by Marie James
“No.”
“No?”
“Can’t.”
“Have work to do?”
“You’re sore,” I tell her as I release her hand to lean over to put the stopper in the tub. “If I get in with you, it’ll only get worse.”
“Are you this sweet with all the girls?”
I stiffen before standing up to face her. My hands find her cheeks, and I don’t speak until I’m certain I have every ounce of her undivided attention.
“There’s no one else. There isn’t going to be anyone else.” I do my best to keep my eyes off her lips when a little gasp escapes. “We haven’t talked much about what happens when we’re not together, but you’re mine. Tell me you understand.”
“I do.”
“No online flirting. No coffee dates. No orgasms incited by any thoughts other than of me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“The same goes for you?”
A slow grin tugs up the corners of my mouth. “Same goes for me.”
Her brilliant smile has to be the same composition of the sun because it energizes me, giving me all the warmth I think I’ll ever need.
“Get in the tub, Whitney, before my cock finds its way into your throat.”
I hold her hand as she steps over the edge.
“Do you have any bubble bath?”
My eyes dart away for two reasons. One, because she’s gently running her hand over the top of the water and I’d give nearly anything to be the waves licking at her skin. Two, because I do have bubble bath, but revealing that is just going to ruin the sensual mood.
Maybe a little break from the sexual tension will be exactly what I need. I turn away from her and open the cabinet under the sink.
“If you laugh, I’ll spank your ass.”
Looking over my shoulder, I watch her roll her pretty lips between her teeth in preparation.
But the chuckle escapes anyway.
“Mr. Bubble?”
Her valiant attempt not to laugh forces a chuckle from my own throat.
“It’s the best,” I explain as I walk toward her and unscrew the lid.
The laughter dies away when I inch nearer. The soap mixes with the water spewing from the drain, but her eyes are locked on my erect cock. How can I be so comfortable around her that I haven’t noticed my own nakedness?
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn when her fingers twitch just below the surface of the water. “Soak the soreness away, and I’ll make breakfast.”
I seriously need to jump in the shower, but the devilish look she keeps giving me makes it clear that I wouldn’t be able to do that with any level of success while she’s in the same room. I plant a chaste kiss to her lips, ignore the way she reaches for me, and make a hasty exit.
A pair of loose sweats and a t-shirt is all I put on before heading into the kitchen.
I try to fill my wandering thoughts with anything but Whitney Nelson. I want her like desert plants want water, but pain isn’t her kink. No matter what she thinks her body is telling her, she wouldn’t enjoy another round with me right now, and I have to respect that.
I blame her arms around me for getting aroused when she joins me in the kitchen because getting turned on by the scent of the bubble bath would just make me a creep.
“I hope you like yogurt and fruit,” I tell her as I grab her arms and pull her around.
She’s wearing yet another tiny tank top and little shorts.
“What the hell did Ignacio pack for you?”
Her cheeks pink, and it makes me want to go to the guest bedroom and rifle through her things. But I’m afraid doing so would make me want to murder my friend.
“Only comfortable things.” Her eyes dart away.
“Really?”
“And lingerie.” Her perfect teeth dig into her bottom lip, and my blood can’t decide if it wants to heat in anger for my friend’s invasion or if it’s arousal kicking up my temperature.
“Is that so?” I hold her tighter even though there’s no viable threat in my apartment right now.
She buries her head in my chest. “I’m joking.”
“That’s disappointing. I was going to have you model it for me after breakfast.”
Her laughter is better than angels singing.
The day takes on a lazy tone, but the sexual tension never quite leaves us. We don’t have sex, but the promise of the possibility keeps us both on edge. The looks, the gentle brushes of our hands, and the way our eyes follow each other makes for a very interesting day.
Mid-afternoon, we both finally cave. I’m adamant about not fucking her, but she seems fine to strip both of us naked and get off by swiping her slick cunt up and down my length, teasing her clit until she falls apart. After she finds her release, she puts me out of my misery by climbing off my lap and licking me clean before sucking me deep. I lasted longer than I did while eating her out last night, but not by much.
I’m half asleep on the couch, her back to my front as we watch some documentary for shark week when my phone rings. I’d let it go to voicemail, but there are too many things going on right now to just forget that the entire world is still spinning while we’re here in the cocoon of my apartment.
Whitney grumbles her displeasure when I shift and climb out from behind her. She was asleep and doesn’t even bother opening her eyes. I can’t decide if I’m going to tease her about the drips of slobber on my couch cushion later, but I’m smiling when I answer Flynn’s call.
“Yeah, man.”
“We’re all set up for tonight.”
“Same hotel?” I ask, referring back to the plan we all made yesterday.
I leave the room because I don’t want to disturb her, but also because I want to put my foot down about being there. It’s going to sound more like begging considering who is on the other end of the line.
“I want to be there.”
Silence fills the line between us.
“Flynn?”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“We’ll have to put precautions in place, but yeah. This is your girl, and I know I’d be acting the same way.”
My girl. Fuck, if that doesn’t sound perfect.
