Always Love Me: A Standalone Second Chance Romance

by Derrick, Zoey

  I go after it.

  I never lose.

  I have no doubt she’s thinking I’m the exact opposite of everyone she’s ever slept with.

  For all I know, she’s never slept with a woman, and that excites me.

  The small cap sleeves on my top display my left side perfectly, showing off the tattoos that cover me from collarbone to ankle. They can be seen at intervals, though she can’t see below my waist because of the bar. The necklaces around my neck are silver, an infinity chain settled in the small hollow of my throat, and two longer chains sit between my tits.

  My round ass is covered by leather pants and studded belt, my feet covered by badass, bike boots. If it wasn’t for my makeup, which is tastefully bright, the multicolored dreads pulled into two buns on the crown of my head, and the double D tits in my shirt, you’d think I was a total butch.

  But I’m anything but that.

  The bartender delivers my drink, and the stranger’s eyes meet mine once more.

  Come on, sweetheart, make your move.

  She raises her glass to me, and I follow suit, lifting mine toward hers as she salutes me before slamming back the drink and setting it on the bar. The blush in her cheeks brightens briefly, then she looks away. Her shyness sends a jolt of desire to my clit, and I smirk. She pushes back from the bar and stands. She’s steady enough, so maybe it was just enough to give her some courage. I watch her carefully as she walks down the length of the bar in my direction.

  If I were an uneasy, uncomfortable person, I’d think she was headed for the ladies’ room, which is right behind me, but I’m cocky enough to believe she’s not headed to powder her nose.

  She’s had a shitty day, she’s looking to drown it out with sex or alcohol, and my guess is, she’s chosen sex, with me in her sights.

  My breathing hitches as my hands roam down my wet naked form. My fingertips graze my nipples, and my clit tingles.

  I’d brought her back to my apartment; we didn’t even make it in the door before I was tearing her clothes off.

  Good thing I have some spares; her blouse is completely toast.

  I’m running out of time. The longer I linger in the shower, the greater risk I run of waking her. I reach for the soap.

  With my hands sliding over my body, I’m reminded of how a desperate need made her greedy, crazed with desire.

  I can’t stop the chuckle from escaping as I remember her begging me repeatedly.

  She was so sweet in public but turned desperate tiger behind closed doors.

  I squashed that quickly with a quick, sharp slap on her ass as I rolled her over and took control from there.

  I rinse and shiver as I remember taking her hard and fast. Wearing her down and out, helping her forget her troubles. It took her two minutes to pass out when I finished with her.

  I simply rolled my eyes and left the room.

  I don’t sleep with people.

  I climb out of the shower, dry off, and step inside the skimpy filled walk-in closet. I find a few things floating around in there that will work for today. Glad I had the forethought to bring a few things over from my loft—my home. I rarely stay here, but I knew the moment she passed out, she wasn’t leaving. I may be notorious for trysts but leaving her here alone isn’t an ideal prospect. Not that there’s anything here of value, I snort to myself.

  It’s early morning, and right now, I couldn't care less.

  I may not sleep with people, but I’m not a complete bitch.

  Well, not all the time.

  I get dressed in thigh highs, a garter to hold them up, panties, wide legged black pants, black peep toe pumps with a royal blue sleeveless button down. I accent the outfit with silver bangles from my purse and a blue scarf I wear as a headband to keep my dreads off my face and keep them cascading down my back. I glance in the closet mirror and make some adjustments to the scarf before grabbing the black suit coat from the hanger and throwing it on before leaving the closet for the bedroom.

  She’s laying there, still asleep, naked from the waist up, the sheets covering her bubble shaped ass and legs, leaving her backside on display. She’s got an amazing body, well-toned. She obviously takes care of herself.

  Looking at her, my mind wanders back to when I flipped her over.

  My hand still tingles with the feel of her skin when I smacked her ass. How I leaned over her. My lips brushing and kissing along her neck, across her shoulders, and down her spine as she writhed beneath me. With my legs, I spread hers, forcing her back to arch when I slid my hand between her folds to find her wet, needy pussy. It only took a couple strokes of my finger before I felt her sex clamping down, and a few more before her first of many orgasms rocketed through her.

  My breathing hitches as I remember how her skin flushed with my actions. My instincts were right from the beginning. She was looking for an escape, and I provided her with one, but it left me wanting more. It wasn’t until we were scissoring that I finally managed to get off, and well, let’s just say, it makes what I’m about to do so much easier.

  I’m a woman of action, of taking control, especially with women, but finding my own satisfaction and release usually comes easy enough for me. Last night? Not so much. While I enjoyed providing the release and distraction she was in desperate need of, she didn’t fulfill mine. I sigh.

  I sit next to her.

  She stirs.

  “Hey,” she groans as she wakes up.

  “Hey, sorry, I have to get going,” I tell her.

  Her eyes widen briefly. Let’s just hope she doesn’t look at the clock.

  “I’ll get dressed…” she mumbles.

  “Stay, sleep,” I tell her. “Stay as long as you like, just make sure to lock the door behind you.”

  “I can’t do that,” she flushes, “I’ll be ready in 20…”

  “Stay, sleep, it’s early. There’s food in the fridge, and a there’s a shirt in the dresser that should fit.”

