Addicted To Him (Man Season)

by McClung, Mila

  ADDICTED TO HIM

  MAN SEASON #2

  By

  Mila McClung

  RTWD PRESS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Addicted To Him

  Copyright 2013 RTWD PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  For all the flower girls.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seven o’clock at last! Tegan had waited breathlessly, as she did every weekday, to see him exit his studio, slide into his sleek silver Jaguar and ease away from the curb, his black hair flying like a proud stallion’s mane in the breeze. ‘He’ was Fleet Westcott, millionaire, possibly billionaire, some said, owner of the high tech motion picture production company, Westcott Limited. He was like a dream with his perfect tan, finely tailored suits and carefree smile. How many times had she imagined that smile aimed towards her as she stood in the florist shop, endlessly arranging the bouquets for extravagant office parties and anniversaries? Just once she wished he would step through the double glass doors, take one look at her and be caught in her clinging vines forever.

  But that was a silly fantasy, brought on by novels and movies and her ridiculous imagination. Tegan St. Clair knew who she was, and who she wasn’t. No jaded billionaire was ever going to find her fascinating, or even worth speaking to, for that matter.

  She sighed, wrapped up the last bouquet and stored it for its scheduled delivery. Then she grabbed her purse and yelled towards the back: “Kerry, I’m going now!”

  “Wait!” a man’s voice answered. Kerry Randall stepped out from the storage room, a tall, grinning blond. “Why the rush? You never seem to want to stay and chat awhile. Am I losing my appeal?”

  She laughed. “No, of course not. I’m just in one of my depressions, I guess; been listening to too much Beethoven or something.”

  “No, I’ve got your number, darling,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re pining over that Westcott doll again. I do that myself, you know. He is a looker!”

  She stared at him. Then she shrugged her slender shoulders and smiled. “Ha! Maybe we should go round the corner and drown our miseries in a pint or two?”

  “Lovely idea! Just let me close up!”

  The Pig’s Tooth Pub was a neighborhood hangout and a Burbank legend. Most of the salaried workers from the shops and studios stopped in for a brew now and again – not to mention a select few of the elite and famous.

  When Tegan and Kerry entered they were welcomed like old pals, and ushered to a booth of distinction, one usually reserved for the moguls who ruled over the companies up and down the street.

  “Well, I feel just like Mr. Westcott!” Kerry laughed as he was poured a fresh pint of beer.

  “Do you now?” A deep voice asked. “That’s funny. I don’t recall you being in my family tree.”

  Tegan and Kerry, and half the room, turned round to see the real Fleet Westcott standing in the doorway. Tegan gasped, unbelieving that he could be that close, finally, after months of faraway glimpses. He did not disappoint her. He was more handsome than any photo she had seen of him, even the ones when he was younger and trying to carve out an acting career. The ebony hair dusting his brow, the finely executed features of his aristocratic face, and the body of some forgotten Greek god, framed in the finest Armani trappings. And his eyes – she’d never been sure until that moment what color they were – but they were blue, a luscious, deep azure tone. When they flashed a glance at her, she froze, unable to breathe.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Westcott,” Jim, the proprietor, offered. “I didn’t expect you. You haven’t been in here since you moved your studio into that old building down the street.”

  “Sure, I know. No harm done.” He turned to Kerry and Tegan. “May I join you?”

  Kerry grinned. “Help yourself.”

  He did, taking the part of the booth closest to Tegan. As he sat down, his hip grazed hers for a second. She stiffened, felt the need to stifle a childish squeal. He smiled at her; her heart clinched up in a ball, began to beat wildly.

  “So, you work around here?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “He’s talking to you, Tegan.”

  She looked at Kerry, who was egging her on with encouraging glances. Then she dared peer into the azure eyes. They were all-encompassing; she wished she could swim in them.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I thought you were talking to my friend. I work in the florist shop, across from your building.”

  “Your friend? Not boyfriend?”

  “Well, I am a friend, and I am a boy,” Kerry laughed. “But that’s about where it ends. Tegan is like a sister to me.”

  “Nice sister you’ve got.”

  Tegan glanced at Westcott. He was smiling. Maybe she was asleep – this had to be a dream.

  They sat around, drinking and trading sound bites with Kerry, until near eight. Tegan realized she was supposed to be meeting her mom, Callie, for dinner.

  “Oh, golly, I’ve got to go or I’ll be late!”

  “Where?”

  “I’m meeting my mom for dinner.”

  “I can drive you. Where does she live?”

  “She lives with me, in Glendale. But we’re meeting at Dell’s Restaurant.”

  “I know where that is. Come on!”

  He stood, reached out a sexy, muscular hand. She glanced at Kerry. He grinned, nodding for her to accept it. Tegan slipped her hand into Westcott’s; felt a zillion tiny sparks go through her. Which embarrassed her – she was a virgin, technically, but of course she’d held a guy’s hand before, among other things – just never a guy like him. ‘Guy’ seemed like the wrong word to describe him; he was a man.

