by Maya Rose
“And you? What are you afraid of?” I keep my gaze unwavering. “That you hated him for nineteen years but it might take him nineteen days to realize he doesn’t want you after all? And then you have no one to blame for your life but yourself. Is that why you’re pretending you don’t want this? To hide that you want it too much in case you fuck it up?”
Her face pales. Not by a whole lot, but enough for me to know I’ve struck gold.
“You sound like you almost care, Mr King.” She’s jeering, but my name on her lips is husky. A pause right before she says it. Hesitant when she says it.
“Is that a yes, Ms Walton?” I’m not even sure who I’m trying to hurt at this point with that reminder. Is Warren going to want to change her name?
But her gaze sharpens. “That’s not my name.”
“Trust me, you want it to be.” I declare, my sharp tone dulling me inside.
“Trust you?” She lets out a scoff of laughter. “Right. Because you’re clearly acting in my best interests.”
Okay, that’s fair. “I’m not. But he is.”
I deliberate whether I want to reveal this card so soon. We’ve tried to keep the extent of Warren’s illness away from the media. Because shareholders would panic if there’s no succession plan in place. Which I thought until a week ago, we did. Fuck, not now. I need to wrap this up. I’m too stupidly aroused. Too interested. In what scares her, thrills her, startles her, hurts her. Every second I spend with her, my curiosity is going up. Along with something else. And I need to put a pin in it.
“He’s dying.” I tell her directly.
She stiffens. Goes still. She’s looking at me, but has this faraway look in her eyes. Godammit, I’m back to not knowing what she’s thinking.
“What does that have to do with me?” She finally asks, blankly.
This was supposed to be a quick pick up. Warren wants to see you. Okay, let’s go. That’s literally how this was supposed to go. Shit. “Your billionaire father dying doesn’t have anything to do with you?”
“My father died the day I was born.” She says flatly.
Why the hell won’t she think about this practically? “So you would much rather be a waitress in a sex club and let strangers feel you up daily, than give him a chance to fix this?”
“I guess so.” She shrugs disinterestedly.
I’m bewildered at her stubborn attitude. But I’ve been dealing with enough of this to know that it’s just a matter of finding the right incentive. Not everybody is wired like me. She might not care what happens to her, but she does have someone else she clearly cares about, by the lengths she is going to keep the treatment money flowing.
“And your mother? What about her? Didn’t they ask for more money last month? Because she needs someone to watch over her all day after they started with the new drug?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Your concern is touching. And not required. Any other weak spot you want to exploit?”
Fuck. Is there really nothing that will change her mind? “You’ll regret it the moment I step out. I would seriously recommend--”
“I heard you, Mr King.” She injects sharply, like she means business. “And I’m fresh out of damns to spare. I would shut the door again but you don’t seem to know what that means. So I’m asking politely. Leave. Me. Alone.” She coolly enunciates each word.
Damn it all, why am I still trying? The part of me that detests failing, wants to see this through. Because what do I tell Warren? She said no, so I left it at that? But the other part is playing tackle with my brain. What am I doing? I tried. I really did, even though I’ve the most to lose. I owed Warren this. But maybe it is too late for him to make amends. He’s just going to have to live with this, whatever time he has left. And somehow, somehow, I have to convince him that it’s for the best. That I’m all he needs. What other option does he have? Donate everything? To hell with her. If she wants to die here, so be it.
“Have it your way, Ms Jenning. Don’t let me keep you from your delightful life.”
I don’t give her a glance as I turn on my heels and exit the apartment, darting towards the elevators as the door thuds shut. Why is my chest so tight? It’s this damn stuffy thug place. I’m about to dive into the elevator, just as the doors open, and two men step out of it. Long hair, but one black and the other brown, giving off a vibe that descends a chill in me. One of them gives me a menacing colorless look, like he doesn’t approve of what he sees. I’m too well dressed for this shithole. This damn suit for Christ’s sake. I came directly after my last meeting, without stopping to think that just this once, maybe it was a good idea to change into something that gives me less of a sore thumb look. I hold his stare. I can easily take them, but I would much rather just get away from this place instead of starting a fight. He looks away first, and then I look ahead while I wait for them to empty the elevator. When I get in and face the hallway, I see the gun tucked in the back of the other guy’s jeans, and there’s now an icicle in my chest threatening to drop any second. I’m trying to shut them out as the doors start closing, but then one of them has to go and ask the other, “She left the club at nine. Bitch should be home by now?”
