by Maya Rose
Lips pressed. Jaw grinding. Eyes icier than the freaking Arctic tundra. And even though a part of me was waiting for it, to see it actually happen is a wondrous thing. The meaning spreads through me, igniting a restless path from my thumping heart to my pining core. He cares. He actually freaking cares. Nobody has ever cared before. And it unnerves the shit out of me.
Then his lips curve, lifting in a slow sneer, his blue gaze having worked the ripples out of it. “I may not be a great conversationalist, baby girl, but I can spot a bluff with my eyes closed.”
I’m both scared and fascinated by the savviness that is this man. “I’m not--”
“Me.” He cuts in, his fingers wrapping around my hair and jerking my face up. My breath trips on his peppery scent, and my lips hurt at how close his mouth suddenly is, but just out of reach. “I’m the one you want owning that soft, tight pussy, princess. I’m the only one you want that hurt from. So lying about this is not going to fly. You know as well as I do that you’re not going to settle for anyone else to fuck.”
Damn that confidence. That conceited look, like he knows exactly what pushes my buttons and what my boundaries are. Of all the men in the world, why does it have to be him that warps my insides and keeps me hanging on the edge of stability? Why is it him that I am pulled to, like a moth to a flame? So I push him away until he releases his hold on my hair, freeing me. I push him because in less than a week, he’s indelibly a part of my reality--giving me both pain and relief at his whims. I push him, because agony or ecstasy, I’m starting to covet anything he gives me. I push him because if I don’t, it proves him right, and if he’s right, where does that leave me? Exactly where it left mom. A victim of her own weaknesses.
Then I remember what he told me before he kissed me. I tried, but I couldn’t. It’s a shot in the dark, considering his reputation, but if there’s at least one beautiful woman he couldn’t...
His eyes on me narrow when I tip my chin in defiance.
“Maybe. Maybe I won’t settle. But then neither will you, will you Mr King?”
Chapter 12
Eli
◆◆◆
Stop staring at the goddamn water. Drink it. Just fucking drink it.
The glass is halfway to my lips before I smash it back on the surface of the kitchen counter, walking away and sinking my ass into the living room couch instead.
A virgin. And I’m the only man to ever taste her warm, thick juices. Sweet as fucking sin. Naturally my body is choosing to die of thirst over losing her cum from my mouth. Fuck the universe for giving me a crash course in how sex should feel like without sex even happening. Oxygen depriving. Bone melting. Inescapably riveting. Galaxies away from my staple of meaningless good-enough sex that is meant to be purely an outlet. Our bodies attuned to each other in a connection that knocked me off my fucking feet. Why else did I have that immutable urge to stare into her whiskey colored eyes when she unloaded into my mouth? Christ, that face. Those keening sounds. Pussy wet for me. The way her skin warmed and trembled under my touch. Her lips chanting my name like I’m the only thing on her mind. That lust in her submissive gaze. Like I could tie her up, edge her ruthlessly till she breaks, then fuck her raw—and she would love it. She was right. After all of that, how does a man settle for anything less? Fuck. Fuck.
She’s trouble. The kind that comes wrapped in sultry desires and seductive promises, with an artlessness that makes you forget that at the core, she’s just another woman. Adept at taking. Then taking off when there’s nothing left to take. Leave you empty and mangled, the end of a sad joke. And what did I do? Admitted to her that I’m insecure. Showed her that all she needs to do is flash me those bedroom eyes and I’ll capitulate.
I turn to eye the room door she banged shut behind her, after making her exit with a flourish. While I nurse my blue balls, unwilling to jack off because I want to remember this stabbing pain. Remember that this is how I end up if I start anything with her. Hoping this Pavlovian conditioning is enough to stop me the next time I even think of touching her.
I’m staring at the door so fiercely that I’m startled when it suddenly hurls open and there she is. First simply watching me sitting on the couch for four or five seconds. Then, “I’m hungry.”
