by Marie James
A chuckle escapes my lips. “He doesn’t pay for them, the secretary does.”
“What a pig.”
“Agreed.”
“Well, we won’t be working with him. I’ll have Flynn break the news to him.”
“What exactly was he wanting?”
“Dirt on the soon-to-be ex-wife; anything that would keep him from having to pay alimony.”
“You didn’t ask me to research the wife.”
He slaps the folder to his leg. “Because I didn’t think we’d be working for him. It’s running into assholes like this that makes me want to start a pro-bono program to help these women get dirt on their slimeball husbands.”
A sinister grin crosses my lips. “I’d love that. If you feel like setting that into motion, I’ll volunteer my damn time.”
“Good man,” he says before walking out of my office.
I have a list of things to do, but my mind continues to wander to Whitney. I’ve been good, not having turned the videos back on to keep track of her, but that doesn’t make the urge go away completely. I’d love to have seen how flushed her cheeks were when she walked out of that sauna room because I know for a fact the low lighting in there didn’t do them justice.
But I’ll be patient. She’ll let me keep the lights on in the room when we finally come together in that way. I just know it.
We need to have a very serious conversation. I’m not one to have a contract with women. Most often I meet them once, and after we get what we need from each other, we go our separate ways.
I don’t have any intention of walking away from Whitney anytime soon, but I need to know her limits. That’s pertinent for the things I want to do to her, and I need her to feel safe. She can’t enjoy herself if she doesn’t feel like she can trust me to protect her, especially after taking so many things away from her.
Work goes quickly, and before I know it, my desk is clear and I have nothing else to focus on. Before Whitney, I would spend hours and hours digging through stuff on the Internet, finding loopholes for all sorts of stuff, challenging myself with encryption, and infiltrating all sorts of programs. Now, I sometimes sit and wait for her to get online, testing her ability to respond with messages sent through TalkToMe.
She hasn’t responded much today, and I know she’s busy. I know what it’s like to get lost in work and leave the rest of the world waiting until it’s done, but my nervousness after what happened this morning makes that lack of confidence in myself perk back up. Did I push too hard? Did I not do enough? Did licking her neck gross her out? Honestly, some people aren’t into sweat. Did I not kiss her enough? I barely nipped her lips in the sauna. Was she left wanting and now she’s upset?
I can’t seem to get out of my head, so I do the only thing I can do right now. I urge Puff Daddy into the soft carrier—this is a fight because he’d rather stay here than go back to my apartment for some reason—he hasn’t been home in days.
“I like it here!” he complains as I zip up the bag. “It’s boring at your place!”
I guess I have my answer. I don’t think the guys come into my office while I’m gone, even though nothing keeps them out when I’m here, but maybe their constant chatter in the breakroom keeps him company.
“Well,” I say to him as I leave my office and head toward the elevator, “you’re coming home with me tonight.”
“You’re not my dad!”
Several guys chuckle at his antics, and I throw a wave over my shoulder. Thankfully, no one stops me to razz me anymore about Whitney.
The short drive home turns into a little longer drive because Nana needs my help. According to her, it’s an emergency, so I blow through nearly every damn light to get to her place only to arrive to find her remote control not working properly.
“I don’t know how you keep doing this,” I complain with a smile as I change the input back to HDMI so her Firestick works correctly. “I showed you how to do this.”
“I still don’t understand it.” She gives me an innocent smile, swaying her hips like a little girl trying to be cute.
“If you want me to visit, just ask. You don’t have to sabotage the TV. I come every single time you call. It doesn’t have to be an emergency.”
“You didn’t once.”
I hand her the now working remote. “When have I not come when you needed me?”
“When the dryer hose came off the back of the machine.” She sounds exasperated, and I can’t help but smile.
“I was in Kuwait, Nana,” I remind her. “And I had someone over here within two hours to fix that for you.”
“Didn’t get fixed,” she complains. “Had to wait two weeks until you got home to do the laundry.”
“You wouldn’t let him in. I told you I verified him. He was not going to hurt you.”
“Tell that to his red hair. You know how I feel about warlocks.”
“Sweet baby—” I grip my hair in my hands and pull.
“You need a haircut.”
“I don’t.”
“Go sit on the back porch, and I’ll grab the clippers and the bowl.”
Nightmares of fourth grade picture day flash through my mind, but I don’t have to conjure the images from pure memory because my shame is still hanging in an eight-by-ten frame in the hallway. You may wonder how I got started with hacking. Nana is one hundred percent the reason for that. After the last haircut and bowl incident—which I never lived down among some of the kids at school—I started working online for cash to afford salon cuts.
“You’re not cutting my hair.”
“It would make an old lady happy if you let me get after that mop.”
“Not a chance. Sit down and I’ll make some tea. That will have to suffice.”
Chapter 16
Whitney
The knock on the door comes too early. Well, he’s right on time, but I’m not ready. Before I can let my mind think of the ways I’d like to be punished, I arrow to the door, first checking to make sure it’s Wren, before pulling it open with the chain in place.
