But this is what I wanted, wasn’t it?
Not like this.
But it is.
But it’s not.
The conflict rages in my chest. I want her. I want all of her. Yes, I want her angry and defiant, I want her on her knees sucking my cock just to prove that I’m wrong about her. But I also want her smiling and relaxed, open to me, lounging sated in my bed as the morning light plays through her tousled hair.
I’m in so much goddamn trouble.
“Wait,” I gasp. “Stop.”
For a second, I don’t think she’s going to. But she lets me slip out of her mouth with a soft popping noise, and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.
She stares up at me, her eyes full of lust - but not much else.
My heart squeezes in my chest.
“Get up,” I tell her. “I didn’t think…”
“You were wrong,” she murmurs, rising to her feet. “Now you know better.”
“I do.” I take a deep breath. “I underestimated you. I shouldn’t have. Now let me make it up to you.”
She cocks her head to the side, eyes glittering. I feel like I’ve awakened something I wasn’t even remotely prepared for.
“I’m not entirely sure you’ve learned your lesson,” she says. But she’s not turning away. She’s not walking out the door.
There’s a primal part of me that wants to shove her back down to her knees, but instead, I tuck myself away and zip back up. This isn’t the time to focus on getting my rocks off. Hopefully, there will be plenty of time for that later.
What I want, more than anything, is to extend my hand to hers, and tell her to come with me. I want to lead her into my bedroom and kiss every part of her body until she’s forgotten that any other man exists in the world. But I have a feeling we won’t make it that far. Not because one of us will tackle the other to the ground in a fit of passion, but because she’ll overthink it. She’ll reconsider. She’ll walk away.
I can’t lose her now.
So instead, I pull her close to me. Her soft curves press into me like they were meant to be there, our bodies moulding to each other until there’s no space left between us. Her hands slide up my back, like she’s been fighting the urge to touch me since the moment we met.
I know the feeling.
Kissing my way down her neck, I revel in the sound of her breathy moans. God, she’s incredible. She’s not even trying to hide her desire, her hands sliding down to grip my ass. I love a woman who knows what she wants.
Without even noticing, I’ve managed to back her against the wall. She doesn’t seem to mind. Her thighs part easily as I shove my knee between them, roughly flexing my leg against her core. Faintly, I can hear the sound of the slit in her dress ripping a few more inches.
She’s going to be positively indecent on her way home.
No. Now’s not the time to think about that. There’s no future, there’s only now. This woman, this incredible woman, melting in my arms.
She gasps, laughing a little as her hips undulate, grinding herself against my leg. We’re like teenagers in the backseat of a borrowed car, stealing a moment in time, blindly and hungrily seeking whatever pleasure we can from each other. Nothing matters except the feeling.
I slide my fingers down to the apex of her thighs, seeking the wetness and the heat that I can already feel through the fabric of my trousers.
She’s not wearing panties.
God, she’ll be the death of me.
When I finally touch her, I let out an involuntary groan. Her breath hitches in her throat. Just with my fingertips, I can feel her start to tense and shudder, close to the edge already. My cock surges.
“Ah!” she cries out, shuddering, as I stroke her into climax. She’s clutching my shoulders, holding on for dear life. It’s intoxicating.
For a moment, we just stand there, suspended outside of space and time. There’s no reality but the one we’ve created for ourselves. Nothing matters. Everything feels right.
And then it’s over.
She reels back, the sudden motion throwing me off-balance. Rakes her hands through her hair and keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. Two, three, four steps back. Away from me.
“Cassie…”
She nods sharply, still not looking up. Extends her hand out, palm facing me, the universal wait, shut up gesture.
So I shut up. And I wait.
“Thank you,” she says, very softly.
I don’t know what I expected to hear, but it wasn’t that.
Before I can think, before I can react, she’s gathering up her purse and walking out the door. I want to say something, but I can’t make up my mind whether I should be apologizing or not, and then the door clicks shut and she’s gone.
I know I shouldn’t have done it. I know I violated her boundaries. But so did she.
I stand there, staring at the door, for far too long.
Then I walk into the bathroom and turn the shower on, as cold as it will go.
***
I don’t think there’s a bar in this city that holds enough liquor for me tonight. But I’ve got to try.
I’m walking against the grain, pushing through a crowd of unsteady people heading back to their apartments and hotels. I keep doing their unfocused stares, as they try to place whether they know me from somewhere. I’m in no mood tonight.
I walk past two of my usual spots. They don’t feel right - not tonight. I need a place that’s louder, where people will leave me the hell alone. There’s a place I haven’t visited in a while, because I’m usually wining and dining various business contacts, but this is different. It’s the perfect night to sit in the corner and be left the hell alone.
By the time I walk through the door, I’m starting to feel a little calmer. This place is perfect, a half-forgotten dive with empty pool tables and a jukebox. I sit down and ask the bartender for a beer. She nods, without making eye contact, and goes to pour it.
Perfect.
I should’ve ordered something stronger, but there’s plenty of time to correct that mistake before last call.
