"The only kind you find in an airport like this," he told me, dragging me toward the food court. "Designer."
Designer clothes meant designer price tags. Normally, I would scoff at that. I didn't need a special tag to make me feel confident in my outfit, validated in my choice. But this job came with a travel and living stipend should I need it. Clothes for the job seemed like a genuine need.
Except, of course, after our bellies were full and we hit the stores, Fenway had somehow gotten to the cashiers at the shops while I was browsing or trying things on. And paid for it all.
Alvy appeared absolutely out of nowhere—I hadn't even seen Fenway use his phone to call them—and took all my bags, disappearing with them.
"Where to next, darling?" Fenway asked, arm dropping across my shoulders, his other waving wide. "The airport is your oyster."
"I think we need coffee," I decided. "And then probably to get back to the plane. It's been hours, hasn't it?"
My eyes certainly thought it had been. I was exhausted. I didn't even know what time it was. All I knew was I was claiming that bed when I got back on that plane.
"It would be more fun to be impractical," he suggested.
"If we don't ever want to make it to Bali," I reminded him. "Did you happen to see the swimsuit I bought for Bali?" I asked, lips curving up, slow and sultry, waiting for the melting thing I knew his eyes would do.
"I did not. Is it very cruel?" he added, smirking.
"Positively torturous," I told him, feeling a strange little giddy sensation inside when he threw his head back and groaned.
"And here I am, a glutton for punishment. Fine, let's go to Bali," he agreed, moving away.
"Um, Fenway?" I called as he kept walking, either expecting me to follow, or completely unaware that I wasn't at his side.
At that, he turned on his heel, head angled to the side.
"Yes?"
"Coffee," I reminded him.
"Right. Yes. Coffee. I would have remembered eventually."
"When?" I asked, rolling my eyes. "When we were halfway to Bali?"
"Don't be silly. We're already halfway to Bali. Oh, that's a new exhibit," he said, already heading in that direction, a man who was clearly used to the whole world standing still for him.
"You're like a child at an amusement park," I informed him, grabbing his lapel, pulling him along with me.
I should have been annoyed.
Normally, I would be.
It was frustrating when people refused to behave like adults.
Nobody liked a man-child.
Yet as I dragged him through the airport, seeing the goofy grin on his face while I did it, I felt my own lips curving upward, his enthusiasm for life—frivolity and all—was proving infectious.
That was a problem.
But one I told myself that I would think about later.
Then promptly forgot to do so as we got coffee, as we made our way back to the jet, as we boarded, settled in, took off.
I didn't even think about it when I moved off to the bedroom, pulling the pocket door, sealing myself in.
Alone.
But I did not wake up alone.
"Fenway!" I snapped, sensing the presence beside me.
"Darling, shh. I'm trying to sleep here," he informed me, voice groggy, yet somehow playful at the same time.
"Yes, well, that is the problem, isn't it?" I asked, pushing myself upward, slow blinking at the pillows lined between us. "Did you build a pillow wall between us?"
"I did. I couldn't exactly have you trying to have your way with me when I was asleep, now could I?" he asked, giving me a sleepy grin that was a little too intimate, a little too tempting. "I want to be wide awake when you molest me."
A choked laugh escaped me at that as I reached up to push my wild hair out of my face. "Don't worry, Fenway. Your body is safe from me," I told him, lips curving up. "What time is it?"
"Late. Early. Not time to get up yet," he told me.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Two hours, give or take."
"How long have you been asleep?"
"An hour and forty minutes. Give or take," he told me smirking lazily as I settled back down, the siren's call of my pillow proving impossible to ignore.
"You're such a creeper," I told him, rolling onto my side. Facing him. But we weren't going to think about why that was.
He rolled to face me as well, bridging the pillow wall, pulling the top one to position under his head.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking at you."
"Well... don't," I demanded, feeling a completely ridiculous—and unfamiliar—surge of insecurity overtake me.
"You're looking at me too."
"You're in my line of vision," I told him. "There. Happy?" I said, closing my eyes.
I wasn't prepared for the soft glide of his fingertip down the side of my face. So unprepared, in fact, that a shiver worked its way through me. But, thankfully, only on the inside.
My eyes shot open.
"Fenway," I started, hearing a strange thickness to my own voice.
"You're pretty when you sleep. Less guarded," he added.
See now.
I hated being called pretty.
I hated every single variation of it.
That was my 'damage,' as Alvy called it. That was my sore spot. That was the place that, when you touched, I hissed and spit and clawed.
I had never felt flattered or tingly or whatever else normal people felt when someone else thought they were attractive.
Why, then, was there a skittering sensation in my belly?
I didn't want to analyze that.
"Think of me like that weird jacks art installment at the airport," I told him, referencing the one he'd tried to reach out to, only to be scolded by a nearby security guard in Arabic. "You can look, but don't touch," I told him, flipping to my other side, giving him my back.
And that was that.
Or so I thought.
My subconscious had other ideas, though, that traitorous bitch.
