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Perky

Page 22

by Julia Kent


  Until now.

  Tears are streaming down my face, and Parker is reaching up with his fingertips to brush them away. The liquid clings to his skin, a thin layer of the past, drying quickly but sticking to him, the salty residue transferring a bit of me onto him.

  That’s what happens when you love the way we loved. When he became an emotion no one else could feel. I see it in his eyes, too. I’ve been living inside him, taking up a space that no one else can ever fill.

  And now we are feeling the emptiness together.

  “Persephone,” he says, as if my name could reconnect those twinned emotions, “Persephone, I love you. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry that we lost five years.” He thumps the space over his heart, the bones of his chest a cell that protects him from ripping it out.

  I know the feeling because I’ve felt it, too. How many nights did I sit in bed, racing through every possible logical explanation for what he did to me five years ago and finding none, settling on conspiracy theories and crackpot ideas that all boiled down to the illogical conclusion that he did it because he didn’t love me?

  And now here he is, telling me that he does. Over and over.

  Until I believe it.

  “Parker,” I say, the words forming in my head as if I’ve never spoken before, as if language were an abstract concept that I’m experiencing for the first time. “Parker, you have nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t believe you. I can’t believe I didn’t believe you. I. Can’t. Believe. I. Didn’t. Believe. You.”

  Each word comes out like a brick being laid on a wall, a thunk against wet mortar, heavy and dull. Except the walls that I built around my relationship with Parker five years ago were designed to keep him out.

  This is a wall that holds him in.

  He grabs my hands and squeezes hard, so hard, as if telling that emotion inside me that he’s finally here, that it can crawl out from its hiding place, that it’s safe in the sunlight again.

  “We were betrayed,” he says fiercely. “Both of us, together. We just didn’t know it. I tried to tell you.”

  “I know you did. I know!” I cry.

  His fingers press against my lips. “That’s not what I mean,” he says, shaking his head, eyes closing. His throat spasms with a hard swallow, his breath coming in short bursts.

  I push gently on his shoulder, then slide my hand down over his heart. It gallops as if it’s racing into the past to try to find us, to save us, to rescue us.

  And yet it can’t.

  “Please come to my house,” he implores, eyes rich and deep with an invitation I already know I'm accepting. “I want to bring you into my world. I want to get us out of yours. I want to go somewhere neutral.”

  “Neutral?”

  “I ran into your father when I got here. He wasn't happy to see me.”

  “Great. The cops are probably on their way.”

  “No. Your friends stopped him from doing that.”

  “They did?”

  He nods. “I can handle the cops. I can even handle your father. What I can't handle is sitting here surrounded by broken pieces of your phone and computer that represent the last five years of pain. Not while I’m talking about spending the rest of my life with you.”

  I sniffle and look around.

  “You're right. Let's get out of here.”

  We stand, Parker first, his hand outstretched, eyes serious. “That's it? Just yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “To everything I said?”

  “You mean the whole 'rest of my life with you' part?”

  He nods.

  “Yes, Parker,” I say simply. “I'm done letting the wrong piece of myself believe in a piece of you that just doesn't exist.”

  17

  The house Parker rented looks more like a mansion than a place to stay on a business trip, but with four staffers here with him, he explains as he kills the engine of his rental car and takes my hand, it makes sense.

  “Are they all here?” I ask, suddenly realizing how much I want him alone. How much I want to be naked with him, alone.

  How much I want to get loud with him.

  Alone.

  “No. I'm flying back tomorrow with my mom, but she doesn't like staying here with me.”

  “Why not? I would think she'd be in heaven surrounded by her congressman son's congressional staff.”

  “We have a place in Back Bay.”

  “Of course you do.”

  One shoulder goes up. “Tanager money.”

  “And Campbell money. Your father was no slouch there.”

  “If anyone knows about money, it's you, Persephone.”

  “Oh, no. Your mother made it very clear years ago that your family's money is better than my family's money. I didn't understand it then, and I only understand it slightly better now. To us, money is money. To your mother, money represents status.”

  “Power is more like it. Old money comes with power.”

  “New money does, too. The power to stop working. The power to solve a lot of problems for family and friends.” I look at him, hard. “But not the power to stop being stupid.”

  He snorts. “Plenty of stupid comes from old money, too.”

  I change the topic and stare at the front door. “So, empty house?”

  “Omaia is in Boston visiting an old college buddy. She'll come back in the morning after I leave.”

  The way he moves toward me would be predatory in another man, long limbs moving with pent-up energy and full-throttle need. Instead of touching me, though, he reaches across my lap, opening the door with a thrust of power that makes my heart take off.

  At a sprint for his bed.

  We've set the expectations. Negotiations are already settled. This isn't about whether we'll make love again.

  It's about where. Can we make it through the front door? Would sex on the freshly cut grass be a violation of decorum in this part of town?

  “Race you!” I shout as I rush to the door, the sound of his footsteps behind me urgently catching up. His arms around my waist are no surprise, just as my fingers brush against the carved oak door.

  Scruff from his chin tickles my neck as he kisses me. His touch takes everything from me as he gives everything in him right back.

