Her fingers tighten on mine. I don’t think she’s done yet.
“So, I wasn’t as nice to him as he wanted me to be. I wouldn’t pretend we were one, big happy family. My memories weren’t for sale. Which, it turned out, was fine with him.” She shrugs. “He went and got himself a new wife and kids, ones who fit into his fancy new life better than I ever could have. They’re the stars of the Chicago social scene. They’re old enough to go to debutante balls and private colleges now, and he sends me a Kate Spade bag every year for my birthday.”
“Fuck, Peony.”
My thumb’s rubbing a groove into her fingers. This is not shit I’m good at. I don’t know how to make her believe that she deserves someone way better than her asshole dad.
She sighs. “I like Kate Spade. It’s not her fault, and her resale value is awesome. But money changes people, especially when they are chasing the money.”
“You want me to find him and hit him where it hurts?”
For a moment, I forget she doesn’t know that I’m one of those guys with money. That I have so much that people rush to make things happen for me.
She squeezes my fingers. “Nah. I’m good, but thanks.”
“You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Murder’s a big ask.” She flips upright, rolling onto my chest. “I have a better idea.”
Her mouth covers mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Peony
“UNTIE ME.”
I stretch wiggling my wrists at Jax. An hour ago—or two or three—he convinced me that tonight’s game should be dirty tie-me-up sex. I offered to tie him up so he could see how he liked it, but he refused. Jax prefers to be the one in control, and most of the time I indulge him. He promised I’d like what he did to me, and he was right. I’ve come so many times that my butt will be sore tomorrow from the clenching.
He brushes a kiss over my throat, and the rasp of his stubble-roughened jaw makes me shiver. “I still have some ideas. Let me show you.”
I’m tempted, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’d let Jax do anything and everything. I’ve given in on our summer living arrangements, and now I basically live with him. He won’t take money from me and the series of temp jobs I’ve worked this summer certainly don’t pay enough for me to pay San Francisco rent.
Not for the first time, I wonder what exactly he does with his laptops. Asking seems like a boundary, though. An important one. He disappears during the workweek, like I do, and then we come home to each other, kiss, and fall into bed. We’re a bedroom couple, a hookup on repeat. If I ask him about his day, he’ll be more than just my fuck buddy. I think we could be friends.
Or something more.
Familiar panic bubbles up in me, freezing my chest in an icy knot. I can’t have feelings for him. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. My lungs tighten on nothing. There’s no air in here, just Jax and more Jax. When I breathe, he’s everywhere. He’s inside me, part of me, inescapable.
“Peony?” His warm mouth brushes my ear, his big fingers covering the ribbons that he’s tied me up with, the ribbons I’ve gift-wrapped myself in for him.
I scramble onto my knees. Jax shifts with me, until he’s sitting on the bed. His dark eyes watch me carefully. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go. Away. I’ve got a thing with my sister this weekend. I promised I’d be there and she needs me.”
He processes this for a moment, his dark gaze inscrutable. I’ve never lied to him before, not directly, and I’m not even doing it well. My story has a million holes, starting with the fact that it’s dark o’clock.
“Where do you need to go? I can take you.”
“I’ve got it. It’s fine.” I tug at the ribbons with my teeth because fuck waiting for him to undo me.
“Let me help.” He hesitates, his gaze fixed on the ribbons, but then he cups my hands in his and starts undoing the knots. It’s stupid that I want to push him away. I’m sure I look like a rabid animal stuck in a trap or something. It’s definitely not good for my teeth and dentistry is one more thing on my Can’t Afford list.
When the knot comes undone, he pulls the ribbons off and tosses them away. His expression is tight. “Did I scare you?”
I think about it for a moment. “I’m fine.”
It’s not an answer, and we both know it. The thing is, he is a big, scary bastard. It’s not so much a size-of-his-dick thing, although that part of him is fabulously huge. It’s the way he fills up the world around him and takes over effortlessly. People listen when he talks. And then when he finishes speaking, they rush to do what he says. I have, too. Or maybe it just feels that way because when he suggests sex to me my vagina lights up and rolls out the welcome mat. I don’t want to tell him no.
“I’ll fix it.” He rubs the faint marks his ribbons have left on my wrists, a frown creasing his forehead.
He’d never hurt me physically because it would hurt him even more. He’s a fixer and a watchdog, the kind of man who rushes out onto the battlefield to put himself between you and incoming shit. Some days, it’s sweet, but tonight it’s suffocating.
“Stop.” I place my hand against his chest. I can feel a steady drumbeat beneath my fingertips. Irrationally, I’m pissed off at how calm he is, how always in control.
He stops. That’s my safety word, those four letters. He said he’d never play games with me if I used it, that whatever we were doing would end and I could walk away.
“Peony—”
I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I remind myself I don’t care, I can’t afford to care. “Do you have to rush off right now, Firefly? It can’t wait?”
I stand and make a show of looking at my phone. See? I have urgent electronic messages of the made-up variety. I get dressed and debate grabbing the things I’ve left here over the last few weeks, but they’re just things. I don’t need them.
“I have to go.”
