“Get the coffee ready, I’m catching a cab.”
Stay wearing the same old thing he’d seen and stripped from me before?
Or something new?
Sitting unopened on my dresser was a box the size of an A4 ream of paper. Ordered after our weekend in Katoomba but arriving after Scott’s second visit to Melbourne.
There’d never been the reason or opportunity to open it.
Now?
Being careful not to accidently slice the contents, I opened the box to pull out a sexy black lingerie replica of my card playing outfit. The black bustier was tighter fitting, lower cut than I’d wear in public, and laced together through a dozen eyelets. If Scott wanted to remove it, he could either undo the laced leather strips, or rip the bodice.
My secret weapon was the bodice held together at the side seams by press-studs. One solid rip and the top would come apart in his hands.
The skirt was the softest leather, barely covering the tops of my black lace stockings. It felt divine, sexy and perfect. If I couldn’t get Scott to listen, perhaps he could feel how good we were together. One last time.
I went full out with my heavy, GG style makeup. Scott loved me without makeup, but tonight wasn’t about Carlynn and Scott professionals in conflict—this afternoon and possibly tonight was about him seeing me as GG.
Pulling aside the blinds at my front window, I couldn’t relax, counting the minutes until a taxi slowed outside. Scott stumbled, dropped his wallet before meandering the ten metres to the front door to my building.
He’d hit self-destruct.
Internalized his pain, hurting only himself.
While I’d skipped town, changed my name and hurt my family by my absence.
We needed to find a healthier way to break and heal.
I’d already unlocked the front door before Scott had pressed the buzzer a second time. “Come on up.”
“You look like shit!” Just because it was the truth, didn’t mean I should have blurted it out before a hi or good to see you.
“You look pretty fucking amazing,” Scott slurred not even waiting for an invitation before crushing me against the open door. Hands not finding any challenge as they ripped up my skirt, his mouth leaving wet trails all over my face. I didn’t know if he was even trying to find my lips.
Then he did, and despite his pain and mine, we found each other.
Tongues dancing, his hands dropped my skirt to cup my face. Drawing me into his orbit, opening the floodgate to emotions and asking me to drown.
I could.
I would.
Together, we were stronger than the shit we were swimming in.
“You’d better come in,” I panted, pulling him inside enough to close the door. Within seconds Scott proved he didn’t need an instruction manual to leave my top hanging by the shoulder strap. I was no innocent, hooking a leg around his hips while he slammed me against the wall. My apartment was too small for a hallway or separate living areas. It was either here, the kitchenette, or the bedroom.
With each dry hump and kiss, my body exploded in self-indulgent passion. We were not lovers or even friends.
We were two bodies attached to the same life support.
Prepared to fuck with no regard for the consequences. His. Mine. Ours.
“Oops,” he slurred, almost dropping me in his unsteady stumble.
“How about we take this somewhere safer?” Not that I wanted to give him time to change his mind.
“We can take this anywhere you fucking want to.” Yes, there was anger and hurt, but I wanted to hear the tinge of, caring.
He’d made it half a dozen steps before collapsing into the two-seater chair. Salvaged from a secondhand store, it had cost less than the price of one of Scott’s home delivery meals. All I could afford. The differences between us could be summed up by our homes. Too much? I didn’t know, anymore. My brain had stopped functioning when it came to this man.
I slid down behind him, wriggling until he lay underneath. I tasted traces of Scotch, a fruity wine, and kebab? Scott hadn’t been in any state to order his own food, so someone must have been trying to look after him.
Mason? Unlikely.
Jarryd? Too busy organizing this afternoon’s game.
Layla? Maybe, but she usually drew a very firm line between professional and personal.
His kisses melded from anger to hunger, taking me along for the ride. Still grinding against me until I helped him undo and push down his jeans. Loving the way his ass felt cupped in my hands. Craving the way his erection ground towards my pussy—as if the skirt and thong were mere irritants.
“I fucking loved you.”
The first time he said it, I’d met his violent thrust with one of my own. Allowing our hips to collide and for his cock to slide between my closed thighs.
“What?” I must have misheard.
“I fucking loved you.”
This time, I let him inside, hearing him repeat the same four words with each thrust. Pulling me deeper under water until I thought I’d never fight my way back up for air.
It wasn’t lost on me, that he used the word loved instead of how I’d describe it. I focused all my hurt on his use of past tense to scratch and claw at his back. To leave marks that he’d remember even if he didn’t remember tonight.
He fucked me angry and raw.
We’d never been together so emotionally naked. Not even in New Zealand before we were coming back to questions.
I took my punishment but gave it back in spades. Biting him, leaving bruises around his neck. Tearing at his shirt until buttons flew around my small apartment.
Only after my tremors became an earth-shattering eruption did the Scott I loved reappear. Driving me until I clenched around his cock, milking his orgasm until he collapsed, exhausted into my arms.
Caressing his face, kissing his eyelids, I said the words I probably should have said weeks ago, “I’m so sorry. I was in an impossible situation, and I didn’t know what to do.”
Scott immediately pulled away, shaking away my hands and reaching for his jeans.
