by Christa Wick
His free hand slid between us as I rose up. When I landed, his palm was against my pussy, his fingers pulling the gusset of my panties to the side.
“So wet.” He bit the edge of my jaw, his tongue following after to lick the hurt away before his mouth found mine again. “And tight, baby, so tight. I want to slide inside you right now more than I want to breathe.”
His hand moved, my hips moved with him. The pad of his thumb came to a stop against the kernel of my clit. He rubbed a slow clockwise circle and then another. Gazing into my eyes, he increased the pressure as his thumb took another trip around the clock. “Are you going to make me wait until after the wedding, P.J.?”
I couldn’t nod or shake my head or say anything. I could only lift higher, the slow pace of his circles controlling me, wearing my resistance down until my hips bucked and I bit at my lips to stop the cry ripping from me as I came.
“Every time,” he murmured in a gravelly vow, cupping my mound, gently rocking his palm against my clit as the crescendo inside me began to ebb. “Every time you’re in this car, in our bed, I’m going to touch you, love you until you have to let me in, baby.”
Somehow, I knew he meant that last part in a much bigger context.
“Blake…” My hands were still tied. The first fat drop of liquid landed and I couldn’t stop it from spilling down my cheek or wipe it away. “I don’t think I can keep up this charade. Not when—” I stopped myself before I revealed too much, before I told him I’d already let him into my heart a long time ago.
He blinked, his pupils expanding, his jaw tightening. Not in frustration, though. But rather…
Determination.
“You already signed the contract, love. This wedding, our marriage—it’s going to happen.” With that, he gently untied my wrists and cuddled me in close.
TEN
- Pippa -
The rest of the limo ride passed in silence. Blake's office was closest so Carson dropped him off first. From there, I went to my brownstone to pack a weekender bag of clothes and essentials. If I was going to be pseudo-staying at Blake’s, I at least wanted to have my own things to wear and use so I wouldn’t feel like every last aspect of my life was on loan—as glamorous as those loans were.
It wasn’t easy, but I managed to keep myself off all the usual sites I’d normally be scouring to be kept abreast of any developing Blake PR situations. Funny how I’d counseled more than one client under comparable circumstances to do exactly what I was struggling to do myself. Stay offline. Don’t watch TV. Let someone trusted field your calls and emails.
For my clients, a departure from these hard and fast rules usually ended with a hysterically defensive tweet by the client, which would escalate into some kind of online brawl with trolls, which would then be taken out of context and turned into a week’s worth of #fail hash tags and disparaging memes until some other famous person screwed the pooch and eventually replaced them in the spotlight.
While I was certain I wouldn’t be falling into that pit of doom, I decided to follow my own advice. Just in case.
Hands-down the hardest thing to ask a PR person to do, period.
The next three days were pretty much torture.
Knowing that the media was talking about me and Blake, but spending the entire rest of the week avoiding finding out what exactly they were saying, I was distracted to say the least.
Thankfully, every member of my staff knew better than to be anything less than professional. While I’m sure they were keeping fully abreast of all the media coverage about me, they didn’t breathe a word of it around the office. Kevin, however, was a different matter entirely. He kept stopping in my office between meetings every single day, angling for more info, more details, more discussions about my fairytale future.
In that sense, I was relieved to have Blake’s home to escape to in the evenings, where no one I knew would try to contact me, giving me a chance to put the whole charade to rest for at least a small cluster of hours before the sun came up again.
Walking in, I still didn’t know how I was going to get used to seeing this grandeur night after night. But I was going to have to. It’d been made clear in the attorney’s office that I was expected to stay at the penthouse every night until the lawsuit matters were cleared up completely—even before we were legally married.
Abigail greeted me at the door, her jacket and purse over one arm as she gave me a lopsided hug. “Mr. Cross is expecting you on the terrace. I hope you like sushi, dear?”
I forced myself not to clutch at her arm as she stepped into the foyer. “Are you leaving?”
