by Meghan March
“What—”
His eyes flare with heat as I jump. He says nothing as he does it again, spreading my own slickness across it.
I squirm on the couch, trying to pull away.
“Goddamn, you’re sweet.” His lips curl into a smirk. “But taking your ass for the first time is going to be even sweeter.”
“How do you know I haven’t—” I attempt to sound more experienced, but my words are cut off as he adds pressure to his thumb, almost breaching the tight ring.
“Because you can’t hold still. Not sure if you want to run, or push back and find out exactly how it feels. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
He lowers his face back between my legs, sucking my clit and teasing my asshole until I’m ready to break apart. I can’t focus on the scene before me. I don’t care about anything but the orgasm that’s bearing down on me.
As I arch my back and embrace it, he pushes the tip of his thumb into my ass, warping the pleasure into something even hotter.
My moan turns sharp on the edges, a cross between a scream and a plea for mercy.
But he has none. He keeps pushing me until my body goes limp.
When he rises to his feet, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now you’re ready.”
He picks me up and carries me around the back of the sofa and presses me forward. He yanks my dress up over my ass, and I hear the crinkle of foil as the room on the other side of the window goes black.
“What’s going on?” I ask. His comment from earlier, what if they could see us, comes to the forefront of my thoughts.
“Put on a show. Let them know just how damn good it feels. Let them hear it.”
“But—”
“I dare you.” He reaches around the front of my dress and tugs down the neckline, letting my tits spill free. “I won’t share you, but I’ll let you pretend.”
When he pushes inside me, I imagine the four of them watching me. It’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had.
When I come again, it’s even harder than before, and I know it’s because of him.
Not the club. Not the games.
Just. Him.
Shit.
Chapter 21
Temperance
He lowers me onto the couch and strides toward a connected room. When I hear water running, I assume that it’s a bathroom.
The first time I was here, when he stepped out of the room, I ran like I’d been scalded. Tonight, though, I hate the idea of leaving. I hate the idea of him leaving. I want to stay and soak this up and pretend it’s more than what it is.
I can’t get attached. I just can’t. I repeat what I know is the absolute truth as he returns with a washcloth and offers it to me.
But I am. I think about him all the time, and . . .
“I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out.
He pauses, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, and looks at me. “So? Does that really matter?”
His response hits me like a wrecking ball, and I want to scream, Yes, it matters.
What we’re doing here isn’t normal. It isn’t a relationship. There’s no connection between us beyond what happens in this club. I thought I could handle that. Really, I thought I could, which is why I searched for a place like this. But now . . . it feels different. My expectations and reality don’t align.
I didn’t want a relationship. I don’t have time. But I’ve also never been the kind of girl who can have more than a one-night stand and have it mean nothing, not that I have much experience with those situations anyway. It’s either one night of fun and done, or more. This isn’t even friends with benefits, because we’re not friends. To be friends, I’d have to know his name. Hell, to even be a fuck-buddy, I’d have to know his name.
I can’t do this.
As much as I want to tell myself I can, I know it’s a lie.
“Yeah, it really does.”
He studies me as though waiting for me to say something else. “It hasn’t mattered yet.”
I bite down on my lip. “I know. I thought . . . I thought I could do the casual thing. Take my fun and not get attached.”
His expression intensifies. “And?”
“I can’t do this and not need some kind of genuine connection.”
“What we just had.” He gestures between us. “That was a pretty fucking genuine connection. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.”
I look away, up at the ceiling. “Of course I feel it. But I can’t keep doing this without feeling more. You’re a guy I met randomly in a sex club, for God’s sake. Whatever we’re doing here can never go outside the club. But I can’t keep coming back and then not think about you for the rest of the week. This doesn’t work for me. I’m done.”
His blue gaze sharpens on me. “You think you can walk away now and not want more?”
“That’s the problem! I already want more, and it’s not going to happen.” I school my features and inject confidence into my tone. “So, I’m done. I’m not coming back. It’s over.”
He walks toward me and my muscles tense. Fight or flight. When he crouches low, I curl my fingers into the skirt of my dress to keep from fidgeting.
“Bullshit.”
I glare at him. “No bullshit.”
“You think this is just going to die? That cutting it off like that is going to make you stop thinking about me? It won’t. I’ve got a hell of a lot more experience with this shit than you do, and what’s happening here isn’t your normal weekend club fuck.”
“I don’t need to hear about—”
“Maybe you do. Because I shouldn’t be thinking about you after I walk out this door either. I never think about anyone after I walk out this fucking door. But you . . .” He pauses, and I don’t know what to say.
“So, what does that mean? That you’re going to show up at my front door and take me on a date, and this can be more?”
He rears back like I just told him to go fuck himself. His look of shock is so ridiculous that I can’t help but burst out in absurd laughter. He rises and turns toward the viewing window, giving me his back. I can’t read his posture because I don’t know him at all.
