by Tracy Wolff
I wait until she’s all tucked in before walking around the front of my truck to the driver’s side. She’s already got the folder open on her lap, her face buried in the first spec sheet even as she types into her phone.
“According to the GPS, the first place is about fifteen minutes from here.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
She sighs like it’s the biggest imposition in the world. “I suppose. But you’re going to be seeing it for yourself in just a few minutes.”
“Humor me. I don’t like going into places—or situations—blind.”
“But you have no problem forcing me to do exactly that.”
Her stinging tone is meant to slap me back, and maybe it should. But there’s something about all that acerbic wit that intrigues me. Something about that mouth—besides her obscene lower lip—that turns me on. Which is why I can’t help answering, “What’s the point of having all this money if I can’t make the people who work for me do what I want?”
Then I sit back and wait for the fireworks.
They don’t come. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed, so I glance over at her, just to get the lay of the land. And grin when I see the way her fists are clenched and her eyes are shooting sparks. Or bullets. She’s got them narrowed, so it’s kind of hard to tell.
She is so pissed. And so close to letting that temper of hers fly that I can almost taste it.
Because I’m a bad man—and because I haven’t been this amused in a long damn time—I poke at her a little more. “So, how many bedrooms does this place have? I need at least seven, for when my friends stay over.” My tone ensures that even though I say “friends,” she hears “playmates.”
“This one has nine. And five living areas.”
I’m a little disgruntled at her restraint. “Only five? I prefer—”
“One for every guest?” Her tone ensures that even though she says “guest,” I hear “skank.” And maybe even “sexually transmitted disease.”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“If that’s the case, maybe you should forego buying a house and just work your way through a different hotel penthouse every month. San Diego does have a lot of hotels.”
“Isn’t it your job to convince me I need a really big house with every amenity known to man?”
“Nobody needs a house this big.” She waves the folder in front of her. “It’s twelve thousand square feet and has six tennis courts, two basketball courts, an Olympic size pool and its own nightclub.” She glances down. “And a candy room.”
“A candy room? Is that a euphemism for something? Because if so, I could be down with that. I like…candy.”
“Yeah, like that’s a surprise.” She rolls her eyes even as she gives the folder another wave. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not a euphemism. There’s a room in this house that is actually set up to look like an old-fashioned candy store. It’s got those chute-like dispensers lining the walls and everything.”
Brent and Lucy would love it. I can just see them racing from candy dispenser to candy dispenser, trying to see who could get the most the fastest. Their mother would have a fit—Heather acts like their competitive natures are a bad thing and regularly blames me for them—but I think it’d be fun to watch. Not to mention give a whole new twist to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
“Nothing to say to that?” she asks when I don’t immediately respond.
A quick glance her way shows that she’s braced for another innuendo. And since I don’t like to disappoint a captive audience—or any kind of audience really, I answer, “I hope they have kisses. They’re my favorite.”
Another eye roll. “Don’t you ever get tired of being cliché?”
“That wasn’t cliché, sweetheart. That was honest. If I was being cliché, I would have said something about how much I like Red Hots. Or maybe mentioned that I really hope you like lollipops.”
She groans, shakes her head. Then says, “Sorry to dash your hopes, but I really don’t like lollipops. All that sucking and licking. Too much effort for way too little payoff.”
Her answer hits me right in the dick, but not the way she intended. Instead of knocking me back, it just intrigues me more. And makes me want to show her just how much payoff a little extra sucking and licking can get her.
Chapter 5
Emerson
Hunter doesn’t answer right away. Finally. I congratulate myself for shutting him down. It’s about time, especially since he’s the kind of player who, if you give him an inch, will take the whole football field in just one down.
My phone vibrates and I glance down just in time to see the GPS warning that the turnoff for the house is two hundred and fifty feet in front of us.
“You need to make a right here,” I tell him, keeping my voice even despite the fact that my insides are turning to jelly. It’s my first day as a real estate agent/assistant and here I am showing a twenty-million-dollar home. I’ve never even tried to show a condo before. And yeah, there’s a part of me that wonders how hard can it be. But there’s another, bigger part that warns me that I can easily screw this up.
After all, before my car broke down this morning and sent me into a total tailspin, I’d planned on spending the day, the week—the month—making coffee, greeting customers, maybe adding houses to the MLS. Never once had it occurred to me that I’d be out here trying to sell a mansion to the best quarterback in San Diego history. Or that I would have pissed my boss off so completely by doing it.
Ugh. Between showing up to work looking like a hooker and then unwittingly stealing my boss’s client, there’s no way I’m going to have a job tomorrow. No. Way. Which means, if I don’t want to end up on the street at the end of this month, I need to sell this house to Hunter. Or one very much like it. Today.
Because I’ve finally figured out the upside of this ridiculous situation. When a house sells, the selling agent gets three percent commission. Half of that goes to the agency and the other half goes to the agent. And since this house costs twenty million dollars, one and a half percent is…holy shit. Three hundred thousand dollars! Three. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. Even with taxes taking a huge chunk, I could live on what’s left of it for at least two years. Maybe three if I can find another job.