In the corner of my eye, I’m vaguely aware of someone emerging from one of the shadowy tables in the back. The timing is a little alarming, but hopefully he just wants a refill. I keep this in mind as he gets ever closer, until I can feel his eyes on me.
Shit.
“Hello, Freddy,” I say, without looking up. I’d recognize the stench of his cologne anywhere.
"Fancy meeting you here." He grins, flashing his inhumanly white teeth as he slides onto the barstool next to me. "I didn't know you had time to go out partying these days."
"Always time for a few drinks," I reply, slapping him on the back a little too hard. He chokes, some of his scotch sloshing over the rim of the glass. "Especially with my friend Freddy Peterson.”
"Well, then. I'm glad to hear the rumors aren't true." He takes a sip.
My hackles are instantly up. "Rumors?"
"Well, you know. When you get around in this industry as much as I do, you hear things. Especially from disgruntled former contractors who found that a steady source of income suddenly dried up. You know, once you wave a few Benjamins in someone's face when they're behind on their rent, it's amazing how little the words 'non-disclosure agreement' actually mean."
I grit my teeth. "It's also amazing how willing people are to lie when you're waving money in their face."
"Well, that's true, I suppose. Maybe I'm just too gullible." He shrugs, slowly. "You just never know who you can trust nowadays."
"Typically, not the people who are willing to break contracts to sell information to people who've got no business knowing it."
"Touché. You know, Wakefield, you've got a lot of swagger for a guy whose life is circling the drain."
"I think you've gotten the two of us confused again. I can see how easy it is."
He throws his head back, laughing, his mouth unhinged like a shark’s. How does he have so many teeth? It’s not ri
ght. “Keep that sense of humor, Wakefield. You’re going to need it.”
And with that, he slaps a hundred down on the bar and walks away.
Chapter Eleven
Cassie
I prefer not to think of it as “running away.”
Walking briskly, at the most. Not running. Not in these shoes.
I know it’s not the polite thing to do. After that, I should at least give him a thank-you kiss. If I’m being honest, I actually want to finish what I started earlier. But I can’t. Not now. My head’s cleared, and I’ve realized what a bad idea this whole thing is.
Boundaries. BOUNDARIES.
Boundaries used to be everything to me. They kept me sane - and more importantly, safe. There are a lot of threats in this business, and men like Pizelle are just one of them. Devon Wakefield is something else entirely.
The moment I get home, I drop everything and turn on the shower. Scalding hot. I normally can’t tolerate anything above a lukewarm, which always infuriated any partner that I attempted to shower with. But I need something to wash away the memory of what I just did. What I just let him do.
Guilt gnaws at my insides. How would I feel if he did this to me? Just used me to get off, and then ran away? But it’s not like that. He started it. I never promised him anything.
Oh, but the memory of how he felt in my mouth…
I step into the steaming water.
Ow. Ow.
I wince away, but I force myself to go back in. I need this. I need the smell of him off my skin.
I wash it all away. The feeling, the memory, the stickiness on my thighs. I don’t know what I’m going to do in the morning, I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. Tomorrow, or ever. I could ghost him, but he did pay me already.
Fuck.
No, I need to deal with this like an adult. Not run away. That’s what a scared little girl would do. This is my business, and I need to own my mistakes and move on. I can give him a refund for any services not rendered. He’s stubborn as hell, but he’ll have to understand. At least he won’t chase me down and yell at me on the street. I’m reasonably sure of that.
***
The second I walk into the office the next morning, I can tell something’s wrong.
For one thing, Becca shouldn’t already be here at eight in the morning. She should still be in line at the coffee place, or hitting her snooze button for the fifth time. Not already at her desk, with a hollow, sleep-deprived look in her eyes.
Instantly, there’s a stab of guilt in my chest. It’s like she knows. But she can’t know. There’s no way for her to know what I’ve done. My indiscretion, the kind of thing I’ve sneered at other people for doing, the lapse in judgment that led me into Devon Wakefield’s bed. She can’t know. It’s impossible for her to know.
She just stares at me as I walk in.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her, immediately. Her face is ashen.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says. “Just…it’s not a big deal, okay? I don’t want you to freak out about this.”
I grab the laptop in front of her and wrench the screen towards me.
My heart plummets.
The screen is scattered with grainy photos, all taken from at least twenty feet away, but there’s no mistaking the subjects. Me and Devon. Walking together, talking together. At the restaurant, outside his building. Walking inside, so close I could feel the heat of his body.
“We were just…” I hear myself say.
“I know,” Becca cuts in, quickly. “It’s not a big deal. It’s really not a big deal.”
She knows me well enough to predict this would upset me. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time in years. I’m good at avoiding the vultures. It’s one of my specialties. As a publicist, I had an uneasy truce with paparazzi, but I could never trust them to uphold their end of the deal. Once all was said and done, if there was money on the line, they’d do whatever they had to do to get their shot. I got very, very good at dodging them. Spotting them. Some of my clients, both in my old line of work and in this one, have joked that I’ve got a sixth sense.
It failed me last night. Clearly.
Is it The Year of the Curvy Girl?
