by Julie Kriss
I wrapped my fingers around his cock, squeezed him lightly. “Then come here,” I said.
He walked his knees up until his cock traced my chest, then my neck. Then I leaned up and slipped it into my mouth, giving the head a suckling kiss.
“Oh, fuck,” he said.
He tasted just like I remembered. Just as good. I licked him greedily, kissing down the side of his cock, running my tongue over it. His hips flexed and he lowered it into my mouth, slowly and gently, testing me. Once, then again.
I thought he’d keep going until he came, but to my surprise he pulled out and moved back again so he was straddling my hips. “That’s what I would think of,” he said, his voice ragged. “And this is what I’d do.”
He put his hand on his cock, stroked it. Again, again. I went still, as quiet as a mouse in the shadow of a hawk overhead. I couldn’t take my eyes from the picture I was seeing—Devon, stroking himself, hard and rhythmic. It was dirty, incredible, harshly beautiful. My breath stopped in my lungs.
“You like that,” he said after a minute.
“Yes,” I said. I gripped his big, hard thighs, digging my nails in, as I watched. “Keep going.”
“This is what you do to me,” he said, stroking. “Every fucking time.”
“Keep going,” I panted.
He leaned forward again, gripped the headboard with his free hand for balance, and stroked harder. I couldn’t stop watching him. It was the sexiest thing I had ever seen. “Sweetheart, I’m going to come,” he said.
I dug my nails harder into his thighs. I wanted to see that. “Keep going,” I said.
He came with a groan of relief, his come hitting my stomach, my chest. And I kept watching. I watched it all.
We were quiet. After a minute, he got up and left. I heard the water running. I stared at the dark ceiling, feeling sated and relaxed, my body still humming, the way it always did when Devon was nearby.
He came back and sat on the edge of the bed, cleaning me with a warm cloth. When he was done, I rolled to my side, facing him, and pulled my knees up.
I felt his hand brush the hair back from my temple, and when I turned my head and looked up, I saw him looking down at me, his gaze intent in the half-light.
“We okay?” he asked at last.
I blinked up at him. I could never quite get a handle on him, this man who could be so rough and so gentle by turns. I was starting to understand that my fascination with him ran so deep it was something I couldn’t control.
“Yes,” I told him. “We’re okay.”
“Good.” He got into bed with me, big and naked and male, and I shivered pleasantly as he wrapped himself around me, all of that power gentle as he touched me. “Get some rest.”
“Is there going to be more?” I asked sleepily. Hopefully.
He laughed softly and kissed my neck. “Of course there is,” he said as I closed my eyes. “Be ready.”
Chapter 17
Olivia
“You did what?” Gwen asked me, her gray-blue eyes wide. “Over a dresser? In a house in Diablo?”
I pulled my drink toward me and sipped it. It had vodka in it, and it was strong—that was all I knew. We were in a trendy bar downtown, sitting at a small table while good-looking people in expensive outfits milled around us. “Jeez, keep it down,” I said. “These people have class.”
That made her snort. She scratched the back of her heel. She was wearing a red dress in a retro style, dotted with white polka dots. The effect, mixed with her blond hair and pinup body, wasn’t exactly class—but I didn’t see any of the cashmere-suited men in the place complaining. “You are certifiably insane,” she said.
I grinned at her, feeling momentarily giddy. “You’re the one who told me to save a car and ride a mechanic.”
“That’s when he was a mechanic, not an ex-con.” She looked me up and down, her little-sister gaze knowing. “You’re practically floating to the ceiling. Dresser sex didn’t do that. What else did you do?”
“Stuff,” I said vaguely.
She cocked an eyebrow. “More than once?”
“More than more than once.”
“Huh.” She touched a nail to her red lips. “Impressive.”
“Me or him?” I asked.
“Him, silly. I have respect for a man with stamina. Though some of that might have been post-prison buildup.” She looked thoughtful again. “You’ll have to take him for another round before you decide whether to keep him or not.”
