As I pull up to the hotel, I see Chris pacing in front of the entrance. I take a minute before I get out of the cab. I want to be the calm one in this situation, so I take a few deep breaths before I open the door.
He sees me immediately and comes walking over to me with a wide smile and open arms. I walk right in to them and let him envelop me, and momentarily I forget about all the drama waiting upstairs in room 1216. It feels so good to be close to Chris again, and I’m not going to let Ryan upstairs ruin this moment for me.
Chris’s nose is buried in my hair and he starts to laugh. “How is it possible that I’ve missed you so much in just five days?” he says, his eyes shining.
“Same,” I say. “But we have some unpleasant matters to attend to before a proper reunion.”
I sit him down on the bench aside from the entrance and summarize the events of the past hour. He doesn’t really react to what I’m saying, he just absorbs the information stoically. When I’m through, he doesn’t say anything.
“Chris. Say something,” I say, taking his hands and forcing him to look me in the eyes.
“I’m going to kill him,” he says, and then he’s racing through the lobby. I’m trying to keep up with him, pushing through guests, and barely make it into the elevator behind him. He’s rung for the twelfth floor.
“Please, don’t fly off the handle. From what I know of your brother, that’s what he wants. Let’s just hear him out, see what he’s trying to do.” He looks at me like I’m nuts. “Can you at least not hit him right away?” I implore, but we’re running again, down the hallway of this pretty hotel to confront some real ugliness. I’m steps away when I hear Chris pounding on the door, and when I arrive, I see Ryan, who’s opened the door wearing only his bathrobe.
Chris doesn’t hesitate, he walks right into the room and shoves Ryan, who lands on the bed in a heap. He’s covering his head expecting Chris to attack him, but Chris doesn’t. Apparently, some of my advice got through. He sits on a chair by the window and stares at his brother pitifully. Ryan stares at me, pleadingly, but I just shake my head at him.
Finally, he speaks. “Jesus Chris, she’s just a dumb broad. A fucking sex worker. It was a joke. Relax.’
“What’s the joke? I don’t get the humor.” He looks at me. “Weaver, can you explain it to me?”
“I can’t,” I say. And then I can’t help myself and I add, “The only joke I see is sitting on that bed.”
Ryan leaps to his feet. “Fuck you, bitch,” he spits in my face. Chris is up instantly and standing in front of me. Good thing for Ryan, because while I preach non-violent family communication, Ryan’s not my family and I was about to slap the asshole.
“You want to hear something funny? A good joke, Weaver? I’ll post these slutty screenshots of you from Sugar Girl all over the internet. Everyone will know about you and your dildo show for my brother. And you, Chris. You won’t be so untouchable anymore.”
Chris is seething, but underneath, I can tell that he’s legitimately confused. “Where is this coming from, Ryan? What have I ever done to you to provoke this?” he asks, and his tone is more hurt than angry.
“Don’t pull that ‘good brother’ crap now, Chris, just because you need something from me. You can make this all go away. I want one night. With her.” He points a finger at me and the sneer on his face is sickening. “You should have been a little more careful with your laptop.” The idea of sleeping with him is nauseating, but the fact that he thinks that’s something up for offer, that I’m Chris’s to lend out, that has me pushing Chris aside and right up in Ryan’s face.
“If you want to fuck me, Ryan, you need to ask me, not Chris. But I’ll save you the breath because the answer is never.” And now I’m screaming. “And it’s not because you’re a little bloated from drinking too much or that your clothes always look like you slept in them, it’s because you’re the worst. The literal worst everything! Go ahead and post whatever and wherever you want to, I don’t give a shit. Despite the fact that you act like a goddamn high schooler, this is the real world. I may not want to advertise my cam-girl gig, but I’m not going to let you blackmail me over it.”
They’re both looking at me silently—Ryan in shock and Chris in awe. My heart is racing, and my body is screaming run. I open the door and gesture for Chris to leave. I guess he likes this dominant side of me because he follows, and we’re in the hall walking back toward the elevators. He takes my shaking hand in his and asks, “Are you okay?”