His palm runs down my back, soothing, tracing my skin, the line of my spine, the curve of my bottom. His mouth brushes my hair. “Can I help?”
“No. I have to do this myself.”
He exhales roughly, pulling me close for a moment. He feels so good. I want to press my face against his skin, sink into him, and that’s a problem. “You say that too much.”
“No one likes a clinger.”
He grunts something but I won’t ask what. He’s a shockingly nice guy who thinks he needs to fix everything, but I can’t let him fix me.
“You take your shower.” I give in to temptation and press a kiss against his shoulder. His skin is like silk against my mouth and yet there’s a rock-hard strength under the beautiful surface. “Then you can walk me back.”
He watches me for another moment then gives me a brief nod. I watch him right back. This is the last time I’ll see him like this and so I drink in the big, hard lines of his body as he gets out of bed. He doesn’t bother with his clothes, just stalks to the bathroom all muscled legs, tight ass, broad shoulders.
He pauses in the door. “Do not move from that bed, Firefly.”
I hold up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Liar, liar.
Jax
Peony’s face is a billboard for whatever she’s feeling. Pleasure, glee and curiosity. Nerves, bravado and sass. The one thing she can’t do is lie for shit. It’s one of the things I lo—like—about her.
At least that’s what I thought. When I came out of the bathroom ten minutes after I went in, my stupidity is clear. She’s gone. I check the balcony, but no Peony. Dragging on a pair of jeans, I bolt down the stairs. She’s not there, either.
Or in the flower-filled front yard.
Or on the beach.
She’s nowhere that I can see. How fast did she run away this time to get so far?
I consider sprinting down the sand to catch up with her beca
use she has to be there, just out of sight, hotfooting it back to her derelict, unsafe RV because she knows I’ll insist on walking her back. She just needs her space. Some time alone. I tell myself I need to respect her choices. It’s not that there’s no room for me in her life, just that she has to choose her sister right now. Family always comes first.
I stand there, glaring down the beach, stupidly feeling like I’ve just lost a chance at something.
I go back inside, opting to text her rather than stalk her.
Don’t take chances like that, Peony.
Text me when you’re back safe.
She doesn’t respond, not now, not an hour later, not two hours. By midnight, I’m concerned. Maybe her phone’s died or she’s rushed off to be with her sister. There are a dozen perfectly logical reasons why she’s not answering, but something feels off.
Tell me you’re okay.
Are you okay?
It’s not until 1:00 a.m. that I discover the note on my kitchen counter, tucked beneath the bourbon bottle.
Hey Big Guy...
It’s been an amazing summer, but I think it’s past time for me to move on. I don’t relationship well, so I’ll just say thank you and see you around sometime. Have you read the Douglas Adams books? The one where his hero is hitchhiking around the galaxy? Anyhow, the dolphins abandon Earth right before it’s razed for an intergalactic superhighway and they say so long and thanks for all the fish. I’ll borrow from them and say so long and thanks for all the orgasms. *P
What. The. FUCK.
I reread Peony’s note because this makes no sense. She’s walked out on me without a real goodbye. She hasn’t given me a chance to fight for her, for us. I’m apparently just a piece of hot summer dick and now I’m a memory. Anger’s a red tsunami that swallows up the next few minutes of my life. There may be wall-punching involved and some mild trashing of my place. Am I angry at Peony? Yeah, but even more, I’m hurt, and that’s a new level of suckitude for me. She wasn’t the only relationship virgin.
Reel it in, Valentine. An angry, wall-punching male isn’t going to convince her to come back. This isn’t my area of expertise, though. Unfortunately, the only thing I’m good at is making money. That is business. So some of that shit has to apply to this. I just have to figure out the common denominator and go from there. It’s like a business deal that’s made an unexpected left-hand turn. Into oncoming traffic. It’s no big deal—I’ve fixed worse.
Communication seems like an important starting point. I text Peony: Let’s talk.
I stare at my phone, willing her to answer, but I’ve got nothing, not even a fucking delivered message from the cell phone provider. Maybe her phone’s off. Maybe she’s dropped it in the toilet. Maybe she never made it home at all and I should rampage up the beach and rescue her from the ditch or the evil villain or whatever’s kept her from realizing she’s just made a really horrible mistake.
* * *
Three days of silence later, I give up trying to be a nice guy. I’m not and it’s killing me. I need her back, so I can figure out why having her in my life matters so much to me. I talk with my sister every day, but she just keeps telling me to give Peony her space and spouting hippie crap like if you love someone, let them go and they’ll come back. That makes no sense unless you’re dating a boomerang or a dog.
It turns out to be a moot point, however, because no matter how long I knock on Peony’s door, she doesn’t open up. Eventually, her pothead neighbor pops his head out and informs me that Peony moved out the morning after our breakup. Naturally, he didn’t bother to ask her where she was going. He’s even more of an asshole than I am, although he’s way more mellow about it.
I drive up to the bee farm on my bike. It’s a great ride—lots of fast road, tight turns and dangerous stretches—but I make it in one piece even though I break all speed laws. Hana’s in her front yard, which is really one big, bee-filled meadow. As soon as I kill the bike’s engine, the drone of my little sister’s bees is deafening.