Shift at the Red Club ends at nine. The second to last entry by the PI on the page with her daily timetable. Before the last entry of Is home by 9.30. My blood freezes, my ears pound. Nope. No. Not my problem. They might not even be talking about her. And even if they are, she’s made her choice. I’ve done all I could. Keep going. I don’t need this.
I don’t fucking need this.
I don’t....FUCK.
When the elevator comes to a stop, I try to pry open the doors manually, even though I know it won’t make them open any faster. Then I’m turning the corner and taking the stairs, three at a time, because in my head, the elevator’s too damn slow. She’ll die or get assaulted here but won’t come with me? Fuck that.
She’s five floors up, but I run three days a week, and work out the rest of the days. I don’t halt till I’m in front of her door, and I’ve barely broken a sweat. This time I don’t knock or ring. I twist the doorknob, hoping it is open. It is. Is that a good or a bad thing? If they’re inside already--
They’re not. But she’s kneeling, ass pushing out, her head inside the underside of the kitchen sink. Relief floods me, intense and immediate, only to be replaced by that visceral pull again, when she curses under her breath, wiggling her perfect-sized round cheeks, as she shifts sideways to get a different angle. God, how is my body getting off on just looking at her? All I want to do is crack her wide open and make her sticky and messy deep inside.
Then she ducks out in reverse, cursing one more time when the top of the cabinet hits her head. “Stupid freaking--”
She stops talking mid-way, her eyes landing on me when she swivels. On my feet, to be precise, because she’s now on all fours, kneeling about three feet away from where I stand. I see the ample curves of her globes spilling from a black bra, and the deep cleft between them. She belongs in a goddamn panic room where no man has access to her. Tracing an invisible line up my body, she lingers right below my belt, before she finally gets to my eyes. She remains in that position, out of shock or something else, who knows, until her tongue parts through the seams of her lips, licking side to side. My cock can feel it. Her tongue fucking it. Christ, my blood can feel it.
“Get up.” I bark at her.
She listens for once, within seconds, as she stands up, lightly rubbing her palms together. “I’m starting to think you have a thing for me, Mr King.” She openly eyes the tell tale evidence at my crotch. No fucking clue why it doesn’t embarrass me. “Or are you not getting any lately?”
She looks like she’s tumbled straight out of a wet dream. Her shorts have shifted lower and the tank top higher, her little belly button tantalizingly on display. I need to desperately jerk off. “Why was the door unlocked?” I demand.
“Because I thought you were finally gone. Clearly, I was wrong.” She answers with an
exasperated look.
Me? She’ll lock the door to keep me out while armed scumbags roam the halls? “You’re coming with me.” I inform her, hoping to God I don’t have to knock her unconscious or something.
She doesn’t respond, but turns to the surface of the kitchen countertop, and grabs something off it. Her phone. Jesus, how old is that thing?
“What I’m doing, is calling 911.” She says, tapping in her passcode to unlock it.
It didn’t scare me then. It doesn’t scare me now. When I go deranged, evidently I go all in. “Call 911. Call the President. Call the fucking UN. But you’re coming with me.”
She pauses with her phone, looking gratifyingly stunned. “What is your problem?” She bristles, finding her voice. “Not used to hearing no from women, Mr--”
My feet close the measly distance separating us, and my hand seizes her hair and yanks hard, my mouth falling on her upturned lips in one fell swoop. I just really needed her to stop talking. Just stop talking. Mission accomplished. Now I should back off. But my tongue goes rogue, wanting more. And it’s damn well taking it. It lunges inside the damp heat of her mouth, and there’s this massive burst of the sweetest flavor that spins my head. Then a sound.
