Beautiful Deep

by Jordyn White

  She’s quiet long enough that I think the topic is over, but then she says quietly, “I’m telling you tomorrow. Before sunset.” I hear the same determination as when she said it in her apartment, like she has to be firm with herself or she won’t do it.

  I consider teasing her about the logic of today not being over until we go to sleep even though it’s past midnight, but tomorrow being over at sunset. Instead, I kiss the top of her head. She’s right that I don’t know what it is, but there’s one thing I need her to understand.

  “Whatever’s in your past belongs to you. You don’t have to—”

  “You need to know.”

  “All right. That’s fine. I’ll trust you about that. But remember Emma,” I tuck my finger under her chin and turn her to face me, “you’re safe with me.”

  We should be sleeping. It’s pushing two in the morning. Instead we’re floating in the languid aftereffects of the fifth round of sex inside of seven hours. I can’t get enough of her, and she seems to feel the same.

  The lights are out, but there’s enough moonlight coming through the windows to cast a pale blue light on her lovely face. I lightly draw one finger along the curve of her cheek. She gives me a sleepy smile, and blinks with heavy lids. Maybe we’ll finally go to sleep now. Maybe not.

  I once had sex with a woman four times in one evening. And what did I think then? I thought, This is the best one night stand I’ve ever had.

  That’s how it felt. Transient. With Emma, every time we come together it further solidifies what I’ve felt about her all along. This means something.

  Of all the women I’ve been with, even the ones I enjoyed enough to actually date for a while, they never felt like more than someone who was just passing through.

  I used to wonder why this was. Some of them were accomplished, beautiful, good women. I eventually came to the conclusion that it wasn’t them, it was me. I thought I wasn’t the kind of guy who can let other people in enough to really love them.

  Other than family, of course. Because other people? I don’t even want them close.

  But lying in my bed, the very picture of strength and grace and loveliness, is the one exception. I don’t believe in fate or signs or grandstanding from the universe at large, but I’m starting to think the problem wasn’t me after all.

  It’s as if my soul knew she was coming, and couldn’t be bothered to invest in anybody else.

  Chapter 27

  Emma

  It was close to noon by the time I was slowly waking up, stretching and luxuriating in the soft sheets on his king-sized bed. Not to mention feeling a bit raw. I guess that’s what happens when you do it six times in one day.

  My previous record was one. One time in one day. That seems kind of pathetic now. I didn’t even know I could come six times in one day. Well, more than that actually because twice he got me to come with his tongue, then immediately followed it up by making me come with his cock. When Mr. Rayce Rivers decides I’m going to have an orgasm, he doesn’t screw around.

  We tried to go to sleep over and over again. But after a while our lazy, almost sweet post-sex caresses would turn into suggestive, teasing touches, and then that would turn into rolling around and every manner of indecency. Then I’d think we were done and finally ready to fall asleep, but we’d end up talking quietly in the dark and eventually I’d feel the stirring and pulsing of desire. Again.

  He wasn’t in the bed when I woke up, but I heard noise down in the kitchen so I wasn’t worried that he’d gone too far. Not long after, he appeared at the door carrying a tray that not only had a legitimate breakfast on it but a glass of juice and a cup of coffee. He made French toast—actually made it himself—and sprinkled it with powdered sugar and topped it with some berries. There was even a tiny pitcher of syrup to the side, just like they have in restaurants.

  It was damned impressive and he was adorably proud of himself. He did a good job, too. The toast was perfectly cooked, soft in the middle, firm at the edges, and tasted incredible. When I teasingly expressed my surprise that he’d actually cooked something, he said, “It’s the one breakfast I actually know how to make. I might be playing my cards a little early, but I didn’t want to bring you Fruity Pebbles on our first morning together.”

  My heart lifted at that, like he considered it our first morning among many. But maybe I was reading too much into things and he didn’t mean it that way.

