I didn't understand her moods, the up and down, the hot and cold, but I had to admit I was more intrigued than ever.
I figured once she was settled in, she might let down the guards a bit, show me more of who was underneath that cold mask of hers.
I had a feeling it would be an amazing woman to behold.
Possibly—dare I even think it—one who wouldn't ever prove predictable, someone who would never get boring.
Someone I might enjoy having around for an extended period of time.
That was a shocking thought, as I hadn't been looking for that. Yet now that it was here, there was no denying I found myself interested in the possibility.
"Wow," Wasp sighed as we moved in the front door, straight into the open concept lower floor, seeing right through the house to the back where the floor-to-ceiling windows showed the back deck and pool area as well as a sliver of the ocean.
The surfaces were deep natural woods, made less oppressive by the abundance of light filtering in through the space.
"Alright, I'll admit it," she said, giving me a wry smile. "I am officially envious of your wealth. I would cut off something vital to be able to wake up to this view every morning."
"Luckily, darling, nothing on your lovely body needs to be severed to be able to enjoy this view. Let me show you to your room," I offered, leading her up to the stairs behind the bottom floor washroom. "This is Alvy's room, if they choose to stay with us," I told her, motioning to the first door. "This is me," I added, walking past the next. "And finally, you," I said, pushing open the door.
The master always had the best view, but hers was nothing to sneeze at, and it was what you immediately noticed when you stepped inside thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows, white drapes pulled open.
The queen-sized four-poster bed dominated the space, draped all in white. With a massive round box of blood-red roses beside a box of chocolates. And the pink champagne was chilling on the nightstand next to a flute with a stem so thin a strong breeze could snap it.
"Do you treat all your guests to roses and pink champagne?" she asked, sending a sly smile my way as she ran her fingers over the flower petals.
"Don't be silly," I told her, lips curving up. "Most of my guests don't like pink champagne," I added, making a smile brighten her ridiculously beautiful face. "This door leads out onto the back balcony, clearly," I told her, gesturing toward it. "And through here is your bathroom," I continued, walking over to open the door, peeking in, seeing the rose petals floating in the water, the fluffy white robe hanging beside the tub, a pile of bath bombs in a bowl just waiting to be used.
Diann—who was running this house these days—deserved a raise if she pulled out all these stops. I'd asked Alvy simply to make sure the pink champagne was there, not all the rest.
"Do you do everything over-the-top?" Wasp asked, but her eyes were soft as she took in the deep soaking tub, the excessive number of towels stacked at her disposal, the rainfall glass shower, the built-in stereo system in the wall.
"I do," I told her, since it was the truth.
"I'm starting not to hate that," she admitted, shaking her head. "This bathroom is bigger than Wanda," she added.
"I'm sorry, Wanda?" I asked, watching as she shot me a smile.
"My skoolie."
"That is a word I'm afraid I am not familiar with."
"Skoolie. A converted school bus."
"Converted to what, exactly?"
"A home," she told me. "I bought an out of commission school bus, gutted it, and rebuilt it into a home."
"For what purpose?"
"To travel with my best friend."
"Why not travel in a car and stay in hotels?"
"Because not all of us were born into privilege. I'm not hating on you because of it, but most of us aren't that lucky. And we have to make the best out of our circumstances. This was the best for us."
"How long did you travel that way, live that way?"
"A decade or so. Raven crapped out on me a while back. Fell into some guy's dicksand, never resurfacing. She has kids and everything now."
"So you've been traveling on your own too?"
"I hate to break it to you, Fenway, but you don't travel alone. You have Alvy. And the drivers and the pilots and the boat captains."
"Still," I said, shaking my head. "I'm alone." Was that a note of sadness in my voice?
"Solo travel is great," Wasp said, moving past me to go look out at the view. "You always get to pick what you want to eat, where you want to go, what music is on. But it can get—" she paused, trying to find the guts to say the next word. In the end, she failed.
"Lonely," I supplied, finally recognizing the feeling that had made the past two or three years feel so empty, so unfulfilling.
I'd been surrounded by people.
And lonelier than I'd ever felt before.
"I hate that word," she admitted, lip curling up, shooting me a disdainful look over her shoulder.
"But it is the appropriate one, isn't it?"
To that, she sighed, her whole body relaxing with it. "Yes, it's the right word. I miss my best friend. I miss having someone to share things with, to go out hunting at midnight for a restaurant that was open, or making a meal out of convenience store food. I miss singalongs and getting drunk in bars. I like being on my own. I do. But I miss sharing things with someone else too."
That rang true as the most honest—and vulnerable—thing she'd ever said to me.
A strange pang ached across my chest, strong enough for my hand to move there, rubbing my fingertips across it.
"Well," I said, forcing cheer, lightness, wanting to chase the dark out of the room, out of her. "Luckily for you, you now have someone to create makeshift meals with, and get drunk with. Though I must warn you, I am not much of a singer. I will do it loudly. And with great enthusiasm regardless, though."
The sadness slipped from her eyes, replaced by a twinkling I rather liked seeing there.