  “I know a way that we both win,” he rumbles in my ear, making me wet and wanting. The fact that we just had sex a few hours ago back at my place doesn't matter at all.

  The fact that we're about to spend the night together does.

  “Always finding a way to cross the aisle and make everyone happy, Congressman,” I whisper as I arch my back and press against him, the hard outline of his erection instantly obvious. His groan confirms it.

  “Happy endings are my favorite.”

  “You should write romance novels, Parker.”

  “Pretty sure I'm living in one.” We both go still, his heart slamming against my shoulder blade, my own trying to dive into the house so he can be on me, in me.

  With me.

  He turns his key in the lock and swings the door open.

  “This house is absolutely stunning.”

  “So are you.” My thighs still ache from the sex a few hours ago, so the urgency isn't as strong, but oh, the rush of need sure is. Parker's hair is like a soft, sensual fabric that I crave, his tongue like every sweet taste I want to savor. He pulls me to the couch and we tumble onto the cushions, hands at each other's waists, my fingers struggling with his belt buckle.

  “Stop,” he says, eyes shining in the soft light of dusk. “I want to see you.”

  “What?”

  “Undress.”

  “I am!” He’s just unfastened my jeans.

  “No, Persephone.” Rolling to one side, he upsets the balance of weight on the couch, tilting me forward. “Stand up. Undress for me.”

  “You want me to strip? Like a striptease?”

  A sexy grin makes his mouth turn up. “That's not exactly wh
at I meant, but it’s an excellent idea.”

  “I'm ready to be naked and let you inside me in a few seconds and instead you want to watch me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who turns down sex to watch someone undress? You are the strangest man I know.”

  “I'm the only one you'll ever know again. Biblically.”

  “There's no Bible verse for this.”

  “And I never said I'm turning down sex. Trust me,” he says, reaching for his own waistband and unbuckling slowly, sliding the leather belt out of the loops with a taunting movement. He unbuttons, then unzips himself, pulling his pants off in one quick movement, peeling off his shirt.

  The man looks like a damn professional model in an underwear ad, like a blonde David Gandy decided to become a congressman and lounge on a living room sofa in his boxer briefs.

  “Off,” I order.

  Eyebrows up, his fingers move to his boxer briefs. “You mean these?”

  I nod, giving him the sauciest look I can as my clit quivers, begging to be touched.

  Parker is naked in half a second, his hand wrapped around his shaft.

  “What's your next order?” he asks, stroking just once, eyes going half-lidded, jaw tightening.

  Ho ho!

  “Watch me with your hand just like that. No moving. Not even a little. If you move your hand, no sex.”

  Tendons on his wrist go tight. “What?”

  “You heard me. You have to watch me while you hold yourself and don't come.”

  “That's not fair!” But his voice is low. Interested.

  Intrigued.

  My shirt feels so restrictive, the caress of soft fabric against my ribs as I remove it like a lover's kiss. Having his eyes on me while I slowly disrobe makes my thighs shake, my cheeks turn red, my body on display and loving the attention. Time changes, as if the world is on our side, rooting for us after five years with no team to support.

  I fling the shirt toward an ottoman, but it catches on Parker's erection.

  Reflexively, he starts to move it.

  “Ah, ah, ah!” I say as I walk over and reach for it, intentionally stroking his tip as I remove the shirt. He licks his lips, mouth loose, smile gone.

  Eyes burning.

  “Take off your bra,” he demands.

  “Stroke yourself once,” I counter, not obeying him immediately.

  He does, teeth grinding, hitched breath making it clear this is torture. While he touches himself, I reach between my legs and, our eyes locked, slip one finger into my own wet vulva, avoiding my too-sensitive clit but oh–this feels so, so good. Not just my touch.

  His gaze.

  “You're killing me, Persephone,” he hisses, eyes dropping to my hand with a hungry expression so achingly raw that I want to jump on the sofa and bury his face between my thighs.

  Not yet.

  But soon.

  Suddenly he’s moving, grabbing my hand and pulling me back to the front hall.

  “Parker, where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He charges up the wide staircase and turns left, through double wooden doors and into an enormous bedroom. A king-size bed with beige linen hangings dominates the room. From the corner of my eye, I can see his open suitcase on a bench, some clothes strewn around, but I can’t really focus on my surroundings.

  Dropping my hand, he faces me.

  “Now,” he commands.

  Without replying, I reach back and unclasp my bra, bending forward to cup my breasts in both hands. The exquisite delicacy of my nipples turns my own breath into a wind tunnel, the long, sharp inhale choked off by a quick swallow as I work to calibrate my own need, tantalizing myself without going too far. Moving closer to him, I smell my own scent, the tanginess making me want to mingle it with his again.

  Again.

  How can I want him in me again? So soon? So much? But I do. I drop to my knees in front of him.

  My breasts form the perfect valley as I reach for his hand, the one holding his shaft, and replace it by centering him between, pressing them together.

  “I'm not giving you a pearl necklace tonight,” Parker chokes out, holding himself back. Ab muscles go rock hard, his obvious invocation of self-control requiring all his concentration. “I'm coming inside you.”

