The Arrangement

by Jennifer Hartley

  She never expected that. Not for herself, never that word, in that tone.

  “We missed lunch. But Spencer wants us to join him for tea.” He put the clothes on a chair then sat down by her feet. He pressed kisses up and down her legs. “We can make excuses if you want.”

  He came to rest his chin right on her pussy, a smile lighting up his face as she blushed and bit her lip.

  “Say we don’t have to go down there and have stupid tea,” he urged her.

  She shook her head and tenderly stroked his rumpled hair, his brow. “Come on, Eric. You know we have to.”

  He sighed loudly and started kissing her pussy. She blushed and giggled, trembling from the passion behind his little, fervent kisses. “It’s not right,” she managed to gasp. “He - he invited us.”

  He groaned against her slickening mound and resumed kissing her. “I don’t want to be anywhere else but here. I only want to be inside you.”

  “I - I can still feel you.” She admitted, turning deep red. Her pussy was sore in a way that felt right. She was getting slick from his kisses, but she was still wet from when he had fucked her. There was a hollowness in her pussy that she had never felt until Eric. She longed to be fucked, to spend her life with Eric fucking her, his cock putting an end to that awful emptiness.

  “Hmm. Do you?” He asked, moving up her body, covering her with more kisses. A sigh spilled from her lips as he drew on her nipple harshly. When he let go of the nub, it was red and gleaming with his saliva. He looked at her in the eye.

  “You still taste like me.”

  She gasped as he sniffed loudly from her neck. “You smell like you’ve spent the afternoon spreading your legs for a beast, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, god. Eric, get off. You have to let me take a shower.” Panicking, she managed to push him off her and jump out of bed. She grabbed the blanket and threw it around her while Eric lay back in bed, watching her in amusement.

  “What’s so wrong if you smell like I’ve been fucking you? I have been fucking you. Better for Spencer to know what he’s interrupting,” he drawled.

  “Eric, let’s not embarrass your father like that, please.”

  She looked around wildly for the bathroom. Eric whistled and pointed to another set of doors. Relieved, she dashed toward them.

  As she threw the blanket on a shelf and raced to the shower, she heard Eric through the door.

  “Love, so what if Spencer smells the sex on you? I think he’d be pleased with it. I’ve disappointed him so many times that I think what you believe as depraved he would view as something good on the side of his bastard son. More babies.”

  The door muffled his voice, but there was no mistaking the bitterness. She grabbed a towel from the shelf this time and wrapped it around her. She opened the door and found Eric sitting naked on the floor right next to it. He gave a start. “Sorry,’ she muttered.

  He took her offered hand and stood up, heedless of his own nudity. She clutched the blanket and looked at him worriedly.

  “Are you okay?” She asked quietly.

  “No.” Was the short answer delivered through gritted teeth. Seeing her flinch, he sighed loudly and pushed his fingers roughly through his hair. “No. I’m not angry at you. Please don’t think that. I just . . . I don’t like being here.” He refused to look at her then as if he had just confessed an embarrassing weakness.

  It hit her just then just what she had asked of him. Nothing good about me here, he told her. Burned and purged. Wracked by guilt at what she was putting him through, she blurted out his name and suddenly hugged him. He sank against her heavily, the hard press of his body momentarily knocking the breath out of her. She tightened her grip on his body. For the first time, she must be strong for him.

  How selfish she was to make him come here. Perhaps she should just love him and make no more attempts to help fix the rift between him and Spencer Cohen. Not only was she intruding on something she had no one hundred percent knowledge of, but it might drive Eric to drink again. She smelled not just the anger from him, but also fear. It wasn’t memories that scared him but what they might make him do.

  “We can leave,” she said, her lips moving against the firm flesh of his neck, his sweat on her tongue. “We don’t have to say goodbyes. We can just leave.”

  She felt the instant the burden was lifted off him, but his arms tightened around her waist. “No.”

