When I Let You Go (Let Me Book 6)

by Lily Foster

  “Have a good evening, Miss Veronica.”

  “Thanks, James.”

  He chuckled when I snapped, “You can pull away now, James.”

  Who could blame him, though? Veronica stood taller than her natural five-eight in a pair of high heeled brown boots. She wore dark jeans tucked into them, which showcased her long legs. Her top was a cream colored cashmere sweater that hugged her tits. She was wearing more makeup tonight than she usually did, but it was still minimal. And her hair, now grown back to its longer length, fell in soft waves.

  “God, Veronica, you look great.”

  She looked down at her outfit and then took me in. “Is this all right? Casual can mean just about anything so I didn’t know what to expect. I have a feeling that casual for you means you’ve decided not to wear a tie.”

  I took her hand, smiling. “It kind of does, but we’re both perfect for where we’re going. Are you all right to walk a few blocks in those boots? I picked a restaurant on eightieth and third.”

  “That’s fine. It’s so warm out tonight.”

  “Do you even own a coat? You always seem like you’re dressed for weather that’s twenty degrees warmer than it actually is.”

  She looked at me and winked. “I’m hot blooded.”

  I gave her a little hip check because I knew she was screwing with me. “You know, I was all prepared to do the whole come in and wait while you finish getting ready-thing. You didn’t need to come out and meet me on the street. I wanted to make a good first impression.”

  “I’m not like that, Dylan. I don’t expect hearts and flowers and all that. Believe me, in my business you get to see first-hand what a crock of bullshit that usually is.” She looked over to me wincing. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. And in my case, you were right.”

  “I put my foot in my mouth a lot.”

  “I’ll get used to it.”

  I spied one photographer snapping a picture from across the street as I held the door open for Veronica. Part of me was grateful for it. For one, the guy wasn’t up in my face or asking me who I was with in a way that was intrusive, and also, I wasn’t into hiding this. I wanted people to know I was with Veronica. Had to convince Veronica of that first I suppose, but still.

  “You choose, Dylan. Something red but I’m only having one glass.”

  Pointing the sommelier to an Australian cabernet and then turning back to Veronica, I asked, “One glass?”

  She cocked her head to the side and gave me a weak smile. “I haven’t had anything to drink since that night you brought me home from work.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I felt…wretched the next day. I was sick, I was embarrassed and I was really worried that I couldn’t remember much of what went down that night.”

  I held both hands up in defense. “Nothing happened with me…You know that, right?”

  “My aunt told me you took me home. I pieced together from what my friend Nell told me that you sort of came to the rescue. I put myself in a bad position that night.”

  “You were definitely attracting attention from the wrong sort of guys.”

  “I don’t normally drink much at all, but that night? It’s like I was on a mission to get destroyed.”

  “I was about to say I’m glad the night turned out the way it did, because you were safe, but I wouldn’t want a replay of knocking on your uncle’s door late-night again like that. He greeted me with a bat in his hands.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, covering her face in embarrassment but laughing. “I can totally picture him doing that.” Her expression changed. “I don’t want you to think I’m like that…That I’m reckless, that I hook up with strangers.”

  “I’d never judge you, but for the record, you don’t strike me as a one time hook-up kind of girl. I know the type, and you’re not it.”

  “You know the type?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sadly, yes. And please don’t ever ask me my number. Personally, I hate that crap. And I also think you’d go running for the hills if you ever found out. I’m definitely no saint, so you should know that up front.”

  “Duly noted.” She watched me as I sampled the wine, gesturing for the sommelier to pour. “Seriously, Dylan, do you even know what you’re doing when you roll it around the glass and then stick your schnozz in it?”

  I nodded solemnly. “My schnozz does, in fact, know wine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right…I bet you went to some snooty boarding school in London where you took ballroom dancing, business etiquette for future masters of the universe, and wine tasting for uppity snobs.”