I laughed. “Gwen, you’re ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” She sipped her drink, which was electric blue and had God knew what in it. “I’m just practical. You can’t go crazy over this guy, Liv, multiple rounds or not. You’ve got too much going for you.”
I smiled. “Right. My shitty job and my crappy apartment at Shady Oaks?”
“You know I don’t mean that.” She waved her hands around me, in my direction, like she was weaving a spell. “I mean you. The you effect. You’re top of the line, honey. Olivia Maplethorpe doesn’t settle.”
Well. My sister exasperated me, and sometimes she amused me, but there were times when she just hit me right in the chest. “Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound choked up. “But we’re not getting married or anything. I’m not settling. I’m just…” I trailed off, not sure what to say. Losing my mind was a possibility.
“Getting properly laid,” Gwen supplied. “I get it. At least this guy gave you actual orgasms, unlike that Todd dope, where you had to fake it.”
I winced. “I’d forgotten about that in an act of willful amnesia.”
“I don’t blame you. I can’t remember the last time I had a non-fake orgasm with an actual man.” She looked around, taking in the men in the crowd. “I don’t hold out much hope.”
I laughed and lifted my glass. “This drink cost twenty bucks,” I said. “Surely one of the men in here is up to your standards.”
“Money doesn’t always do it, honey,” Gwen said, still taking a jaded look around. “You know that, with your hot ex-con. Even if he does suddenly have a house in Diablo.”
“You once made a guy take you on six different dates before you’d sleep with him. You made him impress you, like a test.”
She turned back to me and lifted a shoulder. “I wanted to know how he’d hold up under pressure.”
“You dumped him after date number four.”
“He failed.” She sipped her drink and licked her lips. “If a man wants to see me naked, he has two options. He can do what I say, when I say. Or he can call Candy Cane and pay three hundred bucks. Plus tip.”
“You’re cruel and heartless,” I told her. “Someday you’re going to go gaga over some guy. And he’ll be homeless, or fat and bald, or he’ll have ten kids, or something. Then you’re going to eat your words.”
“Not going to happen.” She smiled at me. “So, when do you see Hot Dark and Handsome again?”
I smiled back. I liked that she’d used Devon’s nickname. “Soon, I think. He’s been busy, and I’ve been working long hours this week.”
“You work long hours every week. Does he call you at least?”
“Yes.” He called, and texted. Just small things. Like he couldn’t quite stay away. “He’s pretty nice, even though most people would probably think he’s intimidating.”
“Okay, then. That’s a good sign. Just don’t tell Mom there’s a man in the picture, or she’s going to drive me nuts with questions.”
I blinked at her. “What?”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Like you don’t know Mom worries about you.”
“No more than normal.”
“No,” my sister said. “She worries about you a lot. Especially since the art school thing. Do you think she’s okay? Like, really okay? It’s funny, I dropped out of acting school and I take my clothes off for a living, but she never worries about me like that.”
Shit. I’d had no idea Gwen felt like this. “She just knows you’re tougher than me.”
> “Maybe.” She gave me half a smile over her glass. “But if you’re going to take on Tall Dark and Stinking Rich, Liv, I think you’re tougher than you think you are.”
Chapter 18
Devon
The white-haired old guy, my neighbor, came marching up my driveway at one in the afternoon, while I had the garage door open. I was working on the Mercedes, seeing if I could get that beautiful engine running again. My life was so fucking strange right now that it felt good to work with my hands.
White Hair had his warmup suit on—I guess if you were rich and retired, you wore whatever the hell you felt like—and had his dog on a leash. “Young man,” he said imperiously to me, power-walking straight up my drive. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I have it on good information that you’ve moved into the neighborhood.”
I stood, wiping my hands on a rag. Good information was one way of putting it. “I guess you’re the one who called the cops on me?” I said.