  “Eric - ”

  “No, we’re staying.” He insisted. He turned to kiss her hard on the mouth before pulling away from her. “Look, we’re already here. I can stand Spencer loathing me. I grew up like that. But not you. I won’t let that happen.”

  “Do you think I give a fuck what your father thinks of me?”

  This time he stared at her. “I do.”

  “Eric, please - ” she tried again, but he shook his head firmly.

  “It’s the holidays, Sasha. We leave, and that means Spencer will vent his ire on Clinton and Aida, who will then go after us with stakes for fucking up the season for them. No, we have no choice but just bear it until we leave. It’s only three days.” He suddenly grabbed her and crushed his mouth against her again. Though she was confused and worried about him, she kissed him back, pouring her insatiable need for him with every brush of their lips, the caress of her hands on his chest.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered heatedly as he yanked at the blanket, and it fell in a heavy swoop down to her ankles. He took her mouth again, his kiss now gentle.

  “You can make it up to me by telling me how much you love me,” he groaned.

  She was about to kiss him again when she paused. “Eric, I tell you I love you because I do. I don’t do it to manipulate you.” She said slowly.

  “No, of course, you don’t. You’re not that kind of person,” he said, kissing her around the face. “I just - when you say you love me - everything feels right, you know?”

  As he spoke, he lifted her from the floor and brought her back to the bed. She blinked up at him, wondering just how damaged her husband was. Eric had let her inside. She knew him. But she was realizing now that no matter how deep and strong your connection to each other was, there will be something about a person you won’t be able to reach. He was in her arms now, she could still taste his secret flavor at the back of her mouth, yet there was a distance.

  That didn’t feel right. But she wondered if that was the truth for all relationships. That there will always be some part of the person you loved and knew so intimately that you simply could never reach.

  “Tell me you love me,” he asked, taking her lips this time, scooping her back from the bed to cradle her in his arms. She felt like floating. Warm. Loved.

  She looked at his beautiful face, her heart tight with the knowledge not just of her feelings but that this was barely a cover to the struggling wreck that he was. Eric would need to be stitched back together again. She would have to scour the world for pieces of him that had been lost.

  But she loved him, broken, pained, struggling. There was no other way to feel for him. She hated how hurt he was, but he had come to her like this, a gift the world had trampled over before discarding. He was a gift. Her gift.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “So much.”

  His expression was both questioning and curious. She wondered if this time, he will tell her he loved her too.

  He kissed her instead.

  Kisses fell on every inch of her body, his lips and tongue painting on her as if she was a canvas. She wondered about the kind of picture his kisses made on her skin, if it was love, passion, need, or all of them. Is that what Eric saw? She wanted to ask as their gazes flashed at each other before his mouth was on her again, muffling her cries as he thumbed and playfully pinched and turned her nipples. She flushed upon realizing that the motions of his fingers mimicked how she would turn the pegs of a cello like she had shown him before. She felt as tight as a string on the instrument, desperate for the relief of a stroke.

  “Say it a
gain,” he whispered as she panted against his mouth. He took her lower lip between his teeth, dragging it again and again until it plumped red. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you, Eric.” She moaned, throwing her head back as he pulled a nipple roughly between fingers. A sharp cry fell from her lips, cut off suddenly by the hungry swoop of his mouth. She raked her nails down his shoulders when his fingers slipped inside her pussy and began fucking her, no teasing, no gentleness. Just hard, almost brutal pumps of his fingers that made her wet, and she clutched him.

  They were gasping against each other when someone knocked on the door. Sasha shrieked in surprise, her thighs trapping his hand in panic. Eric cursed against her mouth, his gaze suddenly sharp.

  “What is it?” He demanded.

  “Sir Eric, your father waits for you and Mrs. Cohen at the porch.”

  “Oh my god,” Sasha groaned, remembering. She reached for his hand to remove it from her pussy. “Eric, we have to - ”

  “Tell my father to go right ahead,” Eric shook his head at her, pushing his fingers deeper in her pussy. Her eyes widened before a throaty moan slipped from her lips. He grinned. “We will join him. Eventually.”