Because when I woke up again, not only had I scaled the rest of the remaining pillow wall, oh no, I had rolled right on top of Fenway, leg cocked up on his hip, head snuggled in under his neck.
As a rule, I did not spend the night with men.
I always left first, before they could ask me to, before they could brush me off.
I'd heard that old adage about breaking up with them before they broke up with you when I was twelve. I promptly took it to heart, made it a staple practice in my life. So while I didn't do relationships, when I'd do flings, I was always the one to walk away first; I was always the one with the power.
That said, there was no way I could have known that I was a sleep snuggler.
Or how good it would feel to have a strong chest under your cheek, rising and falling gently, soothingly. I couldn't have known how nice it would be to have one arm anchored across my lower back, the other resting on my shoulder.
I felt oddly... smaller. More delicate. And protected.
What the hell was that about?"
"I know you're awake," Fenway's voice called, sounding wide awake.
"You can let me go now," I told him, even if a large part of me was screaming that it wanted to stay just like that, that it liked small and delicate and protected.
But I wasn't small.
I damn sure wasn't delicate.
And I never needed someone else to protect me.
"I don't want to."
"I didn't ask you what you wanted."
"You rolled onto me," he told me. "Climbed me like a cat, more like," he told me, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
"I am a bed hog. You were in my space."
"Hm. Maybe. Explain the soft sighs then."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, planting one arm so I could press up a bit and look down at him.
His lips curved up, cocky, devilish.
Yeah, that smile of his was p
roblematic.
It was entirely too appealing.
Damn him.
"You sleep quiet as a mouse. Even when you toss and turn. Not a peep. Until you scaled the wall, climbed up on me, wiggled around to find the right spot, then let out a couple of soft, sweet little contented sighs."
"I did not."
"How do you know? You were unconscious, darling," he reminded me, reaching up to tuck my hair that had fallen forward behind my ear. "You don't need to feel insecure. As I said, it was sweet."
"I'm not insecure," I insisted, even if a little part of me amended that I never used to be insecure. "And no one would ever call me sweet," I added.
"I will. I did. You're sweeter under all that cold and hard. You know what else?"
"No," I said, feeling a heaviness in my chest at the look in his eye, like my body knew what he was going to say before his lips formed the words.
Fenway's hand slid up my spine, fingers spreading out at the back of my neck, a firm, yet gentle pressure. "I bet you taste just as sweet," he told me, hand putting more pressure on my neck, pulling me down.
If asked, I wouldn't be able to truthfully say the movement was all him. Because as much as I would never want to admit it, he only pulled me down to ninety-percent. He wanted me to close the last gap.
I didn't mean to.
I knew I wasn't supposed to.
It was too soon for that.
But I did it.
I sealed my lips over his.
Expecting a sizzle.
There was evidence enough of a small bit of attraction that would lead to a sizzle, even if that wasn't great for the job as a whole.
But it wasn't a sizzle.
It was a spark, a flame, a raging wildfire, ravaging through my system, igniting me from the edges of my hair down to the soles of my feet.
A low, rumbling growl escaped Fenway, vibrating into my body, making my leg shift, knee planting on the other side of him, straddling him. And when my hips sank back down, I could feel his hardness pressing against me, demanding, promising an end to the clawing desire I felt building in my core.
Fenway's teeth snagged my lower lip, dragging a ragged moan from my lips as my hips slid, ground down, felt his cock press against me, turning that wildfire into a towering inferno.
Fenway's hands roamed, gliding over my shoulders, my hips, finally sinking into my ass, dragging me against him once again.
A tremble worked through me, making Fenway fold upward, angling me backward, his hand moving between our bodies, hungry hands scorching a path over my shoulder, down my side, teasing over my ribs, then moving back upward, closing over my breast, tightening.
My lips ripped from him, my upper body arching back, giving him more access. He took it, gladly, his thumb and forefinger grabbing my hardened nipple, twisting to the point of pain, then ever so slightly beyond it, making my thighs clamp to his sides, my hips moving in a circle against him, the pressure building fast. A couple more strokes would be all that I needed.
Except that the jet took that moment to hit a patch of turbulence, catching both of us off-guard, sending me flying backward, head smacking against the closed pocket door, pain exploding across my scalp.
"Shit," Fenway hissed, hands reaching for me, trying to pull me back from my cramped, painful position.
"No, don't," I demanded, rolling away, sliding off the edge of the bed, reaching for the little holes in the door to slide it open.
"Wasp..." Fenway called, voice thick and pleading.
It was tempting.
God, it was tempting.
Which was exactly why I pulled the door, then slid it closed, immediately locking myself in the bathroom, sinking back against the wall.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I literally needed to be whacked in the head to get some sense knocked into me.
That had gone too far.
Not that far, in the grand scheme of things, but too far too soon.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded my reflection, a reflection that looked like the poster girl for sexual desire. My cheeks and neck and chest were flushed. My lips were swollen, redder than usual. My eyes looked heavy-lidded. My hair was bed-messy.