“Why, yes. Mr. Cross said I could finish a bit early tonight. Did you need something before I go?”
I shook my head. She had a husband waiting for her at home; I couldn't ask her to stay and hold my hand while I ate dinner with my fiancé.
“There's always a bit of nerves once it's official.” She rubbed my arm, smiling. “I tried to climb out the bathroom window at the church. Can you imagine? Me, in a wedding dress, one leg already on the outside, my maid of honor Bernice dragging me back in!”
I mustered up a small laugh at the image. “And you're still married?”
She nodded. “Going on thirty years, three boys, five grandchildren. Blake’s like my Peter. He won't let you down, you'll see. He's a good man and he loves you. Everything else just has a way of working itself out.”
Abigail gave me another one-armed hug then disappeared, leaving me alone with the man I couldn’t stop falling harder for, and couldn’t figure out for the life of me.
If he had fallen for someone like Anna, or anyone else in his fabulous world for that matter, how could I believe his actions were real, and not something he was committing to. I knew Blake, I knew how he was when he put his mind to something. I saw it all last year when we completely overhauled his brand. If he came up with this grand plan to get over a woman who’d broken his heart a few months ago, I could see him throwing himself into every detail the plan entailed.
But all plans eventually had to come to an end.
It’s not so much that I thought he was faking it anymore. I actually believed he believed his feelings were starting to be real. There were all sorts of psychological terms for this sort of thing, weren’t there? But in the end—and it would end—how would I ever survive with my heart intact?
My answer came a few seconds later from the most unexpected of sources.
I had gone into the master bedroom in search of safer clothes when my phone rang. I needed pants if I was going to have dinner with him on the terrace. Not because it was cold, but because it was Blake.
I checked the number and answered it. No name showing on the caller ID but I recognized the first three numbers—the area code to the Madison, Wisconsin, suburbs I’d grown up in. As I well knew, press coverage had a way of making the insects come out of the woodwork.
Bracing myself, I hit talk and waited for the cold voice of my mother to speak.
When she did, she wasted no time crushing my spirit.
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you? Bad enough you’re fat, Pippa, but you’ve got to be a pathetic slut now, too?”
Foul words played along my tongue, but I only managed two—not the two she deserved. “Excuse me?” How was it she could still cut me so deeply, so quickly, after all these years?
“Cut the innocent act. I don’t know how you managed it, but obviously you got knocked up with his kid. Why else would he marry you?” She sucked a breath in, the thin wheeze telling me that she still hadn’t dropped her two-pack a day cigarette habit. “At least you’ll have some excuse for looking like a whale for a couple of months. Thank God for small favors. Didn’t I teach you to cover up all that flab? Those pictures show how fat, slutty and stupid you are. Do you have to keep going out of your way to make me ashamed you’re my daughter?!”
“I’m not,” I said evenly, my voice steady as a rock despite my hand viciously swiping at the tear rolling down my cheek.
<
br /> “Oh, yes you are. As well you should be. The latest pictures of you online are absolutely disgusting and we both know it.”
“No! I meant that I’m not your daughter. Not anymore. You’re welcome, by the way. You always wished I never existed, so from this day forward, I won’t. And you won’t exist for me either.” Her stark, dumbfounded silence on the other end of the phone line gave me all the strength I needed to finish. “If you try to contact me again, I won’t answer. Goodbye, and have a nice life, if you can manage it.”
And with that, I hung up on the anchor that had been weighing me down my entire life.
So there was my answer. If I could survive my own mother breaking my heart every day of my existence, I could survive getting my heart broken by Blake.
I hoped.
ELEVEN
- Pippa -
Turning my phone off just in case she tried to call back, I tossed it on the dresser and went into the bathroom. It took a few minutes for me to stop crying completely—she may have been cruel, but she’d been the only mother I had—and another few to douse my face in cold water to reduce the swelling my tears had caused.