“See? This is why I have to stop. I’m not going to be the girl who has a fling and gets attached to a guy who can’t commit, and then gets her heart broken. I’m a realist. Even if I believed in happily-ever-afters, this story wouldn’t come with one.”
He raises his arms and grips the back of his neck, the muscles of his shoulders and back straining. “You don’t understand.” The words sound like they’re grated out from between clenched teeth. When he spins around, the vein in his forehead pulses. “My life is complicated.”
I shrug like it’s no big thing, but the generic excuse unleashes a wave of disappointment that eats at me like battery acid. Not that I’m surprised. No one’s going to break their habits or routine for me. I’m not that kind of girl.
“Well, guess what? My life is complicated too. So I’m going to uncomplicate it a little and say good-bye.”
I wipe my sweaty hands on my dress and rise. I turn and round the couch to slip on my heels and grab my purse. When I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder, and his back is to me once again.
“Good luck with your complicated life.”
I twist the handle and pull it open two inches before it slams shut and his arms bracket my body, trapping me against the door.
“You really think you’re going to forget this? Me? How it feels to come so hard, you can’t remember your own name?”
I force indifference into my voice. “I’ll live without it.”
“Maybe. But you’ll still crave it. I give you a week before you’re back here, looking for me again like you were tonight.”
My anger flares and I turn in his arms, meeting his intense stare. “You know what I’m really good at? Proving people wrong.”
Chapter 22
Temperance
I hate myself for walking away.
; He’s right. I can’t stop thinking about him. He haunts my dreams for the rest of the weekend, no matter how many Chris Hemsworth movies I watch. When I get to the distillery on Monday, I’m determined to throw myself into work and forget all of it.
By Thursday, I’m finally able to go thirty minutes without thinking about him or the club. I wave off Keira as she climbs into the back of a chauffeur-driven car, heading off on vacation, with her orders to call me if I need anything, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I can do this. I’m a capable COO. Life is great.
Then a messenger arrives an hour later, and my determination implodes.
The handwriting on the outside of the envelope is familiar, and I tell myself to throw it in the trash without opening it. But I’m weak and completely unsupervised. I use my letter opener to slice the top and dump out the contents.
A single card, just like the one he gave me the night of the fundraiser. A date and time are written on it.
Tomorrow.
Just the thought of it heats my blood, and my thighs clench together.
No. I’m not going. As a matter of fact, I’m going to make other plans so I’m not remotely tempted.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts. The list is remarkably short. That’s what happens when you walk away from your old life and cut off communication with pretty much everyone from your past, and you’re not that great at making friends to begin with.
My brother.
My boss.
My landlady.
A few distillery employees.
A notorious madam.
Valentina Hendrix.
The gallery owner’s contact information taunts me, but for a completely different reason. I’ve been driving around with the phoenix in the back of my Bronco since Elijah helped me load it up, and I told myself it’s because I can’t unload it myself. That’s only partially the truth.
The rest of the story is that I’m still working up the courage to take it to Noble Art and show it to Valentina on behalf of my friend, the artist.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap Call. She answers on the third ring, right before I lose my nerve and hang up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Temperance Ransom.”
“Temperance! I’d almost given up hope on you calling, and I’ve had no luck finding any information on the artist who created that piece. I was going to give you until tomorrow before I came back to harass you.”
“I have another piece,” I say. “I mean, I have one you can see, if you want.”
“Really?” Her excitement practically vibrates over the connection.
“Yes.”
“When?”
I glance at the clock. “I can be there in about a half hour.”
“Perfect!” There’s a muted clapping noise in the background. “I’ll be here. You just made my day.”
We hang up, and I immediately wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake. Maybe I should have offered to text a picture to her just in case she thought it was hideous, and I wouldn’t have to see her face when she sees it in person.
Coward, my inner voice says, mocking me. Woman up. You know you did a damn good job. Besides, if you can’t own this dream, do you really deserve it?
I draw in a deep, steadying breath. “I can do this,” I tell the empty office. “And I better do it now before I lose my nerve.” With a final glance at the card on my desk, I sweep it into the trash and go to the filing cabinet to retrieve my purse.
“Time to put up or shut up.” I lock my door behind me, let the receptionist on duty know I’m leaving, and head for the parking lot.
“Where is it?” Valentina asks the moment I walk through the door of Noble Art.
It took me twenty-five minutes to fight traffic from a funeral to get into the Quarter and find a parking spot, and another five to hoof it two blocks.
“Do you want to see a picture first?” I’ve thought about this for the last half hour. The best way to see the phoenix for the first time isn’t to view it lying down in the back of my Bronco.
“You have one?” Her eyes light up. “Why didn’t you send it to me? Let’s see it.”
I retrieve my phone from my purse and pull up the picture I took in the workshop at Elijah’s, but keep the screen turned toward me. “It’s not a professional photo, or anything.”
