by L.J. Shen
His face was the funniest thing on earth as it moved from surprised to eager, then finally to turned on.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing his hard cock against me. From the outside, it must’ve looked like we were sharing the dirtiest hug ever. “I’m about to go ice-skating for a hand job, and I’m not even sixteen anymore.”
“You’re totally going on a day date,” I joked.
He rolled his eyes but followed me back outside and into the nearest subway station, buttoning his pea coat to cover the massive bulge between his legs. “Lead the way.”
Despite my teasing, I didn’t really plan to take him ice-skating. But I wasn’t going to tell him that just yet. I actually enjoyed watching him sitting opposite me on the subway. Jaw grinding. Brows creased. Eyes locked on mine. We were oblivious to the noise around us—the damp, stinky coats brushing against us, the Kindles, paperbacks, and takeout bags that smelled like Asian food and were nudged into our ribs. It was just us.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent the day having fun in the city without thinking about picking up more shifts or running errands.
I also couldn’t remember the last time I spent the day with a man who made my knees weak, my breath erratic, and my heart feel like it didn’t belong to me anymore.
“This means nothing,” he said from across my seat, twisting my own words from yesterday when I let him into my apartment.
“I’m asking you to ice-skate with me, not trying to melt the ice around your cold, cold heart,” I retorted in the same way he’d responded to me less than twenty-four hours ago.
He cracked a rare smile. “Where are we really going? This isn’t the way to Rockefeller Center.”
“Always so perceptive, Mr. Spencer.” I got up and held on to one of the poles when we reached 77th Street station. He followed me. “We’re going to the Met.”
At the Met, there was a special exhibition about human anatomy, of all subjects. It was extra realistic and gory, too. When we waited in line to get the tickets, I told Vicious I’d almost fainted when I saw a real-live mummy the first time I’d visited the museum. He laughed and said that he once went to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia on a school trip and threw up when he saw some of the remains of Einstein’s brain.
“Can’t blame you. There are some things better left to the imagination…though I can’t see myself ever wanting to picture that either.” I scrunched my nose as we entered the exhibit.
I choked the little booklet I was holding to release some of the tension from my body. We stopped next to a picture of a real heart, sitting on a white cube. It was bloody and looked fresh, like it was still beating not long ago.
I saw the art in it.
Heck, I wanted to run back home and paint it.
“I was thirteen and all kinds of messed up. The brain just always seemed to me like the most important, intimate part of the human body. Maybe because that’s what was left of my mother after her accident. She was paralyzed from the neck down, but completely lucid. Still herself.”
I didn’t utter a word because it felt important to let him speak. We were both staring at the picture when he added, “I like the way you stare reality in the eye without looking away. You’re not a coward, Emilia.”
I nodded. “Neither are you. I mean, you’re crazy, but brave.”
We walked a few feet to our right, checking out the next piece. Time moved quickly, too quickly. Four hours into our day at the museum, and I was starving, so I suggested that we go get something to eat. Vicious nodded in agreement. I was surprised we’d gotten this far without him complaining about us being here so long. We walked toward the exit, but then he grabbed me by the collar of my coat and shoved me into a corner behind a wall leading to the bathroom. It was quiet and secluded. Just another dead weekday before Christmas.
His lips found mine quickly as he muttered, “Where’s that second base you promised me?”
I linked my fingers around his neck and waited for him to make a move.
I was a good girl.
He was a bad boy.
He knew what to do.
Vicious pressed his lips to mine, kissing me slow and long—teasing this time—before moving away and watching me through narrowed predator eyes.
“Refreshing,” he croaked.
I nodded. A good long kiss was better than quick casual sex. He ducked his head down again for another one, deepening our kiss, and sucked on my tongue hungrily, cupping my ass with one hand firmly, and brushing my throat with his thumb with the other softly.
“Did you think about this often? Kissing me like that?” My voice was husky. I felt him nodding even though my eyes were closed. The electricity between us was tantalizing. My body begged for more of him and chased his touch, desperate to be closer.
My obsession. My muse. My enemy.
“All the fucking time, Emilia. I wanted to squeeze this ass…” He clutched my butt, pulling me to grind into his erection, his lips hunting mine with leisurely, playful kisses that both intoxicated and soothed me. “To feel these tits…” His callused thumb dragged from my neck to my collarbone and before I knew it, he kneaded my right breast through my clothes while sucking on my jaw. “To kiss these goddamned fucking lips that smiled for him.” He kissed me over and over again.
It broke me.
It revived me.
It ruined me.
I didn’t even address the subject of Dean because my ex-boyfriend seemed to have moved on just fine. After I bumped into Vicious, I’d peeked at Dean’s Facebook, my curiosity and guilt getting the better of me. I saw that he was happy, content and, unsurprisingly, a manwhore. It made me feel better, somehow. That I no longer occupied his mind.
Unlike Vicious. I was there in his head. I was there and he hated it. That’s why we were kissing right now. Because he kept telling me he hated me, but I, I didn’t believe him. Not now, anyway.
