Escaping Reality

by Lisa Renee Jones

  amusement dancing in his eyes. “When do you start work?”

  The elevator dings and opens. “I don’t know.” I dart inside the car,

  trying to think of an answer that isn’t a lie.

  He steps in beside me and punches the button. “You don’t know?”

  “I’m supposed to get settled first.”

  He scowls, and even his scowl is handsome. “How well do you know

  your new employer?”

  Now I scowl. “How well does anyone know their employer?”

  “You moved here for this person.”

  “A job is not a person, and I know just as much about him as I do

  you.” The elevator opens again and I don’t give him time for a rebuttal. I

  step into a carpeted hallway that reminds me of a hotel corridor and note

  the sign pointing me to my right.

  “Your boss didn’t make sure you got here safely tonight,” he points

  out as he joins me, and we make our way to the last apartment at the end

  of the hallway. “I did. Do you have your key?”

  I hold it up between two fingers and stop in front of the assigned

  door. I just can’t think of it as “my door”. “I’m all set.”

  “I’m coming in to make sure you’re safe.”

  “This is good,” I assure him quickly.

  “You have no idea what waits on you inside.”

  Exactly. “An empty apartment and I don’t know you, Liam. I can’t

  invite you inside.”

  And I have no idea what makes me say it, but I add, “Not tonight.”

  “That’s better than not ever,” he comments. “But I’m not a serial

  killer and for all I know, your new boss is. Let me check the place out for

  you. You can stay outside while I do.”

  “I’m not letting you in.”

  He leans in close and presses his hand on the door above me. I can

  feel the heat rushing off his body. And as silly as it seems, I can’t explain it,

  but I can almost taste the masculine scent of him. Or maybe I just want to

  taste him. “I’m going to get a room across the street,” he informs me.

  “Your hotel is across the street?”

  “It is now. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with a list of restaurants

  open at this time of the night we can choose from. My name is Liam Stone,

  Amy. Look me up on your computer. Then you’ll know I’m trustworthy.”

  “I don’t have a computer.”

  “Or enough clothes to be moving from state to state.”

  I left myself wide open for that one. “I had them shipped along with

  my computer.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. “Right. Of course. Look me up. Use your

  cell phone.”

  “It’s broken. I have to get a new one tomorrow.”

  “It’s broken.” His tone is flat.

  “Yes. It’s broken.”

  He considers me a moment. “Stay here and don’t go inside yet.”

  Without further explanation, he walks toward the elevator.

  Confused, I open my mouth to call after him and snap it shut. It’s

  midnight. People are sleeping. He steps into the elevator and regardless of

  what he’s planning I know he’ll be back, which means I need to act fast. I

  unlock the door, flip on the light and tug my suitcase and bag along with

  me.

  A small hallway leads past a kitchen to my left and directly into a

  large open-concept dining and living area. Thankfully, I do have furniture,

  which is more than I had when I was sent to New York. I scan and quickly

  dismiss the overstuffed brown couch and two chairs. It’s the envelope

  sitting on a simple wooden dining table that has my attention. I set my bag

  down and sink into one of four chairs, reaching for the envelope. The

  contents I find inside are disappointingly uninformative. There is only a

  lease to the apartment with a note telling me to sign it and drop it by a real

  estate agent’s office. The first month’s rent is paid. Nothing else.

  Absolutely nothing. No information about what has happened. No

  words to explain the threat I might be under. No triangle symbol. It’s not

  there. My heart starts to race. There is supposed to be a symbol on any

  instructions I get. I don’t know what this means. Maybe he thought this

  note was an extension of the last so it didn’t need it? I can’t think. I have to

  get rid of Liam and go to a bank machine and see how much money I have

  to live on. Should I run? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I have to take one

  thing at a time. Liam first. The rest later.

  Shoving away from the table, I rush back to the door, and open it,

  gasping when I find Liam standing there, dark blue t-shirt stretched over his

  impressive chest, and he doesn’t look happy. “I told you not to go inside. It

  wasn’t safe.”

  If having him, or anyone for that matter, worry about me didn’t feel

  so good I might have bristled at his reprimand. “Well,” I say, “as you see, I

  did go inside, and I’m happy to report that Godzilla is nowhere in sight.”

  He does not look any more pleased than moments before. “We’ll talk

  about that later.”

  My brows dip. I’m not sure I’m processing all content properly right

  now. Why wasn’t the symbol on the note? “Talk about what?”

  “Later,” he repeats tightly, and hands me an iPad. “My Wikipedia

  page is up. Look it over. There’s a hotel directly across the street. I’ll get a

  room and suggestions for places to eat that will still be open.”

  My eyes go wide. “You have a Wiki page?”

  “Yes. I have a Wiki page, and despite the unauthorized information it

  contains, it’s fairly accurate. I’m going to check into my hotel. I’ll be back to

  get you in a few.” He starts to turn away.

  “Liam, wait.” He pauses and looks at me. “You do know that I don’t

  have a Wiki page.