He doesn’t look the least bit annoyed when I turn my head so he can see half my face—the half with completed eye makeup.
“I’m running a little behind,” I tell him with a weak smile.
He bites his lip, his eyes trying to get a peek of me through the crack. I purposely move a little further back to keep him guessing.
“Will I be waiting long?”
“Five more minutes?”
“That gives me a long time to think.” The movement of his hands catches my eye, and I’ll be damned if his pointer finger on his right hand isn’t tapping the silver metal of his belt, a delicious threat of sorts.
I want to clench my thighs together, but I’m already reminded every time I move that I disobeyed him by wearing panties. I could delve deeper into my psyche and insist that I wasn’t comfortable obeying his order, but honestly, it all boils down to acting like a brat, something I hope he takes notice of.
My cheeks heat when I finally make eye contact and he gives me that sexier-than-sin wink.
“Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
Not many people have been able to get away with calling me pet names, and as it were, baby is the most generic form any man could decide to use. So why do the two syllables hit me in the gut like he’s whispering promises he has every intention of following through with?
The warning tone of his voice is of my own making, and I know he intends it that way. Plus, anticipation is usually half the thrill.
When I close the door, I peek at him again from the peephole, rolling my lips between my teeth to find him bouncing around on his feet as if he’s trying to give himself a pep talk. He seems so sure when he’s in front of me. Is it possible he’s just as nervous about tonight as I am? God, wouldn’t that make things easier. I know it would make me feel less like a bumbling idiot. As wild as my fantasies get, I honestly don’t have much experience when it comes to men. And never have I had a man st
and up and take full control even though it’s what my body needs most.
I rush to finish my makeup, not wanting to wait any longer to get our night started. When I’m finished, I find Simon crouched in front of the door batting at something, and as I stand there, I realize Wren is sliding his driver’s license back and forth so the cat can play with it.
I snatch it from under the door. He’ll probably think Simon got a hold of it, but then I look at his photo and can’t stop the laugh that escapes my mouth.
“It’s been seven minutes, Whitney,” he says from the other side of the door. After grabbing my purse and opening the door, my smile still spreads the entire width of my face.
He has his hand in front of him, a silent demand for me to return it, but he’s grinning too. “May I have that back?”
“Can I make a copy of it first?” I hold the plastic card behind my back, knowing if he wants it bad enough, all he has to do is command I give it to him.
“I have much better pictures. You may have copies of those.” He takes a step closer and after shutting my apartment door, I press my back against it. My arms remain behind me, and his eyes flare with interest. It’s an offer of vulnerability on my part, and he takes notice.
“How long have you had your braces off?”
His lip twitches with mirth not in anger, but he doesn’t answer.
“You’re not a donor,” I whisper as he grows even closer.
I can feel the heat of his body, and it’s enough to make me suggest that we skip dinner and head right back into my apartment.
“I read online that you’re more likely to die if you’re a donor.” He’s saying some really creepy stuff, but it doesn’t stop my body from responding to his proximity. “That they will let you die to save many others rather than waste energy to save you.”
“Really?” I manage to pant as his arms slide around my back.
“Yeah. Really.”
“Oh.” His nose traces the column of my neck, and I’m to the point of offering up a kidney for the briefest of kisses.
“Now,” he says taking a step back, “let’s go have dinner.”
I blink up at him to find him putting his license back into his wallet, unsure of when he even slid it out of my hands. I hate that I missed cataloging his touch.
“Dinner?”
He chuckles, the low, husky tone sliding over me, beginning to turn my need into desperation.
“Yes, dinner, Whitney. I can’t make all of your sexual fantasies come true on an empty stomach.”
“I have snacks inside. Protein bars. Gatorade, so we don’t get dehydrated.”
I bite my lip with my brazen response, praying my cheeks aren’t as red as the heat I can feel coming from them.
He grins even wider. “In due time, my peach. Let’s go.”
His hand is hot and huge on my back as he presses it against my lower spine as he directs us to the elevator. This man has loads of restraint, and that’s going to be a trait he’ll need once we get down to it. Even still, I don’t know if he’s going to be able to get past all my hang-ups.
Wren doesn’t pull his arm from behind my back as we ride the elevator down, keeping me close to his side all the way out of the building.
“A chauffeured car? Call me surprised,” I say as a man in a tux opens the back door of a town car.
“A favor from a friend,” he responds, urging me into the backseat. “I wanted to be able to give you my undivided attention.”
“I like when your eyes are on me,” I confess as he settles in beside me.
“I don’t plan to take them off you for a single second tonight.” His heated gaze travels from the tips of my sandaled feet to where my legs are crossed.
I tug my dress down a few inches just to be a tease, knowing full well if he told me to open my legs while the driver takes us to wherever we’re going, I would happily oblige.
***
“Open,” Wren whispers as he holds a piece of sushi to my lips.
“I like—” I swallow thickly before lowering my voice. “Doing what you ask, but raw fish isn’t my thing.”
“Have you had sushi before?”