  “Of course you are,” I say as I stand up, moving so my ass brushes against him, turning back to look at his face. “You said you wanted a tease.”

  “A striptease!”

  “Well, then,” I whisper, wiggling my hips. “Strip me the rest of the way. While I tease you.”

  I am flat on my back and pantiless in under two seconds, wrists pinned to the bed. The heat from his palms makes my skin flush, the rest of me ice cold by comparison. Nipples tightening, they go damn near crazy as he drags his naked body up mine, until he's grinning down at me, my squirming hips making it clear I'm more than ready.

  “Do you remember,” he hums in my ear, the vibration of his lips against my lobe excruciatingly arousing, “when I used to edge you?”

  My eyes fly open wide. “No!”

  “You don't remember?” Opening his mouth, he drags his teeth along the shell of my ear.

  “I do! I do remember. But... Parker.” His name is a whimper.

  Victory is his. I've handed him all the power and he knows it. Of course he does. He's a politician. It's his life's work to understand power dynamics, right?

  I'm the amateur here.

  About to be played by a virtuoso.

  “If we hadn't just made love, this wouldn’t work,” he says in a single breath, the words floating on the heat between us. “Neither of us would last.”

  “You don't have to do this,” I say, but I can't even convince myself that I'm not immensely turned on by what he's saying. By the way his hand wanders down my belly to settle between my legs. How it feels to arch into his fingertips as they make me full, swollen and desperate, so quickly.

  And then he's gone.

  One hand moves up, his tongue against the tip of his index finger, licking. I imagine it on my clit, where it was just seconds ago, and I move my legs so I get some slight satisfaction, but the friction's not enough.

  “Stroke me,” he says, moving to his side so I have access. Always muscular, always perfectly proportioned, the last five years have given Parker's body an even harder edge, manhood treating him well. Daily trips to a gym with a trainer don’t hurt, either.

  In the semi-darkness, I see the aura of his skin, his blond body hair curly and even. Heavenly doesn't begin to describe how it feels to rub against him, the soft down always a source of attraction for me. His beard, in those rare times he ever let it grow out for a few days, had more red in it than his blond hair would indicate, giving him a fierce, Viking-like look that I loved.

  Right now, as I touch him, my palm hitting the bottom edge of his mushroom cap, my tongue tracing him in circles, I feel his will to hold back.

  “We're both really, really good at delayed gratification, aren't we?” I murmur as I deep throat him, stopping long enough to hum.

  A hitched breath is my only answer.

  I slide up, tonguing the soft nerve cluster that makes him shiver. “We are,” he answers.

  “Which means we've mastered it.”

  One eyebrow goes up as I look at him. “Your point?”

  “Is this really a challenge? We know how to edge.”

  “You'd like to propose something more... exhilarating?”

  “How about a new goal?”

  “I'm intrigued.”

  “How many orgasms can you have in twenty-four hours?”

  “How is that new? We did it five years ago. Our record was nine.”

  “Your record was nine. Mine was in the thirties.”

  “Your capacity for orgasm is one of my favorite traits in you.”

  “It's not like I have any choice in the matter. It just happens.”

  His hand slides between my legs. “It does?”

  “We
ll,” I say, voice going thin, “it tends to happen when you do that.”

  “Maybe you're right,” he teases, fingers halting. “Maybe edging is too pedestrian.”

  “Let's go for volume.”

  “How loud can I make you scream? I like that wager.”

  “Wager? Who said anything about betting?”

  “If I can make you lose your voice you agree to marry me.”

  My mouth opens and closes. I can't make a sound.

  He grins. “See? I won already. And I didn't even have sex with you to do it.”

  “Uh–uh–uh–”

  His kiss stops the strange sounds coming out of me, his body over mine, his mouth against my ear. “When I propose formally, it'll be the proper way, Persephone, but for now–I know what I want. I know who I want. And I love and want you.”

  “I love you, too, Parker,” I gasp.

  “Darn,” he says in a twang. “I guess I didn't win. Your voice came back.”

  “How about you try again?” I say, opening my legs and pulling him into me. “Bet you could make me scream until we break a window.”

  “As long as you promise you won't break my heart.”

  “Never, Parker. Never again.”

  One finger strokes the hollow at my throat. “Good.” He kisses the spot. “Because you're stuck with me.”

  “Pretty sure after all this sex and edging, I'm stuck to you.”

  He pulls out, slowly, achingly, then glides in, deep. “Let's work on that, then.”

  And so we do.

  Sunlight hates post-coital bliss.

  “I have to get back to Texas,” Parker says as he yawns, the movement stretching his sentence out, the word Texas going deep and sonorous, as if he's bored by the very idea of the Lone Star State. His phone buzzes softly, and I realize it's been making some sort of interrupting noise for a bit. Reluctantly, he reaches for it, then rolls his eyes at the screen.

  “It's my mother. We're flying back to Texas together and she's insisting I'm going to make her late.”

  “Your private jet waits for you, though, right?”

  “Private? Hah. No.”

  “Congressmen don't get private jets?”

  “We fly commercial like everyone else. It'll be a few decades before I get to use Air Force One.” He winks at me.

 

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