  “I went to public school, thank you very much. And I never required training on how to become a master of the universe…Comes naturally to me.” She was practically snorting she was laughing so hard. “But I did take a wine tasting class while on vacation in Bordeaux, which does sound likes an uppity snob move.”

  “We come from very different places, Dylan.”

  “I don’t think that’s important, do you?”

  “I don’t know…Haven’t been in enough relationships to know the difference.”

  “There had to have been obvious differences between you and the professor.”

  She grabbed a piece of bread and leisurely dragged it through the dipping oil. “You just love referring to him as the professor, don’t you?”

  “Seriously, I don’t even remember the guy’s name. But yes, I am teasing you.”

  Veronica looked up at me. “I’ll tell you my number, even though you didn’t ask. It’s two.”

  “The professor—”

  “French,” she corrected me, “and Larson.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “Larson was older too.”

  I sensed I wasn’t going to like the direction this conversation was taking, but I was hungry for any insight I could gain when it came to her. “Tell me about him.”

  “He was my high school tennis coach.” In response to my clenched jaw and fist, she said, “Easy now. I certainly wasn’t taken advantage of. If anything, it was me who lured him in.”

  “I don’t think you can rationalize a teacher-student relationship. French is different…You’re a consenting adult.”

  “I was eighteen when I slept with Larson.”

  “Still, that’s fucked up.” Grabbing her hand and shaking my head, I added, “Wrong on his part, not yours.”

  “Have you ever read Lolita?” She didn’t wait for me to answer before saying, “I was the living, breathing version.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “I’m not perfect. Don’t delude yourself.”

  “Never said you were, but I doubt this tennis coach of yours was anything close to innocent.”

  Over the course of our entrée and dessert, Veronica went on to explain how this guy was, in her eyes, totally innocent at the start of the whole affair. In training to become a priest even.

  “He was Deacon Pete to everyone else, but I called him Larson. It started out like a joke because he called all of us girls by our last names during practice. He was twenty-five, assigned to our school teaching Theology while doing his doctoral studies, and took on the role of tennis coach because he’d played in college. I think he felt the need to look out for me after seeing my father in action at a few of my matches.”

  “Overbearing?”

  “Overly critical, demeaning, degrading…You name it. One particularly mortifying day, he screamed obscenities at a line judge when I had clearly double faulted. He was actually banned from school grounds for the duration of the year. I was a junior then and that ban,” she broke into a wide grin for a moment, “was sweet relief. So Larson had some inkling of what my life was like. Little by little I shared more with him, but never the entire story. He knew I was saving up to leave home, so he went out of his way to get me a job teaching rich kids at Midtown Tennis. He’d even pick me up after work and drive me back to Brooklyn on his way home after his own night classes. With a co
llege scholarship and that extra money, I knew I’d never have to spend so much as a Christmas break in that house again, so I was very grateful.”

  “He cashed in on your gratitude?”

  “No! Larson’s intentions—I’ll swear it on my deathbed—were innocent. I was the one growing restless. I had a boyfriend, a guy who turned out to be a bit of a jerk,” she paused, her shoulders dropping, “but really, I was no better. I used him to torture Larson. I’d sit in his lap on the bleachers and make out with him when I knew Larson was around and might see. And during practice I’d purposely touch Larson’s hand when I could, hike up my tennis skirt when I knew he was watching, bounce a little on my toes while I wore training shirts so tight they made my breasts strain against the fabric. God, I was awful,” she added, shaking her head. “Biting my lip when I spoke, smiling sweetly at him when I’d catch him looking my way…Doing anything I could to break him. But he was pretty solid in his faith at the time, so it was no more than just a game to me.”

  “So senior year?”

  She nodded. “One night Larson was driving me home and my father was outside, throwing all of my things out onto the curb. Apparently he found my diary, and aside from writing hateful things about him, I also wrote about letting my boyfriend kiss my tits for the first time.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Oh shit is right,” she said, nodding. “Meanwhile, half of the girls my age were already having sex. So as of that night, I was literally thrown out of my house and disowned.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack.”