I shake my head as he pulls the sashimi away, placing it back on the plate between us.
“No.”
“Then how do you know if you like it?”
A quick grin fills my features.
“I guess I don’t, but the thought of eating raw anything…” I shudder for effect.
“Close your eyes,” he urges.
My lashes flutter closed a second later.
I’m a woman of habit. Hell, it took two weeks before I’d try the Nacho Fries at Taco Bell, knowing I loved everything else they had to offer on the menu.
The thought of slimy fish gliding down my throat doesn’t exactly make me gag, but it’s close. On instinct, my head snaps back when I feel a soft brush against my lips.
“Easy,” he purrs.
It’s not sushi touching my mouth, I realize, but his thumb. It traces my lower lip before running gently over my cupid’s bow.
“Such a pretty mouth.”
With my sense of sight removed, I can hear his shallow breathing, and knowing I have some effect on him, similar to what he has on me, is a heady feeling. I can’t recall a single other moment in my life when I’ve felt this desired.
He’s showing me passion while fully dressed in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and since he’s the one in control, I don’t feel the least bit embarrassed with knowing that any of the fifty people in the same room with us could be witnessing his seduction. If anything, it makes me even hotter for him.
My mouth opens slightly on a ragged inhale, and he doesn’t miss the opportunity to dip his digit inside half an inch. He groans, a low, deep in his belly sound when my tongue sneaks up to touch the tip. Would he make that same desperate sound if it were the tip of his cock on my lips? God, do I want to find out.
A nearby cough forces my eyes open, but Wren takes his time pulling his hand away from my mouth. I focus on wetting my lips as the waiter gives him a forced smile.
“Everything okay with your meal?”
Wren’s hand falls to my bare knee as he keeps his eyes on me.
“Do you want to try the sushi?”
“No,” I tell him, unsure of how he’ll respond.
I’ve read stories of people being forced to do things they don’t want, and as simple as trying a new food is, his reaction will play a huge part in where things are going with us.
“Do you have any preferences?” Wren is still a hundred percent focused on me, forcing the waiter to wait for both of us since his question regarding the food hasn’t been answered.
“Anything American,” I whisper, hoping he doesn’t see me as a child.
“A burger, maybe?” I give him a small smile and a slight dip of my head.
“No onions,” I add before he can pull his attention from me.
His grin is knowing, like he thinks there’s a reason I don’t want to ingest stinky foods. He’d be right. I don’t normally have a problem with onions. I mean, have you tasted the Pico de Gallo from Taco Bell?
“Cheese?” I nod again.
Wren doesn’t have to repeat my order because the waiter is so far up in our business, he heard every word.
“It’ll come from the kid’s menu,” the waiter informs us, his eyes darting around the room to sweep over the other patrons.
“That’s fine,” I tell him.
The warning is subtle, but Wren must understand it as I do. We’re in the middle of a family friendly restaurant, early enough in the evening to have children around. Our recent behavior is better suited for the dark, back corner of a bar not in the middle of dinnertime with multigenerational people around.
“I should’ve taken you somewhere else,” he says, reaching for his glass of water.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” I attempt to lower my head, hating that I’m causing problems.
His finge
r hitches under my chin, lifting it up so I can see his eyes before I even have the chance to look down at my clasped hands.
“You’re no trouble, Whitney. The trouble is keeping my hands off of you right now. My near inability to maintain distance is not your problem to worry over. I should have better control.”
A dominant man admitting to his own faults? Am I in an alternate universe right now? He’s too young to have this much insight.
“Tell me how you ended up with a filthy-talking bird,” I insist as a distraction from the way he’s staring at my mouth.
My lips still tingle from his touch, and if he keeps looking at me with such heat, I may explode, kids around us be damned.
He grins, the memory of it making his eyes sparkle.
“Breaking out the big guns already, huh?”
I can’t help but smile back at him. “I feel like there’s a huge story, one that doesn’t include a pet shop.”
He grins wider. “If I tell you about how Puff Daddy ended up in my care, I have to start much farther back and it includes an old lady, a pair of grooming clippers and a wooden bowl.”
Chapter 17
Wren
I was obsessed with this woman before I ever laid eyes on her in person. One coffee date and a sushi/cheeseburger dinner and I can say without a fucking shadow of a doubt that I’m falling for her.
The way we laughed over shared stories from our youths, the way she quizzed me on computer things, the easy way we’re able to speak to each other, all of it made me realize she’s the definition of perfection. My idea of perfection anyway.
The sexual tension between us has stayed just under the surface during the entire meal, through every story. I made a point to keep my distance, but I would nearly moan in appreciation when she’d throw her head back and laugh as her small hand landed on my forearm or on my shoulder. I hate that I’m in slacks and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. I want her skin to skin rather than living with just the heat of her touch through my clothes.
“That’s not possible.” She gasps at another story I may or may not have flubbed the truth on.
“Scout’s honor,” I vow, holding up the Vulcan sign from Star Trek rather than the Boy Scout’s.