"Thanks for inviting me here," she told me, glancing away. "It is nice not to be so alone," she added, refusing to look at me, and I was starting to suspect she had a hard time being real and open with someone face to-face.
Relating to that more than she could know, I didn't press it.
"I will let you settle in. We should be having a late dinner tonight."
"Thanks," she said, reaching for the door, moving out onto the balcony, watching the sun start to set.
I went out into the hall, going into my room to shower, change into swim shorts and a white tee, then making my way downstairs, finding Alvy sitting in the kitchen with a woman in her late twenties or early thirties who was chopping vegetables while the two chatted.
Diann, if I remembered correctly. Her mother had been the housekeeper when I'd first bought the place, but she'd been in an accident, hurt her back, and her eldest daughter had stepped into her place.
"Diann," I greeted her, walking over to the bar, pouring myself a scotch. "The guest room was lovely. Thank you for the extra touches."
"Alvy said you were having trouble impressing a woman," Diann said, eyes dancing at my expense. I imagined the two had been joking behind my back. The playboy who had finally met my match. The one woman who wouldn't fall for my charms. The one who refused to take me at face-value. The one who would need more than that from me. And I wasn't sure I could give anyone that.
"She finds herself wholly unimpressed with my personality, my money, and just about everything about me. But she liked the view and the flowers," I told Diann, sitting down a few stools away from Alvy.
"Why her, then?" Diann asked. "If she doesn't like you. Or is that the apple peel?"
"Appeal," I corrected, smiling. Her English was amazing, but she forgot some words. I remember her once calling an octopus a 'sea spider.' "I suppose that is part of it."
"Alvy says she is beautiful."
"Knock-you-upside-the-head, kick-you-in-the-gut, steal-your-breath beautiful," I told her, nodding. "Now if
I can only get her to see how devilishly handsome I am," I joked.
"You could try to impress her by being your authentic self," Alvy suggested, getting a brow raise from me.
"Nobody wants to see that. This me is much more fun," I declared, getting off my seat, not comfortable with the line of conversation.
"But what if the fun Fenway isn't what Wasp is after? What if she wants the real you underneath all that?"
That was a valid question.
But the answer seemed simple.
Then she was out of luck.
And then so was I.
But I refused to accept defeat so early in the game.
I was sure I could handle Wasp.
I'd never been more wrong about anything in my life.
And with my fuck-up reputation, that was really saying something.
SEVEN
Wasp
This one of Fenway's many vacation homes was a five-star-resort without any other pesky guests.
Even though there were other houses on the street, the way the backyard was set up secluded the pool and hot tub area in perfect privacy.
Not that I was shy about wearing a bathing suit in public, but it was nice not to have to deal with gawking in case the owners of the other homes were older, leering men.
I'd been telling the truth when I told Fenway my suit would be torturous. It was a red one-piece that dipped nearly to my navel in front, exposed most of my back, and ninety-eight percent of my ass.
I was not a thong bathing suit sort of person. But this one was a pointed choice. I needed him to want me. So much that it was painful. So much so that he was driven half mad by it. Then I would have him. And I could win.
Unfortunately, the weather chose not to cooperate with the plans.
"Monsoon season," Diann had told me when for the third day in a row, I stood at the French doors, staring forlornly out at the pool as well as the beach beyond it.
It had been pouring. The kind of downfalls that offered no respite, not even ten minutes to run out and jump in the pool.
Fenway had been an admirable host, given that half of his entertainment options were blocked by the weather.
We went out to eat.
We watched classic movies.
Night one, my favorites.
Night two, his.
While we didn't overlap any of our favorites, neither of us disagreed with the other's choices.
Alvy had been a silent, sporadic presence, showing up for meal times, then otherwise disappearing entirely, sometimes going out, others simply locking themselves in their room.
I couldn't help but wonder what kind of life it was to chase after a billionaire playboy who changed his mind at a moment's notice, needing all his plans to be changed, requiring excuses to be made, hotels to be booked, luggage to be packed. It didn't seem like Alvy ever got to go home, either. They were an ever-present part of Fenway's extravagant lifestyle. While it seemed like a great job on surface level, what with all their expenses covered, getting to stay in the most beautiful places in the world, brush shoulders with the rich and famous, I also couldn't help but wonder if it must have felt very strange for their life not to belong to them.
Maybe that was why we so infrequently saw Alvy now that their presence wasn't needed. They were trying to get a small bit of privacy, of normalcy while they could.
As beautiful as my room was, I couldn't fathom staying cooped up in it with the rest of the house to explore.
I wasn't much of a cook, but the kitchen was amazing, having every gadget known to mankind—and late night infomercial watchers—tucked away in cabinets. The bar was fully stocked. The television was massive. The couches were like a warm hug.
I'd gotten so used to my cozy—but cramped—living space, I had all but forgotten what it was like to not be able to walk from one end of a home to the other in about ten paces.
As such, I stretched out.
I hogged the best couch.
I slept starfish-wide on the massive bed.
I showered in the rainfall shower and soaked in the deep tub.