“Thanks, man.”
“Meet at the office at eight.”
“See you then.”
Her reason for being here ends in less than a handful of hours, so I do the only thing I can think of. I climb back on the couch and wrap my arms back around her. After tonight is over, she’s going to have to decide if staying here is what she wants.
God, I hope everything works out.
Chapter 30
Whitney
My eyes follow the retreating form of Wren’s back through the peephole. The guard that was there the other day when we came up here is standing near the elevator, but even his presence doesn’t keep the chill from climbing up my spine.
I’m alone in Wren’s apartment for the first time, and no level of begging changed his mind about staying.
“Everything will be over after tonight,” he’d said before leaning down and kissing me like I was the only woman his lips have ever touched. “Then you can go home if you want.”
If you want.
His tone suggested he didn’t want me to leave, and I’ve sat on his couch trying to figure out a way to tell him that even though my home is three floors down, I can’t imagine going back there alone.
It’s not out of fear. I have no doubt that I’ll be safe if he tells me that Jones is in custody—which he assured me he’d text about the second it happened—and doesn’t have the ability to hurt me anymore. He wouldn’t put me in danger, but then what’s keeping me here? The warmth of his bed? The casual way he wraps his arms around me like he’s been doing it for years and not just days?
I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to spend a moment away from him more than we would have to while we’re working, but that’s showing my hand too soon, isn’t it?
Does it make me clingy if he wants me here?
Simon bellows from down the hall, and I feel guilt wash over me for not paying more attention to him. Granted, he’s been curled up on Wren’s bed most of the day but finding him making circles in the guest bedroom right outside the bathroom door speaks of his neglect, as does the empty center spot in his food bowl. He’s not out of food, but apparently his ability to see any part of the metal of his dish is a personal affront which I remedy immediately.
“You poor thing,” I coo, scratching behind his ear for the four seconds he allows it. “So neglected.”
He meows his agreement before squatting down to nip the new food. It’s not to his liking so he turns to leave, heading toward Wren’s room once again while I turn toward the living room. I slept in the room last night with his hard body wrapped around me, but it seems a little invasive to curl up in there now.
He told me before leaving to make myself at home, but napping on his bed while he’s gone seems a little too personal, no matter how much time he spent playing my body like a seasoned guitarist last night.
The television holds no interest, but I settle on the couch anyway. Just a couple hours ago, I was content to lie with him and watch sharks swimming in chum-infested waters, and now nothing seems to be able to hold my attention. He’s working, but several texts have come through with memes and a funny video of a kitten climbing in and out of a wine glass, but those aren’t the texts I want. Those aren’t the things my body is urging me to send to him. How busy is he? Would he be angry or impressed if I sent naughty pictures touching myself like my brain is telling me is the best idea, right now?
Cold chills fraught with sexual need wash over my body.
Me: Do you have a throw blanket? It’s chilly on this couch all alone.
There. I smile, knowing I’ve told him I miss him while also allowing him to provide a way to comfort me in his absence.
Wren: Not much longer and I’ll heat that sexy little body of yours up.
I grin down at my phone.
Wren: Extra blankets in the closet.
His words heat me up to the point I start to believe I don’t need a blanket, but then the texts stop and the chill returns.
With a groan, I heave myself off the couch and go in search of something to wrap myself in until he returns.
I find no blankets in the hall closet, but the stacks and stacks of unopened Star Wars LEGO sets makes me smile. There aren’t any blankets in the guest bedroom closet either, but I pause in the doorway of the master bedroom. He allowed me in this space last night, and Simon has no qualms about sleeping on the ruffled blankets, but going in here alone right now makes me feel weird.
My skin tingles when I cross the threshold, and as the scent of our lovemaking last night hits my senses, I’m instantly turned on. Jesus, did we soak the sheets, or is my mind just playing tricks on me?
With my gaze on the closet door, I do my best to ignore the spot on the bed that embarrassed Wren so completely last night. I’ll grab the blankets and then run some laundry. As much as I hate to wash away our combined scents, it just means we get to remake them again tonight.
The light in the closet is harsh compared to the dulled light coming in from the curtains in the room, but after my vision adjusts, I see the blankets high on the shelf. I have to chuckle to myself because it’ll take a damn ladder for me to reach them.
Jumping doesn’t help and climbing the shelving isn’t an option considering I don’t want to fall and lie here helpless for who knows how long. Plus, Simon is irritated with my newfound friendship and he’ll probably start to eat my corpse the second I hit the floor.
I grab a shirt from the bar, holding it to my nose for the briefest of seconds before tugging the t-shirt from it. Using the corner of the hanger, I attempt to move the blanket, and luckily after about eleven-billion tries, I budge it just the slightest amount. I’m near breaking out into a sweat before I make any real progress, but after the corner of the blanket is clear of the shelf, I’m able to hook the folded area and pull.