She’s moaning? Fucking hell.
She’s also opening for me, letting me plunder and taste her as hard as I want. And before I can process what is happening here, her tongue seeks mine--smooth as silk, moist, as ravenous as mine is. One hand slides up my waist and back, and grips my vest in a tight fist. The other tries to make do with her palm sitting on my chest, because I still have a criminal hold over that arm from when I grabbed her. My balls ache when I bite one chunky lip. My cock swells to a painful size, hard enough to drill a hole right through my pants, and she moans louder on my lips when she feels it against her pelvis. My hand on her arm drops to her ass, and I squeeze harshly through the shorts, her ass filling my palm like they belong together. She gives a little shudder in response, and my hand goes to loop around her waist. My brain goes to shit when I make contact with the bare skin at her midriff. So. Fucking. Smooth. I kiss her harder, deeper, and for a fiery little thing, her surrender is soft and total, her moans growing louder.
Precum runs down the underside of my dick, right as her leg hitches up my hip and grinds me closer. My palm has somehow ended up under her shirt, on one divine tit. When I squeeze through her bra, she just falls into it. Arching, offering. Alarms blare off in my head. I’m burning with the need to bury myself in her and fill her with me--dick, seed, everything I have. Till she’s marked to her core with me. Till her pussy is dripping with me. I want to eat her cum and feed her mine. Right here in the middle of the world’s smallest kitchen. I’ve fucked a lot--and sex has always been enjoyable, but this, Christ, this is raging madness. All consuming lust. This is not the need to fuck. This is the need to mate. To penetrate and possess. I’ve never had this with any other woman ever. My heart is hammering and my pulse is racing with just the idea of having her. I want her if she’s the last thing I’m allowed before I die. And she’s not interchangeable, faceless, convenient, like the rest of them. It has to be her. Ariel fucking Jenning. No. Ariel Walton. Warren’s teenage daughter. And I really, fucking fanatically, want to look into her beautiful eyes when I ram inside her.
It wakes me up from the stupor I’m in. I shouldn’t want to see her. And I cannot fuck her, for Christ’s sake. No matter how damn badly I want this release. I can’t do this to Warren. Hell, I can’t do this to myself. She might be the reason I have to start all over again. She might cost me everything. How could I forget that?
I snap my mouth away from her lips, but my pathetic fingers are reluctant to part entirely from between the silk of her hair. I watch her pant hard, puffs of air swirling in and out, and I realize I’m right there with her doing the same. Her leg rubs mine as it slowly comes down from my hip, and she’s the one this time who makes a gap between our bodies.
It comes to me then. She kissed me back. She did more than that. Halfway through it, I forgot I was the one to kiss her first. Christ, I wish she hadn’t. I wish she had pushed me away, clocked my balls, anything. Anything to get the blood flowing back to my brain. But now I’m sunk in this moment. What did I just do? I came back for her. Not for Warren. Certainly not for me. For her. What the goddamn fuck is this? Temporary insanity, not driven wholly by lust, or by my gratefulness to a dying man I owe everything to. No--I want her with me because I don’t want to leave her at the mercy of the world. How am I here in what--twenty minutes? Pull your shit together, King. Pull it the fuck together.
“You’re coming with me.” I tell her again when my breath settles, kicking away my wariness. I hope she gives in. Or I hope she doesn’t. I don’t know anymore what I’m hoping.
Perfectly aligned white teeth dig deep into the flesh of her swollen bottom lip, and then they let it go. Her eyes are the color of molten lava as they avidly traverse my face, and the glaze on her face makes her look both freshly kissed and ready to be fucked.
Her hand on my chest slides up to where my heart is playing truant. Her mouth lifts at one corner in a self-satisfied curve at the discovery.
“Have it your way, Mr King.” She says softly, all smug sensuality. “It’s your funeral.”