  “Um, okay,” she yawns. I stand. “Wait, can I see you tonight?” she asks quickly.

  “I’ve got plans,” I tell her, “but leave me your number, and I’ll call you tomorrow.” I smile sweetly and reassuringly at her.

  “Mmmkay,” she moans and rolls back over.

  I leave the room and roll my eyes as I close the door. I grab my purse from the counter where I dumped it and pull my phone from it.

  There’s a text that says, “Out front,” from Diem, my driver who came over 20 minutes ago.

  I text back, “OMW down,” and tuck the phone back in my purse. The rest can wait until I get in the car.

  I look back at the bedroom door. It was stupid because all I do is roll my eyes again.

  Most people would wake and leave regardless of what I said, but I set the sensor on the door. It will alert me when she finally leaves. I leave the apartment. I walk down the hallway to the elevator and punch the down button.

  I love this apartment, not for living in, but to have a way to enjoy my conquests without bringing them into my real world. If she gets nosy enough to snoop around, and she’s a smart woman, she’ll figure out before she leaves that I’ve totally played her and that I don’t actually live there.

  She’ll be disappointed, I’m sure. Just the simple fact she wanted to see me tonight makes me better understand the woman she is. She’s not the type to kiss and run, and she’ll realize that’s exactly what’s happened here.

  When I step outside the building, I pull in a deep breath of New York City air. My lungs strain at the need to cough. The East Side isn’t a bad neighborhood, but it’s not home, and this apartment isn’t actually mine. Well, legally I own it, but I don’t live here. I keep it furnished and semi-stocked with food, wine, beer and clothing. The TV and cable work, so it appears as though I live there. Well, except for the sparsely furnished closet.

  “Morning, Ms. McKay,” Diem smiles and opens the back door of the Audi. I slide inside.

  “Morning, Diem, I need coffee,” I tell him.

&nb
sp; “Of course,” he smiles and closes the door.

  In a few heartbeats, he’s climbing into the driver’s seat, and we’re pulling out into early morning New York City traffic. Diem, being the excellent navigator he is, quickly makes his way toward my favorite coffee shop. Which, ironically, is out of the way of the apartment. He circumvents the park, passing my loft before getting to the coffee shop. At least it’s not out of the way to get to the office.

  I pull my phone from my purse again and clear off some notifications, most of which are missed calls, some texts and more than three dozen emails. It’s a light morning. I pull up Kara’s number and text her.

  Used the apt last night. Sensor set, please clean once empty, if she’s not gone by nine, help her along.

  The car comes to a stop, and Diem looks back at me. “Long night?”

  I snort. “Not long enough. I texted Kara, but will you make sure it gets cleaned out by nine?” I ask him.

  “No problem.” The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. “You have that charity dinner tonight, yes?” I nod in response. “Will you want the limo tonight?”

  I roll my eyes. I rarely use the limo, he knows that. “That won’t be necessary. If it wasn’t for the dress and heels, I’d drive myself,” I tease him.

  He snorts a laugh, “Of course. Will you be going out again tonight?”

  Diem knows what it is I like to do. He’s discreet, and he always manages to stay in the shadows. When I’m out, no one really knows who I am, which is why I enjoy going out. The anonymity affords me some luxuries I don’t get when I mingle in my normal social circles. Nonetheless, it still has its risks, and that’s why Diem is never far behind. “Not tonight,” I tell him. I don’t pick up dates within my own circles. The anonymity in doing so is completely lost. Going out after the event is too time consuming and not worth the effort. He nods, acknowledging my intention.

  The light changes, and he drives on.

  My phone chimes with Kara’s tone.

  Will you eat before you go tonight?

  I smile, she knows me well. I’m not a fan of dining at charity functions. Though I will pay the plate fees, I don’t often partake. Unfortunately, tonight, I have to be there for dinner.

  No, I’ll be eating there

  Her reply comes quicker than I expect for this time of morning.

  I will be grocery shopping, anything special?

  I try to think, but nothing specific comes to mind. We don’t have any upcoming house parties, so the normal will do.

  Not today

  I text back and start scrolling through my emails as Diem pulls up in front of the coffee house.

  “Would you like me to get your coffee today?”

  “Please?” I say, distracted by the daunting list of emails now pouring in on my phone. It’s a never-ending cycle, but one I can’t imagine my life without.

  I’m so engrossed in replying to my emails that I barely notice Diem’s return until he’s handing me my coffee and a bag. “They had those Danishes you like.”

  I laugh, “Thanks. Do we have anything pressing this weekend?” I ask. He knows my schedule better than I do, which is part of why I keep him around. I have an assistant, but I keep him to my office more than my personal affairs, and against Diem’s better judgement, I refuse to hire a personal assistant for those things.

  “You have a charity gala tonight, tomorrow you have dinner plans with Ryleigh, eight o’clock.”

  Of course, I didn’t need that reminder. Dinner with Ryleigh I look forward to, and it doesn’t happen nearly enough.