Clearly, I needed to make sure I didn't have such long dry spells. Especially if I had jobs lined up.
I was horny and needy and he was there.
Sometimes you threw away ideals for pure convenience.
And Fenway Arlington was anything but ideal. To me, at least.
He was over the top and silly and frustrating and lived in his own world by his own rules.
I liked depth.
I craved substance.
I enjoyed people who could navigate on the fringes, but still function in normal society.
I didn't like superficial playboys.
Not even if they enjoyed classic movies.
Not even if they had great taste in food.
Not even if they were the best kisser I'd ever come across.
"Ugh," I grumbled, turning on the water, splashing it on my face, hoping the cold would calm the chaos still raging in my body, the unfulfilled desire that was impossible to ignore.
Okay.
It was okay.
A little bit of sexy times that eventually got taken away from him would only make him want it more. Want me more. Which meant he would be willing to do anything to woo me back into it.
That worked in my favor.
I could spin this.
If my damn body would stop trying to co-op my brain with its stupid demands.
And they were stupid.
Wanting to have sex with Fenway Arlington was likely the dumbest thing I could even think of on a rational level.
Which was precisely why it wasn't going to happen.
Decision made—once again—I tamed my hair, straightened my clothes, worked a kink out of my neck, then made my way back out into the main area of the jet, finding Alvy and Fenway sitting at the table. Joy, the flight attendant, must have moved up into the cockpit.
"Are you okay?" Alvy asked, putting their phone down. "Fenway said the turbulence made you fall out of bed," Alvy added, and I could feel the heat rising on my neck. "You must have really been out to have flown that far off the bed," they added.
"Yeah," I agreed, taking my seat on the couch again, making a slow show of crossing my legs, making sure Fenway's gaze went there, noticed the hike of my skirt. Oh, yeah, I realized as his gaze lifted, eyes blazing, I had him. "I must have been really out of it," I agreed.
"Is that what we are calling it?" Fenway asked, tone dark, daring.
"Yep," I agreed, running a hand through my hair, feeling the smart when my fingers met the little knot on my scalp from the impact. "It won't be happening again," I told him. And maybe myself.
"I think it will. Quite a few times, I would say," Fenway shot back.
"How clumsy do you think she is?" Alvy asked, making the both of us have to press our lips together and break eye contact to keep from laughing.
"How long until we are in Bali?" I asked a moment later.
"Just about an hour," Alvy supplied.
"Anxious to get to my house, are you, darling?" Fenway asked, back to light, teasing.
I was.
I needed a little space.
My own room.
My own bed.
Then things would get back on track, go back to the plan.
Yes, I really was that naive.
And Bali was everything—and nothing—like I had expected.
As it turned out, so was Fenway Arlington.
SIX
Fenway
I wasn't sure I'd ever truly known sexual frustration before in my life. There had always been opportunities to deal with it when it popped up randomly.
Now?
There looked to be no end to it.
Because after that kiss in the bedroom, Wasp was back to cold and distant, not even cracking a smile when I laid the charm on thick, or even w
hen Alvy cracked a particularly biting—and hilarious—joke at my expense.
She was ice personified.
She didn't even start to melt in the sweltering sun as we made our way to our waiting car, as we drove to the house.
In fact, she paid me no attention whatsoever, her gaze stubbornly out the window at her side, watching the sights as we moved past.
It was alright.
I got to watch her watching the sights.
It was a consolation of sorts.
It made everything feel new, seeing it through her eyes instead of my own.
"You can't be serious," she mumbled as we pulled into the drive. "You have a house this big that you, what, visit a few times a year?"
"It's here when I need it, though."
"You could just stay at a hotel."
"I could," I agreed. And maybe, objectively, that was what I should do. Keeping a house you didn't live in—staff and all—was undoubtedly expensive. I didn't know the numbers. I'd have to ask Alvy. All I knew was it wasn't hurting my bottom line. And it kept the staff employed. It wasn't a complete loss if someone benefited from it.
"Do you at least time share it? So other people can actually appreciate its beauty?" she asked, tone accusatory as she climbed out of the car, refusing to take my hand to do so, despite nearly teetering on her heels on the uneven stone drive.
"I do not."
"Well, you should," she decided, taking a deep breath, inspiring me to do the same, the salt water teasing my nostrils, fresh, familiar.
"What do you think, Alvy? Should we time-share it?"
"It is beautiful,"Alvy said. "I can have it arranged."
"Not that you need the money or anything," Wasp went on, turning in a slow circle. "But at least all the energy bills wouldn't be a complete waste."
"Would you like a tour?" I asked as she did yet another turn.
Finally, her gaze settled on the house—the villa—head cocking to the side, taking it in.
It was a two-story home, the first floor of white stucco, the second of terra cotta colored, each level with a covered porch, both in the front and the back, allowing you views of the island to the front and the ocean to the back.
"Okay," she said, turning to face me, eyes unreadable for a moment as she made her way toward me, linking her arm through mine, surprising me enough for my feet to falter when she charged forward, dragging me with her.
The Client Page 7