“No, you don’t get to leave like this.” Luckily, I could still grip hold of his shirt. Compromising by sitting on the arm of my small couch. Allowing him space but not letting him leave. “You said you wanted to talk; don’t let what we just did come between what you wanted to say.”
“This was a mistake.” He leaned back, defeated. As long as he wasn’t picking up his jeans, there was still hope I could get him to stay long enough to sober up and listen.
“You wanted coffee, at least have a coffee with me before you go.”
“Then, let me make it. You never heat the milk properly,” Scott snapped, making the four strides to my kitchenette without breaking furniture. “Go and put some bloody clothes on so I can think straight, you look like a—I don’t know.”
I knew exactly the word he’d wanted to say, retorting, “That was the look I was going for, except you were supposed to see me like this on the way to getting your ass handed to you over a game of cards.”
My fuck-you attitude would have worked if my fingers could work the small press-studs.
To my surprise, Scott slapped the bench, laughing. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t look sexier if you tried. But for the love of everything wholly, if you want me to think straight please put on something that doesn’t make me want to rip it back off you. I’m an old man and need at least half an hour break in between.”
“Anything in particular?” I asked, not correcting him. Based on past experience, he only needed ten minutes, maybe twelve. “Would my black jeans be suitable with a baggy jumper.”
“You mean that dusty pink jumper that my head fits underneath?”
“Promises, promises.”
Signs of what we could have been, laughing and joking. Hell, if we could cook a meal in the poor excuse of my kitchen without killing each other, there was even hope for world peace.
“Whatever you feel comfortable in. You wante
d to talk, and I need—you.” The last word came out as a whisper, an accidental slip of the tongue. Something I could hold onto but not acknowledge, not yet.
“Then get me coffee while I get into something less comfortable,” I flirted before escaping to my bedroom. Falling against the closed bedroom door, the tears came unbidden.
When he’d given me the heads up, I’d hoped for conversation. Maybe to rehash where we’d gone wrong.
I hadn’t expected, that.
Okay, I’d been dressed for, that.
But Scott’s intensity had surprised me almost as much as his admission. He needed me. He loved me.
Ignoring my tear-stained face which wasn’t going to be fixed quickly, I pulled my hair into a high, messy ponytail and found an old football sweater. Comfortable and comforting to wear over jeans but if Scott wanted more than his hands underneath, he’d have to remove it first. Those bloody tear-stains. Leaving rivers of makeup down my face. With the choice to redo or remove, I chose the scorched earth option. Scott needed to see me sans all shields and disguises.
“The coffee smells good.” Forgoing my poker face smile, I took a breath and summoned enough courage to be something I hated and usually took every opportunity to avoid—honest. For Scott, I allowed honest nervousness to shine through as I accepted the warm cup from Scott. He’d even remembered my fav cup for coffee was the one with crazy cats—was that a good sign?
“I don’t exactly know where we can sit?”
Suddenly reclaiming his persona of wealthy business tycoon who’d never be caught dead in a dump like my apartment, Scott motioned around the room. I didn’t need the judgement. When I’d moved to Sydney, each dollar went towards my bankroll. After paying for rent and utilities, there wasn’t much in the budget for furniture. The couch chair still smelt of sex, but the alternatives were a coffee table or the floor.
He was being factual, not judgmental. At least, I hoped.
I sat on one of the couch arms and patted the cushion for Scott. “We seemed to fit on this before. Don’t worry, all I want is a chance to listen and explain.”
To my relief, Scott considered both cushions before choosing the one closest to me. Close enough to sling an arm around my hips. A sign?
“How do you think I’m supposed to feel?” His pain filled every syllable, “The two people I trusted and cared about thought I was embezzling.”
He’d gone straight for the jugular. No build up, opportunity for me to build the narrative, to explain.
“My job was to prove that you didn’t.”
“The way I saw it, your job was to prove where I was getting my gambling dollars from.”
The anger and hurt flooded across his face and I wanted nothing more than to hug him to my chest, take him to bed, do anything to take away the pain.
“And I did that,” I pleaded pressing my hand to his knee. Scared if he got up, he’d leave and we’d never stand a chance. “Think of it from Mason’s point of view—he’d heard rumors about your losses and he wanted to make sure that his company was protected. He is CEO. If any of his executive were suspected of running up debts that they couldn’t pay, surely the market would hold him accountable if he didn’t check it out.”
“Why didn’t he just ask me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you? You’ve seen me in action and know that I only ever play with in my means? Why didn’t you just ask?”
“Mason wasn’t asking me to look into your recent games, it was the six months after the altercation with Darius.”
I knew all about the blonde bombshell. The office rumor mill hadn’t held back in filling me in. Still, I absolutely refused to say her name. Whatever he felt about me today, only months ago, he’d wanted and possibly loved another woman.
“He needn’t have worried, I had it all under control.”
“He was worried about you,” I protested, wanting Scott to understand. Even at his worst, he had people in his corner, waiting for a chance to help.
“He was worried about Softli—he didn’t trust me.”