  The waiter came and dropped the check. I prompted her to pick up where the story left off during the walk back to her place. “I’m not boring you? I feel like I’ve been monopolizing the conversation all night.”

  “This is some pretty compelling stuff, Veronica. I’m totally engrossed so continue, please.”

  She looked at me, unsure, and then sighed in resignation. “We went back and forth. He wanted to call the police on my father, I argued that I’d be put into foster care—I was still under age. He wanted to go to the school authorities, again I argued that social workers would inevitably get involved and I could be removed from the school…Yada, yada, yada.”

  “So he took you in?”

  “Yes. I stayed in his bedroom and he took the couch. It was only for three months. I had a job at a sleep-away tennis camp lined up, so I guess he figured he could stay strong.” Looking to me with a sad expression, she said, “I ruined him.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I was like a cat rubbing up against a scratch pole. I’d watch movies with him on the couch, moving closer any chance I got, I dressed in pajamas that covered me but did little to hide what was underneath, and I took advantage the one night poor Larson had anything to drink.”

  “Did he serve you alcohol?”

  “No! Listen to what I’m trying to tell you,” she shook her head in frustration, “he’s a good person. That night he came home from his end term dinner. He was out with a bunch of other soon-to-be priests.”

  “They like their wine,” I said dryly.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said shrugging. “That was the first and only time I ever saw Larson buzzed. Anyway, I was on the couch in short shorts and a tank top without a bra on, watching a movie that started out innocent enough, but turned out to have some heavy love scenes. He went to turn it off at one point but I grabbed his hand, stopping him. I turned to face him and begged him to kiss me. I didn’t even wait for him to bridge the gap. I was kissing Larson and leading his hand to my chest, moaning as I straddled him.”

  I was about to blow just listening to this story. And now we were at her door. Was I coming in? She looked behind her. “I want to ask you up, but my apartment’s a mess. I basically ransacked my room getting ready for tonight.”

  “Up to you…I don’t want to push you, Veronica.”

  “I think it’s me who’s trying to push you.” She looked away, swallowing as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I think I’m telling you all of this because I need to know what you think of me…Now that you know the worst.” She stopped me when I went to speak, fixing me with a hard, intent look. “My family is so screwed up. Growing up, my father constantly referred to me as a whore. And now look at me—I crave sex, I’ll do horrible things to lure a man in, so I feel like maybe I am a whore.” Covering her face as I pulled her close, she said, “I don’t know who I am. I feel undeserving, but then at the same time I know he’s wrong, that what my father said and did to me was wrong.”

  “You were a kid acting out a role with Larson. You were a woman having a fling with an older guy with your professor. You’ve been with two men. At nearly twenty-two in this day and age, that hardly makes you a sinner…Kind of makes you a saint.”

  She nuzzled into my chest, seeking protection or comfort or some kind of connection. I wanted to slap the shit out of her father for creating this, for making her doubt her own worth. Tipping her chin up, I said, “Veronica, if you want to know how I see you, I see you as someone who endured a lot and still came out on the other side, strong and positive. I see you as a beautiful, intelligent and capable woman…And I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before.”

  She held my gaze for a moment, maybe to sort out if she could trust in what I was saying. She tugged on my hand and gestured towards the door before fishing her keys out of her bag. When she led us into her apartment, she pointed me towards her couch and then proceeded to sit astride me the moment I made contact with the cushions. This was too fast and she suddenly seemed removed, far away. It made me uneasy so I tried to hit the brakes, needing to make certain she was really here with me and wanting this. “Are you sure, Veronica?”

  She nodded at me with hooded eyes but something was off, it was as if she’d flipped a switch. Pressing herself down onto my lap as she went to raise her top over her head, she said, “I don’t want to talk anymore. I really, really need you to fuck me.”