His face was red, but his eyes blazed like those of a man thirty years younger. I’d had a howdy-old-friend visit from the cops last night, dropping by to check my ID and make sure I was supposed to be living here. They hadn’t hassled me, just said hello and drove off again. I should have been pissed, but I could barely believe I lived here either.
“We’re a community here,” White Hair said. “No one told us anything. For all I know, you could have Graham Wilder’s dead body stuffed in the basement while you live in his house. It’s happened, you know. I read the news.”
“I get it,” I said, which threw him for a loop. He’d been expecting a fight. “I didn’t kill my grandfather, though. And he’s not in the basement. He’s ashes in a vault somewhere in LA.”
“His grandson, huh?” White Hair said. “Graham never mentioned a grandson. But he wasn’t here much.” He stuck his hand out, while his little dog turned idiotically in a circle. “Kenneth Isherwood. I ran Isherwood Manufacturing until the manufacturing sector went to hell in a handbasket. Then I sold out and moved here.”
“I guess that was a good move,” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I’m Devon Wilder.”
“Huh. Look, here’s the drill.” Kenneth turned on his heel, like someone was making him do a military march. The dog did another idiotic circle. “That over there”—he pointed to a rooftop I could barely see past the trees—“that’s that software kid who invented that thing. You know the thing everyone talks about. Hell if I know how to use one of those doohickeys, and don’t ask me about apps. Over there”—more pointing—“that’s that big TV producer. He produces that show, you know, that’s on HBO. With all the nakedness in it. You watch that one?” He gave me a sideways glare, like this was a test.
“I don’t watch much TV,” I said.
“Huh. Okay. The one you want to look out for is over there.” He jutted his finger in another direction. “Elizabeth Barrett, she calls herself. She used to be a Playboy centerfold.” He glared at me again. “Mind you, that was back in 1970 or so. But she still has the looks, if you know what I mean. And she still has the curves.” He waved his hands in a classic hourglass, like he was in a 1940’s GI movie. “You’re not bad-looking, son. I’m just warning you. She’ll eat you alive.”
“Wow,” I said.
“You bet. Steer clear, son. That’s about all you need to know. Oh, and don’t speed over the speed bumps.” He looked past me at the car. “That’s a fine vehicle.”
“It was Graham’s,” I said. “It isn’t running. I’m seeing if I can fix it. I know a few things about cars.”
“He kept to himself, Graham did, and like I say, he wasn’t often here,” Kenneth said. “He told me once that he had one son, who was a disappointment to him. I guess that’s your father. He’s not in the picture?”
I blinked, realizing that this guy, who had barely been acquainted with him, knew my grandfather better than I did. “He’s dead, too,” I said. “Cancer.”
“That’s too bad, son. I didn’t know Graham well, but he always seemed lonely to me. Maybe he chose to be that way. But he always did have a proper appreciation for nice things. It’s a good tribute to him if you get that car running again.”
I was surprised again. The last thing I’d thought was that I was paying tribute to my grandfather, but suddenly I wasn’t willing to say that. “Yeah, well,” I managed. “Okay.”
“You like nice cars,” Kenneth said. “That much is clear. So did he. Some things run in the blood.” His dog whined, and he nudged it with his toe. “We’ll be off. See you around. And you really do need to clear the scum from your pond.”
As he marched away, my cell phone rang in my pocket. My old phone—the one from my old life. It was a sign of how strange my world was that I was still keeping both phones. “Yeah?” I said when I answered.
“Pure Gold,” Gray said on the other end. “One hour. And let me tell you, Wilder. You really want to come to this meeting. You really fucking do.”
The last thing I wanted to do was go to Pure Gold. I’d had Olivia Maplethorpe, with her dark curls and un-fucking-believable body, in my bed, doing anything I wanted, for an entire night, and I was going to have her again. What the hell did I need a strip club for?
But I went. Gray was small time, but I had practically smelled the fear in his voice. There was something going down, and I was going to have to face it head on. The way I faced everything.