After that, I changed into my standard both-business-and-casual Pippa attire and went off to look for Blake. Not sure why I found such profound solace and support simply from knowing he was out there waiting for me, but I did.
Stepping onto the terrace, I found him sitting at a table, a bottle of plum wine aerating next to him. Seeing the outfit I’d changed into, he shook his head and smiled. “Let me guess. You packed pants, pants, and more pants.”
I shrugged and gave him a shy smile back. “I like wearing comfortable outfits.”
Handing me a wine glass, he gestured to the cushion next to him. “Then by all means, let’s get comfortable.”
At the hungry look in his eyes, I swallowed down half the glass of wine before my butt touched the seat. Despite wanting to cuddle right into him, I kept my wits about me and perched on the edge of the loveseat, as if poised for a quick getaway.
When it was clear I wasn’t going to relax and sit closer to him, Blake simply chuckled and slid over so we were hip to hip, both his hands somehow finding perfectly reasonable reasons to keep touching me.
What was that saying about hunters enjoying the hunt?
Trying my best to hide the effect his nearness was having on me, I reached down for a piece of sushi on the table.
“It's from Masa's,” he noted, his gaze trained on my lips.
I popped the roll in my mouth and let the rich, silky flavors unravel along my tongue. Groaning, I took a sip of the wine. “God, I love Masa's.”
“I know.” His lips brushed against my neck. “And it’s been far too long since I’ve heard you make that sound when you eat their rolls.”
I flushed bright over his sinfully suggestive observation.
The first time he took me to Masa’s was after my agency completed our first campaign with him. After that, we kept up the tradition after every big campaign.
All this time, I’d simply thought he liked the food.
“If you're so good at remembering things, where's the Ginjo saké?”
“I want you relaxed, P.J. Not drunk.”
That made me falter and immediately glance over at his token glass of water. Blake’s father had been a notorious drunk when he’d been alive. A very charming one, if the tales were true. But not charming enough to keep Blake’s mother from leaving them both.
“Don’t worry about it, love.” The hand on my hip tugged me closer while the other slid along the curve of my stomach.
Feeling his lips against my neck once more, my body's response was instant. Another groan purred up my throat—this one having nothing to do with the food.
“That good, huh?” He nibbled at my ear, a shiver shooting down my body to curl my toes.
“Hmmm?” I tried to keep from drifting away in the warm sea of sensations he was creating, but the relaxing effects of the plum wine were starting to kick in.
“The sushi—it's that good?” The hand at my stomach dipped to trace a line down my thigh before zipping back up to cup my breast.
I wrapped my fingers around his wrist. “I know you want to keep practicing in private, but The Post is going to eviscerate me no matter how well we fake it, Blake.”
His gaze darkened and, for the first—and hopefully last—time I saw Blake furious. “I swear, I’m going to buy that godforsaken company just so I can put it out of business if they wrote any more bullshit about you.”
“Th-they didn’t. Or if they did, I didn’t read it—didn’t read any coverage about us at all, actually.” I stuttered out, my tongue tripping over itself from a combination of the wine and flat-out shock. “I’ve been avoiding the news.”
“Good, continue avoiding it.” His fist clenched before he forced it open and smoothed it along my thigh. “Those gossip hacks are irrelevant in our lives.”
At the calm returning to his voice, my pulse slowed as well. I hadn’t been alarmed, just…overwhelmed that he’d reacted so strongly.
Over me.
“Don’t forget,” I reminded him teasingly, wanting his usual easy-going smile back on his face. “You paid half a million last year to shape what those ‘hacks’ say about your company. And it was money well spent.”
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, gentle humor curving his mouth once more. “I agree completely; it was money well-spent. But that half a mil wasn’t for them, it was for you. Or for me, rather. So I could watch you get excited about a campaign and pretend it was me making you all flushed and worked-up.”