I figured that if I was going to do the job, I was going to get something out of it.
Speaking of the job, things had gotten a bit off track somewhere after arrival. We'd fallen into a companionable buddy sort of relationship. All the sexual tension was absent in our interactions, though not absent in my overwrought, desperate system that just didn't want to take no for an answer about sleeping with Fenway.
Being here with him was suddenly very much like having a fun, charming roommate who liked to hang out and watch movies, play card games where they graciously lost their shirt, and talk about little nonsense, superficial conversation.
I was getting nowhere.
And while a part of me was enjoying myself enough not to care, the other knew that I had a lot of money hanging on this. Life-changing money. I couldn't afford to screw it up. Literally.
So when the sun finally decided to chase away the rain clouds on the fourth day after arrival, I made sure I shaved and lotioned every inch of me, slipped into the wickedly cruel bathing suit, and made my way out to the pool a few moments before I knew Fenway would finally come bleary-eyed down to get his morning coffee.
Right from the position where he would stand to pour it, he would get a view of my nearly bare ass as I stood out by the side of the pool.
If I was going to have to get back on track, I had to break out the big guns.
Tits and ass worked when all else failed.
I wasn't above using that to my advantage.
It wasn't long before I heard the sound of the coffee pot beeping.
Two minutes.
Three.
And bingo.
The door was pulling open, and I could simply feel the sizzle of chemistry as Fenway moved out onto the back patio, moving over toward one of the wooden chaise loungers.
"Don't mind me, darling. I am just enjoying this beautiful view this morning," he said, voice deep, sleep-sexy, and just plain sexy-sexy too.
It was working.
"What view is that, Fenway?" I asked, half turning, head cocking down toward my shoulder. "The pool, the ocean, or me?"
"Seen just about every beach in the world. Pools are a dime a dozen. That ass, though? That ass is one of a kind," he told me, lips curving up slowly as he raised his mug, taking a slow sip. Then, without breaking eye contact, pulling half of his bottom lip inside his mouth to clean away the bit of coffee there.
It was like a punch to my aching core.
Everything in me wanted to march over to him, climb on his lap, and have my way with him.
Fuck the job and all.
That was the level of neediness I was experiencing.
For the record, I never said "fuck the job." The job was more than just a paycheck, it was a way of life, it was a mission of sorts. Making men who deserved it pay for their past indiscretions.
"I think you've seen enough," I declared, turning forward, jumping into the pool.
I needed to keep engaging him.
But I needed just as badly to take a cold bath to calm the need coursing through my system.
I surfaced, swimming over to one end of the pool, then taking a few laps. First, because I'd been too sedentary for days. Second, I had eaten my body weight in chocolate since arriving; even after begging Diann to stop buying the boxes, they kept showing up on my bed every evening. And, third, I thought if I exhausted my body enough, it wouldn't have the energy to be so desperate for sex.
I was so focused on my form—made a little anal about it because of a brief stint on the swim team in school, and my natural born competitive nature—I had somehow missed the legs suddenly dangling in the water.
All I knew was I needed a good, deep breath, so I surfaced at the deep end.
Right between Fenway's spread legs.
Eyes level with his crotch.
His lightweight pajama pants were doing absolutely nothing to conceal that he was just as irr
ationally turned on as I was this morning.
Seeing the problem before it became a whole issue, I tried to dip back down in the water, only to have Fenway fold forward, reaching into the water, hands grabbing me at the top of my rib cage at each side, fingers pressing into my barely-concealed breasts.
I damn near came right then and there.
Yep.
That was where I was at.
Boob brushes were doing it for me.
Like we were fumbling, uncertain teenagers.
Fenway froze for a moment, waiting for my eye contact. I didn't want to give it to him, knowing what he would find on my face. Parted lips, wide, hooded eyes.
Undeniable attraction.
But my head lifted; my gaze found his.
Having what he wanted, his hands pressed harder into my wet suit, into my skin beneath, pulling, lifting me out of the water.
I wasn't heavy, but nor was I a waif, either, and I found myself duly impressed by his upper body strength as he kept pulling me up even when he didn't have the assistance of the weightlessness of water to aid him, as he pulled me clear out of the water, higher, until he was lowering me down, allowing instinct to make me spread my legs to the outsides of his, to have my lap drop down onto his.
A choked whimper escaped my lips as my cleft pressed against his hard cock, making a shudder work through me.
My body settled, his hands slid down my sides, curving outward to the flare of my hips, then drifting downward, sinking into the bare flesh of my ass.
I didn't think.
I didn't want to think.
Instead, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, sealing my lips over his—hard, hungry, demanding.
He gave it right back to me, lips bruising, tongue claiming, teeth nipping.
My hips rocked against his, stoking the desire inside, driving my body upward.
On a low growl, Fenway's lips ripped from mine as his hand left my ass, curling into the hair at the nape of my neck instead, twisting, pulling, arching me backward as his lips met my neck, my throat, down between the V of my breasts, then up again, making my nipples harden, making my hips do another greedy rock against his cock.
The Client Page 8