Her beauty terrifies me. It’s not fair. It’s so fucking not fair that a woman flusters me wearing a T-shirt and a skirt from Target. Even the boots are gone. “I’ll order in. What do you want to eat?”
The tiniest frown tags her brow. “Fried chicken. But I want to cook it.”
The cooking. The damn cooking. Where did she learn to cook like that? Hell if I haven’t been starving myself during the days this week, my mouth watering in anticipation of what I might find in the fridge at night. Fuck that shit. “There’s no need for that. Just tell me where you want it from and I--”
“I said I want to cook it myself.” She repeats obstinately.
“And I said--”
“I’m allergic to ginger, cashews, pineapples, a couple of spices, and bread unless it’s toasted or baked. You can’t take almonds, berries, pepper, and fish unless it’s smoked. We both don’t like beef. Between the two of us, we’ve got half the freaking food world off-limits. So if it’s all the same to you, Mr King, I want to cook what we eat. And yes, I said we. You may commence your freak out hissy fit now.”
Cheeky little shit. I’m stumped. None of this is public knowledge. That can only mean one thing. Scotty remembers all this crap. And she made the effort to find out. The snide comment is right there on my tongue. You don’t need to worry about what I eat, Ms Jenning. Instead, my taste buds fixate on fried chicken, and my hand opens the notes app on my iPhone, and holds it out for her to come and get it. “Make a list of what you need. I’ll have Xavier pick it up.”
She pries the phone from my hand deftly with two fingers, a zing running up my arm when her fingers brush my palm. But her brow dips in unaffected concentration for the next few minutes as she types standing up. The big head, King. That’s where the blood needs to go.
“What now?” She asks, returning it back to me when she’s done, remaining in front of me, her slim waist at my eyeline. “Should I go back to my room like a good little girl?”
Goddamn I want to fuck that mouth. “You’re free to be where you want to be inside the house. But don’t open the blinds or go out on to the patio. Don’t go outside without me. No calling or talking to anyone without running it by me first. Even Scotty.”
She glares, “So I’m under house arrest.”
“For your own goddamn safety.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She licks her lips, her fingers lightly skimming the band on her wrist. “So we’re living together indefinitely--and you get to do whatever and go wherever you want and I have all these restrictions?”
Is she wary of living with me? Goddammit, was I rough with her before? There’s that rancor mucking with the rhythm of my heart again, aimed towards every fuckface in her life who robbed her of a childhood. Necessitated her growing up with cynicism and fear. I thought it was only men. But it looks like even her mother didn’t spare her. I inhale to ignore these thoughts. She seemed just fine with everything we did.
“You think this is a vacation for me, princess? A dozen reporters saw me carry you out of that nursing home. Now I can’t go anywhere without them tracking me like bloodhounds. I’m stuck here with you instead of being back at the office because you couldn’t listen to one simple fucking instruction.”
“Good. And unless you’re prepared to follow through, don’t call me princess.”
Christ fucking Almighty. “Your mouth doesn’t quit, does it?”
A brow lifts. “I guess you’ll never find out.” Hips twirling, she sashays away like a queen, back to her room.
I divert all my energy into not imagining her gagging on some asswipe’s dick. All I need to focus on is what Warren wants until she’s off my hands. Just how inept did he think I was
today if his teenage daughter had to make my case? Is that what she wants? Impress him or show me down? Let her fuck someone else. Let her fuck the lot of them. Maybe that’s the only way out of this for me.
After I text Xavier her list and instructions to pick up some more things, I camp in one of the other two bedrooms. The one right next to hers. Because...fuck because. Just because. I look around, and it’s spruced up like one of our hotel rooms, because I have someone come and clean the whole place every week. But did she like her room? Am I going nuts? What do I care whether she liked her room?
Settling at the edge of the bed, I pore over my email. It’s blown up with both work, and inane requests for dirt on everything that went down. Don’t people have anything else to do? I spam the latter ones without even opening them, but I’ve barely answered three work ones when my neck gets uncomfortable. No laptop or desktop until Xavier--
Unheralded rumbling thunder suddenly fills the house, pulling my gaze to the closed and covered windows. It can be a bright house, if not for oddly rainy October days like these in New York. Another loud one sounds, and this one is followed by Ariel running straight into my room, pillow clutched over her chest, grinding to an abrupt halt in front of me, her eyes widened in...terror?