Notorious playboy Devon Wakefield was spotted out at a restaurant with an anonymous plus-size beauty. “They were very handsy,” our anonymous source tells us. “But he seemed really concerned with protecting his privacy. He had a few people thrown out when they pointed their phones at his table. After that, he really hustled her out of there quick. Kind of disappointing, to be honest. If he’s a chubby-chaser, I wish he’d just own it, you know?”
Right. An anonymous plus-sized beauty. On Devon’s arm, that’s all I’ll ever be.
God, how stupid am I? The fantasy of being anything other than a friend-with-benefits to Devon Wakefield is probably the most absurd thing I’ve ever indulged in. Even more absurd than being in a Broken Machine video. He wants one of those slender, manicured, prep school educated Stepford brides. Not me.
I’m angry - not at Devon, not even at the people who lied for the article, just at myself. Well, maybe a little bit angry at him. For charming his way into my life, and jimmying open all the secret places in my heart like a goddamn thief in the night. But I know I’m the one who let him in.
Everybody gets one vice. That’s what he said at the scotch tasting, and I wanted to agree with him, but now I know better. I can’t let myself have these little flights of fancy, because I don’t do anything halfway.
I swore I saw something in his eyes, under that pink-and-purple mottled lighting in the club. But of course, that’s exactly what they want you to think. They’ve probably hired million-dollar marketing consultants to tell them just the right shade of bulb to use, to convince people they’re falling in love.
I slam the laptop shut, making Becca jump.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about me.”
And for a moment, I almost believe it myself.
It’s time to face facts: Devon Wakefield was just a gorgeous mistake.
***
As a rule, I don’t go out for drinks after work. Not unless I’m scouting prospects. It becomes a habit, and the habit becomes a vice. At home, I can stay tuned in, check my email, pick up my laptop and do some work. At a bar, I’ll do nothing but waste time.
Tonight’s different.
I need to forget.
Several times, as I walk down the street, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck go up. I keep glancing behind me at the crosswalks, trying to figure out if I’m being followed. I’ve been trying to forget about Pizelle, but now, considering the alternative, I don’t mind obsessing about it. Has he given up so easily? Men like him usually don’t. I’m expecting him to show up and make at least a few more scenes before I can get rid of him completely.
I don’t actually think he’s dangerous. He could be, of course - and that’s the problem. Harmless stalkers and violent ones pretty much seem the same, until they suddenly aren’t. Maybe I’ve just been lucky until now.
Maybe I should call that security guy. I did like his books.
Ugh, now I’m back to thinking about Devon.
Finally, I find a bar that looks promising. Not too busy, not too empty, and the kind of place that seems like it won’t tolerate shenanigans. If Pizelle tries to make a scene in here, they’ll kick him out.
It’s an unseasonably hot day for autumn, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I step into the air conditioning. The bartender looks up, smiling, as she obsessively wipes the same already-clean spot on the bar.
A few minutes later, I’m settled in with a drink and feeling a bit calmer. I can see the door from where I’m sitting, but I’m not overly visible, so I’ll be able to slip into the bathroom hallway and out the back door if necessary.
Just as I’m taking the last few sips, a man walks into the bar. Even if I weren’t watching the door, he would have caught my eye. He’s tall and striking, an
d obviously very rich. I flick my eyes away as his gaze falls on me, but I can feel him stare. I can’t decide if it’s unsettling or not.
He draws closer.
“Is anyone sitting here?” he asks, his voice deep and smooth. He’s pointing to the seat right next to mine, of course.
I glance him over, appraisingly. Despite his sleek silver hair, I get the feeling he’s not much older than thirty-five. Or maybe he’s gotten a lot of very expensive facelifts. His eyes are dark, and I can’t quite determine the color under these low lights.
My work brain pipes up. No wedding ring. Potential client.
“Now there is,” I tell him, smiling.
“What are you drinking?" he asks, smoothly.
"Vodka tonic. But I'm thinking of switching to something stronger." I eye my empty glass.
"Stronger than a vodka tonic? May I recommend my uncle's moonshine? There's a chance you'll go blind, but I think you'll find the risk is part of the enjoyment." He grins, flashing his teeth.
"Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll stick with traditionally distilled liquor for now,” I reply, wryly. I gesture to the bartender for another, and she pours it quickly.
“On my tab, thanks,” says my companion. “And a Guinness for me.”
The bartender nods, and doesn’t ask for a credit card. So this guy, whoever he is, is clearly known around here. Us chumps have to pay up front.
“Just getting off work?” he asks me.
“Mmhm,” I reply. “I have my own matchmaking agency. It’s been a tough day.”
“Oh!” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s fascinating. How does one get into that line of work?”
“Used to be a publicist. It was a natural progression.” I take a long drink. “Or maybe not. There’s competition, but it’s not overcrowded. That’s how I prefer it to be.”
“Wait.” He snaps his fingers. “I know why you look familiar.”
Shit.
There’s so many gossip blogs out there, so many people from so many reality shows to follow. I really hoped nobody would remember. I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.
The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride Page 10