Finally something we agree on.
Chapter 3
Ariel
◆◆◆
Eli King. In the flesh. Intense blue eyes and decadent sinful voice. Gelled, back-set dark blonde hair curling under his collar, with a carved face built to charm the devil. That tiny scar up on his temple should be an imperfection, but it’s just my luck that it only adds to his appeal, making him seem within reach of dumb mortals. My fingers prickle to touch it, how it fits into the rest of his perfectly formed skin. The pretentious suit he’s wearing should call my contempt, not make my legs jelly at how sumptuously he fills and fits it. Dear God, what is he hiding underneath? That explains the revolving door of women he gets photographed with. Eli King, bachelor extraordinaire, with a penchant for breaking hearts. There’s a freaking column in some magazine dedicated to his flavor of the month. Models and actresses and their kind. My heart almost gave out at the sight of him at my door. In my world. I’ve hated him from afar for ages. Even as I memorized every piece of newspaper fact about him. Asking myself, why is it him and not me with Warren? He’s anywhere Warren Walton is. And everywhere that Warren isn’t. He’s more the face of Walton hotels than Warren himself. And the way Warren talks about him in interviews. Fond. All fatherly affection. Affection that should have been mine. He made it easier for my father to forget me.
A blast of cool from the air conditioner makes me shiver. Shoot. I didn’t take anything with me. Not even my only winter coat. Just followed him out like an idiot, unable to refuse him after he barged into my place, looking determined and...worried. He came back. Why did he come back?
We sit separated from the driver by an opaque glass screen. He shifts abruptly when I shiver again, and starts to take off his jacket. And then he just drops it on my lap, like he might throw money at a beggar.
My first instinct is to reject his charity outright. I don’t need it. I’ve slept out in the streets of New York in January, and the cold doesn’t bother me. But I’m hooked on the raw masculine smell sailing up from that jacket--it’s familiar because it was all up in my business minutes ago when he pulled me close. And I’m high on the heat it coats my thighs with, just lying where he left it. He’s probably been wearing it all day. I want it wrapped around me. Will he want me to return it? It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to keep anything. I put it on without a word, clasp the edges together in my fingers, and breathe in. God, it feels good.
Like that kiss.
My first. With him. Damn it, why did I have to like it and want it and return it instead of pushing him away in hatred and horror and fear?
Men are usually easy to peg. Money or sex, not a lot of variation in what they want. But Eli King...he’s pulling me into un
known territory. He flustered me so much that I forgot to lock my freaking door when he first left. Then he storms back and pulls me to him like I’m his whole world at that moment, his delicious hot mouth ruling my senses, his groans a testament to his own desire. And now he’s staunchly avoiding looking at me in the confines of his luxury car. Then why didn’t he just stay gone? Why did he kiss me and all but carry me out of my apartment, when he clearly has a problem with my entry into his picture perfect life?
The car takes a sharp turn, and I lurch sideways, my free palm flattening on the seat so I don’t inadvertently fall on him. But our shoulders brush anyway, and he flinches away like I’ve burnt him. He’s regretting it. Kissing me? Bringing me with him? Coming to my door? Is he ashamed? He doesn’t want to want someone like me. The thought jolts me out of my fog of lust.
“How did his wife die?” I break the hour long silence. I guess if I’m doing this, now is a good time as any for some answers.
He slowly reels his head around to square a steely blue gaze on me. “Her private jet malfunctioned and crashed south of France.”
“Must have been a pretty solid marriage, if he wants to see his bastard daughter the moment his wife is out of the picture.” I remark dryly.
“It was.” He responds evenly. “Until he met your mother. And then it was one giant mess.”
“At least his wife had someone to blame. What excuse did your mother have for running away with a...what was it they said--a realtor?” It’s a low blow, but I’m not going to let him pin everything on my mother. Two people caused me, not one.
His face morphs, vicious, daggers drawn. “You’re playing with fire, little girl. Is that what you want? To get burnt?”