  That poor sap Larson didn’t stand a chance faced with the eighteen year-old version of this. I actually found myself feeling bad for the guy because I was no better. I knew taking Veronica to bed tonight was a bad idea, but damn if I wasn’t balls deep, screaming out her name as she raked her nails down the length of my back not ten minutes later.

  A hand was slowly skimming up and down the length of my side, down to the curve of my hip and then back up again until fingers stroked the sensitive side of my breast. It took a few seconds for it all to register. Dylan Cole was the man holding me in his embrace, his body curled around mine, my back to his front.

  He must have felt my body tense, and rolled me onto my back a moment later so that I had to face him. “Good morning.” He was smiling at me but then his expression grew concerned. “You feeling all right?”

  “Um, yeah,” I hedged, pulling the top sheet out from beneath the quilt to cover myself as I made my way towards the bathroom.

  I splashed cold water on my face and then looked at myself in the mirror, angry at the person before me. I had next to nothing to drink at dinner, so I couldn’t blame last night’s lust induced haze on alcohol. What must he think of me? He was fending me off, telling me we should take things slowly, but I wouldn’t be deterred from my mission. No, I had his cock out and in my mouth within five minutes of luring him into my apartment.

  After another splash of cold water, some toothpaste and a swipe of deodorant, I was ready. I had my game face back on. I kicked the sheet aside and came out of the bathroom, sauntering back to bed. Glancing at my phone on the nightstand, I made an attempt to be playful. “Seven o’clock on a Saturday morning? Do you ever sleep in?”

  He didn’t crack a smile. He was looking squarely at my face, not once glancing down to my naked body. He wasn’t going for it, so I upped the ante, climbing onto the bed next to him and sitting on my heels with my knees parted. My breasts were heavy with wanting him, nipples tight to the point of pain, and I was
wet. His dick was hard, his rigid length obvious even though he was covered by a quilt. So what was stopping him?

  “Don’t you want me, Cole?” I cringed at the sound of my own voice. I sounded pathetic. But I kept at it, sliding one hand across my breasts, down my abdomen and resting it between my legs before touching myself.

  He looked down for a moment, watched the performance I was putting on, and then slowly raked his eyes back up to my face. His look communicated pity and then disappointment. It was as if he was pleading with me silently—for what I didn’t know. I only knew how to tempt a man, how to seduce him. “C’mon, Cole, do you want me?” I let out on a breathy exhale.

  “I’ve got a better question, Veronica,” he said as he turned away from me and got up off the bed, grabbing his pants from the floor. He looked back to me as he put his pants on without underwear and then threw his sweater over his head in a hurry, like the place was on fire. “Do you want me?” In response to my confused expression, he said, “I’m not gonna be your casual fuck. And I’m sure as hell not some needy older dude who’ll be rendered stupid just because you’ve got a nice rack and you’re willing…I can get that any day of the week, sweetheart.” Slipping his feet into his shoes and grabbing his keys and wallet off my dresser, he added his parting shot. “I’m not Larson and I’m not French. So that shit you pulled just now? Your little vixen act? It’s old and it’s tired and it won’t work on me.”

  My shock turned to fury within seconds. “Then go,” I bit out. It was as if I was sixteen again, in my childhood home being judged harshly, feeling ashamed and burning with anger. He hesitated. Feeling stupid and exposed, I reached for a tee shirt and the panties I’d flung off last night. He wasn’t moving and I couldn’t bear to look at him. I was humiliated enough without seeing that look on his face again. “Get out of my apartment, Cole…Now.”

  “Is this what you do, Veronica?” Grabbing my upper arm and turning me to face him, he asked, “Is this how you keep your distance, how you keep the upper hand? Yesterday I was Dylan and now that we’ve fucked I’m suddenly Cole? You never called those other guys by their first names, did you?” He let go of my arm, shaking his head. “You keep asking me what my game is, but it’s you who’s playing the game.”