  “See you tomorrow, Kerry!” she said as she followed Westcott out the door.

  “You can sleep in, darling,” he winked. “I’ve got you covered!”

  She passed him a dark look; he laughed.

  The Jaguar purred like a real cat as Westcott steered it expertly over the crowded city streets. Tegan watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was so self-assured, knew exactly where he was going in life. She wished she could be that way. But she’d had an identity crisis every couple of years since she’d left high school; still didn’t know where she was going or what course she wanted to follow. A stint at college bored her to tears – seemed like a racket to her. Never really learned anything useful for the real world, just how to get drunk and fend off jerks.

  Then she took a course in real estate, got her license and a starter position in a company – and the housing bubble burst – the company had to downsize so of course she was the first to go.

  Her mom helped her find the florist job. She’d taught her to garden when she was small, so it was an easy gig. But it was getting tedious. She needed something else, something exciting and fulfilling.

  “I must be bad company,” Westcott decided, his luxuriously deep voice startling her.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you keep drifting off in your thoughts. Care to tell me what’s captivated your interest?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular; I have a strange mind. It wanders off in random directions sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s my fault if I can’t hold your attention.”

  “Oh, you hold it all right,” she thought, not daring to speak it out loud. He had the most scintillating smell about him. She breathed it in, savored it.

  They stopped at a red light. She glanced at him, noticed he was staring at her.


  “You have a lovely profile. And your hair is the most intriguing color. I’ve heard it described as strawberry blonde; reminds me of Venus rising from the sea on a big shell in that famous painting.”

  “Well, I’ve never been compared to Venus before. But I can thank my great grandmother Kathleen for my hair color … she was from Ireland.”

  “Um, I was hoping I could find out for myself if it was natural. If you know what I mean?”

  Tegan swallowed a hard gulp of air and coughed.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, I guess so. The restaurant is right there.”

  “I can see that.” He parked the car. She started to open the door but he stopped her. “Wait …”

  She peered into the azure eyes. There was a fire burning in their depths, full of desire and need. His hand was hot, electric; he began stroking her leg then slipped his fingers onto her thigh and moved them up her skirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re not hungry, really, not for food?”

  “I have to meet my mom.”

  “Call her and cancel.”

  “But she’s right inside.”

  “She hasn’t seen you. Call her.”

  He handed her a cell phone with his free hand. The other had worked its way into her panties and was manipulating her into a quiet frenzy.

  She nodded, punched the number, trying not to moan as she talked to her mother.

  “Mom? It’s me. I know it’s not my cell phone. I borrowed it from a friend. No, I can’t make it. Something …” She glanced at his slacks, gasped at the hardness of him. “… something has come up.” Westcott laughed. “No, I’m not with a man. That was … the TV, in the back room. Yeah, I’m still at work. I’ve got a ton of arrangements to finish. I’ll see you tonight. No, I’ll grab a snack here in a minute.” Westcott unzipped his pants, motioned for her to take him. “Sure, I will. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you, but have a nice dinner. Bye.”

  As soon as she flicked the phone shut, Westcott knocked it away and set her hand on him, encouraging her to fondle him while he continued to arouse her with his fingers.

  “People will see us here,” she worried.

  “No, they won’t. We’re not under a streetlight. Kiss it.”

  She was confused. He was making her feel like no one had ever done before but it was humiliating, being right there in his car with people passing by, and knowing her mom was in the restaurant right in front of them.

  “Wait, I can’t do this here.”

  “Relax. No one can see us.”

  “But I can see them.”

  “So close your eyes.”

  He knelt down in the darkness, hiked up her skirt and yanked her panties down. Then he lifted her hips and began to drink at her like a cup. Tegan couldn’t help but gyrate beneath him, the orgasms building in little waves until they burst out of her in a torrent of pleasure. She put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.

  “This is so not right,” she whispered.

  “But it’s so good, hum?” he asked, raising his head to smile at her. “My turn,” he said hoarsely.

  Tegan kept her eyes closed tight as she bent to his lap and took him into her mouth. He groaned as if in torment as she explored him with her mouth and tongue. The scent of him was dusky and sweet, arousing her back to a crest of desire. He realized she wasn’t through and eased his hand between her thighs.

  “Stroke it, that’s right,” he sighed. Tegan dared open her eyes, watched his silhouette as he flung his head backwards, his chest rising up and down in quick bursts of anguish. “Now, get ready, get ready…”

  She moved her lips over him in a dizzying motion, felt his need growing and expanding. His flesh was hot, firm, wonderful.

  Finally he came, shooting into her mouth so forcefully she was afraid she’d drown. But she took all of him, and more, until he couldn’t spare a drop. He raised her off of him, zipped his pants.