  I’m having to really watch myself. I keep getting caught up in the fantasy of being with Rayce Rivers. Not just now, here, in this house and frequently in his arms, but for a long, long time to come. I have to remind myself who he is and who I am and all the reasons why this could be over by sundown.

  After breakfast, I wasn’t sure if I’d be heading home or what, but he invited me to stay and enjoy the pool again. I agreed, amazed not just because he hadn’t had his fill yet but because I hadn’t either. I’ve never spent so many hours in a row with a guy before. Usually by the time a date is wrapping up, I’m ready to be home so I can relax and absorb everything. But I don’t feel that way now. I could easily spend the whole day here.

  I feel so at home, even more than at Aaron and Pierce’s apartment. Of course, that’s probably because that’s not really my own place.

  Well, then again, neither is this.

  But I’m not questioning it. I took to heart what he said, that we may as well make the most of things before I let the cat out of the bag. And damn if I’m not trying.

  It took us a while to actually make it down to the pool. Before changing into our suits, we got cleaned up in his massive rainfall shower and I discovered I wasn’t too raw for him to take me from behind while I braced myself against the tile wall.

  Just thinking about it now gets me tingling in all the right places. I’ve never been with a man who turns me on all the time. He’s not even here and I’m turned on thinking about him.

  He had to make some calls in his den first, so I’m waiting for him outside, on one of the comfy couches under the gazebo. I’m lying on my stomach in my neon string bikini. The sound of ocean waves hitting the shoreline far below the cliff’s edge and the smell of fresh sea air both soothe and rejuvenate me. It’s a nice counterbalance to the other thing I’m doing: reading the latest article about my dad on my phone.

  I have what is probably an unhealthy habit of Googling my dad’s name to see if there’s anything new. I get updates from my mother, of course, so I already know what’s going on, but I can’t seem to resist reading what the papers are saying.

  In spite of their diligent use of the word “allegedly,” the tone of these articles suggest guilt on his part. The commenters on the articles aren’t shy about saying it outright.

  When you embezzle enough money to put a company out of business, all to support your secret gambling addiction, the hundreds of workers who lost their jobs thanks to you don’t tend to be too forgiving.

  And by secret, I mean secret. Apparently my dad had been wasting money on horse races for years. He handled the family accounts, so Mom had no idea the extent of their debt. First the arrest, then the discovery that they were on the verge of bankruptcy themselves. It’s been a shit storm ever since.

  My half-brother has said that my mom should, “divorce his ass,” but she says she loves him and wants to help him with his gambling addiction, which he in turn says he’s committed to beating. I can’t decide who’s right, my dad’s wife or his son. Part of me has compassion for my dad, and thinks if he’s able to overcome this, it’s good that Mom is standing by him. The other part of me thinks I’m too trusting and forgiving and she should cut her losses and get while the getting’s good.

  “Hi, gorgeous.”

  I roll onto my side to see Rayce stepping onto the patio. He’s wearing a navy blue swimsuit and nothing else. His arm muscles flex as he closes the door with the same hand that’s holding his phone. Since I’m allowed to shamelessly ogle him now, I roll all the way onto my back and enjoy the show. His chest
is firm and defined, his abs taut. The defined V on his inner hips dip beneath the waistband of his suit.

  He’s striding over with a smooth gait, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. From my breasts to my stomach to my long legs, he seems delighted by every inch and I can’t help but enjoy it.

  He crawls up and tosses his phone on the cushion next to mine before settling on his side next to me. Cupping my jaw and giving me a kiss, he says, “Have I told you how sexy you are?”

  I grin. “Yes. But you can tell me again.”

  He starts to gently caress my side and hip, watching his hand as he slowly travels down one thigh then back up to my side and onto my stomach. “You are without doubt the sexiest woman I’ve ever known.”

  He might just be the boss giving his little employee a line, but he doesn’t make me feel that way. And besides, I want to believe it. He has said he likes my tattoo, and he does seem to, but it’s so contrary to what I would expect from him that I have to wonder what it’s really about.