  I’m not a model or an actress or a celebrity of any kind. I’m not even

  a secret heiress to a mega-fortune.”

  “You’re you. That’s what counts.” He turns away again and I don’t

  stop him.

  You’re you, he’d said. Only that’s the whole problem. I’m not me.

  Chapter Five

  Rich, sexy, and powerful no longer seems an adequate description.

  Liam Stone is, per Wikipedia, a reclusive billionaire and philanthropist who

  lost both of his parents at a young age and was taken in by one of the most

  famous architects who ever lived. Liam inherited his mentor’s extreme

  wealth and apparently, his skill. At the young age of thirty-one (apparently

  most architects are older when, and if, they become established) Liam is

  the highest-paid living architect, and is considered an architectural prodigy.

  Setting the iPad aside, I press my fingers to my throbbing temples.

  It’s almost comical that I actually thought Liam could be my handler. He has

  far more to occupy himself with than little ol’ me, and I really don’t know

  why he’s hovering around me at this point. Well, except maybe he just

  wants to have sex. I’m not above admitting it’s on my mind. Heck, maybe I

  should just embrace a potential one-night stand and let Liam take me away

  for a few hours. Whatever awaits me tomorrow will still await me

  tomorrow. It might even stop me from melting down. So why do I feel so

  let
down that this thing with him isn’t more? I can’t have more. There is

  no “more” for me. I went to the door to get rid of him. When he comes

  back I should pretend I’m not here.

  A knock sounds and I discard the idea of not seeing Liam again,

  jumping to my feet and rushing past the kitchen. Afraid I might talk sense

  into myself, I waste no time opening the door, and then almost swallow my

  tongue with the impact Liam Stone has on me standing there. He might be

  a billionaire, able to afford the finest of fine, but the man does a pair of

  faded Levi’s and a t-shirt as right as they can be done. And he does it while

  looking at me like I’m the dinner and he’s going to lick me off the plate.

  “Done with your research?” he queries.

  “Yes. I read your Wiki page.”

  “And?”

  “You’re rich, talented, and why are you at my door again?” And why

  am I not sending you away?

  “Because you haven’t invited me in yet.”

  “You sure don’t seem like a recluse to me.”

  His lips quirk and he straightens, and before I can blink he’s advanced

  on me, his hands coming down on my shoulders, his big body crowding into

  the apartment. “Liam,” I object. Sort of. Actually, I’m not sure I object at all.

  “Amy,” he counters.

  My nerves prickle. “Don’t do that.”

  He kicks the door shut, pressing me against the wall, his powerful

  thighs encasing mine.

  “Do what, baby?”

  The endearment does funny things to my stomach and so does the

  solid wall of his chest beneath my fingers. “Mock me when I say your

  name.”

  “Ah, now, little Amy, I assure you I am not mocking you. I already told

  you how hot it makes me when you say my name.”

  I am so not skilled at this flirtatious word game he is playing, so I

  resort to what I do well. “I didn’t invite you in.”

  “No?” he asks, his eyes alight with sexy amusement.

  “No,” I reply and while I am nervous, out of my league with a man

  this experienced, this incredibly sexy, his playfulness somehow takes the

  edge off.

  “Yes, well,” he says, his voice holding a hint of evil mischief, “I prefer

  privacy when I kiss you. We recluses are like that.”

  My nerves shoot to the sky. Kiss me. He wants to kiss me. I want him

  to kiss me. “You’re no recluse,” I accuse, wondering how the Wiki got that

  so very wrong.

  His eyes darken, narrow. “Then how would you describe me, Amy?”

  he asks, his voice low, gravelly. Affected. By me. The idea is exciting and

  frightening all at once.

  “Demanding,” I say, and I sound as breathless as I feel.

  His fingers curve around my neck, tugging my mouth near his, teasing

  me with the promise of a kiss. “You have no idea just how demanding I can

  be.” And with that erotic promise, his tongue slices into my mouth, a silky,

  hot caress that seems to touch every inch of my now tingling body. The

  taste of him, of hot passion and desire, sizzles through my senses, and my

  fingers splay on the hard wall of his chest.

  A low groan escapes his throat and his hand caresses over my hip and

  palms my backside, pulling my hip flush with his, his thick erection pressing

  into my belly. “I’ve wanted to taste you since the moment I saw you in the

  terminal,” he murmurs, and his breath is warm, a wicked seduction against

  my mouth.

  “Feel free to do it again,” I whisper, and I am surprised at the

  boldness of my words. But then, I’ve never had anyone as tantalizingly male

  as Liam Stone to inspire me.

  “I’m going to do a whole lot more than kiss you, baby,” he promises,

  and his mouth covers mine, his tongue once again pressing past my lips,

  and I feel the lick between my thighs, in the deep throb of my sex. I have

  never wanted like this and I like it far too much to let inexperience, or a

  note on a bathroom mirror, interfere. This is one night for me. One night.