  Without a word he started the Jaguar and steered them away from the curb. Tegan readjusted her clothing, sat looking straight ahead, fearing she’d done something to displease him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he answered curtly.

  “Was I horrible at it?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t understand why …”

  “Look, it’s over. It was good. Great, in fact. I’ll take you home now, and you can clean up before your mother gets home.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Westcott remained silent at the wheel during the drive to Tegan’s neighborhood. Her questioning glances failed to elicit one response.

  “I don’t get you at all,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “You’re part of a rather non-exclusive club. Of which I am a member myself. Partridge Street, did you say?”

  “Yes. But …”

  “Here’s the street. Which house?”

  “There, the blue one, with all the flowers.”

  “Of course.”

  He pulled the car into the driveway, turned off the engine. Then he sighed, laid his arms on the steering wheel, and his head on his arms.

  “I suppose you think I’m some kind of perverted fool,” he whispered.

  “No, but you ARE confusing the hell out of me.”

  He raised his head, glanced at her and laughed. There was a hollowness in the sound of it. He suddenly seemed sad and alone.

  “You’re a beautiful girl, Tegan, worthy of someone so much better than a man like me.”

  “I’d like to be the judge of that.”

  “Would you? Why, because I’m rich?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  “Oh, you intrigue me, I guess. You always seem so lighthearted, smiling your way through life, in spite of the tragedies of your youth. In the photos I’ve seen …”

  “In the photos you’ve seen I am playing a part: the handsome, self-assured billionaire movie mogul. I guess I must be a better actor than all those agents and casting directors told me if people can’t see it’s an act.”

  “Why do you do it then?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t say, or you won’t say?”

  “I have my reasons but it’s complicated.”

  “I think I’d better go in. I’m hungry.”

  “Right. I’m a cad, aren’t I, seducing you in public and not even offering you dinner for your trouble?”

  “Cad? That’s an old-fashioned word.”

  “Maybe I’m an old-fashioned man.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I am so sure! Goodnight, Mr. Westcott.”

  She stepped out of the car, walked slowly towards the house without looking back. She heard the driver door open and slam shut, then his footsteps as he came up behind her.

  “Wait, Tegan. I don’t want it to end here, like this.”

  She turned around, was going to try to act blasé about the situation but the desperate look in his eyes stopped her cold.

  “Well, come inside and I’ll make us a couple of omelets.”

  He nodded, followed her into the house. It was a cheerful, relaxed home full of old, repurposed furnishings and colorful art. Tegan led him into a bright kitchen with green and white ivy-covered wallpaper and fresh white cabinets. The appliances were vintage but in good working order.

  “Hand me that skillet, would you?” she asked him, pointing her eyes towards a cast iron beauty hanging on the wall.

  He took it down, gave it to her then perused the fridge for the eggs while she heated up the pan and melted some butter in it.

  “I’ve never actually done anything like this before,” he admitted as they sat at a mid century chrome table, eating their cheesy omelets and toast.

  “What do you mean? You’ve never had an omelet?”

  “No, I mean sitting here in a small, cozy house, having a simple meal with a woman.”

  “So you’ve been rich your whole life?”

  “Afraid so
; I’ve always lived in enormous, elaborate mansions with servants fulfilling my every need. I never had a chance to enjoy such a simple pleasure.”

  “Poor you,” she grinned. He was so child-like at times, brought out the nurturing instinct in her. But then she’d catch a hot glance from those azure eyes and her insides would flip. It was difficult not to watch his beautiful mouth as he talked and ate and sipped his coffee. Why on Earth would a gloriously gorgeous man like him find her the least bit interesting? She was pondering that question when he startled her by saying, out of the blue:

  “I’ve been stalking you, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve seen you. I might as well come clean about it before this goes any further.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  He sighed, wiped his mouth with a napkin then leaned closer.

  “About a year ago I walked into Lieberman Realty, looking to buy a vacation home in Montana.” Tegan perked up, her eyes glowing. “I saw the most beautiful, green-eyed girl with strawberry blonde hair, sitting at a desk there. I had an urgent appointment and couldn’t stay to find out who you were. When I came back the next day they said you’d been let go. I did a little digging, found you at the florist shop. Ever since, I’ve been sneaking by when you were too busy to notice me. I watched you through the glass windows, thinking about how good it could be with us …”

  She was quiet for a moment, trying to comprehend what he was saying. For awhile she’d been feeling as though someone was watching her but when she told her mother Callie had chalked it up to nerves and the paranoia that comes with living in the modern world.

  “Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

  “I’ve been resisting it for months, though I wanted to desperately. I even bought that building across from the florist shop and turned it into a studio so I could try to catch your attention. When I realized that I had, I decided to make my move.”

  “You actually bought that building just to be near me?”