I definitely need to sell this house.
After the shittiest morning ever, the universe all but dropped this gift in my lap and I’m going to take it. No, I tell myself as Hunter pulls up to the box that opens the big iron gate that stretches across the driveway. I’m not just going to take it. I’m going to run with it and milk every penny out of him that I can get. It’s the least he can do after surely getting me fired.
“The code is 2769,” I tell him, relieved that Kerry had written it on the top of the MLS sheet for the house. “And then, once we’re in, you’re supposed to park in the guest parking area to the left of the house.”
He nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Which, judging from the very short time I’ve known him, is totally un-Hunter-like behavior. The guy who’s been flirting with me for the last forty-five minutes wouldn’t have let the fact that the code ends in 69 pass without a comment. Maybe it’s because I shut down the banter between us with my last answer, but a quick glance at him tells me it’s more than that. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes narrowed as he glares at the huge, sprawling house looming on the other side of the gate like it’s somehow personally offended him.
And just that easily, the butterflies in my stomach turn into pterodactyls. How the hell am I supposed to sell him this house when he looks like he’d rather burn it to the ground than buy it?
I’m still trying to figure that out when we climb out of the car a couple of minutes later. My phone is clutched in my hand and I pray I don’t screw this up as we approach the house’s huge mahogany and glass front doors. Last night, I downloaded the agency app that opens lockboxes, using the password Kerry had given me when she’d hired me.
&nb
sp; Just in case, she’d said. You can practice with it when you have a few extra minutes, since it’s tricky.
I really hope it isn’t that tricky since I haven’t had the chance to play with the app at all. And since technology pretty much hates me at the best of times, let alone when both my job and my pride are depending on me getting this right.
My hand is shaking a little as I hold my phone over the lockbox and wait for the app to do its thing. I make the mistake of glancing back at Hunter as I do, and for a moment—just a moment—we make eye contact.
There’s a predatory gleam in his green eyes as he watches me, one that has me feeling every slow, excruciating second as I wait for the box to unlock. Just like I feel—acutely—every tremble of my hand, every breath I exhale, every beat of my too anxious heart.
Suddenly, the lockbox whirs, then clicks. The sound jolts me out of whatever weird fugue his gaze has put me in, and I all but leap for the box. My nerves make me clumsy, and I fumble a few times as I pull the key out and try to fit it in the door.
I finally manage to get it in the lock, but the stupid thing won’t turn. I pull it out, put it back in, try to twist it again and again—all to no avail.
Hunter steps forward, then places one warm, calloused hand over mine. And turns.
Just that easily the lock gives.
Of course it does, stupid traitorous hunk of metal.
Suddenly, Hunter is crowding even closer, pressing his heavily muscled chest against my shoulders as he presses down on the handle and pushes the door open. Then he’s propelling me inside, his long, lean body gently pushing against mine until I have no choice but to enter the house first. It’s that or stand on the front porch with Hunter forever, drowning in the orange and bergamot scent of him.
“This—” My voice breaks, and I swallow. Take a deep breath. And then start again. “This is the foyer,” I tell him as I reach for the light switch to the left of the door. “The floors are Italian white Carrara marble. The chandelier is one of Baccarat’s limited editions and the walls are marble and pearl glass tiles.” Or at least that’s what Kerry’s notes claim. I’d spent much of the trip here surreptitiously reading them over so as not to sound like an idiot.
I step deeper into the room and I have to admit, I’m a little in awe of the house. But I’m also a little disgusted. This room alone had to cost a few hundred thousand dollars to design. I like a nice house as much as the next person, but seriously. What’s the point of spending this much money on an entryway? Just to brag about how much money you have?
Sure, the room is beautiful—all white and airy and awe-inspiring—but all I can think of is what else that money could have paid for. Research for diseases, food for starving children, vaccines for people in poor countries…The list goes on and on and yeah, I know people can spend their money on whatever they want. But is this kind of ostentatious opulence really necessary?
Yeah, I want my ridiculously big commission, but I guess I never really thought about what a twenty-million-dollar house looked like before now. Never really thought about the excess of it all.
I turn to Hunter, expecting him to be impressed with all this grandeur—he is known for liking the finer things in life, after all. But he looks as disgusted as I feel as he gazes at the painting directly in front of us. It’s huge, and more than likely was commissioned for the space as it fits so perfectly, the woman’s platinum hair and evening gown reflecting the same coldness as the foyer itself.
It makes me shiver, despite the fact that Hunter had the heat on for me the whole ride over here.
“Well, I’ve seen enough,” he says. “Want to move on to the next one?”
I feel exactly the same way, but I also feel like we should at least take a quick tour. Kerry handpicked this house for him, after all. There must be something here that he will like, even if it’s not this monstrosity of an entryway.
“Let’s look a little more,” I tell him. “It’s a big house. According to her notes, Kerry thinks this place is exactly what you need.”