The club was deserted—it was early—and not even a bartender was on. A bouncer let me in, nodding as if he was expecting me, and I made my way to the VIP room.
There were three people in there. One of them was Gray Jensen in his fucking sweatsuit. One of them was Amy, the stripper, wearing nothing but a black string bikini and heels. I hadn’t seen her for two years, and she looked different—worried, scared, her eyes flashing a message at me.
The third person was a man I’d never seen before. He wore jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a gray jacket. His hair was longish and carefully styled, his face thin as a blade, his smile wolfish. I took one look and knew, by instinct, exactly who I was looking at.
“Craig Bastien,” I said.
The wolfish smile widened. “Devon Wilder,” he said over the pulse of the cheesy music. “Welcome to our meeting. Sit down.”
I’d have to shower in bleach after touching one of the sofas, but at the moment I had no choice. I sat down, quietly hoping some guy’s crusty come wasn’t sticking to my jeans.
“Just a precaution,” Craig Bastien said, waving at the room around us. “An idea of our friend Gray’s. Aside from the sexy scenery, meeting in a place like this means no one can be recording the conversation.”
It was true, the pulse of the mindless electronica would probably mess up any attempt to record what we were saying with a wire. “I always thought Gray met in here because he like the girls,” I said.
Gray squeezed his hands together and said nothing. He was living up to his name right now, his face practically gray with fear. Amy looked similar beneath her makeup. Craig Bastien patted his knee, and she obediently sat on it. He ran his hands over her hips.
“Listen,” he said, looking at me and ignoring Amy, even while he pawed her. Even though she was a stripper and a pro, the sight turned my stomach for some reason. Probably because of the sick look on her face. “Gray isn’t in charge anymore. I am. I’ve taken over his operation and added it to my own.” I had a feeling Gray had had no say in this little business move. “And I’ve heard some things about you, Wilder. You’ve had some interesting times since you got out.”
“You mean, since I finished doing the time you set me up for?” I said.
“Water under the bridge,” Craig said, his hands still rubbing up and down Amy. “I don’t make mistakes like that anymore. You did a good job that night, and I retrieved most of my product. That was quick thinking, dumping the TV’s. You saved me from losing face with a lot of people who were waiting for product.”
“Great,” I said. “You
’re welcome. We done?”
Bastien laughed. “Not even close, my friend.”
He knows, I thought.
It would get out sooner or later, how much money I’d come into. I’d figured as much. But Bastien knew. Right now. The question was, how much did he know?
“Talk,” I said to him. “I’m busy.”
“Yes, you are,” Bastien said. “Managing all your money from that big house in Diablo. You got lucky, huh?”
I shrugged.
“I know all about it,” Bastien said. “How you had a dear old granddad who kicked it while you were in. How you got the whole thing. How you don’t need any of us anymore. How you told your good friend Gray you were done.” He nodded. “Well, that’s interesting. Because I disagree. I don’t think you’re done at all.”
“I’m not driving for you, Bastien,” I said.
“I’m not talking about driving,” he shot back. Gray was still utterly silent, as was Amy. Bastien only looked at me. “You’ve graduated into the big leagues with all that money, Wilder. And I owe you one for that time you did. So I’m giving you the opportunity to move into the big leagues with me.”
“I don’t want to be in any league with you.”
“Hear me out first.” He lifted a hand from groping Amy and held up a finger. “I have a deal happening soon. The biggest deal San Francisco has seen since the heyday of the eighties. The biggest deal I’ve ever done. This deal, Wilder, is going to change the landscape here. And you can be a part of it. You think you’re rich now? You can be rich past anything you’ve ever imagined.”
I watched him carefully. I’d dealt with snakes like Craig Bastien nearly all my life, and I knew how to read them. One, he was definitely not talking about a few TV’s crammed with Oxy—that part wasn’t blowing smoke. Two, he knew about the house and maybe some of the money. He didn’t know he was actually talking to a billionaire, a man who could buy and sell him—with all of his drug money—ten times over.