  He continues, “Saturday, you’ve been invited to Alverez’s birthday party, which I’ll remind you, you declined.” I laugh and roll my eyes. “Other than that, no.” I know the only reason he brought up the birthday party is because he knows me well enough to rib me about my declined invites, especially from friends. I don’t remember exactly why I declined the invite. I shrug it off.

  “Perfect,” I tell him absently as I go back to scrolling through my emails. It’s Mid-January. My eyes widen when an email comes across my screen. It doesn’t surprise me, more that I’m surprised by the sender. Right on time. The same email comes on this day every year.

  It’s an invitation.

  One I decline every year.

  One I almost refuse to read when it comes across.

  For unknown reasons, this year, I open it.

  Memories of that day 20 years ago flood my mind.

  The day my Aunt Kathleen told me my father (her brother) was dead.

  I was 12.

  I hated her.

  I hated life.

  I hated everything she had to say to me.

  I agreed to moving to Portland with them without thinking of the consequences of my choice. All I knew at the time was my father was gone, and I had no one left.

  We’d stayed in Seattle for a few weeks while Randy and Kathleen took care of things around my father’s house. Including packing up everything that was mine and the few things I wanted to bring with us to Portland.

  Up until the accident happened, Randy and Kathleen weren’t a huge part of my life, and for a while I hated her and Uncle Randy for wanting to pull me away from the one place I had called home.

  The day I walked into their house in Portland was the day I vowed to forget everything to do with Seattle, my father, and my life before.

  I never looked back.

  Until now.

  Chapter 2

  Skylar

  “Thanks, Diem,” I tell him.

  I climb out of the Audi and step into the large, silver, 10-story building I call an office.

  Visions of the past still cloud my thoughts as I walk into the lobby. I vaguely hear the morning greetings of the security guards and some of my staff as I make my way toward my elevator. I insert my keycard, the doors part immediately before me, and I step inside. There’s no need to press a button, this elevator goes straight to the tenth floor—my floor, my office.

  The weeks that followed my learning of the death of my father and the entire crew of the fishing vessel, Killer Whale, were a mess. My aunt did everything she could to keep me away from it all, but it couldn’t be avoided. Kathleen took me back to my father’s house, where we stayed, but there was a constant flow of people coming and going. As the boats came in, people who worked with my father came by to pay their respects. I remember being so happy when Uncle Randy arrived. He helped take me even further away from it all.

  Kathleen is my father’s sister, and they were there to pay their respects to her and me, if I was around, but I refused most of them. After a while, Uncle Randy took me places like the zoo, shopping, Pike’s Market—anything I wanted to do, he never said no.

  I never cried after the day Aunt Kathleen told me about my father’s death.

  I think Randy was hoping to spark some reaction from me by taking me to all those places. I was frightening people because I never seemed to process what was happening. That led to no one letting me out of their sight unless I was sleeping. At the time, I didn’t know how to explain to them that my father and I weren’t close.

  We hadn’t been since my mother died four years before.

  When she passed away, my father threw himself into his boat. He started working year-round, taking summer charters, and he would spend the majority of his time up in Alaska. Away from me. Though, on the rare occasion he was home, it was heaven. He was attentive to me and my needs. We’d fish for hours. Sometimes we even caught the whale migration. It was beautiful, and they’re the memories I cherish to this day.

  Leading up to his fateful season, I remember being a little excited because his boat was in desperate repair. I learned quickly that the boat being docked in Seattle for a season was something my father wouldn’t tolerate. He hadn’t missed a crab season in 30 years, and he wasn’t going to let a crippled boat stop him. He commissioned quota from some other vessels after acquiring a boat that was in need of a Captain for the season.

  So
, he went out.

  He did what he was best at and got killed in the process.

  Jack, his best friend since grade school, followed him everywhere and got killed in the process, too.

  I learned later that Randy, my uncle, had taken over the management of the Bearded Bean, my father’s boat. Randy had a choice to either sell the boat or contract it out. According to my father’s last will and testament, the boat was passed on to me. Randy, in good conscious, couldn’t sell it. It was my decision and I was too young to make it. I was never even asked about what I wanted to do with it because if I had been, I’d have told him to sell it without thinking of what it would mean to keep it going. So, he took it over. After I graduated from high school and turned 18, I was handed ownership of the boat, a bank account worth millions, and a choice.

  Keep it or sell it.

  I kept it.

  I paid Randy to keep doing everything he’d been doing all along. He took on handling the boat, the finances, and kept the boat running year-round. He had a trusted Captain in place and a crew of veteran fishermen. Many of them worked for my father and weren’t on the Killer Whale when it capsized. The rest of the crew joined, some, I believe, because of the spirit of my father.

  The Alaskan fleet is a tight knit family.

  Getting the Bearded Bean back in the water and fishing was a joint effort across the fleet.

  The nest egg grew from when I was 12 to 18. It gave me a debt-free college experience. It also provided seed money to start my own company after I graduated.

  Now, Bearded Bean is a full-fledged company. The original vessel I owned was retired two years ago. It had seen better days and was starting to cost more than it was making to keep fishing. Bearded Bean has been stripped completely. It’s nothing but a shell of a vessel floating peacefully on anchors off St. Paul Island in the Bering Sea.