He grimaces. “It’s becoming more and more obvious that Kerry has no idea what I need.”
There’s something in the way he says it, something in the look in his eye, that has my stomach hollowing out all over again. And not because he’s making another double entendre, because he’s not. No, he’s too busy eyeing the house with disdain to be hitting on me.
But it’s more than disdain, I realize as he walks from the foyer into the huge formal living room to the left of the foyer. He looks disheartened. Disappointed. Worried, though I have no idea why he should be.
“Do you want to see the kitchen?” I ask. “Or the pool? There’s a sauna in the garden room and tennis courts—”
“I don’t need six fucking tennis courts!” he growls at me. Then he’s turning on his heel, stomping back into the foyer and out the front door.
I follow him—what else can I do—pausing only to secure the house and lockbox before skittering down the driveway.
He’s already in his truck, engine running, by the time I open the door. It’s raining again and I’m cold and wet and more than a little bewildered about the way he’s acting.
I open my mouth to call him on it, to demand that he tell me what the hell is wrong with him. But I don’t get the chance, because he’s on me the second I pull the door closed.
Chapter 6
Hunter
She tastes delicious, like strawberries and cream and warm, soft woman, and I let myself sink into her. This is exactly what I need right now. Emerson is exactly what I need.
She gasps against my mouth and I take instant advantage, sliding my tongue between her lips and stroking along her own. Her hands come up to my chest and for a second I think she’s going to push me away. I can’t face that yet, can’t take the disappointment weighing down my gut and the rage—the boundless, echoing rage—that races through my blood.
And so I renew my efforts, fluttering my tongue along her upper lip before pulling her bottom lip between my teeth and biting down gently. She moans a little, her fingers curling over my shoulders as suddenly she pulls me closer instead of pushing me away.
It’s what I’ve been waiting for, the final proof that she’s as into this kiss as I am. So I deepen it, delving my tongue into the dark recesses of her mouth even as I rest a hand on her lower back and press until her upper body is plastered to mine. Until her sweet, sweet breasts with their hard, raspberry colored nipples, are flush against my chest.
But still it’s not enough. The pain is still there, the rage that just won’t go away no matter how many weights I lift or plays I make or women I fuck. I’m falling into it, sinking deeper and deeper into the morass with each day that passes. And while Emerson doesn’t make the pain go away—doesn’t make the anger disappear—kissing her sublimates them a little. Makes them both just a little more bearable.
Not to mention it feels better than anything has in a really, really long time.
She moans again—a soft, breathy little sound that kick starts my heart even as it slams straight through my dick—and I slide my free hand up her neck to tangle my fingers in the flaming abundance of her hair. She arches into it, her head falling back on her neck even as her body curves against mine. I can’t help but wonder…
I tug a little, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough that she feels the sting. And just that easily, her whole body melts against mine.
Yes. Triumph roars through me as I realize my first instinct was right. For all of her mouthy independence, Emerson likes a little burn. A little pain with her pleasure. Isn’t it lucky that I’m more than happy to be the guy who helps her ride that edge?
I tug again, a little harder this time, and her whole body lights up, her hips moving restlessly against the leather seat even as her skin glows a luminous peachy-pink. So I do it again, this time hard enough to have her head lolling to the side.
It’s all the invitation I need as she exposes the long, slender column o
f her neck. I rip my mouth from hers, ignoring her little whimper of protest and the way her fingernails dig into my shoulders—though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the sting, too—and fasten my lips on the vulnerable curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
I suck just hard enough to leave a bruise, then nip at the delicate skin. She cries out at the bite, and I immediately lave it with my tongue, soothing the hurt with a series of soft licks that have her nipples growing even tighter against my chest.
My dick is hard as a rock now, and I’m about to come in my pants—something that hasn’t happened to me since I was a fourteen-year-old freshman in the back of the head cheerleader’s car.
With any other woman, I’d be sliding a hand under her skirt and into her panties—if she’s wearing any. I’d be using my other hand to unbutton her sweater, unhook her bra, lift one of her lush, full breasts to my mouth. But though Emerson is letting me kiss her, though she’s letting me lick along the hollow of her throat, instinct warns me if I push it—if I push her—she’ll shut me down hard and fast.
And since that’s the last thing I want, I keep my hands where they are—tangled in her hair and pressed against the small of her back, respectively—and concentrate instead on the way she tastes. The way she feels. The way she smells, like rain and sex and the same strawberries that are even now lingering on my tongue.
My heart is racing, my whole body thrumming with the need to bury myself deep inside of her. It feels good, feels real—feels right, when nothing has felt right in a long time. In eight months, five days and three hours, give or take a few minutes, to be exact.
Maybe that’s why I pull away when all I want to do is sink deeper.
Maybe that’s why I untangle myself from her when all I want to do is lift her into my lap and let her wrap around me.
Maybe that’s why I stop when all I want to do is possess her every way a man can possess a woman.