“What is it?” I ask sharply, sloping my head to scan the area behind her, like I’m going to find someone coming after her. But nope, just her.
“CanIsitherewithyou?” She questions, in one rambling breath, right as another big one rolls through. She squeezes the life out of that pillow and scuttles over, next to me on the bed, and now we’re sitting on a bed and respiration is impossible without inhaling her scent.
Her gaze keeps darting nervously to the window in anticipation of more sounds, and how about that--Ms Sassy Pants is afraid of thunder. An unwanted wave of tenderness overshadows my amusement. “What did you do when you were living alone?”
“Hid under the blanket in the tub in the bathroom.” She answers absently, eyes trained on the window, until they zone in on my face in realization. She could have still done that. But she didn’t. She came here. To me. And that’s all it takes now to stroke my ego.
She fidgets and starts to get up. “I can--”
“Do you want to watch some TV?” What--no! Let her go and deal with her own problems, dickwad!
“Okay.” She masks her initial look of wonder and says quickly, and goddamn if she doesn’t seem relieved at the prospect of staying right here on my bed.
I cock my eyes to the headboard. “You might as well get comfortable.” Insane. You’re fucking insane.
Her eyes recon the area gingerly this time. But when a noisy cracking boom filters inside in the middle of it, she scoots over to the opposite side of the bed, frees the professionally tucked sheet, and lets her outstretched legs disappear under it.
You do remember she’s not wearing any panties because you tore them, right? Fantastic.
I walk over to grab the remote from under the TV and switch it on, flicking through the channels. News is all I ever watch. But I’m guessing she’s not--
“Wait. Go back to the last one.” She says, and when I do...what the...
Creepy girl, with long hair obscuring her face, emerging from a well. Man in some studio, captivated by the image, starting to walk towards the screen of his TV. Cut to the girl on my bed, looking on with excitement, at what can only culminate in the untimely death of that idiot who won’t run from some clearly weird-ass shit instead of staring at it with a brain fuck.
This she can watch, but thunder is too much? “Are you serious?” I question her, astonished.
“Shh.” Her hand waves at me, and her eyes stay planted on the screen as the gruesome scene starts unfolding. She doesn’t blink or move, right up until an ad starts playing at a pivotal junction. “Oh come on!” She yells at the screen, arms out in a what-the-fuck expression, before her eyes seek me out for an endorsement of her beef with the channel. Two seconds on my face, and hers changes. Sheepishly, she reels her arms in, pushes a lock of hair from her forehead and asks, “You want to watch something else?”
I almost laugh at her attempt to hide her obvious preference. She’s courteously asking, to be fair, but she really wants me to say no. It’s eerily intimate. Her expression. This circumstance. All of it. It’s the sort of thing that might happen in a normal house with normal people squabbling over what to watch when they’re home due to bad weather. And this is not that. She’s a wildcard, and I lust her, when I don’t like her. Warren wants to give her part of what should only be mine, and I almost forgot that when I almost fucked her. So this is fucked up. Anything but normal. But for just five goddamn seconds, there’s no harm in pretending, is there? “No, I’m good.”
So I watch the long haired girl, Samara, exact her revenge until the credits roll through.
“The Conjuring is next!” Ariel exclaims over the credits, informing me with childlike delight, when I can see it just fine in the coming up next placard on the screen. “This must be Halloween specials month! Okay if we keep watching?”
Technically, this is an excellent point to let her know that there hasn’t been any thunder for the last ten minutes. But I say nothing and let the next horror movie start. And I watch every contrived, sinister bit of it, feeding hungrily on her animated reactions, indulging in having a warm body next to me. Not naked, and yet unusually enjoyable in just being in the moment. When I’m very aware that I should be getting back to the emails that must be piling on. The work that needs to get done. The future that needs to be planned.