“Okay, now who’s talking bullshit?” I chuckled and bumped my shoulder against his. The man always could make me feel good.
“I like knowing that I actually can, now,” leaning into me, Blake kissed the side of my mouth, “…get you all flushed and worked-up.”
I turned into the kiss, unable to stop myself.
Blake hadn't kissed me the same way twice yet—something I tried not to think too hard about given his vast experience with women. But one thing was certain. Every last one of his kisses could definitely get me flushed. And worked-up.
Really worked-up.
This one started with a slow tug at my bottom lip with his teeth. He cupped the side of my head, his thumb stroking my cheekbone as the other hand rested lightly against my throat.
His mouth slid to the side, the tip of his tongue teasing the corner of my lips until my lower jaw went slack and I moaned.
“Such a sweet mouth, Pippa.” His tongue curling into my mouth as he slowly sucked my top lip. “I would kiss it all day if you'd let me.”
I'd gladly let him.
And that single thought brought with it the heavy reminder of what I’d so recently learned about him.
Even if I had forgotten for a little bit, I didn't want a borrowed lover. Not when it came to him. Pulling back, I ran my fingers along the side of his face, coaxing him to look at me.
“Abigail says you fell in love a few months ago.”
He froze for a beat, then answered carefully, “She’s right. I did.”
Unbelievably, after dropping that bomb, he tried to kiss me again.
I pressed my fingers lightly against his lips to stop him. “Who did you fall in love with?”
For some twisted reason, I just wanted to know who it was, this woman who had managed to make Blake Cross fall in love with her. Whether it was Anna or someone the world didn’t know at all, I wanted to put a name and a face to her. I wanted to confirm all the differences between us. I wanted to know if she was someone with a high-society upbringing or a drop dead gorgeous Jenny on the Block whose beauty had transcended her humble beginnings to lift her to the dizzying heights of being Blake Cross’s woman.
All that knowledge wouldn’t keep me from falling in love with him, since that ship has clearly sailed, but it’d help me safeguard my heart through the duration of the arrangement, serve as a reminder that he wasn’t
mine to keep.
His brows knitted together, his head tilting as he stared into my eyes. “You’ve had a few days to think about it. No clues at all yet? Not even a little kernel of suspicion?”
I shook my head. Earlier, I'd worried it was Anna, but after a lot of thought, I’d realized that didn't fit. I could count half a dozen times I'd seen them together in passing when she had tried—and failed—to monopolize his attention. In fact, the times when we were in meetings together, Blake had hardly paid any attention to the woman at all.
Still didn’t figure out what the lawsuit was all about, but at least that aspect of it—Blake’s feelings about the woman—I was fairly certain about.
“No. All my digging came up empty," I answered honestly. “I went back over every bit of media and social media buzz about you for the past year and not a single plausible, let alone proven, woman came up.”
“Are you impressed I managed to keep it a secret all this time, P.J?” The pad of his thumb grazed my bottom lip.
Frankly, I really was. In this day and age, that was kind of unheard of. “So fill me the rest of the way in—who is she?” I was torn between needing to hear a name fall from his lips, and not wanting this fantasy he’d managed to weave around me the past few days to end.
He shook his head slowly, almost as if disappointed I hadn’t figured it out. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I should just up and tell you.” He wasn't teasing. His voice sounded like he had zero intention of giving me the woman’s name. “Seems like this is the sort of thing you should already know.”
As his publicist, he was right.
As his fake fiancée…he was beyond right.
Tilting my head back to hold his gaze, I asked him simply, “Why aren't you marrying this mystery woman?”
“You mean instead of paying you to marry me?” He closed his eyes, a sad smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. “The woman I love is frustratingly clueless about how I feel.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, I immediately felt sorry for him. My own feelings about him aside, I truly did want him to be happy. Even if it was with another woman. “Maybe there’s still a chance for you two,” I whispered, hoping I was a good enough person to really mean that.
