “Tell you what, I’ve never noticed those before.”

  Her mouth turns into a frown. “No wonder you don’t have any food in your fridge. You don’t know how to spot it.”

  I’m grinning wide now, reaching her in a few quick strides. “If you want a tour of this place, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Will you provide commentary?”

  “Not sure I know enough about this place to do that, as you’ve so brilliantly illustrated.”

  She slips her hand in mine. The movement is effortless, like we’ve done it before, her skin warm against mine. “Lead the way.”

  I pull her through the dining room, heading to the living room and the large central fireplace. “Keep all hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” I say. “And no distracting the dri
ver.”

  She tugs at my hand, pulling me to a stop in front of a framed picture on the wall. It’s my mom, sister and me at Blair’s graduation. I’m wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a suit, looking, as Blair so lovingly put it, “Like a complete jackass.”

  “This is your family?”

  I rub my neck. “Yeah.”

  “Your sister is gorgeous.”

  What’s the appropriate response to that? Thanks? “Uh-huh,” I say, wondering if she’ll comment on anything else. This is… well, it’s the kind of conversation that’s decidedly not part of a casual sexual relationship.

  But she just gives me a wide smile. “Come on, tour operator. I want to see the bedroom.”

  “Wow. All right, but that’s kind of forward, Holland.”

  Her eyes widen. “But—”

  “No, no, what the lady wants, the lady gets. Even if you’re making me feel cheap.” I pull her forward, her laughter trailing behind us.

  “Not my intention!”

  “Deny it all you want.”

  She steps past me to the bedroom, laughter dying on her lips when she spots the giant bed. Another feature that was already here when I bought it, but not one I’ve complained about.

  Her hand slips out of mine as she walks around to the nightstand, finding the book on top of the small pile of reading material. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face from view. My hand aches to feel it through my fingers.

  “Of course you want to see what I’m reading.”

  She smiles absentmindedly, turning it over to read the back. “The History of Aviation?”

  “Yes.” I reach up to undo my tie, tossing it aside. “You’re stalling again.”

  “Maybe I’m just evaluating you. Just because I’m a booty call doesn’t mean I’m a done deal, you know.”

  “Evaluating me based on my reading habits?”

  She nods, looking through the rest of the pile. I run a hand through my hair and watch in agonized silence as she bites her lip. “Oh,” she says, the sound a soft exhale. “This book is excellent.”

  I tug at the collar of my shirt. “This is excruciating.”

  “You’re not used to being judged.” Her voice is silky, the same tone she used at the hotel all those weeks ago. Confident and seductive. And seeing her stand so close to my bed…