“Temperance, show me the damn picture.”
I hand over the phone, and she’s silent for three of the longest seconds of my life.
“Wow.”
“Is that a good wow or bad wow?” I don’t mean to ask the question aloud, but it’s out before I can stop it.
Valentina doesn’t look up from my phone. Instead, she zooms in closer on the photo. “It’s a good wow. This is so unique.”
“They’re all one of a kind. Pretty much impossible to replicate.”
She finally drags her attention from the screen to me. “Level with me here. What’s it going to take for me to buy this?”
“I don’t know . . .” I trail off and my gaze bounces around the gallery, cataloging all the beautiful artwork that seems real in comparison to what’s always been a hobby for me. “Do you really think one of your clients would buy it?”
Her stare pins me. “We were at the same auction, right?”
“Right, but it was put up under someone else’s name.”
“Whose name should it have been under?”
It’s the moment of truth. Do I tell her or do I lie?
I take a deep breath. “Mine.”
Valentina’s lips stretch into a wide smile and she pumps a fist in the air. “I was right!” Her reaction is nothing like I expected.
“You knew?”
“I guessed. I know a little bit about hiding your creations because you’re not ready to take ownership of them out in the public eye.” She points to a wall with several nude paintings. “Those are mine.”
I can feel my eyebrows climb to my hairline. “Really?”
She nods. “Yes, and I didn’t think they were good enough to display here, but someone else took that choice out of my hands, and even though I wanted to strangle him at the time, he was right. How long have you been making stuff like this?”
Her question drags me out of present day, out of the gallery, and deposits me back in the past about fifteen years earlier.
“What the fuck did you do with my soldering iron?”
I jumped as the door to the workshop slammed against the outside, shaking the entire building on its rickety foundation. I dropped the solder and the iron, then scooped up my little creation and tucked it behind my back, my eyes stinging with tears as the burning metal touched my arm.
“Nothing.”
“Lying little bitch. I need it. Now.” Dad’s words were already slurring, telling me he’d hit the sauce today already.
“It’s right here. Sorry. I’ll get out of here.”
His sneer, one of his three facial expressions—the cruel smirk or the thundercloud of anger completed the trio—revealed a wad of dip in his lip. “You been in my shit again? Is that why I’m missing parts, because you’re stealing from me? Is that what I taught you?”
I shook my head until I thought my eyeballs would bounce out of their sockets.
His hand swung out and the back of it caught my cheek, snapping my head sideways. “Told you not to lie to me, girl.”
I stumbled back and lost my grip on my creation. It fell to the plank floor with a clatter.
“The fuck is that?” Moving faster than I’d seen him move in ages, Dad swiped it up.
“I was just—”
He studied the two little people I’d made. A guy and a girl. They were holding hands.
He glanced up at me. “You took two fucking spark plugs and some fuses to make this piece of shit? First, the scrap metal that’d be better off in my pocket as some change, and now you’re using shit I actually need for your waste of time?” He sets it on the workbench and reaches for a hammer
on its hook.
“Dad, no. I’ll buy new ones. That’s—”
I couldn’t even get out my explanation that it was a gift for Mama for her birthday before he swung and shattered it, spark plugs and all.
“Look what you made me do, girl! Look.” He shoved the broken metal and ceramic in my face, not caring that a sharp edge nicked me and I jumped back. I reached up to touch the smarting spot, and my fingers came away red.
“That should teach you to fuck with shit that ain’t yours again. If it scars, then you’ll never forget.”
He snatched up the soldering iron and tossed my people to the floor.
“Quit wasting your time on those pieces of shit. You got better things to do. Like get a job. No one’s ever gonna pay you for that junk except the scrap yard.”
Dad turned and left the shack of a workshop, leaving both my junk and me crushed.
The memory is depressing as hell, but something that feels a lot like vindication bubbles up in my gut. He said no one would ever pay for my stuff but the scrap yard, and he’s dead wrong.
That brings a smile to my face, and I wish he was still around so I could prove him wrong.
“Temperance?” Valentina says.
“Sorry, just counting back. It’s been a lot of years. Really, since I was a kid. It was something to do. A way to keep myself entertained.”
“Well, I’d say that it has the potential to be much more. Now, let’s go look at it.”
Shaking off the memory, I give her a bright smile. “More sounds pretty great to me. It’s in the back of my Bronco. I parked a few blocks away.”
The excitement on her face mirrors mine. “I’ve got a reserved spot in the alley. Why don’t you go get your car and pull up there? It’ll be easier to bring it inside too.”
“Okay.” My reply sounds coherent, but inside, I’m doing cartwheels and blocking out the image of my dad breaking everything he ever saw that I made. Screw you, Dad.
When I walk out the door, I can’t even believe that I’m going to get my Bronco to sell my artwork to a real gallery.
See, old man, you were wrong.