She launches herself across the yard at me and I catch her in a bear hug. “Are you okay?”
I texted her a picture of Peony’s note before heading up here. I hate that she’s worried about me. She has better things to be thinking about.
Hana gets right to it. “She hasn’t texted you back?”
“No. This feels like fucking grade school,” I growl. “I’m not okay with this.”
Hana pats my arm. “It sucks.”
“She moved out of her place overnight.”
Hana’s silent for a moment as she processes. Honestly, there’s not much she can say, so I barrel ahead and lay it all out. “Not only did Peony break up with me, but she was apparently so afraid or concerned or something that I’d come after her that she ran away from home. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel unsafe.”
“You can be overprotective.” She shrugs. “And an ass. But you’re largely a lovable ass.”
“And what do you do, Hana Bear, when I’m up in your space being overprotective?”
She grins. “I tell you to back the fuck off.”
“Exactly.” I slouch on her porch steps. Jesus. She needs some decent porch furniture. If I buy some, though, she’ll howl. She likes to make her own way, whereas I’d prefer to spoil her. “You use your words. She knew all she had to say was stop.”
“Maybe she’s not into kinky sex—or thinks she shouldn’t be—and you sort of freaked her out?”
I frown. “I don’t think we should be discussing this.”
“We’re not discussing. I’m just touching bases with you and identifying a possible issue so you can come at it from a different angle.”
“That almost sounds like you’ve been reading those business books I bought you.”
“Answer the question.”
There is no man alive who wants to discuss his sex life with his sister outside of a V. C. Andrews novel.
“You think I’m into kinky shit?”
“You met at a sex party,” Hana points out calmly. “I don’t want the details, but maybe she’s a little more vanilla and you’re a little more... I don’t know...chocolate chipotle?”
“Maybe.” I sound doubtful. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I thought she had a great time.
I thought we were into each other.
I thought we were getting to know each other.
Hana leans her head against my shoulder, wrapping an arm around my waist. She’s half my size, but I think she’s trying to be supportive.
“Do you want to look for her?”
I do, but Peony’s made it clear she’s done.
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jax
FOR THE FIRST time in months, I feel like myself. It’s been three months since Peony ghosted me, and I’ve spent way too many of those hours moping and resisting the urge to hack into a dozen databases until I find her. Since that would be both felonious and super creepy, I’ve mostly resisted. My one failure was her landlord. I went through his records, just in case he had any information about where Peony had gone, but I still couldn’t find a forwarding address. People who accept crappy campers don’t do forwards, apparently.
She also changed her number, as I learned when a random stranger lady answered. She was very nice, but she wasn’t Peony, and I apologized for the string of voice mails I’d left on her phone. She had a mister of her own, so she wasn’t available, but she said that she thought Peony was a lucky woman and hopefully she’d stop running long enough to realize that.
It would be awesome to run into Peony, or to finally have her reach out to me, but I’ve sort of accepted that’s not happening. I miss holding her, though, and I miss our weird conversations and the way we hung out. What I would like to miss, but am not, is this stupid feeling of being vulnerable. It does
n’t matter how hot the sex was, or how amazing she was as a person, because now that I don’t have her in my life, I just feel...less.
In the spirit of feeling more, I’m in my San Francisco office closing a deal to acquire an internet startup with the unfortunate name of Hotly. When you hear that, you think porn, right? Or hookups or dating apps or some kind of super kinky, dark corner of the cyberworld. You’re not even close.
Hotly’s a wannabe internet channel that streams Top Ten content 24/7. Right now my laptop’s streaming their ten most adorable kitten videos. It’s cute and I see how customers could waste a tremendous amount of time, but no one pays for cute felines—they’re available for free everywhere you look. Hotly’s compounded selling the wrong product with hiring incompetent directors and spending their cash reserves. They’ve also launched themselves into a dozen different urban markets without a business plan.
It’s a total cluster fuck.
The complete hash they’ve made of their finances is also why I’ve been able to buy their IP for peanuts. As of an hour ago, I’m the new owner and CEO. For the most part, I just drop in, announce the takeover, and give HR the list of names to ax. If you don’t contribute, you don’t get paid. If you don’t make me money, you’re out. Not everyone appreciates that sentiment, which is why I generally don’t announce my arrival. I just make a surprise appearance like the Tooth Fairy—or the Grim Reaper.
Since the Grim Reaper is kind of a lurker, I lean against the window and glare ominously at Market Street. I spend as little time as possible in the office, so mine is a corner sliver that looks over the bustling street. There are loads of sweatshirt-wearing tourists, panhandlers, and a steady sea of business suits picking their way past the mayor’s bright blue, self-cleaning toilets.
A knock on my door is followed by my lawyer. Thanks to DocuSign, Nina Lake’s presence is a bit superfluous, but I appreciate the effort. Ms. Lake has handled my shit for the last five years, ever since I made my first billion. She points out the various legal pitfalls of my actions, and I decide if I care or not. Today she’s looking less calm than usual. Her hair looks like she’s run her hands through it more than once, there’s an actual wrinkle in the front of her skirt, and her suit jacket isn’t buttoned.
Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set Page 25