“I think so, but ask again when we get to your room,” I reply. Despite my earlier bravado, my voice cracks and I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I felt a surge of adrenaline confronting Ryan, but it’s been replaced with fear and a prickly, horrible feeling of shame.
Chris and I ride down two floors in the elevator in silence, concern etched on his face, but he doesn’t say anything, and I appreciate that. When we get inside his hotel room, I sit on the chair by the window, my eyes instantly drawn down to the park, searching for that familiar horse and the handsome cab driver.
“I thought you could use this.” Chris sits on the window ledge and hands me a glass of amber liquid. “Whiskey.”
“Thanks.” I take a few sips, staring out the window, following the horse’s path, until I feel brave enough to speak. “What do you think Ryan will do?”
Chris lets out a long slow breath, runs a hand through his hair, and looks down at me. “Ryan’s ultimately a coward, Weaver. But I guarantee you I won’t let him do anything to hurt you.”
I put down my glass and bury my face in my hands. Chris is on his knees at my feet in a second. “Don’t do that,” he pleads. “I promise. I’ll protect you. Why are you crying?”
I look up at him, and the concern in his eyes pierces my heart. “I’m crying because I’m not afraid. I’m crying because I realize I really don’t care. I’m not ashamed of what we did, of how we met. Being with you, knowing that you’d do anything to protect me, well everything else just seems dumb. Nothing bothers me because I have your…” I stop speaking; suddenly I am afraid. Afraid to say the word on the tip of my tongue, in my heart, because if it’s not reciprocated, I don’t know what I’d do.
“My love, Weaver,” he whispers. “Say it: you have my love. I love you.”
He holds my chin and brings my face to his. Our lips meet, and with his lips pressed to mine, he says it again. “I love you.”
He lifts me from the chair and carries me to the bed, laying my head on the pillow. His kisses cover my eyes, my nose, all over my face. His face is buried in my hair, breathing deeply, and his hands are roaming under my shirt. He keeps repeating the precious words, “I love you.”
He rolls me over on top of him and his kisses are rougher. His hands are under my shirt and I feel his fingers kneading into my back, trying to get me even closer. I move my fingers under his shirt, swirling them around his nipples, and I inch myself down his chest toward his hips. I rub my cheek over the bulge under his fly and feel his hips jut up, urging me on. His belt buckle unclasps easily, and I yank it out of his pants and throw it aside. Next, I open the button, taking the time to rake my nails below his navel, enjoying how his stomach dips as he sucks in a sharp breath. When I unzip his pants, his cock is straining against his boxer briefs, and I press my lips against it, wetting the fabric with my tongue. I feel him pulsing under my mouth, and I drag my tongue up, and let the thick head escape the elastic waistband. I swirl my tongue, moving forward so my hair cascades over his waist. His fingers tug my hair to the side, and I peek up and catch his eyes, looking down at me. “Yes, that’s it, yes,” he pants. I wrap my lips around the tip and flatten my tongue as I bob on him, his hand in my hair ever so slightly leading me on. I sit up on my knees and start to pull the boxers down with his pants, he lifts his hips so I can take them off completely. Before I dive back onto him, I lift off my shirt, and unclasp my bra, tossing them aside with his clothes. As I lean over, I allow my hair to brush across his bare hips,
trail over his cock.