“Then why were you so hateful?” I wasn’t sure if I was mad or smitten with him. My mind zigzagged in confusion every time he was around.
His hard-on was still digging into my “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” leggings when he lowered his kisses to my breasts, ignoring me, pushing my sweater down and sucking on my nipples through my bra. I felt him pulsing next to my inner thigh, and I wanted every inch of him to fill me. Craved it. But Vicious’s expression grew serious.
“Emilia…” he warned.
“No, tell me. How the heck does it matter anymore? You got what you wanted. I left. So why don’t you put me out of my misery?”
He sighed, pulling away and boxing me in with his body, his arms on either side of me trapping me against the wall. His eyes were on the floor. “I was scarred from head to fucking toe. Physically marred. Mentally disfigured. The beatings I took from Daryl Ryler ruined me. I couldn’t take my shirt off when everyone went to the beach. I couldn’t fuck girls with the lights on. I couldn’t breathe without thinking about what a monster I was underneath my clothes, underneath my flesh. And then, there you were. Pure and scar-free, with your big kind eyes and honest smile. You were so clean, and I was filthy. I guess I wanted to dirty you up.
“Then there was the Ryler shit. I thought you’d figured out what he’d done to me. I was afraid that you were going to tell people. I couldn’t risk that, so I scared you. Then I drove you away. I’m fucked up, Emilia. I know that. I’m not asking you to fix me. It is what it is. We’ll fuck. We’ll use each other. Until one of us finds someone else they prefer.”
He wanted casual. That was fine.
He was light in a dark fog. But I knew better than everyone how bad the gorgeous dancing flames in him could burn. If I treated it as a fling, my heart would be guarded away. His too.
“Have you ever dated anyone seriously?” I practically sighed the question.
We were cooling off. His body became tense and his posture straight. We swiveled toward the exit doors and resumed our journey to the subway. I followed. To say that I was content with his explanat
ion was a lie, but it calmed me down. A little, anyway.
“Never,” he said, emotionless. “Have you? Other than—”
“Two serious boyfriends here in New York.” I nodded, cutting into his words before he could say his name. Dean hurt him, like Vicious hurt me. I got it now.
“Mmm,” was all he said. We slipped into the subway station and were lucky enough to catch a train that had just pulled to a stop. It was packed, but I had a feeling it wasn’t the only reason he pinned me to one of the yellow walls with his whole body so that nobody else would touch me.
“Were you in love with either of them?” His lips were dancing against mine.
I shrugged. “How do you really know for sure? They were very nice.”
“I see. Nice.”
That’s all his lawyer-self needed to say to rest his case. His cocky smile stayed in place the whole train ride.
Bastard.
We made a stop by Rockefeller Plaza. I told him I wanted to see the tree and watch people ice-skate. Truth was, all I wanted was to push him a little more. Poke at his patience. See how far he was willing to go. Turns out, it was pretty darn far. Further than I’ve ever known him to go for a girl. That, in itself, stroked my ego in places that made me shiver with pleasure.
Our next stop was Thin Crushed Ice in the East Village. I’d never been to this bar before, but I always passed by it when I went to The Paint Store for painting supplies and wondered what it was like inside. So, technically, it wasn’t a favorite place of mine, but I had a feeling it was going to become one. It looked sexy and dark, with a phone booth for an entrance, leading to an open bar with exposed bricked walls, taxidermy wearing sunglasses and ties, and wooden ceilings that made it look like we were somewhere far away from New York. The place was full of hipsters despite it only being a little after six p.m. on a weekday.
Vicious slid into one of the black leather sofas inside a booth, and when I went to sit across from him, he shook his head like I was a rookie and patted the space beside him. I slid next to him, and he hooked his arm over my shoulder. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to smell him—really take him in—enjoying the quiet moment of having him for myself.
When I opened my eyes, he reminded me once again that this wasn’t a date.
“Drink.” He threw the cocktail menu in my general direction, grabbing his phone and checking his emails. “But not enough so that I won’t be able to fuck you on the grounds of you being too shitfaced.”
Most girls would have walked away just then. But I knew Vicious had to make up for being vulnerable at The Met, when he admitted to feeling weak. When he admitted defeat.
“With that kind of attitude, sober me wouldn’t give you the time of the day either.” I checked out the food menu and, naturally, craved every single dish. My mouth watered even though I hardly knew what half the items were. They sounded sophisticated. A mix of Asian and Mediterranean. I didn’t care what they meant, I just wanted them all in my belly.
When I lifted my head from the menu to ask him what he wanted, I found him looking at me oddly again. He’s been doing that throughout our time at the museum, but I hadn’t wanted to ruin our fun day out and ask why then.
“What?” I finally asked.
“Third base is oral, right?”
I rolled my eyes. Just when I was about to answer, the waitress approached our table. She was the mother of all hipsters, with hair like mine and enough facial piercings to pass as a human sieve. She opened her mouth to greet us, but Vicious cut her off.
“Everything.” He threw the menus her way, looking back at me, but still talking to her. “Just bring everything. Cocktails. Food. Whatever. Everything. Now go.”