Still, his hand refound its way around my hips. I leaned into his side, subtly started drawing circles around his back. Knowing what it normally led to and knowing he could stop at any time.
Somewhere in the distance, police sirens blared and people smashed bottles. Just another boring midweek night in paradise.
I sat, continuing to draw calming circles. Absorbing his scent and wanting to him to—I didn’t know anymore. Trust me? Love me? Give us another chance? How many second chances did we deserve?
Scott said nothing. But eventually, I felt his muscles relax. Not happy, but not angry. Not waiting for the slightest reason to leave.
He wanted a reason to stay.
“So, where do we go from here?” I asked, needing to keep the conversation flowing. It would be too damn easy just to fall into bed and forget how to use our words.
“I don’t know,” he answered forlornly. “I can’t get past the fact that neither of you trusted me.”
“You really think if Mason didn’t trust you, he’d have asked me to look into you? My original brief was to look at the debt book. If he was really going after you, he would have called in forensic accountants or auditors.”
“That’s what Darius said.”
“When did you speak to him?”
“He decided to pay me a visit earlier today. Next time, remind me to beware of Greek gods bringing Scotch. Actually, he didn’t bring the Scotch, he drank mine and now he owes be a bottle of the finest.”
“I didn’t think you were friends.”
“That’s what makes all of this so humiliating. My boss didn’t trust me, asked my girlfriend to look into me, and possibly my worst enemy is the only one making any sense.”
“And what was that?”
“That Mason was only doing his job, that you were only doing your job, and I shouldn’t throw everything away just because of my own bruised ego.”
Fingertips turned into nails. Twisting and turning him until his pained face found mine.
Damn, I loved him.
“So, what do you want to do?” I breathed, hoping.
“You.”
So, he did.
Straight flush
Scott
After my Thursday morning from hell, even Layla wouldn’t have expected me to go to work on Friday. I never expected to drop into Mason’s office with a noncommittal, “Hey Mas how’s it going?
One drunken Thursday afternoon with Carlynn had turned in to a random night of partying at The Club, half owned by Darius and the scene of our infamous altercation over a different woman. One night with Carlynn had changed everything.
“Are you really sure you want to go out? We could stay in and keep talking?”
After I’d turned up uninvited, Carlynn I had fucked, talked, taken our time to explore each other, talked more and finally, made love. Too much had happened to fix in one night, but I’d sobered up enough to know we were worth fighting for.
We’d needed a distraction. Away from work, the tables and anything that had defined, us.
“Do you trust me?”
“Why would you ask me that just to go out?” Her naked legs had curled around mine, her sheets covered in evidence of the last hours.
“There’s a place that has an interesting vibe.” Anymore would open up a Pandora’s box of questions.
“What sort of place?”
“Just a place,” I demurred.
“What sort of place!” This time, she straddled me. Pinned me to her bed. I could’ve easily rolled her over, switched positions. But I liked Carlynn to think she had control.
“Let’s just say that if you wear that fucking sexy black thing you greeted me in today, pull your hair up and give me the GG look, you’ll be right at home.”
“A strip club?”
“More like an anything goes kind of club. People might strip, people might be hooking up either on the floor or upstairs in the p
rivate rooms. We can watch, or we can see where our boundaries are.”
“You’d rather do that than stay here and talk?”
“Right now,” I had started, loving how her eyes opened as I pulled her into place, groaning as I felt her body adjust to me, again. “There’s a hell of a lot more I’d rather do than talk.”
“Then do it!”
An hour later, rather than be intimidated or put off by the half-naked grinding bodies making use of any wall space around the venue, or being shocked by the exhibitionist displays on the dance floor, Carlynn had turned into GG. Taking less than one song before getting into the groove.
“You like?” I had to shout over the thump thump thump of the music. The beat replicating a heart on heat.
“I’m not sure about going all the way in public, but if this is what gets you in the mood, I’m all for it.”
“I’m in the mood for whatever you want, just say the word.”
With her hips gyrating to the music, rubbing against my aching cock, this was the perfect place for us to press restart.
The Club used to be a warehouse, turned into a nightclub offering patrons the freedom to express their sensuality. Legal and consensual were the only rules, other than no photography—thanks to Darius and me turning the place into our personal boxing ring. Inhibitions were left at the front door and clothing was extreme or optional.
In her skin tight black leather pants and black bustier normally worn for poker games, GG fit in. Hair flowing around her shoulders, she took it all in from the viewing platform. Gripping onto the metal banister as couples and groups ground out their frustrations and let loose all inhibitions on the dancefloor below. Stripper poles were accessories to the sexual feasting of willing couples, and small platforms gave the exhibitionists the opportunity to shine.
“Do you trust me?”
Again, with the question. I’d let her hands slide down my jeans, rubbing me until I wanted nothing more than to slide between her leather draped pant legs. Almost hidden in the dark, we could be anyone, do anything with no judgement and no regrets.
But there were other options, if she was willing to take a leap of faith.
“I came here with you, didn’t I?”
Reckless Gamble: a billionaire high stakes suspense romance (City Sinners Book 4) Page 23