  “Eric - ” she tried to protest, but her head was moving from side to side. She was embarrassed, sure that the servant behind the door knew exactly what they were doing. But her hips won’t stop moving; her pussy refused to let his fingers go. He kissed her on the cheek.

  “Err, will that be all?”

  “Yes. That will be all.” He said firmly.

  They waited until they heard footsteps walk away from the door. Then Eric pushed his tongue in her mouth. She cupped his face, thrusting her tongue back.

  “Eric - ” she tried again.

  He shook his head. “No. No. I’m not having tea until I get to fuck you.” He cradled her cheek and asked, “Tell me you love me again? Please, Sasha.”

  It wasn’t that she had no choice. It was all she wanted to do.

  They made it to the porch twenty minutes later. If Eric had his way, they would remain in the room and just fuck until they had to go back to the city. It’s not that he didn’t try, but Sasha was stubborn and quite terrified of Spencer Cohen. Taking pity on her, he insisted that she take a shower then called for a servant to alert Spencer that they would be running later than expected.

  Now here they were, sipping tea from delicate china, forced to take part in yet another inane conversation. Ivy Peak wasn’t just a viperous pit. It drained your mind too, with all the proper talk and proper behavior endured, lest people gossiped. Nothing embarrassed Spencer Cohen more than to be the subject of speculation or worse, a joke.

  The image was everything for Spencer. He employed a public relations agency to make sure that only news about the Cohens’ increasing wealth and their charity saw print. Eric knew he kept a close watch on Carl Kane’s trial not out of concern for Sasha but because of the lurid details of the crime that might make it to the media. Bad enough that his ex-alcoholic son was marrying some non-society person. Eric knew Spencer viewed his marriage to Sasha as an insult. As far as Spencer was concerned, not only was Addison a worthless name, she was also damaged goods.

  He looked at Sasha carefully watching Spencer turn his cup, so he could grasp the needle-thin handle before taking a silent sip. Then, in an awkward imitation of the older man, she took saucer and cup from the table. Eric noted how large her hands looked, how with just a flick of her fingers the expensive china would be smashed. A smile touched the corner of his lips as he watched her bend, rattling the china in her hands, so her eyes widened before she took a deep breath and sipped. The warm beverage touched her lips for a second, but it was enough to make them as red as a rose.

  She moved stiffly, putting the china back on the table before returning her hands on her lap. It was sweet how much of an effort she was making to be proper and well-mannered. Eric reached for her hand and, without another thought, brought it to his lips. Pink and red colors exploded across her cheeks, like flowers in a war for which would bloom first. Blue eyes darted toward him, honest in their gratitude.

  Unbeknownst to the couple, Spencer was watching the quiet exchange of a kiss and a gaze. His attention was on the scones by the time they turned away from each other.

  “I had the chef make all of your favorites tonight,” Spencer spoke as he took a bite. “Unfortunately, Eric didn’t tell me yours, Sasha. My assistant emailed him several times, and I even asked him when you took me to that bar. As usual, my son would rather be mysterious.”

  “I don’t like emails, and if you had told me why you were asking, I’d have told you,” Eric answered, still holding Sasha’s hand.

  “It’s alright,” Sasha said quickly, first glancing at him then Spencer. “I’m - I’m not a picky eater. No allergies. I’d eat anything, actually.”

  “Will you, now,” remarked Spencer.

  Eric frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Alright, now what did I say this time?” Spencer demanded. “I can’t make a comment? I can’t express surprise at your wife’s claims that she’s quite the eater being that when I joined you a couple of nights ago, she hardly had a bite?”

  “Oh, I was too nervous to eat,” Sasha explained. Eric saw how anxious she suddenly looked. Again, he squeezed her hand.

  “But I’m glad you’re looking well, Sasha,” Spencer said, smoothly leading the conversation towards something harmless and pleasant. “Can I count on a performance from you after dinner?”

  “A performance?”

  “Of course. I saw you brought your cello with you. That means you’ll play, right?”