My instinctive response was to get up and leave before anyone concluded that I was down with this kind of rude behavior. I was wiggling my butt toward the edge of my seat when he jerked me into his body, hard.
“What the heck?” I scowled at him.
“You never answered me.” He looked down at me, businesslike. “What does third base include? Stretching your pussy with my tongue and getting my dick sucked?”
Good. Lord.
I couldn’t believe I used to have a serious crush on this man. And I definitely couldn’t believe I’d worried about sleeping with him without having my heart broken. This was going to be easy.
“Vic,” I gritted. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what third base is.”
“I prefer football terminology, seeing as I’m more familiar with the game. Which is why I know I’m definitely going to score tonight.”
“Smooth.” My face remained unsmiling.
“And thick,” he added. “With a slight tilt to the right.”
I was about to get up again, but then the waitress approached us with about ten glasses on her tray. Instead of leaving, I tossed down two cocktails like they were shots and swiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I wasn’t exactly keeping it classy, but then my boss was probing me about oral sex. Lines were being blurred, and they were becoming blurrier with every ounce of alcohol entering my blood stream.
Vicious took a sip of a beer. Slowly. Completely in control. The hunter was always more calculated and in charge. And then there was me, flailing around like the helpless prey.
“Why have you never pursued a career as a painter?” he asked.
It sounded more like an accusation than a question. Some of the food he ordered had arrived, and I picked at it with my fork, trying a little of everything.
“I have, and I’ve worked with other artists too. Interned at a gallery here in Manhattan after I graduated. Then Rosie moved in and got sick, so she couldn’t hold on to a steady part-time job. Why did you become a lawyer?”
“I like arguing with people.”
I laughed at that. I had to agree. “But you chose mergers and acquisitions, hardly a fast-paced, dramatic way to practice that skill,” I argued.
He picked an olive and brought it to my lips. “Open,” he said darkly.
I did.
“Now swallow.”
I smiled with the olive between my teeth, daring him. He dipped down and kissed me hard, shoving the olive into my mouth with his tongue. It was either choke or swallow. I chose swallow.
He pulled back from me, but his gaze remained on my lips. “Now that’s good practice. As for law, I have no desire to cover up for other people’s fuck-ups. I’d much rather see how my clients double and triple their investments…and mine. People don’t pay me because of my law-school pedigree. I went to a shit college in LA and graduated with people who went to work doing house closings and chasing ambulances. People pay me to make money, and I make a ton of it.”
“What’s your fascination with money? You have so much.”
He leaned forward, picking up a lock of my lavender hair. “Money is like pussy, sweetheart. You can’t ever get enough.”
“Yeah, and it’s made you so happy. You realize you sound like a walking, talking cliché?”
His eyes sparked with something devilish. “I am happy. I’ve never been happier. It’s seven o’clock, so Rosie should be long gone by now. Let’s go before I take you up on that offer about third base right here on the table.”
“I have one more place I want to stop first,” I said.
“Fucking Christ,” he gritted. “How about you keep your side of the deal, Miss LeBlanc?”
“I will. Eventually. Patience is a virtue.”
“Patience can go fuck itself. Wherever we’re stopping, it better be comfortable, because I’m tasting you there.”
ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT was getting into bed with her. I didn’t want to talk to her about life. I didn’t want to get to know her better. Already, I was breaking approximately five thousand different rules by spending the day with her. Every minute spent outside of bed was risky. But it seemed like the more I acted like a blunt, disgusting pig, the more she asked about my profession, my hobbies, my preferences.
People had never given a shit about tho
se things. Ever. Her interest in me didn’t make me feel good. It made me feel weird.
We were headed to Broadway next. I prayed she didn’t really plan for us to go see a play. I had nothing against Broadway shows, but when one was standing in the way of me and her long-awaited pussy, I was just about willing to burn the whole fucking street down. I’d already started doing the math in my head. Calculating the sentence for setting an occupied building on fire. Arson, possibly attempted murder. Those were heavy felonies. What was I looking at here? Hard time. Fifteen years, minimum. Different states varied, but New York was hard on its criminals.
Fifteen years.
Still fucking worth it.
“Vicious!” Emilia snapped me out of my reverie. I walked faster than her even though I had no idea where we were going. I just knew I wanted to get it over with.
“What?” I hissed.
“Did you listen to anything I just said to you?”
Of course not.
“Absolutely.”
“Really?” She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest. “What did I say? Where are we going next?”
It was already past six o’clock and tomorrow was the last day of work before Christmas. I wasn’t in the mood for quizzes.
I looked above her head at the flashing neon sign for a tattoo parlor and blinked once. “You want to get a tattoo,” I said flatly.
By the surprised look on her face, I knew I got it right.
“Of what?” she insisted.
“Of…” I gave myself some time to think about it, even though I didn’t need any. I knew her. Better than most people, actually. “A cherry blossom tree.”
“Screw you.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do here all day. Where are you getting this tattoo? I don’t want it to get in the way of our fuck session.”
“Nape of my neck,” she replied. “Don’t worry, it’ll be pretty small.”