“Come here,” he rasps, extending his arm out to me, but I don’t listen. Instead, I lick him from the base to the tip. Back down again and I suck a ball into my mouth, rolling it with my tongue and gently sucking. I stroke him as I alternate between left and right. I repeat the path back up, but this time I take him in halfway, wrapping my hand around the base and pumping. I draw him in and out of my mouth slowly.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Your mouth is perfect.” Then I feel his hips start to flex underneath me, trying to go deeper. I tug down on his balls and keep my slow rhythm. He’s yanking on my hair now, trying to control me, wanting more. I withdraw him completely from my mouth and nibble my way down his cock, running my wet lips up and down, completely coating him with saliva. I prop myself up on my elbows and hover just above, poking out my tongue and drawing circles around the very tip. Then, when I hear him moaning, whining even, I plunge down on him, and I keep going, his wet cock glides through my mouth, over my tongue, and comes to rest at the top of my throat. Chris’s hands have stilled in my hair, and he’s not making a sound anymore aside from his heavy breathing. I inhale deeply through my nose, and I’m flooded by his unique, musky scent. I reach behind to cup my pussy, suddenly aware of the growing wetness and full feeling. Chris’s fingers twitch in my hair, and I take him down further, this time earning a groan.
“Good girl. You can take more,” he encourages. “Take it all.”
I come up for air and look up his body. His eyes are on me, waiting. I move slowly, sucking the head between my lips, and then I take him, until my nose meets his body. I feel the head of his cock go down my throat. Chris’s hands hold my head now, and I feel him thrusting against the backwall of my throat. I take a few breaths through my nose until I come up, coughing and wiping my mouth.
“Fuck, get on me,” he commands. He sits up straight and attacks my jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping in one deft motion. I lay back and he tugs them, my panties coming off with them. He hooks his hands under my armpits and lies back down, pulling me on top of him. On my knees I sit over him. He holds his cock, covered in saliva, in one hand, and with the other, he guides my hip down, impaling me. I hiss when he enters me, and when I lean back, resting my hands back on his knees, I rock slowly. Whenever I shift forward my clit makes contact with the base of dick, and I speed up, wanting to feel that sensation more.
“You look amazing,” he says. “You’re getting so wet. I want to feel you come.” His hand grabs my tit and I cover it with my own. Squeezing hard as he squeezes. I increase my rhythm and his hand tightens on me, leading me back and forth by my breast. My thigh muscles begin to twitch and tighten, and the feeling in my pussy is spreading warmth up my stomach, through my chest. I slip a bit, and momentarily lose the contact I need, but I angle forward and find it again. This time I know it’s certain, and I keep moving, keep grinding, as the waves crash in. My hand is by his head now, and my movements are erratic. Chris takes over, grabbing my ass and slamming it down onto him.
“Jesus, I feel it. Don’t stop,” he says. His fingers are digging into my flesh painfully, but I don’t care. I feel my pussy contracting around him, and then I feel him jerk. His groan fills the room and he shoots the first of his hot cum inside me. My chest is flush against his, and our bodies rise and fall against each other as the last spasms of our orgasms subside. I wiggle down so I can lay my head against his chest. I hear his heart pounding. I feel his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. I feel secure. Completely accepted for who I am.
“Chris,” I whisper up to him.
“Hmmm?”
“I love you, too.”
Epilogue
Chris
Four Months Later
I watch her arms break above the water and marvel at the strong line of her body. She’s powerful as she moves down the lane, her legs kicking a steadily and her face bright red from exertion. She somersaults at the end of the pool and starts heading back up. I look at my watch and see we only have thirty minutes if we want to meet the realtor in Brooklyn. I bring my fingers to my lips and let out a piercing whistle. That gets her attention.
She swims to the edge of the pool, smiling up at me. “Hey,” she pants. “What are you doing down here? I said I’d be back up at one.”
“One o’clock has come and gone,” I tell her, holding open a towel for her. “It’s half past.”
“Shit!” she yells, now scrambling out of the pool and into the towel. “I lost track of time. I was thinking about the brownstone and how perfect it would be.”
I’m following after her now as she slips into her flipflops and heads toward the hallway. When we’re in the elevator, she’s dripping all over the floor, and an older woman looks on at her with disapproving eyes.
I technically did move into my family’s apartment, but I rarely spent any time there. When I wasn’t on the road for business, I wanted to be with Weaver. About three months after I’d relocated to New York, Weaver approached me in bed one morning, holding my bathrobe.