  Where that concept had bothered me before, it feels remarkably

  liberating now.

  My nerves have nothing on my desire to lose myself in this amazing

  man, who is like no one I have ever known, who I will probably never see

  again. Determined to enjoy every minute with him, and every inch of him

  while I’m at it, I sink into the kiss, my tongue caressing his, drinking him in.

  Boldly, I slip my hands under his shirt, my palms flattening on hard muscle

  beneath warm, taut skin. Touching him is wonderful, addictive. I am

  trembling inside, aroused in a way no man has ever made me feel.

  Confidence builds inside me and my hand strokes a path down his

  zipper. His hand goes to mine and he tears his mouth from mine, his fingers

  move from my neck, tangling in my hair, tugging me backwards with a

  gentle, erotic force. “How old are you?”

  The questions shatters a little part of me not even fully realized. This

  is not a reaction a girl wants when touching a man. “Why does that

  matter?”

  “How old, Amy?”

  “Twenty-four.” I don’t even know why I answer. I shouldn’t have

  answered.

  “How many men have you fucked?”

  I gasp. “You can’t ask me that.”

  “I just did. How many?”

  I don’t like where this has gone. I don’t like how I suddenly don’t

  know if he thinks I’m a virgin for my limited experience or a hussy for my

  fast actions. Either way, this is not an escape anymore. I try to shove away

  from him, but his grip in my hair doesn’t loosen. “Let go,” I hiss.

  “This was a mistake. I don’t know you. I don’t do this kind of thing.”

  Great. Now he thinks I’m a virgin. I can’t get this right. “I mean, I do. No. I

  don’t. I don’t do this kind of thing.”

  “It’s quite clear you do not do this kind of thing,” he says, releasing

  me, and I hate how much I wish he had not, after what he has made me

  feel. Or how relieved I am when he plants his hands by my head, caging me

  as if he doesn’t want me to escape. “But I do, Amy. I do this kind of thing. I

  have short, quick, well-protected affairs with women who get that I’m not

  going to be around tomorrow. Women who do not care enough about who

  I am to find out my name or how much money I have.”

  My defenses flare, verging on anger. What is he accusing me of?

  Being a virgin, a slut, or a money-grubber? “I didn’t try to find out about

  you. You made me read the Wiki page. You made me.”

  “I know. I wanted you to know me and to trust me. I still do.”

  I soften, confused. I stay confused with this man. “I don’t understand.

  You just said…and I know and…why are you, and I and…” My God, I’m an

  educated woman and I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

  “The same reason I showed you my design on the plane.”

  “Which is why?”

  “Because against every rule I have ever set, I wanted to.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Then let me be more clear.” His cheek slides over mine, his whiskers

  scraping erotically over my delicate skin, his lips pressing to my ear. “You’re

  a
beautiful woman who deserves to be properly fucked, which I conclude

  from both your actions and answers to my questions, that you have not

  been. I want to be the man to remedy that. I want it very much.” His arm

  wraps my waist, shackling me to him as if he fears I will get away, his free

  hand stroking down my hair, as he huskily adds, “Probably too much.” He

  moves then, his intense blue eyes staring down at me, searching my eyes. “I

  don’t know what you’re running from, but I know you’re running.”

  My heart jackhammers. “No, I’m not. I’m not.”

  He brushes his lips over mine. “And I’m not asking you to tell me

  why,” he says, rejecting my denial. “But just know that I have every

  intention of making you forget everything but what it feels like to have my

  tongue and my cock buried inside you.”

  My lashes lower and heat pools low in my belly, then settles hard

  between my thighs.

  I’ve never even had a man use the word “fuck” with me before, let

  alone promise to fuck me properly, but I fear he will make me forget why

  my silence is golden. “I don’t—”

  “Look at me, Amy.” There is a command in his voice and for reasons I

  cannot explain, I am compelled to comply. My gaze lifts to his. “I do,” he

  promises. “And I like the idea that I am the man who’ll make sure you do,

  too.”

  He’ll make sure I know. This is exactly everything I need to hear. He’s

  promised to be demanding and to take me to unknown territory, but that I

  won’t be there in the dark. I am so very tired of being in the dark. I wrap my

  arms around his neck and make sure he knows how important this is to me.

  “I want to know. I need to know.”

  Approval seeps into his eyes, heat simmering in their depths, and one

  of his strong hands cradles my face, and then his mouth is lowering to

  mine. His tongue licks into mine, tasting me, and he is different now, we are

  different now. The kiss is hotter, wilder, passion unleashed, and I have a

  sense of being claimed. Like I am his to take and I want to be taken by this

  man. I want it very much.

  Still kissing me, as if he too cannot get enough of me as I cannot of

  him, he lifts me off the ground, his hands cradling my backside. My legs

  wrap around his waist, and one of my shoes falls to the ground, so I kick the

  other one free. “Where’s the bedroom?” he asks, a gravelly urgency to his