  Maybe it is sexy, and a little edgy. Maybe guys are bound to like that. But Rayce is a powerful, respected man. Even if we didn’t have to hide things, would he really want me to be the woman on his arm when he’s out schmoozing the Swan Pointe elite?

  I’m not incapable of holding my own. I’ve been to gatherings with high-profile people and know how to behave. But I also know how people like that can get. They’re always looking for reasons to judge you.

  Admiring my body is one thing when he’s in the privacy of his own backyard, but would he want to be on a public beach with me where the papers could take photos of him and his tattooed girlfriend? Doubtful. And no way would he ever make me his wife.

  My chest aches as I consider the reality of things, but I tell myself yet again to keep what’s going on here in perspective. It’s not like I didn’t know this going in: an affair with the boss is not going to end well.

  The fact that he makes me feel so amazing is irrelevant. Isn’t it?

  He points his chin toward my phone. “What were you reading?”

  “Um...” I hand him my phone. “It’s an article about my dad. He’s facing trial for embezzlement.” He lifts his eyebrows toward me, searching my expression. “Yeah. It sucks. But it is what it is. Go ahead, you can read it.”

  He scans the article and I examine his profile, looking for clues in his serious expression. Clues to what, I’m not sure.

  About halfway through the article, he asks a question and I end up filling him in on the rest, giving the abridged version. Strangely, this is a far easier story to tell than the one about my tattoo.

  Still, he can’t want to know all this garbage about me. It has to be too much. But I just keep telling him stuff. He’s always been easy to talk to, but before we slept together, if he edged too close to topics I wanted to avoid, I could back away and it was fine. Now it’s like I can’t help but open right up. Want to hear about my tattoo? Let me talk your ear off for half an hour. Want to know more about my family? Let me tell you about the great disappointment that is my father, which seems even worse in comparison to his fairy tale family.

  My heart thumps painfully, nervous about just how much I still have left to tell him. Eventually, anyway. But do I have to do it now? The topic of my dad does make for the perfect segue. But God, I’m not ready for this to be over yet.

  How is he going to look at me when he realizes I’m not the amazing woman he keeps saying I am?

  “Wow, Emma,” he says when I wrap things up. “That’s terrible. How are you?”

  “Okay, I guess. I mean, I’m fine. I’m just so mad at him.”

  He nods. “That makes sense.”

  “I can’t look at him or even think about him without being so ashamed of him. He’s not the man I thought he was.”

  See? All it takes is one thing for someone’s opinion of you to change.

  “I’m sure.”

  “That didn’t stop me from bailing him out when he got arrested though.”

  “How much was bail?”

  I hesitate. “Thirty grand.”

  Rayce’s focus sharpens on me in a new way. He gives me a probing look, like he’s trying to put puzzle pieces together again. “You had thirty grand for bail?”

  Uh...

  “Well, my mom was able to get a couple grand from a credit card, but they were maxed out everywhere else.”

  Tell him the rest. Just tell him.

  But I don’t. Instead I say, “Anyway, that’s why I don’t have a car right now.”

  Well it’s kind of why don’t have a car.

  “I had to sell it.”

  He shakes his head, and I’m just waiting for that look to appear. It’s the look that says, You shouldn’t have done that. My brother told me not to hurt myself financially just to bail Dad out. Even Mom told me not to.

  “I know I was being stupid. He’s probably going to end up in prison anyway. But I couldn’t stand the thought of my dad in jail.”

  “I didn’t say you were stupid.”

  That’s true. And I haven’t seen that you-shouldn’t-have look, or really any disapproval.

  Maybe I’m the one judging myself. I wouldn’t go back and change it, but I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do. “But it was stupid,” I say quietly. “Right?”

  He takes a thoughtful breath, watching me. “I think you did what you thought you had to do for your dad.” He squeezes my hand. “He’s family. I understand that. And if you’re willing to go without a car and your own couch to sleep on for a while, that’s for you to decide.”