“It occurs to me,” she said, “that this bathrobe hasn’t left my apartment in months. Since it seems to live here with me, I wonder if you’d like to make it official and move in here too? It might make your bathrobe feel less lonely.”
And that was that. I gave up the apartment and moved in with Weaver. I’d offered for her to move into mine, which was three times the size and with a ritzier address, but she refused. For one, she said, she couldn’t afford it. A silly argument but I know not to argue with her about money. Mostly, though, she loves this building. The pool. The views. The German deli around the corner where she pretends to be some tech wizard. I still don’t understand that game entirely. Now I live here, and for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I have a real home.
Since so many of our business interests have offices in New York, my travel has decreased a bit. I still find myself flying about once a week, but now that I have someone to come home to, my trips are more efficient. And grandad has taken quite a liking to Weaver, her entrepreneurial spirit in particular, so he’s cut back on his most frivolous requests. Weaver’s started working for her uncle regularly, and now that she’s working for someone who respects her, she really enjoys the job. What she really loves is marketing for the bar, and there’s actually been some uptick in customers.
I sit on the couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine as Weaver runs around, a dizzying blur of a brush, hairdryer, and random clothes. We have an appointment with a realtor today. Actually, she has an appointment and wants me to join her. One night after her shift at her brother’s bar, she passed an old brownstone with a for sale sign. Just two blocks from the subway that led directly to midtown Manhattan and blocks from Prospect Park. She wasn’t thinking of buying it for us; Weaver was moving full steam ahead with her business plan. She was preapproved for a small business loan and this property, she thought, was perfect for her.
I go into the bedroom and watch her dress, and it never gets old watching her. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her naked reflection as she brushes her hair, wearing just her little black panties. I walk up behind her and grab her, nuzzling her neck and inhaling: citrus and chlorine.
“Maybe she can see us a little later,” I suggest. “Just tell her something important came up.” I take her free hand and bring it to my pants, pressing her hand against my stiffening cock. I know I can convince her if I try hard enough.
She meets me straight in the eyes in the mirror. “No,” she says firmly, ducking out from my hold. She slips a tee-shirt over her head and wiggles into her jeans. “This could be it, Chris. There will be plenty of time for playing later. Are you ready?”
Am I ready? I go to my bureau and open a drawer, taking out a clean sweater to throw on. Nestled there, between folded clothes, is a small velvet box I picked up at the jewelers the other day. A two carat round cut diamond engagement ring. I haven’t decided on the right time to propose because every detail must be perfect
, but it’s coming. And I am ready.
I close the drawer and pull on my sweatshirt, then search for Weaver’s hand to leave. “You’re right,” I say. “Let’s go. There will be plenty of time later.” In fact, I think to myself, we have forever.
* * *
Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt of GETTING HER BACK!
She wanted a baby. He wanted a second chance at love.
It was supposed to be an anonymous hook-up with a sizzling-hot guy to give me the baby I've always wanted.
But then we meet, and there's a problem: he isn't a stranger.
He's the ex who broke my heart years ago.
One-click Getting Her Back now!
* * *
Chapter 1
"Are you sure about this?" Ellen asks. "I mean are you really, really sure?"
"Yes," I say. "I am 100% sure." That's a lie, but I need her to believe me. Because her believing me makes me more sure.
The app that is open on my phone is giving me a little warning box, telling me that as soon as I hit the button my profile on Heartility will be live. And even though I think I'm ready, I'm still nervous. Even though I could always delete my profile, this feels like something that I won't be able to take back.
But it doesn't matter. I am going to do this. I want to baby, and if this is the only way for me to get one, then so be it. Steeling myself, I push the button and watch my picture and the few curated lines about myself go flying into cyberspace.
I don't feel any different. When making big life decisions or having birthdays or crossing some milestone you always think you're going to feel some sort of big change. But I never have. "Well," I say, "that's that."
Ellen puts her arm around my shoulder and hugs me. "Are you going to start swiping now?"
The Billionaire’s CamGirl Page 15