But we. She said we. Again. And fuck if it isn’t starting to grow on me.
Chapter 13
Eli
◆◆◆
It’s too early in the morning for this. But how goddamn early is too early? To see black Lycra yoga pants and a tank top cuddling a tight curvy body, while auburn hair falls this way and that, with zero consideration for morning wood? Morning wood that has somehow lasted till 11 am.
For someone who seemed to think it was extravagant of me to order more clothes and stuff for her, Ariel sure is getting every cent’s worth out of them. My personal shopper has earned the exorbitant tip I granted him.
Damn the open layout of this house. The living room and kitchen are meshed together, and there’s nowhere I can sit outside my own room where I can’t see her, unless she’s in her room. And she’s choosing to stay outside, on an expedition to play with every switch, every piece of furniture and appliance, and explore every little corner of the place.
Why won’t she sit still? After a two movie marathon the previous evening, she cooked for an hour. Entrée, and dessert to boot. The kitchen looked like a crime scene, but she cleaned it obsessively after we were done eating, and she did a better job than the professionals I hire.
“I’ll have someone come in tomorrow morning.” I tried to dissuade her while she was trying to clean a spot at the side of the oven top. “You don’t have to do this.”
She kept scrubbing the counter and asked me instead, “Whose house is this?”
“Mine. And I’m saying you don’t need to--”
“You own two places?” Her brows lifted.
“I own thirty seven.” I bragged. I fucking bragged. “Twenty five houses and twelve condos.”
“What do you do with so many?” She asked, slack jawed.
“Not talk about them.”
Then why did I tell her that? I haven’t even told Warren that I spend all my stock money buying places I might never need or use.
“You drink this soda like a fish that lives in sparkling water--do you know the number of calories that go in one can?” She queries, as she bends with her head inside the refrigerator that’s directly opposite the couch I’m on, her delectable ass stoking my gaze.
The island counter stretches between us in the middle. How many times does anyone need to arrange things in the goddamn fridge? She must be looking at the 48 pack of fizz I added in the list for Xavier. But it’s none o
f her business.
“I’ll drink what the fuck I want, thank you.” I snap at her defensively. More like snap at her ass.
She straightens and turns to face me where I’m seated on the couch, laptop on lap, working on finishing one email and ignoring her busy, fluid movements for the last thirty minutes. “Can I drink what I want too?”
Don’t answer that. It’s a trap. “Yes.”
Contemplative, she chews on her lip. A virgin. The word keeps showing up in my mind, and yeah my mind knows not to fuck with that, but my cock? It wants her on all fours, face down, while I plow into her from behind. So much I could teach her. So many ways I could blow her mind. So many ways I could make her come.
“I’ve always wanted to try Tequila. Can Xavier get some?” She finally ventures.
Told you. “No.”
Her forehead ripples into a frown. “Why not?”
“Because you’re underage.” And grown-up in all the right places.
Now she scoffs. “You mean to tell me you waited until you were 21 to drink?”
No, but that’s why man made double standards. “I’m not having this discussion with you.”
“Then don’t. Just get me the damn Tequila.” She demands, hands on hips.
There’s no reason I shouldn’t. It’s her life, her body. I’m not responsible for either of them. “Fine.” I feel the words shape up on my backstabbing tongue. “I won’t drink soda, and you’ll forget about goddamn Tequila.”
“Good.” She declares. Then, ass swaying, she bends and goes right back to whatever she was doing inside the fridge.
Good? What the ever-loving fuck? “Can you stop with that?!” I bellow.
This time she closes the door and leans her ass on it. “With what?”
“With the moving around, and touching this and feeling that--just pick a spot and sit!”
“Sit and do what?! Meditate?” Her brown eyes flash in anger. “It’s eleven freaking am. By now, I would have finished my morning at the diner, and would have been on my way to the pet store for my afternoon shift. And now I’m doing nothing! And I’m bored!”