  Sasha stared at him in a mix of horror and disbelief. “What?”

  “That was a riveting performance you did the other night, Sasha,” Spencer continued, ignoring her shock. “Tell her, Eric. My son does encourage you, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course!” Sasha exclaimed as Eric glared at his father. “Eric is nothing but supportive. I was hesitant at first about practicing in the apartment because he clearly has a routine when painting. But . . . ” she smiled at him. “He’s never minded. In fact, he makes sure I get my daily practice.”

  “You should hear her performance of the Silence of Saints,” Eric made no attempt to hide his pride. “She’s wonderful.”

  There it was again. Red and pink blooms fighting for dominance on her pale, freckled skin. It was the sweetest clash he had ever seen. He could focus on that and survive this ordeal with his father.

  “Someday, sweetheart, you’ll have your own concert in Rogue Hall,” he continued, reaching out to touch a stray lock of pale hair clinging to her lips. “That’s where you belong. On the stage. With applause and roses thrown at your feet.”

  She replied with another vivid, furious blush of crimson. It was going to happen for her. He would make sure.

  “Well, great artists require practice. Care to give us a taste of your future performance in Rogue Hall, then, Sasha?” Spencer asked.

  “Oh - oh - god, please. Eric was just - he’s just really supportive and - and - ”

  “Nonsense, dear.” Eric bristled at the endearment to his wife. “For once, my son speaks the truth.”

  That got Sasha’s attention. “Eric doesn’t lie.”

  The defense in her tone perked up Spencer’s attention. Smelling a fight brewing, he took the plate of scones and put some on Sasha’s plate, distracting her. He sent Spencer a warning glance and received one of confusion.

  Suddenly, a servant appeared at Spencer’s shoulder, telling him of the arrival of Clinton and Aida. No sooner had the man spoken when two blond little boys came running toward them. Eric laughed and stood up to welcome his nephews in his arms. Clinton and Aida followed shortly.

  Spencer gave Clinton a handshake and Aida a kiss on the cheek. He also shook hands with his grandsons.

  “Good. We’re just in time for good ol’ tea,” Clinton said, nodding his thanks as a servant placed extra chairs for
him and Aida. Aida sat down next to Sasha, and the two women hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Clinton sat beside Eric, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head in inquiry in the direction of Spencer. Eric rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  “Boys, remember the nap we talked about earlier?” Aida called out to her sons. They were already running toward the garden, their green eyes bright with mischief.

  “Just ten minutes, Mom?”

  “No, Aaron,” Aida said firmly. “You promised to take a nap as soon as we arrive.”

  “Let’s go,” said his brother with a sigh.

  A servant was waiting to take them to their rooms. Aida kept an eye on them until they reached the house and then turned to the people at the table. “They’ll be knocked out in a snap,” she said as a cup and saucer were placed before her and the teapot refilled. With a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, she asked, “What time did you get here?”

  “Too early for my taste,” Eric admitted.

  “He’s kidding,” Sasha said with mild exasperation. “We just didn’t want to get caught up in the traffic, that’s all.”

  “Well, tell that to Mr. Workaholic here,” Aida said with a pointed glance at Clinton.

  Clinton held up his hands. “Well, I am sorry for finishing all my work, so I won’t have a desk piled high with all that I’ve left unfinished when I get back.”

  Aida beamed. “Honey, you know I’m just messing with you.” She laughed as Clinton blew her a kiss, and she sent one right back. Eric rolled his eyes while Sasha looked amused. “So, Spencer, when are we going to start putting up the decorations?”

  “Are they necessary?” Spencer remarked. Though he was pleased to have his children and grandchildren around, he wasn’t too sold on it either. Eric hid a smirk. His father didn’t like chaos, and children and holidays always equaled to twice that. At least.

  “Of course! A huge house like this and no decorations? I’m surprised they’re not yet up.”

  “It seemed too much of an effort for something that’s just for a day.”

  “So, let us take over some of the things,” Aida said, smiling at Sasha. “Are you up to it?”