  “Except it affected Aaron and Pierce, too.”

  He frowns. “Are they giving you a hard time about it?”

  “No. Not at all. They’ve been really great.”

  His face relaxes. “Well, then, no long-term damage done. You’ll recover. You’re getting your own place. Will you be able to get a car soon?”

  I smile, reassured by his easy practicality of things. He’s the first one who hasn’t made me feel like a complete idiot about it. True, he doesn’t know all the details, but I don’t care right now. It’s nice to have someone understand why I did it. “That depends on your definition of ‘soon’. But you’re right. Things are getting better.”

  “Right.” He gives my chin a gentle nip with his fingers. “Eventually this will all be in the past.”

  He returns to the article and I let him finish reading. I close my eyes and take a deep, satisfying breath. See? He just makes me feel so relaxed.

  When he’s finished with the article, we finally head to the pool.

  “Is this what we needed to talk about?” he asks.

  “No.”

  Because I’m a great, big chicken.

  “Jesus, Emma. How many secrets do you have?”

  “Just one more.” But it’s a big one.

  And time is running out.

  Chapter 28

  Emma

  We’re in the hot tub talking about the most random stuff. I’ve learned things like the fact that he’s been to seven different countries but that he’s got nothing on Connor. His Grandma Rivers had a cat named Moses, so named because if you filled the sink with water he would jump right in and splash around like he was trying to part the Red Sea.

  I learn he’s never broken a bone, but holds himself personally responsible for his baby brother’s first broken bone, which he got cliff diving when they were kids.

  “I knew I should’ve grabbed that scrawny little arm and stopped him from jumping,” he said.

  He loves Mars bars and isn’t a fan of Snickers, but I’m the other way around. We both have pretty intense exercise regimens (mine are left over from my dancing days), and we’ve half-heartedly said we should try to get a short workout in later. Right now, though, we’re enjoying the hot tub far too much.

  Our playful flirtations have escalated to dead-serious. He’s come in front of me, hitching my legs around his hips as he delivers the most expert, toe-curling kisses. The wa
rm water jumps around us as we get more and more heated. Our chests press together, the feel of his bare skin against mine electrifying my body.

  He cups my ass and brings me closer to him, pressing his erection against my core. I throb and squirm against it. I’m getting too worked up and hot to stay in the water, but just in time he smoothly lifts me onto the edge. Staying in the water himself, he leans over me, scandalizing my mouth. I sink back, trusting him to support us both. With the way his tongue is assaulting mine I can hardly manage anything more.

  He rocks his hard length against me and I groan. I need him to pull my suit to the side, satisfy my need for him, fill and stretch me. If there’s a limit to how many times a person can have sex within twenty-four hours, we haven’t found it yet.

  He slips my top down, exposing my breasts, cupping them both before taking one hard peak into his mouth. I arch to meet him, vaguely aware of his phone ringing on the table.

  His tongue does devilish things to my body and I writhe shamelessly. I don’t know where he learned to do this, but I would marry this man based on his skills with my nipples alone.

  The phone rings again. He switches to the other side, giving it equal treatment and causing me to make far, far too much noise. The neighbors can’t see us, but if they’re outside they can damn sure hear me. I can’t help it. I lose all control with him. The way his tongue swirls and flicks, circles and—

  He freezes. Comes off me. A breeze cools my wet nipple.

  Dazed, I give him a questioning look. He’s looking over my shoulder toward the gazebo with a dazed expression of his own. The phone is still ringing, and he seems to have just now realized it.

  Then everything changes.

  “Shit.” He abruptly releases me and hops out of the tub.

  He hurries to the phone, water streaming off his body and onto the sun-drenched concrete. My body feels like it’s been hit with a blast of arctic air.

  He picks up his phone. “Hello?” He pulls it back and scowls at the screen. “Dammit.”