The blankets come down, but so does a box. I cover my head for protection, but a slow grin spreads my face when I see what has fallen at my feet. Among the layers of blankets is a variety of sex toys. The ball gag makes me grin, my body coming alive with just the thought of Wren holding it out in front of him with a questioning look, but then my eyes land on the feather tickler, then the fur-lined cuffs.
Each item is so familiar, the sweat I worked up getting the blanket down cools on my skin making me shiver. Each one of the items on the floor at my feet are eerily similar to the box of things Sarah sent me months ago. The first delivery was somehow lost even though it showed delivered, but Sarah sent the items again, a gag gift of sorts because honestly, how can anyone handle a twelve-inch cock? Certainly not a girl who hadn’t done the deed in longer than I’m comfortable talking about with anyone.
The first box showed delivered…
“Please, no,” I whisper, the closet swallowing my plea.
My mind races, my hands refusing to reach down and confirm what I know I’m going to find.
There were always mix ups at the front desk. Wren and I even joked about me getting his packages and the care I had to take each time I picked something up to make sure it was mine and not his.
My hand trembles against my mouth. If I find what I know I’m going to find, what does it mean for us? What could possibly make this okay?
A whimper escapes, and I barely hold in a sob when I see the name on the shipping label.
W. Nelson.
But it’s the Apt. 913 that breaks me.
Tears streak down my face, forcing me to question every single interaction.
The game? The meeting in the elevator?
Was any of it real?
He’s the best hacker that I’ve ever heard of. There’s no way he didn’t know who I was before our “coincidental” meetings. It was all arranged. I’m not here because of fate or kismet. I’m here because he orchestrated it all.
Every second has been a lie.
Every kiss planned.
Every touch just another chess piece moved on his part.
Did he send Jones after me to put me in a position to rely on him?
Did he fuck me last night knowing everything about me while telling me he can’t wait to get to know more?
Did he—
“Oh God,” I mutter, dropping the box and making a hasty retreat to the bathroom in the guest bedroom.
I heave into the toilet, the devastation too much to keep down the food we shared earlier.
All of it lies even though I told him from the jump that I value honesty.
Our sexual compatibility feels like betrayal now because there’s no way he didn’t find that shit out online. He created himself into the image of a man I’ve always wanted. He forged ahead, making sure my needs were met because he knew which steps to take. He knew me long before I ever laid eyes on him—what I needed from him—and I don’t think I’ve ever been so manipulated in my life.
My hands tremble as I stand to look at myself in the mirror. I hate the redness in my eyes, the angry flush in my cheeks, and most importantly, I hate the way I still ache from the things he took from my body, the things I willingly gave to him last night because I was working under the illusion that Wren Nelson was put on this earth just for me.
Is this what betrayal feels like? Does it always come with this emptiness?
I’ve been duped, conned in the most sadistic way.
I swallow my hurt and begin to pack, knowing I can’t leave until the text comes through that Jones is out of the picture. The logical part of me registers that Jones contacted me three days before the delivery date stamped on that box, and that’s the only relief I feel. The only thing keeping my sanity intact right now is the math that says Jones reached out before Wren got his hands on that box.
I hold on to that as I drag my suitcases toward the door, praying the entire time that he doesn�
�t arrive back home before texting. If he forgets that part, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’d like to believe the man that held me all night last night wouldn’t hurt me, but I would’ve bet he was honest before my discovery as well. It just shows that you can’t ever trust anyone.
Chapter 31
Wren
I haven’t felt like this big of a pussy since that time I hid in the janitor’s closet in sixth grade when Tyson Aldridge was looking for me after he heard I talked to Mindy Regan. The similarities of the lights being out while I all but have my ear to the door makes me roll my eyes.
Of course I’m not in a janitor’s closet, but the nasty bathroom in this shitty hotel isn’t much better. At least that closet smelled of cleaning supplies, whereas this tiny bathroom smells a little like what I imagine death would smell like.
I keep my arms tucked in close, vowing to burn these jeans after tonight, as I sit on the closed toilet lid trying not to think about what this room would look like under a blacklight.
I hate that my girl spent a night here in fear. I hate the man we’re waiting for with a passion. I hate that I’ve been sequestered in this tiny room waiting for the action to go down with no ability to help. I knew Flynn agreed too quickly about me tagging along for it to work out in my favor. Staying out of the way is the name of the game for me, and I’m also unarmed. Apparently, online guns and the real thing aren’t the same thing. Finn assured me he’d get me up to speed with a couple different weapons, but it doesn’t help me right now.
Eerie silence surrounds me to the point I can hear my own breaths escaping my lungs. I promised them I’d stay put until one of the guys on my team comes to get me, and I know I’ll do just that. As much as I want Jones to go down, I’m scared. I’m physically scared of being hurt because I’ve never been in a more stressful situation. But more importantly, I’m terrified he won’t show and will somehow manage to get to Whitney. My determination to be here makes me angry. I could be holding her right now. I could be spending time getting to know her better instead of sitting and waiting. I was a damn fool for thinking I could go all kamikaze on this asshole and save the day. I know my limitations, but clearly where she’s concerned, I think I’ve got to be the big hero.
